Prince of Tennis: All In One

Welcome to the Prince of Tennis section of my fanfic. Here you can find long dramas and romances, with smut thrown in whenever I needed a breather. You will also find me fudging around my nearly total lack of tennis knowledge, which may amuse those who actually have some of their own.

Security

A reasonable extrapolation from the way Ryoma and Momoshiro tend to fall asleep on each other, with some mild character introspection thrown in. Fluff, I-1, anime continuity

Ryouma had decided some time ago that Momoshiro Takeshi must have a teddy-bear fixation.

He had yet to discover any teddy-bears in Momo’s room, but there was still plenty of evidence. It happened about half the time their team traveled anywhere. Current case in point. Ryouma resettled his head on his rather make-shift pillow and wondered idly how quickly Inui-senpai would be able to calculate the actual frequency. Western-style beds sometimes prevented it, but not always. It depended on the circumstances.

Whenever the opportunity arose, at any rate, Ryouma would wake up to find Momo curled around him like he was some kind of oversized plushie.

Elbows in the ribs and kicks to the shins failed to dislodge Momo, or even wake him up. Eventually Ryouma had taken the philosophical approach, and decided that, if he was stuck as Momo’s teddy-bear, Momo did make a passable blanket. He was even a decent replacement pillow. And Momo’s presence at his back was familiar and comfortable. It wasn’t an unpleasant way to wake up, and when you got right down to it that was all that concerned Ryouma.

Even though Kikumaru-senpai did insist on making aren’t they cute faces at them if he happened to wake up first.

That thought made Ryouma rub his eyes and take a look around the room, as best he could at the moment. It looked like everyone else had woken up before them, today. He prodded Momo ungently.

“Momo-senpai. It’s time to get up.”

Momo mumbled something unintelligible and didn’t move.

“It’s time for breakfast. Get up.”

Momo tightened his grasp, making grumpy don’t want to noises into the curve of Ryouma’s shoulder. Ryouma sighed and thought for a minute. “I heard there was ice cream this morning,” he tried.

An inquisitive noise. That was a start.

“So you’d better hurry up, if you don’t want Fuji-senpai to put wasabi on all of it.”

That did it. There was a brief flail as Momo tried to sit up before he completely let go of Ryouma; he ended up propped on one elbow, blinking. Ryouma congratulated himself on the success of his tactic, and turned on his back so he could watch Momo run their conversation past his brain one more time. Eventually his friend looked back down at him with a rather rueful, one-sided smile.

“There isn’t actually ice cream for breakfast, is there?” he asked, with a tinge of hope to his voice nevertheless. Ryouma raised a sardonic brow at his erstwhile blanket.

“Nope.”

“Brat.” Momo ruffled his fingers through Ryouma’s hair, and Ryouma ducked.

“Cut it out,” he said, without heat. When Momo chuckled, Ryouma gave him a half-hearted glare. He didn’t actually mind that much, as long as Fuji-senpai wasn’t around.

Ryouma swore that if he ever found out who had thought it would be a good idea to gift Fuji with a stockpile of small, highly portable, disposable cameras he would make that person regret it. Fuji-senpai had actually mailed one set of pictures, taken before either Ryouma or Momo were awake, to Ryouma’s house. His dad had almost seen them! He would never have heard the end of the teasing.

Ryouma had never again doubted the rumors of Fuji Shuusuke’s sadistic streak.

Momo unfolded himself to his feet and stretched before offering Ryouma a hand up, too. Ryouma accepted it as part of their accustomed give-and-take when they were around each other in the morning. He had to admit, it was nice to have someone there to remind him where he’d put his socks, and also to have something besides the sink to slump against while he brushed his teeth. Being Momo’s alarm clock was a reasonable trade-off. He wondered, sometimes, exactly what would happen when high school ended and they all stepped off the Seishun Gakuen escalator. He thought he would miss not being around Momo like this.

Momo’s arms wrapped around him, and for just a moment he leaned back against the solid support behind him.

“Ready to go?” Momo asked.

“Mm.” Time to think about all that later.

The arms tightened and then let him go, and they set out to see what breakfast their teammates might have left them.

End

Last Modified: Feb 08, 12
Posted: Apr 19, 04
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Long Exposure – One

Upon meeting again in the hospital, after Seigaku plays Rikkai, Tachibana decides Fuji could use a friend outside of tennis. Drama With Romance, I-3

Tachibana Kippei was fretting. It wasn’t a common activity for him, but he didn’t have a great many alternatives at the moment. He still wasn’t permitted to walk any significant distance. Certainly not far enough to visit the person he’d been told was also a guest in this hospital to see if he was all right.

So he was sitting up on the hospital bed he had come to loathe, picking at a raveled corner of the far too thin blanket under him. He’d been told before, most notably by his little sister, that he worried too much. But he couldn’t shake off a feeling of responsibility for this injury. Couldn’t forget the direct, burning blue look Fuji had shared with him over an innocuous roll of tape. That look had promised to take up the hope Kippei couldn’t carry for a while, and asked for his help to gather the spirit to bear it.

How could he not feel he had some responsibility for what had happened?

A knock at the door was a welcome distraction.

When he saw who was coming in, though, Kippei surged up off the bed and strode to meet him, hardly noticing the warning stab of pain through his foot.

“Fuji!” Kippei caught his shoulders, examining his visitor closely. “Are you all right?” Fuji blinked at him, looking rather surprised at this greeting.

“Yes, I’m fine, thank you,” he murmured. Seeing the brilliant eyes focus and track, Kippei breathed a short sigh of relief. Fuji’s brows went up.

“Your teammates stopped by, along with mine, to tell me what happened. And Ann’s tape of the match didn’t exactly relieve any of my concern,” Kippei told him. He lifted a hand to touch, very lightly, Fuji’s cheekbone just under the temple. “That was an extremely reckless thing to do,” he said, quietly.

Fuji’s smile was a bit sharper than usual.

“So. Do you think you need to scold me in Tezuka’s place, since he isn’t here to do it himself?” he inquired. A half laughing breath escaped Kippei, and he dropped his hands.

“Of course not,” he said, stepping back to sit on the edge of his bed. “For one thing, you never chose me as your captain, and I don’t have the right. For another,” he smiled slightly, “I have no doubt Tezuka can deliver his own reprimands, whether he’s present or not.”

Fuji didn’t answer, busying himself instead with pulling out a chair. He sat precisely, hands folded. Kippei eyed his posture.

“You’re worried about what he might say?” he asked, more gently. Fuji’s smile froze just a little. Kippei waited.

“It’s more complicated than that,” Fuji said, at last. “I… haven’t actually spoken to him about that match, yet.” Watching him, Kippei recognized a variation on the expression Akira had worn the day he tried to keep a traffic accident quiet from him, and play on anyway. He doubted Fuji would let him push for details, though. At least not right away. Well, that needn’t be a problem; he certainly had the time to spare to work it out.

“If I promise not to ask, will you come visit again?” Kippei asked. “It’s really boring, here.” Fuji looked up with a quick laugh.

“All right.”


It took Kippei over a month to winkle out the source of Fuji’s disturbance, following his match with Kirihara. By then Fuji was visiting his house, rather than a hospital room. It wasn’t until he succeeded that he really thought to question why he was doing it. Even then, all he could really tell himself was that Fuji needed someone to ask, someone to have the patience to wait out his smile.

The break came the second time Fuji brought him ice cream to cool the frustration of physical therapy. It was also the day after Seigaku had heard from Tezuka that he would be home soon. They sat outside, passing the carton back and forth, but neither the good weather nor the butter-pecan was able to keep Fuji’s attention.

“Have you ever had a friend you didn’t understand?” Fuji asked, abruptly.

“Several.” Kippei didn’t mention that Fuji himself was currently one of them.

“And what if, suddenly, you did come to understand?” Fuji was staring up at the sunlit leaves above them, looking more lost than Kippei remembered ever seeing him look before, though he doubted a casual observer would recognize it.

“And didn’t know how to say so?” he hazarded. He’d realized some time ago that Fuji wasn’t really much good at speaking directly.

“And didn’t know how to apologize,” Fuji corrected softly, looking down at his hands.

“Was the friend hurt that you didn’t understand?” Kippei thought he might be starting to see what the topic of this circling conversation was.

“I never had to. Not before then. Te… he never pushed me like that.”

Kippei nodded to himself.

“Some things, only an enemy can do for you,” he said, and paused. Fuji might be angry with him for the next part, but someone needed to say it and he didn’t think Fuji could bring himself to. “Beyond that, though, you never let him push you.” Fuji flinched slightly, and Kippei sighed. “You didn’t want to be an opponent to him. I don’t think Tezuka will hold that against you, Fuji. You came forward when it mattered.”

“But it means so much to him,” Fuji murmured. “It’s always been his goal…” Kippei set a hand on his shoulder and shook him once.

“Stop that,” he said, firmly. “Take it from another captain, Tezuka cares more for the well being of his team than for that title.”

Fuji blinked at him a few times, jarred out of his introspection.

“You’re right. Of course he does,” he answered eventually, with a self-deprecating little smile that nearly made Kippei grind his teeth. He tightened his grip on Fuji’s shoulder.

“Fuji. You did not fail him.”

After a moment of aching stillness, Fuji took a deep breath and let it out, closing his eyes. When he opened them again he offered Kippei another small, but more genuine, smile, and laid his fingers over Kippei’s hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you.”


Kippei didn’t have a chance to do anything about the conclusions he had come to until after Nationals were over. Over for Fudoumine, at any rate. Just their luck, he reflected, that after clawing their way to the quarterfinals they should come up against Seigaku. He would almost have preferred Rikkaidai again. He knew he couldn’t speak beforehand. They had to play this round out however it fell.

In the end it worked out well enough. He was proud of his team; the matches actually went all the way to Singles One. Tachibana Kippei had never, in his life, been pleased to lose, and never would be. Nevertheless, he was satisfied that he had played his best against Tezuka, and had no hesitation about approaching him afterwards.

“Tezuka.”

“Tachibana,” his fellow captain acknowledged, stepping apart from his team at Kippei’s silent request.

“Nearly the end of the season,” Kippei observed. “It’s been a good year for both our teams, injuries and all.”

Tezuka’s mouth tilted, rueful and partial agreement.

“It will be at least a year before either of us is in a position to draw up team rosters again, but there was something I wanted to ask you now.” Tezuka tipped his head, inquiring with one brow. Kippei met his eyes evenly. “When we come to play each other again, I would prefer not to play opposite Fuji.”

“Is there a particular reason why not?” Tezuka asked after a long, searching look. Kippei smiled a bit wryly.

“Because he needs someone who doesn’t,” he said, simply. Tezuka’s eyes darkened, and Kippei shook his head. “I’m not criticizing you, Tezuka, it’s just…”

Just that, although Fuji was devoted to Tezuka, and Kippei suspected that Tezuka was one of Fuji’s few real friends, Tezuka saw all truly talented players as potential opponents. Even the ones on his own team. One had only to watch how he handled young Echizen to see that. And Fuji… Fuji couldn’t seem to imagine truly exerting himself against those he cared for.

“You want to be safety for him?” Tezuka asked, deep voice soft, and Kippei relaxed. Tezuka did understand; good.

“Yes.”

“I will see to it, then.” Tezuka turned to head back to his team, paused, and looked back over his shoulder. “Thank you. For your compassion.” Kippei thought his eyes were just a little sad.

Kippei inclined his head. “Thank you for your trust.”

“It’s his trust you need to worry about,” were Tezuka’s parting words.

Kippei didn’t doubt them in the least.

TBC

A/N: I have used the manga version of the match between Fuji and Kirihara, since it’s far more dramatic.

Last Modified: May 09, 12
Posted: Apr 30, 04
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Wrapped Around My Finger

Mizuki seduces Yuuta, and possibly vice versa. Drama With Romance, I-3

It wasn’t that Yuuta didn’t know what kind of person Mizuki Hajime was. He knew perfectly well. Mizuki was viciously ruthless. He was the kind of person who worked through manipulation because he enjoyed it. He was a flaming control freak and downright obsessive. Yuuta recognized all these things quite readily.

The only thing he refused to admit was where he recognized them from.

Mizuki was also the first, and, for a long time, the only one to recognize Yuuta’s skill, and his weaknesses, as his. The one who had never asked “Oh, did you start playing tennis because of your brother?” The one who took him, and, yes, used him, purely and completely on his own merits.

Of course Yuuta knew he had an ulterior motive for it, he wasn’t stupid.

But that wasn’t the point.


It started with a few casual touches, Mizuki’s hand on his arm or shoulder to call his attention or in farewell. It would have been less noticeable if Mizuki had been the sort to touch anyone, however casually.

He wasn’t.

That was Akazawa’s part. When a hand fell on a team member’s shoulder for encouragement or camaraderie, or, occasionally, a brisk shaking, it was their captain’s hand not their manager’s. Mizuki didn’t touch. It was typical of the difference between them. Akazawa held them together as a team; Mizuki drove them forward as his personal game pieces. Between the two it pretty much worked out.

So Yuuta noticed those as-if casual touches, and wondered what Mizuki was up to. The idea that he might not be up to anything didn’t even deserve a first thought.

Yuuta got his first clue, though he didn’t recognize it at the time, in a heated discussion between Akazawa and Mizuki that broke off as soon as he approached. Akazawa gave Mizuki a hard look before turning away.

“You had better be right about this not affecting the team,” he told their manager. Mizuki gave him a mock-surprised look.

“You doubt my analysis of the situation?” he asked with a dangerous lilt.

“Just remember who’s always involved when your analysis fails, Mizuki,” Akazawa said, sharply.

“I always do,” Mizuki replied though his teeth. Akazawa snorted. He patted Yuuta’s shoulder, absently, in passing, and Yuuta saw Mizuki’s eyes narrow slightly.

“Mizuki-san?”

A smile was added to the edged look.

“Shall we work on your serve, Yuuta-kun?” Mizuki ordered as if it were a suggestion, urging Yuuta toward the far court with a hand on his back.

Yuuta didn’t start to worry about what Mizuki was doing until the day Mizuki parted from him after practice with a hand on his cheek and a thumb brushing, ever so lightly, over Yuuta’s mouth. That was when it occurred to him that this might not have anything to do with tennis, which reminded him of the conversation he had heard the end of, and then he spent the rest of the day locked in his room, lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling and trying not to hyperventilate.

Mizuki couldn’t possibly be… well, he couldn’t. Right? Admittedly, he tended to look rather predatory around Yuuta, but that was just how Mizuki was. Wasn’t it? He’d looked like that for years, now.

It didn’t take very long for Yuuta to realize that was not necessarily a reassuring thought.

The next day he was so hyper-aware of those maybe-not-casual touches that he dropped two games. After the second he noticed Akazawa giving Mizuki a very dirty look, and had to escape, pleading a headache. Memorizing his ceiling for the second evening in a row, Yuuta tried to think the problem through. He could do this. His brother wasn’t the only smart one in the family.

If Mizuki really was… well, coming on to him, the first question was, did he want it to stop?

It was actually kind of a hard question. This whole thing was disconcerting, and had him very off balance. But, in a way, it wasn’t actually new. He’d always been flattered, right from the first, that Mizuki paid attention to him, sought him out. He’d gotten used to how… intense Mizuki’s attention was. The idea that Mizuki might want him, personally, made him shiver.

Ok, so maybe he didn’t exactly want it to stop. Next question was, what to do about it?

Actually, was there anything he could do? Yuuta chewed reflectively on his lip. It wasn’t as though Mizuki had done anything very obvious, yet. It was still possible that something else entirely was going on. Mizuki might be experimenting with a new management style, using Yuuta as his guinea pig. That would also explain Akazawa’s irritation.

Or Mizuki could just be waiting for Yuuta to stop jumping like he’d stepped on a tack every time he was touched.

Yuuta glared at his ceiling as though it were responsible for the conclusion that the best thing he could do was wait and see, and try to relax a little. There was no getting around it, though, and he spent the next few days attempting to have more patience than he usually needed. His captain’s temper subsided as Yuuta’s game steadied again.

Sure enough, that seemed to be the signal for the next step.

Mizuki took to, not just touching, but stroking down his arm or across his back. Yuuta stopped doubting his original conclusions. And, as the days slipped by, he started wishing that Mizuki would get on with whatever he had planned. The touches had gone from odd to shocking to commonplace to downright teasing, and Yuuta was tired of waiting.

He asked Mizuki, later, whether every language had a saying about being careful about what one wished for.

Yuuta was finishing a weight workout late in the evening when Mizuki tracked him down. Neither thing was unusual. Yuuta liked having the room to himself, which meant coming in late, and Mizuki liked to check on his training and adjust his regimen if necessary.

“Not even out of breath, Yuuta-kun? Perhaps you should increase your repetitions.”

It was not usual for Mizuki to prowl into his personal space and run a hand down his chest, reminding Yuuta forcibly that his shirt was still lying on the bench behind him. Mizuki’s fingers outlined his muscles, and Yuuta thought sparks might be skittering in their wake. He couldn’t pull his eyes away from Mizuki’s hooded stare to check.

“Excellent definition, Yuuta-kun,” his manager murmured. Yuuta stood, frozen, as Mizuki’s palm skated down his stomach. He shuddered as it stopped there.

“Mizuki-san,” he choked. Mizuki’s lips curved, and his hand rose to the back of Yuuta’s neck.

“Do you have any idea,” he said, softly, “how much it pleases me to know that, if I decided I wanted you right now, on one of the weight benches, you would offer me no resistance?”

The light-headed thought crossed Yuuta’s mind that, yes, he did have some idea how much that would please someone like Mizuki Hajime. Maybe, sometime, he would tell Mizuki that yielding was a reasonable trade for being the center of his focus. That focus was almost as tangible as body heat, as Mizuki leaned forward and whispered in his ear.

“Not yet.” He drew back, graced Yuuta with a demure smile, and strolled out the door.

Yuuta couldn’t make it back to his room this time, and had to settle for memorizing the ceiling of the weight room instead. At least, until it occurred to him that he was lying sprawled on one of the weight benches, and that Mizuki might just decide to come back, and take that as an invitation. He hauled himself upright and forced his shaky knees to support him.

What had that been about? Mizuki touching Yuuta like that and in the next breath assuring him that nothing would happen.

He supposed that Mizuki might have just wanted to ease his anxiety by making his intentions clear. Or it could be that he wanted to be sure of Yuuta’s willingness. It was also quite possible that Mizuki had done it just because he felt like provoking someone. Yuuta would actually have put his money on it being a little of all three. As he tried to convince the adrenaline singing through him to subside enough for sleep, he reflected that it was probably weird for him to be attracted to that combination of whimsy and iron calculation. But there it was. Things that caused most people’s eyes to cross seemed quite normal to him. He’d come to terms with that much.

And he honestly had to admit to himself that Mizuki had gotten it dead right. If he had kept going, Yuuta wouldn’t have stopped him. Yuuta’s backbrain helpfully presented him with an image of Mizuki pressing him down on that bench and running his hands lower.

So much, Yuuta thought, gasping, for lowering his adrenaline.

He spent the next week being ganged up on by his subconscious and his hormones at extremely inconvenient moments, such as when he was called on to read in Literature or translate in English. As a result he wound up with extra homework and spent several long evenings in the common room of his floor, dwelling on the unfairness of the universe and the incomprehensibility of English articles.

“Trouble with your English again, Yuuta-kun? Would you like some help?” Mizuki’s voice inquired from the door. That voice always had an insinuating edge, but Yuuta swore it hadn’t been this suggestive last week. He debated throwing his textbook, but decided that would probably only lead to a longer period of frustration. He settled for glaring.

Mizuki seemed to find this amusing.

This time, at least, Yuuta was ready for it when Mizuki crossed the room, stepped over his legs and leaned his hands on the back of Yuuta’s chair, caging Yuuta under his body. Yuuta rested his head back so he could look Mizuki in the face, offering, waiting, challenging, and could they please actually get somewhere this time? Fire lit in Mizuki’s normally cool eyes.

“Ah,” he breathed. “That’s what I’ve been waiting for, Yuuta-kun.”

Mizuki’s lips covered his, and Yuuta opened his mouth under them. Mizuki kissed the way he did everything else, intense and thorough, his tongue tasting every part of Yuuta. When he drew back it took Yuuta a few moments to realize that his eyes had fallen shut. He opened them to see Mizuki smiling down at him. It was not a smile that gave anything away, and Yuuta found himself having to ask.

“Mizuki-san, what… where… is this going?”

Mizuki trailed a finger down Yuuta’s neck, smile sharpening at the shiver that resulted.

“I think that’s for you to say, Yuuta-kun,” he murmured. Yuuta blinked.

“It is?” he asked, a bit nonplussed. At Mizuki’s nod, he sank back in his chair, even more breathless than the kiss had left him. Yes, this was Mizuki, the one who knew him, the one who had watched him, who knew exactly what would win him. Not just the trade of his pliancy for Mizuki’s complete attention, but giving Yuuta the choice and determination.

So, what was it going to be?

“Dating?” he suggested, eventually, finding no better word for where he would prefer to start.

“Indeed.” Mizuki leaned down again, brushing another kiss across Yuuta’s lips. “In that case, would you care to join me for dinner next Friday, Yuuta-kun?” For some reason, that made Yuuta blush, where the kisses hadn’t.

“Sure,” he answered, glancing aside. Mizuki laughed, low, and turned Yuuta’s face back up to his for a third kiss, long and slow, before he pushed back from the chair. He left Yuuta staring at the ceiling of the common room, this time, and completely incapable of thinking about the difference between a and the. Help with his English, yeah, right.

Yuuta decided it would be a good idea to write to his brother about his upcoming… date. Aniki was usually scrupulous about letting Yuuta go his own way, keeping his manipulations obvious enough to avoid if Yuuta really wanted to. But Aniki really didn’t like Mizuki, and if this was going to be one of the times he lost his temper, and Yuuta lost his prospective boyfriend to a homicidal sibling, well better to know sooner than later.

Five days later he wrote again to say that it had been cheating to send Aniki’s boyfriend’s little sister to try and talk him out of it. They had ended up yelling at each other at the tops of their lungs, across a picnic table on the campus lawn, about pig-headed idiots and interfering amateurs. It had actually been kind of nice to yell at someone who would yell back properly, instead of smiling and speaking softly and making Yuuta feel unbalanced.

Unfortunately, Ann’s rather acidic observations about Mizuki had enough truth in them to stick in Yuuta’s head. He knew perfectly well that Mizuki was focused pretty obsessively on his brother; it was one of the things they shared. When Aniki had said that he wasn’t going to continue professionally in tennis, Yuuta had gone to Mizuki as the only person who would understand his fury over the news. A niggling uncertainty refused to be dislodged.

Though being taken out on a date where, however casual their surroundings, Mizuki insisted on holding the door and pulling out a chair for him, went a long way toward flustering Yuuta enough to swamp it. When it became clear that Mizuki intended to see him back to his door, and quite probably past it, the thought of what was likely to happen next was actually familiar and calming by comparison. Yuuta thought that was probably why Mizuki had gone to such lengths to unsettle him in the first place.

When Mizuki closed and locked the door behind them, and pressed Yuuta gently back against the wall, though, the uncertainty resurfaced.

“Yuuta-kun?” Mizuki asked, as Yuuta looked aside, chewing on his lip.

“Mizuki-san… why?” Yuuta finally asked. “Why me? I thought it was… my brother… you wanted.” He might never forgive himself for actually saying that, but he had to know.

“Mmm. It would be nice to have him, too,” Mizuki agreed, casually. Yuuta’s head snapped back around, jaw loose. “But that has nothing to do with this.”

Yuuta sputtered. Mizuki tilted his head and looked at him, measuringly.

“I want something different from him than I want from you,” he explained. “I don’t doubt I’ll get it, eventually, because I understand him. And there’s something he wants that I can give him.” Yuuta found the curl of Mizuki’s lips and the light in his eye very unnerving. “If I survive the experience, perhaps I’ll tell you what it is. But what I want from you is,” Mizuki pursed his lips, “deeper.”

Yuuta’s heart jumped at the silky tone of the last word.

“What do you mean?” he asked, voice husky in his own ears.

“I want you for good,” Mizuki told him, cool and low. “You’re passionate, Yuuta-kun, and determined in a way he can never hope to be. I like that.” He leaned in. “I always appreciated your looks, of course. Such strong, clean lines to your body,” his hand smoothed down Yuuta’s side, “such expressive eyes, rich and sharp as new steel,” he drew Yuuta down to him, “and such a soft mouth for someone so fierce.” He stroked his tongue gently over Yuuta’s lower lip, and Yuuta gasped.

“But that wasn’t what really drew my eye, at the beginning,” Mizuki continued. “It was the fire in you. Useful and beautiful both; my ideal, Yuuta-kun.” He caught Yuuta’s face between his hands. “And all the more when I saw you knew I would let you destroy yourself to win, and you accepted that. Yet again when you defied me, and took only what you wished of my advice, and still returned to me.” His mouth quirked up. “Helpless things are only of passing interest. You are fascinating. You yield to me and yet keep your own way.”

Yuuta was grateful for the wall at his back, because without it he thought the intensity of Mizuki’s gaze and words would have had him on the floor. And then Mizuki smiled, and shook his head, and said the one thing that Yuuta never, honestly, thought he would hear.

“It was you from the very first, Yuuta-kun. At the start I mostly wanted to defeat Shuusuke as a gift to you. Here and now, he has no relevance. It’s you I wanted first.” He ran a hand up Yuuta’s neck, lifting his chin with a thumb, and pressed his mouth over Yuuta’s pulse. “So?”

Yuuta was shaking as his hands found Mizuki’s waist.

“Yes,” he whispered, harshly. Mizuki’s lips curved against his skin.

He let Mizuki pull him away from the wall, onto the bed. Let Mizuki’s hands strip off his clothes. Lay, breathing fast, waiting to see how far Mizuki would take his consent. Mizuki stroked his fingers through Yuuta’s hair, looking down at him curiously.

“Not completely innocent, are you?” he murmured. “It shows in your eyes. Everything does, of course.” He shifted and ran his hands down Yuuta’s thighs, pressing them apart. Yuuta shuddered, breath stopping completely. The weight of Mizuki’s body settling over his, the softness of his skin against Yuuta’s, pulled a choked off sound from his throat.

“What would you do if I did choose to take this all the way?” Mizuki’s voice brushed his ear. Yuuta closed his eyes.

“I said yes,” he answered, unevenly.

“So you did,” Mizuki agreed, sounding amused. “But perhaps we’ll start a bit slower.” He kissed Yuuta softly, hands stroking him, soothing the trembling. “I am curious about your source of information, though. Let me see.” Yuuta opened his eyes to see Mizuki leaning on an elbow with his chin in one hand, contemplating him thoughtfully.

He bit his lip and turned his head a little away. Mizuki’s rare laugh washed over him.

“You walked in on someone? Probably Akazawa and Kaneda, then.”

Yuuta nodded, though, technically, he had not walked in on them. The sight of Kaneda bent over under their captain had frozen him on the threshold, and Kaneda’s moans as Akazawa drove into him had been loud enough to cover the sound of Yuuta, very carefully, closing the door again.

“Well, let me assure you that I have a far lighter touch than our esteemed captain,” Mizuki purred. “We’ll get to that later, though.”

He kissed Yuuta more deeply, through teasing, and now Yuuta relaxed under him. Mizuki’s touch danced down his body, drawing low sighs from him, and Mizuki’s mouth gradually followed. Yuuta twisted and arched into the glide of Mizuki’s tongue down his stomach, came up off the bed with a sharp cry at the swift, slick heat of Mizuki’s mouth closing around him. Mizuki’s tongue slid down and then up his length, curled around him, coaxing, demanding. Yuuta lost track of time and place, attention narrowing to the hot sensation that wound around him tighter and tighter until the world snapped into glittering shards from it.

When his breath returned, Mizuki moved back up to lie beside him, smiling down at Yuuta with smug pleasure. Yuuta turned on his side and laid a hand, hesitantly, on Mizuki’s hip.

“Mizuki-san… you…?” He chewed on his lip until Mizuki stroked a finger over it to stop him.

“In a little bit, Yuuta-kun,” Mizuki told him, lazily.

The phone rang.

Yuuta glared over at it, wondering who had the bad timing to be calling now. Mizuki smiled and waved in a don’t let me interrupt you manner, so he answered, despite some misgivings. He couldn’t suppress an exasperated sigh when he heard who was on the other end.

“What are you doing calling me now?” he asked.

“I just wanted to make sure you’d gotten back all right, Yuuta,” his brother answered. Yuuta rolled his eyes.

“Yes, Aniki, I got back just fine, and Mizuki-san didn’t eat me on the way home.”

There was one beat of dead silence from everyone before Mizuki folded up laughing and Yuuta felt his face growing hot.

“Yuuta,” Aniki’s voice was getting dangerously pleasant, “who is that?”

Before Yuuta could muster a coherent answer, Mizuki held out a hand for the phone. Yuuta shrugged and handed it over. Redirecting his brother’s attention would be a good thing, and if Mizuki was volunteering to be thrown to the wolf, far be it from Yuuta to stop him.

“Indeed, Shuusuke, I didn’t eat your brother on the way home,” Mizuki said, still chuckling. “I waited until we got back.”

Yuuta was positive he was the color of a radish.

“Mizuki-san!”

Mizuki handed the phone back with satisfied smile.

“It got rid of him,” he pointed out, and leaned over Yuuta, pressing him back with a hand on his chest. “I can bait him at greater length later. Right now, I have better things to do.”


Ann had asked him, once, how he could stand to be in between two such possessive people. On the one hand was his brother, who would be perfectly happy to rip the lungs out of anyone who looked at Yuuta the wrong way. On the other was his boyfriend, who would be equally happy to break the hands of anyone who touched Yuuta. Not that either of them would ever be so straightforward about their revenge. No one seemed to understand that it was the equal possessiveness that made it work.

Well, that made it work for Yuuta.

His brother detested his boyfriend, and his boyfriend was obsessed with his brother. It was Aniki’s hostility that ensured Mizuki would be careful what he did to Yuuta. What he did without Yuuta’s consent, at any rate. And it was Yuuta’s acceptance of Mizuki that kept Aniki at a little distance, gave Yuuta some breathing room. Yuuta liked his brother’s protectiveness, as much as he liked Mizuki’s touch. As long as there was something to keep each from getting out of hand.

It all worked out for Yuuta.

End

Last Modified: May 08, 12
Posted: May 13, 04
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10 readers sent Plaudits.

In the Forest of the Night

Takes place in Current Tenipuri Year. Ohtori reflects on the pair he’s found himself a part of. Drama With Romance, I-3

Choutarou couldn’t remember precisely when Shishido-san had started calling him by his given name. It had been some time during those first, grueling, late night training sessions. He did remember being surprised by it. A number of things had surprised him, right around that time.

He had never, before that, given much thought to the cutthroat system of Hyoutei’s tennis club. It was just the way things were. Well, he had noticed that it seemed to make for astonishing rudeness among the pre-Regulars, but that didn’t have to affect him. Choutarou had been raised to show courtesy; Otou-sama always said it was one of the best ways to disarm an opponent. So he was polite to his peers and his seniors, both, and lent a hand wherever one seemed needed, and devoted every bit of his strength to working his way up the ranks. It hadn’t taken long. The grumbling of people with less dedication had little meaning to him. By the same token, it was pleasant, the mass support that Atobe-buchou’s hand with the club placed at his back once he was a Regular. But Choutarou never deceived himself by thinking that his performance rested on anything but his own will and effort. The shape of the system that went on around him didn’t matter.

And then Shishido Ryou had come to him, after his sudden defeat at Fudoumine’s hands, and asked for help with some training. Choutarou had agreed, as he always did, though the help Shishido-san wanted had been a bit out of the ordinary. He had watched Shishido-san drive himself to catch an unreturnable serve with his bare hands, night after night, and seen something he hadn’t expected.

After very little observation, during his first year, Choutarou had decided that no one among the Regulars shared his own dedication, with the exception of the captain. They were all very talented, but also flippant and careless, not devoting anywhere near the concentration that Choutarou thought the game called for. Under the floodlights, though, in the burning of Shishido-san’s eyes, in the scrapes and bruises and blood on the court, in his voice with every snarl of Next!, Choutarou had seen drive and will to match his own.

That was what had driven him to break his usual reserve and plead with Sakaki-sensei to reinstate Shishido-san. And when their coach’s threat had brought home, for the first time, the cold finality of Hyoutei’s system, it was that recognition of kinship-at-last that had driven him to lay his own position on the line. He would certainly have regretted it, if he had lost his place. But if Hyoutei’s system had no room for the pure determination and burning edge that Shishido-san had reached, then perhaps Choutarou truly didn’t and couldn’t belong there, either.

Not that he hadn’t been extremely relieved when Atobe-buchou had stepped in.

And when Shishido-san had finished trading insults with Atobe-buchou, and it had taken some time for Choutarou to figure out that this might be Shishido-san’s way of thanking their captain, he had turned to Choutarou and called him by name. That was the first time Choutarou really remembered, though at the same time he had recalled an increasing number of Choutarous slipping in among the Ohtoris during the weeks they worked together.

No one else at the school called him by his given name.

Choutarou wondered, sometimes, if Atobe-buchou had seen it starting then. It would explain why he had immediately thrown them together as a doubles pair. It was the kind of thing that he, long acquainted with Shishido Ryou, might well have seen at once.

It took Choutarou somewhat longer to realize that, when he had given Shishido-san his support, he had gained something in return, tossed in his path as easily as Shishido-san might toss him a towel after a long practice.

Shishido-san’s loyalty.

Choutarou was friendly with many, but friends with few. It was the way he had always been. Shishido-san didn’t seem to care. He breezed through Choutarou’s public manners as casually as he elbowed past Atobe-buchou’s arrogance. Ohtori Choutarou was now his partner, and his friend, and that was that.

Choutarou had been stunned.

He had never known someone who would so freely grab his arm to get his attention, grin at him to share an inside joke, yell at anyone he found giving Choutarou grief about his control and then turn around and lecture Choutarou himself about the same thing. He had certainly never known anyone at Hyoutei who matched his focus on the court without hesitation or complaint. But Shishido-san did all of that, now. And, for the first time since he had entered the tennis club, Choutarou had relaxed. As part of a pair, his success was no longer purely dependant on his own effort and will; but Shishido-san’s fierceness left no room for anxiety or reluctance to depend on him.

When they had beaten Oshitari-senpai and Mukahi-senpai at doubles, Choutarou had returned Shishido-san’s brilliant grin with a smile so open it felt strange on his face.

Shishido-san’s determination for him, and pride in him, when it came to defeating Choutarou’s own weaknesses, had, for the first time, given Choutarou more than his own will to support him.

Shishido-san’s spendthrift energy and warmth had drawn Choutarou in until he found it hard to imagine living without them. But in another half a year…

A cold, dripping waterbottle against the back of his neck pulled Choutarou out of his introspection with a yelp.

“You’re miles away, Choutarou,” Shishido-san chuckled, dropping onto the bench beside him. “What’s up?”

“I was just thinking,” he said, taking a sip of water to cover his confusion.

“About what?” his partner prodded, leaning back. He waited while Choutarou gathered his thoughts.

“This spring, mostly. Graduation,” Choutarou answered, finally. “I… don’t really like the thought of playing alone again.”

“Who said anything about alone?” Shishido-san asked, sharply. Choutarou blinked at him. “Just because we can’t play together in the tournaments for a year, that doesn’t mean a thing. We’re a team, Choutarou. The Shishido-Ohtori pair. Got it?” Shishido glared at him, the one that meant he thought his partner was being dense.

“Of course,” Choutarou said, slowly, “but it will be two years before we can play as a pair again.”

“Bullshit,” Shishido-san pronounced. Choutarou opened his mouth and closed it again. He contented himself, at last, with raising his brows at his partner. Shishido-san grinned, teeth gleaming.

“First class doubles pairs are hard to find,” he said, “especially at the really competitive schools. They’ll let us play. You’ll see. Atobe likes to win.”

Ah. Shishido-san did have a point. And Choutarou had no doubt that Atobe-buchou would have a good deal of influence, even as a second year.

“So,” Shishido-san continued, “the only thing you have to worry about next year is keeping Hiyoshi from trying to take over the entire world.”

“Shishido-san, he’s not that bad…” Choutarou began, a smile starting at the corners of his mouth.

“I imagine I’ll be stuck as the one who gets to try and keep Atobe’s ego from gaining any more mass, than, say, Jupiter,” his partner continued, blithely.

“Shishido-san…” Choutarou was laughing now.

“And we’ll have to get together often to blow off steam about what a pain they are to deal with, and since we’ll be together we might as well get in some match time while we’re at it, right?”

“Yes, Shishido-san,” Choutarou agreed, once he caught his breath.

His partner nodded at him, firmly.

“Don’t you forget it, Choutarou.”

“I won’t,” Choutarou promised.

End

Last Modified: May 08, 12
Posted: May 24, 04
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Wolf and 10 other readers sent Plaudits.

Relay

After the third-years graduate, how do those who remain adjust? Drama, I-2

Ryouma didn’t exactly mind that Nationals were over. After all, they had won. He did, however, mind that the third years were retiring from the tennis club. How was he supposed to beat all his senpai if they weren’t around to play against?

On the other hand, in the midst of the day’s goodbyes, and team bonding, and dodging Kikumaru-senpai, he had wandered across Tezuka-buchou explaining Momo’s new duties to him, and that was good for a laugh.

A silent laugh, so Tezuka-buchou wouldn’t send him away.

“…and, of course, the assignments for the ranking matches,” Tezuka-buchou finished. “It’s a good idea to keep a running list of which players might balance out the blocks.”

Momo looked a little dazed, and Ryouma couldn’t resist needling just a little. “Sounds like the job is mostly paperwork,” he noted. “Maybe it should have been Kaidou-senpai after all; he’s a lot better at finishing homework on time.”

His friend shot a glare over his shoulder while Ryuuzaki-sensei grinned.

“Kaidou is very conscientious,” Tezuka-buchou agreed, evenly. “But Momoshiro has developed a better eye for broad strategy.”

Momo blinked at this unusually direct compliment, and looked down, almost fidgeting. His embarrassment would have been another good opportunity for teasing, which would only be fair turnabout, really, but Ryouma only tugged down his cap a bit, acknowledging his captain’s unspoken command to stop poking holes in the new captain’s confidence.

Ryuuzaki-sensei got in the last word, though, which Ryouma supposed he should have expected.

“I wouldn’t laugh too hard, Ryouma,” she said, dryly. “After all, it’s almost certain to be you in another year.”

Ryouma choked, and stared at her, wide-eyed, as Momo snickered.


“So, Echizen,” Momo called over the whir of bike wheels, “how many times a week do you think you’re going to have to smack Arai’s ego down?”

Ryouma made a face. Despite riding backwards and not being able to see his friend, he was sure Momo was grinning. “Inui-senpai does averages, not me.”

The fact was, though, after finally making it into a regular slot in the wake of the departing third years, Arai had gotten even more annoying. And Ryouma had, in fact, stooped to deliberately showing him up a few times just to make him quiet down.

“And here I thought you had a schedule,” Momo said, lightly. “It’s seemed like you were taking some trouble to keep him in line the past couple weeks.”

Ryouma made a noncommittal noise.

“Especially when he starts in on Kachirou,” Momo added, perfectly casual.

Ryouma appreciated the sideways tact Momo used to ask him questions like this. Because, of course, the question behind Momo’s comments was What are you trying to maneuver your teammates into? Momo had gotten very good at guessing what kind of things Ryouma wouldn’t like to admit to out loud. He leaned against Momo’s back and shrugged, knowing his friend would feel it. “We need more people who can play doubles, don’t we?”

Momo was quiet for a moment. “You think Kachirou will be good enough to make it into the Regulars by spring?”

Ryouma, since he was out of sight, let himself smile at Momo’s tone. It was serious and focused, the tone of a team captain asking for the opinion of one of his players before he made a decision. It was the tone that, when used in front of Kaidou-senpai, made him stop hissing and growling over what an idiot Momo was. Not, of course, that he ever did that where anyone but Momo or Ryouma was likely to hear.

“He has the ability, as long as he has the chance to work on it,” Ryouma answered. “And he’ll work for it.” He left it unspoken that Kachirou had more of Seigaku’s spirit, that way, than Arai did. He thought Momo had probably already noticed that.

“All right, we’ll work on it,” Momo said, decisively. “Anyone else you’ve got your eye on?”

“You’re the captain,” Ryouma pointed out. “Momo-buchou.”

“Oh, knock it off,” Momo growled.


Ryouma was perfectly straight-faced, as he waited for Momo to lock up.

“Long day, wasn’t it?” he prodded.

“Oh, yeah, go ahead and laugh,” Momo complained.

“All those new first years watching you.”

“Echizen.”

“Looking up to you as a role model.”

“Echizen…”

“Lot of responsibility, isn’t it?”

Momo turned around and glowered at him, sorting through his keys for the one to his bike chain.

“Do you wish Tezuka-buchou had picked Kaidou-senpai yet?” Ryouma finished, raising his brows inquiringly.

“If I agree to pay for food, will you shut up about this?” Momo asked, just a little plaintively.

Ryouma grinned. “Sure.”

“Brat.” Momo slung an arm across Ryouma’s shoulders as they headed for the bike racks. Ryouma hunched them just a little, thankful that he was getting big enough not to be pulled off his feet by that maneuver anymore. Which probably made it less effective retribution, from Momo’s point of view, but that was just too bad. Ryouma had always done his part of their roughhousing more subtlely, twitting Momo with jabs of words or expression. If it bugged Momo that physical retaliation couldn’t keep up his end of the game anymore, he was perfectly capable of switching tactics.

Maybe that new responsibility was affecting Momo’s brain, though, because he hesitated, and cocked his head at Ryouma. “Do you really mind it?” he asked, tightening his arm for a second.

Ryouma blinked and shrugged, not hard enough to dislodge the arm. “No big deal,” he muttered. Certainly, it had gotten a little wearing to be pounced on by Kikumaru-senpai. But Momo was just like that, and he’d gotten used to it. Momo didn’t mind that Ryouma was quiet and obnoxious, and Ryouma didn’t mind that Momo was loud and obnoxious. They met in the middle, and it all worked out. He hadn’t really thought it needed to be said.

“Good,” Momo declared. “Didn’t think so, but…” He ruffled a hand through Ryouma’s hair.

Ryouma swatted the hand away, glaring. Momo grinned.

“C’mon, Echizen, food’s on me,” he said, airily. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and there’ll be something interesting on the street courts tonight.”


The team was coming together, no one had broken anyone’s neck, the club’s fans were actually a little quieter than usual, they were into training for the tournament season, and Ryouma could feel his edge slipping.

What was even more annoying was that his dad noticed it.

It would have been less annoying that Ryuuzaki-sensei noticed, too, if she’d had anything useful to say on the subject.

“You need more competition, Ryouma, this year’s team isn’t strong enough to keep you moving along.”

Ryouma eyed her from under his cap. “I know.”

“And he’s not the only one,” Momo put in from where he was fishing out his water bottle. “But that’s easier said than done.”

Their coach gave them a half-lidded stare. “Maybe.” And then she strolled away.

Momo and Ryouma looked at each other.

“What was that about?” Momo wanted to know.

Kaidou sniffed, on his way past. “Idiot,” he stated, quietly.

“What?!” Momo growled, just as quietly.

Ryouma hid a smile. Positions of responsibility hadn’t stopped them bickering. They just did it more softly now. Wouldn’t do for the captain and vice-captain to have a screaming fight in the middle of practice. He had overheard Ryuuzaki-sensei explaining this to them very clearly after the first time they did have one, and both of them had been rubbing their ears as they emerged from that little talk.

“I’ll lock up today,” Kaidou-senpai said.

Momo blinked at this non sequitur, but Ryouma suddenly remembered Kaidou-senpai, last week, consulting something that looked a lot like a recently updated exercise menu in Inui-senpai’s writing. He remembered thinking, just a bit enviously, that maybe Kaidou was still practicing with Inui-senpai. Ryouma almost heard his brain click as it all fell together. He eyed Momo. “Not a very long walk to the high school campus,” Ryouma observed. “We should make it if we leave right after practice.”

“Just a walk up the hill,” Momo agreed, smiling now, apparently pleased enough to ignore Kaidou’s mutter of Took you long enough.

Ryouma tipped his head and gave Kaidou’s back a one-sided grin. “Thanks, Kaidou-senpai.”

Kaidou-senpai waved it off, brusquely. For one instant, Ryouma dearly wished for one of Fuji-senpai’s cameras, because he could have blackmailed Momo for years with a shot of the nearly affectionate look he gave his yearmate.

So Momo and Ryouma snuck off the instant practice was over, and made their way uphill. Momo’s cheerful smile got them directions to the tennis courts, and Ryouma was somehow unsurprised to see Fuji-senpai, Inui-senpai and Tezuka-buchou leaning against the fence while the last of the high school tennis club left. Inui-senpai smiled an unnervingly pleased smile, and held out a hand to Fuji-senpai. Fuji-senpai silently dug in his pocket and dropped coins into Inui-senpai’s palm. Then he smiled at them, too.

“That was quicker than I expected,” he told them, genially.

Ryouma stifled the urge to step quickly behind Momo. He was too big for that to be really effective anymore.

“Ryuuzaki-sensei obtained permission for us to use the courts after hours,” Tezuka-buchou told them without preamble.

Ryouma felt the tingle of anticipation for a good game sweep through him, and nearly sighed with relief. He hadn’t felt that nearly often enough, since winter started. There was a nice glow, a relaxation into the effort, that came when he played Momo, but it didn’t put sharp edges on the world and make his blood sing.

“What are we waiting for, then?” he asked.


Doubles pairs were peculiar things, Ryouma decided. He understood a little better the players who could do doubles or singles with equal facility, like Kachirou, or Ibu and Kamio. But the dedicated pairs were just weird. He could swear that he’d just finished playing two people, despite the fact that only Ohtori had stood on the court and that Shishido had barely said a word the entire game. Watching Momo gradually box in Hiyoshi, Ryouma reflected that maybe he was glad he still really didn’t work very well in doubles. He didn’t mind being part of a team; and there were people he didn’t mind being close to, if they understood each other. But that was… understanding. Two people who were just on the same wavelength. It wasn’t so… intrusive.

As they gathered up to leave, Ryouma took a look at the lemon-sucking expression on the face of Hyoutei’s captain and the light of absolute determination in his eye, and his mouth quirked.

“Maybe, if we play Hyoutei again, this year, you should put Kaidou-senpai up against Hiyoshi,” he suggested to Momo. “I bet they’d get along.”

Momo laughed. “I’d put a little more weight on whether Kaidou can beat him than whether they get along.”

“It goes together,” Ryouma pointed out. “Tachibana, Atobe, Sanada, Yukimura, Tezuka-buchou—it’s why they play good games against each other.”

Momo looked at him rather oddly, and Ryouma raised his brows. He couldn’t believe that Momo hadn’t seen it; in fact, he knew Momo had seen it, because he’d commented on it before, if not quite in the same terms.

“You have a strange definition of getting along, Echizen,” Momo said, at last.

Ryouma blinked and shrugged. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah. And you’re right about Kaidou and Hiyoshi.” Momo looked thoughtful for a moment. “Maybe that would work.”

Ryouma nodded. He’d known Momo would understand.


Theoretically, Ryouma was doing homework over at Momo’s house.

Actually, he had long since finished his own English homework, checked Momo’s, and moved along to snooping in Momo’s paperwork, which was a lot more interesting.

“You put us in the same block again?” he asked. “Kaidou-senpai is going to accuse you of keeping the good competition for yourself, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” Momo agreed, draping himself off his bed and over Ryouma’s shoulder.

Ryouma eyed him sidelong and sighed.

“What?” Momo grinned. “You did say you didn’t mind.”

Ryouma opened his mouth to point out that he hadn’t said he didn’t mind Momo taking the place of his jacket, but then closed it again. To say that would immediately invite the question of whether he really did mind, and he would then have to admit that he didn’t. It was just Momo and Momo wasn’t annoying like that, though he doubted he could explain why not, if pressed. Better not to say anything.

“Besides,” Momo went on, more seriously, “if I put myself and Kaidou in the same block we might get careless because we’re in too much of a hurry to get at each other. And this lets me put Arai and Kachirou in separate blocks, too.

Which could only be considered a good idea, Ryouma admitted. Arai had never quite gotten past his whole seniority thing.

“You know, everyone thinks it’s some kind of miracle that you and Kaidou-senpai can play doubles together when you don’t do anything but fight anywhere else,” he mused.

Momo shrugged. “We fight enough that we know each other. I trust his strength, and he trusts my belief in it. That’s all we really need.”

Ryouma smiled, and glanced at his friend. “Not bad, Momo-buchou.”

“Just you wait, Echizen,” Momo told him, with a dark look. “Your turn’s coming up, and I’m going to get my laugh in, too, before I go.”


Another day, another round of paperwork. Ryouma was starting to wonder whether he could convince Ryuuzaki-sensei to make Kachirou captain next year.

Today, though, there was something of more personal interest than usual.

“Momo-senpai.”

“Hm?” Momo asked, from the depths of his Science textbook.

“You’re putting me in Singles One against Josuikan.”

“Yep.”

“You think we’re going to get to Singles One, against them?”

“Nope.”

“Momo,” Ryouma growled, completely out of patience.

Momo looked up with a wry smile. “I know you want to play absolutely every match you possibly can, Echizen. But it isn’t good for the team to always rely on you to pull their nuts out of the fire, and it isn’t good for you to get into the habit of carrying too much. You should get a little bit of rest, at this point in the season.”

“Rest?” Ryouma repeated, with careful disbelief.

“Yeah, rest.” Momo sounded both amused and a little exasperated. “That thing you think you never need. You have to learn to pace yourself someday, you know. Not,” Momo added, turning a page, “that I have any reason to think I’ll be able to convince you to do it, when Tezuka-san couldn’t.”

Ryouma sat back, grimacing. He hated it when Momo got all reasonable on him. He supposed it was a good thing it didn’t happen too often. “As if you have room to talk,” he grumbled, quietly.

“Yeah, it’s always hard to judge for yourself,” Momo agreed, easily. “That’s what we have other people for.”

Ryouma gave it up. Not that he wasn’t going to glower at appropriate moments, to remind Momo that he was annoyed about this. But he’d known from the start that Momo had a protective streak. The fact that it always irritated Ryouma when it was applied to him just made it the more ironic that it was a major reason he had trusted Momo immediately.

Besides, Momo had a point about the team. If Momo wanted his players to take Ryouma’s example, rather than let Ryouma do all the work… well, that was how a captain should think.

Ryouma really wondered whether he could pawn the position off on someone else.


“We should…” a yawn interrupted Momo, “get going, if you want to catch Atobe at the park courts tonight.”

Ryouma stayed right where he was, sprawled in the warm grass under the trees. “Up late last night?” he asked.

Momo waved a hand dismissively, and then had to use it to cover another yawn. “My sister has an earache,” he admitted. “I stayed up with her, reading, when she couldn’t get to sleep. Anyway,” he prodded Ryouma in the ankle with a toe, “you wanted the practice against Atobe to be sure you’re in good shape to take Kirihara next week. We should head out.”

“No hurry,” Ryouma said, folding his arms behind his head.

“You’re just like that cat of yours,” Momo accused, slumping back down himself. “Impossible to move once you get comfortable.”

Less than ten minutes later a faint snore sounded beside Ryouma, and he smiled. He did have to suppress a start when Momo rolled over to use him as a pillow, though. He’d woken up like that, often enough, but usually he was asleep himself before they managed to sprawl into each other. Personally, Ryouma blamed buses. First they made you fall asleep, and then they made you fall over.

He pulled his bag over to make a pillow for himself. He could track down Atobe later.


“All things considered, I expect you already know how this job works,” Ryuuzaki-sensei told Ryouma.

He gave her a resigned look, waiting for her to finish whatever official lecture would seal his doom.

Momo was snickering.

“Congratulations, you’re captain. It’s more than I ever managed to wring out of your father. Enjoy it. Or not. Now get out of here and go say your goodbyes.” She waved them off.

“So,” Momo said, getting his laughter under control as they moved back towards the courts, “what do I have to bribe you with to get you to keep helping me with English while I study for exams?”

After a judicious moment of consideration, Ryouma rejected the bill for food as too easy. “You have to listen to me complain about the paperwork,” he decided.

“Deal,” Momo agreed, instantly. “I’ll stick around campus until practice is over, then; it’ll make it easier if you keep riding home with me.”

Ryouma eyed his friend. “Thinking of ‘sticking around’ the courts?” he asked, pointedly.

Momo looked a bit sheepish. “Eh, you guessed.”

“Study inside, Momo-senpai,” Ryouma told him. “We can practice for real up the hill.”

Momo grinned at him, wryly. “Whatever you say, buchou.”

Ryouma glared, and had his hair ruffled for his trouble. Still, he supposed he had earned that one. Captain. He suppressed a shudder. Should be an interesting year. He let Momo wind an arm around his shoulders and steer him back to his club.

End

Last Modified: Apr 16, 14
Posted: Aug 09, 04
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11 readers sent Plaudits.

Long Exposure – Two

Fuji, slowly, learns how to be cared for; fortunately, Tachibana is patient. Drama with UST, I-3

Shuusuke sat with his chin in his hands and watched as Tachibana celebrated the first week of their first year in high school with an… experiment.

He couldn’t quite manage to simply call it “cooking”, not when he’d seen labs using hazardous chemicals pursued with less concentration.

Tachibana tasted what had started life as a Thai curry recipe with a thoughtful expression. He rummaged through through the spice rack for yet another unmarked canister and shook a careful sprinkle into the pot. After a thorough stir and another taste he finally nodded.

“Almost ready for the squid. Fuji, could you give me a hand and chop those lime leaves into strips?” he asked, turning to the refrigerator.

“Of course,” Shuusuke agreed. As he arranged the leaves on their long axis and took the knife Tachibana handed over, he reflected on the knack Tachibana had, the one Shuusuke admitted all his friends probably had to have, of drawing him in. Of making him participate rather than simply watch. Tachibana seemed to do it more unthinkingly than Eiji, who favored nagging until Shuusuke gave in. It was a game between them. Tachibana just asked, as casually as if he never noticed Shuusuke’s tendency to observe from the sidelines.

It was a puzzle, since Shuusuke couldn’t imagine that someone as observant as Tachibana himself was really hadn’t noticed. Fortunately, Shuusuke was fond of puzzles.

“So, how is the high school tennis club?” he asked, recalling Tachibana’s misgivings on that subject. Tachibana sniffed.

“There is one. That’s almost all I can say for it.” The innocent squid received an increasingly cold look. “The players are third rate, judging kindly, with no discipline to speak of. The coach lets them slack along with no motivation at all.”

“Ah, well, history is hard to overcome,” Shuusuke needled, gently. Tachibana gave him a trenchant look that Shuusuke parried with a cheerful smile.

It was true in both senses, though. Certainly the inertia of apathy did nothing to help Fudoumine’s high school tennis club. But the history that clung to Tachibana himself undoubtedly formed a stumbling block of its own. Ann had told him the whole story one day, last winter, when Tachibana had been detained by school matters and she had detailed herself to console his friend by taking Shuusuke for hot chocolate. Fear of Tachibana kept the coach and other students from interfering with his team, but it probably wouldn’t make either listen to his recommendations now.

“It isn’t as though I make a habit of losing my temper,” Tachibana grumbled, taking the shredded lime leaves and stirring them in. Shuusuke leaned against the counter beside him.

“No. But you can and you have, and that’s enough.” Shuusuke was familiar with the phenomenon.

“It shouldn’t be,” Tachibana said, inflexibly. “Anyone with the common sense to look at the circumstances would know perfectly well that I’m no more dangerous than you to people who are merely infuriating.”

Shuusuke blinked at him. After a moment his silence seemed to catch Tachibana’s attention.

“What?” his friend asked. “It’s obvious that you never let your temper go unless someone provokes you intolerably. You certainly never lose it on your own behalf.”

Shuusuke blinked again. Even his own teammates were a little… wary with him at times. But Tachibana appeared both serious and completely matter-of-fact. He made no further comment, but offered Shuusuke a spoon and gestured to the pot.

“See what you think.”

Shuusuke complied, and made a small, pleased, sound over the rich, tangy burn.

“Wonderful,” he declared. Tachibana nodded, satisfied.

And then he proceeded to divide the concoction into two separate pans, and added four cans of spice-diluting cocoanut milk to the larger, before apportioning the squid and covering them to simmer.

“Then everyone should have a good dinner,” he concluded.

Really, very little escaped Tachibana’s notice, Shuusuke decided.


By the middle of summer, Shuusuke was a frequent enough visitor at Tachibana’s house to tease his mother by calling her okaa-san, which made her laugh and say that he could almost pass for Ann’s brother. Ann had suggested that Tachibana should start calling Shuusuke his little brother, so Shuusuke could see what it was like for himself. Tachibana had given them all a tolerant look and sent Ann to fetch more ice for the water pitcher.

He seemed to understand how sensitive the subject of little brothers was for Shuusuke. Which made it more uncomfortable when he did press the issue.The most uncomfortable conversation on the subject actually started as one about Tezuka.

“I told him, today,” Shuusuke said, looking out the door to the Tachibanas’ porch.

“Tezuka?” Tachibana asked, and Shuusuke nodded.

“I told him I would play for him until we graduated. After that,” Shuusuke shook his head, “there’s really nothing in it for me.” Tachibana’s mouth twisted a bit.

“Did he argue with that?”

“No.” Shuusuke gave his friend an honest half smile. “Tezuka understands, I think.”

Tachibana said something under his breath that sounded like about time, but, before Shuusuke could ask, Ann came flying into the room and tackled her brother, who oof-ed obligingly.

“You’re almost too big to do that any more, Ann,” he told her, laying a hand on her head and smiling down at her. “What is it?”

“Okaa-san wants me to go shopping for some vegetables and fish. Is there anything you want me to pick up?”

“If you pick up some plums I’ll make umeboshi.”

Ann squeaked happily and promised to do so.

“Bye, Onii-chan, Fuji-niisan!” she called back on her way out the door.

“Ann…” Tachibana sighed, looking after her with exasperation. Shuusuke suppressed a chuckle. Nothing her brother said convinced Ann to stop calling Shuusuke that.

“It’s all right,” he said, mildly. Tachibana turned thoughtful eyes on him.

“Have you told your brother yet?” he asked. Shuusuke ruthlessly held back a flinch.

“Not yet. Did I tell you that Yuuta is the captain of St. Rudolph’s tennis club this year? The start of term is busy, and he hasn’t visited home yet, but he sent me an email to say.” He turned his public smile to Tachibana, and had to stifle a second flinch.

Tachibana’s expression was even and waiting, and just a touch stern. It was the same expression Shuusuke saw on Tezuka, when Tezuka knew he was talking around something.

“Fuji,” Tachibana said, quietly. Shuusuke looked away. “He’s not angry at you.”

“Really.” Shuusuke let his eyes turn sharp, even though he’d already noted that it didn’t have quite the usual effect on Tachibana. He still wanted his friend to know he was getting annoyed.

“Not,” Tachibana allowed, “that he isn’t several times more likely to argue with you about this than Tezuka. I expect Yuuta-kun will be outraged that he won’t have the chance to keep trying to beat you.”

An involuntary snort of laughter escaped Shuusuke. He had to admit, that sounded very likely.

“Fuji, part of why he loves tennis is because he loves you.”

That hit Shuusuke like a ball in the stomach, and he swallowed hard. There were times when he would have preferred a less perceptive friend.

“Does Ann-chan ever get angry at you just for being her older brother?” he asked, quietly.

“Of course she does, how do you think I know?” Tachibana answered, looking rueful. “Not to mention the uproar as soon as I say the first word about her dates.”

“Now that,” Shuusuke observed, “is not something I’ve had to worry about.”

“Be thankful for your blessings,” Tachibana told him, darkly. Shuusuke smiled for real.

“Oh, I am.”


It was an especially frosty day, which suited Shuusuke’s mood admirably.

He knocked on Tachibana’s door, and made polite conversation with his mother absently and automatically, mind ticking down the minutes until he could gracefully leave her and go find Tachibana in his room. Tachibana let him in, looking a bit surprised since they hadn’t arranged to meet that day and Shuusuke hadn’t called ahead. He ceded the desk chair, which by the looks of it he had been working at, to Shuusuke and sat against the side of his bed.

Shuusuke examined his folded hands, considering the best way to begin.

“The tennis club was talking today about who were likely to be Regulars next year,” he said at last. “Everyone assumes Tezuka and I, and Eiji and Oishi, of course.” He paused. “One of the second years, it seems, has noticed you and I talking at the tournaments this year, and wanted to know if it was all right with me, being so friendly with someone who would be an enemy. He was joking, I think,” Shuusuke added as Tachibana started forward a little.

“As we were leaving, though,” he continued, “Tezuka mentioned to me that I would not, in fact, be playing you. Ever. That you had asked not.”

“Yes, I did,” Tachibana agreed. The casual calm of his tone came close to snapping Shuusuke’s temper. One more question, he thought.

“Did you think I needed to be protected?” he asked, and despite his best control he could hear the cut-glass edge in his own voice. Tachibana was silent almost long enough to make Shuusuke look up at him.

“Yes,” he said at last. Shuusuke’s gaze shot up at that, glaring.

“I am not weak,” he enunciated, low and dangerous, “nor fragile, nor so volatile that I can’t handle playing against you.”

“I didn’t think you were,” Tachibana sighed. He ran a hand through his hair, looking harried. “Fuji…”

Shuusuke raised a brow and waited. He didn’t move as Tachibana got up and came to kneel in front of the chair. Not an eyelash flickered as Tachibana set both hands on his shoulders.

“Fuji, everyone needs to be protected. Even the ones who usually do the protecting. It doesn’t mean you’re weak; it means you’re as human as the next person. And I don’t, for one instant, believe you are less human than the next person.”

Shuusuke stiffened, hearing echoes in his mind of things overheard, spoken behind hands. It wasn’t very far from genius to monster, he’d known that for a long time. But that wasn’t the point.

“I don’t need to be sheltered,” he said, firmly. Tachibana heaved a much longer sigh this time.

“Fuji, listen to me,” he said. “Just because you can survive exposure to ice cold rain doesn’t mean it’s healthy. I’m not saying you aren’t strong enough for everyone else, or that you shouldn’t be. Just let someone return the favor every now and then.” His eyes softened. “No one ever really has, have they? Or you wouldn’t be making so much of this.”

That gave Shuusuke pause for thought. Eiji helped him… to make mischief. He always listened when Shuusuke wanted to talk, but he never pushed and he’d certainly never done anything like this. Onee-san, well, she was always there, but… never like this. Tezuka… Tezuka drew him on. Tezuka guarded, but he didn’t protect. Still. Wasn’t there some inconsistency, in Tachibana saying this to him?

“Who do you let protect you?” he challenged. The sudden lightening of Tachibana’s expression took him by surprise.

“Ann, sometimes. Kamio, sometimes.” Tachibana laughed a little. “Neither of them would ever forgive me if I didn’t let them.”

Shuusuke considered that. No one with the slightest observational skills would ever suggest that Tachibana Kippei was less than a very able protector of his family and his team. Yet… they protected him? Memories emerged, of Ann facing down anyone who showed her brother and his people less than respect, of Kamio fielding administrative problems before they could ever come to his captain’s attention. Perhaps they did, Shuusuke mused.

Actually, that suggested a compromise that his heart and mind might both agree on.

“Would you let me?” he asked. Tachibana smiled up at him slowly.

“Turn about is certainly fair play,” he admitted.

He started to sit back, and, impulsively, Shuusuke caught one hand as it left his shoulder. Just to say thank you… it wasn’t enough this time. He lifted Tachibana’s hand, pressed his lips to the back of the fingers, and let go.

He heard Tachibana’s breath catch. The fingers paused, returned to brush against his cheek, light as butterflies landing.

“Fuji?” he asked, very softly.

Shuusuke found he could only look at Tachibana openly for a few moments. There was warmth there. Not just an umbrella against that cold rain, but a pile of towels, too, Shuusuke though, amused at his own imagery. But it was warmth he wasn’t quite sure how to reach towards.

“I interrupted your homework, I’m sorry,” he apologized, veiling his eyes again.

“It’s all right.” Tachibana stood and stepped back. “I was about to take a break and make some tea in any case. Join me?”

“I’d like that,” Shuusuke agreed.

TBC

Last Modified: Feb 08, 12
Posted: May 02, 04
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Fearful Symmetry

Snippets of how Ohtori and Shishido keep company while they’re apart, during Ohtori’s third year of junior high and Shishido’s first year of high school. Drama With Romance, I-3

Ohtori

At the end of the first day of his last year of junior high school, Choutarou found Shishido-san leaning against the wall of the school grounds, waiting for him. Tension he had carried all day without noticing unwound from his shoulders.

“Shishido-san,” he greeted.

“Choutarou. How’d it go? Is it Hiyoshi?” Shishido-san fell in beside him, hitching his bag over his shoulder. Choutarou nodded.

“Hiyoshi-kun is captain this year. I think it will work well. He’s very different from Atobe-san.” It didn’t need to be said that Atobe-san had the ability to back up his flamboyance, and anyone else who tried to use the same style to lead the club was likely to make a fool of himself. Shishido-san chuckled, just a bit nastily.

“Yoshimaru-buchou is already worrying about Atobe.”

“But seniority won’t let Atobe-san take his position,” Choutarou said, puzzled. “Not even Atobe-san.”

“No. But he’ll be playing as a Regular; no one really doubts that. And it won’t be fun, being captain when the ace who can beat his socks off is a first year,” Shishido-san pointed out.

Choutarou smiled at Shishido-san’s glee over his captain’s discomfiture. Yoshimaru-san must be the quiet type; that always made his partner uncomfortable. He listened, as Shishido-san detailed the quirks and attitudes of the high school tennis club, in a better mood than he’d been all day.

Shishido

Ryou eyed the sakura trees along the route home with annoyance. Sure, they were pretty, but they also made a mess, and you’d think the things would have finished blooming by now. It was getting on toward summer.

“Shishido-san?”

Ryou glanced back at his companion with a quick grin.

“Yeah, so, anyway, Kaa-san said it would be fine with her, even if we run late and you wind up staying for dinner now and then. I figure it’s easier to get work done with company; even if we’re not studying the same things.”

Choutarou still looked hesitant, but Ryou knew better than to take that personally. His partner was just allergic to putting himself forward, at least socially.

“I’ll have to ask,” he started, and Ryou’s grin widened.

“No you won’t. Kaa-san decided to call your mother herself. They agreed to trade off who feeds us.” Ryou nudged Choutarou in the ribs to make him close his mouth. “The direct approach runs in the family,” he added.

“So does thinking ahead of your opponent,” Choutarou told him, with a small smile to show he was teasing. Ryou was pleased. Most people would probably say Ohtori Choutarou wasn’t capable of teasing, or of a smile that bright. Nice, but distant, most people would say. Not, Ryou thought, smugly, with him.

“Just anticipating my partner,” he corrected, easily. The way they should be.

Ohtori

Shishido-san flopped down on the bench beside Choutarou and grabbed for his water bottle.

“Is anything wrong, Shishido-san?” Choutarou asked. “You seemed kind of distracted today.”

It was as polite a way as he could think of to point out that Choutarou didn’t normally win when they played singles against each other. It was getting closer, but still. Shishido-san shook his head and tossed Choutarou his own water.

“Just had a weird night,” he said, reassuringly. Choutarou raised his eyebrows. Shishido-san made a face.

“I was out playing pool last night, and ran across Seigaku’s Fuji.” He shuddered, though Choutarou thought he probably did it for effect. “Never, ever trust that guy, especially if he’s smiling. He completely fleeced four players in an hour, and three of them were the kind who usually do the fleecing themselves. And when one of his fellow sharks took exception to being cleaned out, Fuji backed him off without even raising his voice. He’s seriously creepy.”

Choutarou found himself smiling just a little at the disgruntled tone of Shishido-san’s story telling. He rather thought that Shishido-san’s real distraction came from the reminder that he wasn’t playing in the tournaments this year, while Fuji was. It was something close to unheard of, to have two first years among the Regular team, but Seigaku’s high school captain was apparently more interested in giving talent free rein than abiding by seniority. Hiyoshi-kun had smiled an extremely sharp smile, when he’d heard, probably at the idea of what Atobe-san would have said when he heard.

“I think another doubles pair has showed up, Shishido-san,” he said, instead. “Do you want to ask them for a game?”

Shishido-san’s eyes glinted, annoyance forgotten.

“Why don’t we do that?”

Shishido

Ryou still hadn’t managed to stop snickering by the time he met Choutarou to walk home. His partner gave him an inquiring look.

“Did something happen at practice, Shishido-san?”

“You could say that, yeah,” Ryou snorted. “Oshitari and Mukahi finally got walked in on. And the best part,” he added, snickering again, “was that Oshitari just looked over his shoulder, told them to come back in fifteen minutes, and kept right on. In the general club room, no less! I knew it was gonna happen some day.”

Choutarou cleared his throat, and Ryou saw that he was blushing. Whoops. Sometimes he forgot just how reserved his partner was about personal things. He patted Choutarou’s shoulder.

“Didn’t mean to embarrass you, Choutarou. It was just that everyone’s reactions were hysterical! You should have heard Atobe reading Oshitari the riot act about doing things with style.”

Ah, there was the little smile, again. The one from their early days as a pair, that meant Choutarou wasn’t entirely sure, yet, that he should be showing that he was happy or amused. A change of subject would probably make him relax again.

“So, how did your matches against Fudoumine go?” he asked, “I meant to come watch, but Atobe was feeling like a bastard and practically dragged me to the high school matches instead.” And he was going to get Atobe back for that. He was not married to his partner, thank you very much, he just cared more about Choutarou than the entire high school tennis club put together.

“Tachibana-san couldn’t make it to this match, to watch, either, and there’s really an edge they lack when he’s not there,” Choutarou said, a hint of disapproval in his tone. “It went all the way to Singles One, but we won.”

“Completely uncool,” Ryou agreed, firmly ignoring the small voice in the back of his head that was pointing out certain similarities to his own performance without Choutarou.

That was different. Choutarou wasn’t the center of his game; he was just… the other center of his game. Ryou had to shake his head at himself, wryly, before bumping Choutarou with his shoulder.

“So, your mom make any more of those killer chocolate cookies this week?”

Ohtori

Choutarou was having a very bad day. His E string had broken last night, and the store close to his house didn’t have the brand he favored. He’d had bizarre dreams that he couldn’t remember very well, involving a tennis court that somehow had nets all over it. The lingering restlessness from that had distracted him so much he’d burned three pieces of toast in a row, before Okaa-sama made him sit down and let her do it.

Normally, a match, especially a tournament match, let him put things like that aside, but today he was playing Seigaku’s Echizen-kun in Singles Two, and somehow it was just the last straw. Despite all the concentration and discipline he could muster, Choutarou couldn’t shake the horrible, foggy feeling of losing right from the start.

He tightened his mental grip as much as he could, preparing to serve.

“Choutarou!”

His head snapped up at the sound of his name, and he spun to see Shishido-san standing behind him, one hand wound into the fence. Choutarou recognized the look on his face. It was the same one he’d had while they worked on controlling his serve. Impatient. Sharp. Burning with incontrovertible belief that Choutarou would succeed.

Choutarou took what felt like his first real breath all day, and nodded. Shishido-san smiled back, bright as sunlight flashing off a knife.

All right, maybe he’d have a little more sympathy for Fudoumine next time. Maybe.

These days Echizen-kun could return over half of Choutarou’s serves. This one was not one of that half. As Echizen-kun shook out his hand, he gave Choutarou a one sided smile, eyes interested for the first time this match. Choutarou let his own mouth curve slightly, cool and pleased.

He knew Shishido-san was grinning, behind him.

Shishido

Ryou closed his History of the Heian Era text with a thump and cast himself back, carelessly, across Choutarou’s bed.

“I will be so glad when it’s next year,” he commented to the ceiling, knowing Choutarou would have looked up at the rustle when he fell back. “I mean, singles is fun, and all, but it’s just not the same.”

“Me, too.” Choutarou slipped out of his desk chair to sit leaning against the bed. “There’s just something… missing.”

“Yeah,” Ryou agreed, softly. It was almost enough, just to hang out with Choutarou, to share frustrations over their teams, to redesign the curriculum when they got bored with their homework. And they had played together a lot this year. But there was an extra edge that came with playing as a pair, against real challenges, that the street courts only supplied once in a blue moon.

Though the street courts did make it easier for Atobe to come watch them unobtrusively. Which he was capable of, if he put his mind to it. Being himself, Atobe hadn’t said a thing, but Ryou hadn’t known him this long for nothing. He had no more doubt that he’d be able to talk Atobe around to supporting he and Choutarou.

“Besides,” he went on, mood lightening a little, “somebody’s got to get Oshitari and Mukahi’s heads out of the clouds. They think they’ve got a cakewalk to Doubles One next year.” He turned his head, crooked grin meeting Choutarou’s sudden, brilliant smile. There was confidence there, and anticipation.

“Too bad Oshitari-senpai and Mukahi-senpai will have to settle for second,” Choutarou said, reaching out his hand to his partner. Ryou clasped it.

“Yep. Too bad for everyone else.”

End

Last Modified: May 08, 12
Posted: May 28, 04
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Thief and 10 other readers sent Plaudits.

Burning

In the winter of Ohtori’s third year of junior high and Shishido’s first year of high school. Shishido reflects on his partner, and their bond as a doubles pair. Drama With Romance, I-3

The first time Ryou found himself admiring his partner’s body, he chalked it up to hormones and went on from there. He’d read his mother’s old human biology textbooks, and knew he was at the age where these things were supposed to start happening. It wasn’t the first time he’d caught himself looking at one of his teammates, either.

After a few months, though, he started noticing something.

When he looked at Choutarou the appreciation wasn’t colored by his usual awareness that he’d sooner sit through a makeover with his brother’s girlfriend than let the person in question within actual arm’s reach. And half the time it wasn’t precisely Choutarou’s body he was appreciating. Of course, Choutarou was striking to look at; the contrast of silver hair and large, dark eyes got lots of attention. But what caught Ryou’s attention was the poise of that tall figure; the straightness with which he always held his shoulders; his habit of running a hand through already rumpled hair, making it glow as it feathered down again; the way his eyes brightened and warmed, like chocolate melting, when Ryou complimented his technique.

By the time Ryou figured out that he was genuinely attracted to his partner, and it probably wasn’t going away, he had it pretty bad.

Some people, especially a certain other, really annoying, Hyoutei doubles pair, might have said it was a perfect setup. Ryou knew better. For one thing, he had no idea what Choutarou liked. His partner’s reserve made him one of the most asexual people Ryou had ever known, short of Hiyoshi. And while Choutarou was a lot nicer about rebuffing advances than his yearmate, everyone who made one to date had still been turned away.

Ryou had no intention of screwing up their combination by coming on to his partner if Choutarou wasn’t interested. He and Choutarou were already as close as siblings, without the disadvantage of having annoyed each other all the while growing up. Ryou valued that very highly. His hormones could damn well go sit on ice. He stared out his bedroom window at the light dusting of snow glittering on the trees and houses. It was certainly the right season.

Well, spring would be here soon, and Choutarou would graduate, and they would be in the same school again. He could always keep an eye out, and see. He was pretty sure that, when Choutarou made up his mind what he was interested in, it would show in spite of that reserve. For one thing, Choutarou tended toward the intuitive the same way Ryou tended toward the analytical. With him, everything just was. Which was an occasional drawback when it came to finding and training out his technical weaknesses, but that was what partners were for. For another thing, Choutarou let a lot of his reserve go with Ryou.

Ryou grinned up at his ceiling, remembering his absolute shock, that day he’d heard Choutarou put his position on the line for the sake of Ryou’s. That had been the first day he’d seen a hint of the shy, friendly brightness beyond the steel determination that was Choutarou’s trademark as a player. That, as much as Choutarou’s genuine respect for him in his hour of disgrace, had reconciled him to playing as part of a doubles pair.

“Shishido-san?” came his partner’s quiet voice from across the room. Ryou rolled over to see him stacking his books, papers neatly tucked away.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think all doubles pairs are this close?”

Ryou blinked, startled once again at how closely their thoughts matched sometimes.

“Where did that come from?” he asked. Choutarou drew his knees up and rested his chin on them, looking thoughtful.

“My History and Society course is talking about how chance influences events, and it just started me thinking. It was really chance that we wound up as a pair. But we work together really well in doubles, because our styles and personalities fit. And that made me wonder about what it is that makes doubles in general work. All the really good pairs that I’ve seen seem… very close. I wondered if that personality match is necessary.”

Ryou regarded his partner. Was Choutarou’s reserve starting to rebel against that closeness? It didn’t seem likely; Choutarou had always seemed pleased, almost relieved, that he and Ryou were so in synch. Still.

“We’re closer than just a personality match would make us,” he observed. “Compatible personalities can happen even with people who have barely met.”

Choutarou nodded, solemnly. No clues yet.

“I think the best pairs probably are all close like this. It would take kind of a strange mind to share so much understanding in a game and then just drop it when the game ends,” Ryou said, carefully. “Do you mind?”

Choutarou blinked at him, brown eyes wide.

“Oh! No, that wasn’t what I meant, Shishido-san,” he assured his partner. Ryou relaxed again, mouth quirking.

“You sure?” he asked. Choutarou smiled, and Ryou savored more of that brightness that Choutarou didn’t show to anyone else.

“I’m sure,” Choutarou affirmed. “I was just wondering about what that means for a pair like Inui-san and Kaidou.”

Ryou thought about it for a long moment, and then almost fell off his bed laughing at the mental pictures.

“Shishido-san,” his partner admonished, but Ryou could hear the edge of suppressed laughter in his voice.

“I just,” he gasped, “had this image of the two of them griping over Tezuka, the way we do over Atobe and Hiyoshi…” He dissolved again, and this time Choutarou was laughing too.

When they calmed down again, Ryou felt satisfaction displacing the uncertainty of his earlier thoughts. As long as he was the one who made Ohtori Choutarou laugh out loud, the rest of it was almost beside the point.

End

Last Modified: May 08, 12
Posted: May 28, 04
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9 readers sent Plaudits.

Long Exposure – Three

Tachibana and Fuji ease into intimacy. Drama with Romance, I-3

A month into his second year of high school Kippei was very pleased with the world. The fact that he was currently surrounded by spiky, vicious looking plants didn’t change that in the slightest. Nor the fact that Fuji was laughing at him, silently. Ann had been laughing at him for weeks, after all, and she was far less subtle about it. But the fact was, Kippei had his team back, and that was enough to distract him from any number of chortling siblings and flora of carnivorous appearance.

Not, of course, that he hadn’t been meeting with his team, his real team, to practice all last year. But now they were all in the same school again, and it was official. They were his again, and no one would even consider arguing. Least of all the lingering older tennis club members, none of whom could hold a candle to any of his players.

Fudoumine was back. Was it really any wonder he couldn’t stop smiling?

Even if he was wondering how many variations on gray-green and spiky one botanicals exhibit could fit in.

“It’s good to see you so happy,” Fuji murmured as they wandered the branching, pebbled paths that had, so far, been deserted of any fellow plant-life enthusiasts.

“I suppose I’ve been a bear about the tennis club for the last year, haven’t I?” Kippei asked, as apologetically as he could while he felt like grinning every time he thought of his team. Fuji chuckled.

“No more than Tezuka, certainly. He never said out loud, but we could all tell he was twitchy over not being in control of the team any more.”

“He seemed to respect your captain, though,” Kippei noted, with a hint of question.

Fuji didn’t answer immediately, instead exclaiming over the planting they had just come in sight of.

“They do have a Saguaro!” He laid his hands on the perimeter rope, as if he yearned to reach out and touch the tall plant. To Kippei it looked like the archetype of a cactus: a tall, striated barrel with arms branching out and up. “They’re endangered in America,” Shuusuke told him, sounding a bit wistful, “I thought it might only be a rumor. They take a very long time to mature; it’s one of the problems with propagating them.”

“Cacti are good at enduring, aren’t they?” Kippei asked. “Surely these will, too.”

“They’re like any plant. They endure anything except sudden environmental change.” His smile quirked. “I suppose it’s true of animals, too.” He sighed, faintly. “Tezuka does respect Yamato-buchou. He’s the one Tezuka got a lot of his sense of responsibility from. But Tezuka prefers direct commands, and Yamato-buchou tends to be rather roundabout. I think it made Tezuka… uncertain. Nor was there really anything any of us could do but wait it out.”

Kippei responded automatically to the shadow that darkened Shuusuke’s eyes, and wrapped a light arm around his shoulders. He could wish that it didn’t make Shuusuke feel guilty when he couldn’t help Tezuka, but that was the kind of person Shuusuke was. Natural success always left you ill prepared to deal with any failure at all, even failures that weren’t your fault.

“Humans are more flexible than plants,” he observed. He glanced down to find Fuji gazing at him with the same curious fascination he had been directing at the cacti. Kippei raised his brows.

“You touch so easily,” Fuji said.

“Is there some reason I shouldn’t?” Kippei asked. That wistful edge was back in Fuji’s voice, so Kippei didn’t think the statement was an indirect request to let go. Even when Shuusuke shied back from some intimacy, he never objected to Kippei’s touch. Kippei wondered, sometimes, whether that was Fuji’s promissory note; his assurance that, when he retreated, he only wanted a little space, not for Kippei to leave him alone. So Kippei had waited and let Fuji choose his own time. Lately, based on the thoughtful, sidelong looks he’d been getting from under Shuusuke’s lashes, he had started to hope that the time might be soon.

Thus his increased freedom with touching Fuji, which led to more direct looks. Looks that had begun to seem less thoughtful and more decisive.

Fuji seemed to consider his question, for a moment, before a small, secret smile crossed his face and he leaned ever so slightly against Kippei.

“No.”

Kippei felt a tension that had been with him for a long, long time let go. It wasn’t that he thought Fuji had been deliberately teasing him…

Well, mostly not.

But the fact remained that Fuji was very skittish about receiving expressions of simple affection. Or, at least, he had been. He seemed to have decided that he could relax now. Kippei slid his arm down to Shuusuke’s waist and drew him a little closer. Shuusuke, however, having made up his mind, didn’t seem to think this was sufficient. He gave Kippei a sparkling, laughing smile and reached up to tug him down far enough to kiss him.

It was probably fortunate for Kippei’s heart that he’d realized some time since that Fuji Shuusuke didn’t have much in the way of middle gears. There was neutral, and then there was full ahead. Full ahead, in this case, was a warm, open mouthed kiss that lasted quite a while before Shuusuke let him go. Kippei took a moment to catch his breath and another to be pleased they were still the only visitors at the exhibit.

“You know,” he said, eventually, “for the longest time I thought you were in love with Tezuka.”

“I will always care very deeply for Tezuka,” Fuji told him, softly. “But if we were closer than friends, what he wants from me would be too…”

He broke off, but Kippei could fill in the rest. It was hard enough for Shuusuke to exert his strength seriously against a friend; to do so against a lover would probably tear him apart. He gathered Shuusuke a bit closer, still.

“Was that why you asked not to play opposite me?” Shuusuke asked, suddenly. Kippei blinked down at him a few times before releasing an exasperated sigh.

I’m not the one who’s that machiavellian,” he pointed out. “I simply thought it would be better.” A chuckle vibrated through the body in his arms, and Kippei realized he was being teased.

He buried a smile of his own in the caramel colored hair under his chin.


Tuesdays, like most days of the week, featured afternoon practices for both Fudoumine and Seigaku. Thus, Kippei was a bit surprised when he emerged from locking up the club room to see Shuusuke pacing like a tiger in a cage under the somewhat alarmed eyes of Akira and Shinji. He must have left practice half-way through to be here already, and that wasn’t like Shuusuke.

Nor was the tight-lipped, hard eyed expression on his face as he glanced up at Kippei.

“You’re here early,” Kippei noted, a bit cautiously.

“Tezuka said I should go,” Shuusuke said. His voice was low and sharp, the way it got when he was angry and trying not to show it too much. And if Tezuka had sent him away from practice, it meant that whatever was wrong had made Shuusuke angry enough to affect his game.

Kippei had a few quick words with Akira and Shinji before waving his concerned seconds off and leading Shuusuke under the trees beside the courts. There was room to pace, there, and little likelihood of passers by at this time of day.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, leaning against a sturdy maple. Shuusuke stalked to the fence and back.

“Yuuta,” he bit out, “is actually considering dating that… snake Mizuki. The one who was almost responsible for injuring him. That heartless, amoral bastard is making advances on my little brother.”

Kippei carefully refrained from saying anything foolishly reasonable, at this point, such as It’s Yuuta’s choice in the end. It wouldn’t help. Besides, he knew perfectly well that, if it were Ann, he would have set off immediately to make Mizuki eat his own tennis balls until he renounced any interest in her.

“Are you worried he’ll hurt Yuuta-kun?” he asked, instead. Shuusuke came to an abrupt halt, fists clenched.

“It’s not just that,” he said, at last, sounding more strained now. “Mizuki has used Yuuta, before, to get at me. What if it’s like that again? And I can’t say something like that to Yuuta, not even to warn him!” He looked at Kippei, tense conflict in his eyes. Kippei winced. No, that wouldn’t work very well, would it?

Kippei didn’t really think that Yuuta hated the fact that his brother was a better tennis player than he. Anyone who watched him watching Shuusuke play could see the glow of pride, and Yuuta smiled when he heard someone praise Shuusuke’s skill. Always provided they didn’t mention Yuuta. What invariably enraged the boy seemed to be the automatic assumption that he was secondary. To be told that he was being approached only because of his connection to his brother, to be told by his brother no less, would send him up in flames.

Well, now he understood why Shuusuke was angry and tense enough to show it openly.

Voices coming around the side of the court interrupted his thoughts.

“…tennis club. They have a lot more pull than they did last year.” Another second year, who Kippei unfortunately recognized, turned the corner. He seemed to be showing a friend the school grounds. He looked up, noticed Kippei, and immediately sneered.

“Of course, it’s still a pretty slapdash club,” he remarked loudly. “Mostly a bunch of first years; can’t seem to get any interest from the senior students. Rumor has it they’re kind of… rowdy.”

Kippei sighed. Tokogawa and he had never gotten along, and the other second year liked to bait him. He’d chosen the wrong time to do so, though. Shuusuke was already in a poor temper; something of his had been threatened. He never let something like that slide, and for it to happen twice in one day…

Kippei leaned back against his tree and crossed his arms. Well, with luck this would let Shuusuke release some tension.

Tokogawa froze as Shuusuke pinned him with an arctic blue glare.

“Every team who has gone against Fudoumine with that attitude has met with the humiliating defeat such blindness deserves,” Shuusuke said, a flaying edge in his voice. “Their courage and determination, even more than their considerable talent, have earned the respect of both professionals and peers. Of whom you are clearly not one. To belittle something you know nothing of makes it clear how much of a fool you are.” His eyes narrowed, glinting, as Tokogawa gaped. “Unless, of course, you would like to try proving to me you do know enough?” he purred, gesturing toward the courts.

Tokogawa nearly tripped over himself getting turned around and hustling his friend away. Shuusuke watched them go, satisfaction wafting off him almost visibly.

“My team will be pleased to know you have such a good opinion of them,” Kippei observed, lightly. Shuusuke blinked over his shoulder, focus interrupted. Which had been the point of the comment, after all. Kippei smiled and held out his arms, offering. After a moment Shuusuke gave him a smile back and came to rest against him. Kippei stroked his hair and said nothing more. He didn’t know whether it was simply the novelty or not, but being held, silently, always calmed Shuusuke. That Shuusuke would let Kippei calm him seemed like a good sign at the moment.

“I suppose that was an overreaction,” Shuusuke sighed, at last, “but it annoys me when people make such petty attacks on you.”

“My hero,” Kippei teased, gently. Shuusuke sniffed. “What about Ann?” Kippei asked, suddenly.

“What about her?” Shuusuke lifted his head so he could give Kippei a curious look.

“Ann gets along reasonably well with Yuuta-kun, and she shares your opinion of Mizuki,” Kippei explained. “She might be able to at least warn him of the possibility.”

Shuusuke thought about that, and the longer he thought the wider his smile got. Finally he broke down chuckling, probably at the idea of the outspoken Ann pinning down the touchy, reserved Yuuta for a personal conversation.

“Ann-chan probably would be able to talk to him about it,” he said.

“I’ll mention it to her, then,” Kippei promised.

For the first time that day, Shuusuke truly relaxed, and let his head fall back to Kippei’s shoulder. Kippei set aside his own concerns in favor of appreciating the feeling of holding Shuusuke, alone in the warm, still afternoon.


That winter they had an ice storm, on a Saturday night by luck. Kippei found himself wandering through the frozen city, very shortly after sunup Sunday morning, with Shuusuke and his camera. He wasn’t entirely clear on how this had come about, but thought it might have had something to do with the phone call before he was entirely awake, and a promise of hot chocolate.

He supposed it was a good thing, every now and again, to be reminded that his lover was a ruthless manipulator who liked to win, and who, moreover, did it by reflex the way most people breathed. At least this time it wasn’t the pool hall. He’d never seen so many poor dupes fleeced in such a short period, and Shuusuke’s high good humor about the whole affair had been faintly unnerving.

He’d mentioned it to Tezuka the next time they’d met and gotten an amused chuckle in reply. He had never suspected Tezuka of such a low sense of humor.

“All right,” Shuusuke announced, having caught one last picture of the sun making an aureole of frozen branches, “that’s all the film. Ready to go back?”

Kippei agreed as mildly as he could. Not that the ice-coated trees and streets weren’t beautiful, but his toes were getting very numb.

He had never had more cause to be grateful that Yomiko-san was a sweet and thoughtful woman. Not only did she have hot chocolate waiting, she had also put a couple blankets by the heater to warm, and sent them straight up to Shuusuke’s room with those and a tray when they piled in the door, shivering. Shuusuke carefully labeled his rolls of film and put them in his to-be-developed basket before availing himself of either.

“There,” he said, with satisfaction, perching on the foot of the bed and winding his feet into one of the blankets. “And when it all melts, perhaps I can get some good shots at lower speed.”

“What difference does the speed make?” Kippei asked around his mug. Since he suspected he might find himself along for the next trip, too, he might as well know what was going on.

“The longer the shutter says open, the more movement is picked up by the film,” Shuusuke explained, wrapping pale fingers around his own mug. “You can get some wonderful effects with running water that way. Here.” He leaned over to pluck an album from his shelves, and flipped it open.

Kippei’s breath stopped. The photo was a study in contrasts. A small waterfall, long lines of soft white, was surrounded by leaves whose edges looked sharp enough to cut.

“Sometimes it’s like the world waits for you,” Shuusuke said in a far away tone. “The wind died completely just after I finished setting up the tripod. Nothing moved but the water, for the whole one second exposure. It was perfect.”

“Yes,” Kippei agreed, softly. Shuusuke glanced up at him, surprise melting into shy pleasure.

“Today was all very short exposure,” he continued, busying himself with putting the album away. Kippei shook his head, affectionately. Every time he touched something important to Shuusuke for the first time, Shuusuke slipped around it for a while. “The shorter the exposure, generally, the sharper the image. And ice needs its edges to show the beauty.”

“Will you show me today’s pictures, when they’re ready?” Kippei asked. Shuusuke gave him a smile more brilliant than the reflected morning light outside, and nodded.

Kippei decided, as Shuusuke curled up against him to share all the blankets, that this wasn’t such a bad way to start a Sunday after all.

End

Last Modified: Feb 08, 12
Posted: May 03, 04
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Tyger

Ohtori and Shishido finally come to terms with their attraction, and their partnership. Romance With Drama and Porn, I-4

Choutarou had learned years ago that a cool response was his best revenge on hecklers. So, when one of the second years suggested that Shishido-san must have done some extraordinary favors for Atobe to have arranged for the Shishido-Ohtori pair to play, despite Choutarou only being a first year, he didn’t twitch. He wanted to feed the smirking bastard his own racquet, but he knew that wouldn’t help anything in the long run.

For one thing, he knew no one actually believed any such thing. Shishido-san’s… discussion with Atobe-senpai had been quite vehement and perfectly public. Half the club had hung around while Atobe-senpai had arranged for Choutarou and Shishido-san to play a match with the current Doubles Two pair. Their resulting win didn’t count toward team rankings, since it had been after actual club practice time, and theoretically their coach was not aware of it. But Choutarou was quietly permitted to play as a pair with Shishido-san again. He had known there would be resentment, as they advanced, even without Atobe-senpai’s silent warning just before their “trial” match began.

“If you think we aren’t strong enough to be candidates for the Regulars, you’re welcome to try proving it, Senpai,” Choutarou suggested, calmly, now. The smirk turned into a grimace, which made him feel a little better. What he spotted over the heckler’s shoulder made him feel a great deal better.

“That Shishido…” the second year spat, only to be cut off by a razor sharp voice behind him.

“Yeah? What about ‘that Shishido’?”

Choutarou couldn’t help a tiny smile as the heckler and his two friends whirled around to see Shishido-san leaning against the fence.

“You have a problem with me?” Shishido prodded, pushing away from the fence and advancing. “Or my partner?” he added, eyes narrowing.

He watched their disorderly retreat with a gleam of satisfaction, before sighing.

“It’s fun to watch ’em run, but there are times I wish I had your cool, Choutarou. Furokawa’s going to be a pain for weeks after this.”

Choutarou bit back his initial response, but then thought again. This was Shishido-san, after all. His partner. So.

“I’m glad you don’t, Shishido-san,” he said, quietly. Shishido-san turned toward him, one winged brow lifting.

“Why not?” he wanted to know.

“It’s… a cold way to be,” Choutarou explained. “You’re not a cold person.”

Shishido-san’s expressive mouth twisted, wryly.

“And you are?” he asked smacking Choutarou on the shoulder with the back of his hand. “Don’t give me that, Choutarou. Maybe you can fool the rest of them, but I know you better.” Choutarou ducked his head.

“Yes. But you’re… you’re very passionate, Shishido-san. I’m not like that.”

They walked in silence until he turned toward the classroom buildings.

“You have something else today?” Shishido-san asked, surprised.

“I wanted some extra time to practice with the piano this week. The tutor said it would be all right for me to come in late, as long as I lock up behind me.”

“Yeah?” Shishido-san tipped his head to the side. “It bother you to have an audience?”

Choutarou was startled. Shishido-san had heard him play before, but usually by coincidence. He’d never asked to listen.

“It won’t bother me,” he said, at last, “though I’m afraid you’ll be bored.” Shishido-san’s mouth quirked.

“Doubt it.” He fell in beside Choutarou again.

All right, so Shishido-san didn’t look bored, as he slung himself into one of the chairs in the second music room while Choutarou started working through his warmups. That was good. It made it easier to slip into the music when he started practicing for real, listening, feeling, for the moments when the flow hitched, places he needed to go back and smooth. When he snuck a look at Shishido-san, between pieces, he looked relaxed and contemplative, eyes half shut. It was a rare look for Shishido-san to wear, but Choutarou had seen it enough to know it wasn’t boredom. In the end, he was comfortable enough to wrap up with a run through one of his own rare compositions.

He had written this one last year, trying to catch a moment in the music. It was a day he and Shishido-san had been playing each other, on one of the courts near Shishido-san’s house, and a storm had driven them under cover. Shishido-san had stood at the very edge of the pavilion, staring raptly at the sky and laughing with each especially impressive crack of thunder. He had leaned into the storm, the way Choutarou had seen him lean into a good opponent. The idea of playing a storm had taken Choutarou’s fancy, and he’d tried to sketch out, in music, what it might feel like.

He took a deep breath and let it out as the last chord slid through his fingers. The stillness just after was one of the things he played music for, the peace after the rush. When he looked up, he was almost surprised to see Shishido-san still there, eyes burning into him. Shishido-san stood, without speaking, came to Choutarou’s side, gripped his shoulder and shook him, gently.

“And you think you aren’t passionate? Choutarou, for a smart guy, you can be really dense sometimes. Just because you don’t show it in many ways doesn’t mean it isn’t there,” he said, seriously. “I haven’t seen you underestimate yourself very often. Don’t do it now.”

To hear that from the one person whose judgment Choutarou was willing to trust as he would his own laid peace over him as deep as the stillness after a good performance.

“Thank you, Shishido-san,” he murmured. Shishido-san smiled down at him, the small smile that meant something was going their way. The thought flickered across Choutarou’s mind that Shishido-san was close enough to kiss him.

He almost swallowed his tongue in startlement. Where had that come from?

“Choutarou?” Shishido asked, looking concerned. “You all right? You looked kind of odd for a second, there.”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Choutarou assured him, automatically. “I think I just spaced out for a minute; it’s been a long day.”

“You can say that again, Mr. Two Club Overachiever,” Shishido-san teased. “We’d better get you home before you fall asleep on your feet.”

Choutarou laughed and agreed, but when he finally went to bed that night he didn’t go to sleep for a long time.

It was not news to him that he was powerfully drawn to his partner. When he had spoken of Shishido-san being passionate he had left out the parts about how it infused everything he did. Every gesture practically glowed with it, like the corona during an eclipse. It fascinated Choutarou, and all the more for the contrast it made with his own reserve and containment. Their complementary natures were as much what made them an outstanding doubles pair as the similarity of their drive and will to succeed.

Choutarou had thought that was all it was.

He decided to test it with a little thought experiment, of sorts. He closed his eyes on the dark room, and cast his mind back to himself sitting at the piano and Shishido-san standing beside him. How would he have felt if Shishido-san had closed that last distance, run his hand up Choutarou’s neck to tangle in his hair, leaned down and touched his lips to Choutarou’s…?

Tingling heat shot through him, curling low in his stomach. Choutarou’s eyes snapped open to stare at the darkness, breath fast, heart pounding. All right. So. Yes. He really was attracted to his partner. Fine.

Now, what on Earth was he going to do about it?


Choutarou’s thoughts insisted on running in circles, and they were starting to make him dizzy. The most reasonable thing he could do was decide whether he thought Shishido-san shared his attraction or not, and either tell him, in the first instance, or do his best to ignore it, in the second. The problem came in step one.

Shishido-san sought him out, even when they weren’t practicing. Shishido-san used a language of expressions that was just between them. Shishido-san acted like Choutarou’s wellbeing was an extension of his own, and cared for it as matter-of-factly. Those were things that Choutarou had seen established couples do. But it could easily be that Shishido-san did all that because they were a team, and friends, without being at all attracted to Choutarou. Then again, he touched Choutarou far more easily than he did anyone else. But, then again, it could just be…

Around and around.

And underneath it all, the intuition that he should just speak up, pushing against the fear of damaging what they already had.

The court was one of the few places he could put it all aside, because a game was a game and training was training, and nothing interfered with that. But Shishido-san was starting to notice his distraction whenever Choutarou stood still for more than a minute. There were a few things about which Shishido-san could show great patience, but his partner holding out on him did not seem to be one of them. It only took a few weeks before he cornered Choutarou while they were packing up after practice.

“All right, Choutarou, give. What’s got you so wound up, lately?” Shishido-san didn’t look up from zipping his bag, but his tone was not casual. Choutarou bit his lip.

“It’s nothing, Shishido-san, there’s just been something on my mind.”

“Yeah, I got that part. You’re throwing yourself into games like you don’t want to come out the other side.” Shishido-san blew out an exasperated sigh, and stood directly in front of Choutarou. “C’mon, what’s up?”

Choutarou couldn’t quite bring himself to look Shishido-san in the face when he was so close, and contented himself with examining his partner’s shoes instead. “It’s nothing. Really,” he murmured. He could hear the frown in Shishido-san’s voice, when he spoke.

“Choutarou, you’re starting to make me nervous, here. Come on, look at me.” When Choutarou didn’t look up, his voice lowered, half an order and half an entreaty, “Choutarou…”

That tone, and Shishido-san’s hands closing over his shoulders, drove Choutarou’s head up. Shishido-san was leaning forward, barely a hand-span away. His breath caught, and a shiver sheeted over him before he could stop it. Choutarou was sure his eyes were as wide as an animal’s caught in oncoming headlights.

Shishido-san was his partner, the one he willingly shared his mind and heart with when they played; he knew Choutarou. Choutarou felt apprehension, but no surprise, to see Shishido-san’s expression changing, the frown of irritation and concern giving way to surprise, to inquiry, to a thoughtful examination that finally faded into a look almost as wide-eyed as Choutarou’s own.

“You’re kidding me,” he said, softly.

Choutarou wanted to look away again, but since he couldn’t give himself a reason for doing so, any longer, besides cowardice, he swallowed hard and kept his eyes on Shishido-san’s. His partner was very still for twenty heartbeats; Choutarou counted them. And then one of Shishido-san’s hands rose to his chin, thumb settling against his cheek. Choutarou’s breath stopped entirely.

“You sure?” Shishido-san asked, tone gentler than ninety-eight percent of the tennis club would probably ever credit. Choutarou remembered Shishido-san asking him the same thing, the first time they had talked about just how close they were becoming. Warmth started in his chest, unlocking his lungs.

“Yes,” he whispered. Shishido-san’s thumb brushed over his mouth, and he had to close his eyes for a moment. When he looked up again, Shishido-san was smiling, crookedly.

“Is this what you’ve been so knotted up over?” he asked. When Choutarou nodded, Shishido-san shook his head.

“My partner, the brilliant idiot,” he said, mock-disgusted. “Even if I didn’t want you too, did you think I’d be upset about it or something?”

Choutarou felt a flush rising in his cheeks, and glanced aside as far as Shishido-san’s hand would let him.

“You should know better than that, by now,” his partner admonished. “And, anyway, if I’d had any idea you felt like this I would have done something about it a lot sooner, believe me.”

Choutarou looked back at Shishido-san, ruefully.

“Actually… I only realized a few weeks ago,” he admitted. Shishido-san leaned over him, laughing softly.

“Choutarou,” he chuckled, before his lips covered his partner’s.

It was… Shishido-san. Impulsive, and casual, and impatient. Sharp and sleek. Warm and open. And Choutarou relaxed into that warmth, the way he always did.


“Well,” Atobe-senpai murmured to Shishido-san, as practice broke up two days later, “that’s certainly one way to increase the effectiveness of your combination.”

“One more comment like that, Atobe, and I’m gonna see if that mouth of yours is big enough to fit your racquet into,” Shishido-san growled back.

Choutarou steadfastly made as if he hadn’t heard a thing, as Atobe-senpai strolled off, laughing low in his throat. He was deeply grateful that no one else seemed to have noticed anything; he really didn’t feel that it was anyone’s business but his and Shishido-san’s. As they headed toward Shishido-san’s house, it being his turn to host homework and snacks, Choutarou couldn’t help asking, though.

“Shishido-san, why are you and Atobe-senpai like that? I mean,” he hesitated, “you’re… friends… aren’t you?”

“Yeah, well,” Shishido-san snorted. Then his mouth quirked, reminiscently. “It goes back a long way. Atobe and I were in the same class almost from the start, and it was hate at first sight.” He glanced at Choutarou, with the tilt of brows that meant he was just a little embarrassed.”We’re both kind of attention hogs; even Atobe admits that, though he has different words for it, of course. I forget what we were even arguing about, actually. I do remember that he made one smart remark too many, and I hauled off and socked him one.” Shishido-san grinned, showing a lot of teeth, at what seemed to be a happy memory. “I also remember being surprised that he gave as good as he got.” The grin twisted. “Atobe has always fought dirty, unless he has a reason not to.”

Yes, Choutarou had noticed that. He’d spared a moment to be glad, every now and then, that being one of Atobe-senpai’s team was apparently sufficient reason.

“Well, one of the Elementary teachers had probably just been to a developmental psychology seminar, or something,” Shishido-san continued, a bit tartly, “because they shut us up in a room together to cool down.”

“Um,” Choutarou commented.

“Yeah. Thing was, in a way it worked. We didn’t spontaneously become buddies or anything like that, but we did agree that, while we hated each others guts, we were even more pissed off at the adults who thought we would fall for a set up like that.” Shishido-san shook his head. “The older I get, the more I understand why Tou-san says they couldn’t pay him enough to teach at Hyoutei. But it’s been like that ever since. We have enemies in common, goals in common. And he doesn’t try to wrap me around his finger, and I always give him straight answers.” Shishido-san shrugged. “It works out.”

Maybe, Choutarou reflected, as they made their way up to Shishido-san’s room, they had both needed someone to be open with. Really open.

They shed their bags, but Shishido-san stopped him before he could pull out his books.

“You have anything that needs doing right away?” he asked. A tingle danced down Choutarou’s spine.

“No,” he answered, softly, taking a small step toward his partner.

“Good.” Shishido-san smiled, slow and pleased, sapphire eyes darkening as he ran a hand up to the nape of Choutarou’s neck and tugged him down to a kiss.

Choutarou pressed a little closer to Shishido-san’s body, opening his mouth as the tip of Shishido-san’s tongue skated over his lower lip. Shishido-san seemed to take the hint, because his lips curved against Choutarou’s, and he pulled his partner down to his bed. Choutarou let out a tiny laugh when Shishido-san planted an elbow on either side of his head and just looked down at him with the glowing smile he gave Choutarou when they won a hard game. Choutarou reached up, and Shishido-san’s smile curled in just a little at the edges as Choutarou ran his hands through the brush of thick, silky hair. It was soft against his palms.

“You’re just going to look, Shishido-san?” he asked, moving one hand to touch his fingertips to his partner’s mouth. He gasped when Shishido-san captured one, delicately, between his teeth, touching back with his tongue.

“Mmm,” Shishido-san purred, letting go. “You mind if I touch?” His voice made Choutarou shiver, lower and huskier than usual, and the spark in his half-lidded eyes suggested just what kind of touching he meant.

“I don’t mind,” Choutarou whispered, a little breathless. He wasn’t entirely sure, himself, how far he was ready to let this go, but he wanted Shishido-san to touch him. He wanted to add the warmth of Shishido-san’s hands to the warmth of his partner’s simple presence and smile.

“The Student Council are sadists,” Shishido-san said, conversationally if a bit muffled against Choutarou’s throat, as his fingers worked their way down Choutarou’s shirt buttons. “They design these uniforms to be taken off, and then expect us to keep our minds on studying.”

Choutarou’s chuckle unraveled as Shishido-san’s hands stroked down his chest, brushing his shirt aside. His breath escaped on a soft aaaahh when Shishido-san slid down him to trace the muscles of his stomach with a warm tongue. His insides felt shivery, uncertain, as if he’d stepped into a fast elevator down. When Shishido-san bit down, gently, it felt like a static shock, and Choutarou arched up off the bed with a sharp sound.

“Shishido-san!”

His partner moved back up to kiss him, pressing him down with the comforting weight of his body.

“Too much?” Shishido-san asked.

“I…” Choutarou actually couldn’t make up his mind about that. He certainly didn’t want to stop. So he asked something else, instead. “Shishido-san… would you mind? If I touch?”

Shishido-san grinned, and rolled them both over, taking Choutarou above him. “Feel free,” he said.

The shirt was, as Shishido-san had pointed out, quick work, and Shishido-san made small, appreciative noises as Choutarou explored his chest with light fingers. It was when he got to the pants that Choutarou hesitated, glancing up at Shishido-san to make sure this would be all right. Holding Choutarou’s gaze, reassuring him more by action than any words could, Shishido-san reached down and unfastened the button and zipper himself before leaving it to Choutarou again. Choutarou had to tear his eyes away from his partner’s before he could continue.

Seeing Shishido-san lying naked on a bed was a very different matter than seeing him changing into or out of uniform, and it stopped Choutarou again, all his attention taken up with tracing the lines of Shishido-san’s body, dark against the white sheets. A soft laugh drew his eyes up to Shishido-san’s face, and his wicked smile, as he stretched like a cat, muscles shifting and flowing under his skin.

“Like what you see, Choutarou?” he asked, teasing.

Choutarou swallowed, and nodded, and came to him, touching his partner with something like wonder. Shishido-san’s skin was fine-grained, smooth as he stroked across it, and his partner sighed and stretched again under his hands. A pleased smile curled Choutarou’s own lips as he glanced down and noticed just how much Shishido-san was enjoying this. Slowly, hesitating a little, he reached down and curled his fingers around Shishido-san’s length.

“Choutarou,” Shishido-san breathed, harshly. “Oh, yeah.”

Choutarou stroked him, gently. He hadn’t quite realized, touching himself, how soft this skin was, and feeling the heat of someone else’s arousal against his palm was… very different. He was breathing almost as fast as Shishido-san. Small things lodged themselves in his memory: the flex of Shishido-san’s moan; the line of Shishido-san’s leg as he drew one knee up; Shishido-san’s hands fisting in the sheets, not trying to return anything yet, leaving this moment to Choutarou; the arch of Shishido-san’s throat as he threw his head back, suddenly voiceless, hips thrusting up into Choutarou’s hand; the way Shishido-san was still hot to his touch when he finally fell back, panting.

Choutarou was just starting to wonder about the mechanics of cleaning them up when Shishido-san slitted his eyes open and laughed. He fished around the headboard of the bed without looking, and extracted a box of tissues. When Shishido-san had applied those and tossed them over the side, he pressed Choutarou down and kissed him slowly.

“So, can I return the favor?” he asked, his tone playful but his eyes serious.

“I’d like that,” Choutarou said, softly.

“See? I told you you were, so, passionate,” Shishido-san observed as he stripped off Choutarou’s remaining clothing. “Or maybe I should just say aggressive.”

“Shishido-san,” Choutarou laughed, feeling a blush cross his cheeks.

“Hmmm.” Shishido-san covered Choutarou’s body with his own, drawing a quiet gasp from Choutarou, before he spoke again. “You know, all things considered, it’s probably all right to be a little less formal now.”

Choutarou blinked up at him for a moment before he actually understood. The formalities were so automatic for him… But his partner had a point.

“Shishido,” he essayed, a little shyly. His partner’s bare name in his mouth somehow felt more intimate than the bare skin against his own.

“Mm. Better,” his partner purred, nudging Choutarou’s head up so he could lick teasingly at the tender skin under his jaw.

Choutarou closed his eyes. If what he wanted was the openness that his partner offered him so freely, it was only right… And this was his partner, he was safe here…

“Ryou,” he whispered. He heard his partner’s breath catch, and then he was being kissed, hard, caught up against Ryou’s body so tight he almost couldn’t breathe, though he didn’t miss it just then, kissed again and again.

“Choutarou.” His partner’s voice was rough against his ear.

Choutarou was still a bit dazed when Ryou slid down his body, but Ryou’s fingers stroking him hard focused his attention. The hot, wet slide of Ryou’s tongue licking up his length, delicately as he might an ice cream cone he wanted to make last, knocked him back again. He shuddered at the soft, quick touches, moaning when the heat of Ryou’s mouth finally closed around him. That heat raced through him, snatching him up like a wave ready to throw him to shore, and the speed of it might have frightened him without Ryou’s hands to steady him, remind him of who was with him. Choutarou closed his own hands, hard, on Ryou’s arms and let the wave of heat and pressure and pleasure take him, lift him, cast him forward and out of himself.

Ryou was holding him when the tremors running through him finally relaxed, and he turned his head into his partner’s shoulder, shaken but pleased.

“All right?” Ryou asked, quietly. Choutarou nodded, and a thought struck him, prompted by the knowledge in his partner’s voice when he asked.

“You’ve… done this before.”

“Yeah; a fling here and there at the seminars and camps,” Ryou answered, shrugging.

“I think I’m glad for that,” Choutarou murmured, wrapping an arm around Ryou’s waist. His partner chuckled.

“Good.”

Choutarou lay, thinking about how comfortable Ryou’s arms around him, and Ryou’s hand rubbing his back, were. Comfortable, comforting, warm and natural. Intimate. He stirred.

“Ryou?” he started, still shy with his partner’s name.

“Mm?” There was a happy, satisfied grin in that small noise, and Choutarou smiled before biting his lip.

“Will you mind if I call you by your family name, at school, still?” he asked, softly. “It’s… this is…”

“Personal,” Ryou finished for him, holding him tighter. “Of course I won’t mind.”

“Thank you.” Choutarou settled a little closer, into peace deeper than he had ever felt, even with his music. Clearly, he thought, smiling to himself, the closeness and the touching hadn’t been just because Ryou was his partner.

Clearly, there was no “just” about their partnership.

End

Last Modified: May 08, 12
Posted: May 29, 04
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Yasmin_ and 7 other readers sent Plaudits.

Simple

A little Momoshiro introspective about how he manages to be friends with Ryouma. Drama, I-3

Momoshiro Takeshi considered himself a straightforward sort of guy. He didn’t bother to hide what he thought much, and he liked the friends he made by being outgoing and cheerful. He didn’t stand on formality, and if that caused certain stiff-necked classmates of his to call him an annoying idiot, well Momo knew that he gave respect where it was due and accepted it where he’d earned it, and that was good enough for him.

Which could be why he’d gotten along with Echizen Ryouma right from the start. They had very similar approaches, that way.

It was one of the more interesting things, to Momo, about their friendship. He was outgoing and outspoken, while Echizen was self-contained and sparing with his words. Momo, despite his casual ways, was really quite proper most of the time, while Echizen, despite his genuine respect for skill and accomplishment, mouthed off to absolutely everyone. And yet, somehow, they were always in the same place, always looking the same way, always knowing what the other would do.

Kachirou had mentioned, once, that it was strange Momo and Ryouma still couldn’t play doubles to save their lives, since they seemed to understand and predict each other so well. Momo had replied that that wasn’t enough for good doubles, especially when what they could unfailingly predict was that both of them would go for the ball no matter where it landed. Kachirou had agreed, ruefully, that Momo had a point.

In fact, the only one Momo had seen who could play doubles with Echizen was Kachirou himself. And that highlighted the difference, of course. Kachirou played as support to Echizen, and he did it well because he’d spent so long watching how Echizen played. Momo knew how Echizen played, too, but Kachirou… orbited Echizen. Ryouma was the primary in that relationship. And neither Momo nor Ryouma would ever do that for each other. For them, Momo decided, extending his astronomy metaphor, it was more like a double star, both turning around a common center. Not that determination to win generated gravity. Or, maybe it did…

An elbow in the ribs interrupted his musing.

“Momo-senpai, quit dozing off and work on the English,” Echizen directed from where he was propped against Momo’s back, reading his Japanese textbook.

Momo sighed. “Right, right, whatever you say. Buchou.”

Ryouma reached over his head and noogied Momo.

Despite his startlement, Momo could hold back a delighted grin. Lately, Ryouma had been descending to physical retaliation, in their teasing; it was almost as good as having another little brother. Momo thought it was probably because Ryouma was afraid of losing contact, with Momo gone from the club. His sister had acted a little the same, when Momo had started junior high and wasn’t in the same school with his siblings anymore. Whatever the cause, it meant that, every now and then, Momo actually won.

Thinking of his brother gave Momo an idea, and he reached around his side and crooked his fingers in Ryouma’s ribs.

A stifled squeak answered, and half a second later Ryouma was on the other side of the room, plastered against the wall, glaring at him.

“You’re that ticklish?” Momo asked, hugely amused.

“Of course I’m not ticklish,” Ryouma snapped. Momo recognized the spinal-reflex, defensive denial, and grinned more broadly. Ryouma glowered.

“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t let on,” Momo assured him.

Ryouma gave him a very suspicious look.

“After all, I have to keep some advantages to myself,” Momo finished.

Ryouma now looked like his worst suspicions had been confirmed.

“You worry too much, Echizen,” Momo told him. “C’mon, homework.” He patted the floor next to where Ryouma’s book had fallen.

Ryouma didn’t budge a centimeter. Momo sighed a little. Looked like he’d found another gap. Most of the time, he and Ryouma could have their little brawls without worrying, because Ryouma gave as good as he got; it passed the time until they encountered an outsider they could cooperate to take down. Every now and then, though, Momo stumbled across some gap in Echizen’s poise. The first one had been Karupin, and he still remembered being startled at how badly Ryouma’s cool attitude had shattered when his cat was missing. Feeling the slightest bit vulnerable did not seem to be something Ryouma did with any grace whatsoever. Momo held out a hand.

“Come on, Ryouma,” he said, more gently. “You know I wouldn’t.” Wouldn’t attack his friend in a weak spot anywhere except on the court. Wouldn’t deliberately hurt him.

Ryouma tucked his head down, and didn’t say anything, but did come back across the room and settled down beside Momo with his book. Momo smiled, wryly, down at his friend’s bent head. Not quite like having another little brother, he decided. He understood Ryouma better than he did his brother, most of the time, and Ryouma was more willing to be coaxed. Not that a single other person would believe him about that last, but it was still true. Under certain circumstances, Ryouma was also more willing to be protected. As long as Momo was casual about it, Ryouma would let Momo protect him when it came to one of those little gaps.

No, not quite like a brother.

Ryouma leaned against his shoulder, silently, and Momo leaned back, reaching for his homework again.

End

Last Modified: May 08, 12
Posted: Aug 10, 04
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Twist

Ryouma encounters someone who jars his view of what tennis is, and has a few revelations in the aftermath, some less comfortable than others. Drama With Almost Romance, I-4

As soon as this Matsueda character had shown up at the street court, Momo had figured he was bad news. He had the contemptuous smirk of someone looking to make trouble, but he hadn’t moved right away, and it was a bad sign when troublemakers stopped to think first. He’d waited, watching the other players, and finally approached Echizen for a game. Even though Echizen didn’t play at speed on street courts like this, unless someone really got his goat, it was clear to Momo that Matsueda had pegged Echizen as the best player present. And, of course, the day Echizen turned down a challenge would be the day there was a blizzard in July. Momo had still disliked the look of Matsueda enough to murmur in Echizen’s ear to keep an eye out, even if it did make his friend give him the raised eyebrow.

By the end of the third volley, Momo was sure there would be trouble.

When Echizen switched to his left hand at the end of the first game, Momo’s jaw tightened. A whisper swept around the court; the ones who played in this area regularly knew, by now, what it meant. This challenger was good.

And he was, Momo had to admit. Not good enough to win against Momo himself, and certainly not good enough to win against Echizen. But good enough to make Echizen smile.

Normally.

Echizen wasn’t smiling now.

Momo swore silently. He knew what was wrong. He’d met a few of Matsueda’s kind before; even played one, once, and regretted it after. But he didn’t think Echizen ever had. Oh, he’d played plenty of the crazy ones, the ones who were out of control and dangerous. Heck, he’d been on the same team with Fuji-senpai, and Momo hadn’t even taken a whole year to figure out that Fuji-senpai would have been one of the crazy ones if Tezuka-buchou hadn’t, somehow, steadied him.

But even the craziest had respected the game, or at least they had once Echizen was done with them. A real challenge, the chance to gain the respect of someone brilliant… that did it every time. Forged a connection in the heat and glee and craziness of the game itself. Even that lunatic Akutsu had responded to that, and it had eventually brought him back to the game once everyone had the brains to stop nagging him.

Momo remembered being concerned during that game, too, worried that the nut case Echizen was playing would cross the bounds of the game, worried how Echizen would deal with an opponent who held the game itself in contempt. But, in the end, Echizen had broken through. Echizen had seen past Akutsu’s derision to the desperate, frantic desire for a real challenge underneath, and, in his own inimitable way, had kept hammering until he’d reached it. Momo remembered going from being a bit worried about Akutsu’s dismissive contempt to being a little alarmed at his absolute, devouring, manic focus on Ryouma, once the game heated up. At no point had Momo really been surprised, though. Even then, he’d taken it pretty much for granted that Echizen could hold any fire barehanded, on the court.

But not this time.

This time, it was acid, not fire, and Momo didn’t like to think what might happen if Echizen grasped it. There was a vicious edge to Matsueda’s smile that got sharper every time he pulled out another move, pushed Echizen a little harder. A fast drop shot; a respectable smash; a sly, curving slice that came in deceptively slow. For all Matsueda’s skill, though, Momo could see that the true center of his attention was elsewhere. By the end of the third game he thought Echizen had seen it too. Momo would have bet a week’s tab at McDonald’s that it had only taken so long because the very idea was so utterly alien. The ones he’d played who thought like that, that Momo knew about, had always been pretenders; no real talent, no challenge.

Echizen stood for a moment, before he served, staring at his opponent.

“What’s the matter kid?” Matsueda called. “Getting scared?”

Echizen’s hand clenched around the ball, and Momo snorted. It was probably the best thing the bastard could have said right then.

The best thing for Echizen, at least.

Echizen’s mouth set hard, under the shadow of his cap, and Momo knew he had laid aside his disturbance for later. The line of his body and the flash of his eyes as he cast the ball up said that now was the time to end this.

The last games rushed by in a flare of power and finesse that left Matsueda’s jaw hanging. Despite his own misgivings, Momo could help a smirk as the man slunk off at the end of the set, chased by the grins and condolences of the other players. The grin faded as he watched Echizen pack up, too. Momo zipped up his own bag and silently fell in beside his friend as Echizen left the court.

Echizen never exactly chatted, but his quiet now made Momo uncomfortable. Despite that, he didn’t press for conversation; it wasn’t the time. He watched Echizen as they walked, following his path without comment. They weren’t exactly going in circles, but every time they went a little closer to Echizen’s house, his friend managed to take the next turn in another direction. Momo was just wondering whether he should nudge Echizen toward the school and let him walk around the track until he wore himself out, when they fetched up in a playground between his house and Echizen’s.

Echizen finally stood still, there, and Momo eyed him, considering whether it was time to push. A violent shudder ripped through Echizen, dropping his bag off his shoulder, and he started moving again, pacing between one hollow cement animal and another. Momo’s mouth thinned.

“He didn’t care,” Echizen said, voice tight, spinning on his heel for another round.

“No, he didn’t,” Momo agreed, quietly. Ryouma whirled on him.

“How?” His eyes, even in the low light, were shadowed, wide and hurt. “How can you be any good and not care? Somehow?”

The drawn look and voice were too much for Momo, and he took the two strides forward that would bring him to Echizen, and pulled his friend close. Now he could feel just how tense Echizen was, almost shivering with it. Ryouma didn’t protest, for which Momo was belatedly glad; his friend still wasn’t quite as tall as Momo, but he wasn’t tiny anymore, either. If he were upset enough to strike out it wouldn’t have been fun. But the fact that Echizen stood still in his hold, neither stiffening nor grumbling at him, more than anything, told Momo just how upset Ryouma was. He sighed and leaned back against the climbing tower, tugging Ryouma with him. He’d known Echizen wouldn’t understand it; so, how to explain?

“I asked Ryuuzaki-sensei that, after the first time I played someone like that myself,” he recalled, after a bit. “She said it just happens, sometimes.”

Ryouma stirred against him, and Momo heard a shadow of his usual sniff of contempt.

“She said,” he continued, encouraged, “that there are two kinds of players who are bad. Bad for everyone else, dangerous to the game. One is the kind who has a whole lot of talent but no challenge. She said that those are the ones who don’t respect anyone else, and do stupid or dangerous or cruel things because they’re bored. Like they’re trying to provoke someone into stopping them.”

Echizen nodded, faintly. Momo had figured that description would ring a bell.

“The other is the kind who has talent, but only sees the game as a means to an end. Not something they enjoy for itself, just something that lets them get something else they want.”

Echizen stood very, very still for a long moment.

“Like I was,” he said, at last, muffled, “before Tezuka-buchou…”

Momo’s arms tightened in automatic response to the blank emptiness of that usually sardonic voice. His first instinct was to deny it completely, because, damn it, he’d always seen more than that in Ryouma from the first moment they laid eyes on each other. But he hadn’t spent a year as team captain without learning to face unpleasant thoughts, and he was sure that if he was anything less than totally honest right now Ryouma would ignore him entirely.

“If Tezuka-buchou hadn’t gotten through to you, you might have been,” he answered, carefully. “Eventually. But I can’t believe you would have gone much longer, anyway, without meeting someone who could show you what else tennis could be.” He puffed a little laugh against the raven-wing hair beside his cheek. “You had too much fun with it, even if you wouldn’t admit it yet.”

He felt, rather than heard, Ryouma’s answering laugh, and breathed a sigh of relief.

“All you can do is what you did,” he concluded. “Beat them fast and go on.”

Echizen slumped against him, head thumping down on Momo’s shoulder.

“Great,” Ryouma muttered.

Momo grinned and ruffled his hair, and this time Ryouma swatted at his hand with a growl and pulled away to stand upright. Momo was impressed all over again with his friend’s resilience. He’d needed a few days of not playing anyone but his teammates to get over his own encounter with tennis slime. As they collected their bags and walked on he thought the atmosphere had lightened enough to tease Echizen about having fast recovery time. Ryouma blushed and glowered at him.

“Momo-senpai…” he drawled, threateningly.

“When are you going to get a girlfriend, anyway?” Momo prodded at him, having to choke back a snicker at the shudder and grimace he got in response.

“Never!” Ryouma’s response was particularly heartfelt, and Momo figured his little fanclub must have been especially shrill this week.

“Boyfriend?” Momo suggested, helpfully, and got an elbow in the ribs for his trouble. The familiar chaffing made them both smile.

“Seriously, though,” he added, “I knew you could handle it. After as many of the crazy kind as you’ve come up against, the slime are just a nasty shock. Not a challenge.” Momo shot a sidelong look of satisfaction at Echizen.

“Haven’t been that many,” Echizen objected with a small shrug. Momo snorted.

“Yeah? Just think for a minute about how many people you’ve played who fit that first description.”

Echizen tucked his hands in his pockets and slouched along thoughtfully for the block that remained before the turning that would take each of them home by separate ways. Momo expected an absent good night, or possibly a smart remark about the relative sanity of tennis players. He did not expect Echizen to stop short at the intersection, and stand as if turned to stone. Momo, looking over in surprise, caught a haunted, sick expression on Ryouma’s face before he shuttered it.

“Echizen?” he asked, startled. Ryouma swallowed twice.

“I don’t want to go home yet,” he whispered at last, turning sharply away from his street.

Calculations cascaded through Momo’s mind, starting with just how long someone in Echizen’s excellent shape could stay up, walking, if he decided to; touching on the number of times he’d seen emotion that open from Ryouma, a very small figure; and finishing with the best way to actually get some sleep while not leaving his friend alone with whatever thought had hit him so hard.

“You can come home with me, if you want,” he offered.

Ryouma blinked up at him, and Momo gave him a half-smile in reply, turning toward his own street.

“Come on,” he directed. As he’d hoped, the peremptory tone broke Echizen out of his paralysis, and if his friend gave him a dark look he still came along. They were about half way there when Momo remembered that his sister had friends over to stay, this being Saturday, and wondered whether they had left so much as a spare blanket, let alone a spare futon.

They hadn’t.

There was one extra pillow sitting, lonely, on the shelf of the linen closet. It was, Momo reflected with some resignation, better than a bus provided and he and Echizen had managed to nap on plenty of those. Echizen barely seemed to notice, accepting the t-shirt Momo offered and climbing into bed, when Momo scooted over to make room, with a somewhat abstract look on his face. When Momo turned on his side to give them both a little more kicking space, Ryouma turned his head on the pillow and gazed at him for a long moment. The large, dark eyes seemed to swallow what little light was in the room and Momo laid a hand on Ryouma’s shoulder, questioning. Ryouma grunted and turned over too, putting his back to Momo.

Momo smiled and let his hand stay on his friend’s shoulder as they settled down to sleep.

He woke, slightly disoriented, when sunrise speared light through the blinds he hadn’t closed all the way. It took several seconds to pin down the cause of the disorientation. He remembered right away that Ryouma was next to him. He wasn’t in quite the same place, however.

Ryouma had, in fact, turned over, managing to steal most of the covers, and burrowed against Momo’s chest. He had also managed to throw an arm over Momo’s ribs without in any way compromising his possession of the blanket. Momo snorted, and let himself drift back to sleep. He knew better than to try and get the covers back, and Ryouma himself was warm enough. He had no idea how long he dozed, but he was jarred to partial alertness when Ryouma woke up and stiffened with a start. Still half asleep, Momo responded with the protective reflex that had always run hand in hand with his competitive reflex where Ryouma was concerned.

“Sh. ‘S okay,” he mumbled, rubbing Ryouma’s back soothingly.

Ryouma didn’t relax in the least. Momo woke up a bit further, recalling that he had reason to be concerned for his friend, and tightened his hold.

“Ryouma,” he murmured, “it’s all right.”

For a long moment Ryouma was so still Momo wondered if he was breathing, and then his head tilted a bit, hair brushing Momo’s collar bone.

“Is it?” he asked. His tone was soft, hesitant. Momo had no idea what was behind that question; he was only sure that whatever it was struck deep. Ryouma usually covered any uncertainty with an easy sang froid, or else overwhelmed it with fiery determination. Was it all right? Was what all right? How could he answer?

One corner of his mind, slightly more awake than the others, perhaps, noted sharply that he could damn well answer the way he always answered when Echizen needed help.

Calmness settled over Momo’s internal dithering. If he didn’t know what had moved Ryouma to actually ask for reassurance, he did know that he would back his friend up, whatever it turned out to be. That was all he needed to know right now.

“Yes,” he answered, with certainty. “It is.”

Ryouma let go a tiny breath, and slowly, like stretching a sore muscle first thing at morning practice, relaxed. His back loosened; his head settled into the curve of Momo’s shoulder; the hand Momo hadn’t realized was clenched in the cotton over his side let go; a faint shiver completed the progression, and Ryouma lay quiet against him.

Now it was Momo who had the urge to hold his breath, rather than break the moment. The warmth of Ryouma’s trust, more than even he had ever been given before, stole over him like the sunlight creeping across the bed. He gathered Ryouma closer, and pressed his lips silently to the morning-ruffled hair. Ryouma settled himself a bit more comfortably, with a very faint sigh, and they were still. The shrieks and crashes of his sister and her friends getting up and fed came and went with only the smallest twitch from Ryouma at the especially impressive bangs.

At last, though, Ryouma stirred, and Momo loosened his hold. He propped his head up on one hand as Ryouma flopped over onto his back and looked up at him. Ryouma’s expression was… odd. Almost wistful. Almost scared. Maybe a little sad and a little hopeful. Momo had to quash a strong urge to catch Ryouma back into his arms and not let go. Normally, Ryouma could be counted on to whap him over the head for doing any such thing. Momo wasn’t sure what would happen if he did it this morning.

Ryouma lifted a hand and laid it on Momo’s chest, light and tentative. Momo had to close his eyes for a second, before he covered Ryouma’s hand with his own. A smile lightened Ryouma’s eyes. Momo wondered, not for the first time, whether Ryouma had started wearing his beloved cap when he played in order to hide those expressive eyes that showed every thought and feeling unless he was very careful.

“Good morning, Momo,” Ryouma said, quietly. Momo ran his fingers through Ryouma’s hair, and, for once, Ryouma accepted the gesture.

“Good morning, Ryouma,” Momo answered.

End

Last Modified: May 08, 12
Posted: Aug 14, 04
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11 readers sent Plaudits.

Ripple

The day after the events of “Twist”, Ryouma tries to sort out his thoughts. Drama With Slight Romance, I-3

Character(s): Echizen Ryouma

Ryouma scrunched down in his bath until the water was at his nose and contemplated the surface of it.

It had been a strange weekend. First the game with Whatshisname, which had set him off balance pretty badly, and then the talk with Momo, and then this morning… Every time he had to deal with Momo’s sister he was glader than ever that Nanako was so much older than he was. And not his sister. And not crazy. Maybe girls didn’t become sane until they grew up.

The day itself had been better. He and Momo had wandered around, and a bit of luck had come his way when they stumbled over a few of Fudoumine. He’d had a pretty decent game against Ibu. And another against Kamio, once he’d managed to actually get Kamio’s attention off of his staring contest with Momo. He wasn’t one hundred percent sure they had thought it was a good game; they’d been too out of breath to say.

Momo probably thought Ryouma hadn’t heard him thank them.

Ryouma lifted a hand out of the water and watched drops patter back down.

He knew Momo was a little worried about him, still. He’d insisted on walking Ryouma home, and it had been hard to miss the sidelong looks. He supposed Momo had a reason; Ryouma had kind of freaked out last night.

He leaned back with a sigh and poked at the thought that had been lying in the back of his mind ever since. Was his dad one of the crazy ones?

He didn’t remember, now, when it had started. It might even have always been this way, that every effort of his, on the court, was met with the same words. Some variation on You’ll never beat me like that; nope, a hundred years too early. And he knew what the real message in that taunt was: defeat me—if you really think you can. It was a dare. Pushing him down to make him push back harder. There was a name for that, in English, Ryouma remembered reading it somewhere. Ah, yes. Reverse psychology.

Ryouma snorted and swished a hand, impatiently, though the water. What a load of crap. He also knew perfectly well why it worked, when he thought about it. It was the dishonesty that got him mad. The way that never-changing formula pretended that any progress Ryouma might be making was negligible, invisible. Ryouma was capable of tracking his own progress, and he knew he was starting to close in. And he was bound and determined, and had been for years, to beat his dad completely enough that he couldn’t brush it off or say it was a fluke, that he would be forced to acknowledge the truth!

Ryouma frowned at the water. What a stupid reason to play tennis.

He pushed a wave of water away from him, watched it rebound, caught a little bit of it and pushed it back again. It wasn’t a motive that would ever open up the game to him, a fact that pissed him off more the better he understood it. He’d been going stale before he came to Seigaku. He could see that, now. He hadn’t been playing tennis, he’d been pursuing a vendetta. Like that would get him anywhere! What had his dad been thinking, anyway? He was just damn lucky that Ryouma really did like this game he had a talent for and had found people to remind him of that, because otherwise Ryouma would have been stuck right there in the same place, without being able to move forward or to win or do anything but keep trashing the small fry and never understanding why he couldn’t reach any further, watching his dad lose interest and…

He slapped a hand down, splashing water up, violently, and sucked in a long breath. It was all right. It hadn’t happened. He’d come to Seigaku, and found good people to play against and with, and Tezuka-buchou had seen and understood. Ryouma folded his arms on the edge of the bath and rested his head on them. He had a sudden wish to be with his captain. Not even to play a game, necessarily; just being around Tezuka calmed him down, made everything seem a little clearer, a little cleaner. He didn’t always say out loud what the point of his orders was, but his challenges to Ryouma, and his wish for Ryouma, was always clear and straightforward, and Ryouma could trust that the point was always the benefit of the team and its players. He could trust that Tezuka-buchou’s praise or cautions or reprimands actually meant something.

It would be nice if he could trust his dad like that.

But his dad didn’t think like Tezuka-buchou. His dad had never shown him that the game could be more than just beating some particular opponent, that there was a core to it, a spirit to it that went beyond that. Maybe his dad couldn’t show him. Ryouma supposed he might give his dad the benefit of the doubt and figure that his dad knew that too—that it was why he had sent Ryouma to Seigaku. But he didn’t know if he wanted to give his dad the benefit of anything, just now. After a day of simmering, the thought that had hit him hardest, last night, was starting to take on a shape Ryouma could grasp, and the edges on it were sharp.

To taunt and dare, to make himself into the enemy, to drive with insults… Ryouma could see a teacher doing that. Not a nice teacher, maybe not a good teacher, at least Ryouma had never seen that work too well when Mr. Cotswold or Yoshida-sensei did it, but a teacher that the student had come to and said ‘I want to learn this thing you know’. There was a… a deal made, there, on both sides, and everyone more or less knew what they were getting into.

A teacher, maybe. But a father?

Ryouma twisted against the edge on that thought. It cut.

Did he really have a father anymore? Did his dad even see Ryouma as his son, anymore, or just as the one who might, possibly, finally, give him a real game? A real challenge. Even a real defeat. The better he played, the worse it seemed to get. Oh, yeah, his dad got all bright-eyed, but it didn’t feel like that was because he was proud of Ryouma. It felt like the eagerness Ryouma saw in his opponents. And from them it felt right; that was what they were to each other. But a father? That wasn’t how Kachirou’s dad looked at his son, when they grinned and gave each other a thumbs up. It was a lot closer to how Akutsu had looked at Ryouma the first time they played.

That, that was the thought that had kept him huddled against Momo this morning.

Ryouma blinked down at the water in front of his nose. Weird. Remembering this morning was actually making him feel a little better. Like he could breathe again. Like…

Like someone was holding him.

Ryouma snorted a laugh. If he ever admitted to Momo that his protective streak made Ryouma feel better, he’d be doomed. Probably for life. Momo would never again believe Ryouma was serious when he grumbled or swatted Momo away. Still, he admitted to himself, turning over to stare up at the ceiling, it had felt… nice that Momo took the trouble to comfort him.

If Momo stopped believing Ryouma was serious, Ryouma supposed, as he climbed out of the bath, he could deal with that. Heck, maybe he could even deal with the rest of it. Maybe.

End

Last Modified: May 08, 12
Posted: Aug 16, 04
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ALSEPANG and 9 other readers sent Plaudits.

The Winner Is…

Mizuki and Fuji play head games with each other. Psychological Drama with Porn, I-5, D/s overtones

Mizuki Hajime knew that Shuusuke had had a bad day. Even if he hadn’t known from other sources, one look at the way he was walking would have told the story: stride a bit longer than usual, feet coming down a touch too emphatically.

More significantly, he was walking alone.

All of which meant that Hajime had chosen what should be the right time for his approach. It was hard to be sure, with Shuusuke. But, then, that was what this was all about. And Shuusuke had just come close enough to identify who was leaning against the wall of this particular, usefully deserted, stretch of his way home, which meant it was time to begin. Hajime swallowed his nerves and called out.

“Shuusuke. How good to see you again.” Shuusuke didn’t acknowledge his presence by so much as the twitch of an eyebrow. Perfect. “Why, Shuusuke, I’m injured,” Hajime added, “and here everyone always says you have such excellent manners, even when you’re angry. Or, should I say, especially when you’re angry.”

Shuusuke checked in front of him and spoke without turning his head.

“Don’t overestimate the tolerance afforded you because you’re keeping Yuuta company.”

“Oh, I don’t,” Hajime replied, hoping that he was speaking the truth. “You’re very careful of your brother’s things. Do you think he’s all that averse to sharing?” That got Shuusuke to look at him, disbelief flickering briefly in the hard, brilliant blue.

“Excuse me?” Shuusuke said, as though he thought he might genuinely have misheard. Hajime smiled. He knew perfectly well that the thought of touching anything belonging to his brother truly never would cross Shuusuke’s mind. Shuusuke was predictable when it came to Yuuta—and only when it came to Yuuta. If he was lucky, Shuusuke wouldn’t know how sure Hajime was of that, though.

“Yuuta knows I want you, too,” he explained smoothly. “I told him.”

And that turned Shuusuke all the way toward him, eyes narrowing dangerously.

“What?”

Hajime leaned back a little more ostentatiously against the wall.

“He asked. I told him. Surely,” he looked at Shuusuke through his lashes, “you wouldn’t want me to be dishonest with him.” Before Shuusuke calmed himself enough to dissect that particularly specious bit of logic chopping, Hajime continued in a thoughtful tone. “I was a bit distracted at the time, but if I recall correctly, I mentioned that I expected to get you, too, because I can give you something you want.”

A subtle snarl twisted Shuusuke’s mouth.

“And what,” he inquired, low and cutting, “could you imagine you might have that I would want?”

He was still too far away, Hajime decided. One more goad, then, and pray he got the timing right.

“Well, I have Yuuta, for one,” he noted. Shuusuke took one long step toward him, and he forced the next sentence past the tightness in his chest. “But you’re right, it isn’t something I have.”

Shuusuke paused, less than arm’s reach from him, and Hajime breathed again.

“It’s what you want,” he said, quietly, “and what I can give you.”

Shuusuke raised a devastatingly eloquent eyebrow. The part of Hajime’s mind that insisted on focusing on inconsequentialities wondered whether he had learned that by observing Atobe. But this was the first critical moment, and it was only a tiny part. He reached out and laced his fingers lightly through Shuusuke’s. Taking Shuusuke’s hands with him, he raised his own and laid them back against the wall by his head.

“Control,” he murmured. “Anything you want. Anything you choose.”

From Shuusuke’s sudden stillness, he knew he had called it right. Exultation that he had the pattern correct battled with anxiety over what his being correct meant for the near future. But just the first step wasn’t enough for him, and he didn’t, quite, want to stop. Shuusuke was leaning in just a bit, starting to press his hands into the brick.

“Anything?” he repeated, and there was a darker edge to the soft voice now. Hajime bit down a shudder; not yet.

“Anything,” he agreed.

“And you get what out of this? You enjoy being controlled?” There was disbelief in Shuusuke’s tone, and Hajime had to admit it was justified. He answered with part of the truth, the part that he hoped would see him through this in one piece.

“I enjoy power. Strength. Having it is nice. Being touched by it is… also enjoyable. You are very strong.”

Shuusuke was leaning harder now, hands closed around Hajime’s wrists.

“Strong enough that even throwing yourself on my non-existent mercy excites you?” he asked, pleasantly.

Now Hajime released the shudder, let his smirk slip away to show the fear and anticipation underneath as he raised his eyes to Shuusuke’s.

“It terrifies me,” he said with complete honesty. “I don’t have any illusions about you, Shuusuke. You made sure I wouldn’t. But I want this.”

The sharp eyes drilled into him, as Shuusuke closed the last distance between them. He lowered his head and ran his lips down Hajime’s neck, nuzzled past his unbuttoned collar.

Bit down savagely.

Hajime jerked sharply against the body pressing his to the wall, a harsh choke drawing out into a groan as Shuusuke’s lips slid softly back up. He slumped back against the brick, trembling under Shuusuke’s hands, breathing fast. Waiting for what Shuusuke would choose. Shuusuke drew back enough to study him.

“You really are serious,” he observed.

“Yes,” Hajime whispered, leaning his head against the wall.

The slow smile that curved Shuusuke’s mouth would have sent any sane person running, very far and very fast. Just as well, probably, that Hajime had never made any strong claims to sanity when he was in pursuit of a goal he wanted.

“Come with me.” Shuusuke led the way toward his house, and Hajime followed. No one else was home, which Hajime took as a sign of favor from fate. Shuusuke led him up to his bedroom and gestured, as if politely, for Hajime to precede him. Suspecting what the point of this was, Hajime didn’t turn around once he had entered.

He was distantly pleased with another correct perception when he felt Shuusuke against his back, and arms reached around him. Long fingers undid the knot of his tie, worked loose the buttons of his shirt, and then the button of his slacks, delicately drew away his clothing and only brushed his skin every now and then. Shuusuke’s fingers sliding over his stomach made the muscles twist and jump in response, and Hajime struggled to breathe. Shuusuke’s hands on his shoulders guided him to the bed, pressed him down on his back.

Shuusuke stood back, regarding him for a long moment, and then briskly stripped off his own clothes. Hajime let out his breath, with silent thanks to all the gods he didn’t believe in. There had been a high probability that Shuusuke would choose sex over outright violence. It paralleled Hajime’s relationship with Yuuta in a way that would appeal to Shuusuke’s mind, whether he admitted it or not. But the probability hadn’t been high enough for Hajime to have real confidence in it.

Having some idea of where things were going gave Hajime a measure of equanimity as Shuusuke gathered his wrists in one hand and pinned them over his head. Another long look, another unnerving smile, and Shuusuke ran his other hand down Hajime’s thigh, up his side.

Gently.

Hajime’s eyes widened as the gentleness of Shuusuke’s touch registered. Soft caresses, firm enough not to tickle, soothing his body, seducing him toward pleasure. Shuusuke’s eyes glinted down at him.

“So?”

Such a small word to contain so much challenge. A challenge to submit, not just to domination, but to pleasure at Shuusuke’s hands. Hajime knew that if he accepted it, if he relaxed that much, it would make the shock exponentially worse if Shuusuke chose to alter his approach and use pain after all. He knew that Shuusuke knew it too, and was aware of their mutual knowledge.

That had, after all, been the pattern of their first match on the court.

That was Shuusuke’s challenge; his suggestion that Hajime would not actually be able to give him the measure of control he wanted. Hajime was shaking again. But this was why he was here. He would bet on this. If Shuusuke wanted to truly unsettle him, he would not, in fact, repeat himself. He would stay with pleasure.

And enjoy the edge of uncertainty he had placed Hajime on.

One last, convulsive, shudder, and Hajime forced himself to go limp under Shuusuke’s grasp.

“Anything,” he reiterated, voice breaking even on that single word.

“Hmmm,” Shuusuke murmured, thoughtfully. And then that appallingly gentle touch returned, and Hajime pushed aside his perfectly reasonable fear and abandoned himself to the pleasure his longest standing opponent seemed to want to bring him. And it was always, and only, pleasure. Shuusuke didn’t tease him, or seek to startle him; only caressed and stroked until he was hard and panting, arching under Shuusuke’s touch, legs spread wantonly. Shuusuke answered the pleading look Hajime didn’t have the coherence to give voice to, and rubbed a finger softly against his entrance, drawing a long moan from him as Shuusuke pressed, slowly, in.

The rather disconnected thought crossed Hajime’s mind, that it was probably an awkward stretch for Shuusuke, who hadn’t once released Hajime’s wrists. But, yes, this was right, Shuusuke would want to watch his face. And then the feeling of Shuusuke’s fingers thrusting into him derailed any attempt at thought.

Shuusuke prepared him thoroughly, and when he set a hand under one of Hajime’s knees and pressed it back, opening him, when he slid into Hajime, there was still no pain. The layered pleasure was becoming a pressure in him, instead. Hajime couldn’t even cry out as Shuusuke’s first, long thrust drove home, slowly, slowly. Shuusuke was still for a moment, letting him catch his breath, and then he was moving, long and slow, drowning Hajime in a flood of hot, electric sensation, building it higher. As soon as Hajime found his voice again Shuusuke leaned forward, thrust harder, and the world turned white, and the moan turned into something like a scream. Shuusuke didn’t let up, and the the jolts of pleasure unwound Hajime’s muscles and broke the world into licks of unbearable heat, and a true scream clawed its way out of his throat as he came.

It didn’t take Shuusuke long to follow him, and the shallow, rocking thrusts as he did coaxed the last possible response out of Hajime, leaving him utterly unstrung and overwhelmed by the care Shuusuke had taken and the pleasure he had given. A few tears of sheer overload spilled from Hajime’s eyes. Shuusuke, recovering himself, looked down at them.

Bent down and kissed them away.

It was a gesture of triumph, the kind of graciousness in victory that only drives the fact of defeat home. They both knew Shuusuke felt no tenderness toward him whatsoever. For one moment Hajime thought it might break him, that he would not be able to stop the tears or the trembling.

But as he closed his eyes he also knew that he had won. Shuusuke had overwhelmed him, reduced him to prostration, quite literally. But Hajime had successfully calculated and predicted all of it: the pattern of Shuusuke’s actions, the branches that the pattern might take. Hajime had won on his true chosen ground, and the shame of his first defeat was washed away.

That thought was enough to calm him and still him. He thought some of it probably showed in his eyes as he opened them and looked up, because Shuusuke cocked his head and gave him one last long, thoughtful look before finally letting Hajime go. It took a few tries before he gained his feet.

“The bathroom is down the hall on the left,” Shuusuke informed him quietly.

“Thank you,” Hajime returned in a similar tone. He snagged his clothes on the way out, and returned, once prepared for polite society again, to stand in the doorway. “I’ll see you later, Shuusuke,” he said, exhaustion draining the usual edge from his voice.

“Yes,” Shuusuke agreed, with a faint smile.

He wondered, as he made his occasionally wobbly way back to St. Rudolph, just how much of his real purpose Shuusuke had divined, and what form of retribution he could expect if Shuusuke took offense at losing in any way. Well, he’d figure it out. He was confident of that, again.

He certainly wouldn’t say no to a little extra reassurance, after that experience, though, and he let his feet take him to Yuuta’s door rather than his own. He had never been more grateful for Yuuta’s tendency not to lock his door, which let him walk straight to where Yuuta sat, and sink down and lay his head on Yuuta’s knees without the need for greetings or explanations.

Not that the latter seemed very necessary. After a startled moment he felt Yuuta’s long fingers combing through his hair, and they sighed almost in unison.

“You went to Aniki, didn’t you?” Yuuta more stated than asked. Hajime nodded slightly. “Did he hurt you?” Yuuta wanted to know.

The question was so utterly unanswerable that Hajime started laughing. And then it was a bit difficult to stop. Yuuta slid out of his chair and pulled Hajime into his arms, as he chortled, rubbing his back until he calmed, gasping for breath.

“I invited him to rip out my soul and wring it like a washcloth,” Hajime said, eventually. “He accepted. But, no, he didn’t hurt me.” His head was resting on Yuuta’s shoulder, but Hajime could almost see the Look Yuuta gave him.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have bad hobbies?” Yuuta muttered. That set Hajime off again. Yuuta scooted them both around until he could lean back against his bed, pulling Hajime to lean on his chest.

“I won, Yuuta,” Hajime said, softly. “It was the only way I could win.”

“On your own terms,” Yuuta filled in. “Yes. I know.”

Which was fairly impressive, considering that Hajime had never told him what he wanted with or from Shuusuke, but this was Yuuta, after all. He understood that kind of thing.

“Yes, you do understand,” Hajime mused, only half aware he was speaking out loud. “I love that you understand.”

Yuuta’s startlement telegraphed in his moment of stillness, but he seemed to decide that his boyfriend was just more strung out than previously suspected, because he didn’t answer. Only gathered Hajime a bit closer. It was pleasant to rest against him. Hajime didn’t realize he was dozing until Yuuta woke him up so they could move up to the bed.

In the course of moving, Yuuta noticed the now-dark bruise above Hajime’s collarbone, and gave him another Look, clearly questioning the claim that Shuusuke hadn’t hurt him.

“It was just the one moment during the initial negotiations,” Hajime assured him. Yuuta bristled anyway, glaring at the bite mark. He had the family possessive streak, all right, Hajime reflected. Fair enough; Hajime did, too, without the excuse of genetics.

Which was partly why, when Yuuta gave him a soft kiss, he answered passionately, drawing Yuuta’s tongue into his mouth, inviting him to taste that there had been no intruders. It was the one gesture, the one advance, Shuusuke had not made. When Yuuta drew back, a little breathless, Hajime gave him a pleased and sleepy smile.

They twined around each other, Yuuta still running his fingers through Hajime’s hair as he drifted off. He was almost entirely asleep when he thought he heard Yuuta murmur to him.

“We both understand, Mizuki. And we’ll always find a way to win. Always.”

End

Last Modified: May 08, 12
Posted: May 15, 04
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5 readers sent Plaudits.

Clove Apple

The aftermath of Fuji’s encounter with Mizuki, and explanations for Tachibana. Drama With Romance, I-4

Kippei tracked him down on a small, sunny hill in a quiet corner of the park near Shuusuke’s house. He sat down beside Shuusuke, close but not touching.

“Eiji called me,” he said, quietly. “He said you were acting strangely at practice today. He was worried.” Shuusuke shrugged one shoulder.

“I was… out of sorts I suppose. Tezuka kept me away from most of the other club members. I suppose it is a bit strange for he and I to play much.” He snorted, remembering. “Echizen had the nerve to tell me I play better when I’m calm, afterwards.”

“That sounds like him,” Kippei smiled.

They sat in silence for a while, and Shuusuke tried to gather his thoughts. He should have known he wouldn’t be able to avoid Kippei for long; he really hadn’t been thinking very clearly. At last he leaned back on his hands, looking up at the clear, pale sky.

“I had,” he paused to fish for a neutral term, “an altercation with Mizuki two days ago. It got… a little out of hand.”

Kippei waited, and Shuusuke relaxed a little when he didn’t push for an immediate explanation.

“I was already angry that day,” he went on, and released a half laughing breath. “It sounds so petty when I tell it out loud. But that morning…” he paused again, trying to find the beginning of the sequence in his memory. “Everyone pretty much knows who will go on professionally, from the club, and who won’t. Everyone knows by now that I won’t. Some know that my brother probably will. I suppose I’m not one to talk about competitiveness,” he smiled tightly, “but sometimes I could do without the side effects. One of the second years was saying that it was too bad Fuji Yuuta would be the name the tennis world remembered. And then he realized I was listening and hurried to say that he was sure people would always remember Yuuta’s talent as second to mine.”

Kippei winced.

“Quite,” Shuusuke murmured. “I was unsettled enough to message Yuuta over lunch and ask how his training was going. I really should know better by now, don’t you think?”

Kippei moved around to sit behind Shuusuke and wrap an arm around his waist. Shuusuke leaned back against him with a sigh. The next part was going to be harder.

“I don’t know whether Yuuta mentioned it to Mizuki, but Mizuki was waiting for me on my way home. He… challenged me.”

“To what?” Kippei asked when Shuusuke didn’t continue.

“A game. I suppose.” Shuusuke sternly told the hollow feeling in his chest to go away for the nth time in almost three days. It made breathing feel like work. Once again, the feeling refused to go anywhere. Kippei’s arm tightening around him reminded Shuusuke that he wasn’t alone. And that there had, in fact, been a total of four parties fairly intimately involved in what had happened. On an impulse he turned and kissed Kippei.

It was a little wild, a little desperate, and Kippei started out returning it more gently, trying to soothe Shuusuke. As the seconds ticked by, though, Shuusuke thought the fact of the kiss fell in with what else he had said, and gave Kippei some of the shape of the “altercation”, because his lover’s kiss changed. It became deeper and hotter, demanding in a way that Kippei rarely was. Ironically, that calmed Shuusuke faster than the earlier softness. When they broke apart Kippei raised a hand to his cheek and held his gaze, eyes dark and serious.

“You aren’t the only one who’s possessive, Shuusuke,” Kippei told him.

Yes, Kippei had an idea what had happened. But not all of it. Shuusuke shook his head, laying a hand on Kippei’s chest.

“What he offered, what I did, it wasn’t about sex.” Kippei’s lips tightened as Shuusuke confirmed at least the mechanics of the encounter, but he didn’t protest Shuusuke’s interpretation. Yet.

“What was it about?” he asked, quite calmly under the circumstances Shuusuke thought. He turned again so he could lean back against Kippei.

“Control,” he answered, biting down a grimace as he remembered Mizuki’s voice gliding over that word. “Knowledge. I suppose,” he summoned a small smile, “it was more like a game of go than anything.” Entrapment, oh yes. He had to hand that to Mizuki, and he should have recognized it sooner.

“A game of go with a bed as the board?” Kippei suggested, sounding amused despite himself at the idea. Shuusuke smiled more genuinely, letting the intellectual metaphor carry him over his discomfort.

“Mmm. More like the bed, and the bodies, as the stones. The board was the mind.”

There was silence behind him for a moment before Kippei closed both arms around him.

“Shuusuke.” He didn’t sound amused any longer. He sounded a little shaken. Shuusuke supposed that made two of them. He didn’t really want to dwell on that.

“Besides, I never let him touch me,” he added, veering back to the original question and keeping his tone casual. Kippei’s hold tightened, and Shuusuke realized he’d probably just given away a little more of the mechanics than he’d really wanted to.

“Mizuki accepted that?” Kippei asked, both surprise and a touch of distaste in his voice. Shuusuke laughed, wearily.

“Oh, yes. Mizuki waylaid me, provoked me until I was extremely angry, invited me to take him any way I pleased and accepted everything I did, just to prove a point.” Shuusuke leaned his head back against Kippei’s shoulder. “He knew what he was doing, Kippei.” He fell silent, hoping his lover could unravel that and wouldn’t ask him to put words to the details.

“He knew?” Kippei asked at last, carefully. Shuusuke’s mouth twisted. Kippei had gotten very good at reading under what he said.

“Every last step,” Shuusuke confirmed with false cheer. He never did that for long around Kippei, though, and let it go to turn in Kippei’s arms until he could curl up against him.

“And it’s so easy,” he whispered. “To do that to people. To control, to break. Because I can. And when I’m in the middle of it it’s so satisfying, but afterwards, when I stop and look back… it doesn’t feel right.” Kippei stroked back his hair.

“I know,” he said. Shuusuke stirred at that. Kippei wasn’t like that.

“You do?”

“I know that you don’t really enjoy going that far. It’s pretty obvious.” Kippei smiled down at him when Shuusuke raised his head to give him an inquiring look. “All the people you’re most drawn to are ones you can’t control.”

Shuusuke ran a quick catalogue in his mind, and decided Kippei was right. Tezuka, who wouldn’t let him. Eiji, with whom there was no point. Taka-san, who was too sweet to tempt him. Even the firebrands like Echizen.

And Kippei, of course.

“So,” he smiled, reassured enough to tease a little, “you’re not worried about it at all?”

Kippei turned on his side, spilling Shuusuke into the grass, and dropped a kiss on his forehead.

“Of course not. I recall saying once that you don’t strike out unless you’re unbearably provoked, and never on your own account. It’s still true. Mizuki prodded you about Yuuta, didn’t he?”

Shuusuke nodded, holding back a snarl at the mere memory. From the quirk of Kippei’s mouth, he didn’t think he’d been entirely successful. That was all right, though; Kippei was the one person he could show anything to.

“So,” Kippei continued, “you might not want to admit out loud that Mizuki won this round, but it’s clear from what you have said that he asked for everything he got.”

Shuusuke opened his mouth to protest, and then closed it. Unfortunately, that statement was correct on every count. He had been focusing on how much he disliked the aftermath of getting carried away to distract himself from the thought that Mizuki was every bit as much to credit, and possibly more, as himself. And he hadn’t quite realized it until Kippei pointed it out. He felt a faint flush heating his cheeks.

“You’ve never been much good with your own motivations, Shuusuke,” Kippei pointed out, gently. “Let it go and stop worrying.”

Shuusuke took a stern hold of himself and considered his possible causes for worry. Was he dangerously out of hand? No. Was he, he sidled around to look at the thought with dislike, seriously concerned that Mizuki knew him well enough, now, to hurt him? To hurt him the way he knew, in a dark, back corner of his mind, Kippei could by knowing him so well. That one took more consideration, but the manner of Mizuki’s approach implied that he didn’t think he could overwhelm Shuusuke; and Shuusuke was now on his guard. So, no, not really. Was he really worried that Yuuta wouldn’t forgive him for what he’d done to his brother’s lover, be it ever so consensual? Shuusuke knew he had come very close to breaking Mizuki; it was why he had let Mizuki go with his success intact even when he realized what it had all been about. Somehow he doubted his brother would agree that any aftereffects were anything other than Shuusuke’s fault.

All right, perhaps he would still worry about that one. He sighed and reached up for Kippei.

“Mostly,” he allowed.

Kippei’s smile was wry as he leaned down. Shuusuke sighed again, against his mouth, for quite different reasons, as Kippei’s kiss folded him in weightless warmth like the sun on this hillside.

“No one but you touches me like this,” he said, softly, as they parted. Kippei answered by catching him up in another kiss, this one slow and deliberately sensual, a sliding dance of tongues. The hollowness in Shuusuke’s chest that had persisted for three days finally faded away. Shuusuke felt as though Kippei’s breath helped fill his lungs all the way. He drew Kippei down until his lips were at Kippei’s ear.

“Kippei,” he murmured, “make love to me.”

“Right here?” Kippei’s tone was half serious and half teasing. Shuusuke shook his head, and spoke slowly.

“No. I think I want to remember who belongs in my bed.”

When Kippei’s arms closed around him hard enough to drive his breath out, he knew his lover had accepted that sideways apology.

Lying against Kippei’s side, later, in the cool afternoon shadows of his bedroom, and far more pleased with the world, Shuusuke wondered whether he should call Yuuta. It would be nice to know whether his brother was upset with him or not.

The message tone rang on his phone.

“Someone has bad timing,” Kippei muttered. Shuusuke made agreeing sounds, but craned for a moment to check who it was from.

Then he leaned across Kippei and snatched at his phone so that he could glare at the sender from close range.

“Shuusuke?”

He stabbed the message button and read. His lips pulled back from his teeth, though he managed not to snarl out loud. That arrogant, insufferable, little…

“Shuusuke?” Kippei repeated, a bit cautiously.

“Dear Shuusuke,” he read off the message, “Please don’t be concerned. Yuuta’s opinion of my sanity has been confirmed, and he doesn’t blame you for any of it. Except, possibly, the bite mark. Regards, Mizuki.” Kippei didn’t make a sound, but Shuusuke was leaning over his stomach and could feel the muscles trembling, holding back what was probably a laugh. He transferred his glare, dropping the phone pointedly over the side of the bed. So, Mizuki thought he knew him that well, and had the gall to reassure him?

“I don’t think I ever fully appreciated just how much Mizuki likes to play with fire,” Kippei observed, mildly. “Can I hope you’ll chose a different way of burning him next time?”

The glare lost a good deal of force, and Shuusuke laid his head back on Kippei’s chest.

“Of course,” he confirmed, softly, pressing closer. Kippei’s hand stroking his back lulled him, and he set out to ignore Mizuki’s baiting in favor of Kippei’s heartbeat.

He could teach his would-be rival a lesson later, Shuusuke decided as he slipped into a doze, rocked by the rhythm of his lover’s breath.

End

Last Modified: May 08, 12
Posted: May 18, 04
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Fence

A typical day in the life of Ryouma and Momo, with a few extra revelations on Momo’s part. Karupin gets in on the action. Drama With Getting-There Romance, I-4

Momo tried not to take too much enjoyment in Ryouma’s paperwork griefs. He figured a little was due him, though, and couldn’t help grinning just a bit as he waited for Ryouma at the corner where their ways home came together. His approaching friend looked distracted.

“So,” Momo said, as he pushed off from the wall and swung into step with Ryouma, “decided yet?”

“Mm,” Ryouma answered without looking up, “for everyone but Rokkaku and Hyoutei. You never know where Aoi’s going to show up.”

“Oh, come on, that’s the easy one,” Momo scoffed.

Ryouma gave him an eloquent Oh, really? look from the corner of his eye.

“Has he gotten any less bouncy this year?” Momo asked.

“Nope,” Ryouma said, glumly.

“And he’s always impatient to play. Kind of like another team captain I could mention but won’t.”

Ryouma glared.

“So he’ll probably put himself in Singles Two or Three to make sure he gets a chance,” Momo finished. “You know,” he added, thoughtfully, “I bet if you called him and offered to meet him in one of those slots, he’d adjust his own lineup to make it work.”

Ryouma blinked, and a wicked smile spread over his face. “Maybe I won’t mention that part to Ryuuzaki-sensei,” he murmured.

“Ah, you’re getting sneaky,” Momo clapped him on the shoulder. “Fuji-senpai would be proud. Now, what’s up with Hyoutei?”

Ryouma held the gate to his house open. “They’re a pain, like always,” he grumbled.

“Can’t be more of a pain than Hiyoshi was, last year,” Momo declared, kicking off his shoes.

Ryouma paused on the stairs to consider that. “Maybe. Come on, though, I’ll show you.” In his room, he dug out several sheets of paper and spread them on the floor. Momo settled behind him, looking over his shoulder.

“This year’s captain,” Ryouma tapped the name Fukuzawa, “he’s a lot better than Hiyoshi was at talking their coach into new ideas. He took a few tricks from Fudoumine, and sometimes puts the best players in early. And just about everyone knows we only have one strong doubles team. Again. Even if Kachirou and I play doubles, that’s only two wins and leaves singles completely open.”

“Yeah, better assume one win and one loss in doubles,” Momo put in, resting his chin on Ryouma’s shoulder. “They should be short on good doubles, too, this year.”

“Which means,” Ryouma continued, “that Fukuzawa is likely to come in early, which means I should too. But what if he second guesses me? If I take Singles Three while he stays with One, I don’t think Kachirou will be able to handle him, and they’ll have three wins in the end. I hate this,” he sighed, leaning back against Momo with a faint thump.

“Oh, yeah,” Momo ruffled his hair, “you thought it was a lot more interesting when it was my job, and you could just poke your nose in for the fun of it.”

Ryouma growled and elbowed him.

“I bet you were the sort of kid who went on all the really scary rides at amusement parks just to hear how loud everyone else screamed,” Momo teased.

“That,” Ryouma observed, with trenchant accuracy, “would be Fuji-senpai. Besides, I think we only ever went to an amusement park once, when I was really little.”

“And here I thought America had lots of them,” Momo remarked, surprised. “What did you do, then?”

“What do you mean?” Ryouma asked, poking the end of his pen at the paperwork.

“With your family,” Momo clarified.

Ryouma glanced over his shoulder, brows raised. “Played tennis.”

Momo sat, staring straight ahead, as Ryouma crossed something out and scribbled a different name in. The absolute incomprehension in his friend’s eyes hit him like a fist. He thought about his own family, about the annual trip to the beach; about his sister nagging until he took her to pet stores to play with the puppies; about his father and brother wearing almost identical pleading expressions while begging his mother to come watch a local motor cross match with them; about his mother’s soft laugh the first time she played his favorite computer game with him, after days of wheedling on his part, and beat his score. And then he thought of not having any of that happen—of having all of it swallowed by tennis. Tennis the way he had seen Ryouma and his father play it, taunting and needling and provoking.

Absolute fury boiled up in him, twisting his stomach and tugging at his mouth with a snarl.

Ryouma paused in his shuffling of names, and looked around at him. “Momo?” he asked, sounding surprised.

Momo wrapped both arms around his friend, and rested his forehead against Ryouma’s shoulder, hiding his expression. “Nothing. It’s nothing,” he said, quietly.

After a moment, Ryouma leaned back into his hold, puzzled, Momo thought, but willing to offer silent comfort for whatever was wrong. The irony was almost enough to start him laughing. He tightened his arms, instead, thankful that, for whatever reason, Ryouma had decided it was all right for Momo to hold him.

A fuzzy touch on his ear startled him into looking up. Karupin had come in and was standing with one paw on Ryouma’s shoulder, batting at Momo with the other. He meowed in a you’re taking up my space kind of way.

“What if I don’t want to move, yet?” Momo argued.

Karupin batted, insistently, at his cheek.

“No,” Momo said, definitely.

Karupin paused, considered him, and then, with no warning at all, whapped him in the jaw with a remarkably strong, if furry, right hook. Momo jerked back.

“Ryouma,” he said, indignantly, “your cat just punched me!”

The announcement was probably redundant, seeing as Ryouma was doubled over with laughter. Recovering himself, he gathered Karupin up in his arms and, before Momo could protest this favoritism, turned to lean against Momo’s chest, bracing Karupin against them both.

“It’s okay, Karupin,” Ryouma assured his cat. “You don’t have to worry about Momo.”

“Yeah, see?” Momo seconded, cautiously putting an arm around both of them. “I’m not trying to steal him, I just want to share him. Didn’t your mother ever teach you it’s good to share?”

Karupin managed to give him a very skeptical look for something with such a round, fuzzy face, before he snuggled against Ryouma to be petted. Momo suppressed some uncomplimentary remarks. That furball was the only living creature he had ever seen Ryouma look at with open tenderness, and Momo had a good idea of who would lose if it came to a choice between the cat and himself. It was, in fact, utterly typical that Ryouma should let himself practically cuddle with Momo, not for Momo’s benefit, but for his cat’s.

Recalling what he had been thinking about before Karupin interrupted, Momo suddenly had a much better idea why that might be, and looked with less disfavor on the purring menace in Ryouma’s arms. That cat was probably the sole member of his family Ryouma loved and trusted without reservation. Karupin might just be the main reason Ryouma had even been capable of trusting enough to becoming a part of the Seigaku team, much less willing to do so. Momo sighed and leaned his cheek against the top of Ryouma’s head, and scratched behind Karupin’s ears himself. Carefully.

When he left, that day, he gave Karupin a serious look. “Take care of him, okay?” he said, nodding toward Ryouma.

Ryouma gave him a startled look, and Karupin meowed in a tone Momo translated to Teach your granny to suck eggs, kid. Momo grinned and let himself out.

Away from them, though, Momo found his thoughts circling around and around the realization about Ryouma’s family life that had struck him, and by the time he arrived at practice the next morning he felt like there was a rut worn in his brain. It didn’t help his temper any. He finally resorted to a tactic he didn’t need very often, and took himself off to one side to practice his swings. He tossed each ball up, focused on where it needed to go, and imagined Echizen Nanjirou standing there.

He didn’t actually realize that his balls were breaking through the fence until Ryuuzaki-sensei yelled at him.

“Honestly!” she finished her harangue. “What were you thinking? Go get a drink and calm down!”

Catching his breath on one of the benches, Momo was aware of movement in his direction. A quick glance showed it to be Oishi-senpai, and Momo winced. Now, how was he going to explain himself? Oishi-senpai was never intrusive, but he was hard to hold things back from. Another odd note caught his eye, though. Tezuka-san had crossed, quickly, to have a word with the team’s captain, and then turned and gestured Oishi-senpai back. Momo bit his lip and looked at the ground.

“That exercise will work better if there’s actually someone there to return the ball,” Tezuka-san said, beside him.

Momo blinked up at the vice-captain for a moment before cosmic irony overcame his surprise at not being dressed down. He snorted a laugh and scrubbed a hand over his face.

“I couldn’t do it if it were you standing there, though,” he said, a little tired, glancing away. “You’re the one who changed things for him.”

Tezuka-san looked at him for a long moment, and then his eyes narrowed. “I see,” he said, quietly. He touched Momo’s shoulder.

“Come practice while thinking about something else then,” he ordered. “Like winning.”

Momo looked up with a grateful smile. His favorite challenge, for all he doubted there was much chance of it ever happening. There was nothing better to get his mind off a problem. “Yes, Tezuka-senpai,” he agreed.

Really, he reflected, as he followed Tezuka-san to an empty court, it was no surprise Ryouma had found Tezuka-san’s cool approach more reassuring than intimidating. After his father, it must have been a relief to deal with someone so straightforward and consistent, even if what he consistently was was demanding. Tezuka-san challenged his people, always, but he also, somehow, and Momo had never quite figured out how, convinced them of his implicit belief that they would succeed. It was contagious. And it spread to other parts of a person’s life, too. Momo wasn’t sure when he had decided that keeping a snippy, independent-minded brat like Echizen Ryouma well and safe was one of his challenges, but there it was. And if it had become still more personal than that, it just made the challenge all the more exciting.

“Ready?” Tezuka-san called.

Momo grinned.

“Any time!”

End

Last Modified: May 08, 12
Posted: Aug 19, 04
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Puzzle

The Clue Trout descends upon Ryouma. Drama Finally Romance with Slight Porn, I-3

“You sure you don’t want to get that looked at?”

Ryouma rolled his eyes. If one more person asked him that, they were going to eat a tennis ball. “Yes, I’m sure,” he sighed. “I banged my funny bone, that’s all. You’d think I’d been in a traffic accident or something.”

Momo looked stern, which almost made Ryouma smile. A year and a half ago, Momo would never have been able to pull the expression off. Ryouma was forming the theory that you could only learn it by being responsible for people two years younger who kept doing stupid things. Kachirou was very good at it, though too good natured to hold it for long.

“Don’t give me that,” Momo growled, “you know perfectly well it’s a nerve cluster; of course everyone’s worried.”

“Inui-senpai said there was nothing to worry about as long as my grip kept coming back steadily,” Ryouma argued, deciding that if he ever met the person who had injured Tezuka-buchou and thus been the ultimate cause of all this mother henning, they would regret it very deeply. “It has been. You’re getting as bad as Oishi-senpai.”

That succeeded in distracting Momo, and Ryouma did smile at the indignant expression on his friend’s face. “You coming in?” he asked, opening his gate.

“For a while,” Momo agreed, smiling back a little ruefully, which Ryouma took to mean he would let the subject be changed.

About time.

They were waylaid, however, by his dad’s hail from the court.

“About time you got back! Come and play some real tennis.”

Ryouma leaned against the porch, trying to decide whether it would be more trouble to play with a lingering handicap or to refuse and deal with the ragging. He didn’t have any particular interest in telling his dad about today’s little slip at practice, which argued against playing, but… He blinked as Momo stepped past him.

“Well, now, Ryouma’s had a long day. If you want a game, why don’t you play me?” It was less a request than a demand, and Ryouma’s brows went up at the hard light in his friend’s eyes.

His dad eyed Momo up and down, and the little smile that said Momentary entertainment, how nice crossed his face. “Why not,” he murmured, and beckoned Momo onto the court.

Ryouma frowned as he watched them play. They were both acting strangely. His dad wasn’t being quite his fully annoying self, and Momo was…

Momo was angry.

Not angry in the snarling-with-Kaidou-senpai sort of way, which wasn’t really angry, though Ryouma couldn’t say just what it was. Not angry the way he got at an opponent who ticked him off and who he wanted to beat. This was colder. His eyes were burning, but it was like the fire of the cutting torch in the art class studio—so focused down that the heat became sharpness. Ryouma had watched Momo play for years, and he knew Momo played hot; Momo liked it that way. He didn’t stop to think, unless he was playing doubles and had to take a partner into account. He saw and he acted. It was the same way Ryouma had seen him do his math homework: writing down the answer immediately, and then going back to fill in the steps that led to it, because they were required.

This time, Momo was thinking. Watching, and testing, and watching again. He wasn’t playing for the score, Ryouma realized, slowly. He was playing to find something out about his opponent.

Ryouma was confused. What could Momo want to know about his dad, that could make him this mad? Momo’s eyes still had that bright glitter in them when the match ended. Ryouma didn’t think he’d ever seen quite that look before.

“So,” his dad asked, casually, “find what you want?”

Ryouma snorted to himself, confusion momentarily overcome by familiar exasperation. Of course his dad had spotted it.

“Not especially,” Momo answered, evenly.

“Hm.”

Ryouma sighed as his dad smiled, inscrutably, and strolled inside. He looked up at Momo, who had come to stand beside him.

“What was that all about?”

Momo shrugged. “You didn’t want to mention that,” he gestured at Ryouma’s arm.

“Yes,” Ryouma agreed, and waited. Momo’s mouth quirked.

“And I didn’t think you needed to deal with it today,” he added, and quickly held up a hand. “I know, I know, overprotective mother hen.” He made a mock tragic face. “Even after all this time you don’t appreciate your senpai. Ah, I’m used to it.”

Ryouma, caught between laughing and glowering, folded his arms and looked aside.

Thus, he was surprised when Momo’s hand came up to cup the side of his face. He looked back around, eyes wide. He’d long since given up on enforcing any idea of personal space with Momo, but this was a little unusual.

“You should have someone you can actually trust, every now and then, that’s all,” Momo said. His mouth tugged up at one corner. “Someone who can talk, instead of meow.”

And then the oddness of the moment seemed to reach Momo, too, and he dropped his hand and shouldered his bag.

“See you tomorrow,” he told Ryouma, and made for the gate, leaving Ryouma staring after him and still wondering what that was all about.


Ryouma was still wondering at club practice the next day, and stalked around the courts with only half his attention on his team. When his Singles Three player nearly nailed him in the back with a wild ball he didn’t even bother to glare.

“You need to retape your grip, Ougurou,” he said, absently, swatting the ball back.

“Yes. Um. I’ll do that now,” Ougurou said, sidling away before Ryouma could change his mind.

And normally Ryouma would have called him out to demonstrate in action just how the problem could harm Ougurou’s game. But he had other things on his mind today, and Kachirou seemed willing to take up the slack if the way Ougurou was shuffling in face of his lecture was any indication.

What had that been all about? It wasn’t that he wasn’t used to Momo touching him; in fact, if he were quite honest with himself he’d started to invite it. The contact was comfortable, and Momo was a good friend, after all. But that had been more than just friendly.

Ryouma stopped, and stared blankly through the fence. Just friendly. What was just friendly? What wasn’t?

He started walking again, more slowly. He knew he didn’t necessarily have the most normal view of these things. Apart from his dad’s occasional jokes about wanting to grope his mom for old time’s sake, at which point she offered to smack him one for old time’s sake too, he didn’t see any examples of anything from them. With his mom so busy with her job and the house, they didn’t really spend that much time together, he guessed. And if Nanako was dating anyone, she didn’t seem to have any intention of letting her aunt and uncle, or her cousin, know about it.

Not that he could blame her.

“Sagara, Tsunan, get back to work on your new formation,” he directed his gossiping Doubles One pair, passing quietly behind them. Another day he might have been somewhat more amused that they jumped half a meter before stammering out affirmatives.

Maybe he should ask someone’s advice on this. Except that the person he would normally ask about personal things was Momo. Besides, he didn’t like having to ask.

He knew that he took his desire for self sufficiency from his mother; Nanako had commented on it before. Maybe he could take some methods from her, also. She was good at logic. So, logically, how to answer this question?

If his parents weren’t any help, maybe he could compare the situation to someone else. Someone a little more average. So, who did he know who was more than friends?

Well, there was always Ann and Sakuno. Yeah, they would be a good comparison; Ann had a protective streak wider than Momo’s. Ryouma figured it was probably genetic. How did she act around Sakuno?

She was almost always in contact with her, for one thing. A hand on her wrist, shoulders brushing, leaning against Sakuno, a hand around her waist. The more of those gestures Ryouma tallied up, the more unnerved he felt. That was the way Momo was around him, all right. And he hadn’t noticed. Why hadn’t he noticed?

Whether it was intuition or logic, the answer sprang up in his mind and rooted his feet to the ground. He hadn’t noticed because it hadn’t felt any different. He had always been comfortable around Momo, from the first day they met and he recognized the gleam of challenge in the eyes of the second year who had interfered to protect his kouhai.

Which raised the interesting question, had Momo noticed?

He could see about answering that later, Ryouma decided, briskly. Right now, he had things to be doing. Mind relieved for the moment, he called his team in and set them playing two on one, in rotation. The expressions of relief rather startled him, given how grueling this exercise got before too long, and he looked a question at Kachirou, who was smothering a laugh.

“They’ve been worried all day that you were distracted by thinking up something more, um, interesting for them,” his vice-captain explained.

“Hm. I’ll have something for tomorrow, then,” Ryouma said, with a wicked smile. “Wouldn’t do to let everyone down.”

Kachirou lost the fight with his laughter, shaking his head.


Figuring out whether Momo had noticed proved more difficult than Ryouma had expected. Not because Momo was particularly difficult to read, but because Ryouma kept getting distracted. When Momo leaned against him, or sat behind him, or wrapped an arm around his shoulders, Ryouma kept forgetting to watch Momo because, now that he was noticing it, he was noticing how nice it felt.

And it did feel very nice. Having someone close to him, someone he could relax with because he knew for a fact Momo didn’t mean him any harm, felt… warm.

In fact, he was starting to have to resist the urge to press closer, to invite Momo to hold him tighter.

At last, after a particularly unproductive day of staring at his History homework while his thoughts tripped over each other trying to observe Momo watching him, Ryouma decided, quite firmly and rationally he thought, that enough was enough. Logic was great, but Ryouma had known for a long time that instinct and action often had the edge. He clapped his book shut and tossed it off to one side.

Beside him, Momo looked up. “Homework that frustrating?” he asked with a grin.

“Actually, no,” Ryouma declared. “Something else is, though.”

And, as Momo was opening his mouth, probably to ask what, Ryouma turned and slung a leg over Momo’s, settling comfortably astride his lap. Momo’s mouth stayed open.

“Ah, Ryouma?” he managed, after a moment.

Ryouma spread his hands against Momo’s chest, and felt his sudden intake of breath, watched his eyes widen. Momo’s hands didn’t seem to share the surprise, though, and closed firmly at Ryouma’s waist. Mmm, yes; that was nice. Ryouma smiled. He was now prepared to bet that Momo, or at least the part of him in control of his hands, had been perfectly aware of how their touching had changed. Which raised yet another question.

“So, what’s been taking you so long?” he asked.

Momo opened his mouth, closed it again, and growled. When he saw Ryouma’s grin, he, too, seemed to decide that action was the best course, because he slid his hands up Ryouma’s back, and pulled Ryouma against him, and caught Ryouma’s mouth with his. Ryouma didn’t make it easy for him; he was laughing. Momo persisted, though, tracing the curve of Ryouma’s lips with his tongue, kissing the corner of his smile. And Ryouma finally sighed, and leaned against him, and kissed back.

The feeling of Momo’s arms this tight around him, and Momo’s tongue playing tag with his, was a lot more than just warm.

Momo drew back a bit. “Are you sure you haven’t done this before?” he murmured against Ryouma’s mouth.

“Very sure,” Ryouma told him, repressively, and rocked forward to kiss him again.

Oh.

A lot more.

If the groan that tangled with his in the middle of their kiss hadn’t been enough to tell him, he could feel, now, that Momo was enjoying this as much as he was. Experimentally, Ryouma shifted, rocking their hips together again. Heat tingled through him, and he heard a soft, wordless sound in his own throat. Momo leaned his head back against the bed behind him, but if he meant to catch his breath it backfired. Ryouma took the opportunity to taste the skin under Momo’s jaw, and they both gasped as their bodies pressed flush together.

Ryouma’s hands moved down Momo’s body, almost involuntarily, because he wanted more. More contact. And clothes were very much in the way, though not for long. Momo bit back a moan as Ryouma’s fingers brushed against his skin, curled around his cock. Ryouma rather liked that sound. He liked it more when he felt Momo’s fingers shaking just a little as he loosened Ryouma’s pants and slid a hand inside.

And then Ryouma kissed Momo again, hard, to muffle his own harsh moan. Shivers coursed through him, trembling out from Momo’s touch. Their fingers tangled together as Ryouma pressed closer, feeling Momo’s other hand smoothing up and down his back, and he wound his own free arm around Momo’s shoulders to brace himself against the flickering, shuddering heat.

“Ryouma,” Momo whispered, and Ryouma buried his head against Momo’s shoulder, pressing his lips against the skin of Momo’s neck, biting down with the first surge of pleasure that wrung his entire body. He shuddered, hearing Momo’s sharp gasp, riding the fire that twisted through him again and again. It was too much, in the end, and he heard his breath sob through his chest as the fire threw him loose, falling…

But he was leaning against Momo, and Momo was holding him. He couldn’t be falling. The hot pleasure let him back down into warmth that curled around him, gently. Both of them stayed where they were, and Ryouma listened to Momo’s breath calm against his ear. Their fingers were still tangled together, and, while messy, there was something oddly comforting about the feeling.

At last, Momo stirred, shifting to fish in his pocket and produce a packet of tissues. Ryouma stifled a laugh at the practicality, and didn’t look up as they cleaned themselves off.

Momo’s fingers brushed over his hair. “You all right?” he asked, quietly.

“Of course,” Ryouma told him, raising his head to look Momo in the eye.

Those eyes were just a little soft, and lit with a smile at Ryouma’s answer. Ryouma bent his head back down to Momo’s shoulder to hide what he was fairly sure was a blush (of all things!), and locked his arms around Momo.

“Of course I’m all right,” he said, again, though a smile.

Momo’s fingers rubbed up and down his neck. “Good.”


It was possible, not likely but possible, that Ryouma was being paranoid. He was nearly positive, however, that Inui-senpai had been spending more time than usual watching him at unofficial practice, today. It was starting to make him a bit twitchy. He edged around the other side of Momo on the pretext of getting his water bottle, and leaned briefly against Momo’s shoulder for reassurance.

A quick glance showed Inui-senpai scribbling furiously.

“Momo-senpai, has Inui-senpai had a new project going or something?” Ryouma asked, cautiously.

“Not that he’s mentioned,” Momo answered, a bit uneasily.

The soft laugh behind them was not reassuring, despite its warmth, and Ryouma turned to give Fuji-senpai a wary look. While Fuji was an excellent source of protection from everything from too-loud teammates to malicious opponents, and one Ryouma was perfectly willing to take advantage of, the flip side was that Fuji tended to regard protectees as his personal source of amusement.

He certainly seemed amused by something, today.

“It’s just Inui’s way of wishing you well,” Fuji-senpai told him. “Come play a set with me, Echizen.”

Ryouma hefted his racquet and headed back to the court. He wasn’t going to ask. It just wasn’t worth the trouble, and answers usually presented themselves sooner or later if he just let it ride. Sometimes his subconscious just needed time to decide what Fuji-senpai was talking about. They were, in fact, in the fifth game before Ryouma’s backbrain piped up with a suggestion of what Fuji-senpai’s rather cryptic remark might have implied. His swing went wild, and he nearly tripped over his own foot before slamming to a halt and staring across the net at his senpai’s blandly inquiring look.

It showed? And Inui-senpai was recording this in one of his damned notebooks?

Ryouma shot a blistering glare at Inui-senpai, who smiled cheerfully back. He growled very quietly, and directed an even more searing look back at Fuji. Fuji-senpai wasn’t even attempting to look innocent, any more, and his eyes were laughing.

Before Ryouma could attempt bodily harm against his grinning seniors, however, Tezuka-buchou turned from coaching Momo through a speed exercise and narrowed his eyes at them.

“Fuji. Inui.” An admonition to knock it off and get back to work hung, unspoken, after their names, and, with a last chuckle, Inui tucked away his notebook and Fuji backed off to receive Ryouma’s next serve. “Echizen, mind your concentration,” Tezuka-buchou added.

Ryouma ground out an acknowledgement, and stalked back to serve. He was going to kill them both, he really was. Later, because Tezuka-buchou had a point; nothing interrupted the game, not even senpai who were getting far too much amusement out of Ryouma’s… relationship with Momo. At least, he grumbled to himself, there was still a handful of months to go before they would be on the same campus again. He could hope they wouldn’t be smirking quite so hard by then.

When practice ended, though, and Fuji-senpai’s hand fell on his shoulder, Ryouma’s mistrustful glance met an unusually soft smile. Ryouma looked aside, stepping firmly on the urge to squirm, and Fuji-senpai squeezed his shoulder, companionably, and let him go. None of them were smirking as Momo draped an arm over his shoulders.

“Come on, Ryouma, let’s get something to eat; I’m starved!”

“You’re always starved, Momo-senpai,” Ryouma pointed out, going along easily.

The looks that followed them, as they left, might even have had an edge of affection.

All right, maybe he wouldn’t actually kill them.

End

Last Modified: May 08, 12
Posted: Aug 24, 04
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Insight

Tezuka introspective. Drama, I-3

He knew that no one among his peers was credited with greater insight into his opponents than Atobe Keigo. It was a justified reputation. But Atobe concentrated on the physical, and tended to ignore the signs of character that the ball wrote on the face of a racquet. It was the weakness in his strength, because those signs were the ones that told whether a player would or could go beyond his physical limits.

He found it strange that Atobe ignored this when he was one of those people himself.

But, then, Atobe had had years to get used to the idea that he didn’t need to know, that it would never matter, that no one could overtake him no matter how they drove themselves. Old habits were hard to change. No one had driven Atobe, or shown him in the language of his own body how much it could matter.

No one until himself.

And, to his credit, Atobe did watch him for those signs of the intangible, now, when they played. Not that he made it terribly difficult, he supposed. Nothing was very concealed when he played Atobe. When they faced each other the fronts ripped away, Atobe’s affectations and his own reserve both burned to glittering ash in the heat of their contest. He knew it was what kept them both coming back for another unofficial match every few months, carefully stepping around ever having to inform their coaches, for almost three years now.

Sometimes he wondered if Atobe realized just how much of himself he showed, when they played.

Perhaps it still didn’t occur to Atobe that his opponent would see. He knew his own style was somewhat deceptive. It appeared that he forced the game onto his terms, that it was simply the fine extent of his control that caused each ball to come to him as if called. But it was more than control; it was also understanding. He learned the language that the ball spoke to his racquet, and spoke it back, and the ball heeded. But the ball was only a carrier, in the end. The language he had to learn each time, listening through his hands, was that of his opponent.

Atobe’s language was both raw and sleek. There was fury in the power of his techniques, and malice in the way he held his hand until the most overwhelming moment so that he could crush those who dared stand against him, those who dared try to stop him. He used his strength as a bludgeon, and his speed to confuse, and his arrogance to infuriate. Where some balls sang against the strings his screamed.

And when someone sent that scream back, proved that he had heard it, Atobe’s eyes brightened and his smile turned hungry and true.

Tezuka Kunimitsu knew why he kept coming back. It was to hear a desperation and hope and frustrated rage that matched his own.

Sometimes he wondered whether Atobe saw that, too.

End

Last Modified: May 08, 12
Posted: Apr 22, 04
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Backstage – Part One

Tezuka and Atobe meet while out fishing, in the Spring of their third year of high school. Conversation, verbal jousting, poetry, philosophy, angst, dramatics and humor ensue. Drama with Budding Romance, I-3

Well, wasn’t this just a fine thing?

When Atobe Keigo wanted to get away from the duties and expectations of his game, his team, his opponents, he had a particular place to go. An isolated little bite out of the lakeshore where none of those things would follow. And now he saw all of them reflected at him in Tezuka Kunimitsu’s eyes. If the fishing paraphernalia spread out comfortably around this slightly overgrown grove was any indication, his best rival already had the place staked out for a long day. He had excellent taste, if execrable timing. Keigo took a few deep breaths; he would not, he told himself strenuously, scream with frustration. No matter how cathartic it might be just now. He had an image to maintain, even if Tezuka didn’t usually believe it.

Tezuka’s startled gaze fell on Keigo’s equipment and sharpened. He tipped his head to one side.

“Do you come here to fish, too?”

Keigo raised a brow. Too? Come to think of it, he had seen plenty of signs that someone else liked to fish at this place. He hadn’t thought much about it, except to be pleased that their schedules never seemed to overlap. He certainly hadn’t imagined that his unofficial timeshare partner might be Tezuka.

“Yes,” he answered at last, gathering himself to go look for another spot as graciously as possible. It took a fair degree of gathering, and Tezuka beat him to the punch.

“There’s room for both of us, if you don’t mind,” he offered, quietly.

Keigo accepted, stifling his surprise. It occurred to him, as Tezuka gathered his things to one side, that he’d definitely been out-gracious-ed, but he let it slide in the interest of peaceful fishing. Tezuka didn’t seem like the sort to practice competitive graciousness, in any case.

In fact, the edge of competition was completely lacking in Tezuka’s manner today. The absence was a bit jarring, Keigo mused as he laid out his things. He and Tezuka rarely encountered each other except on the court, and their personal competition was everything, there. Keigo loved it. Tennis was almost always entertaining, of course, but with Tezuka… Tezuka’s intensity washed away all the extraneous bits that usually occupied Keigo’s attention. The crowd, the future, the presentation, they all faded, and nothing mattered but the moment and the ball drawing lines in the air between them.

They’d learned, over the last few years, to bring seconds along, even for their unofficial matches. Once they were absorbed in the game only exceptional intervention, such as, say, a car crashing into the court, would induce either one to back down before the final score was decided. It wasn’t uncommon for them to leave so exhausted neither of them could walk a straight line without help.

This present still calm was , ironically, not helping his peace of mind, Keigo reflected as he cast his line out.

And how was Tezuka taking it? A sidelong glance showed him focused on the water as if it were a meditation garden. Keigo decided to take the opportunity to indulge his curiosity, and looked closer.

Tezuka’s stillness was nothing new. The quality of stillness wrapped around him even in the middle of a hard game; it was one of the things that often intimidated his opponents. It was a good tactic, and Keigo smirked every time he saw it used on someone else. There was something, though. Something in the line of his shoulders, and the set of his hands.

After a long moment it finally came to Keigo. Tezuka was relaxed.

Not the waiting whipsnap that fatally deceived so many on the court, but really relaxed. Keigo was not much given to introspection, at least not when he could help it, but one particular conclusion hit him hard enough to knock his breath out.

Keigo came here to find a little stability, a restful, solid time when he didn’t have to worry about balancing the needs and quirks of his team against the ruthless demands of their coach. Here, he didn’t have to deal with the annoyance of some uppity little hotshot after his position. He didn’t have to listen to his father casually mentioning the statistics on how many youthful tennis stars completely failed as professionals, and thank God for Grandfather, that was all Keigo had to say. He didn’t have to be arrogant enough to prop up the egos of two hundred odd mediocre players. He could be quiet. He could be lackadaisical. He could be abrasive or not, as he pleased. He could, in short, relax.

Tezuka clearly came here for pretty much all the reasons that Keigo himself did. It was an insight he really felt he could have done without. Not least because it immediately presented the question of whether the flash of understanding was mutual.

“There’s no audience here, Atobe, you don’t have to stay in character just to play to me.” Tezuka’s voice held a hint of impatience, as he glanced over, and Keigo realized abruptly how much he’d focused on Tezuka for the past few minutes. Of course he’d noticed.

And, Keigo supposed, that answered that question. He turned his attention to his line. He wasn’t sure today would be a relaxed day for him, but at least he was distracted from his regular problems.

Five minutes later he was studying Tezuka again. Fish were less demanding, but they weren’t as interesting.

He had known already that Tezuka used his reserve to conceal his intensity. It now appeared that he also concealed a certain… softness? tolerance? Keigo sighed to himself, because now his curiosity was engaged. And, after his pride, curiosity was probably his second strongest driving force. Well, if he was going to indulge it, he might was well do so with flair. What would be a good approach to stir up some revelations? Hm…

“Do you ever wish you had chosen a different front?” he asked. Tezuka eyed him, and he decided to prod a little harder. “Not that it isn’t an effective one, the stone silence does emphasize your command presence nicely, but don’t you ever get tired of it? Face get stiff?”

One of these days, Keigo told himself as Tezuka’s brows rose, it would probably be a good idea to restrain his sense of humor. It had gotten him in trouble before. In fact, it was the source of most of his bad reputation, including the part that held he couldn’t possibly have a sense of humor because one person couldn’t fit that and his ego too.

Tezuka was not, however, looking offended. He looked, insofar as Keigo could decipher his typically minimalist expression, thoughtful.

“Do you?” he bounced the question back. Keigo read a certain censure in the sharpness of his voice, and snorted.

“If you had as many people to deal with as I do, you would have chosen a front that afforded you some amusement into the bargain, too,” he declared.

“It amuses you to annoy people?” Tezuka inferred.

Keigo smiled. “Infinitely.”

“It amuses you to toy with people?”

“Provided they’re worth toying with,” Keigo specified, leaning back on his elbows. Tezuka reeled his line back in.

“If you want an honest answer to your question, Atobe, give me an honest answer to mine.”

“That was honest, Tezuka. I enjoy frustrating people who don’t realize that I am toying with them. If that fact itself also amuses me, that doesn’t make it any less true.” He tipped his head back to look up through the leaves. “You must know what it’s like. To be the best without a regular challenge. What’s worthwhile then?” Tezuka was silent for a minute before he spoke, in a meditative tone.

“There are times you remind me of Fuji.”

Keigo sat up rather quickly at that.

“I beg your pardon! I remind you of that little blond sociopath of yours? I have never been that unstable!” He glared at his companion.

“Indeed,” Tezuka noted, a bit too neutrally for Keigo’s taste, as he made a new cast.

Keigo slouched back and made a mental note that a relaxed Tezuka, while not significantly more emotive, was a good deal more outspoken.

“I am content with my own choice,” Tezuka stated after a few minutes of silence. It took Keigo a moment to remember the question that this was an answer to. But, then, it was only what he would expect out of Tezuka’s particular inflexible integrity, that he would keep his end of even a forgotten agreement.

“Always?” Keigo wanted to know. Contemplative silence reigned again for a while before Tezuka replied.

“Like your choice, mine has results that please me. Those I don’t wish to deal with don’t bother me. My team obeys me.” Keigo smirked over that last, while Tezuka paused again. “Like you, I don’t like the pressures that originally made me learn these habits. But, like you, I chose something that would let me stand against those pressures. Those expectations. Those denials.”

Keigo had to fight a sudden urge to back away, quickly, from that deep, even voice saying such unexpected, personal, accurate things. A corner of his mind observed that it was no wonder his opponents on the court looked so alarmed when he did this kind of thing himself.

“I don’t recall saying any of that,” he observed in his best languid drawl. The look Tezuka turned on him was not at all relaxed; it reminded him, with unpleasant abruptness, of how Tezuka looked when he played.

“Why do you come here, Atobe?” Tezuka asked. The change in direction gave Keigo a moment of mental whiplash, but he understood what Tezuka was asking. And he was ruefully aware that he’d been asking for this when he decided to prod Tezuka. The real question, now, was whether he wanted to afford his rival, of all people, the kind of frankness that he had previously reserved for such undemanding recipients as the fish.

On the other hand, hadn’t he done that already? What else were their matches, if not utterly brutal honesty written out in every movement? Brutality, in fact, had been their point of contact from the beginning. It was pleasant to have a couple constants in one’s life. And, reputation to the contrary, Keigo had never been one to hand out anything he couldn’t take.

“I come here to trap slippery creatures, reel them in, and then decide whether I want to kill them or not,” he said, making another cast.

A sharp glint of appreciation lit Tezuka’s eye for a moment.

“And you,” Keigo suggested, “come here because the fish understand your sense of humor better than your friends.”

Tezuka picked up one of the sharp, barbed hooks from his tackle box and held it up so that it glinted in the sun.

“Perhaps.”

Several casts later, Keigo remembered something he’d been wanting to ask since he got here. “Why are you here today, Tezuka? You’ve never come on Thursdays before.”

“That’s how my schedule worked out, this spring,” Tezuka shrugged slightly and tilted a brow. “Yours?”

“Likewise.” They both contemplated this fact in silence. “Ah, well. It will add a touch of interest to the conclusion of high school.”

“To say the least,” Tezuka murmured, and set his hook in a hapless fish with a flick of his wrist.

TBC

A/N: I do know that fly-fishing, which is what Tezuka’s hobby, at least, is listed as, is not a sitting still on the shore sort of affair. Since I wanted to boys to talk, though, I took a bit of artistic license.

Last Modified: May 08, 12
Posted: Apr 23, 04
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Backstage – Part Two

Tezuka and Atobe meet while out fishing, in the Spring of their third year of high school. Conversation, verbal jousting, poetry, philosophy, angst, dramatics and humor ensue. Drama with Budding Romance, I-3

Kunimitsu had started approaching his favorite fishing spot a little warily since his schedule and Atobe’s had fallen into synch this spring. Today, however, his caution appeared unnecessary. Atobe was not waiting, with his usual edgy words and mocking smile only slightly blunted by the peace of water and silence.

Instead, he was sprawled out with one arm thrown over his eyes, looking rather rumpled. He hadn’t even set his line yet.

At the rustle of Kunimitsu setting up, he raised his arm for a moment and muttered something that might have been a greeting. Kunimitsu considered his companion as he sorted through his hooks. Atobe was a showman, even when he was relaxing. If he was showing exhaustion, he probably wanted to be asked about it.

“Are the fish particularly tiring today?”

“The fish are the very souls of courtesy,” Atobe informed him. “They’re waiting for me to recover before taking up negotiations.”

“Ah.” Kunimitsu waited, curious to see whether Atobe’s obvious desire to talk about it would win over his habit of misdirection.

“I think some of my team may fail to graduate this year,” Atobe mused. “I’m going to kill them first. Mukahi decided today was the perfect day to provoke Shishido, and told him it was a good thing he was so persistent, as it almost made up for his lack of talent. To which, predictably, Shishido replied that that was better than having a useless talent and no staying power, and becoming a drag on his partner. Which, of course, made Mukahi angry enough to resort to fists over words. You’ve never seen such a catfight.” Atobe ran a hand through his hair. “And that got their partners into it, and thank God both Oshitari and Ohtori have level heads and managed to pull those two apart. Except I’m reconsidering whether Oshitari can really be said to have a level head any more, because he decided the best way to shut Mukahi up would be to kiss him. Not that those two are anything but an open secret, but there’s such a thing as style, not to mention discretion, and I’m just thankful Hiyoshi had the good sense to chase off most of their audience before that.” Atobe sat up at last and reached for his water.

Kunimitsu found himself having to stifle a chuckle at the indignant tirade. The expressive flex and swoop of Atobe’s voice, when he was in full swing, was as good as anyone else’s extravagant gesticulation.

“Did you ever consider theatre as a hobby?” he inquired. Atobe shot him a sidelong look for the apparent non sequitur.

“Not really.”

“You would have been quite good at it, I think,” Kunimitsu told him, blandly. “Aristophanes would suit you. The Thesmophoriazusae, perhaps.”

Atobe choked, and snorted water out his nose.

If Kunimitsu were honest about it he would have to admit that Atobe wasn’t the only one who liked provoking people now and then. It was merely that Kunimitsu restrained himself, while Atobe made an art of flamboyant unrestraint. This place was where they relaxed, though, and perhaps they met in the middle, Atobe less artful and Kunimitsu less restrained.

“Your timing is as good as your humor is terrible,” Atobe rasped, recovering. Kunimitsu let a faint smile show. He didn’t think he had to say out loud that Atobe had no room to complain.

“Your team has stayed remarkably cohesive over the years,” he observed instead. Atobe waved a dismissive hand.

“It’s the doubles pairs that have been stable. Neither of them could be pried apart with a crowbar. Shishido wasn’t a Regular again until Ohtori caught up. Though I doubt Oshitari and Mukahi will continue with tennis after this year. They’re the second rank doubles team, again, and I doubt they can improve much more. At least,” he added, lip curling, “not unless Mukahi gets it though his head that contempt for his opponents won’t automatically let him win.”

“A very bad habit,” Kunimitsu agreed.

Atobe glared at him. He was very easily provoked today, Kunimitsu noted. And, apparently, more out of sorts than was immediately evident, because he declined to rise to the bait.

“In any case, I could say the same of your team. You have that mouthy little brat of yours back again, don’t you?”

“Of course.” And Arai had been deeply irate to be ousted from the Regulars by Echizen’s arrival, despite, or possibly because of, everyone else’s sure knowledge that it would happen. Tezuka shook his head. “Though you could say he never really left. He’s been practicing with us right along.”

Atobe slanted a look at him. “Ah? I wouldn’t have thought you’d bend the rules like that. Some favoritism creeping in, Tezuka?”

“It was in everyone’s free time,” Kunimitsu returned, serenely. Atobe really was off his stride today.

It wasn’t until Atobe jerked his line too hard and lost a fish that Kunimitsu thought it might be something serious. Lack of control was not normally one of Atobe’s problems, even when he was angry. Now, though, he saw a very fine trembling in Atobe’s hands, the kind that might translate into a series of bruising smashes if he had held a racquet instead of a fishing pole. He waited, patiently, for whatever was wrong to emerge.

“What are you planning to do when you graduate?” Atobe asked, at last.

“To play professionally.” Caution made Kunimitsu’s voice expressionless. Where was this going?

“Ah. Has anyone ever told you the odds of good junior players succeeding professionally?” Atobe’s voice was almost as even as his own, but the expression that accompanied it was a subtle snarl.

“No,” Kunimitsu answered quietly. The snarl was becoming less subtle, and Kunimitsu found himself a little concerned what might happen if Atobe gave his rage free rein outside of the court. He considered the problem.

He had observed Atobe interacting with his coach a few times. It was clear they respected each other, and he had thought at the time that Atobe must not be very familiar with support if he responded so warmly to such a cold trainer. He had an increasingly firm idea that someone in Atobe’s family was the source of the frustration and anger that seemed to drive Atobe’s game.

So…

“There’s supposed to be something more important. Something of higher worth,” he stated, cool and certain. Atobe stilled. “But it isn’t the same, and it isn’t enough.”

“Business,” Atobe nearly spit the word.

“Kendo,” Kunimitsu offered in return.

“They don’t understand what it’s like,” Atobe said, low and soft, staring over the water.

Kunimitsu thought about his brat , as Atobe named Echizen. He remembered the morning Momoshiro had come to practice, after finally prying the initial source of Echizen’s tennis obsession out of the boy, and proceeded to hit balls through the fence until Ryuuzaki-sensei had yelled at him.

“That may be for the best, in the end,” he pointed out. Atobe looked at him as if Kunimitsu had suggested he dye his hair orange, and he couldn’t decide which scathing retort he wanted to use first. That was more normal, and Kunimitsu relaxed again.

“That’s better,” he said, turning back to his line. Atobe arched a brow at him.

“What’s better?”

“Your temper. Not that it’s anything to boast of at the best of times, of course.”

Atobe scowled at him before turning away to fiddle with his line. At length he muttered a thank you almost as indecipherable as his earlier greeting had been. Kunimitsu smiled, amused.

“Really, you’re the highest maintenance rival I’ve ever had,” he told Atobe, deadpan.

After one blank moment Atobe laughed low in his throat and lounged back by his rod.

“As it should be,” he declaimed.

TBC

A/N: The Thesmophoriazusae is a play by the Greek comedic playwright Aristophanes; it’s full of low humor and crossdressing and sexual innuendo.

Last Modified: May 08, 12
Posted: Apr 23, 04
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Backstage – Part Three

Tezuka and Atobe meet while out fishing, in the Spring of their third year of high school. Conversation, verbal jousting, poetry, philosophy, angst, dramatics and humor ensue. Drama with Budding Romance, I-3

Spring was starting to warm into summer, and the fish were getting smarter.

Or, at any rate, pickier about what they’d bite. Thursday afternoons had acquired a slower pace. Keigo basked in the mild sun, storing up pleasure in anticipation of the crushing heat to come later in the year. Practices would become downright grueling, then, he knew.

“A little hard to believe this is the last year we’ll be training with our teams,” he murmured, eyes closed.

“Mm.”

Keigo opened his eyes. He was becoming increasingly fluent in Tezuka-speak, which was a very tonal language. That particular tone was more terse than he would have thought the comment warranted. He examined Tezuka’s hands on his pole. He was definitely thinking of something besides the fish. It looked like today would be another challenge to get something out of his companion; that was always good for an entertaining hour or two.

“Too bad the competition will be so poor for the Nationals this year,” he suggested. “With Rikkai still in such disarray after losing a doubles pair and Sanada, both, the only real challenge, besides you, is Fudoumine.”

Tezuka’s mouth tightened for a moment. Ah, getting warmer, then. Something about one of the other teams, perhaps?

“I never expected Sanada to drop out of tennis unless Yukimura did.” Keigo drew a breath to continue, and then let it out silently as Tezuka’s eyebrows dove down. He smiled with great smugness. Got it in one. Now, then, something about Sanada himself, or about his captain?

Of course, judging by the edge to Tezuka’s expression, if Keigo pushed this he might just start returning, and that could get… uncomfortable. Tezuka saw him far more clearly than Keigo was used to. But that had never stopped him before.

“I hear Sanada’s studying the sword, instead,” he mentioned casually.

“Yes. I’ve been told.” Tezuka’s voice was hard and cold, and Keigo sat up to look at him. There were harmonics in that statement that he would have recognized at five hundred meters. The frustration, especially.

Pieces fell together.

“You’re related to that Tezuka family, then?” he asked.

“Through my grandfather,” Tezuka answered flatly. He didn’t mention his father, Keigo noticed, as though his father didn’t enter into the matter. Maybe he didn’t. Too bad they couldn’t trade, he thought, a bit sourly. He might pay money to watch his own father blunt his bluff attitude on Tezuka.

He didn’t suggest that there must be other cousins and such to take up the tradition; in cases of family tradition, especially as famous a tradition as the Tezuka school of kendo, that didn’t usually make a difference. Tezuka stirred.

“I doubt my team will suffer such confusion when the seniors leave,” he said. “Yours, on the other hand…”

Keigo chuckled, accepting the change of topic. Entertainment was one thing, but if he did press Tezuka further on this subject the return was likely to go beyond painful and into deadly. He didn’t want to push Tezuka that far. Not here.

“Unlike your merry band, Hyoutei is used to reforming dramatically each year. Hiyoshi has the experience to hold the new players together.” Keigo pursed his lips thoughtfully. “He might even follow on professionally.”

“I doubt any from my years except Echizen will become professionals,” Tezuka noted, unusually forthcoming with what Keigo rather thought was relief.

“Not even that bouncy power-player of yours?” he asked, a little surprised. “What was his name… Momoshiro. An annoying loudmouth, but he has the talent.” Tezuka gave him a distinct People who live in glass houses sort of look before replying. Keigo smiled.

“For a few years, perhaps, but I doubt he wants to bother with something that cutthroat in the long term. Momoshiro is invested in his team. I won’t be surprised if he becomes the Seigaku coach when Ryuuzaki-sensei retires.”

“What about your socially maladjusted data specialist?” Keigo prodded. “Hiyoshi has been quietly enamored of his determination for years; surely you aren’t telling me he lacks the focus.”

Usually Keigo’s insulting epithets for Tezuka’s team garnered at least a sharp look, promising retribution, but this time Tezuka’s face was a bit distant as he watched the water.

“There was a time I thought he would,” Tezuka spoke at length, tone as distant as his expression. “But I’m not so sure any longer.” He seemed to return to himself and finished, more briskly. “He may choose to become a trainer; he certainly has a knack for it.”

“Hm. I suppose Jirou might take that path, too,” Keigo mused, reeling in his line for another cast. Tezuka quirked a brow, and Keigo was in an good enough mood not to make him ask out loud.

“Shishido and Ohtori will probably go on, too, as doubles specialists,” he speculated. “Oshitari and Mukahi will probably go settle down somewhere and be scandalous.” He shuddered, delicately. He would never admit it, but he envied Tezuka his star doubles pair. They seemed so… calm and undramatic. Hyoutei only needed one dramatic personality, and that was him. “I don’t think I’m going to miss it that much,” he concluded.

Tezuka was still for a moment. “You won’t miss the attention? Being the center of that circus?” he asked, mildly. A crack of black laughter escaped Keigo.

“What a good comparison. Not really, no.” He had become a little… attached to this particular team, but that was no ones business but his. And, perforce, Sakaki-sensei’s. “Being the focus of two hundred little minds with less talent? Being their talisman, so they’ll all focus on one goal?” He bared his teeth. “The annoyance value of acting like an idol is pleasant, but it would have limited utility, professionally. I think I’ll choose something else after this year. Hell, I’ll act like anything that’s called for, including humble, if the sponsors can just break me loose from…” He bit off the end of the sentence. Damn Tezuka’s silence, that invited him to talk without thinking. Relaxation or no, he’d gotten too careless here.

“From your family?” Tezuka finished for him, and Keigo quashed a wince. Wasn’t he supposed to be the one with the marvelous insight? Not, he supposed, that it was such a large leap from some of the other things they’d said in this place.

He thought about that for a minute.

“You… were planning in that direction, too?” he hazarded, not looking at Tezuka. If Tezuka felt trapped by the question he’d never answer it.

“Somewhat.” The deep voice was barely audible, and when Keigo glanced over Tezuka was looking down at his own hands folded on his knees. It looked like a harder thought for Tezuka than it was for him.

On impulse, Keigo leaned over and laid his fingers on Tezuka’s wrist. Tezuka’s head turned toward him, sharply.

“Great minds think alike,” Keigo offered, in English, with a lazy smile.

A corner of Tezuka’s mouth actually twitched, and the bittersweet-brown eyes lightened.

“Ah. In that case I shall look forward to Tachibana’s company as I go about choosing a sponsor,” he said, smoothly.

Keigo gave in at last, and fell back, laughing freely.

TBC

A/N: The idea of Momo becoming the Seigaku coach came from Familiarity by Monnie. It stuck in my head and wouldn’t leave.

I ran across an actual Tezuka school of kendo while out browsing the web. The coincidence of names was too good to pass up, despite the fact that, canonically, Tezuka’s grandfather teaches Judo.

Last Modified: May 08, 12
Posted: Apr 24, 04
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Backstage – Part Four

Tezuka and Atobe meet while out fishing, in the Spring of their third year of high school. Conversation, verbal jousting, poetry, philosophy, angst, dramatics and humor ensue. Drama with Budding Romance, I-3

Atobe seemed to have something on his mind this week. He kept glancing over at Kunimitsu and then away. After the fourth time he did it, Kunimitsu sighed.

“You might as well say whatever it is.”

Atobe really must have been distracted, because he immediately recoiled to his default response of mockery.

“What,” he drawled, “you think you can figure it out if I don’t? Let us witness your great deductive abilities, then.”

Kunimitsu eyed him. Atobe didn’t often fall back on that sort of thing any more. He shrugged one shoulder. “I think that if I wait quietly you’ll say in any case. You might was well say it now as later.” Atobe blinked, and slouched back, grumbling under his breath.

“Just because I know how to use my tongue…”

Kunimitsu smiled. It was too perfect. He couldn’t resist.

“Do you, now?” he murmured.

Atobe’s eyes widened, and he stared at Kunimitsu for several beats before he burst out laughing. There, that was better. Atobe’s mocking humor was a serrated thing, both sleek and ugly, subtle and vicious. Kunimitsu preferred it when Atobe relaxed enough to laugh, instead.

“Innuendo from Tezuka Kunimitsu,” Atobe managed at last, “be still my heart! The world must be ending.” He sighed and looked out over the lake. “I was wondering why you invited me to stay. That first day we were both here.”

The question surprised Kunimitsu. Most of the understanding between he and Atobe was unspoken. He had not expected Atobe to want to change that. Well, how to explain, then?

“The things you say here,” he began, at length, “could you say them anywhere else?” Atobe’s eyes flickered. Kunimitsu turned one hand palm up. “Neither could I. But you aren’t a member of my team, that I have to maintain my authority with. You aren’t a classmate I have to get along with. I have no family duty to you. And there are things you understand.”

Atobe considered this for a while.

“You were so sure of all that at the time?” he asked, finally, not quite mocking but clearly on edge. Kunimitsu’s mouth tightened; he wasn’t sure Atobe would accept the answer, but he had asked for it. And while Atobe might not have noticed it, yet, Kunimitsu told him the things he asked directly. Always.

“We’ve been playing each other for years, now,” he pointed out. “You are very honest when you play full out. And given that key, you aren’t difficult to read at other times, either.”

Tension threaded through Atobe.

“Besides,” Kunimitsu added, after a moment, returning to the original question, “sometimes you quote German poets with a very bad accent. It’s an amusing way to pass the afternoon.” The tension leaked away as Atobe drew himself up.

“A bad accent?” he repeated, in a deeply offended tone. The gleam in his eye undercut his supposed indignation.

“Horrible,” Kunimitsu confirmed, evenly. “You mangle the gutturals.” Atobe snorted.

“Well, if it’s a good accent you want…” He tilted his head, consideringly, and started to recite in what Kunimitsu recognized, after a few sentences, as Greek. He thought the language suited Atobe. The sound of it was sharp, but it had a rolling rhythm, like an avalanche of broken stone seen from far enough away to make it fluid. When Atobe finished, Kunimitsu quirked a brow at him. Atobe’s smile was a bit distant as he translated.

“Imagine the condition of men living in a sort of cavernous chamber underground. Here they have been from childhood, chained by the leg and also by the neck, so that they cannot move and can only see what is in front of them. At some distance higher up is the light of a fire burning behind them.” He paused. “The prisoners so confined would have seen nothing of themselves or of one another, except the shadows thrown by the firelight on the wall of the Cave facing them, would they?”

“Plato,” Kunimitsu identified it. Atobe nodded. It had to be from The Republic, as that was the only thing by Plato that Kunimitsu had ever read. He remembered being irked by the man’s complacence, while appreciating the idea of ability being allowed to lead. On reflection he wasn’t at all surprised that Atobe knew it well enough to quote.

Though what he had chosen to quote today indicated that he focused more on the bleak picture of human understanding than on the bright, brittle vision of a perfected society. That didn’t entirely surprise Kunimitsu either.

“I think I prefer the German poets,” he said quietly. A particular passage from one of his favorites came to mind, and he quoted it in turn. “You know how much more remarkable I always find the people walking about in front of paintings than the paintings themselves. It’s no different here, except for the Cézanne room. Here, all of reality is on his side: in this dense quilted blue of his, in his red and his shadowless green and the reddish black of his wine bottles. And the humbleness of his objects: the apples are all cooking apples and the wine bottles belong in the roundly bulging pockets of an old coat.

Atobe looked at him inquiringly. “That’s not poetry.”

“It’s a poet’s letter about a painter’s work,” Kunimitsu explained. “Rilke writing about Cézanne.”

“You like Rilke enough to memorize his letters?” Atobe asked on a chuckle.

“The philosophy of artists appeals to me,” Kunimitsu told him softly. Atobe was silent, with the rare depth in his eyes that only showed when he was thinking seriously about a challenging idea. Kunimitsu kept his gaze as light as he could. Atobe was… compelling like this. But he didn’t think it would be wise to let his companion know that.

It wasn’t as though his ego needed the assistance.

“Cooking apples, hm?” Atobe murmured. “That’s certainly different from the ideal Form of Apple-ness.”

“Quite,” Kunimitsu agreed, dryly. Atobe leaned toward him.

“But isn’t perfection what we’re looking for? Especially on the court?”

“Yes,” Kunimitsu allowed, “but perfection differs from one player to another. There wouldn’t be a game if it didn’t.”

“You don’t think the final winner would be the one who found the real perfection?” Atobe challenged, dark eyes almost glowing.

“If that were true you and I should be converging toward a similar style.” Kunimitsu noted. “We’re not.” Atobe leaned back with a delighted smile.

“Good point.” Then he gave Kunimitsu a narrow look. “Why haven’t you ever argued philosophy with me before, Tezuka? You’ve been holding back on me.”

Kunimitsu couldn’t hold back a quiet laugh. It was so like Atobe to be irate over something like that. He was just a bit surprised that Atobe also seemed to feel that they had passed from rivals good enough to talk to friends good enough to argue. But perhaps Atobe hadn’t thought it out quite that far. Kunimitsu had rarely observed him applying his quite incisive intelligence to his own feelings.

“I won’t any longer, if you like,” he offered.

“I should hope not,” Atobe admonished him. “So, are you familiar with Theses on the Philosophy of History?”

Neither of them really seemed to mind that they didn’t catch any fish at all that day.

End

A/N: The passages of Plato and Rilke in this story are quoted, with a few artistic inaccuracies, from The Republic of Plato, Oxford Press edition, translated by Francis Cornford and Letters on Cézanne, North Point Press edition, translated by Joel Agee.

For those who may be curious, Theses on the Philosophy of History is a thoroughly cracked-out essay by the German philosopher Walter Benjamin. I highly recommend it. That it appears as subject matter in one of Laurie Anderson’s songs should tell you something about how wonderfully bizarre it is.

Last Modified: May 08, 12
Posted: Apr 25, 04
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Undertow

Hiyoshi’s perspective on a “chance” encounter between Hyoutei and Seigaku, and especially their captains. Drama with Flirting, I-3

Wakashi thought, later, that it started innocently enough, with Mukahi complaining. That was nothing unusual. Nor did it surprise anyone that Mukahi was annoyed that he hadn’t gotten a chance to play against Kikumaru and his partner at Prefecturals this year, and, in the Doubles Two slot, was unlikely to have the chance at Regionals either, even supposing Seigaku and Hyoutei came up across from each other again. Wakashi ignored him, as he usually did. It was nobody else’s problem that Mukahi and Oshitari hadn’t been able to secure a position as the first doubles team.

So it escaped his notice, until long after the fact, that Atobe’s smile had taken on an extra edge, or that their captain had dispatched one of the lesser club members on an unspecified errand. The first anyone really knew of something going on was at the end of practice a few days later when Atobe answered his cell phone and suddenly had the gleam in his eye that meant someone was going to regret his existence very soon.

“Mukahi, you were saying you wanted a chance to play Seigaku’s Golden Pair?” Atobe asked, with a shark’s smile.

“Yes,” Mukahi answered, a bit warily.

“Well, here’s your chance. You remember the courts down by the park?” Everyone nodded. “It seems some of the Seigaku team have gathered there today. Interested?”

Mukahi’s eyes lit almost as brightly as Atobe’s, and he looked over at his partner. Oshitari nodded agreement.

“Definitely interested,” Oshitari replied for them.

“Who all is there?” Ohtori asked, looking a bit thoughtful. Atobe’s smile widened enough to make Wakashi wonder just what he had in mind.

“Kikumaru and Oishi. Echizen. Momoshiro. And Inui.” His glance flicked toward Wakashi on the last name, and Wakashi suppressed a snarl. Atobe’s sense of humor had not been a welcome addition to his ongoing study of Inui Sadaharu’s techniques and play style.

“Echizen, hm?” Ohtori mused. Wakashi had no idea what value Ohtori could see in being steamrollered by Seigaku’s most annoying member, but he must see some. His steel was showing as he glanced at Shishido. His partner grinned back at him.

“I get the bouncy spiky-haired one, then,” Shishido said.

From the expressions Wakashi saw, the entire team was thinking the same thing about pots and kettles.

In the end everyone agreed to go except Akutagawa, who wanted a nap, and Taki, who tended to distance himself as much as possible from Atobe’s little projects. Wakashi wasn’t sure why he went, since he had no intention of challenging any of Seigaku tonight. Certainly not Inui, and definitely not Echizen. Echizen was on his list of people to defeat later. After he caught up to Atobe. And he would.

Maybe it was just his curiosity about what Atobe was doing, he reflected as they made their way to the park. Because he had to be doing something. Atobe didn’t go to trouble without a reason.

Of course, he could just be getting a kick out of putting Seigaku off balance. His expression was pleased enough when the other team stared in surprise at Hyoutei’s arrival. Predictably enough, Echizen recovered his tongue first.

“Slumming?” he asked, eying Atobe.

“Gakuto missed Kikumaru so much we had to come visit,” Oshitari purred. Kikumaru’s eyes narrowed just a bit. He never had liked Mukahi. There were days when Wakashi sympathized a great deal.

“Oishi.” It was just short of an order, and Oishi shot his partner a look both resigned and affectionate.

“One set,” he specified, moving onto the court.

Every time he watched doubles pairs interact Wakashi became more grateful that he was a dedicated singles player.

As he watched the game get going, Wakashi wondered again just why Atobe had arranged this. It should be clear to anyone that, unless Oshitari had something phenomenal up his sleeve, he and Mukahi were going to lose. And then Mukahi would be absolutely unlivable for weeks. He would sulk. He would snap if anyone mentioned the game. And he would drive his teammates insane by focusing obsessively on whatever Oshitari came up with to address… the weakness…

Wakashi chewed on his lip and thought. At last he went and stood behind Atobe’s shoulder. “You brought them here to lose,” he stated. “To lose badly. They won against Inui and Kaidoh, even it it was just barely. You want them to lose badly enough to spur them on.”

“You’re learning,” his captain murmured, without turning his head. There was that about Atobe, Wakashi reflected. He was not what anyone could call nurturing. He didn’t lift a finger or say a word to teach Wakashi how to lead a Hyoutei team. But when Wakashi figured something out, Atobe did let him know whether or not he was right.

It was both annoying and useful. Because, while Wakashi didn’t know whether he could exceed Atobe as a team captain, he was damn well going to keep trying. Anything less was unthinkable.

Sure enough, Oshitari and Mukahi lost. At least Oshitari managed to soothe his partner down from throwing an outright fit. Wakashi had to admit, Kikumaru’s feline grin of triumph probably didn’t help any. Ohtori’s match with Echizen was about as uneven as Wakashi had expected, but Ohtori seemed satisfied. Inui also looked pleased, presumably for different reasons. By Wakashi’s count he’d filled six pages with notes, during the match. Perhaps, he thought, as Shishido and Momoshiro swaggered onto the court, grinning and boasting at each other, Ohtori was using Echizen the same way Wakashi used Inui. As a gauge of his own progress.

With the example and tacit permission of Atobe’s frequent matches with Tezuka, Wakashi had sought out a match with Inui every now and then. If Wakashi had progressed significantly since the last time Inui had a chance to take his measure, then they had a close game. Wakashi had even managed to win one or two. If he hadn’t made enough progress to be a bit unpredictable, then he lost quickly and humiliatingly. It was effective. He couldn’t imagine that it would do much good to play Echizen for such a purpose, but, then, Ohtori had some of the same spark that Echizen did. None of the bravura flare, but the same fine edge and knack for reaching beyond what was reasonable.

Shishido’s game with Momoshiro was closer than Wakashi had thought it would be. Momoshiro’s strength and sharp eye won in the end, but Shishido’s speed and finesse drove through his guard often enough to make it tight. Echizen tossed his friend a water bottle as they returned, and told him he was slowing down in his old age. Ohtori gave his partner the smile he reserved for Shishido, brighter and gentler than the one he kept for everyday politeness.

And that seemed to conclude the evening. Wakashi was quietly relieved that Seigaku’s captain hadn’t shown up. No telling what kind of fireworks might follow if Atobe and Tezuka got into a match with most of their teams… looking… on…

Oh, hell. So much for leaving in time for dinner.

Echizen had noticed, too, and nudged Momoshiro, nodding toward where Tezuka stood just beyond the court, leaning on a lamp-post.

“Buchou!” Momoshiro exclaimed, and then everyone turned as Tezuka approached. Atobe gave no evidence of surprise, and Wakashi was positive he’d known the second Tezuka arrived.

“Tezuka,” Atobe greeted him. “You’re late.” Tezuka didn’t dignify that with a reply, merely nodded to Inui.

“Fuji passed on your message,” he said. Why that should make all the third-year Seigaku smile, Wakashi couldn’t imagine. Inside joke, he supposed.

And then Tezuka and Atobe came face to face. Wakashi had a sudden image of a piece of paper, drifting between them, ignited by the force of those locked stares.

“So?” Atobe asked, softly. Tezuka merely nodded, and dropped his bags, pulling out his racquet. Wakashi’s gaze crossed Oishi’s, the same touch of resignation in both. If their captains planned to go all out…

Sure enough, as Atobe and Tezuka set themselves on the court, a familiar feeling swept out from them like an ocean wave.

Wakashi was never quite sure why Atobe had chosen to ask him along as combination back-up and gofer at his unofficial matches with Tezuka. Most probably because he was the one most likely to keep his mouth shut, and not mention Atobe’s obsession to their coach, who thought Atobe had better things to be concentrating on. Wakashi had as little to do with Sakaki-kantoku as he could reasonably manage, and wouldn’t say anything in any case. They both knew he owed Atobe. They both knew that it was Atobe’s influence that kept Wakashi a regular despite defeat, in the past. Not so much this year, perhaps; even Kantoku didn’t really expect him to win against Seigaku’s Singles Two player. He had kept three games, and, despite his own infuriating surety that Fuji Shuusuke had been taking it easy, that seemed to be enough for everyone who remembered what Seigaku’s wild card was capable of.

But that didn’t erase the first time. Not in Wakashi’s mind, and certainly not in their coach’s. Atobe’s backing had saved him that year, much as it had Shishido. But Shishido and Atobe had been friends for a long time; it was easier for him to accept the help. Wakashi despised being indebted to Atobe. The only thing that made it tolerable was that Atobe clearly didn’t expect it to stop Wakashi from trying to overthrow him.

And he was going to do it. Even watching these games hadn’t dissuaded him, though he realized now that it was unlikely to happen unless he followed Atobe into the professional circuit. Chased him, the way he had realized, years ago, Inui chased Tezuka.

One of the reasons he wasn’t dissuaded was that he wanted to find this intensity, this absolute focus and commitment that resonated between Atobe and Tezuka and covered the court like deep water. He leaned into it as they slashed across the court, returns singing through the air. In fact, everyone was leaning forward, entranced by the passion and precision of the players. The momentum never relented; this game was shaping up fast and hard, with few twists.

Or so Wakashi thought until Tezuka feinted a smash and delivered a drop shot instead. Regarding the ball that rested demurely just his side of the net, Atobe’s mouth curled up and he directed a smoking look at his opponent.

“It isn’t polite to leave your partner hanging, Tezuka,” he admonished. Tezuka raised a brow at him.

“Do you doubt my endurance, Atobe?” he asked, with perfect composure. Atobe threw his head back and laughed, returning Tezuka’s serve with a vicious slice.

The jaw of every single watcher dropped.

“Impossible… they’re flirting!” Mukahi sputtered.

“They are,” Kikumaru seconded, apparently too stunned to notice who he was agreeing with.

“At the very least,” Oshitari murmured, sounding as floored as his partner.

Wakashi exchanged a long, wide-eyed look with Oishi, his fellow witness to matches between these two. This was certainly a new development.

That look caught Shishido’s attention, and he leaned over Wakashi’s shoulder.

“So, Hiyoshi,” he said, conversationally, “how long has this been going on?” Every eye focused on Wakashi, and his spine stiffened in response.

“Ask Atobe-buchou yourself, if you want to know,” he snapped. Shishido took on the look of a man calculating his chances of surviving a jump from a fifth floor window.

“Maybe,” he muttered, dubiously.

“I don’t think I really want to know,” Momoshiro put in, sounding just a bit ill.

Wakashi ignored them all in favor of the game. He was not, actually, all that shocked, though that kind of banter seemed more in Atobe’s line than in Tezuka’s. He’d have thought Seigaku’s captain would have had more decorum, even in the heat of a match. But it really fit well enough with the way these two played each other. The purity of the effort they exerted against each other, the complete, wordless rapport between them, the unspoken agreement that they could and would drive each other to the limit and beyond, it was the kind of thing that easily bled over into other kinds of passion. They were both breathing hard, now, dripping with sweat in the setting sun, and concentrated on each other like the twin mirrors of a laser.

Wakashi had occasionally been disturbed, watching them play, by a random thought wondering what it would be like to go to bed with one or the other of them. Since he would never, under normal circumstances, even consider the possibility, he had stamped out the thought quite violently the first few times it occurred. After a while, though, he realized that it was only the spill-over of the games. Even separated by the length of a court, Atobe and Tezuka were in constant contact while they played, just as much as if they had been running their hands over each other.

They reached a six game tie not long after the street lights came on.

“We’ll be here until midnight if we don’t stop them now,” Oishi said quietly. Wakashi nodded agreement, and Oishi crossed the court to Tezuka, quickly, before he could serve again. Wakashi hopped over the low wall and leaned against it, waiting to see whether he would have to add his voice to Oishi’s. Tezuka tilted his head, considering whatever Oishi was saying to him. He nodded, thoughtfully, and looked over to quirk a brow at Atobe. Atobe looked displeased, and waved a dismissive racquet. Abruptly, Tezuka’s eyes narrowed, and he shook his head. Atobe’s mouth tightened, but after a moment he nodded and turned toward the seats. Wakashi was relieved. Talking to Atobe right after a match with Tezuka always made him feel like he was transparent. Atobe’s focus was slow to widen again, enough to include anyone but Tezuka.

The teams broke up, chattering in the released tension, most of them dissecting the game. Shishido had a one sided smile that suggested he planned to tease Atobe about flirting as soon as some private opportunity presented itself. The gleam in Echizen’s eye indicated he had similar plans, despite his current silence. They drifted off in ones and twos.

Atobe and Tezuka were looking at each other again.

Wakashi sighed. Why him? A quiet word to Ohtori let him hustle both his yearmate and Shishido off, leaving Atobe and Tezuka in peace.

Or as close to peace as the two of them probably ever got.

At this rate, his captain was going to start owing him.

Epilogue

“Atobe.”

Keigo slung his bag over his shoulder and turned an inquiring look on Tezuka. Tezuka didn’t answer aloud, instead taking Keigo’s right hand in his own. He turned it palm up and pressed gently along the lines of the tendons. Keigo knew he would feel the tremors in the muscles. When Tezuka looked up, eyes demanding an explanation, Keigo shrugged his unburdened shoulder.

“I was working with Ohtori on his singles technique today. He’s starting to be able to volley at strength, if someone can return his shots for long enough.”

“And you baited me for a match today, anyway?” Tezuka asked, anger in the lowering of his voice. His fingers moved down Keigo’s wrist and forearm, testing. “And you would have kept going if I hadn’t noticed it.”

“It was a match of opportunity, and don’t try to tell me you wouldn’t have done exactly the same thing,” Keigo said, firmly. Tezuka ran a thumb down the long tendon of his arm, and he sighed faintly. It felt very pleasant. That seminar in sports medicine Tezuka said he had taken last winter definitely had some dividends.

“Perhaps.” The corners of Tezuka’s mouth twitched up. “But considering this I don’t want to hear any more comments on my endurance.”

Keigo’s smile showed his teeth, and he looked Tezuka up and down, slowly.

“We’ll have to see, won’t we?” he purred. Tezuka chuckled softly, and let his hand go.

“See you Thursday?”

“Of course.”

End

A/N: I am indebted, for a good deal of my conception of Hiyoshi, to Ruebert. Particularly the idea that he would be drawn to Inui’s attitude and methods. *tips hat* Doumo.

Last Modified: May 08, 12
Posted: Apr 26, 04
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Transpose

Heat, tennis, sex. Porn With Insights, I-4

Pairing(s): Tezuka/Atobe

Full summer had arrived, bringing Keigo’s seasonal temper with it. It was beneath him to be cranky, but the heat made him restless. This was the one time of year when he genuinely envied Jirou’s ability to sleep through anything, including heat waves.

The outdoor courts in the city became unspeakably muggy and sticky in the depths of summer. Keigo was extremely grateful that, this year, Tezuka had finally seen reason and agreed that their matches would be better held on the court at the Atobe house, where there was fast recourse to air conditioning. It was no great problem to chase off the staff, who didn’t really want to be out in this heat either, though the butler had given him a suspiciously pleased look while commenting on how nice it was that he had a friend who could visit so casually.

On second thought, Keigo imagined that Akihito was probably getting as tired of Keigo’s public pose as Keigo himself was. He’d always supported it cheerfully enough, but after six years it was undoubtedly getting old for both of them.

Besides, he was right. It was nice that Tezuka could visit and give Keigo a chance to work off his summer induced agitation.

Keigo stalked to his end of the court and rounded on Tezuka, waiting. His breathing deepened as Tezuka set himself, and he could feel his focus narrowing. The world ended at the square of chain link surrounding them. Response danced in every fibre of his muscles, waiting to leap out and answer his opponent’s moves. Tezuka cast the ball upwards and Keigo saw the trail it left in the air, was moving even as Tezuka’s racquet finished its arc.

He loved the speed of their games, the immediacy. And, when it came right down to it, the simple, unfettered force. Neither of them would ever hold back, and that release intoxicated him. All the tension he held around himself day by day, and honed to a tool that could shape his future, broke loose and rushed out from him, through him, like a wind storm. Transparent. Overwhelmingly powerful. Terrifying. Uplifting.

In this season, in this mood, it was even more. His restlessness drove him, flying ahead of the storm, seeking to spend himself into calm. Sometimes, not always, but sometimes, playing against Tezuka brought him to that calm. Other times he had to settle for the physical lassitude of worn out muscles.

His teeth clenched as he drove back a smash. It seemed that today might be one of the latter times.

It was a long game, and perhaps his edge of desperation was an asset of sorts, because he finally won it. But the restlessness still snapped through him. As he and Tezuka made for their water bottles, Keigo found himself wishing that the match hadn’t ended, that it could keep going for a while longer, even though they were both wringing wet and gasping for breath. As the sunlight glowed on Tezuka’s skin, Keigo found himself wanting, very much, to keep going.

And maybe, he thought suddenly, maybe he could.

The restlessness lifted his hand, and Keigo combed Tezuka’s hair back with his fingers. With his focus still limited to Tezuka himself, it made perfect sense to step in close enough to slide his mouth over Tezuka’s.

And perhaps Tezuka agreed that this was simply a continuation of the game by other means, or perhaps they were just both too tired to bother stopping themselves. After a single breath, Tezuka’s arm curled around Keigo, pulling him firmly against Tezuka’s body. Both Keigo’s hands found their way under Tezuka’s shirt, sliding up the sweat-slick length of his back, palms noting every curve and plane. He tangled one leg around Tezuka’s and breathed in Tezuka’s sigh. He felt Tezuka turning them both, felt the fence against his shoulders, shivered. He closed his hands over Tezuka’s hips and pulled Tezuka, hard, between his legs. His fingers tangled in Tezuka’s hair again, as Tezuka’s mouth moved down his throat. Tezuka’s hips flexed into his, driving him against the fence, against Tezuka’s hands as they slid down past Keigo’s waistband.

“Tezuka,” Keigo whispered, “yes, do it.” He felt Tezuka’s breath draw in against his neck.

“Atobe…”

“Now,” Keigo urged, drawing back far enough to yank down all the interfering cloth and stroke between Tezuka’s legs. The sound Tezuka made was too harsh to call a moan, the velvet voice rough against Keigo’s ear.

And then Tezuka was slipping down his body, far enough to lift Keigo’s legs, and Keigo knew he was going to have diamonds printed into his back from the fence, and he didn’t care. He was still running ahead of the storm, and this, this might be enough to calm him. His hands clenched hard on Tezuka’s shoulders, and he pressed all the tension of his body out to his hands, enough to let Tezuka…

…in. Burning. Stretching him apart. Rough and…

…hot. And Tezuka paused.

“Atobe,” he breathed, questioning.

“Don’t stop.”

“Keigo…”

Don’t stop.

Tezuka’s hand snaked between them, and strong, calloused fingers stroked up Keigo’s cock. He tried to arch into that touch and couldn’t, and then Tezuka was driving into him, hard and deep, and they were both moving, bodies never parting. The burning heat of the air, of the sunlight, of Tezuka inside him drowned Keigo’s senses, twined fire through every vein. He shuddered as the heat built in him, higher with every layer of sensation, pleasure shivering on the edge of bearable. He moved to meet it, as he always moved to meet Tezuka’s focus, Tezuka’s hands, racing, immediate, brilliant, and the fire rushed out, taking his breath more thoroughly than the longest match they had ever played.

They sank down in a loose tangle of limbs, and Keigo leaned his head back against the chain link. He felt Tezuka’s forehead fall to his shoulder. They were silent for several long minutes.

“Shower?” Keigo suggested, at last, with the casualness of exhaustion.

“Good idea,” Tezuka agreed in a similar tone.

It took another few minutes before they actually managed to get up.

Keigo had long ago decided that money wasn’t everything, but having it certainly made some things easier. For example, money, and Grandfather’s indulgence, had provided changing rooms with shower and bath right off the court. He had rarely been happier for them. He pulled Tezuka under the water with him, not least so that he would have someone to lean on if his legs decided to give out. They were considering it, he could tell. He sighed, happily, and stretched up into the spray, relaxed for the first time in days.

Tezuka was looking amused, possibly over Keigo’s expression.

“Hold still,” he murmured, and took the soap to wash Keigo’s back. Keigo was pleased, if a bit surprised. He hadn’t really taken Tezuka for the sort to indulge in affectionate gestures afterwards. He was more surprised to feel Tezuka’s hands on his hips, and Tezuka’s thumbs gently spreading him open. Checking for bleeding, he realized. He snorted.

“I’m fine, Tezuka. I know my own limits,” he said.

“Do you?” Tezuka sounded curious. Keigo waved a hand.

“And affair here and there at the seminars and camps. You know what it’s like.”

“Once or twice,” Tezuka admitted. His arms closed around Keigo. “Feeling better, now?”

Keigo started, and then laughed, leaning back against Tezuka.

“You know me too well,” he accused.

“I know you, period, Keigo,” Tezuka observed. The intimacy of his given name made Keigo pause. He turned his head enough to see Tezuka out of the corner of his eye.

“Isn’t that what I just said?” he asked, quietly.

Tezuka said nothing, just bent his head to place a kiss on Keigo’s shoulder, and Keigo slowly relaxed. It was nothing new. Not really. More like a piece of music, written for violin, played on the flute instead.

They stood together under the water for a long time.

End

Last Modified: May 08, 12
Posted: Apr 27, 04
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Pace

Tezuka convinces Atobe to take things a little slower. Porn With Insights, I-4

Pairing(s): Tezuka/Atobe

Keigo sat in Tezuka’s kitchen and reviewed the circumstances. Tezuka’s parents and grandfather had taken a week’s vacation to visit his aunt, the grandfather’s only other child. So, for a week, Tezuka was in sole possession of the house.

To be perfectly frank, Keigo was nearly slain with envy. He really thought he might sell his soul for the glorious peaceful silence of a house to himself for just twenty-four hours, let alone a full week.

Tezuka, however, apparently wanted company, and had invited Keigo home with him at the end of this Thursday’s fishing. He had offered to cook whatever of their catch was suitable to the purpose, having packed along a small thermal bag to bring the fish back in. Tezuka was currently engaged in poaching the fish with ginger shoots. This otherwise blameless activity was holding all of Keigo’s attention, because the look in Tezuka’s eyes at one or two points during the afternoon indicated to him that his fishing partner had, to put it euphemistically, plans for the evening.

Keigo decided it was about time to test his hypothesis. He leaned back in the kitchen’s sole chair, which he had, of course, appropriated.

“Just ginger?” he asked.

“You had something else in mind?” Tezuka inquired, without turning.

“Just wondering whether ginseng or anything similar was going to make an appearance,” Keigo drawled. That got Tezuka to turn around, and he left the fish for a moment to come and stand over Keigo. He reached out and trailed his fingers down the underside of Keigo’s jaw.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” he stated, softly. Keigo’s eyes lidded, and he gave Tezuka a lazy smile.

“Perhaps not,” he murmured. Hypothesis confirmed, he decided, as Tezuka returned to preparing dinner.

The fish was excellent.

He accepted Tezuka’s invitation to see his room as demurely as possible, and almost laughed at the tiny smile Tezuka showed him that said, yes, they both knew exactly what was going on, but it was amusing to play out the game of manners anyway. When they got there, though, it was Tezuka’s turn to chuckle, because Keigo immediately made for his bookshelves and couldn’t resist critiquing the collection.

“…and not nearly enough epic poetry. Really, Tezuka, I’m not suggesting you take up Milton, but with your taste for history I would at least expect Virgil.” He paused. “Nietzsche, hm? Now that’s one I wouldn’t have thought of you.”

Even when the mouth lies, the way it looks still tells the truth,” Tezuka quoted in German. Keigo turned to find him lying on his bed, looking at the ceiling. He came to stand beside the bed.

“I suppose it does,” he agreed, looking down. At the moment, Tezuka’s mouth was both soft and serious. Tezuka held out a hand to him, and Keigo took it and let himself be pulled onto the bed. He plucked off Tezuka’s glasses as Tezuka leaned over him. Tezuka didn’t comment.

“Keigo. Will you let me go slowly this time?” he asked, instead. Keigo grinned.

“You want a long game, Tezuka?” He stretched, provocatively. “We can do that.”

Tezuka’s mouth was still soft and serious as he kissed Keigo, and it took Keigo entirely by surprise when Tezuka’s hand slid between his legs and stroked.

“And here I thought you said slow,” he gasped, arching into that unexpected heat.

“I did,” Tezuka murmured against his lips. Keigo shivered.

“Aaaahh… You could have just said you wanted to tease me,” he pointed out a bit breathlessly. Tezuka’s hand stilled.

“I don’t.” Keigo eyed him skeptically, and he shook his head. “The point of teasing is to frustrate.” A wry smile curved his mouth. “That’s Fuji’s forte, not mine. What I want is to pleasure you, Keigo.”

Keigo lay, looking up at the clear, piercing eyes above him. He had never said in so many words that he was a dedicated sensualist, but it wouldn’t have been that hard to figure out from their conversations. Especially not after the three week long debate over Schiller. And this, his rival, his companion, his friend, the one who saw him, and touched him, and understood, wanted him happy, pleased. Pleasured.

Keigo closed his eyes and whispered, “Kunimitsu.”

Kunimitsu’s mouth found his again, tongue curling around his own and drawing him out, and Tezuka’s hand was moving again, fondling him, and this time Keigo gave himself over to the heat without hesitation.

Kunimitsu made fairly short work of their clothes, but missed no chance to stroke Keigo’s skin, trace the lines of bone and muscle. Keigo basked in the glow of those touches, purring as he stretched into the space Kunimitsu’s hands sketched for his body. His gaze followed as Tezuka drew a little away, at last, reaching for the bedside stand.

And then he had to pause and blink.

A diffuser. Normally, the cup on top held water, and a few drops of oil or flower petals. Somehow, as he watched Kunimitsu dip his fingertips into it, he doubted that was water in there now. He laughed softly, and bent one leg as Kunimitsu reached under him, slick fingers slipping between his cheeks.

Warm.

Keigo sighed as the warmth stroked him, not entering but circling, massaging. Languid heat washed over him, seeping out from that gentle touch, loosening his whole body.

When two fingers finally slid into him it pulled a long, low moan from his throat. They passed gently, so gently, over the place the flashed fire up his spine, and Keigo tensed, pressing into it. Kunimitsu leaned down against him, speaking low in his ear.

“Relax. Relax for me, Keigo, and just feel. Please.”

After a long, shuddering moment, Keigo managed to let the tension go again, and Kunimitsu’s fingers moved, slowly, and it was suddenly… more.

Not fire but lava, not a flare but a presence, and Keigo sank down into sensation that didn’t build but sustained. And now Kunimitsu’s tongue slid down the side of his neck, lapped over his nipples, brushed warm and velvety over his stomach. It was all Keigo could do to keep breathing as Kunimitsu’s fingers left him and returned, hot, now, inside him. The silky pleasure was building again, burning again, and Keigo drew Kunimitsu’s mouth back up to his.

“More?” Kunimitsu asked, voice husky. A long, powerful shudder rippled through Keigo’s body.

“Yes.”

When Kunimitsu drew him up onto his knees, Keigo found that he needed to lean against Kunimitsu’s support, behind him, because his muscles were uninterested in holding him up. He let his head fall back with a long, harsh breath as Kunimitsu passed one hand down his chest, down his stomach, to grasp and stroke him. The stretch and pressure of Kunimitsu thrusting into him, slow, slow and hard, drowned his senses again in thick, hot pleasure. Individual sensation was lost. He couldn’t have said immediately what was in front of his eyes, could only hear Kunimitsu’s low moan beside his ear, could only feel heat sweeping up every nerve and Kunimitsu’s body against him, holding him, driving him under…

…the heat.

Kunimitsu’s arms were still around him when Keigo caught his breath again. They loosened when he stirred, but he only turned until he could rest against Kunimitsu’s shoulder, and after a moment the arms draped around him again.

“You’re right. You don’t tease,” Keigo murmured. A wordless sound of agreement answered him. Keigo looked up and surprised a look on Kunimitsu’s face that bore some resemblance to his expression when he won a match. Fiercely satisfied.

Keigo thought about that automatic comparison for a moment, and decided perhaps it wasn’t so automatic after all. Kunimitsu looked like he had succeeded in something that mattered to him, and Keigo didn’t really think that drowning his lover in pleasure would merit quite that expression. A long game, Keigo had said earlier. Was this a longer game than he’d thought? He combed through his memories of recent interactions between them, and then further back, and then still further.

At last, he leaned up on one elbow and brushed Kunimitsu’s hair back from his face so he could look him in the eye.

“You’ve been… courting me,” he asserted. “Since the spring, haven’t you?” Still eyes looked up at him.

“I took the opportunity that presented itself.”

Keigo decided that was as good as an admission, considering the source.

“All for this?” he wanted to know.

“When I saw you, at the lake, I wondered if we could give each other some peace, as well as the balance we already had,” Kunimitsu explained.

Keigo brushed his fingertips over Kunimitsu’s lips.

“Peace?” he asked. Kunimitsu ran his fingers through Keigo’s hair and smiled.

“Yes.”

“You’re completely mad, you realize that, of course,” Keigo told him, conversationally.

“Perhaps,” his lover replied with every evidence of serenity. Keigo laughed, and slid back down to lie against him.

“Kunimitsu,” he whispered.

End

A/N: Ginseng has an old reputation as an aphrodisiac.

Last Modified: May 08, 12
Posted: Apr 28, 04
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7 readers sent Plaudits.

Already Are

Atobe watches Tezuka, and reflects. Drama, I-3

Pairing(s): Tezuka/Atobe

Keigo folded his arms on the edge of his couch and rested his chin on them to regard the occupant. Kunimitsu seemed to be well and truly asleep, one hand holding his half-folded glasses against his chest, Keigo’s copy of Faust falling out of the other. His eyes were relaxed, though his mouth wasn’t, particularly.

Keigo didn’t have a great many examples to work from, yet, but he had come to the conclusion that Tezuka Kunimitsu never relaxed completely, even in sleep.

There were reasons, of course. Tezuka had at least as many responsibilities as Keigo, and was quite serious and dedicated about fulfilling them. In addition to the general run of Student Leader Responsibilities, such as keeping the photography club from getting into fist fights with the chemistry club over who got to use the well-plumbed and windowless lab room, there was the stress of keeping the tennis club in line and the team in trim. Keigo entirely sympathized, though it had been a bit hard to convince Kunimitsu of that the time he burst out laughing over Kunimitsu’s description of the taste of an accidental slug of Inui Juice. Keigo knew that Kunimitsu identified far more strongly with his individual team members than Keigo allowed himself to do, and that their advances, or lack of the same, just added to the strain.

But surely, he mused, sleep was the one place none of that could follow. Or should be.

Not, he had to admit, that Kunimitsu hadn’t woken Keigo from a nightmare once or twice when his waking troubles had followed him down to dreams. He had refused to say what it was about, last time, and Tezuka hadn’t pressed him. The memory of walking across a frozen lake, and looking down to see his team, trapped under the clear ice, of reaching down, only to find that he was reaching up, that he was trapped, too… He shuddered and pushed it away. It wasn’t even the images, really, it was the remembered feeling of panic and then helplessness that made his stomach twist. It had happened the evening after they played Seigaku at Prefecturals.

Keigo sighed to himself. All right, so perhaps he was more bound up with his team than it was entirely a good idea for him to be. He was even fairly sure when it had started.

It almost had to have been the day Tezuka had taken his world and tilted it up on one corner, proven to him that he had missed something about an opponent, that he hadn’t seen everything.

Keigo knew his coach was still dubious about the resulting change in Keigo’s approach to his team. A loss was a loss, in Kantoku’s eyes. Keigo insisted, though, that he never defended any player whose failure had not driven him to such improvement that it would not happen again. He had never been wrong about that, and so Sakaki permitted Keigo’s judgment to prevail. He had no doubts about what would happen if he ever were wrong. The rule of Hyoutei still held, albeit modified. The weight of it now rested on Keigo, should he chose to absolve one of his players of a loss.

How, after all, could he still believe that a loss was a loss after that first game? He had won… but he hadn’t. Tezuka had lost, and yet…

And that was what had brought Keigo to take such foolish personal risks on behalf of his team members. Looking at it objectively, he could only shake his head at himself. But it was also undeniable that his team had responded more willingly to his hand, after. Shishido even called him Buchou without it sounding like an insult, every now and then. He smiled, a bit wryly, at the man sleeping under his gaze, and recited, quietly, in German.

My eyes already touch the sunny hill,
Going far ahead of the road I have begun.
So we are grasped by what we cannot grasp;
It has its inner light, even from a distance –

And changes us, even if we do not reach it,
Into something else, which, hardly sensing it,
we already are.

Keigo raised his head and lifted one hand to brush Kunimitsu’s hair back. “One match, Kunimitsu,” he murmured. “Maybe some day I’ll ask you if you knew what you were doing.” And then he chuckled to himself. “Quoting poetry over my sleeping lover, yet. One of these days I’ll lose my mind completely and actually write poetry for you, I have no doubt.”

He leaned down and kissed Kunimitsu, softly. Drawing back, he was pleased to see that Kunimitsu’s mouth had finally relaxed.

End

A/N: The poem is most of “A Walk” by Rilke, trns. Robert Bly.

Last Modified: May 08, 12
Posted: Apr 28, 04
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aggy and 3 other readers sent Plaudits.

Color of the Sea

Atobe and Fuji have a chat about possessiveness. Drama, I-3

Character(s): Atobe Keigo, Fuji Shuusuke

Shuusuke had had his suspicions, but he hadn’t been entirely sure. Not one hundred percent. Not until he walked out the front entrance of the school, listening with amusement to Eiji’s enthusiastic explanation of why Betta fish were fascinating, and spotted Atobe leaning against the wall, waiting. Waiting for him.

Then he was sure.

“Atobe,” he greeted, as Eiji’s exposition cut off in surprise.

“Fuji.” Atobe pushed off from the wall. “Mind if I walk with you for a ways?”

Shuusuke thought about where he was headed today. Not normally someplace he would take company like Atobe. But… yes, it might be a useful illustration. He nodded and touched Eiji’s shoulder.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Eiji.” Eiji gave him a long look, and Atobe a longer one, before he nodded in turn.

“Ok. Have fun, Fujiko-chan.” His friend winked and strolled off humming, and Shuusuke stifled a laugh. Eiji knew him very well.

Atobe fell in beside him as he turned toward his own destination, and Shuusuke spoke softly.

“There was something you wanted?” A pleasingly double edged question to start off with.

Atobe was quiet for a few moments, and when Shuusuke looked at him his expression was edgier than usual.

“You’re Tezuka’s friend, as well as one of his team members,” he said at last. Shuusuke waited for him to do something besides state the obvious.

“Has he told you that we are,” Atobe paused judiciously, as if seeking just the right words, “seeing each other?”

“Not in so many words,” Shuusuke replied, and left it at that, waiting to see what Atobe would make of it. Atobe’s answering chuckle was warmer than he had expected.

“Ah, yes. We are speaking of Tezuka, after all. I should have said, has he indicated. Well, that makes things easier.”

“How so?” Shuusuke asked.

“There was a… precautionary question I wanted to ask you,” Atobe said, glancing at him, sidelong. Shuusuke waited, keeping his expression bland, and Atobe’s expression took on a slightly disgruntled edge. “Well, I suppose I didn’t expect you to make it easy,” he snorted.

Atobe took a deep breath, and when he let it out his bearing changed, less flippant, more focused, closer to the way Shuusuke had seen him at times when he thought he had a worthy challenge on the court. And, yet, more hesitant than that. When he spoke, Atobe’s voice was quieter and more even then Shuusuke had ever heard it before.

“Anyone with the slightest pretense to a brain knows that you’re dangerous, Fuji.” He glanced over, eyes dark. “And I have to say, that smile only makes you unnerving as well as alarming. If you’re actually trying to hide it, I recommend a different tactic.”

So, this was going to be a serious conversation. Shuusuke knew from observation that Atobe didn’t like to speak seriously or let on how much he saw or knew until he could use the information to his advantage. So. Shuusuke let the smile fade, unveiling his eyes from behind his lashes. Judging by the sharp half smile that crossed Atobe’s face, he appreciated both the threat and the compliment of that honesty.

“Anyone with eyes also knows that you’re very possessive,” he continued, quite matter-of-fact. “Your team, your friends, your family,” a pause, “your captain. Anyone who harms any of those comes in very quickly for an extremely unpleasant experience of some sort.” For a moment his expression was typically mocking again. “I imagine Jirou’s delight with your little lesson to him came as a bit of a shock.” A sigh. “But I’m not like Jirou, so it seemed wise to find out now if you have any objections.”

“And if I did?” Shuusuke probed.

“If you objected I would expect it to be because you thought I was a threat,” Atobe said, elliptically. “And if you thought I was a threat, I would expect you to carve my heart out and never lose that smile while you did it.”

Shuusuke gave him the smile he didn’t usually show, the dangerous and delighted one, enjoying this opportunity to show the danger clearly to someone who seemed to respect it for what it was. This was turning out to be very interesting.

“You would be right,” he murmured.

“I didn’t doubt that I was,” Atobe shot back, calmly.

“Didn’t you?” Shuusuke prodded. “What makes you think you really understand that kind of protectiveness?” Atobe snorted again, with more disdain than exasperation this time.

“It’s true I tend to make friends who can take care of themselves, but there have been one or two. One or two pure hearts.” He looked at Shuusuke full on, eyes glinting. “And I know that if I thought you were a serious threat to his peace… I’d carve your heart out with a smile.”

Shuusuke considered. He didn’t really have any particular objections, and, if he had, that last sentence would probably have laid them to rest. But it would be nice to have confirmation, and, after all, Atobe had offered this game. So he let his expression stay cool and sharp.

“What is Tezuka to you?” he asked. Atobe tilted his head, and gave him a question back.

“Do you love him?”

Shuusuke understood that Atobe wanted his credentials to ask such a question, or hear the answer, and he did want to hear it, so he replied as accurately as possible.

“Tezuka is very dear to me.” That seemed to suffice. Atobe’s eyes softened, and Shuusuke was fascinated to see that they actually lightened, turning the color of deep water under a clear sky.

“He is silence that hears,” Atobe said at last, sounding far more casual than he looked. “He is a hand to catch my balance on. He is a drive that matches mine and a mind that can argue against me.” He fell silent, and Shuusuke decided to try drawing out the still unsaid things hinted at by a faint smile that looked remarkably like one of Tezuka’s. He was reasonably sure there was more to this than what could have been a description of a good doubles pair.

“Is that all?”

But, apparently, that was as forthcoming as Atobe was willing to be. His eyes shuttered again, and he raised a sardonic brow.

“Did you really want me to mention the part about an incredible body and hands that know exactly where to touch?” he asked. Shuusuke’s mouth twitched. An excellent deflection.

“Perhaps,” he returned slyly. Both Atobe’s brows went up, and he looked a bit askance at Shuusuke, probably trying to gauge his seriousness.

And here they were, with perfect timing, at the park where Kippei was waiting for him, standing now from the bench he’d occupied and looking rather surprised at Shuusuke’s company. And also, perhaps, to see Shuusuke without his public face.

“Shuusuke?” he asked, coming to stand close in a silent offer of support if it was needed. Shuusuke smiled, softly, up at him.

“Tachibana,” Atobe acknowledged, casually. And then he looked twice, suddenly eyeing the distance between Shuusuke and Kippei. More precisely, the lack of distance. And then he looked very narrowly at Shuusuke, who gave him an amused look back.

“Tezuka isn’t a man who can be possessed,” he noted, by way of explanation.

Atobe was very still for a moment, and in that moment Shuusuke was sure Atobe understood. That he knew Shuusuke had accepted his company on the way to see Shuusuke’s lover in order to flaunt the ease and closeness of their bond. And also to assure Atobe that Shuusuke would not contest him for Tezuka out of jealousy. And to imply that, if Shuusuke did object, it would be because he recognized a good relationship and didn’t think Atobe could supply that.

Shuusuke was, actually, somewhat impressed with the extent of understanding he read in Atobe’s face. And then he was rather surprised when Atobe flung back his head and laughed.

“Ah, very nicely done,” he said, recovering himself. “Perhaps, the next time Kunimitsu compares me to you, I’ll take it as a bit more of a compliment.” And he nodded to Kippei and continued on his way, still chuckling.

“Kippei,” Shuusuke said, gazing after Atobe with pursed lips, “please remind me that I need to have a talk with Tezuka.”

“About what?” Kippei asked, curiously, brushing Shuusuke’s hair back with a soothing touch. Shuusuke looked at him, keeping a tight grip on his outrage.

“Did you hear? Tezuka has compared me to him.” He glared at Atobe’s retreating back. “I have never been that unsubtle!”

End

Last Modified: May 08, 12
Posted: Apr 29, 04
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8 readers sent Plaudits.

Hashira

Some conversation, courtside, about what it means to be Seigaku’s pillar. Drama, I-2, anime continuity

Kikumaru Eiji liked it when his team was relaxed. Which meant he didn’t like it much when scouts came sniffing around the school courts. They ogled the Regulars and distracted everyone else, and Tezuka was more stringent than usual about proper behavior when they were around. Today, in addition to the usual sleek looking scout, smiling over his business cards like a poker shark with a winning hand, was someone who looked like a team manager; and that meant Ryuuzaki-sensei was with them, ready to pounce on any lapse Tezuka might miss.

Personally, Eiji thought they could all do without the distraction, with a bare week to go before Nationals, but nobody had asked him, so he just sidled around the other side of Oishi and tried not to twitch whenever the scout looked his way.

“Fuji-senpai.” Echizen’s voice was low, but rather sharp, and Eiji looked to see what was annoying Ochibi this time.

“Yes, Echizen?” Fuji asked, cheerful smile firmly in place. Echizen narrowed his eyes before spinning on his heel and stalking back to serve. A very hard serve, Eiji noted, that Fuji returned rather lightly. Ah, that was it. Fuji was in a mood to tease, and wasn’t playing for real.

It wasn’t that Eiji didn’t understand the urge, because ruffling Ochibi’s feathers was amusing, but Tezuka was probably going to be annoyed as soon as he noticed. Eiji craned around to check on their captain’s whereabouts, and winced. Not only was he already watching Fuji and Echizen’s match, the scout and manager were right next to him along with Ryuuzaki-sensei. Tezuka never approved of his players messing around, and the fact that Fuji was toying with Ochibi in front of outsiders wouldn’t make him any happier. To Eiji’s surprise, though, Tezuka merely folded his arms and watched silently. Ryuuzaki-sensei, after a long glance at him, tucked her hands in her pockets and didn’t interfere.

“Ah, is that Seigaku’s incredible first-year that we’ve heard so much about?” the scout asked, brightly. “He’s very good, to play a game like that against a third year.”

Eiji winced some more.

The manager only grunted, watching the match almost as narrowly as Tezuka. Fuji let Echizen have the second game, too, and Eiji expected Ochibi to be steaming and, possibly, to pull out a Drive A or two just to make it clear how pissed off he was. It was obviously the day for surprises, though, and maybe Ochibi was growing up a little, because as the serve came back to him he looked up with a smile, bright eyed.

“That’s enough, Fuji-senpai,” he stated, and served straight for Fuji’s racquet. With no excuse to let that one escape, Fuji turned his racquet out and returned very lightly, as if he’d been surprised. Quite calmly, Echizen aimed straight on again. Just as if, Eiji realized, he were practicing against a wall. He covered a grin as Fuji’s eyes glinted and he returned full strength to the corner. Echizen practically materialized behind the ball, smile brighter than ever.

Eiji could almost hear Fuji’s sigh as he finally gave in to Ochibi’s enthusiasm, and the game suddenly vaulted onto another level. When he looked around to check reactions Ryuuzaki-sensei was smirking, Tezuka had a very faint smile, and the scout’s jaw was hanging open.

The manager laid a hand on the fence, chuckling.

“Seigaku’s pillar, eh?” he said, softly. And then he turned a sharp eye on Tezuka. “The next one.”

Eiji wasn’t the only one blinking in surprise.

“How…?” Oishi started, and paused. The manager seemed to understand what he wanted to ask.

“I went to school here,” he told them. “Katsuki Toshiki, pleased to meet you.” Everyone murmured greetings back, sounding just a little dazed that this outsider in their midst… wasn’t.

“Every school has its imprint,” Katsuki-san continued, easily. “That’s part of ours. Has been for years. “

“How long?” Oishi murmured, a bit wondering, glancing at Ryuuzaki-sensei Everyone in hearing distance followed his example.

“What are you looking at me for?” she asked, amused. “That’s always been the business of the team itself. Besides, I only came here a year or two before Katsuki did.”

“Oh, yeah, we all thought it was such great luck, having a beautiful woman as a coach,” Katsuki-san said, suddenly grinning wickedly. “Then we found out what she was really like.”

Eiji nearly choked, trying not to laugh, as Katsuki-san ducked the swat Ryuuzaki-sensei aimed at him.

“Nothing but insolent brats in this job,” she mock-grumbled.

“Ah, no wonder she deals so well with Ochibi; she had practice,” Eiji observed, glancing away innocently as Ryuuzaki-sensei skewered a glare in his direction. His partner gave him a more effectively quelling look.

“He does have a good deal in common with some that I remember,” their coach allowed, relenting.

“Not that much, Sensei ” Katsuki-san said, watching the ongoing match again. “I know you had hopes for him, and Echizen Nanjirou was an incredible player. Singles One both his second and third years. Never lost. But he could never have led the team, much less been our core. This one, he has what it takes.” He glanced at Tezuka. “And you’ve been letting him learn that he has it, haven’t you Tezuka-kun?”

“You were captain while you were here.” Tezuka stated it as a fact, not looking away from the match. Katsuki-san nodded.

“I’ve seen Fuji Shuusuke play a few times, and I wondered why you didn’t say anything. You knew Ryouma could get him to play seriously.”

It was Tezuka’s turn to nod. Eiji, once again, had to increase his estimation of their captain’s potential sneakiness. Really, it was no wonder he and Fuji got along. Katsuki-san sighed.

“That’s exactly what Nanjirou never had. It wasn’t just that he didn’t care about the team. It was almost as though he didn’t really understand the game. There was no real rapport between him and his opponents. I’m sorry, Ryuuzaki-sensei,” he looked at his old teacher, “but I never believed he could go all the way. He didn’t have the spirit.”

Ryuuzaki-sensei shrugged a little. “You win some and you lose some. It’s true for teachers as well as players.”

Kachirou, who Eiji had always considered the sharpest of Ochibi’s cheering section, approached a bit tentatively.

“Do you mean Ryouma-kun really will be able to beat his dad in tennis?” he asked. Katsuki-san bent a narrow eye on Echizen’s game.

“I think so.” And then he smiled down at Kachirou. “You’ve probably seen it. When he plays a challenging opponent, I bet he lights up. And if he needs to, he finds some way over or under or around whatever’s in his way.”

Everyone smiled or laughed, and Eiji had to agree, that was exactly what Ochibi did. Kachirou nodded, shyly.

“And when that happens, he draws people along with him, doesn’t he?” Katsuki-san asked. “His opponents, his own team, everybody.”

On the court, Echizen delivered a smash that should, by rights, have been unreturnable. Fuji caught it, threw it back, waited for the return, eyes sparkling.

“That’s what it means to be Seigaku’s pillar, the center of the team. Not always the team’s leader, though it’s easiest when it happens that way,” Katsuki-san shot a glance at Tezuka, “but the core that lifts the whole up. That’s what my own captain taught me, and it’s what I tried to pass on.”

Eiji suddenly remembered that this man was a team manager, here on a scouting trip, and wondered just how susceptible Tezuka was to flattery. True flattery, certainly, but somehow Eiji didn’t think it was an accident that this explanation was taking place right where Tezuka would hear every word. He also didn’t think he imagined the silent offer of a team that would understand what drove Tezuka, and value it.

“Echizen will do well,” Tezuka said, evenly, “provided he doesn’t get careless.”

Katsuki-san looked at their captain for a long moment before turning to Ryuuzaki-sensei.

“Some you lose. And then, some you win, don’t you? I think we’re done here, today, Sensei Thank you for letting us intrude.” Katsuk-san gripped his scout’s wrist before the man could produce the usual handful of business cards.

“Not at all,” their coach murmured with a small smile, and led her guests off, the scout protesting under his breath. A subtle edge of stiffness left Tezuka’s shoulders, and Eiji felt Oishi’s silent sigh beside him.

Eiji grinned, watching Fuji and Echizen come off the court, Fuji laughing quietly as Echizen smirked up at him and told him he’d never keep Singles Two playing like that. Eiji bounced a little on his toes and trotted to meet them.

“Fujiko-chan,” he called, “play a match with me next, now that Ochibi-chan’s worn you out for me!”

He liked it when his team was relaxed.

End

Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
Posted: May 08, 04
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7 readers sent Plaudits.

Feels Like Home

Atobe decides to turn the tables. Porn With Characterization, I-4

Pairing(s): Atobe/Tezuka

One of the things Kunimitsu found most fascinating about Keigo was how changeable he could be. He could be accommodating one moment and utterly intransigent the next. And there was no guaranteeing that either was genuine, not simply a lever to turn his audience to his hand. The only time Kunimitsu was entirely sure of his honesty was on the court.

Or, of late, in bed. Between them, it almost came to the same thing.

Normally Kunimitsu simply had to be grateful for his years of experience with Fuji’s social duplicity, which gave him some preparation for riding out Keigo’s occasional, mercurial enthusiasms with some degree of equanimity. Though he only pointed out that fact when he had some reason to want to rile Keigo. Today called more for bemusement than equanimity, actually.

Kunimitsu had known that Keigo had strong opinions on music. He had known that Keigo enjoyed classical music. He had known that Keigo’s taste had some odd quirks, after coming across his copy of Bach pieces played on synthesizer. He had not quite expected that, upon his confession that he was entirely unfamiliar with American blues and country music, he would be more or less dragged to Keigo’s room and planted on an enormous floor pillow at what Keigo claimed was optimal distance from his impressive array of speakers in order to listen to some of Keigo’s collection.

Upon completing these arrangements, Keigo had promptly retired to his couch with a copy of The Frogs and seemed to be ignoring Kunimitsu’s presence.

Definitely bemused.

He had to admit, the music was interesting. The woman singer had an impressive range, and a powerful voice, clear and throaty by turns. He could only pick out about two thirds of the words, but what he did understand veered between brash and poetic.

Perhaps it wasn’t so surprising that Keigo liked it.

When the music ended, he stayed reclined on the pillow, looking up at Keigo’s ceiling. One verse had stayed with him, echoing in his head.

Now, we have learned to build
Out of concrete, out of steel,
And our buildings stand a thousand years and then
Even they are bound to fall.

But the women cross the river
Never learned to build a wall.

Keigo entered his field of vision, and stood looking down at him.

“Kunimitsu?”

“It’s… good,” Kunimitsu said, quietly. He and Keigo were both very accomplished at building. That song made him wonder what it would be like to not be. Another line returned to him. The women cross the river, they can kill you with their eyes. That he had felt. Perhaps they were closer to living without walls than he had first thought.

When they were honest with each other.

And perhaps Keigo saw his thoughts in his eyes now, because his own eyes darkened. Kunimitsu shifted under the heat of that look, and lifted a hand to Keigo.

Keigo sank down to kneel over his body, and twined his fingers through Kunimitsu’s hair. The force of his kiss came as no surprise; Keigo was an aggressive lover as often as he was playful or languid. Kunimitsu hesitated as his hands found Keigo’s back, though. There was something different this time. Something in the slide of Keigo’s tongue against his, in the hand tilting his head back. Something in the way Keigo held his body over Kunimitsu’s, not touching yet.

Kunimitsu’s breath tripped as the difference slid into focus. There was no hint of pliancy in Keigo’s movement.

In the abstract, he’d known this was coming from the start. It would have been absurd to imagine that Keigo would be willing to give way to him always. In a way, Kunimitsu was surprised it had taken this long for Keigo to decide to turn the tables. But that didn’t really lessen the immediate shock.

Kunimitsu’s effort to rearrange his expectations was caught short when Keigo dipped his head and closed his teeth over Kunimitsu’s throat. His body snapped taut as a drawn bow against the one above him, breath leaving him in a sharp, uncontrolled sound, and he shivered as Keigo drew away, slowly, lips whispering after the sharp scrape of teeth. Kunimitsu lay, shaken, as Keigo cupped both hands around his face.

“You’ve never done this the other way around, have you?” Keigo murmured. Kunimitsu shook his head, unwilling to trust his voice. Keigo’s hand trailed down his chest as he leaned forward to breathe against Kunimitsu’s ear. “You know what I want, though.”

Kunimitsu reflected that Keigo had a significant advantage when it came to these things, because if ever a voice was made for seduction, it was Keigo’s, with a tone like sandwashed silk stroking bare skin.

“I want to see this powerful body spread out under me,” his lover continued. “I want to hear your voice roughen and break because of what my hands are doing. I want to feel you sigh because I’m inside you. And I want you to feel what it’s like, Kunimitsu. What it’s like to let go. To let someone else take trouble for your pleasure.” His hand traced the tension in Kunimitsu’s muscles, and he shook his head a little. “I won’t do anything to hurt you, Kunimitsu. If you don’t trust my gentleness, at least trust my skill.”

That was such a Keigo thing to say that Kunimitsu lost a bit of tension in a smile.

“That isn’t it,” he answered, quietly. “I just… didn’t expect to… like that.” It was the intensity of his own response that shocked him, the rush of heat that had answered Keigo’s gesture of dominance. He had not expected it to arouse him.

He was also surprised to look up and see Keigo regarding him with some exasperation.

“Kunimitsu,” Keigo sighed, “pleasure is pleasure. You can’t give any mind to what lesser people think about giving or receiving it.”

That, too, was so purely Keigo that Kunimitsu couldn’t restrain a chuckle. On the other hand, it did make sense of why Keigo had been willing to receive from Kunimitsu at all. Sometimes, Keigo’s airy disregard of any stricture that happened to inconvenience him did have advantages. Kunimitsu brushed the backs of his fingers against Keigo’s cheek.

“Come, then,” he invited.

Keigo’s mouth covered his again, as Keigo undid the buttons of his shirt and brushed it aside. Kunimitsu let his head fall back, let the shudders run through him, at the sharp catch of Keigo’s teeth against his throat, again, and nipping at the shivering muscles of his stomach, and at Keigo’s fingers drawing light patterns over his shoulders and collarbone. Those long fingers undid the button at his waist delicately enough that they never touched his skin, and somehow that care and control called out a deeper shiver than anything else.

Having dealt with the last fastenings, though, Keigo chose to coax off Kunimitsu’s shirt first. And then, with the kind of caprice that could only be deliberate, rose and slowly stripped off every thread of his own clothing. Kunimitsu wondered whether Keigo was trying to unsettle him, keep him off balance. Or maybe it was the reverse, because the bare line of Keigo’s body leaning over him was familiar. Keigo smiled at Kunimitsu’s faint sigh, and his tongue stroked the hollow of Kunimitsu’s shoulder.

His left shoulder.

Kunimitsu’s hands closed hard over Keigo’s ribs as a violent shudder tore though him. Why was he remembering that first match now?

“Not to injure, Kunimitsu,” Keigo said, low, “but isn’t that how we are? It matters who wins, but it matters more that we play with everything. I don’t want anything more than everything you are.”

It made perfect sense, which was probably why Kunimitsu had sought more from Keigo than the occasional game in the first place. Giving everything. Accepting everything. That was, indeed, how they were. A soft moan rose in his throat as Keigo’s tongue caressed that tender skin again. And then the inside of his elbow. And then the inside of his wrist. Those soft, sliding touches over pulse points tingled, rippling out though his blood, and Kunimitsu was gasping by the time Keigo reached his palm.

Midnight eyes gazed down at him as Keigo took Kunimitsu’s fingers in his mouth, tongue curling around each one and stroking up the sides, teeth nipping at the tips. Keigo drew back only to trace the lines of Kunimitsu’s palm with the tip of his tongue before sucking two fingers in again. One hand drifted down, trailed over Kunimitsu’s stomach, between the open edges of his pants, and drew a thumb down the hard length still covered by smooth cotton, suggesting, promising. Keigo’s tongue sliding over his fingers, and Keigo’s fingers brushing over his cock somehow slid together into a single touch like an electric shock.

Kunimitsu felt like a plucked string, held between those two points of contact, vibrating to a single note. It startled him, and he tensed against it. That only made it strong enough to force a harsh sound from him. Even Keigo’s full weight covering him didn’t damp that vibration completely.

And then Keigo brushed back his hair, and his mouth closed on Kunimitsu’s ear. Every muscle in Kunimitsu’s body seemed to unstring itself at once, and his bones started to melt.

Trust Keigo to go straight for the weak point.

Kunimitsu made a low, soft sound and closed his eyes, turning his head to give Keigo a better angle.

“There, now,” Keigo whispered, between nibbles. “You’re extremely responsive when you’re not thinking, Kunimitsu. I didn’t quite expect that.”

Kunimitsu didn’t bother to reply; he wasn’t sure he could at the moment. He could barely gather the coordination to shift his weight as Keigo drew off the last of his clothing, and didn’t move while Keigo padded briefly into his en suite bathroom to fetch something. Kunimitsu didn’t see what it was, as Keigo dropped it beside them, but given the circumstances he could make an educated guess. Keigo settled between his legs, and suddenly Kunimitsu felt as though a flock of butterflies were fluttering against his nerve endings. Keigo slanted a look at him, and then pressed an open mouthed kiss to the inside of his knee, tongue curling around the tendon behind it. The lips against his skin curved into a smile at the harsh breath that drew out of him.

“Mmmmm,” Keigo murmured. “You let go more easily than I thought you would. Enjoyable, isn’t it?”

He laid a path of kisses down the inside of Kunimitsu’s thigh, and the last one became a gentle bite that somehow turned Kunimitsu’s half-tensed muscles to water. As his legs fell further open a detached corner of Kunimitsu’s mind noted that Keigo was well on his way to getting everything he’d said he wanted. From the lazy smile Keigo wore as he stroked a hand down Kunimitsu’s stomach, he was well aware of the fact.

And then the wet heat of Keigo’s mouth closed over his cock, and detachment fled. Keigo’s tongue fulfilled what his fingers had promised earlier, sliding against him, flirting, slow and sensuous, twining around him and pulling him toward the edge of pleasure, before he drew away, leaving Kunimitsu panting. His breath left him entirely, on a small aaahh, as Keigo’s fingers slipped under him, warm and slick, pressing slowly into him, answering the yearning Keigo’s mouth had roused.

Keigo’s timing was flawless, as usual. The strangeness of the sensation didn’t catch up until Keigo’s fingers stilled, inside him, waiting. Kunimitsu twisted against it, a little, muscles twitching, and Keigo stroked his fingers out just a bit, and then back in. That was better, smoother, and Kunimitsu released a sigh as he looked up into Keigo’s eyes, intense and focused as his lover leaned over him.

“It’s the movement you like, hm?” Keigo asked, not waiting for an answer before he stroked deeper, and Kunimitsu let his eyes fall closed as he rocked into the touch. It was strange, but also… almost soothing. A massage for muscles normally unregarded. A tingling expansion, like the first stretch after waking in the morning.

And then Keigo’s fingers curled, pressing, and fire raced outward from them. Again, and again, and Kunimitsu didn’t bother trying to hold back the sharp cry or stop his body from jerking against that rush of sensation.

“Good?” Keigo purred.

“Yes,” Kunimitsu answered, hearing his own voice husky and breathless. “Yes.”

Keigo smiled, slow and heated, and drew his hand away, lingering, caressing. It moved to the base of Kunimitsu’s spine, rubbing gently, loosening the tension there.

“Ready?” Keigo whispered.

Kunimitsu nodded, eyes holding Keigo’s burning gaze. That gaze held him, steadied him, as Keigo pressed insistently against his entrance.

“Now it’s your turn to relax for me, Kunimitsu,” Keigo said, softly, hand soothing against his back.

Kunimitsu knew this would be difficult, and probably painful, if he couldn’t relax. He rested his mind against the intent of Keigo’s eyes; it would be all right. He pulled in a deep breath, and when he let it out he let all the tension, even that of pleasure, flow from him. And while he was suspended in that liquid moment, Keigo sank into him, opening, stretching, a long, smooth motion until Kunimitsu’s muscles clenched against the intrusion and Keigo halted, a gasp wringing from him. Another breath and he was all the way in, and immediately drawing back a little and rocking home again.

The stretch burned a bit, but the movement soothed it, warmed it, and the slick glide back and forth pressed hard against the place Keigo’s fingers had teased and caressed. Tiny showers of sparks cascaded down his nerves, and pulled a long, low moan in their wake. Keigo’s thrusts started to lengthen, deepen, and his hand moved from Kunimitsu’s back to reach between his legs, clasp around him. Fire trailed after Keigo’s fingers, wrapped around Kunimitsu, flaring with the rhythm of Keigo driving into him.

And Kunimitsu finally let go all the way, not thinking, not anticipating, not worrying. He abandoned himself to the pleasure of Keigo’s touch, so hard, so gentle, arching into it. They moved together, finding a pace that flowed, faster and faster, like running downhill. Running until they didn’t touch the ground, gasping for breath, almost flying with the speed, the sensation, the electric, singing tension building under Keigo’s hands on him, the burning, sleek movement of Keigo so deep inside him, opening him out, out, until the tension snapped like current grounding and he lost himself in the shuddering tide of heat.

When he had recovered himself enough to open his eyes again he saw Keigo, propped on one elbow beside him, regarding him with an expression of great smugness.

“Enjoy yourself?” Keigo purred, spreading a hand over Kunimitsu’s chest.

“It’s a good thing I already knew you don’t have any modesty at all,” Kunimitsu observed, dryly. Keigo arched an arrogant brow.

“What could I possibly have to be modest about?” he asked.

Kunimitsu didn’t trouble to answer. There was no reasoning with Keigo in a mischievous mood. Instead he nudged Keigo’s arm out from under him and pulled his lover down into his arms.

“Yes, I did enjoy myself,” he murmured before Keigo could express his indignation.

“Hmph,” Keigo snorted, but stretched against him, pacified, and carded his fingers through Kunimitsu’s hair.

They lay in the fading afternoon, exchanging slow kisses, and Kunimitsu decided he could let the thinking and worrying that Keigo had taken from him wait a while longer yet.

End

A/N: This story is titled after a Linda Ronstadt album I was listening to while writing it. My Atobe seemed very fond of it; it was the first time I’d ever heard this muse fanboy over anything. The lyrics quoted are from the second to last song on that album, “The Women ‘Cross The River”. The Frogs is a play by Aristophanes, poking fun at the strictures of the stodgy old school of art in the person of Euripides, as always.

Last Modified: Feb 08, 12
Posted: May 08, 04
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Challenge – Chapter One

Niou enters junior high and encounters a wonderful new game. Drama, I-3

Pairing(s): Yagyuu/Niou

Niou Masaharu liked seeing people disconcerted. The expression itself amused him, and the knowledge that he had been the one to put it on somebody’s face gave him a nice, warm glow of accomplishment. And, while he liked playing with people who appreciated his art and style, in order to get the full effect it was best to target the straightlaced and serious.

Thus, after spending a month or so observing his fellow first years it was as natural as sunrise that he should choose Yagyuu Hiroshi as his first major target.

Yagyuu was prim and proper, respectful and reserved. His appearance and his work were uniformly precise and neat. He spoke to everyone, from the teachers to his study partners to the girls who made eyes at him, in exactly the right fashion and degree for a good student with little interest in entanglements, either friendly or romantic.

He was ideal.

Masaharu had indulged in a little petty theft with every expectation of a handsome return on his effort. The contrast would be especially piquant, when that still face broke into an expression of shock, and possibly even turned red. It was a shame he couldn’t get rid of the glasses, in order to get the full effect of the eyes widening, but perfection was rare. Masaharu accepted this, while taking pleasure in coming as close as possible. This one should be fairly close, albeit on a small scale.

He was, therefore, very surprised when Yagyuu, upon discovering what had been substituted for one of his books, merely flipped through a few pages of extremely explicit erotic postcards before tucking them back into his bag without so much as a raised brow. Masaharu was still trying to assimilate this when Yagyuu paced over to his desk.

“Niou-kun, if it isn’t too much trouble, might I ask for the return of my dictionary?” Yagyuu asked, quite calmly.

When Masaharu actually processed the request, and the fact that Yagyuu seemed to have no intention of returning the postcards, he broke into a grin of utter delight. He produced the dictionary with a slight flourish.

“Why, of course, Yagyuu. You only had to ask.” How wonderful. He did love a good challenge.

Yagyuu’s resigned sigh as he accepted the book made Masaharu wonder for a second whether he had said that last out loud. But no. If Yagyuu had figured out who was responsible for the little trick so quickly, he likely knew just by Masaharu’s expression what he’d let himself in for.

Masaharu whistled through the halls for the rest of the day.

Yagyuu surprised him again by inviting Masaharu to play a set with him after the tennis club’s afternoon practice was done. He was not particularly surprised when Yagyuu won handily. Masaharu had already tagged Yagyuu as one of the strongest players in their year, short of The Miraculous Three. In another year, Yagyuu’s speed ball would probably be unbelievable.

So Masaharu wondered, as they packed up, what the point of this game had been. Did Yagyuu not have his measure already? Given his obviously sharp observational skills that seemed unlikely. On the other hand, Masaharu knew that plenty of people were taken in by his rough and casual attitude. But this one was obviously no stranger to deceptive fronts, himself, if the go-round with the pictures was any indication. It was a puzzle.

Masaharu liked puzzles, too.

As they started off their respective ways, Yagyuu looked at him, glasses flashing and concealing whatever expression might be behind them.

“It pays to attend to the important things, Niou-kun,” he said, in the tone of someone quoting an aphorism in Literature class. And then he was gone.

Masaharu’s eyes narrowed as he looked after his classmate. So. If he wasn’t mistaken, the point of the game had actually been to suggest that, not only was Yagyuu a better player, but that he was better because he did not indulge in unimportant things. Like, say, tricks and provocations.

Well then. Masaharu felt his lips curving in the smile that made even his friends nervous. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one who liked a challenge?


Very brief experiment confirmed that Masaharu was unlikely to catch Yagyuu up on the tennis court. Not, at any rate, by conventional means. Yagyuu just had that extra edge of technique. So Masaharu settled down to observe and analyze, looking for other means. And if no one else knew what to make of the brilliant grins he occasionally couldn’t help bestowing on Yagyuu, that was fine with him. This one would last him for months, possibly even years.

That was the part that no one seemed to understand. Yes, Masaharu loved his tricks just for the waves they caused. But the deception or manipulation itself was only the tail end of the thing. The real heart of it was understanding; the trick was simply the proof that he had understood correctly. And, of course, stirring people up made for even more opportunities to observe and understand. It was Masaharu’s own awareness of how central understanding was that allowed him to turn it around—to conceal himself while indulging his taste for unsettling people. Most of the time it was lamentably easy.

Yagyuu Hiroshi was not easy to understand. Nor was he easy to unsettle.

Masaharu thought he just might be in love.

So, he checked off on his mental list, sex didn’t so much as make Yagyuu blush. Encouraging his admirers, which Masaharu spent a week doing to great effect, didn’t discommode him in the least. He was unfailingly polite to the most shrilly besotted girls. Masaharu added “inhuman patience” to his list of Yagyuu’s defenses.

After some consideration, and some more covert practice to pull it off, he played a set against Yagyuu while imitating his style and moves. That disturbed just about anyone, at least for a while. Yagyuu merely increased the power of his shots until his last speed ball blew the racquet out of Masaharu’s hands. Irritated, perhaps, but not disturbed. Oh well. The exercise wasn’t without a productive aspect; Yagyuu’s moves were a nice addition to Masaharu’s repertoire.

Indeed, he had occasion to use it within the week. Toshiyuki had it coming. Really, Masaharu considered it his duty to the club to keep that kind from getting too far above themselves. So, after spending the match hammering him with one drive after another, just as Toshiyuki was starting to get his stance right to return them, Masaharu gave him a curving slice instead. Wavering, attempting to shift his balance fast enough to return it, Toshiyuki stepped right on the stray ball Masaharu had spent half a game maneuvering him in front of.

Such a shame that the first years were so much laxer about collecting balls for each other than they were for the second and third years.

Toshiyuki went down hard and lay, wheezing. Masaharu sauntered to the net and propped himself on one of the posts.

“Are you all right?” he inquired, light and mocking.

Toshiyuki wheezed some more, and Masaharu watched with great satisfaction as he tottered over to the benches. Now, maybe, he’d shut up about what a great all around player he was going to be.

“Such an extreme measure was unnecessary, Niou-kun,” Yagyuu’s level voice said behind him. Masaharu tossed a look over his shoulder, and noted that Yagyuu’s mouth was actually a little tight. Interesting.

“I only do things like that to people who really annoy me,” he returned with a thin, lazy smile. Yagyuu’s brow arched.

“Really?” he asked, all polite skepticism.

“Some people annoy me just by breathing,” Masaharu admitted. He stretched, vastly pleased. Not only had the matter with Toshiyuki worked out precisely, but for some reason it had bothered Yagyuu.

Now, the question was, why?

Because Masaharu had used one of Yagyuu’s moves to do it? It seemed unlikely, since it hadn’t bothered Yagyuu when Masaharu had used them against him. But perhaps he didn’t want anyone thinking that he had actually shown that move to Masaharu, that he had participated in any way in a trick like this.

Perhaps because it was a teammate? But Yagyuu had watched him pull things just as vicious on classmates and never blinked. Masaharu spent a happy moment recalling the rather lurid love confession to the teacher that he had inserted into the English homework Hidenori was called upon to read aloud. It would never have worked if Hidenori had been good enough in English to actually think about the content of what he was reading, but knowing that he wasn’t was, after all, exactly why Masaharu had chosen that tactic. Did Yagyuu feel more protective of the tennis club than general schoolmates? Was that, perhaps, the reason he was so courteously distant toward them all, because otherwise he would care too much?

Masaharu was positive that Yagyuu’s smooth front hid some kind of passion behind it. No one played tennis the way he did without passion.

When Masaharu knew what kind, then he would have the key to unsettle The Unflappable One.


They were all playing doubles, and Masaharu was getting bored. It was all Yukimura’s fault. He had mentioned to the captain that, while the Regulars were well supplied with excellent singles players, their best doubles pair would be retiring soon, and wouldn’t it be a good idea to find out who could be promoted to fill that space? And, before you could blink, here they all were, with a rotation drawn up to see who might play well with whom. Because when Yukimura spoke like that, all quiet and reasonable and commanding, everyone did what he said, including the captain, who, Masaharu couldn’t help noticing, seemed a little afraid of Yukimura.

Masaharu spared a sneer, before hitting a surprise drive to set his current partner up with a nice, smashable lob. Surely, even Akashi couldn’t miss that one.

Most of his partners were incompetent, and the others were boring. The only one Masaharu had enjoyed his game with was Jackal, because, after a very brief shake-down, he had settled at the baseline and prevented the other side from scoring and let Masaharu toy with their opponents to his heart’s content. But he’d only gotten to play with Jackal twice so far.

It was times like this that he wished Yukimura wasn’t so damn easy-going most of the time. Any trick that didn’t involve tennis would roll right off that sunny charm he used to wind the club around his finger, and any trick that did involve tennis was right out of the question. If he tried it, Yukimura would probably have the nerve to give him instructions for improvement, after he finished mopping the court with Masaharu.

Never even mind that, if he did attempt to put something over on Yukimura, Sanada, who had no sense of humor Masaharu could detect, would skin him. Possibly for the purpose of making Yukimura a new pair of house slippers. Sanada was that kind of bloody minded, iron bastard, and anyone with eyes could see that he had a mother-hen complex over Yukimura. It went strangely with his hot temper, not to mention Yukimura’s greater skill, but Masaharu figured that was probably half the point—Yukimura could harness Sanada’s temper.

No, he decided, there was no hope for it. They were all stuck doing whatever Yukimura wanted. He aimed his last shot at his opponent’s toe, which at least elicited a nice yowl, and sulked.

Well, at least he was in good time to watch Yagyuu play his next match.

Yagyuu playing doubles was a curious thing, to Masaharu’s eye. After a couple weeks of doubles work, Yagyuu was getting a reputation as a frightening observer and analyst, because he tended to call aloud advice and directions to his partners regarding how to respond to the other pair. He wasn’t up to Yanagi’s level, but Masaharu would admit he did keep an impressive eye on his opponents.

The strange part was that he never seemed to so much as glance at his partner. Even if he was at the net, he seemed to know, without looking, where his partner was and what he was doing. He never said anything about that, which might explain why no one else had noticed yet; he just acted on the knowledge. Masaharu was fascinated.

Yagyuu’s matches tended to go pretty quickly, since it was still first-years playing first-years.

The second-year keeping an eye on them apparently agreed, since he looked at his roster, shrugged, and flipped to the next day’s page.

“Next!” he called. “Yagami-Ishida pair against Yagyuu-Niou pair!”

Masaharu blinked, and then smiled like a fox. His birthday present was here seven whole months early.

Yagyuu turned to look him up and down before shrugging minimally. “Perhaps you would be best suited to a forward position, Niou-kun?” he offered.

“Ever the gentleman,” Masaharu laughed, moving up.

As the focus of the match descended on them, though, he stopped laughing. His eyes widened and his teeth set. It had nothing to do with his opponents, though they weren’t too shabby a pair, and everything to do with what was standing behind him. Facing Yagyuu across the net he had noticed the intensity of Yagyuu’s game, the flare of focus and passion pressed under the smooth glass of Yagyuu’s manners and restraint. Playing on the same side as him was like standing next to a lightning strike. A charged, ringing atmosphere enfolded him. He could feel Yagyuu’s presence in it, like a weight. When he slid aside, before Yagyuu even called it, to let a drive sizzle past, ending the first game, Masaharu shot a pleased look over his shoulder and got an edged smile in return. Whatever Yagyuu did to keep track of his partners, it made him less careful of his distant front.

Masaharu was absolutely exhilarated. He knew he was showing himself more clearly than usual, too, and couldn’t quite bring himself to care.

They swept away the other pair in a whirlwind, and the second-year watching goggled a little until Masaharu gave him a sharp grin. Then he twitched.

“Winners, Yagyuu-Niou pair, 6-0,” he announced a bit blankly.

Masaharu was laughing again, under his breath, as he and Yagyuu walked off the court. He was positive, now, that he was playing with fire by seeking to unsettle Yagyuu.

So much the better.

“See you later, Yagyuu,” he murmured as they packed up. “Maybe we can play together again, some time.”

TBC

Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
Posted: Jun 16, 04
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Challenge – Chapter Two

Niou and Yagyuu become a doubles pair, and the game continues. Drama, I-3

True to Masaharu’s prediction, or perhaps it had been a threat, he and Yagyuu played together more and more frequently over the next weeks. They, and the other two Masaharu had noticed as the best among the first years, always excepting the Glorious Three, worked their way through the ranks of the second years’ various doubles pairs undefeated. Masaharu was finally enjoying himself, even if their opponent pairs still weren’t much of a challenge. Only the remaining Regular pair could even take them two out of three.

The fourth of their little party, Marui, preened amusingly about that.

They learned fairly quickly that it was best to keep the styles mixed. Yagyuu with Jackal had excellent communication, and immense power, but a vital spark was missing. Masaharu added this to his list of Yagyuu-notes, that Yagyuu’s aggression on the court didn’t show equally with every partner. Masaharu and Marui spent more time in competition with each other than with their opponents. As long as they kept it mixed up, though, they walked right over just about everyone.

They didn’t get really slaughtered until the Munificent Three decided to get in on the action. Masaharu wasn’t the only one who was surprised that they could sweep the court in doubles almost as thoroughly as they did in singles.

Since winning was clearly out of the question, Masaharu concentrated on losing by a reasonable margin, and took the opportunity to observe their various combinations.

Sanada played baseline for Yukimura; no surprises there. In something of the same fashion, Yanagi played cautious to Sanada’s aggressive, making no effort to contain Sanada but clearly understanding him well enough to pick up any openings. The combination that really dazzled Masaharu, though, was Yanagi and Yukimura, because the speed and flexibility of their play was astonishing. By now everyone was getting used to the supernatural accuracy of Yanagi’s data, and it applied well to doubles. But this was the first time Masaharu had seen Yukimura play doubles, and it was clear he had that same instinct for his partners that Yagyuu did. He never looked; he always knew.

Masaharu couldn’t help but grin, even though that match left him flat on his back. Maybe, if he could find the key, if he could really understand Yagyuu, the two of them could play like that.

After an exceedingly brief consultation with the new captain, Yukimura called their little gang of four over.

“We have one seasoned doubles pair who will be playing as Regulars for the upcoming year,” he told them. “It would be difficult to choose a single pair from the four of you to take the second doubles slot, and since you work smoothly as a unit, we aren’t going to. I would like to select the pair best suited to a given school, as we play next year, shifting as necessary. Will that be acceptable to all of you?”

Masaharu opened his mouth to ask a pointed question about why it was Yukimura making all these decisions and announcing them, and not the captain standing, silent and uncomfortable, behind the Trinity. He closed it again, with a smooth look, at Sanada’s burning glare.

“Quite acceptable, Yukimura-kun,” Yagyuu answered, coolly. Jackal nodded. Marui eyed Masaharu.

“It is extremely unlikely that the Niou-Marui pair will be called for,” Yanagi murmured. Masaharu wondered if he was the only one who heard the sardonic edge. Marui merely blew a bubble of gum and shrugged.

“Sounds fine to me,” he said, though Masaharu was fairly sure he was a bit annoyed not to be playing singles. Well, Marui could play singles with him, and that would keep their self-proclaimed genius busy. For himself, Masaharu waved a hand toward Yagyuu.

“What he said.”

Yukimura looked at him, head tipped to one side, for a long moment before he nodded. Masaharu had the unnerving, and unusual, sensation that Yukimura knew about the competition of wills and ingenuity between Masaharu and Yagyuu. And had chosen to permit it.

Honestly, he was starting to wonder why they hadn’t just made Yukimura captain this year and had done with it.


Their faculty advisor was the only stumbling block to the plan.

“This is… irregular, Yukimura-kun,” the man said, disapproval dripping from his voice. All four of the doubles crew looked back at him with equal disfavor.

Yukimura smiled.

“Perhaps,” he allowed, “but it will ensure the best possible performance of the Rikkai team.”

“I am not as sure of that.”

Masaharu stopped paying attention to the blowhard and started paying attention to Yagyuu. He was standing close enough for Masaharu to feel the tension slowly winding up that straight, poised frame. It was noticeable enough for Masaharu to wonder whether it was all because of the insult to their abilities, or if there was some other element.

“There is a proper way of doing things, Yukimura-kun, and this is not the way our team does things,” the advisor concluded.

Afterward, Masaharu always remembered that as the moment they all found out what it meant to have Yukimura as their captain, even if he didn’t have the title yet.

Yukimura’s eyes narrowed and glinted, the smile fading as his mouth hardened.

“You may continue to think that, if you wish to be remembered as the one responsible for Rikkai’s loss at Nationals this coming year,” he stated, and the husky voice was chill and precise as a surgical scalpel. “I do not think you wish that, though. You will understand, therefore, that I will lead this team to victory. And you will not interfere.”

Masaharu felt his jaw dropping, and noticed, distantly, that he wasn’t alone. Even he didn’t talk to the teachers like that. Yukimura’s forms were perfectly courteous… except that he was definitely giving orders. And whatever resistance the advisor might have been able to muster in face of that cold, diamond sharp surety folded when Sanada stepped to Yukimura’s shoulder and added his own, much less subtle, glare to Yukimura’s.

As the advisor hemmed and hawed and retreated, Yagyuu let out a breath that caught Masaharu’s attention again. All the febrile tension had drained out of him, and he was looking at Yukimura. For the nth time, Masaharu damned the glasses that concealed half the nuances of Yagyuu’s expression, but the line of his mouth was suddenly uncertain, almost trembling.

Yukimura turned back to them.

“Please don’t be concerned. The reservations of outsiders will not affect you, and after a few wins I expect even those will fade.” His voice was gentle again, to match the warmth of the look he always gave the team.

Yagyuu bowed slightly. “We will not fail, Yukimura-san,” he stated, quiet but definite.

It was only by a great effort of will that Masaharu kept from gaping again. Yagyuu was always proper, of course, but proper was not the same as respectful. What he had just heard, for the first time, Masaharu realized, was respect. Yukimura was, of course, adept at bending people to his hand; Masaharu had watched him do it all season. But he’d never expected Yagyuu to succumb. Not the reserved, self-sufficient, distant Yagyuu Hiroshi.

So why now?

He chewed over the question as they returned to practice, and every interaction between Yagyuu and Yukimura added to his bemusement. Yagyuu wasn’t fawning, the way a lot of the less talented players did; he wasn’t treating Yukimura like some kind of avatar. He was simply attentive and respectful and…

…at ease.

Masaharu was so boggled he missed a swing and Marui snapped at him. Masaharu swiped the bubble out of Marui’s mouth with the next ball and went back to pondering.

At ease, as if some defensive tightness had loosened. Masaharu considered that thought. Defensive? Certainly, Yukimura had defended them, and quite sharply, too. Was Yagyuu reacting to that? But why would he feel he needed defense against a teacher, for crying out loud? All the teachers thought he was perfect.

Of course, the thought came to him, the opinion was not mutual. Now that he had something to compare it to, he could see the pattern of contempt in the way Yagyuu dealt with the teachers. Hostility, even, albeit muffled under those perfectly correct manners. A grin spread over Masaharu’s face as he contemplated it.

Yagyuu, the Perfect Gentleman, the apple of the administrative eye, had a problem with authority.

Masaharu chuckled out loud, earning a wary look from Marui. He loved irony almost as much as he loved a challenge, and this one was magnificent. He wondered what had happened to set Yagyuu so against order-giving adults, and to cause him to conceal his dislike so strenuously. No surprise that Yukimura had captured his allegiance, after defending them from one of the enemy so vigorously.

Now, now Masaharu thought he had the key.

TBC

Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
Posted: Jun 16, 04
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Challenge – Chapter Three

Stress in school gives Niou the break in the game he’s been looking for. Drama, I-4

Masaharu was glad he waited for the right moment to turn his new key, though, because very shortly the entire school was enveloped in upset. If he hadn’t been inconvenienced by it, he would have basked in it. As was, there were a few annoyances countervailing his amusement and he considered the whole thing a break-even proposition.

Marui took exception more vigorously.

“Curriculum review!” he snarled, hitting his ball to balance on the net and then kicking the net to dislodge it. “One stupid administrator steps on his dick, and suddenly the entire school has tests piled up past our eyes. Why are the students suffering for this?”

“It’s the nature of the beast,” Yagyuu pointed out. “The provost embarrassed someone senior to him in the administration of our schools. His senior is, in turn, embarrassing the provost in as all-encompassing a manner as he can manage. We’re simply the medium of his revenge. The fitness tests would,” he added, less evenly than usual, “be a reasonable and even admirable step, if our preparedness was really in any question.”

Noting the teeth behind that statement, Masaharu placed odds with himself that whatever had happened to Yagyuu was the same shape as what was happening now. Had he played the part of the provost? Or just been caught in the wheels that time, too?

“In any case,” Jackal put in, “it’s probably a good idea to brush up on any weak subjects. We don’t want this affecting our team standing.”

Masaharu grunted, and cocked an eye at Yagyuu. They were class-mates, after all, and the help closest to hand.

“Social Studies for Science?” he offered.

“Reasonable,” Yagyuu approved after a moment. Masaharu did like it, that Yagyuu never backed down from any potential challenge or trap.

“You know, it’s a little scary when you two do that,” Marui told them. At two sets of raised brows he elaborated. “There’s probably a paragraph or two of explanation that you didn’t bother with, because you both already knew what you meant. Doubles Syndrome usually takes a little longer to set in, you know? You two are made for it. Lucky break, for you, there was such a push for doubles this year, or you might never have known.”

Masaharu threw back his head and laughed; he couldn’t help it. “Yes, it would undoubtedly have taken longer, otherwise,” he said, with a sly look at Yagyuu. “Fortuitous coincidence, that.”

“Fortuitous?” Yagyuu raised a brow at him. “Really?”

Masaharu grinned, pleased. He also liked Yagyuu’s subtlety. Their two doubles-mates would probably take it for genteel teasing, suggesting that Masaharu had sought Yagyuu out. Which was true enough. But, to Masaharu, it was another barb of challenge, asking whether he thought he could actually one-up his own doubles partner.

“Fortuitous,” he confirmed. “It brought so many important things to light.”

He had the distinct impression that Yagyuu’s eyes had narrowed. He gave back a limpid look, telling his target that, yes, he had discovered things Yagyuu would consider important that were not tennis. Important things had been the terms of the challenge, after all.

And it only made the challenge brighter, for Yagyuu to know he was coming.


It was a busy winter, while the entire school studied madly for totally superfluous tests. Masaharu supposed the third-years probably didn’t notice the difference, but everyone else, including all the teachers, were thrown into a flurry. He observed the tiny, subtle signs of tension under Yagyuu’s customary coolness whenever a teacher tipped over the edge of hysteria in class. He experimented with little tricks to focus the fuss on himself rather than on the “good students” the teachers increasingly relied on to keep control of the disgruntled student body and get everyone ready. Little things, like switching the rats for the final behavioral lab and seeing how long it took everyone to notice, so as not to actually trigger a complete breakdown. Well, not in anyone but Hikashi-sensei, who had really had it coming. And, when the focus shifted, he watched the tiny lines at the corners of Yagyuu’s mouth, and between his brows, fade to smoothness again, and smiled, and planned.

Mad flurry was not, they all learned, considered sufficient cause to slack off of tennis practice. Not by Yukimura, at any rate, and his steel determination dragged everyone else in his wake. The Regular members became a team of units: the doubles pair, the doubles team, the Mad Three. And the captain, almost an afterthought at times. It was only natural that they should fall into study groups along the same lines.

Masaharu and Yagyuu, as agreed, traded assistance, Masaharu tutoring in Social Studies and Yagyuu in Science.

With three weeks to go before the tests, Masaharu decided the time was right. Yagyuu should be stressed enough to crack, but not quite enough to seriously break Masaharu in turn.

“You know,” he remarked, balling up a successfully completed sheet of study questions and batting it into the air, “you should consider teaching as a career, if you don’t want to go pro.” He watched Yagyuu’s shoulders stiffen.

“Really?”

“Well you’re sure a lot better at teaching this than Hikashi-sensei,” Masaharu said. Then he offered a lazy smile to his study partner. “But being a teacher wouldn’t give you enough protection, would it?”

Yagyuu’s pencil stilled.

“I have to congratulate you on your camouflage, Yagyuu,” Masaharu continued, casually. “I don’t think a single one of them has figured out how nervous they make you. Or how much you’d like to rip their hearts out for that.” He stood and stretched, body welcoming the movement after over an hour of inactivity. “Gotta say, though, I like my way better. It’s more fun to make them nervous.”

Yagyuu’s head lifted, slowly, to look at him straight on. “Lack of control is your forte, Niou-kun, not mine,” he said, dead level.

“True, in a way,” Masaharu agreed, softly, “but it could be.” He prowled around the end of the low table, and Yagyuu watched him come without so much as a twitch. “How often do you want to just let go, Yagyuu?” he murmured. “How often do you want to let the teeth show and watch them flinch back? How often do you want to hammer all of your opponents into the dirt, not just the ones across a tennis net? How often do you want to laugh after you’ve done it?”

Yagyuu could hardly be breathing, he was so still. Masaharu knelt over Yagyuu’s folded legs, and delicately plucked off those frustrating glasses. Yagyuu’s eyes were narrow, ice-colored, glinting with danger. Masaharu smiled, entranced.

“I know how much you want to,” he breathed. “I can see it.”

That assertion was the last straw, as he’d half expected it would be to someone who put so much effort into such a smooth, grippless front. There was a blurred moment of motion, and then Masaharu’s back hit the floor, violently enough to drive the air from his lungs. The hand holding the glasses was pinned, hard, to the floor beside him, and Yagyuu’s other hand was on his shoulder, thumb curled rather tightly over his throat.

“Do you really know?” Yagyuu asked, low and harsh. “Do you really want to?”

Rage blazed in Yagyuu’s pale eyes, and his expression, for once, was raw and open. Sharp, sweet thrill swept through Masaharu to see that unleashed passion, the thrill for which he had played this game. He had touched this actinic blaze in the calm Yagyuu; he had found the way to call it out. Oh, yes, he wanted to see this more often.

To do that, though, the first step was to keep Yagyuu from doing him serious bodily harm. So Masaharu did the last thing Yagyuu probably expected at this point. He relaxed under Yagyuu’s hold, let his head drop back on the floor, baring his throat, lowered his lashes over his eyes.

He had known from the start that Yagyuu liked a challenge as much as he did; the corollary was, often, that Yagyuu would not pursue an opponent who offered no resistance.

His faith in his own ability to understand another person was once again vindicated, as Yagyuu’s grip gradually loosened, and his weight left Masaharu. When Masaharu opened his eyes, meeting Yagyuu’s gaze was still rather like standing in the way of a laser, so he lay still for another few moments just to be on the safe side. He sat up, slowly, when Yagyuu made no further move, and offered back the glasses with a slight quirk of his mouth. He was pleased, though a bit surprised, when Yagyuu simply held them. Squinting at the lenses to try and tell their strength, Masaharu decided he must be close enough to be in focus.

Yagyuu was eyeing him like a tiger trying to decide whether some sharp-clawed creature would be more trouble than lunch was worth. Masaharu gave him a brilliant, wolverine’s smile, and he snorted.

“What,” Yagyuu enunciated, precisely, “was that in service of?”

“Why, my partner’s sanity and well being, of course,” Masaharu said, easily.

The ice-flash glare narrowed again.

“And my own entertainment,” Masaharu admitted. “Did you know that you’re magnificent when you drop that bland mask of yours?”

Yagyuu blinked.

“Beautiful like lightning,” Masaharu murmured, hearing his own voice go just a bit dreamy and not really caring. The exaltation of being amidst or around that kind of powerful, unruly, brilliant violence was something he treasured. He found it so rarely, and the chaos sparked by his little deceptions was really nothing to it. “You should do it more often,” he concluded.

Yagyuu made a scoffing noise and turned, abruptly, away.

“What did happen?” Masaharu asked, quietly. Yagyuu’s spine straightened with a nearly audible snap. “The better I know what it was,” Masaharu pointed out, “the better I can turn it aside from you.”

If the wolverine had suddenly asserted it was a butterfly, the tiger might have given it a similar look to the one Yagyuu was now giving Masaharu.

“And the better I can turn it aside,” Masaharu continued, reasonably, “the more often you’re likely to let go. It works out for everyone. Well,” he added, thoughtfully, “perhaps not our opponents, so much. But that’s their problem.”

Yagyuu had several gradations of socially polite smiles, but this was the first time Masaharu had seen one so clearly rooted in suppressed laughter. Yagyuu toyed with his glasses, for a few moments, looking pensive. Masaharu thought he might be considering the case of Hikashi-sensei, who would not be teaching again for a while after Masaharu had arranged for a good deal of extra caffeine to find its way into the man’s morning coffee and then switched the colors on all his notes and tabs. Just the colors. The resulting cognitive dissonance had produced a very nice little breakdown. No matter how wound up the man was getting, Hikashi-sensei should never have tried to make an example of Masaharu’s failures of scientific knowledge, especially when Masaharu had already been in a foul temper from losing three sets in a row to Yanagi. Totally aside from Masaharu’s personal satisfaction, the incident probably made for good credentials right now.

“It was a science teacher, actually,” Yagyuu said at last. Ah, irony struck again. Masaharu congratulated himself on the accuracy of his instincts; perhaps Yagyuu was rubbing off on him. “I showed, a little too clearly, that I was better at the material than he would probably ever be. He took exception.”

There was another stretch of silence, which Masaharu refrained from breaking.

“I spent the rest of the year pulling ridiculous punishments for the slightest infraction, and rapidly became a pariah among the students. None of them wanted anything to splash on them. I can’t,” Yagyuu said, thinly, “quite blame them.”

“Thus the Perfect Boy front,” Masaharu murmured, chin in one hand. Yagyuu inclined his head. Masaharu considered for a long moment before he decided not to bother asking whether Yagyuu had been one of those students who liked his teachers and was liked by them, previous to this rude awakening. He was fairly sure it was true; only betrayal would drive the fury he’d seen in Yagyuu’s eyes. He leaned forward and touched Yagyuu’s chin, ever so lightly, with his fingertips, to make his partner look around.

“It won’t happen again,” he stated. “If you’ll let me.”

“Let you what is the question,” Yagyuu noted, but amusement flickered in those clear, cutting eyes. “It could be interesting, I suppose.”

“Eminently,” Masaharu agreed, compressing his exhilaration at all the wonderful, new possibilities into a gleaming grin.

TBC

Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
Posted: Jun 16, 04
Name (optional):
Queen_Amunet, order_of_chaos and 12 other readers sent Plaudits.

Challenge – Chapter Four

Niou and Yagyuu settle into their partnership. Drama, I-3

It hadn’t taken any time at all to figure out that the months between when the third-years retired and when the school year ended were a time when the clubs could reorder themselves. A time to establish the new pecking order before another crop of first-years arrived, and everyone pecked on them. The tradition was a bit disrupted, this year, but, with the tests past and winter thawing, Masaharu started keeping an eye out. It had occurred to him that some of the very most and very least perceptive among the newly senior second-years might try something with either Jackal or Yagyuu, hoping to establish themselves as superior before the tournaments started and the doubles team’s win record made them untouchable. The mannerly ones were the obvious targets.

Masaharu didn’t know whether he was pleased or disappointed that it only took one incident to warn all like-minded sorts off of Yagyuu.

He had been waiting for it, and was in good time to turn a sharp eye on his partner when Nishio accosted him.

“Just because you’re a quarter of a Regular, don’t think you can give yourself too many airs,” the older student told Yagyuu, with a not very concealed sneer. “There are balls all over D court; clear them off so we can get more practice games going.”

Now that Masaharu knew what he was looking at, it was easy to see the tension in Yagyuu’s straight shoulders, the moment of hesitation and calculation over how much he would uncover himself by resisting. While the calculation was lovely, the hesitation wasn’t at all what Masaharu wanted to see in Yagyuu. No, it just wouldn’t do.

“You want a game, hm?” he asked, strolling past Yagyuu’s shoulder. “That’s good. It means you’re free to play one with me. Aren’t you? Senpai.” He had called people bastards in a warmer tone of voice, and Nishio gaped a bit to hear just how contemptuously Masaharu was addressing him. Masaharu scooped up a couple extra balls and sauntered onto a free court. He only had to wait long enough for Nishio to realize just how many people had heard the exchange. Ah, pride. It was such a wonderful motivator. It backed people into such tiny, little corners.

He served fairly gently, but his first return sang past Nishio’s ear, missing by mere centimeters.

“Damn,” Masaharu commented, mildly, “I guess Yanagi was right when he said I needed to work more on pinpointing. My precision is definitely a little shaky. Glad you were around to help me with this. It’s good to see senpai who take their positions in the club so seriously.” He smiled, slow and cold, as Nishio’s eyes widened.

It was an excellent game, altogether, Masaharu thought. And good practice, too. Yanagi really was right; he clipped Nishio several times when he hadn’t intended to. Though, on reflection, toward the end that might have been because Nishio himself was shaking so hard. Still. He should be able to allow for that kind of thing.

Masaharu moseyed back to Yagyuu, and ran a critical eye over him. Good; the tension was gone. And, while Yagyuu shook his head at Masaharu, there was a tiny quirk to his mouth. Maybe next time Masaharu would be able to convince him to participate.

“You do realize,” Masaharu murmured, “that you can be polite while still smashing them into jelly.”

“I’ll take that under consideration, Niou-kun,” Yagyuu said, coolly.

Masaharu grinned, and saluted his partner with his racquet, before going in search of something inanimate he could use for practice. Moving targets could wait a little, perhaps.

“Niou.”

Slightly to his surprise, Masaharu found himself stopping as if his feet had stuck to the ground. He’d heard Yukimura use his there-is-no-possibility-I-will-not-be-obeyed voice on other people; this was the first time it had been used on him. That absolute surety really did have a remarkable effect, he reflected, turning. Something about the harmonics went straight to the spine.

Yukimura was looking at him measuringly. Masaharu raised his brows.

“Was that entirely necessary?” Yukimura asked. Since he sounded like he wanted a serious answer, Masaharu gave him one.

“Yes.”

A corner of Yukimura’s mouth curled up.

“Succinct,” he noted, before he sighed and laid a hand on Masaharu’s shoulder. “Defend your partner; it’s an admirable motive. And small lessons in caution will be good for everyone. But I will not have members of my club harmed.”

Masaharu thought about the way Yukimura had phrased himself. There were some interesting possibilities embedded.

“And if it takes more than a little lesson to get the point across?” he asked, testing. Yukimura’s eyes narrowed and darkened.

“Then tell me. Our team will win; any member of this club who cannot support that goal wholeheartedly does not belong here.”

Masaharu was lost, for a moment, in admiration of Yukimura’s subtlety. Their vice-captain would not, of course, condone injury to those under his command. Of course, once someone left the club, that prohibition would no longer apply. And then Masaharu could do whatever he felt was called for. And everyone would toe the line when word of that got around. He’d been right earlier in the year; Yukimura did understand him. In fact, he chose, knowingly, to use Masaharu’s games, like Sanada’s temper, to his own ends. Masaharu appreciated that kind of playing with fire.

“Whatever you say,” Masaharu agreed, easily. Yukimura’s expression turned dry as he let Masaharu go.

“Come on,” he directed, “I’ll serve to you for your target practice— make it difficult enough to be worthwhile.”


For several reasons, Masaharu was happy to note that not all the new first-years were inclined to roll over for the older students. Still, he had to wonder about the extent some of them took it to.

“What’s up?” Marui asked, as he and Jackal arrived to find just about the entire club gathered around a single court.

“One of the first-years challenged Yanagi, Sanada and Yukimura, right in a row,” Masaharu told them. “Have to admit, the kid has guts. Not too many brains, maybe, but plenty of guts.”

“He’s still standing?” Jackal asked, sounding intrigued. To date he was one of the few who could manage that feat; Masaharu swore he had extra lungs tucked away somewhere.

“Yes. He’s actually very good,” Yagyuu noted. Yukimura’s return flashed past his challenger’s foot. “Not good enough to win,” Yagyuu added, “but quite skilled.”

“Yanagi drove him absolutely frothing mad,” Masaharu put in, “but the kid actually got one game off Sanada. The iron face unbent enough to look a bit impressed.”

The first-year didn’t quite manage to finish the game standing, instead sprawling full length on the court in a futile effort to return Yukimura’s last serve. That did not seem to stymie him, though, and he raised burning eyes to the victors and spat that he would be the best.

“I think Niou was right about the guts to brains ratio,” Marui commented, punctuating his judgment with a bubble.

“He will be an impressive player, though,” Jackal pointed out.

Masaharu grunted in response, distracted by the flash of red in the first-year’s eyes. That was different. An anger reaction?

“He will be joining us,” Yagyuu predicted, quietly. When the other three turned to him in surprise he nodded toward the court. “Look at Yukimura-san.”

Sure enough, while Yanagi looked contemplative, and Sanada looked saturnine, just as usual, Yukimura had the gleam in his eyes and the faint curve to his mouth that meant he had found something interesting. He stepped over the net, took the newcomer’s wrist and pulled him to his feet.

“Try, then,” he answered the boy’s assertion. “I’ll look forward to it.”

The first-year seemed a bit taken aback by this approval. Or, Masaharu thought, perhaps by becoming the focus of Yukimura’s full attention.

“I believe Yagyuu is right,” Jackal said, thoughtfully. “I only hope Yukimura can keep such a wild player in hand.”

“That,” Masaharu predicted in turn, “will not be a problem.”

Later in the day’s practice, he tracked down Yanagi.

“So, O Master of All Data, who’s the kid?” he asked, slouching against the fence next to their data wizard. Yanagi looked amused.

“I take it Yagyuu noticed Seiichi’s interest?” At Masaharu’s sidelong look he added, “The chance is about eighty-five percent that he will correctly gauge what Seiichi is thinking at any given moment.”

“One of these days,” Masaharu sighed, “I’m going to get used to you doing that.”

“Our challenger is Kirihara Akaya,” Yanagi told him. “He has some impressive experience already. His greatest weakness at present is his temper, as I expect you noticed.” Now it was Yanagi’s turn to shoot Masaharu a sideways look; Masaharu grinned into the distance. “He will be a good addition to the team, if he can gain some control and refine his skills. I estimate the latter will take six months.”

Masaharu made a note of the fact that Yanagi did not hazard a guess how long the former might take.


This year’s round of tournaments had finally started. And Masaharu was bored again.

“Yagyuu-Niou pair, 6-0!”

“When are we going to get a decent challenge?” Masaharu grumbled as they fished out water and ignored their totally unnecessary towels.

“These are only the district preliminaries, Niou-kun,” Yagyuu pointed out. “I doubt there will be much, here. Are you in such a rush to court the possibility of defeat?”

“What?” Masaharu tipped back his head to grin at Yagyuu. “I want to see my partner shine. Where’s the crime in that?”

“Most codes of law would likely consider it to lie in your definition of ‘shine’,” Yagyuu noted, but his tone was light.

“Do I want to know what you two are talking about?” Marui asked, as they watched Sanada tearing through his opponent like a tall, dark bandsaw.

“See? Marui wants to see too,” Masaharu blithely reinterpreted, ignoring the sudden choke that had Marui scraping bubblegum off his nose. “And we do have one more team to play today…” He trailed off, suggestively.

“Hmm.” Yagyuu looked down at him, and Masaharu would have laid odds that his eyes were glinting behind those glasses. “I suppose they are our opponents, after all. Perhaps, a little.”

Marui eyed them both for a long moment before declaring, “I want to be very clear that whatever is about to happen is not my fault in any way.”

Masaharu smiled at him broadly enough to make him edge toward Jackal. “Of course not.”

Masaharu was aware that the bounce in his step as they moved to their next match was drawing attention. He didn’t care in the least. Though he did have a bad moment when Yukimura drew them aside just before they went out. He wasn’t going to stop them, was he?

“Niou, I think it would be a good idea if you let Yagyuu set the pace of this match,” Yukimura suggested. Masaharu gave him a patient look. It was abundantly obvious that their vice-captain was, tactfully, saying he didn’t want them to draw this match out the way Masaharu had been doing in an effort to entertain himself.

“You know, you could just say you don’t want me to play with my food,” he pointed out.

Yukimura laughed. “I’ll remember that,” he promised.

“Is there a particular reason we should take this one quickly, Yukimura-san?” Yagyuu asked.

“This is one of the stronger teams here,” Yukimura told them. “It would be a good thing, both for Rikkai as a whole, and for the doubles team in particular, if you were to make an impression, here.”

Masaharu and Yagyuu looked at each other. Masaharu chuckled. Yagyuu adjusted his glasses.

“Of course,” he murmured.

“Enjoy yourselves,” Yukimura told them, with the sharp smile he wore when he played.

Masaharu could barely hide his glee as he observed the subtle relaxation in his partner, shoulders looser, breath deeper, head higher. The bright, furious sense of Yagyuu’s presence pooled around him, charged the space between them, snapped across the net to lick at their victims. Masaharu shivered, delighting in it.

When Yagyuu let go, the smoothness of his front turned fluid and hot as molten glass, and, even if it burned to touch, Masaharu loved to immerse himself in it.

They took the set, 6-0, in a glorious sweep of speed. And Masaharu almost laughed out loud when Yagyuu congratulated their opponents, quite straight-faced, on a good game.

“What did I tell you?” he asked, as they strolled back to the benches. “Jelly.”

Yagyuu laughed, low in his throat, danger and fury satiated for the moment, leaving him languid until he regathered himself.

“As you say, Niou-kun.”


It was probably a good thing, Masaharu reflected, that Yagyuu had clued the doubles team in about Yukimura’s fascination with Kirihara. Otherwise they might have wondered what on earth their leader was doing spending so much time on a non-Regular now that the tournament season was in full swing. As it was, they quietly made space for him among them. Masaharu, in particular, liked to watch him practicing, especially with The Exalted Three. Admittedly, Kirihara didn’t have Yagyuu’s brilliant purity, when he let go. For Kirihara it was something more shadowed. But Masaharu enjoyed watching it all the same.

He toyed, for a while, with the idea that the kid genuinely was possessed. Whatever it was that happened, when his eyes went red, it both freed his reserves and seemed to detach his brain. Masaharu certainly couldn’t come up with any other explanation for the way Kirihara played such a deliberately dirty game when he was like that, even against Yukimura.

Yukimura, of course, took it all in stride, though he’d had to have a word with Sanada to keep him from pounding Kirihara into a pulp the first time he’d seen it happen. Masaharu sniffed at the memory. As if Yukimura couldn’t do it perfectly well himself, if he thought it needed doing. Though, he glanced at Yagyuu, standing at the fence beside him, he supposed there could be reasons for defending someone stronger.

This afternoon looked like a quicker match than usual. Yukimura was getting used to that sudden change in Kirihara’s level, probably. In fact… Masaharu eyed the return shots Yukimura was making.

“Yagyuu,” he said, on an inquiring note.

“Yes,” his partner agreed, “Yukimura-san is reflecting Kirihara-kun’s body shots, though he returns them just shy of actually striking. He’s provoking him.”

Masaharu whistled. If he’d ever doubted Yukimura had a cold streak, this would have disabused him of the idea. The last ball skipped between Kirihara’s feet, and he stumbled to his knees and stayed there, panting and shaking, probably with anger. Yukimura came around the net, but this time he did not pull Kirihara back up. He knelt down in front of him, grabbed his chin, and forced his head up to meet Yukimura’s eyes.

“You will never defeat me,” Yukimura told him, low and sharp, “unless you can control that strength instead of merely letting it loose. Do you hear me?”

“I…” Kirihara swallowed with some difficulty, green gaze wide and clear, “I hear you, Yukimura-fukubuchou.”

Yukimura nodded, and released him, dropping the towel he had picked up on his way past the benches over Kirihara’s head.

“Remember it.”

As he walked away, Masaharu and Yagyuu shared a look and moved toward the motionless Kirihara.

“You really managed to put your foot in it today, kiddo,” Masaharu observed, mussing Kirihara’s hair through the towel. Kirihara swatted at his hand and emerged with a petulant look. Masaharu shook his head. Half the time, being around Kirihara was like sitting next to a ticking bomb, and the other half it was like having a bratty but cute little brother. Possession really seemed as reasonable an explanation as any other. He hauled Kirihara over to a bench to clear the court.

“Will you listen to what Yukimura-san says?” Yagyuu asked, gently, passing over a water bottle. Kirihara blinked up at him, caught in the middle of drinking.

“Of course,” he said, a little blankly, as if wondering what other course of action there could be. Yagyuu smiled, satisfied, and Masaharu chuckled.

“He’s something else, isn’t he?” he remarked, only a touch ruefully.

The three of them shared slightly sheepish grins before the captain called all the Regulars to gather around.

TBC

Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
Posted: Jun 17, 04
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Challenge – Chapter Five

Niou coaxes Yagyuu into more intimacy; or perhaps it’s the other way around. Drama with Porn, I-3

There were times when Masaharu seriously thought Marui Bunta was going to grow up to be a gossip columnist. He had an apparently insatiable curiosity about other people’s personal lives.

“So, what do you guys think?” Marui asked one day, while the doubles team was cooling down, nodding at The Magnificent Three over by the fence. “Are they hooked up, or what?”

“Marui,” Jackal said, disapprovingly. Masaharu laughed. The usual doubles pairs really had come down to one casual sort and one straightlaced sort each…

“Possibly,” Yagyuu answered, adjusting his glasses.

Jackal’s brows rose, and Masaharu frankly goggled at his partner.

“If so, however, I suspect all three must be involved,” Yagyuu continued, serenely. “Together the three of them have a stability that no two do alone.”

“Kinky,” Marui said, with a bubble for emphasis.

“And here I thought you were completely indifferent,” Masaharu marveled, a bit sardonically. “You never give any of your fanclub the time of day.”

“As opposed to your attempts to corrupt yours into delinquency?” Yagyuu inquired, with a tiny smile. “The shrillness is a bit off-putting. That does not make me blind, nor does it mean I have no appreciation for beauty of body or of heart.”

Masaharu blinked. Marui snickered, and nudged Masaharu in the ribs.

“I told you you shouldn’t have switched the labels on the water and acetone before Yonomi-sensei’s dry-ice demonstration. He’s just getting you back for messing up his favorite class.”

“Yonomi-sensei deserved it,” Masaharu defended himself. He shared a speaking look with his partner. Yes, Masaharu would be more careful not to interrupt experiments that interested Yagyuu. No, Yagyuu wasn’t actually angry. He’d known that already, really. If Yagyuu had gotten angry with him he certainly wouldn’t have shown it by adopting methods so close to Masaharu’s own. Masaharu grinned.

The corruption proceeded apace.


Masaharu and Yagyuu had kept up their winter habit of studying together. It was comfortable and familiar, and it gave Masaharu a chance to keep working on Yagyuu’s self-restraint. His goal was to get Yagyuu to cut off a teacher at the knees. He felt it would be a healthy step forward in his partner’s personal development.

And it would be fun as hell to watch.

He did his best to be a good example, and he was reasonably sure that Yagyuu liked watching him stir things up, but it was still good to have it confirmed. Even if the form of that confirmation was slightly disconcerting.

They were working through a section on the Edo period, and Masaharu was giving his interpretation of Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s foundational policies, which was rather more colorful than the official one.

“Really a brilliant social engineer, and an utterly cold-hearted bastard. Think about the strictures on who can do what. I mean, it looks worst for the peasants, but consider what he did to the samurai with the same move. Effectively, you can have weapons or you can have food, but you can’t have both. Stabilized the economy and contained the warriors with one fell swoop.” Masaharu stretched out a little more comfortably on the floor beside the low table Yagyuu sat at so straight and upright. “Absolutely brilliant bastard; you’ve got to admire a mind like that.”

Yagyuu paused in his note-taking, and tapped the end of his pen against the table. Masaharu tilted a brow; that was what Yagyuu did when he was evaluating some thought or person.

“Niou-kun, you asked me once what had happened to me,” Yagyuu said, thoughtfully. “What was it that happened to you? Not that the results aren’t entertaining to watch, when you rake people over trying to find bits of gold in the gravel. But what gave you such a taste for people of extremes?”

Masaharu blinked, never having heard his proclivities framed quite that way, before. Then he shrugged.

“It’s always been like that. Some people are fascinated by fire; the brilliance, and destructiveness, and beauty. It’s the same for me, only it’s people. Fire is mindless; people have intention and direction. And I can come closer to the burning.”

Yagyuu slowly removed his glasses, and polished them, pale eyes resting on Masaharu.

“Are you saying,” Yagyuu asked, after a long, contemplative pause, “that you’re a metaphorical pyromaniac?” He looked amused.

“Good description,” Masaharu agreed, folding his arms behind his head. Yagyuu regarded him, eyes sharp and curious.

“You know, I’ve wondered, if it was passion you wanted to call out of me, why you never tried seduction.”

Masaharu blinked some more. He’d thought the answer to that was self-evident.

“Because sex didn’t work,” he said. “It was the first thing I tried, and it didn’t unsettle you at all. Could have knocked me over with a feather, at the time,” he admitted, just a bit disgruntled at the memory. Thinking it over, he had to add, “If I thought I could get you to let go all the way, I would in a second.”

“Would you really?” Yagyuu wondered, softly. His gaze was somehow both piercing and distant, and Masaharu heard questions behind the question. Would you really want to and Could you really handle it, among others.

“Oh, yes,” he answered all of them, mouth curling.

“Hm.” Yagyuu replaced his glasses. “So. Do you have an opinion of Tokugawa Ieyasu to add for this section?”

As Masaharu held forth on genealogical slight of hand, he also tucked away some intriguing new ideas for later examination.


The tournament matches started to heat up a little, as they entered Regionals. To keep everyone on their toes, Yukimura colluded with Yanagi to put together a training schedule to make a slave-driver blanch. The only open times were provided solely to include Kirihara.

By now the entire club had a pretty good idea of what next year’s team would look like.

For once Kirihara seemed to be struggling. He appeared to have taken Yukimura’s edict about control to heart, but it was clear that holding back his own rage was both alien to him and draining. Masaharu, personally, considered most of that control a waste of time, but then it wasn’t the dearest desire of his heart to defeat Yukimura at tennis. To each his own.

Sanada approved, though. Masaharu noticed him taking Kirihara aside, while Yanagi and Yukimura were busy playing he and Jackal, to help Kirihara with his footwork. That was the day Masaharu decided Sanada had a soft spot for ambition and drive. Kirihara definitely had those, in spades. It did explain, perhaps, why Sanada accepted Yukimura’s superiority so easily, when he was so taken up with achieving victory over absolutely everyone else.

Draped over a bench, after a grueling marathon of singles matches within the team, Masaharu watched Kirihara and Sanada going at it hammer and tongs, still. They were both nuts. Masaharu loved tennis, and he loved winning, and he deeply loved playing with Yagyuu, but some people just took the whole thing beyond any degree of sanity. Even Jackal was looking worn out after today.

Marui was still standing, but only because he was so pleased with his new shot that it acted on him like a sugar high. Masaharu expected him to crash any second. The day he’d perfected that startling ball that rolled along the net, he’d been bouncing off the walls for the rest of practice.

“Pure genius, that’s what it is!” he’d proclaimed, grinning too hard to even blow bubbles. Jackal had smiled, tolerantly, on his partner’s antics. Kirihara, on the other hand, had snorted.

“Pure showing off,” he’d corrected, only to be jumped on and pummeled by Marui. Masaharu had watched with a smirk; he’d only kept his mouth shut because he knew Kirihara could be counted on to say it first.

Now Marui came to the rest of them after a mere dozen runs through his new move.

“Looks like the little spitfire’s improving,” he said, flopping down and stealing Yagyuu’s towel. Jackal plucked it out of his hand, replacing it with Marui’s own, without a word. Yagyuu accepted his back with a nod.

“Seventeen percent improvement over the last month,” Yanagi specified from where he was fishing his water bottle out of the cooler. “Though I’m not sure he believes it.”

Masaharu had to admit, for someone who was so sure he would make it to the top, the kid did seem prone to crises of confidence. Indeed, when the game finally ended, Kirihara slumped on his bench looking quite glum, head hanging almost to his knees as he caught his breath. The doubles team were having a quick conference of looks to decide who should speak to him first, when Yukimura made the issue moot by going to Kirihara himself.

“You’re doing well,” he said, gently. Kirihara’s look up was a bit wry.

“It doesn’t feel like it,” he admitted. Yukimura smiled down at him and touched his shoulder.

“It’s hard to tell from inside the game, sometimes. So trust my judgment from outside of it. You are making good progress, Akaya.”

Kirihara’s eyes widened before he ducked his head. The doubles team exchanged amused looks. For all that Yukimura was Kirihara’s prime target, or possibly because of it, he seemed especially susceptible to the warmth that Yukimura lavished on his team to go along with his ruthless demands. It was really kind of cute.

Masaharu caught a similar look passing among The Glorious Three. He was particularly interested to note the hint of affection in Sanada’s eyes, and the faint softening of his mouth as he regarded Kirihara and Yukimura.

Well, well. Here he’d thought Sanada would be the jealous sort. He did so love how unpredictable his teammates could be.


Some things about Yagyuu were unpredictable, and then some things weren’t. After turning over the intriguing thoughts one of their study sessions had left him with, Masaharu had decided that he had better choose the setting carefully, to act on his conclusions. Otherwise, Yagyuu’s entirely predictable personal privacy would likely deep six the entire thing.

Long consideration led him to decide on Yagyuu’s room. It was handy, being where more than half their study sessions took place anyway, and he’d observed that Yagyuu tended to be a little less tense inside those walls, as if they took the place of his outermost layer. That should help, too.

Then it was just a matter of waiting for the right opportunity.

He chose two days after they played Seigaku. After Yanagi’s report on Seigaku’s impressive second-year singles player, their captain had taken the Singles Three slot and been soundly trounced by one Tezuka Kunimitsu. Tezuka had apparently caught Sanada’s interest, as he had spent all the next practices working against the team’s strongest singles players to polish his techniques, hoping that they would come up against Seigaku again at Nationals. This, of course, included Yagyuu. Masaharu had noted months ago that Yagyuu relaxed in a very particular way after playing Sanada, possibly because he used more raw strength against Sanada than any other player.

“I take it,” Yagyuu commented, as they dumped their bags by the table, “that it isn’t a review of spectography you have on your mind today, Niou-kun?”

Yagyuu’s intuition was a match for anyone else’s analysis, Masaharu reflected.

“Not in the least,” he admitted, approaching his partner. Yagyuu smiled, and watched him come.

Face to face, Yagyuu was a bit taller; though, Masaharu supposed, if he ever stood like he had a poker where his spine should be, they would likely be the same height. He reached out and, delicately, removed Yagyuu’s glasses. A signal, a symbol, a talisman, but more than anything else an intense desire to see Yagyuu Hiroshi’s eyes.

Those eyes were gleaming like ice in the sun, and Masaharu felt the frisson that came when they played.

“Would you let go all the way, Yagyuu?” he whispered. “If I asked you to?”

One of Yagyuu’s hands wove into Masaharu’s hair, tipped his head back a little.

“Yes, I think so,” his partner answered, softly. He bent his head, and his lips moved over Masaharu’s neck, warm, seeking. Masaharu shivered, leaning against Yagyuu. The touch of his lips moved up, found Masaharu’s mouth, changed.

Yagyuu’s arm locked around Masaharu, pulling his body hard against his partner’s, and Yagyuu’s mouth covered his, pressing, parting, demanding. Masaharu breathed in the weight of Yagyuu’s desire and gave it back as a low moan that Yagyuu wrapped his tongue around. He gave himself over to the crushing strength of Yagyuu’s hold and was held so tightly he barely noticed when Yagyuu lowered him to the bed.

The complete lack of hesitation in his partner’s hands, as they undid clothing washed a wave of clear, brilliant heat through Masaharu. This was what he wanted: to see Yagyuu throw away the restraints he fastened around himself. He stretched, under Yagyuu’s hands, reached up to touch, felt himself pressed down to the bed by the flash of Yagyuu’s eyes.

Yagyuu’s gaze held him in place, and he panted for breath under it, as Yagyuu’s hand closed around his cock, and Masaharu shuddered violently at the gentle stroke of powerful fingers. His partner’s skin slid against his like water against the shore, but he felt as if it was Yagyuu who was solid, and he who was fluid, melted, surging with the pull of his partner’s gravity. Masaharu let himself fall into the hot, flickering pleasure of Yagyuu’s hand on him, and Yagyuu’s kiss set the pace of it, tasting of slow, wet slides. Masaharu’s entire body flexed into it, quickly lost in the sharpness of Yagyuu’s movement, rushing, speeding heat crashing through his veins, wringing him over and over, until it slowed, collapsed into Yagyuu’s hand on him and Yagyuu’s body leaning over his, Yagyuu’s breath drowning his. Lassitude folded around him, warm with the strength of Yagyuu’s touch.

Masaharu smiled, surprised, in a somewhat lightheaded way, that Yagyuu’s passion could emerge without the danger that was its stamp at other times. A little surprised, as well, that it could thrill and please him so deeply without that edge.

Yagyuu stirred against him, and pale eyes, edge softened with satisfaction, examined him. “So?” his partner asked, pleasure and humor in his tone. Masaharu chuckled, a bit hoarsely.

“Any time you want,” he murmured.

“Danger addict,” Yagyuu accused. Masaharu blinked.

“But you’re not,” he objected. As Yagyuu’s brow tilted, he shook his head. “I know when you’re dangerous, Yagyuu. You weren’t dangerous to me just now.”

Yagyuu considered this assertion for a few breaths, and then leaned down to kiss Masaharu long and deep, pressing him down, hard, to the bed, as if to hold him still long enough to breathe him in. Masaharu took the point perfectly well.

“Are you sure?” Yagyuu asked, against Masaharu’s lips.

“What if I want you to consume me, though?” Masaharu shot back. “Like a fire.”

“Danger addict,” Yagyuu said, much more definitely this time.

“You worry too much,” Masaharu grinned. “I won’t ever lose myself in you, Yagyuu.”

TBC

A/N: Check here for one of the most comprehensive accounts of Hideyoshi I’ve found online; very evenhanded.

Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
Posted: Jun 18, 04
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Challenge – Chapter Six

Niou has an idea for a trick. Drama with Peculiar Romance, I-3

Sanada was being a bear.

And a bear with a sore paw, at that. Masaharu was seriously considering doing something to loosen him up a bit. The only thing holding him back was trying to plan how to remain alive afterwards.

Rather to everyone’s surprise, except, possibly, Yanagi’s, and he had warned Sanada, Sanada had lost a game to Hyoutei’s new ace, Atobe Keigo. Sanada was now bound and determined to even the score. If they didn’t come up against Hyoutei at Nationals, Masaharu suspected Sanada would ask for an unofficial match just for his personal satisfaction.

His suggestion that Sanada now had two excellent opponents to play against, and wasn’t that nice, had been met with such a glare he’d sworn he smelled singed hair in its wake.

Yukimura, standing behind Sanada, had raised a hand to cover his grin.

Those two were currently playing, and to Masaharu’s eye it was now Sanada who could use a little extra control. He wasn’t pacing himself well at all. Sure enough, he dropped the last game faster than usual, and Yagyuu, standing next to Masaharu, shook his head.

“That, Niou-kun, is why I will not let you draw me out as often as you would like,” he commented. “One of us must keep a relatively cool head or we will lose in exactly that manner.” Masaharu raised his brows at his partner.

“You think I couldn’t?” he asked, slightly offended. It wasn’t as if he were out of control. Well, not seriously. He caught the glint of a sidelong look from behind Yagyuu’s glasses, and his partner’s mouth curved subtly.

Could you stay cool while you watched me let go?” he asked, softly.

Well, all right, Masaharu admitted, as a pleasant shiver tracked down his spine, that was a point. Still.

“If I really had to,” he answered, seriously.

Yagyuu tipped his head to the side. “I’ll remember that, then,” he said. Masaharu smiled; that sounded… promising.

Sanada tossed his racquet onto the bench in front of them, and his empty hands clenched, convulsively.

“Sanada,” Yukimura said, setting a hand on his arm. His voice was low, close to commanding but also soothing in its very evenness. Masaharu watched Sanada’s fists loosen, and was impressed once again by Yukimura’s fine touch with his team.

“Yukimura,” Sanada started, an apologetic edge to the deep voice. Yukimura’s hand tightened, stopping him.

“You will win,” he said with certainty. Sanada looked down at him, expression lightening, and dipped his head slightly. Yukimura raised his voice again. “Yagyuu, you and Sanada are up next.”

Yagyuu moved forward, fingers trailing ever so lightly over Masaharu’s wrist in passing. Masaharu suppressed his reaction, sternly, but couldn’t hold back a grin. Who would have thought that Yagyuu would be an incorrigible tease? Yukimura came to stand next to Masaharu, and eyed him closely as the next match started. A breath of laughter escaped him.

“So, he finally caught you, did he?” he asked, eyes sparkling.

Masaharu, caught flatfooted, had to grope for an answer for several moments. “I would have said it the other way around,” he managed, at last.

“He’s been after you since late spring,” Yukimura told him, conversationally.

Masaharu blinked. He had? Thinking back over it, though… he had instigated things, yes, but Yagyuu had incited him to do so. Yukimura tugged on the slim tail of hair that Masaharu kept expressly to annoy the daylights out of the uniform sticklers at school.

“Has the Trickster been tricked?” he asked, with a warm smile to take the sting out of the question. “There was a reason Yagyuu accepted you as his primary partner, Niou. You make a good pair. But your partnership won’t last if you underestimate his penchant for misdirection.”

“Mmm,” Masaharu agreed, fighting down a flush.

“Ah, now I’ve embarrassed you,” Yukimura said, sounding penitent. “But the two of you work well together, Niou. I don’t want you to fail; either on the court or off it.”

“We’ll try not to,” Masaharu assured him, relaxing a little as he reminded himself to respect his partner’s depth of sneakiness from now on.

The Perfect Gentleman, he supposed, would, after all, be indirect about getting things he wanted. What mattered was that he wanted Masaharu, and, by extension, the things Masaharu led him on to do. A grin resurfaced.

Knowing that Yagyuu wanted unrestraint would definitely help in future plans.


Masaharu lazed in a pool of autumn sunlight feeling remarkably at peace with the world.

Rikkai had taken Nationals, as per expectation, and Sanada had gotten his chance to even the score with Atobe. Which only meant that now they both had a reason to stalk each other, but that was Sanada’s concern, and he seemed pleased enough.

The third years had retired, and Yukimura Seiichi was finally captain in name as well as fact. As Akaya had brashly, if accurately, put it, “It’s about time!” Relaxed from the tension of the tournament season, the team was consolidating.

And best of all, at least right at this moment, Yagyuu had just taken a great deal of pleasure in running his tongue over every especially sensetive area of Masaharu’s skin. Quite slowly. The net result being that Masaharu was lying in the sun, in a tangle of white cotton sheets, with no desire to move any time in the near future. How Yagyuu mustered the motivation to get up, even for a shower, was really beyond him.

His partner returned, toweling off his hair. Masaharu chuckled to see it so unaccustomedly ruffled, and spiky with moisture.

“What’s amusing you now?” Yagyuu asked.

“Your hair looks better messy,” Masaharu told him.

“You, of course, would think so.”

Some thought was tapping Masaharu’s shoulder. Something having to do with Yagyuu. He found himself recalling past observations or occasions.

…practicing Yagyuu’s particular shots…

…understanding his revulsion of authority…

…accepting that his underhandedness equaled Masaharu’s own…

…noting that their height difference was due to posture…

…drowning in sharp, ice colored eyes, the same color as Masaharu’s…

Masaharu’s grin widened, notch by notch, as the outline of a superb game blossomed in his mind’s eye.

“Niou-kun?” his partner asked, sounding a bit wary. Masaharu looked at him with glowing delight.

“Yagyuu, I have the best idea,” he declared.


The only real sticking point was hair color. Light to dark was easy enough, but the other way around wasn’t, and Yagyuu flatly refused to bleach a single strand. In the end, Masaharu found a yearmate whose brother’s best friend worked with someone who knew something that would do it. Masaharu considered the expense worth it, and swore his fellow student to secrecy on pain of Masaharu’s ingenuity.

“You’re sure this won’t be permanent?” Yagyuu pressed.

“The guy promised the enzyme base, on it’s own, won’t do a thing,” Masaharu explained, patiently. “It requires the reactant, and once the neutralizer is applied, that’s that, nothing else happens.”

Thus it was, a few days later, that Masaharu packed up an exceedingly well-pressed uniform and the non-prescription glasses with reflective coating. Apparently that was a somewhat unusual combination to request, since the optometrist’s assistant had given him a slightly odd look. He and Yagyuu left their houses early and met at the house of the yearmate who had put them in touch with the obliging makeup artist. When they emerged, half an hour later, their grinning fellow waved them on ahead. He had sworn up and down not to come near them all day, lest he give the deception away, in return for which he was permitted, tomorrow, to brag about having been in the know.

Masaharu drew himself up very straight, which made the walk come on its own. He glanced at the figure slouching insouciantly along beside him and compressed a grin into Yagyuu’s faint smile. Yes, he thought this would work. ‘He’ might be a bit tamer than usual, today, but the glint in those narrow eyes would definitely pass for the genuine article. As they walked he dusted off the manners that one teacher after another had tried, with ultimate futility, to get him to use, greeting the occasional classmate with cool courtesy.

The best part would be seeing all their faces, when the switch was revealed.

Classes started without incident, Masaharu opened the day’s first book, and nearly strained himself suppressing hysterical laughter. Tucked in between the pages they had been assigned to read was a postcard.

An extremely explicit postcard featuring two naked individuals in the middle of an extremely personal act.

A postcard which, unless he was greatly mistaken, came from the book he had slipped into Yagyuu’s bag early last year, hoping to disconcert him. He never had returned it, had he? He glanced over to see his partner leaning back in his chair, hands tucked in his pockets, and a downright evil grin on his face. Schooling his own expression carefully, Masaharu tucked the card into his bag.

Yes, this was definitely going to work.

He went through the day feeling like a hunter behind a blind, the blind of Yagyuu’s impenetrable manners. From that vantage he finally had the inexpressible delight of seeing his partner point out to their literature teacher, shriveled old prune of a martinet that he was, that the love poems of the Man’yoshu centered on distrust, not faith, and that he should really stop trying to convince them of such romantic drivel. For one glorious moment, Masaharu thought Sugawara-sensei would have heart failure on the spot. After a long look at the razor sharp smile ‘Niou’ was sporting, the teacher chose to ignore the insolence and move right along.

Ah, the benefits of a reputation, he thought, looking on Yagyuu with fondness concealed by the glasses he wore.

It wasn’t until one of the most loud-mouthed of the second-year tennis club members discovered that the new roll of grip tape he was bragging about over lunch had been replaced with an equally long roll of super sour bubble gum that Masaharu had to excuse himself to the bathroom where he could indulge his laughing fit unnoticed. When he returned, he passed his partner’s desk.

“Are you finished for the day, Niou-kun?” he inquired, mildly. Yagyuu stretched like a cat, mouth quirking.

“For now, I suppose,” he allowed.

Masaharu made sure to incline his head in reassurance to the grateful looks he was collecting from their classmates.

Then came tennis practice. They had both wondered whether it would be possible to fool their teammates. Masaharu now thought it would be, and when Yagyuu raised a brow at him he nodded in return.

Well, it was possible to fool some of their teammates. Marui, Jackal and Sanada clearly didn’t suspect a thing. After the first hour, though Yanagi and Yukimura were giving them curious looks. Akaya joined in not long after. Masaharu had expected Yanagi, at least. When it came down to it, he simply wasn’t as strong in Yagyuu’s shots as Yagyuu was, and there was no real way to hide Yagyuu’s bone-deep awareness of where his partner was on the court, which was not characteristic of Masaharu.

It was a fascinating exercise, all the same. Yagyuu was often their game-maker, and standing back in the way his partner normally did suddenly gave Masaharu a new perspective on their teammates. Marui, for instance, was clearly the game-maker for his pair, something Masaharu had never quite noticed while playing in close to him, up at the net. Now he thought he understood why Yagyuu kept such a close eye on their volatile “genius”. Masaharu found himself slipping, almost unawares, into Yagyuu’s pattern of play, watching and waiting for the crushing chance, rather than pressing in and harrying their opponents. As, in fact, Yagyuu, in his position as ‘Niou’, was doing at this moment. Quite enthusiastically.

When Yanagi moved over to Yukimura and leaned down to say something in his ear, Masaharu thought the game was up, but Yukimura smiled, slowly, and looked over at them. He shook his head and replied to Yanagi, without looking away. Yanagi shrugged. Neither of them said anything, and for once Akaya seemed reluctant to stick his neck out.

Masaharu had always known Yukimura had a fine sense of humor.

The next day, Masaharu felt, strongly deserved a gold star on his calendar. Their accommodating yearmate had spread the word as fast as gossip could travel, and Masaharu strolled the halls, savoring the utterly pole-axed expressions on at least half their denizens. It took a little while before anyone got up the nerve to ask if it was true.

“Why, whatever do you mean?” Masaharu returned, smiling innocently.

Rumor galloped on twice as fast after that.

Yukimura was chuckling when they got to practice, and clapped a hand on each of their shoulders.

“You do have a talent for creating disruption,” he noted. Sanada rolled his eyes, exasperated, and Akaya just about pounced on them.

“It was! I was right!”

“Enough games, though,” Yukimura ordered. “We have work to do. Everyone on the courts!”

“I was right, too, you know,” Masaharu murmured to Yagyuu as they dispersed.

“About what?” his partner inquired, cool as ever behind his precision and glasses.

“You are magnificent when you let go.”

“Narcissist,” Yagyuu accused him, lightly, fingertips brushing Masaharu’s hand.

TBC

Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
Posted: Jun 19, 04
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Challenge – Chapter Seven

Disaster strikes for the whole team. Drama with Angst, I-4

After such a golden autumn, no one expected what happened in the heart of winter. Yukimura himself said afterwards that he had thought the tingling was merely pinched nerves, and had made an appointment with his doctor. At the time, all Masaharu knew was that he heard his captain’s voice falter, saw his partner’s head snap up, heard Sanada’s sharp exclamation, found himself running, with the rest of the team, to where Yukimura had crumpled to the ground.

“He’s still breathing, but his pulse is uneven,” Yanagi reported, tense, as Jackal sprinted for the cell phone in his bag and called an ambulance. “I didn’t see him hit anything when he fell.”

“He didn’t,” Yagyuu seconded.

“Then what’s wrong?” Sanada asked, voice ragged. Yanagi closed a hand, bruisingly tight, on his shoulder.

“I don’t know, but you have to keep the club calm until the ambulance gets here,” he told their vice-captain.

Sanada’s head bent, and Masaharu was close enough to see the muscles of his jaw standing out as he clenched his teeth. He drew in a quick breath and nodded.

“The rest of you, get changed. We’re following him to the hospital,” he said, tightly, before turning away and calling the club to order, dismissing them for the day.

Masaharu remembered the rest of the day as an appalling blur in which random moments of panic stood out: a paramedic calling urgently for oxygen; Akaya shivering against him as they sat in a waiting room; the date on a sports magazine, three months old; the chill of Yagyuu’s hands when Masaharu folded them around a can of coffee.

When a doctor finally emerged, though, it was Yagyuu who took one look at Sanada’s hunched form and went to meet him; Yagyuu who explained that Yukimura’s parents had been called, but they, his team, were the only ones there for him at the moment; Yagyuu who wormed the diagnosis out of the doctor and carried it back.

Relief made Masaharu lightheaded, as he listened to Yagyuu’s account of the information he had extracted. Guillain-Barre, very unlikely to be fatal, Yukimura had already regained consciousness though he was still very weak. Then the bombshell. Up to a year for recovery in severe cases. This was a severe case.

The team stared at each other, stunned. Their captain would be away from them? Most likely the entire year? The sight of Yukimura being wheeled past, pale and still, wiped away any lingering fantasies of a quick return, though.

It was too much for Sanada, who called after him with a promise that the team would wait for its captain, would remain undefeated for him. A promise like a charm for Yukimura’s recovery; if they kept faith for him, surely he would return. Masaharu could see the tremors running through Sanada’s body, see the terrible tension in his bowed head and tight fists. Yanagi stepped to his side, clasped his shoulder, and, when Sanada looked up, nodded firmly, giving himself to the promise as well. Akaya, the baby of the team, who would now be playing in every match when the new year began, stepped forward, and nodded, just a touch tremulously. The doubles players, with barely a glance at each other, stepped forward as one.

The tension drained out of Sanada, and he closed his eyes, swaying slightly against Yanagi’s supporting hand.

“Thank you,” he whispered.


The team slowly regathered themselves, leaning on each other more heavily, now that the one who had lifted them all up was gone. The winter was a nightmare, as one month, and then two crawled by, and Yukimura remained hospitalized, largely paralyzed, often on respirators. The mood of the team darkened, and Masaharu began to wish for the new year to start so that they would have outsiders to take out their accumulated stress on. Even when Yukimura began to regain some strength, and the worst fear lifted, the prognosis remained poor. He would be a long time recovering.

In March, Sanada and Yanagi drew up a tentative training schedule, which included, to everyone’s initial dismay, weight training. Wrist weights, to be precise, worn all the time. The vast complaints of Masaharu’s shoulders indicated that it was a good idea, in a sadistic kind of way.

“We’ll work up from lighter weights to heavier ones,” Yanagi explained, as he handed the pocketed bands out. “Thanks to our location, we have always had to face most of our strongest competition twice: once at Regionals and again at Nationals. The schedule aims for peak performance starting toward the end of Regionals.”

The mood was somewhat lightened by the gathering to move Yukimura back home, during Spring Break. He was coherent, and smiling, and pleased with them. He was also far weaker and clumsier than any of them had ever seen him before.

“It isn’t as bad as that,” he finally told them, probably exasperated by the dour expressions surrounding him. “Just watch. I’ll be back with you for Nationals. I promise.” He then proceeded to regale them with descriptions of his physical therapist, who was apparently psychic. She had listened to his goals, taken a long look at him, and utterly forbidden him to go anywhere near a tennis court without her presence.

Masaharu had to snicker at that. “She’s got your number,” he told his captain, who actually blushed, faintly.

The team started the new school year in a strange mix of hope and fear, confidence and screaming tension, brilliance and darkness. Masaharu couldn’t help thinking there would be trouble sooner or later.


The first time Sanada lost his temper, they all knew there would be trouble.

One of the third years, a player who was in the pool of alternates, should any of the Regulars be… absent, made the mistake of trying to excuse his loss to a second year and collected an abrupt and vicious backhand. Silence fell over the court like an iron bar.

“There can be no losses. Not for us. Not this year,” Sanada said, cold and hard.

And then Yanagi was there, with a hand on his shoulder, drawing him away, speaking quietly. The doubles players, just switching after a match, drew closer to each other. Masaharu had seen Marui’s start of shock, felt Yagyuu, beside him, freezing with a tension he had largely shed over the past year.

“He’s totally snapped,” Marui murmured.

“Not totally,” Jackal objected. “But Sanada has always been a harsher leader than Yukimura; and now he leads alone.”

“Indeed,” Yagyuu agreed, tone distant and chill.

Jackal and Masaharu exchanged a glance. They would have to shield their more tightly strung partners when possible, and in Yagyuu’s case, at least, that would mean keeping him away from Sanada as much as possible when either was on edge.

If they agreed to this.

That knowledge passed among all four of them. They had to choose, and they had to choose now, whether or not to break ranks over this. Either they could seek to restrain Sanada, probably by appealing to Yukimura, or they could accept his ruthlessness in the name of their common goal and give themselves over to his command without question.

Any other options involved breaking from the team, and that was unthinkable.

Yagyuu was the first to voice a decision.

“We will await Yukimura-san’s return undefeated,” he said, evenly, repeating the promise Sanada had given their captain.

Masaharu nodded. If Yagyuu could handle it, he could certainly handle it.

“This will change who we are,” Marui noted. After a long moment of silence, though, he shrugged and blew a bubble. “No losses, hm? I can deal with that.”

Jackal nodded without speaking.

“All right, then,” Masaharu sighed, and looked around to catch Yanagi’s eye. He made a quick gesture to the four of them and nodded. Yanagi smiled with uncommon relief and nodded back, before he returned to soothing Sanada. Akaya, standing beside the bench Sanada had been steered to, arrested Masaharu’s gaze before he turned back to his partner.

The pattern hit him with the force of a premonition, as analysis lying latent until triggered sometimes did. This was where there would be a problem. With their youngest, most volatile member, the one who did not have a close supporter within the team.

The one whose restraining voice was now gone, and whose second mentor was sliding headlong into a dangerous frame of mind, and whose other teammates had just agreed to ride along for the trip to hell.

And if there was a damn thing that could be done about it, Masaharu didn’t see what it was.

TBC

Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
Posted: Jun 20, 04
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Nutshell

Takes place during Chapter Seven. Introspective. Yukimura tries to deal with his debilitation over the winter. Angst, I-5

Character(s): Yukimura Seiichi

“O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.” Hamlet, Act II, Scene 2


He tried to sleep as much as possible.

At first he had made an effort to say awake, instead. To assure himself that, however his body might be failing, his mind was still alert and capable. Thought and coherence made him more than the mannequin he felt like, whenever the nurses had to dress or wash him. Besides, when he was alert he was as far as he could get from the lurking weakness that had pounced on him without warning, and stolen his life in the moment it had stolen his consciousness.

Sometimes he wondered it it had stolen his soul, too, and wished his hands had enough sensitivity to tell him that his body really was still flesh that might be responsive again, and not just flesh colored plastic. Though the latter would, he supposed, make it easier on the nurses.

When he caught his thoughts wandering in those directions, he gave up on alertness. A hospital room offered very little to focus an alert mind on, in any case. For a while, he entertained the speculation that it was deliberate—that the hospital staff had designed these bare, blank, square rooms specifically to depress their patients’ minds into a vegetable state so they would be less trouble.

He mentioned this to the staff psychiatrist, in a fit of useless temper, during one of the periods when he could breathe and speak on his own. He actually managed to laugh, the next day, when a stack of audio-books arrived. Those didn’t last him very long, but they did suggest that distraction might serve him better than simple alertness.

So then he started replaying tennis matches in his head. He reconstructed them with great attention to detail, going back, and back again, to add all the little things he remembered, the way he might groom a bed of some temperamental flower seedlings. His first match with Sanada, the heaviness of those returns against his racquet, the shock in those hard, brown eyes, the startled softening when Seiichi smiled and thanked him. His first match with Yanagi, the knife-edge precision that almost caught him in a lattice of predictions, the flare of his own curiosity, the falter and then fascination in suddenly blazing hazel eyes when he lunged beyond the cage of prediction. The mutual frustration that always accompanied the blood-red glint in Akaya’s eyes. The devilish gleam in Niou’s, just before some unsuspecting victim walked into one of his traps. The silent allegiance in the angle of Yagyuu’s head when they spoke, and the explosive speed of his shots. Jackal’s unbending pride that only showed when he played. The layers of Marui’s game, flamboyant over subtle, careless over sharp.

When he ran out of matches, he redesigned his garden, in his mind’s eye, wondering whether some honeysuckle would be more trouble than it was worth. It was about time to prune back the wisteria, in any case, before it harmed the maple with its showy burden of flowers and tightening vines.

There were times Akaya reminded him a lot of the maple and wisteria.

When he had his garden growing nicely, in his mind, though, he opened his eyes and the square, bland lines of the hospital ceiling hit him like a fist in the ribs. The stillness of his body made him frantic, panicked. This wasn’t how he was supposed to be. The respirator was suddenly obtrusive again, choking him.

His heart-rate finally set off the monitors’ alarms, and quick voices surrounded him. He felt a burning spread down his arm, and the world fell away.

After that, he slept as much as he could. After all, nothing else could possibly help him, it was clear now. And he wondered, while drifting between consciousness and unconsciousness, whether he was really alive, lying here without air or earth or movement or the scent of sun on clay, or if the machines just made it appear that he was.

End

Last Modified: May 07, 12
Posted: Jun 23, 04
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Water

Takes place during Chapter Seven. Sanada finds an opponent who can help him improve his game, and, perhaps, offer some much needed distraction from his captain’s illness. Yanagi notes, in this, the possible start of a dangerous trend. Drama With Romance and Porn I-4

Sanada Genichirou had promised his friend and captain that their team would not be defeated while Yukimura was gone. After a very little consultation with Yanagi about the teams opposing them in the coming year, Genichirou had decided that, in order to keep that promise, some extra effort was in order. After all, while he knew he could take Atobe, he hadn’t played Tezuka in a competitive match in years. The withdrawal of Seigaku’s top player from this year’s round of inter-school seminars and camps had rumors flying, but there was no solid information on just how disabled or not Tezuka might be, and Genichirou didn’t believe in counting on luck.

No matter what that annoying little red-head from Yamabuki might say.

The problem, of course, lay in finding an actual challenge he could advance against. In theory, the high school division welcomed juniors who wanted to improve their skills, whenever time was available; in practice Genichirou was already better than most of them and it would be bad for morale to flaunt the fact. The street courts were useless. Genichirou, personally, thought most of the “professional trainers” were even more so. And it was frowned upon, to track down players from other schools and challenge them outside of competition.

That left the tennis schools, where he might hope to find another talented player or two looking for the same thing he was. And, in fact, luck did appear to be with him, there, as his current match demonstrated.

Sasaki Kouji was definitely a worthwhile opponent. The fact that he was also the current captain of Rikkai’s high school team gave Genichirou the pleasant feeling that Rikkai’s standards were being held up by someone besides his own team. Sasaki’s play was fast and sharp, precise in a way Genichirou rarely saw, and powerful enough to overcome even his strength, so far. It was exactly what he needed.

Sasaki, too, seemed to appreciate a challenging opponent. He treated Genichirou almost as a team member, offering pointers when Genichirou seemed stuck over some particular move, and goading him when he flagged. Genichirou thought well of his dedication, which clearly extended beyond Sasaki’s own team to encompass a player who would never be his to direct.

In a way, the absolute effort that Sasaki demanded whenever they played was a break for Genichirou. It left no room for worrying about anything else, pushed down even his fear for Yukimura under the simple focus on the ball, the court, the person across the net.

And if Genichirou felt just a touch guilty, afterwards, for letting himself forget, he needed those brief interludes of peace too desperately to stop. So he just pushed himself harder, gave himself even more totally to the focus of the game, strove that much harder to match Sasaki.

He was getting there. He could see it in Sasaki’s own game. He recognized the way Sasaki’s eyes brightened, the closer he came, recognized the smile he saw today on his opponent’s face, the sudden lightness of Sasaki’s movements, calling him, daring him. He recognized his own willing response, his answering speed, recognized the passion that reached over the net to touch his opponent’s game.

He recognized it… from playing Yukimura.

The thought snagged in his mind, and the shock of it caught at his feet. The last ball whizzed past a good fifteen centimeters from his racquet.

It didn’t help at all when Sasaki pushed back dark, feathery hair with an impatient hand, and gave him exactly the same look Yukimura did when he thought Genichirou was behaving foolishly in some way.

“What was that about, Sanada-kun?” he asked, in the voice of a captain demanding an explanation of his best player.

“Excuse me, Sasaki-san,” Genichirou said, as evenly as he could. “Perhaps I’m more tired today than I had thought. Would you mind if we ended here?”

Sasaki gave him a skeptical look, but nodded, letting him keep his silence on whatever the problem really was. That perception and forbearance just twisted Genichirou’s heart more sharply, and he withdrew as quickly as he could, leaving Sasaki gazing after him in obvious speculation.

Seiichi


Normally, at least of late, the visits Genichirou and Renji made to Seiichi were a time when nothing outside the three of them intruded. Today, though, Genichirou found himself rather distracted, despite the fine almost-spring afternoon and despite Seiichi’s returning strength, and it had probably been too much to hope for, that Seiichi wouldn’t notice it. His observation was sharpening again, as he regained control of his body.

“What are you thinking about?”

Definitely too much to hope for.

“Just a match I played recently,” Genichirou answered, trying to stay casual. Which only went to show that he wasn’t thinking particularly clearly just then, because Yukimura always wanted to know about interesting matches.

“Who were you playing?” he asked.

“Sasaki Kouji,” Genichirou told him, taking an interest in the view out the window.

“The captain of Rikkai’s high school team,” Renji noted. “How did you arrange a match with him? I thought you decided to stay away from the high school practices.”

Genichirou sighed. “You remember the tennis school I started dropping by last month, to see if I could find some stronger players? He plays there too, sometimes.”

“Have you won yet?” Yukimura asked, a bit of sparkle lighting his eyes. The implicit assumption that Genichirou would win, sooner or later, made him smile back at his captain for a moment. Then the memory of the match returned to nag at him, and he turned his gaze out the window again.

“Not yet.”

“Genichirou.” Seiichi was watching him more narrowly, now. “What happened?”

Genichirou never could decide whether he preferred Seiichi’s manner, who invariably drew whatever Genichirou was thinking out of him, or Renji’s, who rarely asked since he could usually be assumed to know already.

“It…” he sighed. “When we played, he was… I just…”

Light fingers brushed over his lips, and Genichirou paused and looked up, startled, to see Seiichi laughing, quietly.

“Genichirou, you’re sputtering,” he said. “And while there’s a certain rarity value to that, it doesn’t tell me what happened.”

Genichirou looked down at his hands. “When we played, he reminded me of you,” he said, voice low.

Seiichi’s brows rose. “My style?”

“No. Nothing that simple.” Genichirou felt a sardonic twist curl his mouth. “His… brightness was like yours.”

Seiichi was silent for a long moment. “And did it draw you, the way mine does?” he asked at last, softly.

Genichirou flinched. “Seiichi…”

“I can’t think of any other reason it would trouble you, since I know you’ve been fascinated by other players’ talent before,” Seiichi continued, thoughtfully. “Or is it just that I’m not there right now?”

That was exactly what Genichirou had hoped to get away without saying. What could be more contemptible than seeking a replacement for a friend and lover when he was ill? Self-disgust twisted his stomach.

“Genichirou, you can think yourself into such ridiculous corners, sometimes,” Seiichi sighed. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

Genichirou stared at him, disoriented by such a calm response. Seiichi shook his head, and leaned forward. His hand touched Genichirou’s face, coaxing him down to a soft, lingering kiss, and Genichirou’s arms found their way around Seiichi, with the helpless protectiveness Seiichi always roused in him. The sweetness of Seiichi’s lips moving so gently against his almost made him shudder with how much he had missed his friend’s presence and touch.

Seiichi finally drew back and ran his fingers though Genichirou’s hair, looking serious. “Does Sasaki make you feel like this?” he whispered.

“No,” Genichirou answered, without a shade of doubt or hesitation, and water-gray eyes smiled at him.

“Then I don’t see anything to worry about. Have a little faith in yourself, Genichirou,” Seiichi admonished. “It’s no injury to me, if you want me there enough to see my likeness in other people.”

Genichirou blinked at the astonishing common sense of that statement. Renji was laughing, softly, from the other side of Seiichi’s bed.

“Seiichi, you have the gift of taking the single action that’s more convincing than hours of reasoned debate could ever be,” he said. Seiichi, still in the curve of Genichirou’s arm, gave Renji a pleased look before continuing.

“As for the rest of it,” he said, “you’ve always been taken up with other strong players, as I shouldn’t have to remind you, after last year.” Renji chuckled and Genichirou threw him a half glare. “If you want to go to bed with this one, as long as he doesn’t presume, where’s the problem?”

“I’m sure it would be good stress relief,” Renji put in, absolutely straight faced.

That rated a full fledged glare. “Renji,” Genichirou growled.

The hand Seiichi pressed over his mouth totally failed to muffle his laugh. That, alone, was enough to reconcile Genichirou to the teasing. He remembered far too clearly the day, not long after Seiichi had come off the respirators for the last time, that some doctor had said, a little too cheerily, that there was only a thirty percent chance of a relapse. He had held Seiichi for over an hour, while his friend shuddered with silent terror against his shoulder. The sight of Seiichi so broken had terrified him in turn, and he’d spent that night curled up in a knot while Renji stroked his hair until he finally fell asleep. Seiichi’s smile was still far more fragile than he liked, much of the time, and if his spirit was recovering enough to laugh, Genichirou was content to be the object of fun for him.

“Is this what you’ve been so tense over?” Renji asked.

Genichirou shrugged agreement. Renji’s hand settled on his shoulder.

“Perhaps next time I’ll ask sooner,” he said.

Which was as close as Yanagi Renji was ever likely to come to admitting that he had miscalculated the cause of Genichirou’s reaction. A corner of Genichirou’s mouth quirked up.

“That presumes you can get me to answer you,” he observed, getting another chuckle from Seiichi.

Renji, though, only turned his hand up to brush the backs of his fingers across Genichirou’s cheek. “You’ll tell me, if I ask, Genichirou,” he said, deep voice both soft and sure.

Genichirou wound his fingers through Renji’s and closed his eyes, savoring the closeness of these two who were most important to him. Seiichi was right. Nothing could replace this.


And, now that he wasn’t avoiding the thought, he could see perfectly well the glint of appreciation in Sasaki’s eyes.

“A much better game today, Sanada-kun,” Sasaki told him, clasping his hand over the net. “At this rate you might just overtake me by summer.”

“That’s certainly my hope, Sasaki-san,” Genichirou answered, seriously.

“Hm. Don’t work yourself so hard you forget to enjoy this.” Sasaki smiled to take away any sting from the admonition.

“I doubt there’s any chance of that.” Genichirou didn’t change expression at all, but Sasaki gave him a considering look anyway and he thought Sasaki had probably heard what hadn’t been said.

“Really? When was the last time you played at one of the street courts, just for fun?” Sasaki challenged.

“A long time ago,” Genichirou had to admit, as they packed up.

“There’s a rather nice one down by my house,” Sasaki said, lightly. “You might come check it out.”

Genichirou almost laughed, less at the invitation than at the humor that lit Sasaki’s pale gray eyes as he made it. The dance of euphemism and innuendo clearly amused him, and for a moment, Sasaki reminded Genichirou far more of Renji than of Seiichi. Genichirou shouldered his bag and gave Sasaki a direct look.

“I would like that.”

“I hope you will, Sanada-kun,” Sasaki said, voice suddenly much lower, and Genichirou’s breath caught. Anticipation feathered through his stomach, as they left. He knew what the offer he had accepted was, knew what he was heading into, but the knowledge had not grown out of anything he had shared with Sasaki. Since they had staked their places together in their first year, he and Renji and Seiichi had traded pieces of themselves back and forth like good books, reading each other’s histories and fantasies and footnotes, and pleasure had simply been another added chapter. By comparison he barely had a nodding acquaintance with the man walking beside him. This felt… reckless. Impulsive.

He found, however, as he let Sasaki escort him through a quiet house to a bedroom painted in rather fanciful swirls of green, that he didn’t care.

When Sasaki slid a hand around Genichirou’s waist, and stroked his hair back with light fingers, Genichirou also found that there were some lines he had to draw for his own peace of mind. He caught Sasaki’s hand in his, stilling it as it slipped down his neck.

“Sasaki-san,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady, “I don’t… I don’t think I can take this if you’re gentle.”

Sasaki’s brows rose, and he studied Genichirou for a long moment. He freed his hand and lifted Genichirou’s chin the little bit necessary to put them eye to eye. Genichirou returned his gaze, unflinching.

“Who is it?” Sasaki asked, at last. “The one who’s gentle with you?”

Now Genichirou closed his eyes, briefly. “Seiichi. Renji.”

After a blank moment, Sasaki blinked. “Yukimura and Yanagi?” he asked, and chuckled when Genichirou nodded. “Well, I suppose I owe Nishiki an apology, not that I intend to tell him so. I thought he must have been hallucinating when he said the three of you were together that way.” Then his thumb brushed against Genichirou’s jaw. “I remember hearing that Yukimura was ill this winter.”

“It’s getting better,” Genichirou said, with no expression. “He can breathe on his own again.”

Sasaki inhaled sharply, eyes widening. “That bad?” he asked, softly. When Genichirou nodded again, silent, Sasaki’s mouth tightened. And then he pulled Genichirou against him, paying no mind to his stiffness, and, abruptly, Genichirou was too tired to bother with reserve. After a moment’s hesitation he let his head drop to Sasaki’s shoulder.

“Sanada,” Sasaki said, eventually. “Why are you here with me, instead of with them?”

All the reasons tangled together in Genichirou’s throat. He laughed a little as he decided on the simplest answer.

“It was your game. Yukimura calls it my strongest weakness, that I get so focused on other strong players, sometimes so focused it hurts my own playing. And you… you’re so bright when you play. I touch that through the game, and I want to reach out to it outside of the game too.”

“But not gently?” Sasaki asked, a smile in his voice.

Genichirou lifted his head. “Not gently,” he agreed.

Sasaki’s gaze turned more serious. “I don’t like the idea of hurting you, Sanada.”

“Good,” Genichirou said, one corner of his mouth quirking.

Sasaki threw his head back and laughed. “So,” he said at last, tone turning speculative, “rough and slow, then?”

Genichirou felt heat wash over his entire body, and tried not to think about the fact that his face probably showed it. He nodded, and Sasaki’s lips curved. His arm tightened, sharply, around Genichirou, and Genichirou shivered a little at the unaccustomed sensation of a larger body pressing against the length of his. Sasaki wasn’t, he supposed distantly, really that much taller or significantly more heavily built, but the difference was noticeable like this. And it sent a jolt down his spine when Sasaki’s hand tipped his head back before kissing him. The hard demand in it called out a longer shudder, and Genichirou’s hands closed tight on Sasaki’s back as he answered, opening his mouth under Sasaki’s.

He gasped when Sasaki’s teeth closed, sharp and stinging, just under his ear, and groaned, sagging against Sasaki, when he sucked there. This was the intensity Genichirou wanted just now, and he threw himself into it and let it close over him, pressing into Sasaki’s touch.

Sasaki slipped around behind him, one hand moving between Genichirou’s legs, kneading roughly. Genichirou’s knees weakened at the sudden rush of sensation, and his hips bucked into Sasaki’s hand.

“Or, maybe, not so slow,” Sasaki laughed in his ear, undoing Genichirou’s pants and sliding a hand inside to touch skin. Genichirou could only moan in answer, leaning against Sasaki as his fingers closed tight and stroked Genichirou hard.

There was barely enough left of his thought process to raise his arms, when Sasaki tugged his shirt off, and those calloused hands skimming over his hips to push down the rest of his clothing drowned that last bit. When Sasaki turned him to face the wall, Genichirou simply leaned on his forearms, trying to recover his breath and listening to the faint rustling behind him.

His breath left him again when he felt the heat of Sasaki’s body against his back, and Sasaki’s hand, slick, rubbing against his entrance. True to his word, Sasaki was slow, not seeking to press further yet, but his hand was not gentle. He worked his fingers hard against Genichirou’s muscles until Genichirou was almost clutching at the wall, moaning at the tingling burn as he opened under that demanding touch. He arched his back, pressing his hips against Sasaki, inviting, and Sasaki accepted. Thumbs spread Genichirou apart as Sasaki pushed into him, slow but unstopping, a long, hard thrust that pressed him full and left Genichirou panting.

“Good?” Sasaki murmured.

“Yes,” Genichirou gasped. “Sasaki…”

He lost whatever he had meant to say when Sasaki’s still slick hand wrapped around his cock and pumped. His involuntary jerk moved Sasaki a little out of him, and then Sasaki surged forward, chest pressed into Genichirou’s back. Not slow any longer, he drove into Genichirou, pounding him against the wall, only Sasaki’s own hand, stroking him so roughly, pulling him back again. Genichirou lost himself in the harsh rhythm, hearing his own voice without knowing what he was saying, feeling only the heat and pressure of Sasaki’s movement, the swelling rush of pleasure that surged up like a wave and threw him down so hard he almost lost awareness completely.

Leaning about equally on the wall and Sasaki’s arms, Genichirou waited for his breath to calm and his pulse to settle just a little before he tried to stand on his own. He could feel a roughness in his throat that told him it was probably a good thing no one else seemed to be home. He heard the same roughness in Sasaki’s voice, when he spoke, though his tone was contemplative.

“If I were the only one you were with, I would be more concerned about what you want from me. But I have to admit,” he said, running a hand over Genichirou’s shoulders, “there’s an attraction in someone as strong as you asking for something like this. Was that what you were looking for?”

“Yes,” Genichirou murmured.

“Good.” Sasaki nipped at the back of his neck, tugging a low noise out of Genichirou. “Let me know the next time you need to be distracted from the world, then.”

Genichirou turned, slowly, to look at Sasaki. He was sure he hadn’t actually said that that was why he was here, when Sasaki had asked. How did he manage to draw, and be drawn to, such overly-perceptive people? On the other hand, he could hardly deny the truth. So he nodded.

“Thank you.”


Genichirou expected Renji to tease him, and, indeed, there were a few comments on the statistics of “early maturation” delivered perfectly deadpan. He did his best not to react, silently blessing his previous practice. It took a while for any other side effects to catch up to him, but they did so with a vengeance the day Renji touched his arm as they were heading out to afternoon practice.

“Genichirou, did you do something to your shoulder?”

“No, why?” Genichirou asked, paying more attention to the start of a match between Akaya and Yagyuu.

“Because it looked like you had a bruise,” Renji told him.

Genichirou frowned, sifting back through the last few days for anything that might have caused…

Oh.

He had no idea what expression might be on his face, but both Renji’s brows were lifted.

“Genichirou?”

“I’ll tell you later. Not here,” Genichirou said. After a long moment of scrutiny, Renji accepted that, and moved off.

Genichirou managed to get through practice and all the way home before Renji’s patience ran out.

“All right,” Renji said, rather clipped, as he closed the bedroom door behind them. “First of all, show me.”

Genichirou suppressed a sigh, pulling off his shirt and turning to let Renji take a look at his back. For all the other two might say he was the most overprotective of them, he thought that Renji won hands down once he made a decision to interfere. It just didn’t happen very often. Light fingers brushed his skin.

“It seems to be along the bone of the shoulder,” Renji reported. “It doesn’t hurt?”

“I didn’t even know it was there until you told me,” Genichirou assured him.

“It probably helps that it’s your off hand side. Now. You obviously know where it came from.”

Renji, Genichirou reflected, had a talent for demanding information without asking a single question. “It’s probably from yesterday, when Sasaki took me up against a tile wall,” he said, evenly.

The silence behind him turned resounding.

“Renji…” he started, only to break off as Renji’s arms came around his waist. The body at his back was shaking with silent laughter. The strain of suppressing it showed in Renji’s voice, too.

“I suppose it’s a good thing no one else noticed, while we were changing, then. Can you imagine their expressions…?” Renji broke off, burying his head in Genichirou’s shoulder and laughing out loud.

Genichirou growled, wordlessly, and Renji managed to get himself back under control.

“Just be careful, all right?” he said, more seriously.

Genichirou looked back and raised a brow at him.

“I know you can take care of yourself, Genichirou. I mean more than that. Your penchant for violence; it’s stronger, lately. Be careful how you handle it.” Renji’s arms tightened around him.

Genichirou turned in those arms to take Renji’s shoulders. “Renji. You can’t think I would let it spill onto us.”

Deep, hazel eyes looked at him quietly. “I know you wouldn’t, normally. I just worry about how much pressure you can take.”

Genichirou drew Renji close against him. Yes, Renji was definitely the more overprotective one. “You worry too much,” he said, softly, in Renji’s ear. “Let me show you?”

“You and Seiichi, and your language of actions,” Renji murmured, the laugh back in his voice. “How did I wind up with two such terribly direct people?”

“If I’m so direct and unreflective, you can hardly expect me to have an answer for that,” Genichirou pointed out, and closed his mouth on Renji’s earlobe.

“Very direct,” Renji sighed, leaning into him. “I suppose it has its merits.”

It was Genichirou’s turn to laugh.

Renji let Genichirou undress him, smiling tolerantly at the care he took. Genichirou had to admit, he didn’t often go this slowly, but today he found himself wanting to keep things… tranquil. He knew he wasn’t the only one who had been under pressure, nor the only one who still was. He wanted to relax and reassure his friend, to see him stop worrying for a little while. Renji seemed almost bemused, as he lay back on the bed, that Genichirou was spending so long just stroking him, as if to memorize his skin or map the body he already knew.

Renji closed his eyes with a low sigh as Genichirou licked, slowly, at the inside of his wrist. Genichirou knew it was one of Renji’s more sensitive spots, and lingered over it. And over the space just under Renji’s lowest rib. And the arch of his foot. When he tongued the delicate skin behind Renji’s knee, it drew out a soft moan, and Genichirou smiled.

“Enjoying yourself, Genichirou?” Renji asked, archly. The effect was, perhaps, a bit spoiled by the fact that he was spread out, naked, in bed, but not by much. Genichirou was impressed all over again by Renji’s poise. He stretched out beside Renji and kissed him until his mouth relaxed from its sardonic curl.

“Enjoying watching your body calm because of me?” he murmured. “Yes, I am.”

“Such a taste you have for getting your own way,” Renji teased, smiling more gently.

“Now there’s a case of the pot and the kettle,” Genichirou commented, nibbling on Renji’s ear again. “You’re every bit as headstrong as I am, Renji, for all you prefer manipulation to force.”

“Mmmmmm. It’s hard to argue when you’re doing that,” Renji breathed.

“Then don’t. The subject will keep for later.” Genichirou kissed him again, slow and deep. “Turn over?”

Renji obliged, stretching out on his stomach, and purred as Genichirou trailed fingers down his spine. The sound he made when Genichirou nipped at his rear was considerably sharper. That was one of the sensitive points his partners didn’t get around to as often.

When Genichirou spread him open and ran a soft tongue around his entrance, Renji’s hips flexed into Genichirou’s hands and he muffled a rough moan against the sheets. Genichirou coaxed Renji with his tongue, teased and soothed him by turns, until Renji was panting, hips raised and legs parted in a wordless invitation. Genichirou reached forward to close a hand around Renji’s cock and stroke him slowly. The feeling of that lean, powerful body tightening under his touch, the sound of that cool voice heated and hoarse on the syllables of Genichirou’s name, was deeply satisfying, and Genichirou nipped, gently, one last time so that he could watch Renji come undone in his hands.

When the last tension wrung out of Renji’s body, Genichirou let him down and curled up against his back, pleased.

“You know,” Renji murmured, drowsily, “I can tell without even looking that you have a smug expression on your face, Genichirou.”

“Perhaps,” Genichirou allowed.

“I’m afraid you’ll just have to deal with my worrying, though.”

Hadn’t he been thinking something about overly-perceptive people, just a while ago, Genichirou mused. “Renji,” he said, seriously, leaning up on an elbow and tugging his friend over to look at him, “tell me you don’t honestly believe that I would deliberately hurt you or Seiichi.”

Renji laid a hand along the side of Genichirou’s face. “Never deliberately.”

Genichirou relaxed again, and dropped back down to rest against Renji’s side.

“Just be careful, Genichirou. Please,” Renji said, quietly, against his shoulder.

Genichirou considered this. Obviously, Renji saw some danger, and considered it fairly likely, if he was willing to press Genichirou like this. And he had spent two solid years trusting Renji’s calculations of these things. He ran his fingers through Renji’s straight, heavy hair and nodded when his friend looked up.

“I promise.”

End

Last Modified: May 15, 12
Posted: Jun 23, 04
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Challenge – Chapter Eight

The team starts to recover, and Niou and Yagyuu find another kind of comfort. Drama with Porn, I-4

As the tournament season drew on, the team drew together around the axis Sanada had defined: no losses. And, as they didn’t lose, it became more acceptable to them; Sanada’s brutal ruthlessness became simply a matter of fact, and they all picked up a tinge of it.

Except Kirihara Akaya. He took on considerably more than a tinge. And by the first time the team watched him destroy an opponent with blinding, methodical speed, it didn’t occur to any of them to suggest that Yukimura might not have approved. Their captain was their cause, their beacon, but they were Sanada’s team for this season. And he accepted Akaya’s rage and destruction without a blink.

The one time Masaharu mentioned it to Yagyuu, his partner had looked at him, one brow lifted over unwinking lenses.

“Perhaps Akaya gives to Sanada some of what I give to you,” he suggested. Masaharu sniffed.

“Sanada doesn’t deserve the precision of your destruction, and Akaya is too wild to give it to him.”

“Perhaps wildness is what he needs.” Yagyuu trailed his fingers over Masaharu’s collar bone. “I can sympathize. Somewhat.”

Masaharu smiled engagingly for his partner, and, the next day, convinced the Japanese teacher that it was really next week and they had already completed Chapter Ten. He rather thought Yagyuu appreciated this contribution to undermining authority.


They visited Yukimura in ones and twos, and found him annoyed that he was not permitted to return to school, and nearly climbing the walls because he was not permitted to return to tennis. Masaharu told him expansive stories of his latest tricks, and Yagyuu brought him class notes. Once Masaharu dropped by to find Yanagi asleep on the couch, and Yukimura, eyes soft, pressing a finger to his lips for quiet. Another time he observed, to his vast amusement, Akaya hauling a glaring Sanada down the walk to Yukimura’s house, shoving him inside, closing the door firmly and settling down on the front stoop. He saluted the kid lazily and didn’t try to stop in. Sanada could not, he knew, have been resisting that much or the slight Akaya would never have budged him.

Everyone was deeply relieved when Yukimura’s physical therapist cleared him to resume light (the word was underlined three times, on his exercise sheet) tennis practice, provided he had a spotter. The team promptly drew up a rota of who could come by after practice, each day.


The stress, and Yagyuu’s basic distrust of Sanada’s temper, were starting to tell on Masaharu’s partner. He found himself, more than once, putting their study sessions on hold to sit behind Yagyuu and press a little of the tension out of his shoulders.

“This isn’t good for you,” he scolded, mildly. “And,” he added, aggrieved, “it isn’t good for me, having to play mother hen; that isn’t supposed to be my job.”

“It doesn’t suit you,” Yagyuu agreed, blandly.

Masaharu growled at the jab. Though, actually, he was pleased to see Yagyuu’s dry humor intact. He didn’t like the way this year was wrapping old layers of defense back around his partner’s scintillating, luring edges. Today was, apparently, one of the days when Yagyuu could read his mind, because his partner huffed out a faint laugh.

“I know you don’t much like my public face, Niou-kun, but it does allow me to keep control of myself and my integrity. I believe you know that has been more than usually necessary, this year.”

Well, yes, Masaharu did know that. Just because Yagyuu had agreed to lend himself to Sanada’s agenda didn’t mean that this, the most self-contained member of their team, had any liking for the way Sanada’s obsession dragged them all in its wake, like so many bits of metal after a magnet. So, too, knowing that Sanada’s high-handed approach grew out of the frantic worry for their captain that the idiot seemed to be allergic to admitting didn’t do a thing to make Yagyuu’s reaction any less reflexively hostile. While Masaharu tried to avoid saying so, he had realized long since that Yagyuu’s surface compliance allowed him considerable independence of action. He just didn’t want to encourage his partner by seeming to approve.

“I know,” he agreed, without specifying which part he was agreeing with. Yagyuu’s laugh was fuller this time.

Well, there was something Masaharu had been thinking about, that might, in part, answer both Yagyuu’s need and his own desire.

Masaharu stepped back from himself a bit, and took a long look at what he was considering doing. He had researched the topic more scrupulously than he usually did anything but history and mathmatics. He was now well acquainted with the theory, and, theoretically, knew what he would be getting himself into. He thought that it would probably be agreeable to Yagyuu’s inclinations, and, for himself, the idea fanned subtle waves of sparks down his spine. It was really the last of those thoughts that led him to disregard his lingering trepidation and bend his head until his lips brushed Yagyuu’s neck.

“You like being able to control the pace,” he observed. Yagyuu’s soft breath might have been agreement. “I would let you,” Masaharu said, obliquely, “if you want to try.”

“Try?” Yagyuu repeated, smoothly. “I do believe I’ve always succeeded, with you, Niou-kun.” His fingers brushed through Masaharu’s hair.

“We haven’t,” Masaharu noted, “tried everything, yet.”

His partner froze, and Masaharu smiled against Yagyuu’s skin. If he had ever wanted revenge for having been maneuvered into it, that first time, he rather thought he had it now. Yagyuu turned, lifting a hand to Masaharu’s face.

“You want that?” he asked, after a long moment of scrutiny.

“Yes,” Masaharu answered, simply.

“I don’t want to cause you pain,” Yagyuu said, unaccustomed hesitance slowing his words. “The lack of restraint you want from me would make it… very likely.”

So he hadn’t been the only one doing research. “I’m definitely not into pain,” Masaharu told his partner, wryly. “But you didn’t listen to what I offered. Your pace,” he clarified, at Yagyuu’s raised brows, “whatever that is.”

Yagyuu flicked his glasses off and laid them aside, leaned forward and kissed Masaharu, outlining his lips with a soft tongue.

“I accept,” Yagyuu murmured against his mouth.

Masaharu let Yagyuu lay him back on the bed, and sighed under his slow, gentle kisses. His partner’s hands were quicker, undoing buttons with the dexterity of significant practice. Masaharu ran his own hands through Yagyuu’s hair, taking a certain pleasure in mussing it. Yagyuu was perfectly well aware of this, and paused to give him a put-upon look.

Masaharu didn’t buy it for a second.

He did, however, shift, obligingly, so Yagyuu could tug off his clothing. And then he gasped a little at the coolness of Yagyuu’s fingers, as they pressed across his skin.

Slowly.

He knew it was entirely deliberate when he looked up into Yagyuu’s eyes and saw the teasing light in them, and the grin hovering at the corners of that controlled mouth. He reached up and tapped his partner on the nose, admonishing, but he had, after all, promised to let Yagyuu set the pace. So he let his hand drop back to the sheets and simply breathed, waiting.

At that, the pale eyes widened a little, and Yagyuu’s hand brushed over Masaharu’s lips, teasing them apart, before Yagyuu’s mouth covered his, hard, his other hand slipping behind Masaharu’s back to pull them tight together. That was familiar, the sharp, tingling thrill, like licking a battery. To Masaharu, Yagyuu’s open presence tasted of lightning.

And he was open, now, as open as his palm sliding over Masaharu’s stomach, over his hip, over his rear and up the back of his thigh. Masaharu answered with his own openness, spreading his legs to let Yagyuu lie between them. Yagyuu rocked against him, taking Masaharu’s moan into his mouth and trading his own for it.

“Dare I hope you had the foresight to bring along the appropriate accoutrements?” he murmured in Masaharu’s ear, the light words undercut by the breathless tone.

“Schoolbag,” Masaharu directed.

When Yagyuu’s fingers, still cool and now slick, pressed against him, sliding across skin no one else had touched before, Masaharu tossed his head back and snatched in a deep breath. It was so… close. Such an intimate thing, to allow Yagyuu to touch him like this. And then his partner’s finger pressed into him, and Masaharu had a new definition of intimacy.

His research had been quite accurate, he thought hazily. It did feel strange. Yagyuu’s eyes were sharp on him, watching his face. It was typical of them that he did not ask if Masaharu was all right. What he said, instead, was, “If you need me to stop, tell me.”

Masaharu’s offer to let him control the pace had, after all, been made in better knowledge of what his partner was like when he cast off his mask than anyone else had. With, a corner of Masaharu’s mind had to add, the possible exception of Yukimura, who was obviously omniscient. Yagyuu had told him to break this off, if he had to; if he didn’t, Yagyuu would take him at his word, trusting Masaharu’s judgment. Curiously enough, that knowledge made Masaharu relax.

And when he relaxed, the sensation of Yagyuu’s touch inside of him became less strange and more enticing. Masaharu released a trembling breath, feeling the sleek glide of Yagyuu’s fingertip over unaccustomed nerves. Yagyuu moved slowly, very slowly, and his eyes bore down on Masaharu more heavily then his hand. Masaharu thought that, too, was deliberate, because Yagyuu was, by now, well aware that his direct gaze sent sparks dancing through Masaharu’s blood at times like this.

Yagyuu’s other hand trailed down the inside of Masaharu’s thigh, teased lightly between his legs, swept up his chest and back down, and Masaharu was distracted from the idea of what Yagyuu was doing, left only with the feeling. That feeling became heated, as Yagyuu’s fingers caressed him, stroked deep into him, until even the ice of Yagyuu’s eyes before his seemed to gleam with fire.

And his partner could only be drawing this out from a desire to see Masaharu completely abandoned to his touch, because he was already arching into those fingers, inviting the tingling, electric touch deeper, breathing in soft, pleading sighs as strange, tense pleasure wrapped around the base of his spine like a climbing vine. Masaharu released a choked half laugh when Yagyuu finally bent down to him and kissed a delicate line up the tendon of his neck, drawing his hand back. So precise, his partner, so deliberate, even in release. It was Masaharu who was the wild one, but so rarely. So rarely did he give over his own control this completely. Yagyuu’s mouth on his spoke of understanding that gift, and that, even more than Yagyuu’s hands on him, washed shivers through Masaharu, melted him back against the sheets, opened him to the pressure of Yagyuu pushing into him.

It stretched him to the edge of pain, but never quite over. It was, perfectly, everything he desired of his partner, every reason he pressed Yagyuu to let himself go, the extremity of sensation that could have been destruction but, to him, was not. Masaharu cried out, voice strained, as his partner began to move, sinking himself under the shock of this heat, barely aware of his hands closed hard on Yagyuu’s arms. The soft, heavy pleasure of Yagyuu’s hand stroking him slipped around the edges of sensation, twined itself into the harsher heat, and Masaharu clung to the constant of his partner’s eyes on him as his body tensed, tensed, and released, waves wrenching muscle and nerve, and fire sweeping him, dropping him down, dazed, panting.

When Yagyuu came to rest beside him, they simply breathed together for a time.

Yagyuu stirred first, pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Thank you,” he murmured.

Entirely my pleasure,” Masaharu assured him, voice husky. He lifted a heavy hand to brush back Yagyuu’s wonderfully mussed hair.

Heavy…

His eyes focused on what he was actually seeing, and Masaharu abruptly collapsed on Yagyuu’s shoulder, howling with laughter. His partner held him, obliging if a bit bemused.

“I understand that it’s usual to have some reaction to one’s first experience of this sort,” he commented, “but I hadn’t heard that hysterical mirth was one of the common choices.”

“We didn’t…” Masaharu gasped, “we didn’t take off… the wrist weights…!” He dissolved into cackles again.

Yagyuu’s rare, open laugh joined his.

TBC

Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
Posted: Jun 20, 04
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Challenge – Chapter Nine

For Regionals, the team pulls out all the stops. Drama, I-3

As they started into Regionals, the rumor trickled down from Sanada to the rest of the team. Yukimura was considering surgery.

“Surgery?” Yagyuu asked, sharply. “For Guillain-Barre?”

“It is still fairly experimental,” Yanagi admitted, slowly. “But his physical therapist recommended it, as an alternative, she said, to Seiichi hurting himself by pressing his rehabilitation too quickly.”

Masaharu didn’t know about the others, but he’d had to catch Yukimura from falling more than once, while spotting for his “light” practices, and had to carry him back inside twice. He’d watched the frustration his captain could keep out of his voice but couldn’t keep out of his eyes, and shuddered to think what it must be like. For someone who had been in superb control of his body all his life, to suddenly find it unresponsive… well, it made Masaharu a bit more understanding with Sanada’s temper and brooding moods.

That therapist definitely had Yukimura’s number, he thought.

“If it succeeds, this would bypass much of the necessity for rehabilitation therapy, as much as ninety percent” Yanagi concluded.

“Is it dangerous?” Marui wanted to know.

Yanagi was silent for an ominous moment, before he sighed.

“No surgery is one hundred percent safe. In this case, though, the primary danger is not from the procedure itself. The problem is that the fact of the surgery, the new insult to the body, and the spike in immune reaction that follows, can trigger a relapse.”

Double or nothing. Masaharu held that thought against the memory of Yukimura’s eyes.

“He’ll do it,” Yagyuu voiced Masaharu’s thought.

“It’s still undecided,” Yanagi cautioned, but there was little force behind it. He had seen it, too, Masaharu knew; the two who were closest to Yukimura could hardly help but see it.


When Fudoumine took Yamabuki in the second round, Yanagi and Sanada were sure enough of what it would mean to set the final lineups.

“Seigaku is the true threat,” Yanagi told them, “they’ve put together a very strong team this year, and most of our preparation will be geared toward meeting them. I have little doubt we will; Midoriyama won’t stand against them, and, while Rokkaku will likely give them a fight, I judge Seigaku the stronger. That does not mean that Fudoumine is negligible. Tachibana Kippei is a very strong player, and their team discipline appears to be extremely tight.”

“They also,” Sanada put in, “have a habit of front-loading their line-up when they have a strong opponent. Tachibana himself will almost certainly be in Singles Three; that was how they pulled the rug out from under Hyoutei. I will take Singles Three, to meet him for this match.”

“Let me.”

Everyone looked around to see Akaya sprawled on a bench, looking fixedly at Sanada.

“You got the last two fun ones, Sanada-fukubuchou,” he said, with a crooked smile, “let me have this one.”

“Will you listen to the mouth on him,” Masaharu snorted, swatting Akaya lightly. Akaya pouted at him, and Masaharu shook his head. While Akaya still acted a lot like a totally mannerless kitten with the team, his series of effortless wins this season had given him an extremely contemptuous attitude toward any other players.

“Actually,” Yanagi mused, “there could be some benefits to that.”

Sanada cocked an eyebrow at him.

“For one, a real challenge will be good for Akaya,” Yanagi pointed out, adding a quelling look as Akaya grinned. “For another, it would leave you and I free to take one of the doubles slots. I expect them to field Ibu and Kamio as a pair against us, and while I have little doubt any of our doubles combinations could take them, it would be well to be sure.”

“And who, against their other doubles pair?”

“Jackal and Yagyuu, I think.”

Masaharu wasn’t the only one blinking at that suggestion. The other pair must be power players. Sanada nodded.

“Very well. We’ll return to our usual line-up against Seigaku, so don’t get too distracted.”


Masaharu thought Yanagi worried too much. Or, perhaps, worried about the wrong things. Fudoumine was really fairly easy. The only true challenge was Tachibana himself, who had managed to trigger Akaya’s rage, and became the proxy target for all the anger and uncertainty and fear Akaya had to deal with this year. Masaharu was actually quite impressed with the man; he’d managed to keep Akaya from injuring him too critically. Fudoumine would be back around for Nationals.

The one Masaharu was increasingly worried about was Sanada.

This had not been a good year for anyone, and Yukimura’s illness, his long recovery, and his dangerous choice had driven down on their vice-captain harder than anyone else. It had compressed and darkened him, as if coal were being squeezed into iron instead of diamond. Masaharu didn’t think he would snap, that wasn’t in Sanada’s nature; but that didn’t make his stress and pain any the less. When they found out that Yukimura’s surgeon could only schedule him in the same day that his team would play Seigaku in the final round of Regionals, it was really just the icing on the cake. And when their headstrong little Akaya managed to get himself into a match with Seigaku’s Echizen Ryouma and lost, Sanada was finally infuriated enough to strike members of his team.

Masaharu admitted to a certain desire to throttle Akaya, himself. Just a little bit.

They all spent the last few days before Finals regrouping, planning. He and Yagyuu expected to come up against Seigaku’s “Golden Pair”, which might easily turn into a competition of coordination. They needed tactics to set those two off their stride.

The idea that wended its way into Masaharu’s thoughts made him smile, probably not very pleasantly. If they pulled it off, and there was no real reason they shouldn’t, it would do what they needed it to. And even better, from Masaharu’s point of view, it would allow his partner to blow off some of the stress he had been accumulating. He didn’t show it the way Sanada did, but that didn’t make it any less dangerous.

“Yagyuu,” he murmured, as they packed up, “do you remember that trick the two of us pulled last year?”

Yagyuu’s hands paused. “Yes.”

“It could be… useful, here,” Masaharu suggested.

“Mmm,” Yagyuu tipped his head to regard his partner. “The shock, and then the increase in power. Yes, that could be effective.”

They shared a thin smile.


Yanagi had been right, Masaharu decided, adjusting the glasses he wore. Seigaku could be dangerous. Not enough to beat them, in all likelihood, but enough that he wasn’t surprised by Sanada’s order to play without the wrist weights. Yagyuu, of course, disregarded that, the better to hold his profile to Masaharu’s. Just their luck that Sanada noticed.

When ‘Niou’ snarled at him, startled suspicion flared in their vice-captain’s eyes. Masaharu didn’t worry much about that; their team knew enough to keep their mouths shut. He’d been more worried that Yagyuu, released by wearing his partner’s persona, would do more than snarl.

As the set got going, and Masaharu sank himself into his partner’s place, observing, tallying, he spared a moment to be pleased he had always played such an unpredictable game. It meant there was little chance anyone not of their own team would realize that the way ‘Niou’ was manipulating Kikumaru depended on an absolute awareness of his partner’s position and moves that was characteristic of Yagyuu. Not that it all went one way, of course. He heard what his partner was, silently, asking him to do, and shrugged to himself. If that was what Yagyuu’s heart desired, well, it was certainly one way to end the set quickly. He returned hard and fast, watched Yagyuu place Kikumaru in the ball’s path, watched their opponent fall.

The taunting repetition of Kikumaru’s tag line was more vicious than Yagyuu usually let himself be, even when he let himself go. Masaharu was pleased that his partner had gotten this chance to express himself; who knew what might have happened if he’d bottled it up much longer.

Nevertheless, he was also pleased when Kikumaru recovered. Masaharu found it boring when targets just rolled over and died right away. Since he was being ‘Yagyuu’, he allowed himself to speak his complimentary thought aloud. The Seigaku pair got their second wind, and started pressing back, and Masaharu decided it was time to play their trump card.

Time to call his partner back.

The injunction to “play seriously”, to play as himself, was met with a glare, but Yagyuu finally gave over and pulled out his specialty shot at full strength. It was clear to Masaharu that his partner didn’t particularly want to take up his own, more circumscribed, identity again; he was distinctly grumpy about it. Masaharu sighed to himself. Clearly, they needed to have another conversation about the lack of conflict between politeness and grinding opponents to jelly.

The expressions on the faces of the Seigaku pair were everything he might have hoped for, though.

And, as planned, they never did quite recover their rhythm. It wasn’t an effortless match, but it was a good, solid win, and Masaharu was happy with all aspects of it. All the moreso when he and Yagyuu returned to the benches, and he felt, brushing against his partner’s shoulder, that a good deal of his tension had drained off.

Doubles handed off to singles, and Masaharu sat back to enjoy the last game.

Only it wasn’t.

He had to admit to being deeply impressed with Inui Sadaharu. To give the appearance of wildness, always a lesser threat to a player like Yanagi, in order to set such a magnificent psychological trap definitely earned Masaharu’s respect. For all that Inui looked like the perfect straight-man, Masaharu decided that here was another who deserved the title of Trickster.

That did not make the delay any easier to handle.

Nor did it make Yanagi’s gesture of allegiance to Sanada’s brutal focus, offering himself to the violence Sanada had increasingly used to drive his club and his team, any less painful to watch. Masaharu, for one, was relieved when Akaya intervened. Relieved, if not surprised, because anyone with eyes could see the way Akaya softened whenever he watched The Great Three.

Akaya could be very predictable in some ways.

Masaharu watched him driving Fuji to hit Akaya’s trigger, releasing him. Watched, impressed, as Fuji pressed on despite what would normally be a completely incapacitating injury. Watched, with a bright shock of excitement, as Akaya’s eyes cleared.

Watched Sanada’s involvement with the match. Watched him smile, in spite of Akaya’s loss, when he collected Akaya’s unconscious form from Fuji and brought him back to his team. Yep, Sanada definitely had a soft spot for insane drive and ambition.

Masaharu thought they were all just a little on edge, watching Sanada play an unknown quantity. He knew for a fact that they were all stunned, watching Sanada lose, especially considering the come-back Wonder Boy had had to make. Masaharu briefly considered the possibility that the kid wasn’t human.

The team looked at each other, a little bewildered. It was the first time this team of theirs had lost. The first time in sixteen years that Rikkai had failed to be first at Regionals. What now? Even the lax set of his partner’s shoulders, the serenity in Akaya’s eyes and, curiously enough, in Sanada’s as well, didn’t quite manage to distract Masaharu from the question he was positive was echoing through everyone’s heads.

How were they supposed to tell their captain about this?

TBC

A/N: *mildly disgusted* The surgery mentioned in here has no basis in medical reality. While some of the therapies used to treat the critical stages of Guillain-Barre involve big needles, none of them that I have been able to discover involve invasive surgery. Most certainly none of them hold out any promise of repairing the damaged nerve-sheathes, which would be necessary for such a dramatic recovery of strength as Yukimura had. Canon, however, dictates a surgical procedure, so I did the best I could. My apologies for any egregiously bad science.

Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
Posted: Jun 20, 04
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Challenge – Chapter Ten

The team brings the results to their captain. Drama, I-3

“I will go in first, and explain,” Sanada said, firmly.

Waiting through Yukimura’s surgery and post-operative evaluation had squelched all fears and uncertainties save the ones that related directly to their captain’s health. The news that he was well, and even expected to be strong again, soon, while joyful and welcome, had allowed smaller concerns to resurface. Sanada, in particular, was almost back to his usual, dour, stubborn, pig-headed self.

“It wasn’t just your loss,” Akaya said, softly, head bowed. Masaharu thought his double loss had shaken him pretty badly. Yagyuu thought it was more his strange awakening during his tournament match. Whatever it was, it snapped Sanada, at least temporarily, out of his self-flagellation. He took Akaya by the shoulder and shook him a little.

“Enough, Akaya,” he said, more gently. “You drove yourself well past your limits, all the way to collapse. There was no more you could have done. And if this had never come to you,” he paused, seeming to search for words, “your game would never have become real. Honorable losses are simply an invitation to win next time.”

Masaharu straightened from his slouch against the wall, and exchanged a surprised look with Yagyuu. He had heard Sanada say broadly similar things before, but never quite so bluntly, and certainly not any time this year. Apparently, Akaya wasn’t the only one who had gotten his attitude realigned by shock.

Akaya looked up, gaze solemn. “Yours, too, then. Sanada-fukubuchou,” he stated.

Sanada blinked, opened his mouth, and closed it again. A slightly unwilling smile took over his face, and he ruffled Akaya’s hair. “You’ll be a good captain, next year,” he said, a touch ruefully. Akaya’s ears turned rather red, and he lowered his eyes. Chuckles ran among them all.

“We are a team,” Yagyuu pointed out. “We win or lose as a team. It’s only right that we all be present.”

Sanada finally capitulated with a wordless grunt and turned to lead them down the hall to their captain’s room. They all filed in and arranged themselves around the bed Yukimura reclined in, looking a bit wan, but brighter of eye than he had for some time. Sanada stepped forward, and Masaharu could see his shoulders brace.

“Yukimura,” he started, low, “I have to ask your forgiveness.”

Yukimura tilted his head with a small smile. “What, for running late? I didn’t say so, but I thought you probably would.”

Masaharu winced, and caught Marui with a similar expression out of the corner of his eye.

“No,” Sanada said, struggling a little, now. “Yukimura,” he took a deep breath, “we lost. My… our promise to you is broken. Forgive me.” He looked aside, unable to hold their captain’s eye.

Yukimura looked at him for a long moment, and swept his gaze over the rest of the team as well. They shifted under it, none of them able to lift their eyes. Masaharu nibbled on his lower lip. Yukimura didn’t hold Masaharu’s soul in his hand, the way he did Yagyuu’s or Kirihara’s. Or, for that matter, Sanada’s and Yanagi’s. But Masaharu, who respected very little, respected his captain’s strength and insight. Having failed his trust made Masaharu squirm. If he felt like this, he was half surprised that Sanada wasn’t bowed to the floor.

“Did you play your best?” Yukimura asked, at last.

“Yes,” Sanada answered, sure of that, though Masaharu also heard an edge of helplessness in it, as if he wasn’t sure how both things could be true. Yukimura raised a hand to close over Sanada’s.

“Then there is no shame in losing. You gave everything to this match, even when I was not there to make sure of it. I’m proud of you. All of you.” His eyes moved over his team again, before coming back to rest on Sanada, and the absolution of his acceptance felt like a weight lifted. Everyone breathed again, and Masaharu observed spines straightening all over the room. Except for Sanada, who couldn’t have gotten his any straighter without the help of a rack; he was slumping to a more normal, human posture.

Yukimura tugged on Sanada. “Steal some chairs, and sit down and tell me about it.”

Masaharu slipped out with a grin, only to hear Yukimura’s laughing voice send Yagyuu after him. Yagyuu, the spoil-sport, smiled politely at a passing nurse and extracted extra chairs with ease. Masaharu mock-sulked at his captain when they returned, only be be laughed at again.

“Everyone tells me that the both of you have already had your fun, Niou. Surely you can skip terrorizing the hospital just for today.”

“Just for you,” Masaharu agreed, trying not to grin like an idiot.

They took turns, telling each other’s stories, and Yukimura soothed his singles players when those accounts brought up fresh anxieties.

“…actually made Jackal-senpai sweat, until Marui-senpai decided to show off again.” Thwap! “Ow!”

“Yagyuu was in a fine taking; exactly like Niou in a really foul mood, except he ignores Sanada when he’s pissed off…”

“…really nailed the other player. That was vicious, Yagyuu-senpai.”

“Do you really think you have room to talk, Akaya-kun?”

“…and don’t turn your back on that data specialist of theirs; he’s sneaky.”

“And considering the source…”

“It was interesting that Inui himself thought the result of the match came down to chance.”

“Do you wish to play him again, Renji?” Yukimura interjected. Yanagi looked down at his hands, obscuring the tilted smile on his face.

“I think so, yes,” he said, at length. Yukimura touched his wrist, and nodded firmly when he looked up. Yanagi’s smile un-tilted, and he nodded back. Masaharu decided, as the chatter picked up again, that Yukimura was pleased that Yanagi refused to back away from this challenge.

“…Akaya went completely around the bend,” Marui concluded his tale of Singles Two.

“Fine for you to say,” Akaya grumbled, “I barely remember a thing about it. Just… it was just…” he trailed off, uncertainly.

Yukimura held his eyes. “You can tell me later,” he offered, gently. Akaya nodded, biting his lip.

“And that kid…!”

“He paid for it pretty hard, though.”

“Still…”

“He was,” Sanada paused, looking grim, “unexpected.”

“Someone like that is difficult to calculate or account for,” Yagyuu noted.

“That doesn’t make losing to him any more acceptable,” Sanada insisted. Yukimura sighed.

“Sanada,” he rapped out, the bite of command that none of them had heard in too long back in his voice, “you know there’s more to it than that. Have you completely forgotten what I said on this subject last time?”

Sanada, Masaharu was intrigued to note, glanced sidelong at Akaya. A slight flush surfaced along his cheekbones. Was that where that little bit of advice in the hall had come from?

“I remember,” he murmured.

“Good,” Yukimura stated, definitely.

Finally, a nurse came to chase them out, saying that it was time for Yukimura-kun to rest.

“I should be released in a few days,” he told them, happiness coloring his face, “I’ll be back soon.”

“We’ll be waiting for you,” Sanada answered. “It will be good to have you back again.”


The team bounced or strolled or stalked their way home, according to personality, breaking off toward their houses once they got back to their own neighborhood. As Masaharu and Yagyuu reached their turn-offs, Yagyuu paused, turning very slightly toward Masaharu.

He was getting better, since Yukimura pointed it out, at reading these little incitements for what they were. Masaharu gave his partner a half smile, and asked, “Mind some company for a while?”

“It would be welcome,” Yagyuu answered, cool as if he hadn’t just silently asked for some. Masaharu ran a hand through his hair, laughing to himself at the two of them.

While he’d really had something a little more vigorous in mind, and suspected his partner had as well, when he nudged Yagyuu onto his bed and followed him down they somehow stopped there. Lying, wrapped around each other, almost fully clothed, they simply held on and breathed together, watching the sunlight from the window creep off the bed and onto the floor.

“Is it over, do you think?” Yagyuu asked, at last, barely whispering in the silence. He didn’t protest when Masaharu twined a hand into his hair, drawing his head down to Masaharu’s shoulder.

“This part is, yes,” Masaharu answered, looking up at the ceiling. “I think Sanada will calm down again, some. And Akaya, too, long enough for Yukimura to take him back in hand. And you?”

Yagyuu shivered, and his arms tightened around Masaharu. Masaharu didn’t normally ask such things so bluntly, but, then, normally he didn’t have to. He honestly wasn’t sure how stressed or relieved or, possibly, over the edge his partner was right now.

“He’s coming back.” Yagyuu’s whisper was harsher, choked. “That’s enough.”

Masaharu tightened his hold in return. “You know, it’s a good thing I’m not the jealous type,” he said, against his partner’s temple. Yagyuu laughed, at that.

“Of course you are,” he contradicted, firmly. “Our teammates are the only people you’re willing to share me with. The last time anyone else so much as touched my arm, if I recall correctly, you made everyone think he was challenging Sanada one on one; he could barely pick up his racquet the next day.”

“He had it coming,” Masaharu growled. Yagyuu raised his head and looked down at him.

“Case in point,” he noted rather dryly.

“Mutual monopoly,” Masaharu shrugged. “It’s only fair.” Yagyuu’s eyes sharpened.

“Do I have a monopoly on you?” he asked, softly.

“I thought that was obvious,” Masaharu told him, raising his brows. “It isn’t as if I play tricks for anyone’s benefit but my own and yours.”

“Only you,” Yagyuu chuckled, “would measure it by such a standard, Niou.”

Masaharu made a pleased sound, to hear his bare name in his partner’s mouth, and an even more pleased one when Yagyuu leaned down and kissed him, long and close.


The day Yukimura returned, he was almost mobbed by his delighted club until Sanada barked for everyone to get back to work and the ingrained habit of dangerous months sent them all scattering out of Sanada’s path. Yukimura’s brows lifted a bit, at that, and, when Sanada avoided his gaze, his eyes narrowed. But he seemed willing to set it aside for the time being.

Masaharu reflected, a touch smugly, that he would not wish to be Sanada at any time in the near future. Not, of course, that he ever had wished to be someone so utterly humorless. Casting an eye over the team, he catalogued Jackal as relieved and Marui as gleeful. Not much surprise on that second; Yukimura was generally indulgent of Marui’s histrionics as long as they didn’t interfere with his playing. Sanada was apprehensive, in his own iron-faced way, while Yanagi seemed… exasperated? Now that was unusual. Akaya, predictably, was floating somewhere around cloud nine, and Yagyuu was quietly, subtly glowing. Masaharu grinned.

“Hey,” he nudged his partner, “want to ask Yukimura and Yanagi for a match?”

“If Yukimura-san has no specific plans for the team, today,” Yagyuu agreed, smiling faintly.

Feeling his partner’s glittering, charged presence reach out to fold around him, as they fought to counter the other pair’s combination, Masaharu could barely keep from laughing out loud. Yukimura was back. They were all back, released from their fear and agitation and distraction, back to the place they belonged. Now they could face Seigaku’s challenge properly.

When they took their first game from Yukimura and Yanagi, Masaharu and his partner shared an identical, gleaming smile.

Yes. Everyone was back where they belonged.

End

Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
Posted: Jun 22, 04
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Earth Over Thunder

During Chapter Ten Yanagi deals with Sanada guilting. Drama, I-3

They were almost at the turn for Renji’s house when he noticed that he and Genichirou were walking in step. It was a peripheral observation, and not really surprising since they tended to fall into step when they walked any distance together. They were of a height, it was quite natural. Today, though, it suddenly seemed significant.

Not that Renji entirely trusted his perceptions just at the moment. The release of tension from the matches this afternoon, plus Seiichi’s surgery, had left him rather lightheaded.

Still, it struck him as a good symbol of everything that had been right and wrong during this year.

“Renji.”

His name called him back from his musing, to notice that they had reached his turn, and that Genichirou was standing with his head down, turned a little away.

“I’m… sorry.”

“For what?” Renji asked, quietly, touching his friend’s shoulder. He shook his head at the look Genichirou turned on him. “I knew what I was doing, Genichirou. I’m not blaming you.”

Not least, he reflected, as Genichirou’s eyes darkened, because Genichirou could be counted upon to blame himself.

It had been a split-second decision, almost an impulse, really, except for the calculation behind it. Renji had never expected to lose. Nor, he suspected, had Genichirou ever expected him to lose. When he had, and when he had seen the tightness of Genichirou’s mouth, the question had presented itself: How would Genichirou react to this breaking of the unbreakable rule he had set for their team this year? Renji knew perfectly well that, if it had been anyone but him, Genichirou would not have hesitated to strike, to drive home the unacceptable nature of losing. But it was him. And everyone in the club was aware that he and Genichirou were close friends, as well as teammates. Which led, inescapably, to the conclusion that, in order to keep the respect of the club, Genichirou must not react differently just because it was Renji.

So he had said so.

He had known it was a risk, to deliberately provoke Genichirou when he was that tense and angry. Knew that putting Genichirou squarely between his responsibility to the club and his care for Renji might finally break him. But he hadn’t seen any other way. Nor, to judge by the glint of helpless fury he’d seen in Genichirou’s eyes, as his hand drew back, had Genichirou.

At least, he smiled to himself, they hadn’t seen another way until Akaya interfered, blithe and brash as ever. Genichirou had been right, earlier today; Akaya’s protectiveness of his own, every bit as fierce as his will to win, would serve him well next year, when he became captain.

“Not just today, Renji,” Genichirou shook his head. “This whole year. You warned me, and I didn’t listen.”

“You chose the path that you felt you could walk on,” Renji noted. “And I chose to follow you down it.”

“It was the wrong choice,” Genichirou said, looking away.

“Was there a right one?” Renji countered.

Genichirou’s hand flashed up to touch the side of Renji’s face, softly. “Yes,” he answered, low and sharp, “one that didn’t involve losing control.”

Renji stifled a sigh. He knew quite well what the chances were of convincing Genichirou to let go of some blame he had decided to take on. And he couldn’t argue that the path Genichirou had chosen hadn’t been a dangerous one, especially once their personal bond had fallen crosswise of it. Still, there were times he wished that Genichirou’s ruthlessness were accompanied more often by detachment, rather than passion.

Of course, he supposed that was his part. So he made one more try.

“Was there a right choice we could have reached, this year?” he asked, gently. He read the stubborn There should have been in Genichirou’s tight lips, and couldn’t help a laugh. He laid his hand over Genichirou’s and turned his head to place a kiss in the palm.

“Genichirou,” he said, firmly, “stop this. If there’s anything that needs to be forgiven, I forgive you. It’s over now. Seiichi is coming back to us. We’re going to be all right.”

Genichirou’s eyes were a little brighter, now. “Have I ever won an argument with you?” he asked, with a small, rueful laugh of his own.

“There have been three occasions, to date,” Renji told him, serenely. “I made note of them.”

Genichirou smiled. “Well, since this doesn’t seem like it will be the fourth, I’ll stop. I’ll see you tomorrow, Renji. Good night.”

“Good night, Genichirou.”

Renji walked the rest of the way home with a lighter mind and heart, reassured that things were returning to where they should be.

End

Last Modified: Feb 08, 12
Posted: Jun 23, 04
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Glory

Just before the end of Chapter Ten Kirihara comes to talk to Yukimura about his final match at Regionals. Drama, I-3

Akaya tapped, hesitantly, on the doorframe of Yukimura-san’s room. His mother had said to go on up, but Yukimura-san had only been home one day, and he looked tired. Still, he looked up with a smile of welcome.

“Akaya. Come in, I’ve been expecting you.”

At that bit of information, Akaya ground to a halt again, a few steps inside. Yukimura-san hadn’t said anything, yet, about the way Akaya had let his control lapse this year, but he was uncomfortably aware that he had merrily tromped all over his team captain’s direct orders several times. Having some privacy while his captain yelled at him about that wouldn’t make it significantly more pleasant. Not that Yukimura-san ever exactly yelled, but even-tempered disappointment was worse, and the cold edge when he did lose his temper was terrifying, and…

Yukimura-san’s breath wasn’t quite a sigh. He held out a hand from where he sat on the edge of his bed.

“Close the door, Akaya, and come here. I did say you could tell me about it later, didn’t I?”

Ah, so Yukimura-san had been expecting him because of that; not a huge improvement. Speaking of things that were a little terrifying. Just a little. Akaya tried not to fidget, as he approached, but when he reached Yukimura-san’s side, and paused, the memory of what he’d come to talk about drove such a shudder through him that his knees folded. He sat down abruptly by his captain’s feet and leaned against the bed.

“Are you all right?” Yukimura-san asked, eyes serious.

“I don’t know,” Akaya whispered. “When I played, for the final game, I… I don’t know…” Yukimura-san’s hand brushed over his hair, and Akaya bent his head to rest against Yukimura-san’s knee. “Yukimura-buchou, I can’t even really remember all of it.”

“I watched the tape of the match,” Yukimura-san told him. “Have you?”

Akaya nodded. “It was weird,” he declared.

“I don’t doubt it.” His captain’s voice was warm, and Akaya relaxed under it. “I think you will remember everything in time, especially the next time you play that intensely. What do you remember in the most detail, now?”

Akaya was silent for a few moments. “The feeling,” he said, at last, slowly. “It was so… clear. And cool. And bright. And I felt… like I could keep going forever; like I was breathing in strength, not air. It was so strong. So much.” He broke off, shivering, every muscle wound tight, clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.

Yukimura-san’s hands closed around his face and lifted his head. Akaya clung to the dark, steady gaze that met his, to brace himself against the memory of that overwhelmingly precise focus that had swept his awareness up like a leaf in a high wind.

“Yes,” Yukimura-san said, sure and clear. “I know that. And it can be almost too much to bear, can’t it?”

Akaya pulled in a breath, comforted by his captain’s instant understanding. “Yes,” he agreed, shakily. Yukimura smiled, slow and brilliant and wild, and Akaya’s breath departed again.

“But it’s also glorious, isn’t it?” A laugh ran under Yukimura-san’s voice. “To feel every moment and movement so fully, to experience the sharpness of that edge, to release everything that’s in you and throw it into the game.”

Akaya nodded, wordless.

“This is what I hoped, from the start, you would find, Akaya,” Yukimura-san told him. “It came more abruptly than I expected, but I knew it was there for you from the first.”

Akaya was trembling again, under his captain’s hands, and his eyes felt wide as saucers. “Is it like that… every time?” he asked, hearing his own voice thin with awe or incredulity or terror, he couldn’t have said which. Yukimura-san’s expression was sympathetic again.

“Not so perfectly, perhaps, but yes. It’s there every time. It always comes when you give all of yourself to the game,” he explained. The unspoken corollary hung in the air; if it was too much for Akaya, he could back away. His chin came up, pride stung.

“Yes, Yukimura-buchou.”

The gleam in his captain’s eyes made it clear that Yukimura-san approved of Akaya’s acceptance of this challenge. He took his hands away, fingertips brushing across Akaya’s face with butterfly-wing affection.

“Yukimura-san,” Akaya heard himself murmur, and bit his lip. He tried not to show that yearning too plainly. The gentle denial in Yukimura-san’s gaze hurt too much.

This time, though, Yukimura-san’s look was considering, fiercer and brighter. “Can you defeat me yet, Akaya?” he asked, with the unyielding edge in his voice that had called Akaya to him from the moment they first played against each other.

Akaya heard what Yukimura-san wanted: for Akaya to give himself to this crazy brilliance as completely as his captain had. If he did, and they both played from that intensity… Akaya shuddered, violently.

“Not quite,” he choked, before he hauled in a slow breath and looked up. “Yet,” he finished, sharply.

If a hawk could smile, it might smile the way Yukimura-san was now. “I’ll be waiting for you,” he said.

Akaya nodded, while anxiety and exultation got together to dance a polka in his stomach.

“On that topic,” his captain continued, looking more stern, “I trust I won’t see laziness like you showed in the first part of that match again.”

Akaya winced. He’d known it was coming. He twisted his fingers together and lowered his head.

“Yes, Yukimura-buchou.”

“I know I wasn’t there to hold you back, Akaya,” Yukimura-san said, seriously, “but you must learn to do it for yourself. If you can’t your game will stagnate, and you’ll destroy yourself. And, above that, it isn’t worthy of you. “

Akaya’s head dropped a little further. “Yes, Yukimura-buchou,” he whispered. He’d known, at the time, that his captain wouldn’t be pleased, but the knowledge had been small and distant next to the satisfaction of utterly destroying whatever threatened his goal. Now it was a lot more visceral. Yukimura-san’s kindness, even in the middle of making his displeasure clear, made Akaya feel about one centimeter high.

There was a rustle as Yukimura-san slipped off the bed onto the floor and tugged Akaya, gently, into his arms.

“You’re so innocent, in some ways, Akaya,” he sighed, pressing a hand to Akaya’s bowed head, “and so direct. Let that serve you, instead of dragging you down, and you’ll be one of the best. Remember that I’m waiting for you.”

Akaya closed his eyes and leaned against his captain’s belief in him. He would. He knew what he was chasing, now. He would keep going, and when he found Yukimura-san, on the way, he would be able to hold his head up.

End

Last Modified: Sep 03, 07
Posted: Jun 24, 04
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Water Over Fire

Immediately after Chapter Ten, Sanada (and, to a lesser extent, Yanagi) explains himself to Yukimura. Drama With Romance, I-4

The first day Yukimura returned from recovery to the Rikkai tennis club, and his team, was a day of great relief and rejoicing. It was also, at least for one vice-captain Sanada Genichirou, a rather uncomfortable day.

“You won’t be able to avoid telling him forever, you know,” Renji murmured in his ear. “In fact, I would say your chances of dodging his questions much beyond this evening only stand at twelve percent. By the end of practice, I expect them to drop to three.”

No one else, Genichirou reflected, understood just how evil Renji could be when the mood was on him. Except Yukimura, who found it amusing.

“Do you want me to explain to him?”

It was, of course, balanced by his kindness at other times, but that was no less depressing when Genichirou knew quite well that he didn’t deserve it. Not from Renji; not now.

“No,” Genichirou said, quietly. “I’ll tell him.”

At this remove he found it hard to believe that he had nearly struck one of his two best friends; would have, if Akaya hadn’t interfered. And while Renji was forgiving enough to accept a plea of temporary insanity, he doubted Yukimura would. His friend, Seiichi, was gentle, understanding, even sweet at times. His captain, Yukimura, was unyielding in his demands and his standards.

“You take too much on your own shoulders so often,” Renji sighed. “That was exactly what got you into this situation in the first place.”

Genichirou suppressed a wince. Did Yanagi have to be so damn… accurate?

It was, in fact, just as practice ended that Yukimura closed a hand on each of their arms.

“Why don’t you two join me this evening to discuss the team’s progress?” he suggested, only a hint of steel in his voice indicating that this was not a request.

“I stand corrected,” Renji observed. “Zero percent.”

“Thank you for that update,” Genichirou said, between his teeth. At Yukimura’s questioning look, he glanced aside and answered, “We’ll come.”

The way to either of the other two’s houses was as familiar as the way to his own, so the walk left plenty of Genichirou’s attention free to reflect on his own failures of control. After the first few conversational nudges, Renji left him to it and engaged Yukimura in a discussion of how much reconditioning he could fit in before Nationals. Genichirou was grateful for that.

Yukimura’s parents were out still, not unusual, so the three of them settled in the living room, Yukimura on the couch, Renji in the older and softer of the two chairs. Genichirou took one of the floor cushions, and folded his hands rather tightly on the table. Yukimura eyed his choice with a thoughtful expression.

“It’s been obvious that there were things you weren’t telling me about the club, this year,” he said, at last, quite calm. “I thought there was probably nothing I could do about whatever it was, so I didn’t ask. But I’m asking now, Sanada.”

Genichirou gazed down at his hands.

“In the spring,” he began, “my temper started to… fray. To the point of striking out sometimes. Mostly it was directed at the club, the pool of alternates, but eventually the team was included.” He breathed in and out, slowly, evenly, controlled. And wasn’t that irony for you? Say the rest of it, he ordered himself inflexibly. “Anger was easier than fear. And it kept the club under control.”

“Fear,” Yukimura repeated. “For me?”

Genichirou nodded, silent. Yukimura rose abruptly from the couch, came and knelt beside him, took his shoulders and pulled Genichirou around to face him. His eyes were blazing.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded. Genichirou gauged Yukimura’s agitation by the tightness of his grip. He didn’t want to add to the upset, though he welcomed the bruising strength of Yukimura’s hands, proof of his wholeness once again. But Genichirou had always been honest with these two.

“When?” he asked, barely audible. “While you were already driving yourself to injury, trying to regain strength enough to return to us? While you were torn between risking a relapse and taking a long chance?”

Yukimura closed his eyes and took in a sharp breath. Genichirou felt a rake of pain at having reminded his friend of his own pain, so recently past. But that was the truth of why he hadn’t spoken, and much of the reason he had felt so much helpless fury in the first place. And he knew his captain heard that truth. When Yukimura opened his eyes again, he looked over at Renji.

“I take it you agreed with that?” he asked, evenly.

“I did not consider it likely that you would be able to recall Genichirou’s control while you were still recovering,” Renji specified. “Perhaps my judgment was also impaired by my concern for you. But, Seiichi,” he leaned forward, earnest, “our team is made up of violent and dangerous parts far more than serene ones. You collected them, because you love their brilliance and their edge. Does it truly surprise you that, without you to hold them steady, the danger ran over?”

“I had hoped that your strength would steady them as well,” Yukimura said, softly, glancing between Genichirou and Renji. Genichirou flinched under his hands. The failure had been his own; he knew that.

“If you had only taken a vacation to Australia, instead of the Intensive Care ward, maybe it would have,” Renji answered, with some asperity.

Yukimura blinked a few times before his mouth curled up, and his eyes began to sparkle. After a few moments’ struggle, he gave way and let his forehead thump down on Genichirou’s shoulder while he laughed. The bright sound released Genichirou’s tension, and he finally lifted his hands to Seiichi’s shoulders in return.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against Seiichi’s hair.

“Aah,” Seiichi sighed, straightening. “It’s all right,” he said, laying a hand against Genichirou’s face. “I suppose we’ve all found out we’re only human.” His smile warmed Genichirou, smoothing away his hesitance, and he pulled his friend close, burying his face in the curve of Seiichi’s neck for a long moment as he held Seiichi, taking reassurance in the returning solidness of his body. When they drew back, Seiichi reached out to Renji, who came to join them, taking up the hand Seiichi held out and pressing it to his lips.

There were times when Genichirou envied Renji his less restrained manner.

“So that was what set Akaya off, too?” Yukimura asked, with a slightly rueful twist to his mouth. “If I had known, when I spoke to him, I might have been gentler.”

“That particular dynamic flowed in more than one direction,” Renji noted. “Genichirou’s violence gave Akaya permission, but the satisfaction of Akaya’s destruction was what kept Genichirou focused in that direction.”

That particular bit of accuracy cut like a knife, not least because that wild darkness still tempted, still tugged at his control.

“Stop that,” Seiichi said, firmly, to Genichirou, as he began to stiffen again. He cast a critical eye over the other two, and nodded. “I think,” he declared, “that a bath would be just the thing. What do you think?”

Genichirou saw Renji’s expression soften, and knew his own had as well. It might be a strange reaction, to anyone outside the three of them, he reflected, but that was all right. No one else really needed to understand this.

It was something close to ritual, for them, the silence as they undressed, the fact that Renji always adjusted the temperature of the spray, the fact that Seiichi always took the soap first. Genichirou had missed this, desperately. He and Renji had comforted and supported each other in other ways, while Seiichi had been ill and weakened, but it had never seemed right to have this time without him.

There had been times, when someone was in a playful mood, that “a bath” had turned into a water-and-sponge war. Today, though, it was a handful of quiet moments, Genichirou trading shampoo for a sponge with Renji, scrubbing it gently over Seiichi’s back; Renji leaning against him for balance as he washed a foot; Seiichi sweeping Genichirou’s wet hair back as he finished rinsing it. He felt peace settle over him, over all three of them, as if the drops of water carried it.

Genichirou sighed as they slid into the bath proper. Seiichi nudged him into a corner so that both Seiichi and Renji could lean on him. It was thoroughly nonsensical that it was Genichirou who should feel supported by that, but he did. He slipped a hand around Seiichi’s waist, and the other, more hesitantly, over Renji’s back, asking if it was all right. Renji turned and leaned into him more firmly, hazel eyes laughing at him, silently. He had already forgiven Genichirou his descent into obsession, that look said, so why was his friend being so foolish? Genichirou rested his head against Renji’s, and held him more surely.

If it had been anywhere else he would have offered a kiss, but that was the one thing this time had never been about. This was comfort and cleansing. Healing. It was something that made him understand the little rituals of water at shrines and temples. So they soaked in the heat, and each other’s presence, relaxing with the simple closeness as much as the hot water.

“Better?” Seiichi murmured, at last.

“Much,” Renji answered, and Genichirou made a quiet sound of agreement.

They were all quiet as they emerged and dried each other off, exchanging smiles with the towels. In unspoken accord, Genichirou drew Seiichi back against him and Renji came to wind his arms around them both, closing Seiichi between them. Seiichi leaned against Genichirou and clasped his hands behind Renji laughing softly.

“It’s all right,” he reassured them. “I’m right here.”

“You don’t mind if we hold you a little longer, anyway?” Renji asked, both teasing and serious as he so often was.

Seiichi’s eyes reflected brighter for a moment, before he blinked. “Of course not,” he said, voice catching.

They stood together for a long time.

End

Last Modified: Feb 08, 12
Posted: Jun 25, 04
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Resolution

Sanada and Kirihara address the unproductive aspects of their interpersonal relationship, pursuant to one of Yanagi’s observations in “Water Over Fire”. Porn With Insights, I-4

Genichirou had known that the bond forged by anger and fear, between he and Akaya, would have to be resolved in some way, now that the source of the fear and anger was gone. It should not, perhaps, have surprised him that Akaya understood this, too, without bothering to do anything as effortful as analyze the situation. Nor should it have surprised him that Akaya, understanding, would take the most direct action that occurred to him. And perhaps a part of him knew that, because when he emerged from locking up one afternoon to find Akaya lounging against an otherwise deserted section of wall, he was not actually surprised.

“What are you doing, here, still, Akaya?” he asked, tucking away the keys.

Akaya stretched against the wall, extensively, before he let his arms fall to rest over his head, one hand clasping the other wrist.

“Waiting for you,” he answered, looking up at Genichirou from under long, sooty lashes.

There were not many ways he could have made his intentions more obvious, short of undressing. Genichirou’s hormones took this moment to remind him that Akaya had grown into a lean, feral grace, and was clearly willing, and hadn’t Genichirou thought, before, that he moved with admirable assurance…? Genichirou tried to take the opinions of his hormones with a grain of salt. Akaya was impulsive, considerably moreso than any other member of the team. Giving his impulses free rein was a large part of what had brought them to their current, slightly uncomfortable, position. It behooved Genichirou to at least make sure his younger teammate thought twice. Even once might do. He took a breath for control and came to stand in front of Akaya.

“Akaya,” he said, voice deeper than usual with the effort of restraint, “do you understand what you’re offering?” Akaya tipped his head up, green eyes wide and clear.

“Enough,” he said.

Genichirou could hear in his voice that Akaya was sure of that. His hormones were quick to agree. Well, the more ruthless corner of his mind noted, there was one fast way to find out for sure. He reached out and caught Akaya up against him, pulling Akaya’s weight up onto his toes until he caught at Genichirou’s shoulders for balance. A pointless move, that, since Genichirou was holding him too tightly for Akaya to fall. His mouth closed over Akaya’s, hard and searching. Akaya opened his mouth to Genichirou’s rough kiss, pressing back against him, molding his body to Genichirou’s.

Well, that seemed to answer that question. Genichirou thought he might have had others, but couldn’t quite remember them, as Akaya squirmed against him.

He let Akaya go, abruptly, keeping him from stumbling back into the wall with a hand at the small of his back. When he staggered for balance, though, Akaya’s feet spread apart and allowed Genichirou to press a leg between his. He drew Akaya back to him, slowly, sliding him up Genichirou’s thigh, and Akaya tossed his head back.

“Sanada-san,” he gasped, bright eyes drifting shut.

Genichirou cupped a hand behind Akaya’s head, supporting him as Genichirou licked up his throat. That hand also prevented Akaya from knocking himself into the wall as he arched back further when Genichirou closed his teeth just under Akaya’s ear.

It was the texture of the brick against Genichirou’s hand that brought their location back to him. The reminder that they were outside, in full view of anyone who might come along, shocked a little sense back into him. If Akaya wanted to be taken to bed, Genichirou had no objection to doing so. Quite the contrary. Akaya’s passion appealed to him. But if they meant to move beyond the shared violence of these past months, it could not be like this.

He let Akaya back down to his feet, and loosened his hold on him. Akaya made a disappointed sound, and reached up, trying to draw Genichirou back down to him. Genichirou caught his hand, smiling.

“For someone I would swear is inexperienced, you certainly know how to plan a seduction, Akaya,” he commented. “And, on top of that, almost tempted me to be rough with you.”

“Yes,” Akaya breathed, and Genichirou blinked. That couldn’t have been what it sounded like. He brushed Akaya’s hair out of his eyes, taking a certain satisfaction in how hazy they were now.

“Not here. Will you come home with me, Akaya?”

“Yes,” Akaya repeated.


Akaya entered Sanada-san’s room just a little hesitantly. This was, to be sure, where he wanted to be, but when Sanada-san had suggested Akaya was inexperienced, he’d been right. Nevertheless, Akaya was sure of his course. When Sanada-san had drawn him up that second time, all Akaya could think of was how much he wanted to feel both those muscled thighs between his, pressing his legs apart…

He shivered.

“Akaya.”

Sanada-san held out a hand, and Akaya came to him, was gathered up against him, felt Sanada-san’s mouth against his. Gently. Still strong, but soft. Akaya’s breath hitched, and a questioning, protesting sound escaped his throat. Sanada-san drew back, brows raised.

“Sanada-san,” Akaya said, troubled, “you shouldn’t… I mean… what about Yukimura-buchou and Yanagi-senpai?”

Sanada-san blinked at him a few times, before his mouth quirked, and he ran a quick hand through Akaya’s hair before pulling him closer, tucked against his shoulder.

“Akaya,” he said, tone both amused and a little chiding, “we aren’t like that.”

Akaya stirred. He might be the youngest of the team, but he wasn’t blind, thank you, and the three of them most certainly were like that. Sanada-san put a hand under his chin and nudged his head up.

“No one else can be to any of us what the other two are,” he clarified. “It’s no injury to them if I care for you.”

Akaya felt himself blushing. He hated it when he did that. Even if both Sanada-san and Yukimura-buchou seemed to be amused by it. And he’d known, already, that Sanada-san cared about him. He’d known it for sure when Sanada-san had let Akaya’s loss go without reprimand; he had nearly keeled over from the shock, right there on the court. The problem was, the other two weren’t the only problem; just the first that came to mind. How could gentleness defuse the weight of what had fed back and forth between them, every time one of them lashed out at anyone?

“It would be easier if you were rough,” he said, quietly. Sanada-san’s eyes blanked with surprise, for a moment.

“You really did mean it that way?” he murmured, shaking his head before Akaya could answer. “No. If you still think you want that, later, maybe. But not now. You should know, first, what it means for someone to be gentle with you.”

“It would,” Akaya repeated, with careful emphasis, “make it easier.” This time he thought Sanada-san understood, because his eyes turned distant the way they did when he was judging an opponent. But he still shook his head, more wearily this time.

“This, Akaya,” he said, sternly, “is what comes of you relying on your intuition before your analysis. If I were rough with you now, even if you enjoyed it, which I begin to suspect you might,” Akaya blushed again, “it would only make it more difficult for both of us to turn aside from the violence we’ve shared already.”

Akaya thought about that. He hadn’t really planned beyond simply making contact, grounding the hovering tension that had grown between them over the past months. Forethought wasn’t exactly his strength. So, when Sanada-san repeated, “No. Not your first time,” he accepted it and relaxed into Sanada-san’s arms, lifting his face for another kiss.

Expecting it, this time, Akaya gave himself to the softer touch, to Sanada-san’s mouth sliding over his, teasing, slow. He parted his lips on a sigh, as Sanada-san’s tongue flicked at them, and made a small humming sound as Sanada-san settled Akaya more comfortably against his body. The hum became a purr as Sanada’s hands slid over his shoulders, down his back, and finally reached for the buttons of his shirt.

Akaya returned the favor, though most of his attention was on Sanada-san’s tongue stroking lines and circles against his. It was nice to be able to multi-task; it was one of the things he was good at, as the entire team knew, even if Marui-senpai did say that only meant he broke even because he had the attention span of a gnat. Maybe he should bring this moment up as an example of his attention span… no, Sanada-san would kill him. Though, it was fun to get Sanada-san a little stirred up, as long as one stopped short of really pissing him off.

A thought occurred to Akaya, as Sanada-san brushed his shirt off his shoulders, and he broke away, grinning. At Sanada-san’s what now? look, Akaya let his hands trail down his own body to rest on his belt-buckle, lowering his head so he could look at Sanada-san from under his lashes. As he undid his pants, and slid them off his hips, he saw heat flare in the deep brown eyes. The grin got a little wider. Completely naked, he stretched up on his toes, dropping his head back. He was mildly disappointed not to feel Sanada-san’s hands on him before he settled back down, but the fire in those eyes was perfectly gratifying.

A corner of Sanada-san’s mouth curled up as he followed suit, but Akaya didn’t notice it for long because his eyes were drawn downwards. And that was going… Um. Yes. That particular item distracted him enough that he barely noticed Sanada-san was coming towards him until he did feel Sanada-san’s hands on him, pulling him close again.

All Akaya’s thoughts broke off, lost in a tense gasp, because the feeling of Sanada-san’s hands running over his bare skin was shockingly different than it had been clothed. He leaned into Sanada-san for support, only to shiver at the soft, warm slide of their bodies against each other. A faint ah escaped him as Sanada-san’s spread hands pressed up his back, pushing him into Sanada-san’s chest, and Akaya rose up on his toes in response to that firm touch.

“I should teach you a lesson about teasing, Akaya,” Sanada-san said in his ear, voice deep and rich with amusement and intimacy. “But somehow I doubt it would keep you from playing with fire.”

“Sanada-san,” Akaya breathed, without the coherence to answer further. Sanada-san kissed him, hard.

He was grateful when Sanada-san let him down onto the bed, because he wasn’t sure how long he would stay standing without Sanada-san holding him up. Once he was lying down he could let himself twist and arch into the stroke of Sanada-san’s hands over his stomach, down his legs, without worrying about little things like falling down. He felt like his body had turned to some kind of liquid, waves echoing out from every point of contact.

Sanada-san wrapped Akaya in his arms and rolled over, pulling Akaya to lie on top of him. Akaya blinked down, and then sucked in his breath as Sanada-san’s hands ran down his thighs, spreading his legs wide. He felt Sanada-san bring his own legs up to keep Akaya’s open, and heat touched his cheeks. Sanada-san smiled at him, slight and promising, before he wound a hand into Akaya’s hair and drew him down to a slow kiss. He felt Sanada-san shift under him, heard a faint clatter, and then felt Sanada-san’s other hand, slick and cool, press between his cheeks. He made a startled sound into Sanada-san’s mouth, but that hand didn’t go any further yet, only rubbed against him, massaging.

The touch was gentle and hard, careful and forceful; it was entirely Sanada-san’s touch. Akaya dropped his head down to the curve of Sanada-san’s shoulder, feeling the sliding press of Sanada-san’s hand persuading his muscles to relax and open, feeling his legs splayed apart, lax, feeling both exposed and wantonly pleased by his position. Feeling, at last, two of Sanada-san’s fingers press smoothly into him, and he gasped sharply against Sanada-san’s neck.

“You let me in easily,” Sanada-san murmured to him. “Maybe I will show you what it’s like rough, after all. Another time.”

Something that Akaya’s dignity refused to call a whimper left his throat as Sanada-san’s fingers moved, stroked out and back into him. Skittering flashes of pleasure followed their path, a luxurious stretch of muscle coupled with a sharp tingle as his body worked around them. When Sanada-san turned his hand, twisting his fingers inside Akaya, Akaya moaned and pressed up into the touch. When another finger joined the first two, Akaya tossed up his head, eyes closed, lips parted. The stretch burned, like exhaustion after a long game. The satisfaction in the feeling was very similar.

“Akaya?” Sanada-san asked.

“Yes,” Akaya managed, opening his eyes. Whatever was in them made Sanada-san’s mouth curve before his fingers stroked Akaya, hard, inside, and sensation clenched around Akaya’s nerves like hot wire. He jerked against Sanada-san’s body as Sanada-san’s fingertips slid over and over that spot, until Akaya cried out. As Sanada-san’s fingers retreated and thrust back down, Akaya leaned on his elbows, panting.

“Ah… ah… hhah…”

“So responsive, Akaya,” Sanada-san commented, and his fingers slipped out with a suddenness that startled Akaya. Sanada-san rolled him back underneath, and Akaya blinked up at him, dazed.

When something significantly larger than Sanada-san’s fingers pushed against him, he focused on Sanada-san’s eyes, sharp and hot, and reached up. Sanada-san leaned over him, letting Akaya take hold of his shoulders as he pressed forward. Akaya’s breath came fast and short, caught on a choke as Sanada-san slipped into him. Tremors coursed through Akaya, and Sanada-san held still. Akaya, really looking at him, saw the iron control in the set of his mouth, felt it in the tensing of his shoulders. Sanada-san was concerned for him, was holding back to be sure Akaya was all right. Akaya let out his breath on a slightly broken laugh.

Sanada-san looked down at him, completely still for a moment, and Akaya brushed his fingers over Sanada-san’s mouth.

“I’m all right,” he husked. “It’s good.”

“Good,” Sanada-san said against his fingertips, deep voice soft.

The movement of Sanada-san sliding into him pulled a long moan from Akaya. It was good. He liked that tingle, that almost scratchy feeling of muscles stretching, and the moving, the sliding of something inside him, was like warm oil spread over skin. The slow, smooth strength of Sanada-san’s motion pressed him back against the bed and left him trembling. Every thrust pressed more tension out of him, until his body was as lax as it had been when he lay sprawled over Sanada-san.

Until Sanada-san lifted Akaya’s hips, a little, and his next thrust drove sharper pleasure through Akaya’s body. Sanada-san refused to move any faster, though, and Akaya found himself caught in waves of flowing heat that were just too slow to carry him to release.

“Sanada-san,” he gasped, pleading, and Sanada-san’s mouth curved in a deeply satisfied smile.

When Sanada-san’s hand closed, tight, around Akaya and stroked him, fast, the spike of sensation flung him over the edge. The rushing surge of his body was as much of a shock as if he’d been shoved through a glass wall. The world shuddered around him, and he felt Sanada-san driving into him faster, opened his eyes just in time to see that hard mouth fall open, and something bright and even tender cross Sanada-san’s face. The sight made him wind his arms around Sanada-san, as he slumped down over Akaya.

As Sanada-san caught his breath, he rolled them both over once again, stroking his hands down Akaya’s back and legs, soothing shaking muscles. Akaya laughed a little, tucking his head under Sanada-san’s chin.

“You like to have me here, don’t you?” he murmured.

“Mmm,” Sanada-san agreed. “And you seem to enjoy being there.”

“Lots,” Akaya confirmed, stretching happily before he wriggled to get a bit more comfortable. “You have good hands; I like to feel them.” He paused. “I’m still going to beat you at tennis, of course.”

It felt interesting, to be lying on top of someone who was laughing.

“So,” Akaya said, after they were still again, “are you going to show me what it’s like when you’re rough?”

Another laugh, this one a purring rumble in the broad chest under Akaya’s ear. Sanada-san’s hands slid familiarly over Akaya’s skin.

“Wait and see, Akaya.”

End

Last Modified: Feb 08, 12
Posted: Jun 25, 04
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Tala and 9 other readers sent Plaudits.

Temper

Yukimura apologizes to the teams his own injured, and picks up a challenge on the way. Drama, I-3

Yukimura Seiichi paced through the grounds of a school not his own, toward the practice area of a rival team, and reflected that his current errands in Tokyo would probably make a splendid case study of social interdependence. His illness had affected his entire team, and the pass-along effects had been substantial, to say the least. His return called on him to tie up far more loose ends than he would have expected.

Seiichi sighed to himself. Genichirou had wanted to come as well. Or, at least, he had said that he should come. But Seiichi could see the soul cramping discomfort in those level eyes, and had told him it was Seiichi’s duty as captain. And then dropped a word to Renji to try and keep Genichirou busy while he was gone.

When Seiichi came to the edge of Fudoumine’s tennis courts, he stood under the shadow of the trees and simply watched for a moment. The contrast to his own home courts was pointed. These were well kept, and the players on them energetic and dedicated. But there were only seven of them. No other club members played, or watched, or cheered. No coach stood beside the tall captain, watching from the sidelines.

Well, Seiichi reflected, with a self-deprecating smile, the official faculty advisor for Rikkai’s tennis club didn’t come anywhere near their practices, either, but from what Renji said Fudoumine’s captain had chased theirs off far more vehemently than Seiichi had his own.

He had been aware that Tachibana Kippei was an excellent tennis player. Watching the team he had put together with no one’s authority or guidance or support but his own, Seiichi was prepared to call him an excellent captain, too. It made the offense committed against him bite all the sharper, that it had threatened, not only a good player, but an entire team who were worthy of respect.

Interdependence. Without superb opponents, where was the point in being the best? If he could teach that to his little fire-eater before the year’s end, Seiichi might call himself a good captain, as well.

At last, he sighed and stepped forward, calling out, “Tachibana!”

“Yukimura,” Fudoumine’s captain acknowledged, surprised. The heads closest to them snapped around, and Tachibana’s vice-captain took a few quick steps closer. Seiichi stifled a sigh.

“If you have a moment free, I was hoping we might speak,” he said.

Tachibana’s brows twitched up, but he nodded. “Of course.” He waved his team back to their practice, and stepped a little away from the fence. “You’re recovered, then?” he continued.

“Yes,” Seiichi answered, pleasure warring with remembered pain and current annoyance. From the shadow that passed over Tachibana’s eyes, he saw all three. Seiichi smiled, just a touch wistfully; he would have liked to be present to have played this one. “And you?” he asked.

Tachibana’s expression stilled. “Completely recovered,” he said.

“That was actually why I came, today,” Seiichi told him, quietly. “The actions of my team were unacceptable; both that Akaya would do such a thing, and that the others would not stop him.” He bowed. “I apologize for them.”

He was uncomfortably aware of Tachibana’s surprise; it confirmed what he had suspected about the general behavior of his team while he was gone. It was a moment before the other captain managed to speak.

“It’s well,” Tachibana said, at last. “Please…”

Seiichi straightened, aware of the Fudoumine team, frozen on the courts until Tachibana cut a stern look at them.

“A dedicated team can sometimes let their determination lead them too far,” he said, voice raised just a bit. Seiichi was rather amused to note the suddenly red faces of about half the Fudoumine team, as they all turned quickly back to work. He was sure there was a story behind that little admonition.

“Indeed,” Seiichi agreed, with a tiny smile, answered by a wry glint in Tachibana’s eye. “I’m glad you recovered in good time for Nationals. We hope to meet you again, there.”

Tachibana’s sudden smile was like sunlight after dark weather. He held out a hand, and Seiichi was pleased to find his grip sure and strong.

“Likewise.”

Yes, this was a good opponent.

An approaching rustle culminated in a sharp exclamation of, “Rikkai!” A girl, about their age, was standing beside the courts, looking at Seiichi like she had found him under a particularly loathsome rock. If this was the younger sister he understood Tachibana had, he supposed he couldn’t blame her too much.

“Ann!” Tachibana said, in almost exactly the tone Seiichi used when calling Akaya to order. Her growl had much more in common with Sanada, however, albeit in a higher register. Renji had mentioned that she was extremely protective of her brother and his people. Seiichi firmly suppressed a chuckle, as she stalked a little further down the fence after a last suspicious look at him, fairly sure she would bite him if he let it out.

“I should be going,” Seiichi said, a bit regretfully. “There are other errands I need to run while I’m in Tokyo.”

“Of course,” Tachibana said. “I hope we’ll meet again soon.”

Well, that was the warm-up, Seiichi thought, as they parted with pleasantries on both sides. Now for what was likely to be the harder part.


Seigaku’s courts were much livelier, and they spotted him coming. His name and Rikkai passed among the club members like wind through tall grass.

One distinct similarity, however, was the speed with which the players responded to the captain’s dark look.

He and Tezuka were more familiar with each other than he and Tachibana, and Tezuka gestured Fuji over and received Seiichi’s apology to them with no surprise. Fuji was, predictably, somewhat harder to read.

“Please, think nothing of it,” he told Seiichi, with a very bright and entirely insincere smile. “Truly, I was pleased to be so instrumental in such a dramatic awakening as Kirihara-kun’s. Though I’m sure I can’t take too much credit. It must have been building for some time.”

Seiichi’s eyes narrowed. He had come here to render an apology, but he’d be damned before he stood still to be a source of entertainment for Fuji Shuusuke.

“I was equally pleased to see your own efforts finally become serious,” he returned, tone even but clipped. “I trust it will not be merely a temporary advance.”

Fuji’s burning blue gaze was suddenly much more direct. If Fuji had implied that Seiichi’s team was undisciplined and ill-trained, Seiichi had just come within two breaths of calling Fuji a coward.

Fuji had frustrated him at a distance for years. They had met several times, in the Elementary circuit. Powerful opponents were the heart of the game, to Seiichi, and it had been clear that Fuji could be very powerful. His elusive profile, however, had spoken to Seiichi of how little Fuji understood the exaltation of playing with everything one had. He would flash out with some gem of skill or discovery, and then refuse to follow it up. It had absolutely infuriated Seiichi, and after they started junior high, when his forlorn hope that Fuji would either shape up his game or withdraw had been dashed, Renji and Genichirou had had to listen to several extended tirades on the subject. He had itched to add Fuji to what Renji called his collection; had gone so far as to suggest that Fuji would find a place waiting for him if he chose to transfer. Seiichi had been sure that he could draw Fuji’s real strength out. But Fuji had chosen to stay with Seigaku, and with Tezuka, and Seiichi had no choice but to grit his teeth every time he saw Fuji play, and accept it.

Nor could Seiichi say, now, that Fuji had been wrong to do so, watching the almost-glance he flicked toward the captain he had chosen.

“It will not be,” Fuji answered, light tone gone from his voice, head high. A ripple of surprise ran through the Regulars who had edged close enough to hear the exchange. Tezuka’s eyes, though, held only a bright, hard pleasure that showed nowhere else in his face or stance.

Perhaps that was the key, Seiichi reflected. Perhaps Fuji had needed the quiet of Tezuka’s demands and the stillness of his brilliance rather than the blaze that Seiichi knew was his own when he set it free.

“We will all look forward to seeing it, then,” he said, still a challenge but a gentler one. Fuji nodded, silently, and they both relaxed again.

“You have returned to play, then?” Tezuka asked, gathering the conversation back up with his trademark economy and grace.

“Good as new,” Seiichi confirmed, and exchanged a look with Tezuka that glinted with anticipation. They had both, Seiichi rather thought, had enough of convalescence.

“Well,” a new voice put in, “if you’re all better, will you play a game?”

A muffled laugh escaped Fuji, as Tezuka’s brow arched and his vice-captain, nudging back the other Regulars, clapped a hand over his eyes. Seiichi examined his challenger, who was unmistakably Seigaku’s first-year prodigy, Echizen Ryouma. Sanada had had a good deal to say about him, mostly about his unquestionable talent and his stunning determination. Akaya, on the other hand, had said very little; merely that Echizen was really annoying, almost as much so as Fuji. Akaya’s opinion took on a new edge, in light of Echizen’s expression. It was familiar: cocky, assured, eager. Seiichi had seen one just like it last year, when a first-year had challenged the three best players in the club.

“Now I see why Akaya picked things up from you so easily,” Seiichi murmured. “You remind me a great deal of him.”

Fuji’s laugh was no longer quite so muffled, and Echizen gave his senpai a look of Very Limited Amusement before he turned back to Seiichi.

“So?” he pressed.

Seiichi smiled, slowly, letting his focus settle on this one, letting the world narrow and sharpen. From the fire in his eyes, Echizen saw or felt that preparation, and leaned forward. Yes, this one was good.

“If your captain permits it,” Seiichi agreed.

Echizen’s expression, as he looked up at Tezuka, held neither a plea nor a demand—only the absolute certainty that his captain would understand. It was, Seiichi noted, far more effective than either of the other things would have been. A corner of Tezuka’s mouth curled up, slightly, and he nodded.

As they set themselves on the court, Echizen called out to him.

“No holding back, all right Yukimura-san?”

“Of course,” Seiichi answered

His first serve sang past Echizen’s ear.

Echizen had very expressive eyes; even from across the court, Seiichi could see them widen, and then gleam. Echizen’s stance shifted, and he was in time for the next ball. The corners of Seiichi’s own mouth quirked up in answer to the delighted grin the boy shot him.

Sanada was right, Echizen was extremely fast, and remarkably strong for someone that small. Seiichi could hardly wait to see him on the high school circuit. More than that, he gloried in the game. Seiichi could feel the crackle of Echizen’s awareness and excitement lacing into his own as he raised the level again and again, and Echizen gathered himself each time to meet the new challenge. The first time Echizen took a point, with that curious double-bouncing drive of his, Seiichi laughed out loud, and the sparkle in Echizen’s wide, bright brown eyes laughed with him. Seiichi forgot care and convalescence, prudence and measurement, let himself go, and played full out, in love, for the space of the game, with the blazing spirit across the net.

Echizen lost three games to six, but his arrogance was undiminshed as he hauled himself to his feet and looked up at Seiichi, gaze as straight as his back. Seiichi offered his hand across the net.

“Next time you’ll do better,” he said. A goad, an invitation, a compliment. Echizen clasped his hand.

“Of course,” he stated.

Seiichi became aware of the silence surrounding them, even the Regulars standing rather wide-eyed, except for Fuji, who looked reflective, and Tezuka, who gave Echizen a nod of approval, and Inui, who was writing. Seiichi realized that the skritch of pencil on paper was so familiar he hadn’t even registered it. He sighed to himself; Renji would likely have a few words to say about playing full out in front of Seigaku’s data specialist.

Seiichi found he didn’t care in the least.

“I’ll walk you out, if I may,” Tezuka offered, nodding his team back to business. Most of them descended on Echizen first, who looked downright surly about the fact. Seiichi chuckled as they turned away.

“I take it you still have some reconditioning to do,” Tezuka observed, as they walked.

“Mm,” Seiichi agreed. “Quite a bit, I’m afraid. This was very useful though; thank you.”

“Echizen needs good opponents to teach him,” Tezuka said, quietly. “It was as much a favor received as a favor given.”

“Perhaps,” Seiichi answered. Names hung, unspoken, in the air. Akaya, driven, first by Echizen and then by Fuji, to reach past his easy strength to something truer; Sanada, reminded by Echizen of why they played this game; Fuji, roused at last from his detachment by Akaya’s rage; Echizen, now given another goal to chase. Seiichi did not underestimate the need for and value of that last, especially for someone of such outstanding skill. The thought made him smile, though.

“You know, I think you’ve been replaced in Sanada’s affections, Tezuka; he’s very focused on evening the score with Echizen, just now,” Seiichi mentioned, a bit mischievously.

Tezuka gave him a bland look that declined to rise to the bait. “Should I expect him in Singles Two, then?” he asked.

“Probably.” They stopped at the school gates, and Seiichi gave Tezuka a direct look. “We can leave them to it, I think. It’s time you and I met in a real game, Tezuka.”

The shift was subtle, but distinct; the look Tezuka returned carried a pressure like deep water, and a knife of focus that cut away everything else in the world.

“Indeed,” the other captain said, softly.


“…was not a well thought out choice, Seiichi,” Renji concluded. “Sadaharu is perfectly capable of projecting your likely progress in the time before Nationals, and you don’t really need to give Tezuka any advantages.”

“Oh, come on, Renji, I was there to ask them to forgive the uncivil behavior of my team. Refusing a polite request would have undone half my work.”

Renji gave him a long, steady look, leaning back in the desk chair. “And you couldn’t resist the lure of a talented and passionate player,” he sighed.

Seiichi smiled at his friend, entirely unrepentant. “And I couldn’t resist the lure of a talented and passionate player,” he agreed.

“It’s a lost cause, Renji,” Genichirou said, from the bed behind Seiichi’s shoulder. “You know what Seiichi’s like when comes to a good opponent.”

“Yes, I do. And you’re almost as bad,” Renji pointed out, dryly.

“Renji,” Seiichi said, softly, turning the other’s face back to his. “It was magnificent.” He drew Renji down to a kiss, seeking to share some of the exhilaration and joy Seiichi found in matches like today’s. He thought he might have succeeded when Renji shivered under his touch and a choked sound caught in his throat.

“A difficult argument to refute,” Renji murmured as Seiichi drew back.

“Then stop trying,” Seiichi directed. “We’re going to play them at Nationals. I’m sure of it.”

He gathered up the other two by eye, calling silently for their fierceness to answer his, and when they did Seiichi smiled, content with the world.

End

A/N: I am no longer at all convinced that Yukimura would feel called to apologize for these injuries, any more than Atobe apologized for Tezuka’s shoulder. The opponents chose to take the risks they did, even after seeing clearly what Kirihara was capable of, and I actually think Yukimura would consider it lessening his opponents’ dignity to apologize. This was my best guess about him at the time, though, and I let it stand as such.

Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
Posted: Jun 27, 04
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Contrary

Kirihara decides to tease Sanada, and the results are about what one might expect. Porn Without Plot, I-4

Kirihara Akaya was in a contrary mood, and had decided, early in the day, that Sanada-san would be the perfect recipient for it. The team whip-cracker was in exactly the right kind of anal-retentive mood to be annoyed by it, and an annoyed Sanada-san had all sorts of possibilities. Accordingly, he had set out to tease his vice-captain. It was good entertainment for everyone. The first time he had stepped close enough that they could feel each other’s body heat, and tipped his head back to cast a look of invitation up through his lashes, Sanada-san’s eyes had widened with what might have been panic in anyone less controlled.

Niou-senpai had dropped his serve, he’d been laughing so hard.

As Akaya continued to brush his fingers over Sanada-san’s hand when accepting some extra tennis balls, or stretch along the back of a bench as suggestively as he could manage, Sanada-san’s expression had gone from startled to harassed to downright bothered.

Akaya smiled as demurely as he could manage when Jackal-senpai gave him a scolding look. It wasn’t easy, with Marui-senpai snickering in the background.

It actually wasn’t until Sanada-san took a hasty step to Yanagi-senpai’s opposite side, as Akaya approached with an innocent question about footwork, and Yukimura-buchou was attacked by a not very convincing fit of coughing, that Akaya realized he was doing this in front of Sanada-san’s real partners, and might be stepping on some toes. He let Sanada-san escape in favor of approaching his captain, instead.

“Yukimura-buchou?” he asked, with a penitent glance up.

Yukimura-buchou and Yanagi-senpai exchanged a look. Yanagi-senpai turned a hand palm up, and Yukimura-buchou nodded. Akaya had no idea what they had just communicated, but it was obviously significant. Yukimura-buchou cleared his throat, though his eyes still laughed.

“As long as it doesn’t interfere with practice, Akaya,” he said, very quietly, patting Akaya on the shoulder. “Just remember I’m not going to save you from the consequences,” he warned, as Akaya grinned broadly.

Akaya lowered his lashes to hide his eyes. “Of course not, Yukimura-buchou,” he murmured.

Yanagi-senpai’s snort said he wasn’t buying it. When he spoke, though, there was amusement in his voice along with a certain clinical edge that almost made Akaya rethink his plans.

“Enjoy yourself, Akaya.”

Almost. Akaya nodded and went back to work.

By the end of practice there was a dangerous light in Sanada-san’s eye, and Akaya congratulated himself as they all got changed. The familiar chatter of the doubles pairs, and the murmur of Yukimura-buchou speaking with someone about exercises for next practice rose and fell around him as the third years left ahead of him.

The only particularly jarring note was the click of a lock being thrown.

Akaya turned away from his locker to see Sanada-san standing at the door. Three long strides brought him back across the room, and he caught Akaya up off his feet.

“Do you remember what I said about teasing, Akaya?” he asked, softly.

Pressed against the length of Sanada-san’s body, so tightly he could feel as well as hear the deep, smooth voice, Akaya couldn’t hold back a triumphant grin.

“That it works?” he suggested, breathless.

Sanada-san’s eyes narrowed. He freed a hand and ran it up Akaya’s neck, tracing his jaw with a thumb, combing through his hair. “I think,” he said, sounding contemplative, “that I will teach you a lesson about that after all. But not right now.”

“What’s right now?” Akaya asked, tucking his chin down to give Sanada-san a coy look.

Sanada-san’s fingers tightened in his hair, drawing his head back until Akaya arched over Sanada-san’s arm.

“Wait and see, Akaya,” he whispered against Akaya’s throat, and Akaya’s breath caught when he remembered the last time he had heard those words. His knees were a little weak at the thought, and when Sanada-san let him back down to his feet he clung to the broad shoulders, gazing up, asking if Sanada-san was serious.

Sanada-san held his eyes, as his hands slid down over Akaya’s hips, pushing down the last of his clothing, leaving him bare to Sanada-san’s touch. It felt like Sanada-san’s hands were charged, electric, tugging at Akaya’s nerves as they passed over his skin. Akaya’s lips parted on a shaky breath, and Sanada-san pulled him close and kissed him hard before setting him a little away and stripping off his own clothing. Akaya didn’t have much time to look, though, before Sanada-san stepped into him, bearing him back against the wall. Akaya’s shoulders jarred against it, hard, and a subtle twist of Sanada-san’s body put his legs between Akaya’s; Akaya could feel the flex of muscles against his inner thighs, and let his head fall back with a faint moan.

The moan returned, unrestrained this time, as Sanada-san reached down, firm hands sliding over Akaya’s rear, and pulled Akaya up his body, slowly, until Akaya could wind his legs around Sanada-san’s waist. Akaya could feel that Sanada-san was already as hard as he was. Sanada-san’s large, powerful hands gripped his rear, spreading him open as they supported him, and he could feel that hardness rubbing between his cheeks, promising. Akaya shuddered.

“Sanada-san,” he gasped, legs tensing as he pushed into that promising touch. Sanada-san’s chuckle did enticing things, where Akaya’s cock was pressed up against Sanada’s stomach.

“So impatient, Akaya,” he said, chiding. Akaya groaned as Sanada-san moved one hand to rummage in the locker nearest them.

A small part of his mind noted that Sanada-san’s choice of this particular wall had clearly not been random, because that was his own locker. The rest of him, however, was almost writhing against Sanada-san’s body, because Sanada-san’s effortless strength, holding him up, holding him open, made Akaya hotter than he’d thought possible. On the courts, that strength was an irritation and a challenge, the thing Akaya needed to surpass. Here, though, it was a lure, the potential for as much sensation as Akaya wanted, as much as he could take, and just maybe enough.

Akaya shivered as long fingers spread coolness over his skin, gasped as Sanada-san’s cock pressed, carefully, into him, just barely inside him, and paused. Akaya’s eyes were wide; Sanada-san felt incredibly thick inside him, and the abrupt stretch had him panting already.

When Sanada-san thrust into him, sudden and deep, Akaya heard his own voice echo back from the walls.

Sanada-san drove him up against the wall again, and again, fast and hard, and Akaya made no effort to restrain the sounds Sanada-san was calling out of him, barely registering the bared teeth in Sanada-san’s smile. He reveled in the strength that held him, while the rough force of Sanada-san thrusting into him spread a burning heaviness through every muscle in his body. Sanada-san was filling him so hard, Akaya thought he might tear apart from the weight of sensation. Sanada-san drove him open, wider and wider, until the heat seized hold of him, overwhelmed him, snapped like a shock, and he was arching desperately into the unyielding body pressing him against the wall, voiceless as pleasure wrung him again and again.

He collapsed forward onto Sanada-san’s shoulder, almost sobbing for breath. He didn’t even have enough to moan at how hard Sanada-san still thrust into him. By the time he did, it was over and Sanada-san’s hands, gentler now, were setting him down and supporting him as he wavered on his feet. Akaya kept his arms wound around Sanada-san’s shoulders, and leaned against him as those hands rubbed his back.

“You make an engagingly appreciative bedmate, Akaya,” Sanada-san murmured to him, a bit breathless himself, Akaya was pleased to hear.

“‘S no bed,” he mumbled. He was also gratified when Sanada-san stifled a helpless laugh in his, now very mussed, hair. He smiled, sweetly, up at him, and stood on very shaky tiptoe to collect a kiss, relaxing into Sanada-san’s arms as they lifted him again.

“You may just be the most contrary creature I’ve ever met,” Sanada-san said in his ear.

Akaya’s smile was one of great accomplishment.

End

Last Modified: Feb 08, 12
Posted: Jun 28, 04
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Tala and 11 other readers sent Plaudits.

Earth Over Heaven

Yukimura is finally convinced that he is fully recovered, and is beyond pleased over it. Drama With Romance and Porn, I-4

Genichirou was deeply relieved when Yukimura started to hit his stride again, at practices. Renji had assured him it would happen, but that hadn’t stopped him from worrying—not least because he could tell Yukimura himself was worried. Worried that after all the pain, and all the risk, he wouldn’t be able to regain that last, vital edge. Genichirou had seen it, shadowing his eyes like mist, as Yukimura stood, after practice when he thought no one was watching, flexing his hand open and closed.

So, when that last, gleaming, precision, that whipsnap of muscle and speed, returned and burned away the fog of doubt, Genichirou was deeply thankful.

Even if it meant that Yukimura, finally convinced of his own recovery, had spent the entire practice running the team absolutely ragged in an attempt to keep up with his burst of delighted activity. He had declared it a day for singles practice, and proceeded to cycle through the entire team twice, leaving one after another panting in the dust. It reminded Genichirou of the first time he had played Yukimura, shocked by a brilliance that had defeated him without humbling his pride, fascinated by a charisma that offered genuine respect whether he chose to follow it or oppose it, stunned by a passion that promised to match his own.

Today, it was Akaya, in their second game, who gave in to that passion, and came closer to matching his captain than anyone on the team but Genichirou ever had. Yukimura met him at the net, when they ended, thrilled to laughing, catching Akaya’s face in his hands to tell him how superb he had been. Akaya seemed barely able to take it in. Genichirou smiled, remembering the first time it had happened to him, and guided Akaya to a bench afterwards, detailing Jackal to keep an eye on the dazed boy and turning to his own second game before Yukimura’s momentum dropped.

He was wearily amused that, by the end of practice, having driven everyone else into the ground and left his team draped over the benches like so many towels, Yukimura was still light on his feet, almost dancing, almost restless.

“Hold still for a moment, Seiichi,” Renji admonished, running his hand over Yukimura’s forearm as the rest of the team dispersed. Niou and Akaya were leaning on each other, staggering and laughing in a slightly punch-drunk manner, while Marui, not in much better shape, upbraided them for being wimps. Jackal herded them along, shaking his head, but Yagyuu paused to cast a small smile back at the three who remained. Genichirou returned a nod.

“Your muscles are going to seize up tonight, if you’re not very careful,” Renji informed their bright-eyed captain. “You should let me do something about it, or you won’t be able to move tomorrow morning.”

Yukimura flexed his limbs carefully, frowning. “It doesn’t feel like it,” he observed.

“That,” Renji told him, “is because you’re still riding on adrenaline. You’ll feel the strain when it gives out. Although,” he admitted, “I’m not entirely sure when it will give out; I would have expected it to happen already.”

Yukimura laughed, softly. “I’ve put you all to a great deal of trouble, today, haven’t I?”

Renji’s mouth curved in a rare grin. “Good trouble.”

Seiichi stepped away, and then spun to face them. “It’s all here,” he said, and Genichirou’s throat closed at the wonder in his voice, “I’m all here, still. Again.”

Genichirou laid a hand on his shoulder. “Let Renji take care of you, so you still feel like that tomorrow, then.”

They wound up in the converted sunroom Genichirou used to practice sword, as they often did when someone needed a massage. Genichirou had started keeping a futon in the closet, there, and helped the other two pull it out, along with a couple old yukata and a stack of towels, before he left them to it and went to wash up. When he returned, he found Seiichi not behaving with his usual decorum under such circumstances, but stretching like a cat under Renji’s hands, and, in fact, purring in low, rough murmurs.

“This would be easier if you lay still, Seiichi,” Renji said, with affectionate exasperation. Seiichi took a deep breath, arching with it, and turned over with a lithe twist to look up at Renji.

“I can’t stay still,” he said, low but distinct. “Not right now.”

Genichirou shook his head, and turned to coax the rather recalcitrant old door shut. As he finally slid it into place with a last scrape and clunk, though, a sharp intake of breath behind him caught his ear. He turned back, and was struck still by the image before him in the dim light.

Renji, sitting back on his knees, the yukata he wore to spare his uniform from any oil stains pushed half way down his arms. Seiichi, naked, kneeling over him, hands enclosing Renji’s face and lifting it to meet Seiichi’s kiss. Renji’s hands on Seiichi’s hips, closed convulsively. The straight line of Seiichi’s body, pressed against Renji’s, almost pushing him over backwards, and of Renji’s, arched and tense.

Genichirou shook himself out of his paralysis. So, Seiichi was in that kind of mood. Genichirou couldn’t exactly call it dominant, though both he and Renji found it hard to do anything but give way to Seiichi when he was like this. Genichirou recognized what it actually was, of course. It was the same thing that came on Seiichi when he played a serious match, the same power and focus, turned to a different end.

It was just as overwhelming here as on the court, however, and when Seiichi lifted his head and held out a hand to Genichirou, he came and knelt behind Renji, supporting him. Seiichi met him with a wild, burning smile and a long kiss. Renji leaned back against him with a sigh that was close to relief. That sigh caught as Seiichi pulled loose the cloth around him, and his mouth traced down Renji’s chest and stomach.

Genichirou blinked, and chuckled a little, as Seiichi stretched out on his stomach, propped on his elbows as he licked, delicately, down Renji’s length, waving his feet in the air. Perhaps he hadn’t ever seen Seiichi in quite this mood, before. His full, raw intensity rarely left room for such casual playfulness. The playfulness, however, was clearly not diminishing the effect of his focus, to judge by Renji’s increasingly ragged breaths. Genichirou cradled him, stroking his taut muscles and whispering soothingly in his ear as Seiichi’s hand slipped under him. Genichirou could make a good guess at what Seiichi’s fingers were doing from the way Renji arched back against him, and up into Seiichi’s mouth, eyes blank.

“Seiichi!” Renji gasped, harshly.

“Hmm-mmm?” Seiichi inquired, without releasing him, and Renji cried out, wordless, as that hum seemed to ripple through his entire body.

Genichirou fit his body to Renji’s as Seiichi drove him higher, and higher again, eased the curve of Renji’s spine, caught him when Seiichi swept him over the edge, and held him close as he fell back. Renji lay in his arms, panting in unaccustomed disarray, yukata hanging loose around his slumped shoulders and spread knees.

“You are demanding today, Seiichi,” he murmured, resting his head against Genichirou’s shoulder.

Seiichi stretched upright again, and laughed, pulling both the other two down to the futon. The ensuing tussle was very short, since Renji declined to resist in favor of catching his breath, and Seiichi was moving fast and sure enough that Genichirou couldn’t prevent being pinned without fighting back seriously. They were both laughing by then, but when Seiichi’s hand ghosted over Genichirou’s cheek, down his jaw, and Genichirou saw the soft smile on his lips, he stilled.

The three of them knew each other’s bodies and moods very well, and very intimately. Even though they had barely started to experiment with, as Renji jokingly called it, grown-up sex when Seiichi had fallen ill, Genichirou recognized the desire in Seiichi’s eyes. He reached up to pull Seiichi down against him, and whispered in his ear, “Yes.” He wasn’t ashamed that his voice was hoarse. It had been so long since he had touched or been touched by that brilliant strength, so long when he was afraid it would never return.

“Yes,” Seiichi whispered back, and kissed him. It was gentle, Seiichi was never other than gentle in bed, but it was still very much like being kissed by a tsunami, and Genichirou knew, as if he could feel it already, that when Seiichi slid into him it would be just as gentle and just as wild and just as implacable. Now he understood the helpless edge in the sound Renji had made under Seiichi’s kiss; he heard it echo in his own throat, felt himself drifting in the force of Seiichi’s mouth on his until Renji leaned against him, anchoring him.

Seiichi’s smile was sharper, as he drew back a bit, and fit himself against Genichirou’s other side, leaving Renji room. Seiichi’s hands, passing across his skin, should have seemed lighter than Renji’s fingers as they teased him open, but it was Seiichi’s deliberate, fleeting touches that locked his attention and sped his breath.

Finally, Renji drew Genichirou over on his side to face him, coaxing Genichirou’s leg up to rest on Renji’s hip, and he leaned into Renji’s arms. That reassurance was the only thing that kept him from starting when Seiichi’s hands stroked over his thighs, between his parted legs, before sliding up his body as Seiichi pressed against his back. Seiichi’s hands touched him like ice on a burn, healing and shocking both. But perhaps it was only that he knew what was coming. He heard Renji whispering to him to relax, as Seiichi entered him, knew that he was tense and shivering with the aching heat of Seiichi’s presence. He welcomed Renji’s touch, firm fingers stroking down Genichirou’s length, that kept him from being lost.

The rhythm of Seiichi moving inside him calmed him, even as it fanned tingling warmth through his body. It took feeling Renji’s chest brushing his as they breathed together to tell him why. Seiichi pressed into him and drew back in the rhythm of breathing, long and deep as the first breaths of a new morning, so familiar, so necessary, that Genichirou could do nothing but move with it. Pleasure wound through him, the pleasure of breathing after being unable to.

This, too, he recognized, this rhythm, this wholeness, and images flickered through his memory. Seiichi across the court from him, flashing under the sun, brilliant and sharp as a killing sword; Seiichi laughing, the day the three of them broke several municipal laws to play in the large, stone fountain at the park, hands lifted to catch drops of spray; Seiichi standing in the doorway of this room, with a faint smile, calling him back from his solitary training.

Seiichi, leaning over him, hair turned to shadow in the lowering light, the line of his body fierce and fluid.

“Seiichi,” he sighed, welcoming that radiant, familiar strength that opened him and called him and roused his body until he wondered how long he could bear it.

“Let go, Genichirou,” that soft, unyielding voice said, “we’ll catch you. Let go for me.”

Genichirou had never been able to resist Seiichi’s voice, not from the day he first heard it, and he let it take him now. Let Renji’s presence and Seiichi’s demand spill through him, fire his blood, snatch him up and hurl him outward, only held by their touch around him, inside him. When the wrenching heat pulsing through him faded, Genichirou was aware that there was wetness on his cheeks. Seiichi touched it, delicately, and tugged him onto his back to kiss it away.

“Genichirou?” he asked.

Genichirou smiled up at him, through the sparkle of his damp lashes. “Isn’t it traditional?” he murmured. He watched puzzlement cross Seiichi’s face, because they all knew this had not been his first time in any literal sense. But it had been, in every way that actually mattered right now, and he saw understanding soften Seiichi’s eyes.

He also felt Renji’s mouth curve, against his shoulder, and knew that Renji had known it already. He turned his head to eye Renji.

“Do you ever get tired of being right?” he asked, as conversationally as he could manage at that moment.

Renji’s answering chuckle vibrated through both of them. “Do you ever get tired of winning?” he returned. Genichirou pulled a half-hearted glower at him, and it was Seiichi’s turn to laugh, the low purr that never failed to make Genichirou shiver.

“A loss here and there keeps the enjoyment fresh,” Seiichi noted, stretching luxuriously against the futon.

The glance Genichirou and Renji shared held relief, only slightly tinged with regret, that Seiichi seemed to have calmed from his earlier euphoria. A few moments rearrangement twined them around Seiichi, and he sighed, drawing them closer, and closer again, until the three of them could feel each other’s heartbeats. They lay there as full dark fell.

Until Seiichi stirred and said, thoughtfully, “I suppose one can’t hang glide after dark, can one?”

Genichirou and Renji both drew back to look, wide-eyed, at Seiichi’s perfectly serious expression.

It lasted perhaps five beats before Seiichi broke down laughing.

“You should see your faces,” he gasped, waving a hand.

The look that passed between Genichirou and Renji this time was a trenchant one of absolute agreement, before they turned back and pounced on Seiichi, ticking him until he squeaked.

Genichirou knew he was smiling in a way he hadn’t for most of a year.

End

Last Modified: Feb 08, 12
Posted: Jul 01, 04
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Sera and 12 other readers sent Plaudits.

Restraint

Sanada teaches Kirihara a lesson about teasing. Or, possibly, a lesson in teasing. Porn With Plot, I-4

The look in Sanada-san’s eyes should have warned him.

But Akaya was in a mood. In fact, Niou-senpai was unkind enough to call it a tizzy. Akaya didn’t think that was particularly fair, but he was restless, on the edge of agitated; he felt like a cat with a thunderstorm just over the horizon. So he invented new shots with bizarre spins to use against Marui-senpai, and when Marui-senpai called it quits he played against Yanagi-senpai, and even though he lost he took a certain satisfaction in the mild exasperation on Yanagi-senpai’s face when he declared that Akaya’s game was sixty percent more chaotic than usual, which took some doing.

And, whenever he had a moment between games, he came to brush against Sanada-san or look up at him with wet, parted lips, inviting Sanada-san to touch and take. Akaya wanted something strenuous enough to calm him down again, and even tennis wasn’t enough, today. Sanada-san would be, though, if Akaya could tempt him into it.

The look in Sanada-san’s eyes really should have warned him.

But Akaya was distracted, and took the glint for simple anticipation, and didn’t notice the looks the rest of the team were exchanging by the time practice ended.

“Akaya. Walk home with me,” Sanada-san directed, as they all changed and departed, trading last minute critiques and homework reminders.

Akaya agreed, demurely, and spent the walk congratulating himself, and the tight self-control with which Sanada-san quietly closed the bedroom door behind them, and began to undo Akaya’s shirt, only made his own anticipation stronger. He was breathing fast by the time the last of their clothing fell to the floor, and when Sanada-san pulled him up off his feet a low sound escaped his throat before Sanada-san’s mouth covered his. He didn’t think he’d ever be tired of this particular feeling, being lifted up against a powerful body and feeling every line of muscle against his bare skin. The force of Sanada-san’s kiss promised the kind of unrestraint Akaya wanted, and he sighed as Sanada-san laid him back on the bed, and moaned softly as large hands spread his legs apart.

Sanada-san leaned over him, one hand stroking down Akaya’s body to close around his cock. He smiled at the sound Akaya made.

That smile, the extra curl at one corner, finally combined with the light in Sanada-san’s eyes to warn Akaya, but it was really a bit too late.

“Sanada-san…?”

Whatever Akaya might have asked was swallowed in his gasp as Sanada-san settled between his legs and breathed across him, heat without touch. And then there was touch, too, as Sanada-san closed his mouth over Akaya’s head. Sanada-san’s tongue stroked, firmly, and Akaya cried out, staring blindly at the ceiling as his back arched and his hips tried to flex up into that slick, soft, hot touch. Sanada-san’s weight pinned him down, even when Akaya tried to twist as Sanada sucked on him and the wonderful, maddening touch of his mouth turned hard.

Sanada-san shifted, and his fingertips rubbed deep, gentle circles just behind Akaya’s balls. Akaya shivered at the tingle and warmth that welled through him. Sanada-san’s mouth gentled, too, and his tongue took up the same circles, softer and wetter, coaxing Akaya, rather than driving him, with pleasure. And, just as Akaya’s body began to tighten, he drew back, leaving Akaya panting and dazed.

“Sanada-san?” he managed after a moment.

That dangerously amused smile was back. “You should remember, Akaya, that I told you I would teach you a lesson about teasing,” Sanada-san said, pleasantly.

Akaya could feel his eyes widening.

“So pay attention,” Sanada-san, concluded, and lowered his head. His teeth closed on the inside of Akaya’s thigh, and Akaya groaned as he bucked futilely into that sharp rake of sensation, hands grabbing at Sanada’s arms. The purring rumble of Sanada-san’s chuckle vibrating between his legs didn’t help in the least.

Nor did it help that Sanada-san closed his hands around Akaya’s wrists and pressed them to the bed before his mouth closed over Akaya again. Akaya was finding, very quickly, that feeling Sanada-san’s strength holding him down made him even hotter than being lifted up by it, and he spread his legs wider even as he tried and failed, once again, to thrust up against the slide of Sanada’s tongue. When Sanada-san hummed, thoughtfully, around him, Akaya nearly screamed with the sudden electric thrill reverberating through him.

And then Sanada-san drew away again, and Akaya was just pulling in a breath to scream for real, with frustration, when his mouth was covered by Sanada’s, gentle and soothing.

“You wanted something to wear you out, today,” Sanada-san murmured, against his lips. “And you teased me all afternoon with your willingness in a situation where you knew I would never touch you, purely to inflame me enough that I would wear you out when I did. Congratulations; it worked. I’ll give you what you want, Akaya. But surely you admit that turn about is fair play?”

Akaya was admitting no such thing, but he found it hard to deny, either. Sanada-san laughed, and nipped at his throat, making Akaya gasp with the spike of heat it provoked.

“Relax, Akaya,” Sanada-san told him, moving down again. “You’ll enjoy this.”

He was right, despite the fact that Akaya lost track of how many times Sanada-san drew him back from the edge, whetting his pleasure sharper and sharper. Akaya did enjoy, very much, the touch of Sanada-san’s mouth on him, first light and then hard, wet and silky and then almost rasping. He enjoyed the light nips and deep, soft bites on his thighs and stomach that made him start and then cry out, trembling, by turns. He enjoyed Sanada-san’s careless strength, pinning him to the bed. He enjoyed the almost-ticklish touch of Sanada-san’s fingers, stroking his skin, massaging him, rubbing gently against his entrance, but never entering him.

It was that last that finally broke his patience completely, and when Sanada-san started to draw away again, Akaya threw composure to the winds.

“Sanada-san, don’t stop!” he gasped out, voice tight and pleading. “Please, don’t stop! I need… touch me, please…”

His moan, as Sanada-san’s mouth tightened over him again, and Sanada-san’s fingers pressed harder, was equal parts relief and burning bliss. The fingers thrusting into him were the last straw, and the tension Sanada-san had wound tighter and tighter finally snapped. Heat wrung Akaya like a rag, and every fibre of his body released, strained outward with enough force to lift even Sanada-san’s weight, pulsed through Akaya and dropped him back to the bed, chest heaving as he tried to remember how to breathe.

Sanada-san moved up to lie beside Akaya, smiling down at him. Akaya blinked back.

“Feeling better?” Sanada-san asked. His smile took on a very satisfied edge when Akaya nodded.

Which Akaya found slightly odd, as it came to his attention that there was something quite hard pressing against his hip. On the second try, he managed to make his voice work again.

“Sanada-san? You haven’t…”

“It isn’t a problem,” Sanada-san told him.

Akaya gave him the best You’re joking, right? look he could at that moment, and pressed his body against Sanada-san’s. “Yeah, it doesn’t have to be,” he agreed.

Sanada-san looked bemused. “Are you familiar with the word insatiable, Akaya?”

Akaya sniffed. “‘M perfectly satiated,” he mumbled against Sanada-san’s shoulder. “It’s just… I like it when you’re inside me. When you fill me like that, it feels good.” It made him feel protected and supported and appreciated. It was actually a lot like he had felt when he and Sanada-san played tennis, just before Yukimura-san got sick, only minus the edge of competition and plus a definite edge of mind-blowing pleasure. But Akaya was far too tired to explain all that out loud just now.

“Mm. I can hardly deny that it feels good to be inside you,” Sanada-san said, against his ear. Akaya smiled. It was nice to get his way.

Sanada-san tossed the pillows against the headboard and sat back against them, lifting Akaya to lean back against him, in turn. Akaya wriggled a bit, getting comfortable on his impromptu recliner, and let his legs fall open over Sanada-san’s. He breathed out a soft sound of enjoyment when Sanada-san’s hands parted his legs further, gently massaging the lingering twinges out of his thighs.

“Like it when you do that, too,” Akaya murmured. “When you spread me open like that.”

“Do you?” Sanada-san asked, with a laugh running under his voice. “Tell me if you like this, then.”

And those large hands were under Akaya’s hips, lifting him and spreading his cheeks until he felt cool air against his entrance. And then something smooth and hard, pressing against him. And then Sanada-san was sliding into him, slow and easy and deep.

“Oohhh, yes,” Akaya moaned, letting his head fall back on Sanada-san’s shoulder.

“Good,” Sanada-san said, deep voice just a bit rough.

Akaya found himself breathing in little sighs at the slow, hard, hot slide as Sanada-san flexed into him and back out, strong hands guiding Akaya’s hips out and back into the curve of his own. Released from any overwhelming urgency, Akaya could savor the stretching open and the fullness with each thrust, could listen to Sanada-san’s deep groan in his ear as he moved a little faster, a little harder. The rough press inside him as Sanada-san’s rhythm broke into quick, jagged thrusts, the sudden heat of Sanada-san’s mouth on his shoulder, and, through it, the gentleness of Sanada-san’s hands on his hips, careful not to grip tight enough to bruise, caught his breath short. Akaya shared Sanada-san’s shuddering sigh, as he relaxed, winding his arms around Akaya’s waist.

“Mmm,” Akaya commented softly, turning his head into the curve of Sanada-san’s neck. “So good.”

“Very,” Sanada-san agreed, his chuckle just as soft.

They were quiet for a while, as late afternoon sun filled the room.

“So,” Akaya said, at last, “are you sure you wouldn’t touch me on the court?”

Sanada-san’s head thumped down on his shoulder. “Akaya,” he said, muffled.

“Up against the fence?” Akaya suggested, stifling a grin. “The tennis uniforms are easy enough to get around.”

“Akaya,” Sanada-san’s voice dropped to something between a growl and a purr, “do you really want the entire tennis club to watch me pin you against the fence and fuck you until you’re screaming my name?”

With that voice in his ear, Akaya actually had to stop and think about it for a moment.

“The club you will have to captain in the not too distant future?” Sanada-san added, pointedly.

“Well, no, I suppose not,” Akaya sighed. “Not that I wouldn’t want you to do it, but the audience could be a problem.”

“I think I must have incurred more bad karma than I previously realized,” Sanada-san mused.

“Excuse me?” Akaya said, insulted.

Sanada-san tumbled Akaya off his lap to the accompaniment of a faint squawk, and leaned over him, winding one hand through his hair.

“To have acquired the company of an exhibitionist,” he explained, between kisses, “who’s sweet enough that I don’t want to be rid of him.”

Akaya lifted a hand to trace the line of Sanada-san’s face. “You will, after this year, though,” he said, quietly.

“Perhaps.” Sanada-san gave him a longer, deeper kiss, lingering over him. “What happens will happen. But don’t borrow trouble, Akaya. If our lives go as Renji expects for the next ten or twenty years, I doubt I’ll ever quite be rid of you, whatever the details.”

Akaya felt his face heat, and bit his lip, looking away. He was not going to do something pitiful like tear up, he was not. Sanada-san’s fingers caught his chin, turning him back.

“If nothing else, you keep saying you’ll beat me at tennis. And you have quite a ways to go before you manage that, Akaya,” he said, smile lurking behind stern eyes.

A laugh drove away the hot feeling in his eyes, and then Sanada-san’s hand tightened in Akaya’s hair, and a devouring, demanding kiss swallowed the laugh.

“So, Akaya,” Sanada said, smile turning dangerous again. “Are you ready for the next lesson?”

Akaya was sure his eyes looked like saucers, as Sanada-san’s body pressed him down.

“Sanada-san…”

End

Last Modified: Feb 08, 12
Posted: Jul 01, 04
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8 readers sent Plaudits.

Need

Fuji visits Rikkai, hoping Yukimura can explicate a few things for him. Drama, I-3

It was one week before Nationals began that Fuji Shuusuke visited Rikkai. It took Seiichi a while to notice that one of the people gathered around the courts was wearing a different school’s uniform; Fuji could be very unobtrusive when he chose. Fortunately, Seiichi spotted him before anyone else caught on. He had no particular desire to have any of his club embroiled in Fuji’s idea of entertainment. He drifted to the side of the court and beckoned Fuji to join him.

His team noted his preoccupation and drifted after him. Seiichi was, in a general way, pleased with their sharp perceptions, and, in a specific way, exasperated with their nosiness, but he didn’t stop them yet.

“Fuji,” he greeted. “This is an unexpected visit.”

“Mm. There was something I wanted to see, and something I hoped to discuss,” Fuji said, elliptically. He smiled at Akaya, who bristled back. “Kirihara-kun; you seem to be doing well.”

Seiichi could feel Akaya hovering on the edge of a challenge, and touched his arm to hold him back. They didn’t need that in the middle of club practice. Fuji met Akaya’s eyes for a long moment, and then shook his head turned back to Seiichi. Seiichi sympathized a bit more with Akaya’s response, then. The impact of that silent look briefly pushed Seiichi himself over the edge, into the flickering fire of competitive awareness. He took a breath and settled back, examining Fuji with a captain’s eyes again, aware of Sanada, tense, beside him. He wondered why Fuji, who normally only provoked those who were threats, was pushing like this.

Fuji, however, was smiling again, a smaller smile, a bit rueful. “Yes,” he said, softly. “That’s it. That’s how he looks at me. Why, Yukimura?”

Seiichi blinked, as he tried to parse the question. ‘He’ who? Who would look at Fuji like… Then it clicked. Tezuka, of course. Who else would look at someone as strong and unpredictable as Fuji Shuusuke with that kind of measurement and anticipation and desire? But… Fuji wanted to know why?

“You don’t know…?” Seiichi trailed off. It was clear in the steady gaze that Fuji, indeed, did not know. “Fuji,” Seiichi sighed, running a hand through his hair. Still, he had been trying to wake Fuji up for years, now. Something he suspected Fuji had recalled, too. “I’ll try. Come.” He waved for Fuji to follow him, nodding for Sanada to take over in his place.

Sanada gave him a look that promised later discussion, and Seiichi stifled a smile. It always made Sanada just a touch edgy when people provoked Seiichi. He led Fuji under the clump of trees south of the courts, where they could watch without being obvious to those playing.

“So,” he summarized, briskly, “you know how to provoke it, but you don’t know what it is. Or how to answer it.”

“I know what it is,” Fuji corrected. “But, no, I don’t know how to answer it; not from him.”

“At this rate, you might just have well have accepted my offer for a transfer, last year. ” Seiichi was finding himself a little annoyed at Fuji’s assumption that he both could and would explain this thing after Fuji had spent years denying it.

Fuji’s eyes slid to his, sharp, and his mouth was tight. Seiichi sighed, leaning back against a tree. That wasn’t going to be productive, he knew.

“You’ll have to excuse my temper, Fuji,” he said, more gently. “It’s just that you’ve suddenly come to me for help after having frustrated me for so long.”

Fuji’s head lowered just a touch.

“Yes,” Seiichi answered the unspoken thought, frankly, “you probably frustrated him just as much, if not more.” He thought about that for a moment, and continued, slowly. “And when he finally had evidence that you do understand what it means to play for real, after all, I imagine he asked you for a serious game.”

“Yes,” Fuji confirmed, softly.

“And he played against you in all seriousness,” Seiichi speculated. A nod. “And it scared you, that he wanted you to do the same,” he suggested, very quietly. Another nod, this one barely perceptible. Seiichi bit back another sigh. He would not, normally, compare Fuji to Akaya. Fuji was far more deliberate and analytical, and while he had some of the same propensity for violence, he had a far greater awareness of it and had channeled it far more tightly. This stubborn innocence, though, reminded him very much of Akaya.

“I don’t understand what it is he wants of me.” The words pulled out of Fuji, unwillingly. “I thought it was just for the team. For the Nationals. But it’s more than that.”

Seiichi waited. If Fuji really wanted his advice, he was going to have to have to come further out of that damn shell.

“He wants us to play full out, not against rivals but against each other,” Fuji continued at last, reflective tone belied by his clenched fists. “I understand that he likes to play strong opponents. Even when he played Atobe or Sanada, though, I’d never seen him quite like that before.”

“He hopes that you are stronger than he is,” Seiichi said, as matter of fact as he could.

Fuji frowned, narrow, blue gaze fixed on his hands as he flexed them. “Ryuuzaki-sensei thinks I am,” he murmured. “Or can be. But why…?”

Seiichi rubbed his fingers over his forehead. Perhaps he was grateful that Tezuka had been the one to win Fuji for his team, after all. He’d have gone mad, faced with such hesitance to understand for three solid years.

“We are the best,” he stated. “What that means in practice is that it’s very hard to find any opponent who can push us hard enough to make us advance, within our own age group. And,” he added, flatly, “even in the next there aren’t many.” He leaned forward to meet Fuji’s eyes. “Tezuka hopes that you will be a true challenge. One he has to reach beyond himself to meet.”

The lingering confusion in Fuji’s face made him want to bang his head against the tree. Try another tack, then.

“What do you want out of life, Fuji?”

Fuji blinked.

“What are your goals?” Seiichi rephrased. Fuji tipped his head to one side, caramel hair brushing across his cheek.

“To find interesting things,” he said, at last.

Seiichi didn’t doubt that for a second. Fuji and Niou would probably have gotten along very well, in a dangerous sort of way.

“Is there anything interesting enough to get you out of bed with an extra bounce, in the morning? Enough to make it worth driving yourself through pain and trouble for it? Enough that sometimes you think you would sell your soul and mortgage your breath for it, because it’s so wonderful?” he prodded.

Fuji’s eyes widened, as he watched Seiichi.

“That’s what it’s like, for us, Fuji,” Seiichi murmured. “That’s why we’re the best. Because the shape of the game is the shape of our spirits, and there aren’t words for the glory of a game that demands everything from us. And the only way to be true to the game is to always strive to be more within it.” He leaned forward on his knees, taking Fuji by the shoulders, caught up by his need to finally make Fuji understand. “That’s what Tezuka wants for you, too. That’s why he’s been trying to coax you or force you or, for all I know, bribe you to be serious these last years.”

The normally bright eyes were blank and shocked, and turned inward.

“Did you feel it,” Seiichi asked, more gently, “when you played Akaya?”

“If that’s what it was,” Fuji murmured. He shivered.

“If you take that path it will probably be even harder for you than it is for most,” Seiichi told him, honestly. “You’ll run into it, too, the craving for someone who can challenge you, who can share that vitality with you. And those will be few and far between.”

Fuji nodded, closing his eyes. “I can see that.” He touched Seiichi’s wrist, lightly, and Seiichi let him go. “Thank you for explaining.”

Seiichi’s mouth quirked. “I can’t say it was entirely altruistic.”

A glint entered Fuji’s eyes, and a razor smile curved his mouth in turn. “Good.” He stood up. “I said it would not be a temporary advance. I meant that. What I found,” he paused, “I’m not sure it’s worth my soul, but it’s certainly worth getting out of bed. And a fair amount of pain and trouble, too, I think.”

“It’s a start,” Seiichi said, rising as well.

“Yukimura,” Fuji was silent for a long moment, “will you play a game against me?”

Seiichi’s focus sharpened with a snap he could nearly hear. “I would be delighted to,” he said, with absolute truth. The club was leaving for the day; that would make things easier. He escorted Fuji back to the courts.

Sanada took a long look at each of them, and dismissed the team brusquely before moving to the side to call the game.

“He knows you very well,” Fuji observed, sounding like he was stifling a laugh.

“This is something we share,” was all Seiichi said, already immersing himself in the cool exhilaration of the moment. He felt Fuji’s eyes on his back.

Seiichi pitched the game high from the very first serve, pushing Fuji, driving him to show his strength or be defeated immediately. He could feel, in the occasional unsteadiness of Fuji’s returns, the other player’s startlement, and his mouth tightened every time it happened. Fuji was too used to toying with his opponents, too used to slack competition who didn’t raise the level until they thought they had to, too used to playing for the enjoyment of seeing his opponents’ realization that it was far too late already. It was precisely the approach to the game that had infuriated Seiichi for years. He had wondered, for a long time, why a player as true as Tezuka allowed it to continue. But if Fuji had really never risen to Tezuka’s challenge, before now, Seiichi reflected, what could his counterpart have done?

Well, Seiichi had an opportunity to do something, now, and he brought everything he had to bear on Fuji. And, finally, Fuji broke, broke open and flashed out at him, and it was Seiichi who was on the defensive. He recognized the still lack of expression on Fuji’s face, the absolute concentration that had no time for such peripherals, and a fierce smile curved his own mouth.

When they hit a six game tie, Fuji faltered.

“Keep going,” Seiichi called.

Still, Fuji hesitated, unnerved, Seiichi thought, by the intensity in both of them and unsure what it would mean to pursue the game to the end. Seiichi let his voice turn harsh; this was not Akaya, who would heed his gentleness.

“Do you want to do this, for yourself? For him? Do you want to be more in this game than a scavenger? A bully? Then keep going.”

Fuji’s head came up, and his serve whipped past Seiichi like a bullet.

“Better,” Seiichi snapped, and sank himself, once more, into the immediacy of play and response.

Fuji won. Seiichi was slightly amused by his opponent’s surprise. Fuji was still unused to playing full out, unused to playing on the edge where chance could decide a game. It would likely take some time for him to accept and own both his abilities and that space no one could control. Altogether, though, Seiichi was pleased, and said so as they shook hands.

“Thank you,” Fuji told him. “I appreciate this, Yukimura. I should be getting back, now, though.”

“And let me regather my team, who are probably peering out one of the second floor classrooms this very moment,” Seiichi agreed, with a wry smile.

Sanada growled, and stalked past them toward the building. Seiichi chuckled as heads abruptly vanished from a window. He kept his grip on Fuji’s hand another moment, though.

“It’s the chance, do you understand?” he asked. “The opportunity to be more. It’s something all of us treasure.”

“I do understand,” Fuji said, quietly.

Seiichi tilted his head. “Do you think this is something you can give Tezuka, even though you’re on the same team?”

Fuji’s smile returned, slight and thoughtful. “I think,” he said, slowly, “it would be wrong if I didn’t.”

Seiichi nodded, satisfied that Fuji did, indeed, understand. “Welcome home, Fuji Shuusuke,” he said, very, very softly.

End

Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
Posted: Jul 02, 04
Name (optional):
10 readers sent Plaudits.

Irregular

Jackal and Marui on a hot afternoon, and Jackal’s attempts to convince his partner to take it easy. Porn With Characterization, I-4, manga continuity

Pairing(s): Jackal/Marui

It was a hot afternoon, on the kind of day that encouraged sensible people to lounge around in as little clothing as could be arranged and drink things with a lot of ice. Accordingly, Jackal Kuwahara had abandoned all clothing but his favorite pair of worn, cotton shorts, settled in front of a fan with a pitcher of ice water handy nearby, and watched with amusement as his partner made a spirited attempt to stab his textbook to death with a pencil.

No one who knew him would call Bunta particularly sensible.

“It’s absolutely ridiculous!” Bunta declared, with a last vindictive jab. “I mean, look at this! I could deal with irregulars that came in groups, but why can’t mourir act like ouvrir? They end the same; they sound the same; they should act the same! Why did I think Romance Languages were a good idea?”

“Last week,” Jackal noted, “you said you liked the way they sounded.” He refilled both their glasses. Bunta accepted his back, absently, and sipped without looking away from the page.

“I do,” he said. “They sound soft, but they have such a nice, broad rhythm to them. I like that. But it’s no excuse for this!”

Jackal shook his head, caught between a sigh and a laugh. When Bunta was in a mood to be unreasonable one just had to let him vent until he got it out of his system. Sometimes, though, the process could be hastened with a little provocation.

“I’m told that it’s much easier going in this direction then for, say, a native speaker of French to learn Japanese,” he observed.

At that, Bunta looked up with a flash of teeth. “Ha! As if!”

Jackal chuckled. His partner in a high temper was always worth watching. Animation brightened the dawn-colored eyes, and curved his mouth in a razor sharp grin. Bunta knew perfectly well what Jackal was doing, of course, but he rarely turned down the opening. It was one of the reasons Jackal found his partner endlessly entertaining; his dramatics were always perfectly sincere and entirely deliberate, at the same time.

“You have to admit, Japanese not only has irregular verbs, but often completely different words for a single object,” Jackal prodded, perfectly straight-faced.

“That,” Bunta declared, “is all according to rules. Sensible, consistent rules. There’s no consistency to this mess!” He paused, and cocked his head at Jackal. “Is it?” he asked.

Jackal blinked at him. That leap had gone by a bit fast. “Is what?”

“Is it easier going the other way?”

Jackal shrugged. “My family always spoke both Portuguese and Japanese. I wouldn’t know.”

Bunta growled, and dropped his pencil, flopping onto his back on the floor. Jackal took pity on him.

“So, assuming Seigaku keeps winning, who do you think we’ll come up against next time we play them?” he asked.

Bunta’s expression smoothed into something more serious, and Jackal smiled. Bunta got impatient with simple memorization, but give him an analytical problem to sink his teeth into and he focused right down.

“I wouldn’t be all that surprised if they set Oishi and Kikumaru against us, trusting to Kikumaru to get past me instead of trying to counter you at all,” he said, narrowing his eyes at the ceiling. “They might also pull out their wild card and pair Fuji with someone. Maybe that power player Yanagi says they have; the one that didn’t play last time.”

“Kawamura,” Jackal supplied.

“Him,” Bunta agreed. “They’ve relied on their singles players, this year, over doubles, but I doubt they’ll be happy leaving the pattern from last time intact and relying completely on singles to win. Not now that we know how strong they are in singles. And their lineup there will be changing, just like ours; they’ll trust that part of the pattern to hold, I’d bet. It has this long. But they haven’t come this far by being complacent, either. They’ll want to take at least one doubles match, and I expect we’re the pair they’ll focus on beating, considering that we’re more predictable than Hiroshi and Niou.”

Jackal snorted. There were hurricanes more predictable than those two, together. Bunta laughed. And then his eyes turned distant.

“Pattern,” he murmured. “Changing content to maintain the pattern…” He abruptly sat bolt upright and started leafing through his textbook. Jackal relaxed, and crunched on some ice, and waited.

“Ha!” Bunta exclaimed. “It is! It’s preserving the sound pattern!” He beamed at the somewhat ragged book, pulled over some paper and started scribbling. Jackal held off asking until Bunta paused to blow a bubble over his work, something he never did when he was genuinely frustrated.

“Problem solved?” he inquired, mildly.

“Yep,” Bunta declared. “The irregular forms change to keep the overall sound combinations consistent, instead of the particular conjugations. Now it makes sense.”

Jackal shook his head and left his partner to his industry, though he did shift the fan so that it blew over both of them. After almost two hours, however, broken only by intermittent pleased noises and a few particularly satisfied bubbles from Bunta, he decided enough was enough. Bunta showed all the signs of skipping dinner and their evening practice, both, if Jackal didn’t pull him back from the realm of linguistic discovery soon.

Of course, pulling Bunta out of an intellectual spree could be just as difficult as pulling him out of an interesting game.

Bait was often helpful.

Accordingly, Jackal rose and came around behind his partner, and closed his hands over Bunta’s shoulders, digging his thumbs into the knots his partner got between his shoulder blades when he sat over a book for too long like this. Bunta flexed his shoulders back into Jackal’s grip, making yet more pleased sounds, but his attention didn’t stray very far.

“You should take a break, Bunta,” Jackal told him, applying a little more force to a persistent knot.

“Ah! Mmmm,” Bunta said. The inexperienced might have taken it for agreement; Jackal knew better. He heaved a sigh. Extreme measures it was, then.

Not that he objected all that strenuously, to be honest.

Bunta squawked with surprise, as Jackal scooped his partner up in his arms and stood.

“All right, all right, I heard you the first time!” Bunta protested, focusing on Jackal at last. “I’ll take a break.”

“You will now,” Jackal agreed, serenely. “I had something a little more than a break in mind, though.”

Bunta’s brows rose and he gave Jackal an arch look from half-lidded eyes. “Did you, now?” he murmured.


For the first little while he and Jackal had worked together, the… firmness with which Jackal interrupted him when he felt Bunta was focusing too hard on something had rather taken Bunta aback. He’d never really worked with anyone who felt that his flares of intense focus were anything but good. Jackal disagreed, and, unless they were actually in a real match, was perfectly willing to transport his partner, bodily, to attend to the things Bunta sometimes lost track of. Appointments, meals, sleep, little things.

Jackal was also perfectly unscrupulous about taking advantage of Bunta’s weak points to make him rest. One of those weak points was that Bunta loved the feeling of Jackal’s hands on him. Jackal had magnificent hands, large and long fingered, deft and strong, they went perfectly with the rest of his body.

Bunta liked the feeling of Jackal’s body against his, too, but it was the stroke of his hands, over Bunta’s stomach, curving around his ribs, sliding up his back and down his arms, that lodged a lazy purr in the back of Bunta’s throat. He arched back over Jackal’s hands, in a sensual stretch, as his partner straddled him and lifted him up to meet Jackal’s body leaning over his.

“You’re so impossible to budge, sometimes, Bunta,” Jackal said against his neck, reaching to fish out one of the tubes they both kept stashed about their rooms, these days.

“As if you have room to talk,” Bunta sighed, less indignantly than he’d intended. “You’re the most stubborn person I’ve ever known.”

“Completely in self defense,” Jackal answered, a bit muffled against Bunta’s shoulder.

It was difficult to scoff as such an assertion deserved when Jackal’s hands were on Bunta’s thighs, thumbs stroking the soft inner skin, moving, warm, between his legs and then between his cheeks. “Jackal,” Bunta breathed, as those long fingers slid into him. Considering how content Jackal was to let Bunta call the pace of their games, he did tend to… press the pace in bed. Of course, Bunta had to admit, analysis was at far less of a premium, here, than it was when they faced opponents across the net.

Here, Jackal’s quiet, sure action folded around Bunta as powerfully as his partner’s arms, whispering to him to trust Jackal’s strength in a different way. And, after all, the question at the back of those steady, brushed steel eyes always waited for Bunta’s acceptance. Jackal’s fingers quirked, wringing a gasp from Bunta as fire bloomed through him, and he wound his arms around Jackal’s neck, pulling him down.

“Jackal,” he breathed, lips curving against his partner’s ear. “Fuck me.”

The rumble of Jackal’s laugh shivered through him, and Bunta was still smiling when Jackal’s hand lifted his chin and Jackal’s mouth covered his. And then the room whirled as Jackal pulled him upright, and back against Jackal’s chest. Those powerful hands stroked up Bunta’s thighs, spread over Jackal’s, and up his chest, pressing him back into Jackal’s body behind him. Bunta arched in Jackal’s hold, sighing as Jackal’s hands settled on his hips, stilling him.

The feeling of Jackal thrusting into him, deep and hard, drove a moan up Bunta’s throat. He flexed back to meet his partner, as Jackal’s hands moved again, one sliding up Bunta’s stomach, leaving warm shivers in its wake, and the other slipping between his legs. Bunta glanced down and smiled. There was the aesthetic appreciation of the dark skin against light, of course. More, there was pleasure at watching that deft touch closing around him.

Bunta liked feeling Jackal fill him, liked the stretch and heat, liked it smooth and fast and hard, and that was the way Jackal always moved. He also liked seeing Jackal touch him, liked being able to watch the care as well as feel the strength with which Jackal handled him.

And Jackal always handled him with strength.

Bunta spilled onto knees and elbows as Jackal shifted forward, lifted Bunta’s hips up to meet his as he drove into Bunta harder, faster, and Bunta cried out as Jackal’s grip around his cock tightened, pleasure squeezing his nerves just as tight. It was hot and rough, and he rode the wave of it with as much abandon as Jackal was riding him.

The crest dropped them both, panting, in a tangle on the bed, and it was a little while before they managed to extricate themselves from one another, pausing every so often to laugh at each other’s contortions to avoid the wet spot. The finally reached an equitable arrangement lying at right angles, with Bunta’s head pillowed on Jackal’s stomach where Jackal could comb his fingers through Bunta’s damp hair.

“And here I thought you said the best thing to do on a hot day is lie still,” Bunta remarked, yawning. Jackal’s stomach moving under him almost made him laugh as well.

“I know you, Bunta,” Jackal told him. “I needed to wear you out if I want you to take a rest.”

Bunta smiled. His partner was one of the only people who could keep up with him long enough to wear him out, and it would have irritated him if Jackal hadn’t been both caring and matter-of-fact about using that advantage. Altogether, though, Bunta was very pleased with the partner fate had dealt him, and put up with Jackal’s stubborn streak with what he, personally, thought was commendable grace.

It certainly paid some significant dividends, he reflected, stretching muscles that tingled in the aftermath of Jackal’s attentions.

“Does that mean you’ll stay still and be my pillow for a while?” he asked, turning on his side so he could look at his partner.

Jackal’s mouth curved in a wry grin. “Sure.”

Quite significant dividends, Bunta thought, as he closed his eyes and let himself drift off.

End

Last Modified: May 15, 12
Posted: Jul 04, 04
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Ociwen, Hunter_White and 3 other readers sent Plaudits.

The Continuation of War

A small snafu leads to some practice time between Rikkai and Seigaku, just before the end of Nationals. Drama, I-3

With one week to go before the last few matches of Nationals, it was clear that both Rikkai and Seigaku would be advancing. Seiichi was sufficiently pleased by this to give his team a little latitude when they acted up. He accepted that they needed to ease their anxiety, quite present, however concealed, before they could focus properly. As long as they didn’t start any riots, or send his vice-captain into actual apoplexy, Seiichi was willing to be tolerant of their strutting and poking at opponents.

For Akaya to be completely missing when they were preparing to leave the tournament grounds was less acceptable.

“I can’t find him anywhere,” Yagyuu reported, the last of the team to regather after scattering to seek their errant junior.

Seiichi ran an impatient hand through his hair, wondering if Akaya had wound up on some other team’s bus, which had happened a time or two when he was especially caught up in some debate with another player and failed to notice his surroundings. The amusing thing, after the fact, was that the other players failed to notice that they had someone else’s team member in their midst. Akaya, when he was fully engaged with something, just seemed to lock attention that way. It had been one of the first signs Seiichi observed that Akaya had the potential to stand among the very best some day.

Sanada, having evidently followed Seiichi’s line of thought, flipped his phone closed. “There’s no answer,” he said, though with an undertone of exasperation, because Akaya not answering was far from conclusive evidence that he was away from his phone.

“…can’t find him anywhere, I’m afraid,” a familiar voice said, behind them. “It isn’t like Echizen to leave on his own.”

Seiichi turned to see Fuji rejoining his own team, not too far off. “Echizen?” he murmured. He could almost hear Sanada’s teeth grinding, beside him.

His doubles players exchanged looks. “What, again?” Niou wondered.

“It’s Akaya,” Marui shrugged.

Seiichi sighed, and called over. “Do I take it that your youngest player is missing, also?”

“Also?” Tezuka repeated. Seiichi nodded, ruefully.

Kikumaru flopped back against a tree. “Again?” he asked the leaves overhead.

“It’s Echizen,” Momoshiro pointed out, grinning, “you know what he’s like.”

“Not the concourse,” Jackal put in.

“Not the east courts,” Oishi added.

Renji tilted his head. “Sadaharu?” he inquired.

“Mm.” Inui adjusted his glasses, thoughtfully. “Kirihara chose their location last time, correct?” Renji nodded. “Then I expect Echizen steered them to the last court at the back of the grounds; I recall him remarking that it wasn’t used at all, today.”

“Well, let’s go, then,” Sanada growled, the look in his eye boding no good to Akaya for putting them all to this trouble.

Both teams trailed in the wake of their captains, and, sure enough, found their missing members playing a lively game against each other.

“Akaya!” Sanada snapped, pushing the gate open. Akaya started, missed his step and then missed the ball. He scowled at the ball, lying against the fence behind him, planted his hands on his hips and scowled at his vice-captain, too.

“Sanada-fukubuchou, that was game point, and you made me miss it!” he said, irate. Then his eyes actually focused on the teams, gathered and watching, and widened. “Ah.” He edged a step back from the glares of his teammates. “Is it that late, already?” he asked, a bit weakly.

Echizen was less obvious about it, but his tug on the brim of his cap reminded Seiichi irresistibly of a turtle, beating a quick retreat into his shell. The two truants shared a speaking look, and returned, reluctantly, to their teams. Akaya slipped by Sanada hastily, cast an eye over the others and apparently decided Renji was least likely to pummel him over this affair, because he sidled behind their data specialist. Echizen, for his own part, seemed resigned to being pummeled, but chose the source by moving quickly into Momoshiro’s orbit. Seiichi was interested to observe the similarity of reactions, between his team and Seigaku’s. Really, it wasn’t all that surprising that their junior players had so much in common.

“Akaya…” Sanada started, pausing when Seiichi touched his arm.

“Wait, Sanada,” Seiichi said, looking over at Tezuka. “They caused us some inconvenience, but the idea isn’t entirely without merit.”

He could see the calculation running behind Tezuka’s eyes. “Nor entirely without precedent,” the other captain noted, in return. Seiichi smiled. This would be useful for everyone.

“I’ll call you about schedules, later, then, shall I?” he asked. Tezuka nodded, and fished out a scrap of paper on which he scribbled a number.

“Yukimura, are you serious about this?” Sanada asked, softly. His brows rose when Seiichi looked around at him and smiled, bright and hard.

“Entirely.”


He and Tezuka decided that holding this particular training exercise at Seigaku would be best. Tezuka’s team was still a bit… tense where Seiichi’s was concerned, and, if they wished to take the edge of hostility off that tension, giving Seigaku the comfort of their home courts would help.

Seiichi didn’t explicitly suggest that Tezuka arrange for his non-regular players to be absent, but was very pleased to see, when they arrived, that his hints about over-reaction and unfortunate senses of humor had been taken anyway. All the moreso, as Niou had been bouncing, subtly but bouncing all the same, all day, and Fuji looked dangerously cordial.

“You’re sure you don’t mind giving your opponents such a close look at your play?” Fuji inquired, solicitously.

Niou rested his racquet over his shoulder and bared his teeth in a gleaming grin. “Ah, but that only goes for some, doesn’t it? What do you say, Fuji? A match between the unpredictables should be fun, shouldn’t it?”

“Possibly,” Fuji returned, less cordial and more level. Echizen shot him a very sharp look.

Seiichi tilted his head, considering, and didn’t interfere. Fuji had a history of taking rather extreme revenge on anyone who injured one of those Fuji cared for, and Kikumaru certainly fell into that category. But he invariably did it within the parameters of the game. Niou had watched Seiichi push Fuji all out, and would not be surprised by him now. Nor was he likely to mind the score all that much, since his goal, to judge by the glint in his eye, was to prod Fuji rather than to win. Seeing how Fuji responded to that could tell Seiichi a good deal about Fuji’s current mindset within the game.

Yagyuu, however, seemed to have other ideas. “Niou-kun,” he said, stepping forward.

Niou looked at his partner, brows raised. Yagyuu made a small gesture with one hand.

“Oh, come on,” Niou responded, tone scoffing. Yagyuu lowered his chin just a bit, not taking his gaze off his partner. Niou looked at him, at Fuji, back at Yagyuu. “You seriously think…?” he trailed off, staring intently at Yagyuu.

“Yes, I do,” Yagyuu answered, quietly.

Niou pursed his lips and bounced his racquet on his shoulder a few times. “All right,” he declared, at last. “But only,” he stepped closer to his partner, “if you take him instead.”

Now Seiichi wondered whether he should interfere. When Niou looked at Yagyuu with that shining intentness he was asking his partner to become very dangerous. And Yagyuu rarely refused him. On the other hand, Fuji was likely the only member of Seigaku, short of Tezuka himself, who could deal with Yagyuu when he really let go. If Yagyuu didn’t mind showing himself like that, Seiichi decided, he would let it happen.

Yagyuu’s lips quirked with amusement. “Very well,” he agreed, and looked over at Fuji. “If that’s acceptable?”

“Either will do,” Fuji answered, a glint of intent in his own eye.

Seiichi suppressed a smile. Fuji was likely about to get a better workout than he expected.

“Well, I suppose he isn’t the only tricky player Seigaku has,” Niou observed, “is he?” and his gaze locked on Inui.

One of Inui’s brows lifted over his glasses. “Interesting,” he murmured, and stepped forward. Niou tipped his head and gave Inui a lazy smile.

“Though I’d like to watch their match first,” he added, nodding at Yagyuu and Fuji. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Quite,” Inui agreed, easily, and the four of them moved toward the courts.

Seiichi felt Renji, beside him, quivering with suppressed chuckles. Seiichi couldn’t blame him. Clearly, to use Niou’s own phrase, Niou had Inui’s number.

Seigaku’s vice-captain stirred, looking after the departing players with a tense line between his brows.

“Shouldn’t someone…” he started.

“They’ll be fine, Oishi-senpai,” Echizen interrupted.

“The way those two set each other on?” Oishi said, sharply. His junior gave him the look of someone with a great deal to say who can’t quite decide where to start.

Marui snapped a bubble. “You don’t get it, do you?” he observed. “Kind of strange, considering you work the same way.”

“What do you mean?” Oishi asked, tightly.

“Sure, they set each other on,” Marui shrugged. “But they also hold each other back. You really don’t want to think about what they’d be like apart.”

Oishi’s mouth thinned. He didn’t reply, though, and one of the other players stepped in.

“I was right, wasn’t I,” Momoshiro said, looking intently at Marui. “You’re the analyst. You don’t act like it very often.”

Marui traded him a narrow look back. “You should talk.”

Momoshiro opened his mouth, closed it, and grinned crookedly. “You want to see about it?” he offered, jerking his head at the courts.

Marui blew a contemplative bubble. “Sure.”

“Speaking of your dynamics as a pair,” Renji said to Oishi, as another two players headed for the courts, “would you be interested in playing a doubles match against Genichirou and I?”

Interesting, Seiichi thought. Renji implied that Oishi and Kikumaru participated far more equally to create the pace of their games than their reputation suggested. On the other hand, Kikumaru’s expression, at that offer, was not the expression of someone who left all the strategy to his partner. He looked, in fact, rather like a cat who’d seen something interesting moving in the grass. After a final, dour, look in the direction Yagyuu and Niou had taken with their opponents, Oishi agreed.

A brief competition of demurral ended when Kaidou managed to defer to his senior and sent Kawamura off with Jackal, following to take the second match, leaving only the captains, Akaya, and Echizen unemployed. Akaya and Echizen, Seiichi noted, were eyeing each other sidelong, and edging away from their captains. He stifled a laugh, and glanced over at Tezuka to see a spark of amusement in his eyes as well. Tezuka looked at Akaya, then back at Seiichi, lifting a brow. Seiichi smiled, glancing at Echizen, and nodded.

“Kirihara,” Tezuka called.

Akaya looked around, blinking. “Tezuka-san?” he answered, surprised.

Tezuka picked up his racquet. “Come play a match,” he directed.

Akaya’s eyes widened, and he looked a question at Seiichi. Seiichi came and gave him a small push in Tezuka’s direction, setting his other hand on Echizen’s shoulder.

“Go ahead,” he said, gently. Akaya’s eyes picked up a glitter of excitement, and he nearly skipped off in Tezuka’s wake. Echizen shifted under Seiichi’s hand.

“Do you want to watch them before we play?” Seiichi asked.

Echizen looked up at him from under the brim of his cap. “If it’s all right,” he said.

Seiichi smiled down at him. “I admit to some curiosity myself.”

So they stood at the fence and watched. Seiichi noted that Akaya, used to the more vivid playing styles of his teammates, and of Seiichi in particular, had a difficult time adjusting to the deadly understatement of Tezuka’s game. Akaya knew what was happening, Seiichi thought; he just couldn’t quite wrap his intellect around it sufficiently to plan. But the pressure Tezuka was putting on him, at least, was familiar, and Akaya answered it without thinking.

“That won’t last him very long,” Echizen muttered, in the tone of someone who had reason to know.

Akaya seemed to come to the same conclusion after three games, standing still and looking across the net at Tezuka. Seiichi could see him wavering, wanting to reach for his own newfound strength but hesitant to engage it with a strange player. Seiichi sympathized; it was an intimate and precarious thing, to play full out in a practice match, and Tezuka did not make a show of being receptive to it. Ironic, Seiichi reflected, considering that Tezuka was actually one of the most passionate players he had ever met. From this distance, Seiichi couldn’t swear to it, but he thought Tezuka’s eyes softened in recognition of Akaya’s dilemma.

“Come,” he ordered, quietly, and Akaya responded to the familiar sureness, even in an unfamiliar voice. When he served to start the next game, heads turned across the courts, and Seiichi watched Tezuka’s expression take on the fierce edge of a serious game.

“Not bad,” Echizen murmured. Seiichi glanced down to see a bright grin hiding under his cap.

By the end of the match, Seiichi was sure Akaya had recognized what Tezuka was, had touched the searing fire hidden under the coolness. Tezuka’s word of mild approval, as they shook hands over the net, painted the quick blush that Akaya hated across his cheeks, even as his chin came up, proud and challenging.

“Shall we?” Seiichi asked Echizen.


Momo and Marui leaned against the fence, watching the show two courts over. Momo smiled to himself.

“Just like Echizen, to nab a match with the best,” he commented. Marui snorted.

“It’s really no wonder he and Akaya keep after each other; I think they have a lot in common.”

Momo cast his erstwhile opponent a thoughtful glance. “You know, Marui-san,” he said, slowly, “all of you are acting really different, today.”

Marui cocked an eyebrow at him. “Of course we are,” he responded, easily, “Yukimura’s back.”

Momo blinked at him. That went beyond dependence, all the way to psychosis, in his opinion.

“He… means a lot to your team, then,” he hazarded, a bit uncomfortably.

Marui’s exasperated sigh produced a particularly large bubble.

“Look, Momoshiro,” he said, seriously, “you’ve had a taste of what it’s like to have your captain be gone, right?”

Momo nodded.

“Well, try this,” Marui continued. “Imagine for a minute that, before that, he’d spent months in the hospital, on life support, and no matter how often anyone said that whatever was wrong wasn’t fatal, none of you could quite believe it, looking at him. And then he was gone for more months, recuperating, supposedly, only you could see him breaking up because it was going so slowly. Just what,” Marui stabbed him in the chest with a finger, “do you think that would do to your team?”

Momo did try to imagine it, and had to fight down a sick shudder at the thought of Tezuka-san unmoving on a hospital bed. Marui, watching him narrowly, obviously caught it anyway.

“Exactly,” he said, leaning back against the fence. “I’d bet that vice-captain of yours would snap from the pressure, and that Fuji at least, and probably Echizen too, would go off the deep end, and no one would be able to control either of them. Because, in some ways, the composition of our teams isn’t all that different.”

Well, Momo had known Marui had an eye for analysis, and he’d certainly hit all of that dead on target. He swallowed a few times before he could speak.

“I’m glad for you,” he said, softly. “That he’s back.”

Marui directed a one-sided smile across the courts to where his captain was serving.

“Believe me, I’m glad for us, too.”


All right, so Masaharu had to admit that his partner might have had a point. While it would have been a lot of fun to prod at Fuji while he was in the mood to take heads, it was also possible that Masaharu would have managed, by doing so, to incur a much longer-term wrath than would be convenient to deal with. Yagyuu, on the other hand, was letting Fuji take out his snit and providing Masaharu with an absolutely beautiful spectacle in the process.

The scritch of a pencil beside him made him grin. He wasn’t the only one enjoying the show, of course.

“Your partner demands more of Fuji than I expected he would,” Inui commented.

“Yagyuu is a strong player,” Masaharu replied, giving nothing. Whatever this counterpart of Yanagi’s could extract from watching the flaring, prismatic brilliance of Yagyuu’s destructiveness slipping around and between the colder edge of Fuji’s he could have. But Masaharu didn’t share that well, and wasn’t about to freely add anything to that notebook.

As the game in front of them ended, Inui tucked away his pencil. “Shall we, Niou?”

Yagyuu, facing them across one of the benches, nodded over their shoulders with a smile. “Yukimura-san is playing,” he told them.

The heads of both Seigaku players swiveled as if drawn on one string. Masaharu grinned with delight. Yagyuu was in excellent form, today. Dangling a choice between observing Masaharu and observing Yukimura in front of these two was the kind of casual teasing Masaharu indulged in himself, as an alternative to, say, chewing his nails.

It was nice to know he was a good influence on his partner.

When Inui drifted across the path to lean on the fence of the other block of courts, the others drifted after him. Inui, Masaharu noted, was drawn to the greater power.

Yagyuu laid his hand on the fence, and Masaharu watched his mouth soften. “It’s good to know he’s back,” he murmured.

“It is,” Yanagi’s voice agreed, from beside them. The four who had been playing doubles one court down from them had also emerged to watch Yukimura’s match with Seigaku’s prodigy.

“Provided he doesn’t get too carried away,” Sanada added, and Masaharu thought he was serious despite the smile lurking under his cool tone.

Of course, considering what he and Marui were fairly sure had happened the last time Yukimura had gotten carried away, Sanada probably had good cause for a little purely personal caution.

When Yanagi gave Sanada an inquiring look, though, their vice-captain nodded toward Tezuka. Yanagi pursed his lips.

“You have a point,” he admitted.

Ah, so it was Yukimura’s competitiveness Sanada was worried about. Fair enough, all three of them were insanely competitive. Which made Masaharu watch with a rather ironic eye as Sanada and Yanagi strolled in the direction of Seigaku’s captain, presumably in order to restrain their own. Nor could he quite hold back a snort when Fuji, after contemplating the conversation for a moment, followed them.

“So, Tezuka burns hot, too, does he?” he commented.

Oishi stiffened. “Tezuka,” he answered, rather pointedly, “doesn’t need anyone to govern his actions.”

Masaharu cocked his head at the other.

“Someone’s holding a grudge,” he noted, mouth tilted. Oishi rounded on him, eyes flashing.

“You nearly sent my partner to the hospital, do you expect me to just let that pass?”

“We all know the risks of the game we play,” Masaharu shrugged. “Or, at least,” he added, eyeing Oishi, “I would hope we do.”

“That was an irresponsible game!” the other player snapped.

“You be responsible for yours, and I’ll be responsible for mine,” Masaharu told him, bluntly. For a moment he thought Seigaku’s famously even tempered and moderate vice-captain was about to take that simple truth as a challenge.

“Niou-kun,” Yagyuu spoke, quietly, one hand coming to rest on Masaharu’s shoulder. “There’s a point in what he says. The match played out that way because of my loss of control.” He looked at Kikumaru, watching the exchange with dark eyes, and then back toward Yukimura. “I believe I can assure you that it won’t happen again, though.”

“Really?” Inui asked from the other side of them, sounding merely curious. Yagyuu chuckled.

“There is a difference between losing control and setting it aside,” he pointed out.

Oishi was still glaring at them, but Kikumaru stepped in front of him and put a hand on his chest.

“Oishi. It’s all right. Not,” he cast a sharp look over his shoulder, “that I appreciated being woken up every hour that night. But I understand.”

“But…!” Oishi started.

Kikumaru thumped him in the chest. “And so would you, if you thought about it for a second,” he said, briskly, glancing at Yukimura. Oishi followed his eyes, and his mouth tightened.

“That isn’t an excuse.”

“Didn’t say it was,” Kikumaru pointed out. “I just said I could understand. Now come on. I want to play their other pair.”

Oishi, after one last moment’s resistance, gave in with a sigh and a slight smile, and let his partner drag him off.

“They’re kind of cute,” Masaharu said, placidly, and stretched. “So, Inui, you ready to play?”


Judging by Echizen’s expression, he was less pleased by this match than their last, and Seiichi cocked his head, inviting Echizen to say whatever was boiling behind his eyes.

“I thought you agreed no holding back, last time,” Echizen muttered, at last.

“I did,” Seiichi agreed. “And I wasn’t.”

Echizen gazed up at him, skeptical, and then considering, and then his eyes widened, shocked.

“It was bad,” Seiichi admitted. “And extremely frustrating; you’ll find out the first time you’re seriously injured.”

He felt the shiver Echizen suppressed through the hand that still clasped his. Echizen shot a quick look at his captain before he looked back at Seiichi and nodded.

Seiichi was rather amused at Echizen’s preoccupation, sufficient that he didn’t seem to notice when he took the other half of the same bench Akaya was recovering on. When he did notice, he merely nodded.

“Good target you have,” he commented.

“Mm,” Akaya agreed. “Yours, too.”

Seiichi choked down a laugh, seeing it’s reflection in Tezuka’s eyes. And then he had to stifle a surge of impatient desire. These were just practice matches, he knew that. He was sure Tezuka knew that, too. And he knew they really shouldn’t play each other here, because once they got started he wasn’t at all sure they would be able to stop. But he wanted so much to test himself against this one, and there was no guarantee they would play in competition, and he could tell from the shift in Tezuka’s stance that he wanted to play too…

Genichirou and Renji came up on either side of him, and Genichirou’s hand was on his back, calling for his restraint. Seiichi sighed.

“I know,” he murmured.

He could still feel Tezuka’s focus pulling on him, though, until Fuji moved, unhurriedly, past and brushed a hand over his captain’s arm.

“Tezuka.”

The others called them both back, back to being captains rather than purely competitors. Seiichi didn’t resent it, and he didn’t think Tezuka did, either, as the subtle tension eased back underneath his smooth surface. But he did wish, wistfully, for a chance to have it otherwise.

“So,” Renji said, calmly, “if you’ve finished revealing Yagyuu for Sadaharu’s edification, would you care for a match against me, Fuji?”

Fuji stiffened, as if at a threat. Seiichi supposed it had been, considering what long effort Fuji had put into concealing his style and his strength.

“Renji,” Sanada admonished, “stop teasing him.”

Renji raised his brows, as if to inquire what on earth Sanada meant. Seiichi shook his head.

“Come, now, Renji, where’s your patience?” he asked. “If you can deal with Akaya you should be able to deal with Fuji.”

Fuji gave him a downright indignant look. Tezuka, behind him, had a hand over his mouth. Sanada gave Fuji a long glance, and turned a hand up.

“Perhaps you’d care to play me?” he suggested, shooting a quelling look at Renji.

Fuji only hesitated a moment before agreeing.

“Excellent coordination,” Tezuka remarked, blandly, as they watched the two depart.

“Mm,” Seiichi agreed, pleasantly. “It’s often useful.” Renji merely smiled, satisfied with their successful triple-team of Fuji.

Tezuka checked his watch, and called to the two on the bench, “Echizen! Kirihara! B court.”

“Sure.”

“Right.”

Akaya blinked, looking surprised at his own prompt response. “Even sound the same,” he muttered, as he and Echizen collected their racquets. Echizen glanced at Seiichi on their way by, and gave Akaya an eloquent look of disbelief.

“Wait till you hear it,” Akaya snorted.

Seiichi laughed, quietly. He couldn’t quite tell whether that had been a warning to him, not to stray too far into the habit of controlling Tezuka’s people lest the favor be returned, or simply a return on the favor of caring for Tezuka’s people. Or possibly both; that sort of efficiency would be like Tezuka. He watched Sanada starting to drive Fuji with the pleasure he always felt watching the very best show their mettle. And watched Fuji taking out his frustration in an unusually straightforward fashion with the pleasure of accomplishment. Frustration was not, however, a very sustainable motivation.

“I can push him over the edge, Tezuka,” he said, not looking at his counterpart, “but he will need you to catch him when he falls. After so long refusing to fly, he’s afraid of the sky now. Afraid to fly for his own sake.”

“I know,” Tezuka answered, and Seiichi winced a little at the pain lodged in that deep, even voice. Renji’s fingers brushed his wrist, gently, supporting. Reminded of his friend’s presence, Seiichi looked around at him.

“Did you actually have someone else in mind?” he asked, knowing Renji would follow his veer back to the subject of match partners.

“I expect Momoshiro to go looking for Niou soon; Sadaharu will be free then.”

“Momoshiro and Niou?” Seiichi echoed, intrigued.

“Momoshiro has been showing a steadily increasing tendency to seek out other analytical players to measure himself against,” Renji explained. “I believe he’s beginning to know his own strength.”

“And Inui, hm?” Seiichi added, with a twinkle up at his friend. “Does he begin to know his own strength, too?”

“Yes,” Renji answered, softly, giving him a direct look back.

Having heard Renji’s opinion, past and present, about Inui’s greater facility as a singles player than a doubles player, Seiichi nodded, satisfied. It wouldn’t do Renji any harm to remember that side of his own strength, so often overshadowed by Seiichi and Sanada.

“And there we are, right on time,” Renji said, looking up. “If you’ll both excuse me.”

“You know,” Seiichi mentioned, under his breath to Tezuka, “I’m starting to wish for a tape of today.”

Tezuka’s mouth quirked up.


Seiichi considered the day a productive, if tiring one, and his team was relaxed and easy with their opposition when he gathered them back up to depart. Better yet, Seigaku was considerably more relaxed as well, and he exchanged a nod with Tezuka.

Of course, that increased ease had side effects.

“So,” Echizen interjected into the parting pleasantries. “If he’s the Emperor,” waving a hand at the startled Sanada, “what does that make him?” indicating Seiichi himself.

“Echizen…” Oishi sighed, exasperated. Sanada looked like someone fishing for the right words to express his outrage.

Niou, however, blinked slowly at Echizen, mouth curling.

“Why, Kami-sama, of course,” he answered, quite matter-of-fact.

Now Sanada looked like someone trying to decide which target to char to a crisp first. Renji, however, was overtaken by a coughing fit that was in no way convincing. Inui and Fuji were both snickering, despite Tezuka’s stern look, and Echizen was grinning. If it weren’t for Sanada’s ire, and the sudden, knotted tension in Oishi, only defused by Tezuka’s quick hand on his shoulder, Seiichi might have let it pass; but the vice-captains were clearly neither of them in the mood for Niou’s antics. So he touched Sanada’s arm, stopping whatever explosion that deep inhalation was the preface to, and pinned Niou with a sharp look.

“Enough.”

Niou blinked at the touch of steel in that order, and raised his hands placatingly. Seiichi nodded, accepting. He turned back just in time to catch the mildly impressed look Echizen threw at Akaya, and the ‘told you so’ grin Akaya returned.

There were days when Seiichi wondered whether he ran a tennis team or some kind of home for incorrigible boys.

“We’ll see you this weekend, Tezuka,” he said, and herded his team in the direction of their bus.

“So,” Akaya said, smugly, as they filed aboard, “do I have good ideas, or what?”

Half the team pounced on him.

End

Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
Posted: Jul 07, 04
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Credit

This story takes place in a quantum bubble of the Challengeverse (maybe it happened, maybe it didn’t), immediately following “The Continuation of War”. Tezuka offers Oishi some support after his very bad day. Porn with Characterization, I-3

It had not been a relaxing day for Oishi Shuichirou.

To be sure, practice wasn’t normally somewhere he relaxed. But today had had more than its fair share of stress. On top of the general run of keeping the team focused, there was the vastly increased problem of keeping them focused on actually practicing against Rikkai instead of attempting to one-up the other team. The attitudes of the Rikkai players had not helped in the least.

No, that wasn’t fair, Shuichirou told himself. The attitudes of their singles players were really quite reasonable, even Kirihara’s. Of course, very few people gave Tezuka attitude for long once they had played against him. Well, very few people, aside from Echizen, who gave absolutely everybody attitude, and could actually be considered becomingly respectful, by comparison, for moderating the back talk he gave his captain.

But he was wandering from the subject. The subject was the doubles players, and specifically that Niou character. His partner, at least, had seemed vaguely remorseful about knocking Eiji unconscious, but Niou had brushed it off. Shuichirou felt his teeth grinding, and made himself stop. Again.

He didn’t lose his temper very often, but he would have this afternoon. Not even over a direct offense, either, no, it had been the crack about Niou’s own captain that had been the last straw, and Shuichirou would have exploded, if Tezuka hadn’t noticed. The hand on his shoulder had startled him out of what Shuichirou was guiltily aware was an irrational anger, and the silent support of Tezuka at his back had given him the moment of calm to take a good deep breath and not yell.

It didn’t particularly surprise him that Tezuka had quietly fallen in beside him when they all left. He knew Tezuka worried when Shuichirou lost his cool, and he had to admit that the company was welcome, now. Tezuka’s company in private, where their long familiarity let him relax his usual reserve and show himself to Shuichirou more openly, would be especially welcome.

At his gate he looked a question at Tezuka and received a tiny smile back. Tezuka would come in for a while, then.

Up in his room he let his bags thump to the floor, and leaned his hands on his desk, blowing out a long sigh.

“I’m sorry about that, Tezuka,” he said. “You shouldn’t have to deal with me acting immature, on top of everything else…”

Tezuka’s hands closing over his shoulders stopped him.

“Enough,” the deep voice behind him said, quietly. “No one can keep a perfect temper all the time.”

“Except you?” Shuichirou murmured, ruefully.

“I’m just a little better at putting it off until later.”

Shuichirou sighed again, more softly, as Tezuka’s thumbs stroked down his neck, coaxing away a little of the day’s tension.

“I shouldn’t need you to make allowances for me,” he insisted, though.

Tezuka pulled Shuichirou around and into his arms. “I said, enough,” he warned, the warmth and amusement in his eyes belying his stern tone. “You let yourself be more open than I do, and have the problems that go with that. Why should I be unwilling to help you with the problems when the openness is exactly what I need? Both in my vice-captain and in my friend.”

Shuichirou leaned against his friend and rested his forehead on Tezuka’s shoulder, smiling just a little. They’d had this conversation often enough that he knew he wouldn’t win it. Nor did he really want to. He just couldn’t help saying so, when he felt as if he was taking advantage of Tezuka’s strength. He saw enough of Tezuka’s honest emotion and response to know that, while the strength in question was impressive, it wasn’t limitless. Tezuka always insisted that it was a more than even trade, though. And, to be honest himself, Shuichirou always relaxed quickly with the reassurance of Tezuka’s arms around him.

“Better?” Tezuka asked.

“Yes,” Shuichirou laughed. “Better. Thank you.”

“No need.” Tezuka freed one hand to lift Shuichirou’s chin. “Shuichirou.”

Hearing Tezuka’s dark velvet voice wrapped around his name always made Shuichirou shiver, and his lips were already parted on a quick breath when Tezuka’s mouth covered his. The heat wound its way into his bones, and Shuichirou moaned softly. Tezuka kissed him deep and swift, again and again, the way he kissed when he wanted to lay Shuichirou down and open his legs and touch him until he was incapable of thinking.

Tezuka seemed to especially enjoy that last part.

Shuichirou pressed against Tezuka’s body, offering his assent, and went willingly when Tezuka’s hands guided him down to the bed. Long fingers flicked open his shirt and pants, as Tezuka’s lips traced down his neck.

Opened them, but didn’t pull them off.

“Tezuka,” Shuichirou murmured, shifting under him. It always made him feel a little more… wanton when Tezuka touched him without undressing him first. As if what they were doing was more urgent, even when they went slowly. As if the presence of clothing somehow emphasized how undone and open it was. How undone and open he was, under Tezuka’s hands.

Tezuka’s fingers stroking his chest were a silent question; Tezuka knew that he was hesitant, sometimes, about this. But it excited him, too, and his hand over Tezuka’s, moving it down, was an equally silent answer. Tezuka’s lips curved against his throat.

One warm, strong hand slipped into his open pants, closing around him, and Shuichirou gasped, pressing up into it. Tezuka stroked him firmly, mouth tracking over Shuichirou’s shoulders, pushing his shirt further off, before wandering down his stomach. Shuichirou shuddered as Tezuka’s hands slid down his hips, pushing his pants a little further down even as Tezuka’s legs spread his apart.

Tezuka paused, kneeling above him, hands resting on the arch of his hipbones.

“Tezuka?” Shuichirou asked, breathless.

“Your strength is part of your magnificence, Shuichirou,” Tezuka said, voice low. “Never doubt that I find you magnificent.”

Shuichirou’s breath caught in his throat, and Tezuka’s smile acknowledged both the flush that heated Shuichirou’s cheeks and the wonder that softened his eyes. Tezuka leaned down to kiss him, once, softly.

And then the heat of his mouth closed over Shuichirou’s cock, and Shuichirou’s thoughts were washed under the abrupt surge of tense pleasure. His senses took over the moment, filling his mind with the rough brush and bind of cloth against his skin, the press of Tezuka’s fingers, the sleek, wet glide of his tongue, demanding reaction from Shuichirou’s nerves, stroking liquid heat down them until Shuichirou couldn’t help but answer those demands with long, deep shudders of pleasure that raked through his body and took away with them his ability to move.

Not, he reflected, a little lightheaded, that this was all that different from the results of Tezuka’s demands on the court.

Fingers brushed against his cheek, and Tezuka laughed, softly, that rich sound that so few ever heard.

“You certainly look more relaxed, now,” he commented.

Shuichirou looked up at him and smiled. “So do you,” he said, quite truthfully. The bittersweet-brown eyes were warm, the faint pinch between the brows was gone, and Tezuka’s mouth was gentler than anyone but Shuichirou probably ever saw it. He drew Tezuka down to lie against him, tangling his fingers in soft, springy hair.

“Rest a little,” Shuichirou suggested. “You had a long day, too.”

“Mmm,” Tezuka agreed, winding an arm around Shuichirou. “Good idea. Especially,” and the deep voice took on a hint of teasing as it breathed in Shuichirou’s ear, “since you’ll need your rest later.”

Shuichirou flushed again, abruptly aware of his still rumpled condition, and felt more than heard Tezuka’s suppressed chuckles.

“Tezuka!” he laughed.

End

Last Modified: Feb 08, 12
Posted: Jul 08, 04
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Dislocated

Immediately after “The Continuation of War”, Yanagi and Inui finally get around to talking about how they parted. Drama With Romance, I-4

Pairing(s): Yanagi/Inui

As the Rikkai team made their way back to their bus, Renji found himself pausing for one more look back toward Seigaku’s courts. He had, perhaps unwisely, let himself be drawn into playing a second doubles match, today, this one against Yagyuu and Niou.

As a pair with Sadaharu.

They had both evolved over the years, of course, but they had also watched each other do so, and, while their particular moves had changed, their coordination was achingly familiar. He had read descriptions of how it felt to have a dislocated joint realigned, and, from what he recalled, it sounded remarkably like what he had felt this afternoon: a sharp pain accompanied by a hard wrench and a sudden feeling of rightness. Despite his distraction by such contradictory feelings, which he suspected Sadaharu shared, they had won.

Actually, Niou’s expression of indignation when they did had been rather amusing.

And despite his own knowledge, well borne out, now, that both of them played better in singles than in doubles, he found himself reminded of something he missed. Perhaps, he thought, whimsically, the first doubles partner one really had rapport with was like first love; it always had a special place.

“Renji?”

He started, and looked around to see Seiichi smiling at him, sympathy in his eyes.

“Do you want to stay a little longer?” Seiichi asked, gently.

“I don’t…” Renji broke off. For the life of him, he couldn’t say whether he wanted to or not.

Seiichi shook his head at Renji, and reached up to take his shoulder and shake him lightly. “You need to settle this, Renji. If nothing else, until you do you’ll be vulnerable to the same kind of shock he gave you last time.”

Having a solid reason to go along with his ephemeral ones made Renji feel better about the prospect, and he smiled back, bowing his head to the knowledge that lurked in Seiichi’s gaze.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“Don’t be foolish,” Genichirou said from behind him, hand warm on Renji’s back. “We’ll be waiting for you when you get back.”

Renji knew without looking that Genichirou’s expression was softer than his tone, and nodded.

After waving his teammates onto the bus, and thinking a little, Renji stationed himself five and a half blocks away from the school, under a handy chestnut tree. It should be far enough that anyone Sadaharu might walk with would have turned off already.

When Sadaharu appeared, and spotted Renji waiting there, his mouth took on a very satisfied quirk, by which Renji deduced that Sadaharu had predicted this turn of events.

“Renji,” Sadaharu greeted him, just a touch smug.

“Sadaharu,” Renji returned, suppressing a chuckle and falling in beside his old friend. “Do you have your room on separate environmental control yet?”

Sadaharu waved a hand. “I’m waiting until fall for that; my schedule is too irregular in summer to get good results.”

One of the things he had missed, Renji reflected, was someone who genuinely took Renji’s informedness completely for granted.

“Will that give you results in time for this year’s Exposition?”

“The baseline will be a little short, but the lower number of variables will make the entire study much cleaner.”

“That must be a pleasant break from the data you deal with all summer,” Renji murmured.

Sadaharu shot him a sidelong look. “Data that changes makes an equally pleasant challenge,” he countered. Renji smiled.

Sadaharu was a scientist to the core, and had a true scientist’s drive to constantly improve and adjust his models. It was a good thing, because otherwise, Renji was convinced, the frustration of attempting to map such stubborn imponderables as human performance in a game like tennis would have driven him mad within six months. The fact remained that Sadaharu was a scientist and looked for patterns that were stable.

When dealing with people, one had to look for patterns that moved, as well.

“And you?” Sadaharu needled. “Still cluttering your mind with the latest novels by Touma Shigure?”

Renji chuckled. “Much of history is written by storytellers,” he pointed out. “Comparing a contemporary story to contemporary events allows me to recognize the patterns of reinterpretation when I seem them in historical accounts.”

Sadaharu sniffed.

“Oh, come now,” Renji sighed. “Don’t pretend you don’t know the value of including emotional elements in calculations. Not when you demonstrated it so very well at the Regional finals.”

“That was different,” Sadaharu insisted, as he opened his front door and waved Renji inside.

“How?”

“That was you. It was personal.”

Renji paused in toeing off his shoes to cast an exasperated look over his shoulder. For all his finickiness over his data, Sadaharu was as capable as the next person of fuzzy logic when it suited him.

“The most objective observation is always personal for someone, Sadaharu,” he admonished. “The observer always has a reason for observing.”

Sadaharu, too, paused, in the act of opening the door to his room. He gave Renji a crooked smile.

“You really will make an excellent professor,” he said, echoing their childhood nicknames.

“So will you,” Renji observed, closing the door behind him. “We’ll just be in different departments.”

This time Sadaharu stopped dead in the middle of the room, a soft, surprised laugh escaping him. Renji remembered that this was what they used to say to each other when they made plans to work at the same university when they grew up. And to move in together, getting a nice, big apartment in…

“Shiodome,” they said, together, and were both still for a moment, looking at each other through a tangle of memory and dreams so dense that Renji felt it like a knot in his chest. He thought about his comparison of first partners with first loves, and reflected that Sadaharu was probably both to him.

It was Sadaharu who broke the moment, turning to his desk to set down his bag. He had always been the one less comfortable with interpersonal nuances. Renji accepted the tacit request to change the subject and went to take a look at the bookcase. The Yukawa and Kaku were expected; the Kurzweil was a bit of a surprise, and he adjusted his assumptions about Sadaharu’s English proficiency to reflect it.

He had to stifle a laugh at the two novels by Touma Shigure.

But he did wonder about the couple of notebooks marked Recipes. “Sadaharu?” he asked, brushing his fingers over the spines.

“Ah,” Sadaharu said, pulling one out, “a little in the way of biochemistry.”

Renji raised his brows. Sadaharu flipped the book open and handed it to him with a faint smile. He read over the lists of ingredients and effects, brows climbing even higher at the recorded effects on other people. When he reached the section titled Penal-Tea he couldn’t help himself and burst out laughing until he had to lean against the shelves.

“Sadaharu! You didn’t!”

“It operates as a very reliable motivator,” Sadaharu said, serenely, only the evil curl to his smile giving him away.

Renji shook his head. “You and your sense of humor,” he mock lamented. “Niou was entirely correct about you.” He ruffled a hand through Sadaharu’s hair, unthinking, and they both froze.

Their old gesture, just as automatic as the old names. Just as easy. Just as hurtful, now.

Sadaharu snatched a deep breath and backed up to sit on his bed, head bent.

“Renji.” The low voice was huskier than usual. “Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?”

“I didn’t want to think about it,” Renji told him.

“And?” Sadaharu prodded, still low but harder now.

“Your tone tells me you already know,” Renji hedged. He knew he was avoiding the point, but to speak of it now would make the pain new again, and wasn’t once enough?

“Tell me,” Sadaharu insisted, roughly.

“And when I did think about,” Renji admitted, eventually, “I thought that it would push you away from doubles, and into singles. Where you belong.” He could see the muscles along Sadaharu’s jaw standing out, and he didn’t want to say the next thing, but Sadaharu had asked.

“And I was right,” he finished, softly.

Sadaharu’s mouth tightened, and he nodded, a little stiffly. “You were always better at people,” he said, flat and toneless. “It was a good move, for our games.”

Both statements were completely truthful, and made Renji’s heart feel like lead. He had known what he was doing, then, but he hadn’t understood what it would mean, and he couldn’t leave the results to lie where they had fallen. He crossed the room and laid his hands on Sadaharu’s straight, tense shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he told his once-best friend. “I should never have done that. Not to a friend.”

Sadaharu’s head came up quickly, and his mouth was uncertain now. Renji knew he had unbalanced Sadaharu’s decision to focus their interactions solely through the lens of the game they both played, had intruded more personal matters back into the issue. But this was one pattern he found he needed to at least try to break.

“Can you forgive me?” he asked, quietly.

Slowly, the tension drained away under his hands, and Sadaharu’s expression settled, a little wistful but at ease, and open in a way Renji hadn’t seen in years.

“Yes,” Sadaharu answered.

“Thank you,” Renji whispered.

Sadaharu heaved a sigh, and leaned forward to rest his forehead against Renji’s chest, clasping his hands loosely behind Renji’s knees. Renji passed his hand through Sadaharu’s hair again, tightening his other arm around Sadaharu’s shoulders. The stillness this time was comfort, as their memories settled into alignment with their present.

Eventually Renji broke the silence, passing a hand over Sadaharu’s shoulder and down his arm. “You really have gotten much stronger,” he noted. Sadaharu snorted.

“Chasing after Tezuka, I’ve had to,” he pointed out.

“Is he your goal, still?” Renji asked, curious. Having observed Tezuka’s pattern of trying to make his team members aware of the breadth and variety of the world of tennis as a whole, he would be very surprised if Tezuka had not been trying to do something about that.

“One of them,” Sadaharu answered, after a pause. Renji smiled down at the dark head leaning against him. Then Sadaharu looked up, an inquiring tilt to his brows. “Is Yukimura one of yours? I’ve never gotten enough data on the two of you to tell for sure.”

“Not exactly,” Renji answered, still running his fingers absently through black hair that was becoming more mussed than usual. “I like to match my skills against his, but it isn’t from any particular drive to exceed him. It’s just that he calls out my best; it’s what he does for all of us, really. It’s his gift.” He paused, and then added, more softly, “He’s the one who sent me to you.”

Sadaharu tilted his head, mouth quirking in the terribly familiar preface to teasing. Renji braced himself.

“Did he?” Sadaharu asked, tone suspiciously light.

“Yes,” Renji answered, warily.

“Well, I suppose I had already gathered that he didn’t mind sharing,” Sadaharu murmured, as if thoughtfully.

“Sadaharu…” Renji growled, throttling down the urge to blush. His friend’s toothy grin didn’t help matters any. “Toy with me, will you?”

“Who said I was?”

Renji looked down at Sadaharu, trying to place the expression on his face now. Sharp. Almost challenging. But there was amusement running under it, too, and that wistful edge once again.

“Aren’t you?” he asked.

“Merely examining your reaction,” Sadaharu defended himself.

Oh, yes, Sadaharu could split hairs with the best. Renji ran his fingers down Sadaharu’s jaw, tilting his head up, and leaned in a little.

“And is this the reaction you expected?”

“It was one I considered.” The quickening pulse under Renji’s fingertips contradicted the steadiness of Sadaharu’s voice. “Previously, I had calculated the probability as fairly low, though.”

Renji thought back to the knowing look in Seiichi’s eyes, to Genichirou’s reassurance. If he wanted to do this they would have no problems with it. They knew he would be back.

Did Sadaharu?

Renji raised his hands to Sadaharu’s glasses, and Sadaharu let him remove them. Dark eyes gazed back at him with an undeniable edge of desire, but also with an awareness and reserve that told Renji that his friend did understand.

“You really don’t mind?” he asked, hesitant for once.

“Anything more would be too much, Renji,” Sadaharu told him, gently.

Just because Sadaharu wasn’t as good as he was at calculating interpersonal reactions, Renji reminded himself, didn’t mean his analytical skills were any less. And he had often applied them to their particular relationship with downright dazzling success. So be it, then.

He set one knee on the bed, and pressed Sadaharu down with a hand on his chest. The other hand braced him as he leaned over his friend, brushing a light kiss against Sadaharu’s lips before nipping softly at his throat. Sadaharu’s body tensed against his.

“Renji!” he gasped, hands closing on Renji’s shoulders.

“You’re used to being the one who causes this response, not the one who gives it, aren’t you?” Renji murmured against his ear. A shiver answered him. “Do you need that, Sadaharu?”

Long fingers spread against his collar bone, slid down his chest. He lifted his head to see Sadaharu’s eyes. They were bright and laughing, the way Renji hadn’t seen them for a very long time, as Sadaharu shook his head.

“Not with you,” he said, simply.

Renji smiled and leaned back down, tasting Sadaharu’s caught breath as they kissed again.

He went slowly, savoring the strength with which Sadaharu answered his kiss, his hands against Sadaharu’s skin. Feeling Sadaharu arch under the stroke of Renji’s fingers down his chest or thighs, seeing the sleek lines of his muscles tense into sharp definition when Renji pressed his lips to the hollow of Sadaharu’s hip, hearing his low moan as Renji parted his legs, these wrapped around Renji tighter than any physical grip could have. Seeing the abandon in Sadaharu’s eyes now, he recognized the pretense he had seen on the court for what it was: the shell of this loosed passion. The knowledge that Sadaharu trusted him, again, with so much of himself stopped Renji’s own breath. The note of that trust in Sadaharu’s voice, when he called Renji’s name, even more than the heat and welcome of the body twined with his, drew Renji, helpless, over the edge of pleasure.

It was a long time before he could raise his head from the curve of Sadaharu’s shoulder, or relax the trembling tightness of his hold.

“Renji,” Sadaharu said, eventually, sounding thoughtful.

“Mm?”

“You said Yukimura isn’t you goal; that you don’t play like that.”

Renji propped his head on one hand so he could see Sadaharu’s face. “Yes.”

Sadaharu tilted his head on the pillow. “Does that mean you’re going to have a problem playing all out against me?”

Renji stroked his fingers down Sadaharu’s cheek, silently acknowledging the similarities Sadaharu had seen. “No,” he said, softly. “I won’t. Seiichi sent me back to you today, and he’ll send me back to you this weekend, too.”

An appreciative smile curved Sadaharu’s mouth. “You have a good captain.”

“Yes,” Renji agreed, shoving back the shudder that tried to walk up his spine at the memories of Seiichi’s absence.

Sadaharu seemed to feel it anyway, and pulled Renji back down to him. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “He’s back.”

Renji sighed, and nodded. Sadaharu’s arms tightened, and an edge of teasing crept into his voice.

“Can you stay a while longer before I send you back to him?”

Renji laughed, quietly. He’d forgotten how easily Sadaharu could make him laugh. He twined their fingers together and settled closer.

“Of course.”

End

Last Modified: Feb 08, 12
Posted: Jul 11, 04
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3 readers sent Plaudits.

Cloud to Cloud

Immediately following “The Continuation of War”, Kirihara finds himself somewhat disturbed by the day’s experiences, and Yukimura offers him reassurance. Porn with Insights, I-4

The lurch as the bus stopped woke Akaya from a half dozing dream that promptly escaped him. All he remembered was that it had involved cutting a tall chain-link fence. And that Fuji had been mixed up in the project. There were really days Akaya wished his subconscious could just send him a memo. Stumbling off the bus, rubbing his eyes, Akaya glanced up at the sky; clouds were piling up, though it wasn’t getting any cooler. They might have rain soon. Time to be heading home.

He didn’t move, though, as the rest of the team scattered towards their own homes. Instead he stood still and tried to put the day’s events in some kind of order in his head.

“Akaya?” Yukimura-san’s voice asked beside him, soft enough not to startle. Yukimura-san smiled a little when Akaya blinked at him. “Worn out?”

“Not really,” Akaya shook his head. He was a little tired, certainly, but not worn out. He was in better training than that.

Yukimura-san’s eyes sharpened. “Confused?” he guessed.

Akaya bit his lip. That would be it, yes.

“Tezuka-san,” he started, “it was… and when you played Echizen…” Why, he wondered, couldn’t he put this coherently?

“What, worried I want to replace you?” Yukimura-san asked, lightly.

Akaya winced. Oh, yes, that was right; because it sounded so stupid when he did. Yukimura-san patted his shoulder.

“I shouldn’t tease you,” he sighed. “It can be confusing. Good rivals are as close as your teammates; closer, sometimes.”

That, Akaya decided, was exactly what was making him uncomfortable. He looked aside.

“Akaya.” Yukimura-san’s hand turned Akaya’s face back toward him. “You are one of mine. Don’t forget that. Even if you defeat me, you will still be one of mine.”

Akaya wanted to let that reassurance comfort him, to let that hint of wildness glowing in Yukimura-san’s eyes wrap around him, but he remembered seeing it earlier today. While his captain was playing Echizen. He found himself nibbling on his lip again.

Yukimura-san’s expression turned considering. His hand cupped Akaya’s cheek.

“If I asked you to come home with me tonight, what would you say?” he murmured.

Akaya felt his eyes widen. He had really tried to stop hoping that Yukimura-san would ever say something like that to him. And when they both let go, on the court, let the brilliance take them, it was enough for him.

Except…

Except that that was the problem right now, wasn’t it? He had watched Yukimura-san share that with someone else, today—and found out, himself, that he could share it with someone besides Yukimura-san. He found himself longing for some connection that he knew wouldn’t be shared outside the team, like that.

And Yukimura-san was offering it.

“Yes,” Akaya whispered, shakily.

Yukimura-san smiled, and leaned forward to brush a light kiss across his lips. “Come, then.”

Akaya spent the walk in a bit of a daze.

They reached Yukimura-san’s home just as clouds overran the sky, and the wind started to pick up. It still wasn’t cooling off, Akaya noticed, eyeing the sky. The wind was warm and heavy with the touch of water, and a flash of heat lightning showed the edges of the clouds for an instant. A soft sound beside him made Akaya look around to see Yukimura-san also watching the sky.

“We’re in for a storm, it looks like.”

Watching the wind lift and twine through his hair, seeing the dark sky reflected in his eyes, Akaya was struck by the whimsy that if this particular weather had human form it would be Yukimura-san. He looked so at ease, not even swaying with the gusts.

And then Yukimura-san looked at him, and held out a hand, and matters of more immediate concern returned with a rush. He let Yukimura-san lead him inside, trying to calm his heart rate.

Though he was a bit startled when Yukimura-san immediately threw open both the windows over his bed. Yukimura-san noticed his look, and one corner of his mouth tugged up.

“Most of the windows at the hospital didn’t open very far; it didn’t take long to get fed up with it.”

Akaya shivered and nodded, subdued. Yukimura-san came and took Akaya’s face between his hands, turning it up.

“That won’t do,” he murmured, and bent his head to kiss Akaya’s lips apart.

Akaya barely noticed Yukimura-san undressing him until he realized that he was leaning against his captain’s body without a thread of clothing between them, and released a breathless moan into Yukimura-san’s mouth. Slim, strong hands traveled down his back, settled on his hips, moved him the few steps to the bed.

Scooting back on the sheets, momentarily without Yukimura-san’s touch to distract him, Akaya felt suddenly shy, and cursed his quick blush once again for giving him away. He looked up at Yukimura-san through his lashes to see a gentle smile and eyes bright with amusement. His captain pressed him down and stroked his hair back, soothing.

“So shy, Akaya? After the way I’ve seen you tease Genichirou, I’m surprised.”

Akaya turned his head away to press a hot cheek against the cool cotton under him. “That was Sanada-san,” he mumbled, “that’s different.”

Yukimura-san’s fingers closed on his chin and turned his head back. “Does that mean I can stop worrying about you teasing me?” he asked, lips just brushing Akaya’s.

Akaya’s breath caught on a faint whimper. “Yes, Yukimura-san,” he husked.

Yukimura-san’s lips covered his, softly, fingers smoothing over Akaya’s ribs, down his hips, feather light on the insides of his thighs. Akaya arched up, shivering, and then sank back, open and yearning under those hands. With his eyes closed, Akaya found it hard to tell, sometimes, what was Yukimura-san’s delicate, inciting touch and what was the brush of that heavy wind blowing over them. It only got more so when Yukimura-san drew him up onto his knees and into the path of the air curling through the room.

His captain’s fingers brushing his entrance was one touch he couldn’t mistake, though, and another low sound escaped him. Yukimura-san held Akaya close against his body and touched him slowly, coaxing and teasing and gentle. Akaya stretched against him, wanting, asking silently for more than this soft stroking. When Yukimura-san’s tongue traced down Akaya’s neck and over his shoulder, Akaya tossed his head, bowing back over the arm that held him with a gasp, because it was suddenly too much for nerves brushed to hypersensitivity.

“Yukimura-san,” he choked, “please…”

He broke off with a breathless moan as Yukimura-san’s fingers finally slid into him, a presence spreading him open around itself. Yukimura-san leaned over him, a familiar electric edge in his dark eyes, and the wind stroked his hair across Akaya’s skin as his mouth moved over Akaya’s chest. The gentle touches left Akaya limp in his hold, breathing in faint sighs as his captain’s strength wrapped around him. Silent flickers of lightning painted red across his closed eyes.

When Yukimura-san drew him back up and turned him to face the window, Akaya found that he had to lean back against the support of Yukimura-san’s body behind him to keep from collapsing in a heap. That support was as familiar as the demand in the kiss that Yukimura-san turned Akaya’s head back to meet, and the compelling pressure that opened him slowly, steadily. Familiar in a new form. Akaya’s small, desperate sound, as Yukimura-san slid all the way into him, was caught by his captain’s mouth on his before Yukimura-san’s lips curved.

“Akaya,” that soft voice stroked against his ear, sounding pleased and reflective, both, “you give yourself to me so easily.”

Akaya rested his head back on Yukimura-san’s shoulder, shivering as his captain took the opportunity to press his mouth to Akaya’s exposed throat. “You take me so completely,” he whispered, both an explanation and a plea.

True lightning etched the fast moving sky in front of them, and the thunder that followed it drowned out any reply Yukimura-san might have made. Akaya didn’t care, because Yukimura-san was moving, now, slow and hard, holding Akaya tight against him. The stretch and slide of it burned through Akaya, started sweat on his skin that only made the glide of Yukimura-san’s hands sleeker. The increasing power of the wind washing across them did nothing to cool Akaya; it was still warm, almost skin-warm, and played between his spread legs as lightly as Yukimura-san’s fingertips.

Akaya’s senses slid into each other. The rhythm of Yukimura-san moving in him matched itself with the rhythm of the increasing thunder, a breathless pause before the echoing shock of each thrust. The hot, tense pleasure licking at his nerves felt like the bright, soundless bursts of heat lightning, flickering from cloud to cloud, building and never grounding. Akaya wanted it to ground, to strike down, to find some bridge of release, and found his voice long enough to call his captain’s name, needing, asking. Yukimura-san shifted, harder, deeper, and he spoke into Akaya’s ear, voice low and clear.

“Come with me, Akaya. Let yourself go.”

Fingers stroked down his length and drew Akaya’s pulse and breath with them, wringing out of him like the desperate gasps that wrung free from his throat with each spasm, leaving him lax and panting in Yukimura-san’s arms. He felt very much like purring. Yukimura-san laughed, softly, and laid him down, leaning beside him and smoothing damp strands of hair away from his eyes. Akaya smiled and turned his face into Yukimura-san’s hand, laying a shy kiss in the palm. Yukimura-san was breathing deeply, the same indefinable glow hovering around him as did after a serious game. He bent down and caught Akaya’s mouth with his, somehow both wild and soothing.

“Feeling less confused?” he asked on a teasing note.

Akaya looked up through his lashes with a wicked grin. “As long as you aren’t planning on taking Echizen to bed.”

Yukimura-san’s laughter was bright and rich. “Definitely not,” he assured Akaya, chuckling.

Akaya curled contentedly against his captain’s side and listened as it began to rain.

End

Last Modified: Feb 08, 12
Posted: Jul 13, 04
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6 readers sent Plaudits.

Fortune

Atobe encounters Yukimura at the museum, they fall to chatting, and events take a rather sharp left turn. Drama With Romance and Porn, I-4, continuity uncertain—possibly hybrid

Pairing(s): Atobe/Yukimura

Atobe Keigo liked to have privacy when he sketched. Which was to say, he didn’t like to have anyone around who would recognize him. Squealing admirers were a distraction, and sneering detractors didn’t need the ammunition.

It wasn’t that Keigo sketched badly, because he was actually fairly good at it. His preliminary work, in fact, was excellent. It was the details that always seemed to go astray. The problem was that he did not sketch superbly. If he’d known, years ago, that he would be expected to affect an attitude everywhere about everything, and defend it the same way he did on the court…

Well, it might not have changed anything, but at least he’d have had some forewarning.

Thus, when a pleasant voice that he recognized immediately spoke over his shoulder, thoroughly invalidating every precaution of stowing his sketchbook in his tennis bag and coming to the museum early in the morning and sitting in the Impressionist gallery, where most people his age tended to breeze through with barely a glance, he was not terribly pleased.

Besides, he was in the middle of trying to capture the shadows of a Cassat, and that was never easy.

“Mmm,” he answered, and kept working.

Fortunately, Yukimura had the grace to let him do so.

After another few minutes, Keigo decided this effort was as done as it was going to get, and held it out, critically, to compare with the painting in front of him. The likeness was unimpressive, and a faint growl of frustration escaped.

“It looks like a reasonable start.”

If Yukimura’s tone had been in any way encouraging, Keigo would have snapped at him. Since his unwelcome company merely sounded matter of fact, he limited himself to a curled lip. The implicit understanding, in that voice, of how deeply annoying shortcomings of any kind were, however, also led him to offer some explanation of his disdain.

“Reasonable for an exercise, I suppose. It works better when I’m drawing a three dimensional subject. This simply isn’t up to standard.”

Yukimura tipped his head and looked down at him, thoughtfully. “My art teachers have always said that copying a masterwork was the best way to learn the techniques the artist used to achieve a given effect,” he noted.

Keigo sniffed. Still, there was honest curiosity in Yukimura’s observation, and a delicacy behind his lack of actual questioning that soothed Keigo’s brief temper. So he stopped and thought about it.

“It’s never really worked that way, for me,” he said, slowly. “When I observe something,” he waved a hand at the Cassat on the wall, “it… sublimates. It comes out again when I actually sketch a real subject, but just copying has never worked out very well. Live models are much better.” He shrugged, dismissing the topic, and stowed away his sketchbook. “Are you here for one of the exhibits in particular?” he asked, standing.

“I didn’t have any in mind, especially,” Yukimura answered, accepting the shift to polite small-talk. “Are there any you would recommend?”

“Their Renaissance galleries are quite good,” Keigo considered, turning toward them absently. “There’s also an excellent special exhibit of Edo period textiles this month…”

Which was how he found himself acting as impromptu tour guide to one of his strongest rivals. They were in the middle of the textiles exhibit before he even realized it. On the other hand, Yukimura’s conversation was informed and insightful, and there were worse ways to spend a morning than discussing fine art in the serenity of a well-kept museum.

Yukimura laid his hand on the glass of a case. “Gaudy,” he said, of the layers on layers of figured cloth inside, “but beautiful. It takes a good deal of dedication to create something this complex.”

“Extremely difficult to move in, though,” Keigo observed. Yukimura laughed, softly.

“Ah, but these were made for court nobles to show off to each other. When it came to actually avoiding a knife in the back… well, that’s what they had retainers for.”

“Indeed,” Keigo smiled, crookedly. Too bad he didn’t have a few of those. Not that he could imagine himself mincing around in the robes in front of them. Yukimura would look well in these creations, though, he reflected, idly. He had the grace of gesture implied by every line of Ukio-e; the trailing style would suit him, for all that the constriction would likely drive him as mad as it would Keigo.

They finally fetched up in the open courtyard of the museum cafe for lunch.

Lingering over coffee, Keigo’s mind wandered back to the question of shadows. How, for instance, would he render the shadows that dappled that handsome bit of Greek statuary under the trees?

“How long does it usually take you to sketch something?”

Keigo blinked at his companion. “Ten or fifteen minutes, unless it’s a very complex subject,” he answered, a bit startled at the non sequitur. Yukimura smiled.

“Well, then, I’ll be sure to take my time getting us some more coffee,” he said, rising.

Keigo stared after him for a few moments before he decided not to question the gift, and pulled out his sketchbook. Now, the arm thus, and the curve of hip so, and shaded here… When he emerged from the concentration of transfer from solid to paper, he sat back, pleased. It lacked the texture of Cassat, but he was getting there.

“You are much better working from life,” Yukimura said, over his shoulder.

Keigo grimly suppressed a start; he hadn’t even realized the other was there. “Why thank you,” he replied, layering irony over courtesy.

Yukimura chuckled, and set Keigo’s coffee down beside him before resuming his seat. “You said live models are best, though?”

“Yes,” Keigo agreed, stowing materials away again. “I know some people prefer subjects that don’t have to breathe, but that bit of movement always adds something to a scene, for me.”

He might have gone on, because Yukimura seemed to have a better understanding of such things than most people he spoke to, but, as he straightened, his eye, still tuned to line and shadow rather than human identity, was arrested by the figure across the table from him. That figure was, momentarily, not one of his rivals, nor a chance companion who discussed artistic philosophy well. Instead, it was a study in contrast: the dark, breaking wave of hair against the pale, stark angles of bone and lean muscle. In that suspended moment, a word drifted through Keigo’s mind. Chiaroscuro. Light and shadow. And another after it. Kikkyou. Fortune. Sunshine and shadow.

He shook his head, and his perceptions settled. Wouldn’t it be superb, though? Now, how on earth to ask something like that?

“Yukimura…” he trailed off, as the gleam in his companion’s eye suddenly registered.

Yukimura rested his chin on one hand, and lifted his brows. He was, Keigo decided, perfectly well aware of what Keigo wanted to ask and was going to sit there with that attentive expression and watch Keigo squirm while he tried to come up with a courteous way to do it.

The hell with that.

So. His coach had taught Keigo that pride was a powerful tool; years of watching his father entertain clients had taught him a much older lesson. Flattery gets you everywhere. Above all else, experience had taught him that the observant ones liked to be amused.

“I’m sure that someone of your elegance has been asked before, often enough for it it be burdensome, whether advantage can be taken of your grace,” he said, as unctuously and expansively as possible. The corners of Yukimura’s mouth twitched. “Will you forgive me for imposing on you with an additional request?”

“That being?” Yukimura prompted, a strain of suppressed laughter in his voice.

“Would you be willing to sit for a few sketches?”

“Draped or undraped?” Yukimura asked, casually.

Keigo came very close to snorting a mouthful of coffee out his nose. Who would have thought, he wondered, swallowing very carefully, that Rikkai’s soft-spoken captain had such a low sense of humor?

“Draped, I think, at least to start with,” he managed.

“Certainly, I’d be delighted,” Yukimura agreed graciously, eyes sparkling. “Did you have a location in mind?”

“I would prefer somewhere outside, where I can get the shadows from sunlight,” Keigo mused, casting his mind over the possibilities.

“What about a garden?” Yukimura suggested.

“That would probably be ideal,” Keigo agreed. “Do you know of one that’s reasonably quiet?”

A half smile curved Yukimura’s lips. “Mine,” he said, softly.

Keigo raised a brow.

“It’s a hobby of mine. And I would be interested to see what you make of it, as a setting,” Yukimura explained.

“By all means, then.”


Yukimura’s garden was beautiful, Keigo thought. It took up one end of the grounds behind his family’s house, a space of low leaves, and tall vines, and subtle flowers, wrapped around a few trees. The shifting light and shadow, over the course of a day, must be charming.

Yukimura fit into that space like a missing part of it, as if one of the plants had unfurled a flower made of steel and let it drop at the feet of the maple. Keigo was normally too practical for such excessive imagery, but the sweeping simplicity of line Yukimura made, leaning on one hand, a length of gray fabric draped carelessly across one shoulder and down, seduced the mind toward fantasy in an attempt to explain it. While Keigo cultivated a considerably more flamboyant image for himself, the clean serenity of this space, folded around this person, appealed mightily to his aesthetic sense. He found more detail than usual appearing on his page, and it was took longer than he had quite expected before he laid down the pad.

“Done.”

“Aaaahh. Good.” Yukimura shook out his arm and turned over onto his back, stretching from fingertips to toes. Cloth slipped off his shoulder, and Keigo found himself, abruptly, jarred out of appreciation of line and proportion and into appreciation of a magnificent body arched back on a black quilt, less than two meters away.

On an impulse, Keigo rose and came to sit just beside Yukimura. Smoky eyes opened and looked up at him.

“Would you like to see?” Keigo offered the pad.

Yukimura took it and smiled, a slow, pleased smile. “You are good,” he commented. He laid it back down by Keigo’s knee, extending both arms in another spine-curving stretch.

Keigo swallowed against a suddenly dry throat. “Yukimura…” he murmured.

“Seiichi,” Yukimura told him, just as quietly. The gleam from earlier was back in his eyes. “If you’re going to kiss me, you might as well call me Seiichi.” Those eyes were half-lidded now. “You are going to kiss me, aren’t you?”

Far be it from him to disagree, Keigo decided. He leaned down, one hand slipping into dark hair.

“Seiichi,” he whispered, against the other’s lips.

Those lips parted for him on a soft breath, and their tongues tangled, stroked together. Keigo shifted, slid his hands down Seiichi’s sides, pushing loose cloth ahead of them. Seiichi pressed into his touch with something very like a purr, a subtle arch of his hips inviting Keigo further. The swiftness of that invitation, of this whole encounter, kicked Keigo’s brain back into motion. He drew back as far as Seiichi would let him, which wasn’t very.

“So, when, in the course of the day, did you decide on this?” Keigo inquired. A laugh brushed against his ear.

“Guess.”

He propped himself on an elbow, tracing fingertips over Seiichi’s sharp cheek bones and down the line of his jaw. Seiichi gave him a tiny smile before turning his head to catch a finger, gently, between his teeth.

“During lunch,” Keigo guessed, when he thought he could trust his voice.

Seiichi hmmed and let him go. “Good aim. It was when you were looking at the statue, actually. Your eyes were so intent, so taken up with nothing but that one thing.” His expression turned wry and wistful. “And I wanted you to look at me with those eyes.”

Snatches of the day’s conversation fell together, leaping into intuition, and Keigo was swept by a wave of disbelief, closely followed by something close to outrage. He caught Seiichi up against his body and kissed him fiercely. Seiichi made a small, startled sound before gradually relaxing in Keigo’s arms and accepting the kiss.

“Keigo?” he asked, when they drew apart, a bit bemused.

“Would you care to tell me how you,” Keigo laid a hand along Seiichi’s cheek, “could possibly doubt the attraction of your own grace and strength?”

Seiichi was very still for one moment, and then lifted a hand to thread through Keigo’s hair. “Only the perception I might expect from you, I suppose,” he remarked. Then he sighed and his eyes turned distant.

“I didn’t used to,” he said, quietly.

Keigo had played Yukimura Seiichi in competition. He had seen the mantle of brilliance burning around him, seen the wild joy in his eyes, in the fierce curve of his mouth. Yukimura’s face was not meant to show uncertainty or doubt.

“Let me convince you?” Keigo murmured in his ear.

A faint laugh escaped Seiichi, and he looked back up at Keigo. “You do think highly of your skills, don’t you?” he teased.

“Of course,” Keigo replied, complacently. “That is why you seduced me, isn’t it?”

The laugh was fuller now, and Seiichi reached out to him. Keigo gathered him up, more gently this time, and laid a path of kisses down his throat and over his chest. Seiichi sighed, arching with Keigo’s hand as it stroked the small of his back, and Keigo delighted in the slow softening of the body under his. Before long, though, Seiichi leaned up on an elbow and tugged at Keigo’s shirt.

“Off,” he said, firmly.

You had to appreciate efficiency like that, Keigo reflected, as he obliged. With one word Seiichi had given notice that he was willing to let Keigo have the initiative in this encounter, and, at the same time, that he had no intention of letting Keigo control the pace completely. Naked, Keigo knelt beside Seiichi and drew away the last folds of cloth covering him. Seiichi really was magnificent, he thought.

Keigo stroked his hands down one long leg, lifted it to lick slowly at the tender skin behind the knee. A faint gasp answered his touch, and he glanced down the length of Seiichi’s body to see his eyes closed and his head tipped back. The heat gathering low in Keigo stomach tightened at the sight.

“Seiichi,” he murmured, letting his voice drop. “Such strength,” he closed his teeth, gently, on the tense muscle of Seiichi’s thigh, moved on. “And such elegance,” he added against the curve of Seiichi’s hip, “smooth as water over stone.” His hands slid over Seiichi’s ribs, traced a spiral over his chest until Keigo’s palm cupped his heartbeat. “And such vitality, fit to cut like the point of a diamond,” he whispered against Seiichi’s throat.

Seiichi was breathing deep and quick. “Keigo,” he husked.

And then his hands were pushing Keigo back, back upright, and he was moving in until he straddled Keigo’s folded legs, pressed tight against him. Seiichi’s fingers wove into Keigo’s hair, cradling his head as Seiichi kissed him again and again. Keigo smoothed his hands up and down Seiichi’s back, soothing, and answered those wild, open mouthed kisses with equal passion until Seiichi calmed.

“Mmm. Makes me wonder whether I should write you poetry,” Keigo said, against Seiichi’s lips.

“That,” Seiichi rocked against him, making them both gasp, “depends on how good the poetry is.”

“You’re right,” Keigo mused. “After all, if it was my poetry, I expect your response would be completely overwhelming.”

Seiichi leaned against him, laughing. Keigo took the opportunity to bite, lightly, on Seiichi’s shoulder until he was sighing, hips moving against Keigo’s again.

“Since you did plan on this,” he said in Seiichi’s ear, “I hope you brought something along to make it easier?” He stroked his fingers against Seiichi’s entrance.

“Hmmmm. I did,” Seiichi told him. “But start without it.” He smiled when Keigo raised both brows at that, and reached down for one of Keigo’s hands. “I like to feel as much as possible,” he explained, before closing his mouth over Keigo’s fingers.

Keigo had to catch his breath at the soft, wet heat of Seiichi’s lips and tongue. It escaped him on a quiet aaaahh as that tongue curled around one finger and stroked up the side, and he felt Seiichi’s lips tighten in a smile. When Seiichi let go, Keigo pulled him closer with one arm, and slid the other hand down, pressing one finger, just barely slick enough, into him, wanting to know Seiichi was drowning in desire just as hot as his.

Seiichi’s parted lips and suddenly heavy, hazy eyes said that he was. When Keigo worked another finger past the uneven tensing of Seiichi’s body, Seiichi tossed his head back and a moan spilled from his throat. The sound drove Keigo’s fingers deeper and the whole line of Seiichi’s body tautened against his, flushed and yearning.

“Seiichi,” Keigo breathed, “let me watch you?”

Seiichi gazed down at him, and the color across his cheek bones might have deepened a shade. “If you like,” he agreed.

“Can you honestly tell me of anyone who wouldn’t?” Keigo asked, laughing low in his throat.

Seiichi didn’t answer, but resettled himself with his ankles crossed lightly behind Keigo. Keigo made a pleased sound and shifted to cradle Seiichi’s hips more comfortably in crossed legs. It appeared that Seiichi was willing for him to go slowly, which Keigo thought was just about ideal. He wanted to savor the flow of Seiichi’s expressions.

He did, however, have to pause to chuckle when Seiichi flipped up the corner of quilt nearest them and dropped a bottle into his hand. There was the forethought and planning of Rikkai’s captain. The oil was cool against his skin, almost shockingly so, but he couldn’t manage to mind when it made the heat of Seiichi’s body so intense by comparison. That heat grasped at him, as he pressed against it, into it, so tightly Keigo had to bite his lip to keep from losing every sense but touch.

Seiichi was leaning back on his hands, breath cut short, eyes closed. He was the single most arousing sight Keigo thought he had ever seen, and when Seiichi arched back further to ease Keigo’s entry Keigo’s hands on his thighs tightened, probably to the point of bruising. Seiichi relaxed with a gasp when Keigo finally slid all the way into him.

“You feel good,” he murmured, opening his eyes.

Before Keigo had quite processed the glint in them, Seiichi leaned in, lacing his hands behind Keigo’s neck. Their voices wrapped around each other as the movement drove Keigo deeper. Keigo’s hands found Seiichi’s back, stroked down, coaxing Seiichi to move with him, and they were rocking together, slowly.

Seiichi’s soft moans, each time they came together, the abandon of his body surging against Keigo’s, the pleasure that lit his eyes more and more intensely, closed on Keigo, gripping him as tightly as Seiichi’s body. Keigo gave up thinking for the present, gave himself to Seiichi, letting the burning heat draw him deeper into this beauty that offered itself so unexpectedly and so willingly.

When pleasure snatched Seiichi over the edge, it was the break in his voice that pulled Keigo after him. When his eyes cleared, it was the lax contentment in Seiichi’s face that stole any remaining strength. Keigo let Seiichi down onto the quilt, and subsided next to him. He leaned over and stole a lingering kiss from Seiichi’s still parted lips.

“So, now do you believe me?” Keigo asked.

Seiichi touched his cheek and looked at him for a long, considering moment.

“I suppose so, yes,” he said, at last.

Keigo widened his eyes in such mock dismay that Seiichi laughed. “I was hoping for something a bit more certain than that,” Keigo sighed. He looked sidelong at Seiichi. “Perhaps there will be some opportunity in the future to see if I can’t coax somewhat greater assurance out of you.”

A small smile curved Seiichi’s lips quite enchantingly. “Perhaps,” he agreed.

About to seek another kiss, Keigo was assailed by a sudden and somewhat unpleasant thought.

“Is Sanada going to attempt to break valuable parts off me over this?” he asked.

He had one moment to see Seiichi’s mouth tighten and his eyes flash, and then the world whirled and his back hit the ground, hard.

“My decisions and choices are my own,” Seiichi said, low and dangerous, leaning over him.

“I believe you,” Keigo assured him, entranced by the fire that had flared in Seiichi so abruptly. “Does Sanada?”

Seiichi’s sharp eyes narrowed, and one of his hands wove into Keigo’s hair, tilting his head back, demandingly, as Seiichi bent down. Keigo wondered whether he would ever bother to amend his habit of prodding dangerous things just to see how dangerous they were. Altogether, and considering the way his heart sped as Seiichi pressed him down more firmly, he rather doubted it.

“He does,” Seiichi stated, lips hovering just over Keigo’s.

Now that, Keigo didn’t doubt in the least.

“Tired of everyone assuming you’re his lover?” he asked, a bit breathless.

“To say the least,” Seiichi murmured, and kissed him deeply.

Keigo was breathing heavily when Seiichi drew back. “I will ask once more,” he said. “How can you possibly doubt yourself?”

One blink, and the fine edge left Seiichi’s expression, replaced by a moment of startlement and then a shy smile. That smile stunned Keigo more than anything else that had happened all day, and he reached out to gather the gift he had been given closer. Seiichi lay down against his shoulder, and the peace of the garden settled around them.

“So,” Seiichi said, after a while, “can I get you to return the favor and model for me?”

Keigo looked over at him, surprised. “You draw too?” he asked, slowly.

“Mm. It’s one of my favorite classes,” Seiichi confirmed, easily.

Which meant that Seiichi’s remarks on Keigo’s work had not simply been a means to an end, but serious judgements of his ability that also operated as means to an end, which went beyond multi-tasking all the way to Machiavelli…

Keigo pulled him closer, and buried his face in Seiichi’s hair, laughing low and helpless. “I’m never going to have a moment’s sure peace again, am I?” he asked, at last.

“Do you want that?” Seiichi asked, raising his brows.

“Not in the least,” Keigo decided, and kissed his lover again.

End

Last Modified: Feb 08, 12
Posted: Jul 19, 04
Name (optional):
Renee-chan (chibi1723), order_of_chaos and 8 other readers sent Plaudits.

Fly

Side-story to the Challenge arc. Fuji finally plays a serious match against Tezuka. Drama With Porn, I-4

Pairing(s): Tezuka/Fuji

“If I become a hindrance, remove me from the team.” Shuusuke looked over his shoulder with a smile, only to rock back on his heels as Tezuka’s hands closed hard on his shoulders and shook him once.

“No. I will not.” Tezuka’s voice was harder than his hands.

Shuusuke frowned. Tezuka wasn’t normally this demonstrative, no matter how angry he got, nor this blindly stubborn. “Tezuka…”

“I will not take you out. You have what it takes to win, Fuji, and you will use it. You will use it, or you will tell me now that you’re quitting the team.”

Shuusuke’s head came up.

“You will not put this responsibility off onto me, Fuji,” Tezuka said, so low his voice almost disappeared into the sound of the rain. “I say you can play seriously when it’s necessary. If you don’t believe that, then you’re the one who’s going to have to say it.”

“And what makes you think that it’s necessary against my own team?” Shuusuke asked, sharply.

Tezuka’s brows flinched together, but his voice was level when he returned, “What makes you think it isn’t?”

Shuusuke shook his head, helplessly. He couldn’t; he just couldn’t. Not again. “Tezuka, why are you pushing this?”

Tezuka was silent for a long moment before his mouth tightened and he closed the distance between them. Shuusuke stiffened, wondering for one wild second whether Tezuka would actually strike him.

Instead, Tezuka kissed him.

Shuusuke’s thoughts dissolved in a swirl of confusion. This wasn’t… they had only ever kissed once before, and that had been in jest. Shuusuke had flirted, on occasion, certainly, because it was fun to prod at his friend. In his own quiet way, Tezuka had prodded back, when no one else was around. This was not a joke, not when Tezuka’s mouth had opened his and Tezuka’s tongue was inviting him. This was serious. For all his confusion, though, Shuusuke liked the feeling of kissing Tezuka just as much as he had sometimes thought he might, and he leaned into it.

When Tezuka drew back it took a few moments for Shuusuke to find his voice again. “What was that?” he asked, at last.

“An answer to your question,” Tezuka told him, soberly.

Shuusuke tried several different ways of fitting those parts together before he gave up. “What?”

It was hard to tell, behind the speckles of water on Tezuka’s glasses, but Shuusuke thought his eyes turned a little sad.

“Never mind. We should go dry off, Fuji. Come on.”


Shuusuke was terrified.

All right, perhaps that was a bit strong, but it had been a very long time since he’d felt this kind of tension. Even longer since he’d had butterflies in his stomach and shaking hands over a tennis match. He spent a moment wishing he’d made time to stop off at a shrine on his way here, and pray for this to go well one more time. He didn’t think he could stand losing twice.

Not the game. He’d been losing games to Tezuka for years, quite cheerfully, at least until Tezuka started getting angry over it. Not the game, but the closeness.

Not again.

He’d been resigned, when his family moved, to losing the friends he’d had. He had never, for one moment, suspected that the move, and the new people he met at his new school, and the way their challenges had drawn his tennis out further than ever, would cost him his brother. The shock had almost killed his game for good. But he’d pulled himself together, and forced himself to trust that Yuuta would find his own way and his own strength.

He’d just been a little more careful, next time.

Care was not, apparently, what Tezuka wanted from him, though.

This was the first match he had played against Tezuka since that alarming one when Tezuka had come back from Kyuushuu. Shuusuke had managed to forget, until Tezuka’s first lethal return in that game had reminded him, what Tezuka had told him before; he didn’t just want Shuusuke to play seriously against other teams. He wanted Shuusuke to play seriously against everyone.

Shuusuke walked onto the court, reminding himself that Tezuka was not Yuuta. Which should be an obvious and intuitive sort of thing, but…

Shuusuke sighed. He could believe his fears or he could trust Yukimura’s judgment. One or the other. Because if Yukimura was right, and Shuusuke continued to refuse to play Tezuka seriously, he would lose Tezuka more surely than he had lost Yuuta for a time. If there was any justice in the world, his two fears should cancel each other out; after all, they could not, logically, both become true.

His stomach clenched in stubborn denial of logic.

Shuusuke closed his eyes and took a deep breath, working his hand around the ball he held. If he was going to play seriously, neither fear had any place here. He could not think of his opponent as his friend and captain. Another breath. And another. He opened his eyes and looked over the net to see Tezuka looking back at him… not like a friend and a captain. The brightness in Tezuka’s eyes, the smooth tension in his stance—that was more the way he had seen Tezuka look at Atobe, at Sanada, at Yukimura. It helped.

Shuusuke set himself. He had to be ready for a return that would demand effort from him, immediately. He had to be ready to give that effort. He searched for the eagerness he had felt only a few times before, for the focus that only wanted to outreach his opponent. He thought it was there, ready for him, if he could just stop thinking and throw everything into the game.

“Everything,” he murmured to himself, tossed the ball up and served. The return left him no time to think, and he felt his body start to relax.

It helped that he had faced Yukimura first. The speed and force of their volleys was not a total shock, and he was almost prepared to plunge into it.

Almost.

He wasn’t sure anything could really prepare a person for this, for the shiver of fire down his nerves that said, yes, he could return that, he could drive this opponent back, he could win this if only he let himself burn.

And he did, one return after another, not just waiting for Tezuka’s form to break, but driving him to show an opening. The game had its own momentum, played like this, its own rhythm; the pace wasn’t in Shuusuke’s hands, nor in Tezuka’s. They drew each other on, faster and faster, until Shuusuke almost thought he shouldn’t feel the surface of the court under his feet anymore. He felt like he was flying, like the fierceness of effort had lifted him up and thrown him forward.

The moment, when he saw the opening for the last shot, when the world crystallized into perfection and he couldn’t possibly have stopped the stroke that smashed the ball home, felt like he was breathing sunlight, hot and beautiful and brilliant.

Tezuka looked at the ball, where it had rolled to the fence, for a long moment before he drew himself up. “Game and match, 7-6,” he said, evenly, and turned back to Shuusuke. “Your match.”

Shuusuke swallowed hard, coming down from the high of the game with a jar. Every anxiety he had shoved aside to play immediately assaulted him again, and he had no idea whether he succeeded in hiding his apprehension as he approached the net. He offered his hand silently, afraid to say anything at all.

A faint smile curved Tezuka’s lips. “Good game,” he said, clasping Shuusuke’s hand firmly. Shuusuke searched his eyes; there was a light in them, bright and dancing, to match the pleasure behind that smile. Shuusuke’s knees wobbled just a bit with relief. It was all right. Tezuka didn’t resent losing to him. He really didn’t, and it was really all right, even if his expression did bear a slightly unnerving resemblance to some of Echizen’s…

Shuusuke cut off his own mental babbling with an effort, and fetched in a deep breath. He smiled at his friend. “You too.”

The wobble in his voice betrayed every effort to control the one in his legs, and Shuusuke was lightheaded enough that this was terribly amusing. He didn’t manage to choke back the laugh, either, and suddenly he was shivering and couldn’t stop.

“Fuji.” Tezuka’s hands on his shoulders steadied him a bit, and Shuusuke leaned on him, trying to get control of himself.

“I’m fine,” he assured his friend, aware that the undertone of giggles probably didn’t make that very convincing. “I’m all right.”

“I know you are.” Tezuka didn’t go.

Shuusuke took a few deep breaths and managed to convince his legs to support him again. “Did you expect this?” he asked, ruefully. He was almost positive Yukimura had spoken to Tezuka on the subject.

Tezuka raised a brow. “I expected a good game, if you ever chose to play me seriously.”

Shuusuke’s mouth quirked. There were times it was hard to tell whether Tezuka was answering his question or not. That was fine, though, it reminded him of something else. “You know, the last time we had this discussion, on this court, you kissed me,” he noted.

Tezuka’s eyes darkened a little. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That had no place in our discussion; I certainly shouldn’t have done it because I was angry. I wanted… to remind you there are things that require passion.”

Shuusuke decided lightheadedness was a good thing; it let him act instead of watch and think and wait. He stepped closer, nudging the bottom of the net out of his way. “Would you like to try again?” he asked, lightly.

Both brows went up, this time. Shuusuke smiled and put a hand at the back of Tezuka’s neck, urging him down. There was a certain amount of resistance, and Shuusuke expected Tezuka to be hesitant.

He wasn’t.

He was slow and sure, and his arms, around Shuusuke’s waist, were gentle. He kissed softly, as though he wanted to soothe the anxiety Shuusuke had refused to voice. Shuusuke’s breath caught. Yes, Tezuka had seen it.

The softness was almost shocking, but a welcome shock. Shuusuke leaned into Tezuka, and a small sound found its way up his throat. After the burning flight of the game, and the stunning drop when it ended, he very much wanted something to ground him. This was not familiar. Neither of them had ever acted to see if there was anything beyond the teasing. But it was unmistakably Tezuka he was kissing, and that was familiar enough.

Though the setting could use a little adjustment.

Shuusuke drew back with an annoyed noise. “I want to get this net out of the way,” he said, distinctly.

Tezuka’s hands found his hips, stopping him. “Fuji, an all out game takes everyone like this, to one degree or another. You should wait until you can be sure.”

Fuji burst out laughing, and not, this time, with hysteria. “Tezuka,” he chuckled, “for a perceptive man you can be so dense sometimes.” This received a rather cool look in response, and Shuusuke shook his head. Trust Tezuka to think first of the game and second of the fact that they had spent over a year dancing around this moment. It wasn’t as though Shuusuke hadn’t had time to think things over; he certainly hoped Tezuka had, too. “I am sure,” he said, firmly.

Tezuka stilled. “Really?”

Shuusuke’s lips curled up. “Exceedingly,” he confirmed, and closed a hand in Tezuka’s shirt to drag him down for another kiss.

This time, Tezuka met him a good deal faster. His arms locked around Shuusuke hard enough to rock Shuusuke up on the balls of his feet. Ah, good; he wasn’t the only one who’d been considering it. This kiss was fierce and hungry, and it wasn’t only Shuusuke’s groan that echoed through it.

At least until the net intruded again. Shuusuke winced, and growled, “Definitely get the net out of the way.”

They both pulled back, and stared at each other, silent calculation running back and forth.

“The showers?” Tezuka suggested, at last, and Shuusuke relaxed. He’d been a little afraid Tezuka would insist that acting on this would be disruptive to the team. Shuusuke didn’t doubt for a single second that the good of the team would trump both friendship and lust, for his captain. The fingers drawing circles at the small of his back, however, promised otherwise.

“Wonderful idea,” he agreed. And it was. It was a Sunday, no one else was around, and Tezuka, thanks to his several official positions, had the keys to just about every room in the school building. Shuusuke was hard pressed not to laugh as they strolled casually toward the changing rooms, not touching. What a delightfully irrational day he was having.

He had not entirely expected Tezuka to help him undress… if help was what it could be called. He supposed he should have, though. Tezuka never did anything half-heartedly, once he made up his mind. He leaned back against Tezuka, purring as Tezuka’s palms slid over the hollows of his hipbones, pushing his waistband ahead of them, and reflected on the benefits of this tendency.

One of them was a marked decrease in Tezuka’s normal reserve. When Shuusuke pressed against him, under the water, Tezuka welcomed him with no sign of hesitation or stiffness. Well, Shuusuke amended to himself, with a tiny grin, none aside from what there should be. He shifted a little, rubbing his hip against Tezuka, and savored Tezuka’s quick breath and the fingers that dug into his waist. Tezuka definitely wanted him; it was nice to be sure. He leaned up to lick water off Tezuka’s lips, and sighed as Tezuka’s mouth closed over his.

To be sure, it was difficult to keep track of the soap while kissing someone, but they both had good reflexes. Still. Shuusuke tugged Tezuka a little out of the spray, so he wouldn’t lose his lather and have to distract himself from the body tight against his to hunt for the soap again. He stroked slick hands down Tezuka’s back, tracing skin and muscle, and laughed a little at the nubby roughness of a washcloth over his own shoulders. It was a pleasant almost-scratch down his spine.

Shuusuke’s hands reached Tezuka’s rear and moved down, feeling Tezuka’s muscles flex and tense. Shuusuke slid his fingers between Tezuka’s cheeks and pressed against him; Tezuka’s teeth closed on Shuusuke’s lower lip, and Shuusuke made a low, approving sound.

The sound became a moan as the washcloth moved down and rubbed over his own entrance. The rough cloth made him tingle, and Tezuka’s fingers, within it, pressed hard, circling, until Shuusuke’s body opened to that touch, just a little. Shuusuke clutched at Tezuka, pushing up against him, and Tezuka’s hand settled into small nudges that still made Shuusuke’s breath skip. His fingers flexed against Tezuka, and Tezuka bent his head to Shuusuke’s ear.

“Next time.”

Shuusuke laughed. “Promise?” he asked, voice husky with the tension low in his stomach.

“Yes,” Tezuka answered, so unequivocally that Shuusuke knew this was one of the times Tezuka was answering more than one question. He promised that there would be a next time. Good.

“Then yes,” Shuusuke whispered.

Tezuka’s hand, in the cloth, pressed harder again and Shuusuke wondered for a moment whether Tezuka was going to drive all the way into him with that tantalizing roughness. But the cloth drew back, and Tezuka’s bare fingers touched him, slick and fast, and sank into him before Shuusuke’s body recovered from the change. Shuusuke groaned as his muscles caught up and closed, working tight around Tezuka’s fingers. He was glad that Tezuka moved them only slightly, at first. Shuusuke wound his arms around Tezuka’s shoulders and leaned against him as those fingers stroked slowly in and out of him. He wasn’t sure whether their kisses distracted him from the sensation or added to it; whichever it was, it was good.

Tezuka’s tongue was in his mouth when the fingers inside him curled and Shuusuke barely had the presence of mind not to bite down. Fire flared up his spine, liquid and bright. Again. Again, and Shuusuke jerked against Tezuka’s body. Never mind slow. Never mind careful.

“Tezuka,” he gasped, rough and breathless, “now.”

He nearly howled with frustration when Tezuka’s fingers stilled. “Are you sure you’re ready?” Tezuka asked.

His voice was admirably solemn, but Shuusuke had known him long enough to be fairly sure he was being teased. “Tezuka,” he growled, narrowing his eyes. “I’ll remember this.”

A slight quirk to Tezuka’s mouth gave the lie to his serious tone. “I would hope so.”

Shuusuke snaked a soapy hand between them, and closed it over Tezuka’s erection, pulling a sharp, uncontrolled sound from him. “Now,” Shuusuke demanded.

Tezuka chuckled a bit unevenly, and slid his fingers out with a last flirt that left Shuusuke’s knees weak. “Turn around, then.”

Shuusuke braced his hands against the tile wall, voicing a pleased murmur as Tezuka moved against him. He breathed carefully, biting his lip as he ordered his body to relax around the hardness pressing into him. Another breath. Another. There was a twinge, and Tezuka was inside him, and Shuusuke’s breath left him.

“All right?” Tezuka asked, sounding a little tense.

“All right,” Shuusuke assured him. It ached, a little, but the openness and the warmth of Tezuka’s hands smoothing up and down his back overrode it.

The openness, especially. Shuusuke pressed back a little; he wanted that feeling deeper inside him. Tezuka took the hint. He dropped a kiss on Shuusuke’s shoulder, licked the moisture from his skin on a path up the side of his neck, moved forward, slowly. Shuusuke’s breath broke into pants, and he shivered, glad of Tezuka’s hands on his hips, steadying him. It felt open and full and hard and, above all, hot. Tingling, sparkling heat, rippling out from that marvelous place Tezuka’s fingers had found. Tezuka’s hips met his, cradling them, and then he was pulling back. Pressing in. Back. In. Slow and open and hot.

It was overwhelming, and Shuusuke wanted more. He reached between his legs, stroking himself, and moaned at the added layer of pleasure, brighter, smoother. It wound around the hardness of Tezuka inside him, and Shuusuke’s hand tightened, quickened. Tezuka matched his movement, and Shuusuke cried out. This was the rhythm he wanted, and his body recognized it, moved with it, quick spasms rocking him against Tezuka’s thrusts, driving his hand down. Heat coiled around him, tightened, tightened again, and he felt Tezuka driving into him raggedly, thrust against his own grip harder, felt the tightness snap. The fast, tingling heat exploded through him, and he felt himself bucking against Tezuka, straining into the tide of fire until it ran out.

Little details returned slowly. The tile was cold against his hand. His legs were shaking a bit. Tezuka’s arms were around him, holding tight, and Tezuka’s breath was hard against his ear. Slowly, they drew apart and came together again under the water, leaning on one another. Neither of them spoke, as they finished washing, trading the soap back and forth silently. Shuusuke didn’t mind; he was used to quiet from Tezuka. They dried off still in wordless, comfortable familiarity. Though, again, not total familiarity. He smiled when he emerged from toweling his hair and felt Tezuka behind him, combing fingers through it.

“I was never entirely sure how serious you were, you know,” Tezuka said, tone musing. “About any of it.”

Shuusuke’s smile twisted wryly. “Hard for anyone else to be sure when I wasn’t sure myself.”

“Are you now?”

“Can you tell now?” Shuusuke asked, half teasing.

Tezuka’s hands slid down to his shoulders. “Yes.” It was half a statement and half a demand, and maybe a hint of a question.

“Yes,” Shuusuke agreed, softly. Yes, he was serious, now. About all of it. The idea still scared him, just a little, the idea that he might not be able to back away from this thing he had found in himself when he let go and played with everything. But it really was incredible. And with Tezuka… He shivered. “Tezuka…”

Tezuka pulled him around and kissed him, a fierce, burning kiss. Shuusuke let other considerations fall by the way for the time being and answered him very seriously indeed. It truly was appropriate that unleashing himself on the court had washed away his hesitation to close the last distance with Tezuka. He rather suspected it was what Tezuka had been waiting for. They were both breathing quickly when they parted.

“Ah, now, this time I understand you,” Shuusuke murmured.

Tezuka smiled.

End

Last Modified: May 15, 12
Posted: Aug 07, 04
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Circle

Seiichi smiled when he saw the lineup Seigaku had settled on. He wasn’t surprised to have been right, but it was still satisfying to know for sure.

He ignored the chatter of the spectators around him and turned back to beckon his team. They gathered around, in a circle of concentration that shrugged off the excited speculation eddying past them. Seiichi’s smile changed, undiluted pleasure added to the satisfaction. It was the last round of Nationals, and they were ready.

“We were right,” he said, without preamble. “They put Oishi and Kikumaru in Doubles Two, and Fuji and Kawamura in Doubles One. Renji.”

Renji nodded, and picked up the briefing. “They’re targeting Jackal and Marui, it’s clear. They hope to set the pace with the first match; it’s a good move. Kikumaru has the best chance of returning your specialties, Marui. Be careful of that.”

“We know,” Marui answered for both. His eyes were sharp, but a little distant, the way they got when he was planning ahead, and Seiichi understood the concern behind Renji’s hesitation. Seiichi also expected Jackal’s faint smile and nod, though, reassuring them that he would be ready to ground his partner.

Niou sniffed, looking irritated.

“Oishi and Kikumaru are a responsible doubles pair,” Seiichi noted, catching Niou’s eye. “I’m not surprised that they accepted the needs of the team as a whole over their own desire to even the score from last time.”

Niou returned his look, expressionless, for a breath, before breaking into a wicked grin. “I suppose it does leave Fuji for us,” he allowed.

“Don’t ignore Kawamura,” Renji told him, a touch sternly. “He doesn’t play with a great deal of finesse, but he has the raw strength to break past Yagyuu, and Fuji has the subtlety to save that for a decisive moment. If it weren’t for the fact that we need both of them in singles, I would have recommended setting Seiichi and Genichirou against this pair.”

Yagyuu’s mouth tightened, and he nodded. He laid a hand on Niou’s shoulder, as his partner started to say something else. “You won’t really have any complaints about this match, will you Niou-kun?” he asked.

Seiichi almost laughed at that not-quite-question. To anyone who knew them, the very evenness of Yagyuu’s voice was more suggestive than any insinuating purr, and Niou’s eyes brightened at the implicit promise of mayhem.

“Singles will be Inui, Echizen and Tezuka,” Seiichi picked up the account, stifling his amusement. “I think we all know what to look out for?”

Renji and Sanada nodded.

“And their alternate is Momoshiro. Which has a certain symmetry, if, as I suspect, he is the one chosen to be captain next year,” he finished, raising a brow at Akaya.

Akaya seemed caught between blushing and snorting. “That’s the only symmetrical thing. As if they would get far enough to play me next year,” he said, settling on his customary arrogance toward outsiders.

“Watch you don’t get too relaxed about that,” Sanada said, sharply.

Akaya heaved a put-upon sigh. “Yes, Sanada-fukubuchou.”

The entire team lightened a little at this byplay, easing into the balance they would need for the matches. It never ceased to astonish Seiichi that Akaya managed so consistently to finesse just the right tone without, as far as Seiichi could tell, ever being conscious of what he did. He hoped that Akaya would be able to manage the change in approach he would need, next year, when he was not the baby of the team but its captain. Now wasn’t the time for that worry, though, and he glanced around, gathering up his team.

“Let’s go, then.”


Renji frowned a little, as he watched Jackal and Marui play. He didn’t say it out loud, because it would be bad for morale, but the match was going exactly the way he had been afraid it would. It would be a close loss, but it would be a loss. Kikumaru and Oishi were playing the game too close to the net, making Marui do all the work, and it was distracting him from finding an opening in the other pair’s play to exploit.

Renji was aware that Marui had good reason for his self-confidence, and that it was that confidence that kept him from calling Jackal to the front to help. Unfortunately, in this case, that confidence was about to draw Marui one fatal step too far. Renji would have preferred to say so, beforehand, to recommend that Jackal and Marui play more closely than usual, but Seiichi had thought otherwise. He had said their play would be more injured by lack of confidence and discomfort with a change in their style than it would by a close loss.

On reflection, Renji had agreed that overly conservative play had a ten percent higher chance of losing, in any case.

That didn’t make it any easier to watch Marui wearing down, or Jackal starting to worry. Or to watch Marui finally call his partner forward from guarding the back, just barely too late to recover. Renji watched the last games play out silently. There were times, he thought, eyeing his friend and captain as Seiichi also watched, expressionless, when he thought Seiichi had a far colder streak than he himself.

And then Seiichi turned his head, and Renji saw the tension in the angle of his jaw and the shadows in his eyes, and changed his mind.

Seiichi stood as Marui and Jackal came off the court, and held out a hand to welcome them back. Jackal’s shoulders straightened a little at that, but Marui dropped his eyes.

“Enough of that,” Seiichi said, gently. “You did well.”

“I got rattled and missed my judgment,” Marui contradicted, frowning. “We could have taken them, if I’d just closed our formation up sooner!”

Seiichi suddenly had the waiting tension in every line of him that Renji saw whenever Seiichi had spotted a chance to hammer through his opponent’s defenses and was letting it come to him.

Jackal closed a hand on Marui’s wrist. “Bunta,” he said, quietly, “are we a doubles pair or not?”

Marui looked up at him, eyes blank and wide. His mouth opened on what Renji calculated was almost certainly an Of course we are, and closed again. After a long moment, Marui smiled, a small, tilted smile more serious than he usually let anyone see.

“Yeah, we are,” he said.

“Good,” Seiichi told them, briskly. “Then you can both work to redress this weakness. Very few pairs will be good enough to put that kind of pressure on Marui, but you need to be prepared to shift the way you support each other when it does happen. Trust each other enough to break your usual style when it’s holding you back.”

Jackal and Marui both nodded.

“I’ll expect to see you take them, next time,” Seiichi said, smile sharp and uncompromising.

Renji, satisfied that Seiichi had those two well in hand, looked over at Seigaku. Kikumaru was still bouncing, despite his obvious exhaustion. He had driven himself very hard, to seal off Marui’s trickiest shots. Oishi was watching him, apparently waiting out the enthusiasm before trying to get his partner to actually rest. Wise man, Renji decided. Fuji and Kawamura were getting ready.

Renji checked Yagyuu and Niou’s preparations, and nodded, pleased. Yagyuu held his head just the little bit higher that meant he was ready to play without restraint. Niou was bouncing, just slightly, on the balls of his feet. Renji looked back at Seigaku and caught Sadaharu’s eye.

Sadaharu adjusted his glasses with the elegant deliberation that said he conceded some point of argument to Renji. Renji smiled. So, Sadaharu knew how the next match was likely to go, too. They both folded their arms and turned toward the court as the Doubles One pairs were called forward.


“Niou, Yagyuu,” Yukimura spoke as they passed. Masaharu really hoped he wasn’t about to say anything that would discourage Yagyuu from the lovely edge he had going.

“I don’t want to see any injuries today. That said, consider who you’re playing and defend yourselves as you see fit.”

The dark eyes were sharp and demanding, but they were used to that, and Masaharu’s mouth quirked as he looked over at Fuji and Kawamura. Even if he’d never watched Fuji play, he’d have had some idea what Yukimura meant. Yukimura liked Fuji, as a player. Yukimura liked things that were dangerous. As logical progressions went, this one was extremely simple.

“We will use all necessary caution, Yukimura-san,” Yagyuu assured their captain. Yukimura nodded, releasing them, and Masaharu couldn’t help a thin smile as they met their opponents at the net. Fuji still didn’t like them much, if the glint in his eye was anything to go by; that was just fine.

Sure enough, Fuji started things off in high key with that tricky underserve of his. Masaharu stood still and watched its course before turning to nod over his shoulder to Yagyuu. The range of variation on that ball was wide. Even Yagyuu would have a low chance of catching it, unless something gave him a clue where it was headed. Masaharu moved with the next serve, focused down and moved with the ball, trusting Yagyuu’s sense of his partner’s position to let him track the ball by Masaharu’s movement. Masaharu smiled again, as the ball went singing back over the net. He did so enjoy frustrating people, and this promised to be a good day.

They worked through Fuji’s favorite moves one by one. Masaharu stayed at the net to give him a couple inviting smashes while Yagyuu fell back to the baseline to catch the Drop. Fuji’s eyes narrowed. Masaharu moved even closer to the net to catch Fuji’s Swallow before it could land. Fuji’s mouth twitched at one corner. Kawamura anchored his positions well, but Masaharu left his returns to Yagyuu, and kept his focus on Fuji. He could feel Yanagi’s disapproving look, and it was with great difficulty that he restrained himself from winking at his teammate. If he also managed to take in the Great Master of all Data, it would be a nice bonus; it didn’t happen very often.

Wind touched the back of Masaharu’s neck, and he let himself bare his teeth at Fuji, daring him. A spark snapped in those burning blue eyes, and Masaharu set himself. Sure enough, this ball swept up, just out of his reach. He heard it land behind him. Held his breath, timing it. Fell away to the side, as Yagyuu cut in front of him and swatted the returning ball out of the air, spiking it over the net.

Kawamura barely caught it, as Fuji wavered, slow to shift his own focus from Masaharu, who had held it the entire match, and Yagyuu hammered a return between their opponents, securing the game.

Masaharu stretched, pleased. It had worked like a charm. He’d watched Fuji play several times, now, and had decided that Fuji’s temper was every bit as vicious as Akaya’s. It was just far better controlled. He’d mentioned to Yagyuu that, when Fuji was angry, everything else became locked out of his attention. His partner hadn’t been especially pleased that Masaharu wanted to be the one to bait Fuji, but he’d finally agreed that it was the best division of forces.

“Talk about holding a grudge,” Masaharu called to Fuji, lazily. “You ever let anyone even their own scores? Anybody ever tell you you have a Messiah complex?”

Fuji came very close to snarling at him, before Kawamura drew him back, speaking softly.

Now, Masaharu let his eyes cross Yanagi’s, as he turned. Yanagi had a sardonic smile on his face, and nodded once, agreeing that, yes, Masaharu had had him going for a little while.

One last touch to go.

The fact was, Masaharu mused as they waited for their opportunity, Fuji was a stronger player than either he or Yagyuu. But he was new enough to his real strength that he tended to fall back on his bag of tricks, instead, his established counters. His long-standing style was a mix of subtle head games and brutal, game breaking shots.

Masaharu could identify.

And that, of course, was what made this particular trick work. If he were calmer, Fuji would know that Yagyuu was the greater threat, but he had been used, for so long, to being the most dangerous thing on the court that his first instinct was to be most wary of the one who was most like him. If Fuji figured all that out, Masaharu doubted he would ever be able to take Fuji again. In the meantime, though, Masaharu thought, seeing the coup de grace coming, they had the upper hand.

Yagyuu set it up with a Laser. And Fuji fell back, letting Kawamura catch and return it with that stunning Dash Hadoukyuu of his.

Masaharu and Yagyuu both stayed exactly where they were, letting the ball sizzle past without attempting to return it. A murmur went up from the watchers, the same shock that he saw in their opponents’ faces. Masaharu caught Fuji’s eye, and shrugged, smiling. He could see Fuji’s jaw set from across the court.

Because he knew, and now Fuji knew he knew, that Fuji always acted to protect his teammates. He wouldn’t allow Kawamura to injure himself by trying a shot like that twice. The sacrifice of a point, even if it meant the sacrifice of a game, as this one did, was worth it when it went that last step to unsettle the other pair’s strategist. If Fuji had moved fast enough to turn that around on Yagyuu, Seigaku would probably have taken Doubles One, also.

But it wasn’t happening today.

Masaharu was deeply tempted to throw Kikumaru’s favorite saying at Fuji, as they shook hands at the end of the match, but Yagyuu had obviously gauged his mood, and murmured a warning, “Niou-kun.” So Masaharu restrained himself.

“Spoil-sport,” he said, very softly, to his partner as they moved back to their benches.

“What?” Yagyuu asked, with the faint smile that said he was teasing. “Am I not enough for you? You want to prod Fuji until he explodes for your edification, too?”

“No such thing,” Masaharu defended himself, pleased with his partner’s smooth presence beside him, relaxed and powerful in the wake of the match. “His edge is much too brittle.”

Yagyuu chuckled softly, as they came to Yukimura.

“Very good,” was all their captain said, but his tone was just as pleased as Masaharu felt.

Masaharu spared Yanagi an especially smug smile, as they switched places, which Yanagi, typically, declined to acknowledge.

Or perhaps he was actually preoccupied, this time. He stood next to Yukimura, tapping the edge of his racquet against his hand, looking very thoughtful. In fact, any more thoughtful and Masaharu would have to call him troubled and he thought they’d had enough of that.

“What is this, Yanagi?” he called. When Yanagi turned, Masaharu gave him his best wolfish grin, the one that made opponents start backing away. “Are you the Master, or aren’t you?” he demanded.

Yanagi regarded him evenly for a long moment, and a sharp smile curved his mouth. “Yes, Niou. I am.”

Masaharu settled back, satisfied, as Yanagi stepped onto the court. Generally, Yanagi was the least fun of any of his teammates to watch, but lack of confidence would only make someone like him more boring. The players exchanged few words at the net. Masaharu supposed they didn’t need many for this little rematch. The handclasp looked friendly.

The smiles, on the other hand, looked rather bloodthirsty. Well, whatever worked for them.

And then Yanagi set himself to serve, and Masaharu sat upright.

“Your eyes are gleaming all of a sudden, Niou,” Yagyuu observed, dryly.

“Look at him,” Masaharu murmured.

With each breath, it seemed that one kind of tension washed out of Yanagi, and another took its place. He was absolutely still, but that stillness seemed to contain all possible movement. Masaharu’s lips drew back off his teeth. He’d seen Yanagi do this before, against Sanada a couple times, against Masaharu himself a couple times.

“What… what is he doing?” Akaya asked, softly, frowning at Yanagi.

“He’s modeling the game,” Masaharu answered. “All of it. Every way he can see that it might go. And a little more.”

Akaya turned the frown on him, and Masaharu laughed.

“He’s keeping a space open, in his head, for the unforeseen. Like calculating with an infinite thrown in.” Masaharu sighed. “I’ve never been able to take a single, damn point off him when he gets like that.”

Akaya thought about that for a moment, and shivered. Masaharu could sympathize; it was pretty unnerving, especially when you were right on the other end of it. He looked at Inui’s tight smile, and decided the Seigaku player knew what was happening.

It was a brilliant match, Masaharu had to admit. Not the kind he usually enjoyed most, but the tearing speed, and cutting precision, combined with that sense of the real game happening somewhere in the players’ heads before either of them touched the ball, rushing ahead of the actual moves in starbursts of possibility, was breathtaking. It was also a close match. Yanagi managed to open it up to a two game difference only once, and Inui closed it again, quickly. Masaharu thought he might know, now, why Yukimura was so pleased that Yanagi wanted to play Inui again. Seeing a single style matched against itself, he saw how these two drove each other to find and hone the flashes of vision and analysis that had probably led them both to choose this style in the first place.

He decided, again, that Yukimura had a ruthless streak to top either Sanada’s or Yanagi’s, when it came to making his players stronger. And to think, he’d almost forgotten, while his captain was gone…

This match, Yanagi won, though both players looked satisfied, as they met at the net again, smiling and breathless. Yanagi said something that actually made Inui laugh, and they parted again, back to their teams. Yanagi returned Yukimura’s satisfied look with a serene expression, and touched Sanada’s shoulder as he stepped forward.

“Enjoy yourself, Genichirou.”


Genichirou’s mouth quirked as he heard Yanagi’s words. Yes, he told his friend with a sidelong look, he wouldn’t get distracted by assumptions this time, as he had last time. The curl of Yukimura’s lips, as he looked up at his vice-captain, said he knew what Genichirou was thinking. Genichirou stifled a sigh. Not that it was surprising; the last time he’d gotten a shock that bad, it had been at Yukimura’s hands.

“Pace yourself, Sanada,” Yukimura told him, eyes turning serious again. “You aren’t used to letting yourself go completely, the way Echizen does.”

“I haven’t played you this long for nothing,” Genichirou murmured.

“No,” Yukimura agreed. “But I’m your captain; you expect it of me.”

Genichirou snorted. “Expecting anything of that one seems to be an invitation to disaster,” he noted.

Yukimura laughed. “You’ll be fine,” he declared.

Genichirou met Echizen at the net, and the boy eyed him from under the brim of his cap with a cocky smile.

“Ready to lose again?” he asked.

Genichirou’s eyes narrowed, and the only thing that kept his teeth from grinding was the tiny voice of conscience mentioning that he had set himself up for that.

“The question,” he returned, not bothering to keep the growl out of his voice, “is whether you are ready to fight.”

Echizen’s smile faded into a hard, focused look. “Yes,” he said.

“Good,” Genichirou answered, and they both turned toward their respective positions.

Genichirou took a deep breath to calm himself, turning the periphery of his spirit inward, settling into concealment, the moving silence of the Forest. A part of him still protested that this was ridiculous, that he couldn’t possibly need this level of tactic, but he ignored that reflex. The last game against Echizen had demonstrated that matching pure speed and strength against him was the riskiest possible way to play. Genichirou thought it likely that he did have an edge, provided he used his own capabilities sensibly and didn’t squander his chances. But Echizen had an undeniable advantage in how quickly the depth of his potential could grasp the heart of an opponent’s moves, on such simple ground, and it would be a foolish gamble to meet him only there.

The wisdom of that choice was illustrated when Echizen sent the Wind slicing over the net. One of Echizen’s greatest weaknesses was still his lack of subtlety. Another two tries, and Genichirou could see in Echizen’s eyes that he understood how Wind broke against the Mountain each time, but didn’t yet know just why he was having such a hard time seeing where the ball would go when returned. Exactly because the unyielding mental state of Mountain and the deep-rooted strength of that return was something Echizen understood in his bones, he had yet to grasp the concealment that Forest laid over it.

Echizen really had no understanding of defensive techniques. Considering that they were Tezuka’s greatest strength, Genichirou couldn’t stifle a chuckle as he thought of how frustrating Echizen’s captain must find the boy’s relentless attack mentality. The alarming part was that Echizen still stayed close to him, this match. Neither of them could open a substantial lead, but Echizen was keeping up with a handicap. Genichirou had to admit, he was a worthwhile opponent.

Which was why, at three games to three, he took the brakes off. Unlike Yukimura, and, it was clear, Echizen himself, he didn’t like to do this. He could ride the edge of it, let his reflexes respond directly to his perceptions without the mind’s interference, and yet still think ahead. But the feeling of it, suspended, or perhaps free falling, scared him sometimes.

Not that he had ever admitted that to anyone but Yukimura and Yanagi.

This state was to his usual focus on a game as a typhoon was to a thunderstorm. He loosed himself, and the rest of the world went away. There was only him, and the one across the net, burning as hot as he was.

In the end, Genichirou thought later, perhaps it was that fire that made the difference.

The tension of containing himself, of enclosing his responses within the silence of the Forest without slowing them or pulling them short, sawed at his nerves. The hot edge of Echizen’s game called to the heat of his own, tugged at him to abandon concealment and strategy, to gamble speed against speed and strength against strength. And perhaps it tugged him just far enough, because as their shots clawed at each other, neither willing to yield the two consecutive points that would mean a win, he saw Echizen’s eyes blaze and sharpen.

And something reached out to him, palpable as a sudden low pressure front.

And Echizen drove himself just that touch faster than he should have been able to move and caught the ball whose direction he should not have been able to predict.

And it was over.

Genichirou wavered on his feet, pulling himself back to everyday awareness. This was the other reason he wasn’t too fond of doing that; no matter how the match ended, it always came as a shock. Rather like hitting the ground after a long fall. He wasn’t sure why some people professed to enjoy the sensation. He shook himself, and walked steadily to the net.

At least, this time, Echizen hadn’t actually collapsed, though he didn’t look far from it. Genichirou clasped his hand, briefly, and then grabbed his shoulder to keep him from falling.

“You need to turn on your brain, and learn to pace yourself, Echizen,” he observed, disapproving. “If you had had a second match today you would have been absolutely worthless. I have no interest in losing a good opponent to his own stupidity.”

Echizen sniffed, attempting not to lean on his support.

“I think your coach may have some words to say to you on that subject, too,” Genichirou noted, looking over the boy’s head at the formidable old woman now standing with her hands on her hips and a rather tight mouth.

Echizen winced, and then glared up at him. “It worked,” he said, pointedly, or as pointedly as someone whose legs were shaking could.

A faint, unwilling smile pulled at the corner of Genichirou’s mouth. “I expect your captain will agree with you on that,” he allowed. “Go see, before you fall over, and I have to carry you. Again.”

Echizen growled, and stalked back toward his team, just a bit wobbly.

Genichirou headed back to his own team, where Yukimura’s sparkling eyes said that he was suppressing laughter.

“I’m glad that one is Tezuka’s problem not ours,” Genichirou snorted.

Yukimura lost it and laughed out loud. “So, are you satisfied?” he asked, when he could speak again.

Genichirou considered. “For now,” he said, slowly, “I think so. Next time… we’ll see.” He needed to think over what this match had shown him about his own play. No one had ever broken the Forest before, let alone lured him out of it by appealing to his own desire for the straightforward. Perhaps… perhaps it was time to gamble, and see what he could make of that.

Yukimura smiled. “Good,” he said, softly. He stood and stretched.

“Now.”


Seiichi heard the murmur of his club, as he stepped out across from Tezuka, and knew his smile had changed. Yanagi had told him, once, that it was quite noticeable, that shift from simple pleasure to the exaltation of hunting. The world brightened, sharpened, deepened. Tezuka’s focus slashed against his, answering, though Tezuka’s own expression only changed slightly. A brightening of the eyes, a flex of the stern mouth. Seiichi wondered, in passing, how many opponents failed to notice those tiny signs until it was far too late.

Not that Tezuka hid a thing, really. Seiichi was aware of the spectators quieting, understanding the intensity that sang between the players. It didn’t particularly matter to him one way or the other, now. Nothing mattered, now, but Tezuka’s presence and movement, the ocean deep stillness waiting on the other side of the net.

They started fast, neither of them seeing any reason to hold back. Seiichi was unsurprised to be caught up immediately in the Zone. He played with it a little, angling his returns here and there, to see whether pure speed or strength could break it. In a way, he was pleased that the answer was no. He knew that Tezuka was, in fact, very fast and strong, but this technique had always looked like something more than the proper application of brute force. It was good to have that confirmed. Seiichi sank himself into observation of Tezuka’s play, seeking the key, reaching out to encompass Tezuka’s game and know it.

Seiichi’s attention was especially caught by the savagery under Tezuka’s precision. There was a wildness there, an implacable ruthlessness like the flood of a river in spring. And yet, it was still fine and subtle. Seiichi was enchanted. He didn’t wonder, anymore, that Tezuka concealed himself behind such a flat mask; because it wasn’t, really, either of those things, now, was it? It was simply the face of his wildness, as passionate and featureless as as a wind storm, something that didn’t translate into social charms.

Understanding that lack of cultivation, for all Tezuka’s fine edge, Seiichi thought he might know what the Zone was. Which was good, because he couldn’t afford to run around too much longer, looking for it. His next swing took a little longer, lingered, and Seiichi concentrated on the sweep of it, the way he would on the sweep of his brush or pencil, drawing a line… there. He matched the lines the ball drew against the sensation of it on his racquet. Yes. This would be a delicate thing; the Zone could be overpowered, certainly, but that would leave him in no position to catch the next shot. But if Tezuka spun the ball this way, then the line Seiichi needed to gentle it into was… there. Yes. He knew it now, and smiled at the hard light in Tezuka’s eyes that said Tezuka was coming to know him, as well. He wouldn’t truly wish it any other way.

He had never played a game this intense and also this intricate. The score was moving in fits and starts, a sudden twist yielding a few points until the other player caught it and they were at stalemate again. A corner of Seiichi’s mind thought that it probably looked like a punishing rhythm to maintain, this stop and start. But, from the inside, it never stopped. He and Tezuka were never deadlocked, they were constantly moving around each other, sliding against and past each other. That, however, was all in the connection that they wove between them, the net of senses they each cast over the other, and he doubted most of the distant spectators noticed it. His team, perhaps, and Tezuka’s, and likely a handful of the rivals who had come to witness the match.

Seiichi was hard pressed not to laugh when they reached six games to six. He would have to ask Yanagi when it had last happened, that all three singles matches went to tie-break. Later. Right now there was only he and Tezuka and the game.

Except that… there was more, today.

Seiichi paused as he started to serve, tipped his head. There was more than just he and his opponent in their game. Puzzled, he glanced at the stands, and his eyes crossed over his team. Their presence had never intruded into his game before, but here they were, now. Akaya, leaning against the fence, eyes wide and fascinated; Renji standing quiet, with a hand on Akaya’s shoulder; Marui, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees; Jackal standing beside him, calm and immovable; Yagyuu, smiling softly, hands light on the rail; Niou, slouched back, grin sharp as a knife, eyes laughing; Genichirou, sitting poised and still, hands open and easy, gaze burning.

They were with him; their absolute belief in him folded around him, wove into his awareness. For the first time, they gave back what it had always been his place to give to them, and Seiichi let out a tiny breath as he felt the last, thin, sharp band of fear that this year had cinched around him crumble. Looking back across the net, he met Tezuka’s faint, quiet smile, and saw the slight beckoning movement that invited him to play this match to the end without the need to prove anything but the joy of the game itself.

And now Seiichi laughed. Laughed freely, and cast the ball up, feeling his team gathered at his back, and sent it singing over the net toward whatever future he and his opponent, and their people with them, could create today.

End

Last Modified: Feb 08, 12
Posted: Aug 08, 04
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Games for Fun

Suppose that Sanada and Atobe were roomates at Senbatsu. Now suppose that Atobe is feeling provocative after their match in ep. 140. Now suppose gratuitous sex ensues. Porn Without Plot, I-3, anime continuity

Pairing(s): Atobe/Sanada

Genichirou emerged from the shower, toweling the last water from his hair, and suppressed a sigh. His roommate was sprawled languidly, and quite typically, across his bed, smiling smugly at the ceiling and not saying a word.

Atobe could be quiet louder than anyone Genichirou had ever met.

“Good game, today,” Genichirou said, hoping to head off any of Atobe’s more histrionic gloating. Judging by the grin, Atobe knew what he was trying to do.

“It was,” he agreed, conversationally enough, though. “Too bad we couldn’t play to the end. I was looking forward to breaking that perfect form of yours.”

Genichirou snorted, stretching out on his own bed.

“Don’t think I could?” Atobe asked, lazily. “You’re too used to winning, Sanada.”

Genichirou cast a disbelieving glance at the next bed. “I’m too used to winning?” he echoed, and shook his head at Atobe’s smile. “You really never do change.”

“Of course not. Life would be boring if I did. Or, at least,” Atobe gave him a sidelong look, “your life would be.”

Genichirou propped himself up on his elbows, the better to stare. “I beg your pardon.”

Atobe shrugged. “It’s obvious you have to rely on other people for a sense of fun, not having any of your own.”

“And I suppose you can explain just what use that would be to me?” Genichirou challenged, exasperated.

Atobe’s suddenly speculative look was just a bit worrying.

“I could, I suppose,” Atobe said, rolling off his bed, and stepping toward Genichirou’s. “But I find demonstrations are far more effective than lectures.”

“Atobe, what are you doing?” Genichirou asked, warily.

“Demonstrating,” Atobe murmured, and leaned down and kissed him.

Startlement held Genichirou still through the rather lingering caress of Atobe’s lips against his. It was, in fact, several moments after Atobe drew back, with a gleam in his eye and a wicked smile, before Genichirou managed to get his voice working again.

“Atobe,” he choked, at last, “have you completely lost your mind?”

“No,” Atobe told him, calmly, settling on the edge of Genichirou’s bed. “It’s simply my unfortunate fate to love a good challenge. Unfortunate because I don’t get many of them. Getting you to loosen up a little, though, definitely qualifies.”

“And exactly what makes you think I’m interested in you?” Genichirou inquired, evenly. He ignored his hormones, which were taking notice of the apparently willing body now beside him, with great determination. That response was just a reflex; it didn’t count.

Atobe leaned down again, until he could murmur, deep and soft, in Genichirou’s ear. “Aren’t you? Don’t you want more of that passion you felt earlier today? Don’t you want to finish it? Don’t you want to feel skin under your hands? Don’t you want to feel fingers stroking you until can’t feel anything else?”

Genichirou closed his eyes, breath shuddering in his chest. The hot velvet glide of Keigo’s voice was more inciteful than another kiss could have been. This was still completely insane. But he was starting to find a sneaking appeal in the idea. Which, come to think of it, was a reasonably good description of Atobe in general.

Atobe’s mouth covered his again, and Atobe’s hands smoothed down his bare chest, fingertips circling gently here and there, making his skin tingle. Genichirou considered his options. He could be sensible and make Atobe stop, but his body was nearly screaming for him to just take what was offered. And, to be honest, he was just as frustrated by their aborted game as Keigo sounded. This was certainly one way to solve that. He sucked in a hard breath as Keigo’s palm brushed low across his stomach, just above the loose waist of his pants.

“You spend a lot of time listening to what your body tells you,” Keigo said, between kisses. “Don’t stop now.”

“Do you always have to get your own way?” Genichirou gasped, letting himself fall back against the cool sheets.

“Not always, but it is a nice feeling,” Atobe told him, pausing to get rid of his shirt before sliding down to join him. “You should try it some time, Genichirou,” he whispered.

“Oh?” Genichirou murmured, pulling Atobe’s weight on top of him.

“Mm,” Atobe agreed, smiling against Genichirou’s throat, and then sucking softly on his pulse. “Let me show you.”

Genichirou couldn’t help a laugh, though it was a bit breathless. “Always the same,” he repeated. “So show me, then.”

Keigo’s hands were slow, soothing, massaging his shoulders, his stomach, loosening the muscles that wanted to tense, smoothing Genichirou’s response to the touch on his skin from something sharp to something warm and relaxed. When Atobe’s teeth bit, softly, at his neck, at the soft skin below his ribs, and then, as Atobe slid cloth out of his way, inside his thigh, Genichirou only sighed. The sharpness made the warmth brighter. Atobe slid back up his body, and now they were completely bare to each other. Keigo’s tongue lingered over a nipple, and his hand slipped between Genichirou’s legs, fondling, coaxing; Genichirou moaned, softly, hands finding Keigo’s back and pressing him closer.

When Atobe’s fingers sought further back, though, he stiffened.

“Atobe.”

Atobe lifted his head, brows raised. “You didn’t strike me as the nervous sort. Surely this isn’t your first time?”

Genichirou narrowed his eyes. “Either way, what, exactly, makes you think I’m interested in yielding that way to you?”

Atobe’s brows climbed still higher, and he snorted. “Traditionalists. You’ll be the death of me. What,” he leaned over Genichirou and twined fingers through his hair, “makes you think I want you to yield?”

Genichirou blinked at him.

“This isn’t a game of winners and losers, you know. Who have you been going to bed with?” Atobe kissed him, somehow both languorous and impatient. “If it’s played right, everyone wins.”

Genichirou pushed Atobe back a little, so he could see his eyes. They were bright and open and sharp, the way he had only ever seen them when Keigo was in the middle of an all out game. There was no question of his sincerity, and Atobe apparently detected the softening of Genichirou’s rejection because he smiled, slow and wicked, and closed the distance between them until his lips brushed Genichirou’s ear.

“Let me touch you,” he coaxed, voice low and husky. “Just touch you. Let me stroke you inside. Let me taste your pleasure when your entire body tightens and climbs and burns. Let me touch you, Genichirou.”

Genichirou bit back a groan. There should be a legal limit on how many times Atobe was allowed to use that tone of voice in one night. “Remind me what the point of this exercise was,” he said, just a bit strained.

Atobe propped himself up on one elbow. “To demonstrate the value of a sense of fun,” he recited promptly. “Are you having fun yet, Genichirou?”

The quicksilver change of mood broke Genichirou’s tension, and he found himself laughing. He pulled Keigo down, and kissed him, hard.

“You’re the most infuriating person I think I’ve ever known, Keigo, not excluding Akaya,” he murmured against Atobe’s lips.

“Thank you,” Keigo smirked.

Genichirou sighed. “All right,” he agreed, at last. “On one condition.”

Atobe looked inquiring, and then arched a little as Genichirou ran a hand down his back and over his rear.

“That you let me return the favor at some point,” Genichirou said, hearing his own voice deepen almost to a growl.

Teeth gleamed in Keigo’s smile. “It’s a deal,” he purred back. He held Genichirou’s gaze while he sucked two fingers into his mouth and slowly drew them back out. Genichirou parted his legs to let Atobe settle between them, looking back with as much cool challenge as he could assume at the moment.

Genichirou couldn’t hold back a harsh sound as Atobe’s mouth closed, swiftly, over him, soft and wet and teasing. He twisted against Atobe’s weight over his hips as Keigo’s tongue swept over and around the head of him, almost too gentle, too warm. This pleasure was a maddening thing, enveloping him but impossible to grasp. This time, when Keigo’s fingers pressed against him, he welcomed the touch, firm enough to keep him from being driven absolutely wild. Keigo’s fingertips circled, nudging inward, a quiet insistence in counterpoint to the way his tongue flirted with Genichirou. When the fingers slid inside, the touch of Atobe’s mouth changed. He sucked, gently at first, but harder as his fingers thrust deeper, hot, sharp pleasure drawing Genichirou taut.

When those fingers curled, Genichirou cried out, the spike of sensation taking him by surprise. Keigo’s fingers stroked him, hard, relentless, sweeping him up in a rush of fire that denied any possibility of pausing or holding back. The sheet tangled in Genichirou’s fingers as he clutched at it, and he spread his legs wider, almost without meaning to, arching up into the hot pressure of Atobe’s mouth, the soft rasp of his tongue.

It was the pleased sound that Atobe made, a sliding murmur that hummed around Genichirou, that finally broke him. An electric tingle shot through the heat, drove up his spine, seized him and thrust him over the edge. A long moan wrung from his throat as fire clenched down on him again and again and again. When it finally subsided, he drew in a long breath and opened eyes he hadn’t realized were closed.

Keigo stretched, and laid himself over Genichirou’s body again. He propped an elbow at either side of Genichirou’s head and looked down at him with insufferable smugness.

“That isn’t a particularly endearing expression, Atobe,” Genichirou pointed out, dryly.

“You only say that because you’re lamentably ignorant of my better qualities,” Atobe told him, and then paused and looked judicious. “Less ignorant now, of course.”

Genichirou closed his eyes again and reminded himself, strenuously, that he had known for a long time that Keigo lived to get a rise out of people.

Speaking of rises, however… His mouth quirked and he ran his hands down Atobe’s body to his hips, lifting them until Keigo was braced above him on knees and elbows. Keigo raised his brows at him, but the dark blue eyes slid half closed as Genichirou reached between them and smoothed his hand down Atobe’s cock.

“Do you like this?” Genichirou asked, mindful of courtesy, even with a partner like Atobe.

“Mmm. Very much so,” Atobe murmured. “Such powerful hands you have, Genichirou.”

Genichirou tightened his grip, and Keigo stopped talking. His sighs were every bit as expressive as most people’s words, though, and Genichirou took a good deal of satisfaction in listening to him, in watching Keigo’s eyes fall closed and his lips part, in feeling him moving over Genichirou, rocking into his hand. He combed his free fingers through Keigo’s hair, softly, enjoying the faint curve it brough to Keigo’s mouth.

He was even willing to admit, strictly to himself, that Keigo was beautiful when he threw his head up, arching his back and driving himself into Genichirou’s hold with a low cry.

Not that it made him any less infuriating.

Genichirou knew he was smiling when Atobe dropped back down against him, limp and panting. He was still smiling, not quite able to stifle it, when Atobe slowly regathered himself and raised his head to look at him. Atobe snorted.

“As if you have any room to talk,” he muttered, letting his head fall back to Genichirou’s shoulder.

Genichirou stroked a hand down his back. “At least I have the manners to apologize if it annoys my partner,” he pointed out.

“Manners, is it?” Keigo said, somewhat muffled. And then he propped himself back up and gave Genichirou a lingering kiss. “Thank you, then. You were very gentle; I enjoyed it a great deal.”

Genichirou looked up at him, stunned. Atobe smiled, and hauled himself off the bed to saunter toward the closet where the extra towels were stacked. It took a few seconds for Genichirou to realize that Atobe had, very effectively, gotten the last word.

He rolled over and stifled a resigned sigh in his pillow, and reminded himself to look on the bright side. Only another handful of days, and he wouldn’t have to deal with Atobe anymore. Even though they were both going to be on the final team, singles players could get away with ignoring each other. Just another couple days, and he’d be fine.

End

Last Modified: Feb 08, 12
Posted: Aug 25, 04
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Brenny, anehan and 7 other readers sent Plaudits.

Confluence

Mild chaos and vast snarkiness as many paths cross at a music store. Drama With Romance, I-3

Tezuka

Kunimitsu had some misgivings about accompanying Keigo to a music store. Particularly one this large. Music was, after all, one of Keigo’s enthusiasms. He could only hope Keigo had entertained the other people in the train car more than he had alarmed them, holding forth as energetically as he had on the antecedents of jazz. He hesitated to think what would happen if they found a knowledgeable clerk inside for Keigo to chat with.

Blackmail was, however, blackmail, and Keigo had threatened to select things for Kunimitsu’s collection if he didn’t come along to make his own choices.

“So,” Keigo said, looking around with a gleam of avarice in his eye, “where shall we start?”

“Your show,” Kunimitsu told him, evenly, “at least until it comes to my collection. Wherever you like.”

Keigo looked to be in a mischievous mood, to judge by the look of Well, of course that he flashed Kunimitsu before leading the way through the racks. After a brief stopover in Pop they finally fetched up at the border of Jazz and Classical.

“Mm. Akiko Yano, Nunokawa Toshiki, Raphael Lima, Ishmael Reed, now there’s one I didn’t expect, even at this store. And why,” Keigo added in a long-suffering tone, “can’t anyone ever catalogue Gershwin properly?”

“Well,” came a light voice behind them, “surely not everyone can be blessed with your incisively discerning taste, Atobe.”

Kunimitsu turned to see Fuji, Tachibana beside him, smiling with the kind of earnest sincerity that could only be fake. He glanced aside to see how his companion was taking it. Keigo studied the rack in front of him with a thoughtful look for a moment before one side of his mouth twitched up. He wrapped arrogant entitlement around him like a robe and turned as well.

“Of course,” he agreed, carelessly, stance suddenly a pose for admiring crowds.

Kunimitsu caught Tachibana’s eye, full of amused sympathy, and shrugged an eyebrow. Still, it might be a good idea to redirect the two before innocent bystanders happened along and entered the line of fire.

“Similar taste in music, too?” he mused to no one in particular. Fuji’s smile didn’t flicker, but Keigo gave him a cool look.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t seriously be suggesting that Fuji’s tastes run to Zig Noda.” He had drawn a breath to continue when Fuji’s slightly frozen expression stopped him.

“Kose Kikuchi,” Fuji admitted, after a moment.

They turned as one to glare daggers at Kunimitsu, who refrained from responding. Tachibana had a hand over his mouth.

“Similar instruments,” Keigo declared, “do not equate to similar styles.”

“Quite so,” Fuji agreed, stepping toward a different rack. “And it was Roy Hargrove that I particularly hoped to find today.”

“The latest album?” Keigo asked, sharply, discarding his front in face of a possible threat to his program of acquisition. “I hope there are two copies, then, I’d hate for you to be disappointed, Fuji.”

Of course, Kunimitsu reflected, as Keigo strode after Fuji, his genuine behavior didn’t always differ that markedly from his public act. Particularly when one of his enthusiasms was involved. Tachibana leaned against the rack beside him, looking after the other two.

“Shuusuke is still annoyed with you over that particular observation,” he noted.

“I’m not surprised,” Kunimitsu said. “Keigo is, a bit, too.” Tachibana gave him an oblique look.

“If you knew it would irritate them, why did you say it?” he asked. Kunimitsu folded his arms.

“Better they be annoyed with me than each other. Imagine the consequences.”

Tachibana rubbed his fingers over his forehead, suddenly looking a little pinched. “I’d really rather not.”

Kunimitsu looked at him sharply, questioning. After a moment Tachibana shook his head.

“It’s more his story than mine,” he said, quietly.

“Mm.” Still, Kunimitsu had to respect the point. He had entrusted his friend to Tachibana years ago; it was good to know the trust wasn’t misplaced.

Atobe

“Metheny is one step away from elevator music,” Keigo snorted, as he and Fuji made their way back to their respective partners. “Next you’ll be telling me you like Yanni.”

“A narrative format keeps music from becoming meaninglessly abstract,” Fuji countered. He paused long enough to give Tezuka something Keigo read as a vindicated look. Probably because they were disagreeing. Keigo considered weighing in with a smug smile of his own, but decided it would detract from the point.

“Well. Isn’t this quite the congregation?” asked a new voice. Keigo glanced around to see Mizuki Hajime and Fuji’s brother, Yuuta, come around the corner from the next aisle. Something in the quality of the silence beside him drew his gaze back to Fuji, and he almost took a step away.

The gleam of more or less good natured mockery in Fuji’s eyes was swallowed into a flat, icy blue, slick as the side of a glacier. Any hint of a smile fell away like a dropped piece of paper. It wasn’t an expression Keigo had ever seen on Fuji before, not even when he was playing for real. A quick look at Kunimitsu showed enough disturbance in the line of his mouth that Keigo didn’t think he was familiar with this either. Tachibana had closed the distance between he and Fuji, and laid an unobtrusive hand on his back.

“Mizuki,” Fuji stated, soft and flat.

Yuuta looked edgy, but Mizuki merely clasped his hands behind his back and smiled.

“Shuusuke. You’re looking well.”

Keigo was, a bit unwillingly, impressed with Mizuki’s nerve. Or, possibly, his mental instability. A corner of Fuji’s mouth twitched, as though he were suppressing a snarl. Keigo was wildly curious about exactly what Mizuki had really just said; subtext almost dripped from that simple greeting.

Tachibana’s presence abruptly became more noticeable. Keigo, familiar with the ways a person could draw the eye, noted with interest that Tachibana did it without even shifting his body language much. He didn’t step forward, or loom. He simply straightened, and his presence washed out from him, momentarily overwhelming even the intensity of Fuji’s focus, pulling Mizuki’s gaze away from his target. Tachibana gave him a hard look. After a moment, Mizuki inclined his head and opened one hand, palm up.

If Keigo had to guess, he would judge that Tachibana knew what was unspoken between Fuji and Mizuki, and had warned Mizuki to back off from the subject. And Mizuki, for whatever reason, had acknowledged Tachibana’s right to interfere and accepted the warning.

And for some reason that had caused Yuuta to relax. Fuji too, after a stiff moment.

Keigo stifled a sigh, resigning himself to the hell of ungratified curiosity, because, even if Kunimitsu knew what was going on, Keigo knew he would never get the answer out of him.

“You two have fun, then,” Yuuta said, running a hand through his hair, and sounding a bit rueful. “I’ll just be over there.” He slipped back into the other aisle, leaving both his brother and his lover looking after him, the one bemused and the other affectionate. Though it took Keigo a second look to place the expression on Mizuki’s face, before it reverted to a more accustomed smirk as Mizuki turned back to Fuji.

“He doesn’t like listening, when it gets to be about him,” Mizuki told the elder Fuji. That, at least, made sense to Keigo. Everyone who had any contact with either of them knew that Yuuta was a bone of contention between Fuji and Mizuki.

That cold tension was singing through Fuji again, though not quite as intensely as before.

“So many assumptions, Shuusuke,” Mizuki murmured. “Where would be the challenge in that?” Then he practically grinned. “So, what are you here for today?”

Keigo studied Mizuki. Unlike Fuji, Mizuki looked exactly like someone in the middle of a good game: breathing light and fast, eyes wide and brilliant. He’d long suspected that Mizuki liked to do things indirectly, and that his airs and affectations were as much a front as Keigo’s own. He’d suspected that it was done for Mizuki’s own amusement, and that he snickered up his sleeve at everyone who took the flouncing and strutting seriously. This was the first time he’d really thought that tennis itself might only be a medium for Mizuki, not a goal.

Fuji waved a hand at the racks around them.

“We came for music,” he answered, in the tone of someone dealing with an idiot. Mizuki merely smiled.

“Ah. Not the company of friends?” He paused, and Keigo sniffed at the melodrama. “But I suppose not, given the conversation as we arrived. Really, Shuusuke, anyone would think you were jealous.” His glance flicked toward Kunimitsu.

Keigo was about to snort, because hadn’t he and Fuji been over that already? But the shift in Fuji’s weight, the tense and twist of his hands, stopped it. Keigo’s eyes widened. There must be some truth in what Mizuki was saying, or Fuji wouldn’t be reacting like this. From the way Kunimitsu stiffened beside him, he had caught some of it, too.

And that was enough for Keigo to interfere.

“Jealous?” he drawled. “You should check your facts, Mizuki. Envious, now, that’s a bit more likely.” It wasn’t easy to lounge while standing upright, but that’s what talent was for. Tachibana was looking at him with a mix of disbelief and amusement. Kunimitsu was completely poker faced, except for the angle of his brows, which communicated a certain resigned affection to Keigo. Fuji slanted a wry glance at him, appreciating the double edge of Keigo’s intervention.

Mizuki looked at him with irritation before narrowing his eyes. When he spoke, it was to Fuji, every nuance of tone and stance saying that Keigo’s interruption was insignificant.

“You have my sympathy, of course. It can’t be easy to lose such a subtle bond to someone so greedy that he can’t stand not to be the center of attention.”

Now it was Keigo’s turn to suppress a snarl, because he’d be damned before he gave Mizuki the satisfaction. Of course, the delivery annoyed him infinitely more than the accusation, which he’d heard with tiresome frequency. A part of him, however, had to appreciate the precision of the attack. It played perfectly off the manner of intervention he had chosen, and also seemed to touch on a genuine sore point with Fuji. He filed that last observation away for future consideration.

Yes, this was definitely Mizuki’s true game.

Keigo’s own response rallied though, just as for any other attack. That moment after he had spoken, a flash of surprise had shown in Mizuki’s eyes, as if he’d forgotten Keigo’s presence. Combined with his choice of counter, Keigo rather thought it indicated something about Mizuki. It was, after all, easiest to recognize a weakness one shared. He wondered whether Fuji had caught it.

Ah, yes, there was the smile. The dangerous one.

“Perhaps,” Fuji answered in his most dismissive tone, and turned most of the way away from Mizuki to smile far more softly up at Tachibana. Keigo detected subtext again, since Tachibana didn’t really seem the sort to typically touch his lover’s cheek in public the way he was right now.

Mizuki certainly seemed to get it, as his expression turned extremely disgruntled for a moment. Keigo rather thought all four of them were waiting for a classic Mizuki temper tantrum. He, at least, was quite surprised when Mizuki merely nodded, eyes sharp, conceding the game if not the match.

“Another day, then, Shuusuke,” he murmured, and turned to follow the path Yuuta had taken.

Tachibana looked after him, down at the still glinting eyes of his lover, and finally over at Kunimitsu.

“Tezuka,” he said, wearily, “is it one of your requirements for team members, to be pathologically incapable of refusing a challenge?”

Keigo chuckled. “You’re just noticing?”

Yuuta

Yuuta slipped around the end of the cd racks, and nearly ran over Tachibana Ann, who was peering through a gap at the confrontation on the other side.

“Oh, not you, too,” he groaned. She gave him a stern eye.

“Your boyfriend is crazy,” she declared. “What did he do to make Fuji-niisan look like that?”

“None of your business,” Yuuta told her. “And Aniki is my brother, in case you’ve forgotten. You already have one, what do you want with another?”

“Unlike some people, I happen to like big brothers,” she shot back. Yuuta sighed, and leaned against the rack opposite.

“Knock it off, Ann, you’re not that stupid.”

She had the grace to look slightly abashed, as she tucked her hair back. “Well, no,” she admitted, in a less aggressive tone, “but there are really times, Yuuta.” Yuuta glanced aside. Aniki knew that Yuuta loved him. That was all that mattered. Right?

“Aniki and Mizuki had… a fight. Kind of,” he offered. “I think it’s over now, though. Mostly.” Feeling a little nervous at the number of qualifiers his unspoken pact of honesty with Ann forced him to add, he joined her in peering through the racks.

“Ooo, that was a good one,” Ann said, admiringly, of Aniki’s finishing move. Yuuta grinned down at her.

“You can be really vicious, you know that?”

“Good thing, too, otherwise how would I ever deal with you?”

They both sighed, and stepped back, as Mizuki let the challenge go.

“He was actually kind of restrained, today,” Ann noted, thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose he’s been ill?”

“Like I said, things are better. Mostly.” Yuuta shrugged, concealing his own surprise and relief. Ann looked over as Mizuki rounded the corner to their aisle.

“Ann-chan, how pleasant to see you here,” Mizuki greeted her. Not in a terribly good mood, but not fuming either, Yuuta gauged, and relaxed a little more. Ann gave Mizuki a long look before turning to Yuuta.

“He’s still a snake,” she said, firmly. “But I suppose, sometimes, he’s not completely horrible.” And, with that, she took herself off toward the Rock section.

“Charming girl,” Mizuki murmured. “Did you find everything you wanted?” Yuuta couldn’t help smiling at that question, even though it made his boyfriend quirk a brow at him.

“Yes.”

“Good,” Mizuki said, softly, reaching for Yuuta’s hand. Yuuta’s breath caught as he raised it and placed a kiss in the palm, just the tip of his tongue flicking against Yuuta’s skin.

“Mizuki!” Yuuta gasped, biting his lip and glancing quickly around to make sure no one was near. Mizuki gave him a dark look, from under his lashes, his promise to find out, later, exactly what Yuuta had been smiling over.

“Shall we go, then?”

Shishido

“So, who is this guy you’re so excited to find?” Ryou asked, following in his partner’s wake as Choutarou paced down the aisle, casting his eye over the racks.

“Chris Norman. He’s a classical flautist, primarily, but he does a lot of other really neat ethnic music, and he favors a wooden flute. It has a much softer tone than metal. I’ve never found a store that carries any of his albums, before. The first time I heard him was actually in concert.” Choutarou glanced back at him, with a small, bright smile in his eyes. “You’d like him.”

Ryou was wondering just how to take that, when Choutarou stopped short. Only Ryou’s quick reflexes kept him from barrelling into his partner.

“Atobe-buchou,” Choutarou said, voice startled. Ryou stepped around him to see.

And then he almost stepped back behind Choutarou, because it wasn’t just Atobe. It was also Tezuka, and Tachibana, and Fuji. The captain’s club, plus head case. Every club seemed to have one of the latter, and he supposed Fuji was better than Ibu, but Ryou would have preferred Jirou. At least he was reasonably harmless.

“Ohtori. Shishido,” Atobe replied. Ryou swore his eyes gleamed with amusement at Ryou’s discomfort, for an instant, but you could never pin Atobe down about stuff like that. A moment later he was turning back to Choutarou. “Are you here for anything in particular today?” he asked. Choutarou smiled his faint, public smile.

“The store called just this morning to say that they had Chris Norman’s first album in.”

“Chris Norman.” Atobe’s eyes went distant for a moment. “He played with the Baltimore Consort, yes?”

The conversation that followed had very little meaning to Ryou; he liked listening to music, but the details never really stuck with him. So he split his attention between pride in his partner and irritation with Atobe. Both pleasant constants in his life. He could always be proud of Choutarou, of the poise that let him keep his countenance in just about any situation, including chatting with his captain under Tezuka’s gimlet eye and Fuji’s alarming smile, and of a determination to match Ryou’s own, even when it was his own partner he was arguing with. Ryou still didn’t think fraternization between teams could possibly be healthy, but Choutarou had gotten him to admit that it didn’t seem to have affected Atobe and Tezuka’s games. Just personally, Ryou thought that was the weirdest thing of all.

He hauled back his wandering thoughts as Atobe… dismissed Choutarou with a gracious nod. There were really times when Ryou wished they were still eight years old and he could get away with punching the smug bastard. Still, in his own annoying way he seemed fond of Choutarou, and that got him a lot of latitude in Ryou’s book. He sauntered after his partner, exchanging companionable sneers with Atobe on the way past.

“Such a unique leadership style you have,” he heard Fuji remark, genially, behind him. “Do you tell your team members to imagine your face on the tennis ball, or do you trust that it will happen naturally?”

Ryou barely managed not to choke, because he had gotten through more than one practice with exactly that tactic. He’d been right all along. Fuji Shuusuke was creepy.

“Whatever works,” Atobe returned in a careless tone. Ryou could hear the smirk in it, and shot a glare over his shoulder.

“Remind me again why I’m friends with a jerk like you,” he growled, running an impatient hand through his hair.

“Because I’m the only one who would put up with your dramatics,” Atobe answered, promptly and loftily.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Ryou gave him a look rich with disbelief. “Nice talking to you, Mr. Pot, I’ll just be getting back to my teacups, why don’t I.” He didn’t bother waiting for an answer before turning his back and stalking off after Choutarou. Maybe he’d send Tezuka a sympathy card when Valentine’s rolled around. When he caught up to his partner, Choutarou offered him one of the sample-this-disc headphone sets.

“This is it.”

Ryou had to admit, it was pretty music. It almost sounded like a traditional flute, but not quite; and a lot bouncier.

“Now,” Choutarou added, “imagine the man playing that, standing in front of a formal orchestra, wearing jeans and a bright red knit shirt and suspenders.”

Ryou burst out laughing. “You’re kidding!” When Choutarou shook his head, smile flashing, Ryou had to agree, “All right, yeah, I probably would like him.”

Choutarou’s pleased look nearly made him glow; it was one of the expressions Ryou was especially fond of. He was just considering whether it would injure his partner’s reserve if Ryou ran his fingers through the unruly drift of silver hair, when familiar voices interrupted.

“I mean, really, you need a life, Ryouma.”

“I have a life.”

Besides tennis. Come on, forget the old man and act like a normal person for just one afternoon!”

“And another after that,” Echizen pointed out, inexorably, “and another after that, and…”

“Now you’re getting the idea.”

Momoshiro, Ryou identified the other speaker. No one else had quite the same congenially full-of-himself tone.

“Momoshiro, Echizen-kun,” Choutarou greeted them, turning.

“Hey,” Ryou seconded.

“Ohtori, Shishido-san, how’s it going?” Momoshiro hailed them, easily. Ryou considered him one of the easier players to get along with off the court. The same couldn’t be said for his companion, who just nodded—unusually cordial for Echizen. “Guess this place is attracting tennis players today, hm?” Momoshiro added, grinning.

“You have no idea,” Ryou muttered.

“It’s Tezuka-buchou and the Monkey King,” Echizen observed, peering further down the aisle. “And Tachibana and Fuji-senpai, too.”

Momoshiro winced a little. Ryou sympathized completely. Neither team had been prepared for finding out that their captains had hooked up. Even though Choutarou had said they should probably have expected it. Echizen’s expression sharpened into an evil, little smile.

“We should say hello.”

“Hey, Ryouma, hang on, we… you shouldn’t… Ryouma!” Momoshiro’s snatch at Echizen’s collar missed, as the younger player made a bee-line for the greatest source of trouble available.

Typical.

“It can be troublesome to have a partner who’s so impulsive, can’t it?” Choutarou asked.

“You can say that again,” Momoshiro muttered as he made after Echizen.

It took another minute to catch up with Ryou.

“Choutarou…” he said, drawing it out. His partner made wide eyes at him.

“Yes, Shishido-san?”

Ok, now he was sure, because Choutarou never called him that, anymore, unless he was teasing. He stepped into his partner, backing him against the rack.

“If we weren’t in public,” he said, softly, watching Choutarou’s eyes darken.

“Then, what?” Choutarou murmured. Ryou laughed.

“Grab your stuff, and let’s get out of here. And I’ll show you.”

If the cashier thought it was odd that the customers were grinning silently at each other, he didn’t mention it.

Momoshiro

Momo was an easygoing sort of guy. Which was a good thing, considering. It really wasn’t often, anymore, that he had the urge to whap Ryouma over the head with a racquet. It was much more effective to tickle him until he couldn’t breathe; Ryouma was far too aware of his dignity for his own good.

But whenever Ryouma saw an opportunity to mouth off to their captain he took it, and then it was time for caring friends to restrain him. Possibly with a straitjacket, because he really had to be crazy to tease Tezuka-san like that. The fact that Momo had never once, in three and a half years, succeeded was beside the point. So was the incomprehensible fact that their captain generally let Ryouma get away with it, sort of. If there was any topic that would finally drive Tezuka-san over the edge, it had to be his… relationship with Atobe.

Momo caught up just as Ryouma offered their captain his best insolent smirk.

“Buchou. Out on a date?”

Tezuka-san looked down his nose at his youngest team member with no expression Momo could detect, but Ryouma’s eyes gleamed like he’d gotten a rise out of him. Atobe, after one look, leaned against the racks, silently declaring that it was not his team and not his problem. Momo didn’t know exactly how he managed to get that across just by leaning back and crossing his arms. That talent was one of the more irritating things about Atobe.

Maybe Ryouma thought so, too, because he turned to Atobe next. “Guess there’s no hope for a game today, then. Too bad. Beating you would have been a good way to wrap up the weekend.”

“I’m told it’s good for people to have dreams,” Atobe returned, condescending as ever. “Nice to see you have one that will last you so very long, Echizen.”

Momo’s cautious look at Tezuka-san showed that he didn’t seem upset that Ryouma was ragging on his boyfriend. That was a relief. A sudden thought came to Momo, that Ryouma was challenging Atobe in front of their captain by way of asking permission. Ryouma never directly disobeyed the captain, but he was a master of avoiding being given orders that he didn’t want to follow. Giving the captain a chance to object was as good as asking if it was all right.

Which meant, Momo realized, that Ryouma would take Tezuka-san’s silence for assent, and keep needling Atobe until he got what he wanted. Ryouma was opening his mouth for the next shot when bright laughter cut across him.

“Ryouma-kun, you’re almost as good at ticking people off as you are at playing tennis. And that’s saying something.”

Tachibana Ann appeared from around the corner, grinning when Ryouma raised a brow at her.

“Ann-chan,” Momo exclaimed, relieved. “Are you here with your brother?” She grinned wider.

“Yes, but I thought he’d probably appreciate it if I got lost for a while.” She flicked her eyes at her brother and Fuji-senpai, standing together. “I’ve been exploring on my own; this place has a ton of great stuff!” She waved a handful of plastic cases, and Momo leaned over her shoulder to see.

“Oh, hey, I didn’t know Do As Infinity had another one out, what’s on it?”

“Momo-senpai.” Ryouma’s voice was low, but it got Momo’s attention. Ryouma didn’t sound that sharp very often. When he turned, though, Ryouma just looked at him, sidelong. He seemed irritated. It took Momo a couple beats to figure out why, but when he did he smiled. Ryouma looked away again, not meeting anyone’s eyes, now.

Momo came away from Ann, to stand behind Ryouma and lay a casual hand on his shoulder. “Ready to go bargain hunting?” he asked.

“Sure,” Ryouma muttered, still not looking back at him.

Ann-chan had a knowing smile on as she turned to her brother. “Did you guys find everything you wanted, Onii-chan?”

Occupied with her questions, the other players returned Momo’s goodbyes distractedly.

It wasn’t, Momo thought, as they moved on, that Ryouma was possessive, exactly. And he wasn’t anyone’s definition of clingy. There were just people he didn’t like Momo to pay too much attention to, and Tachibana Ann was one of them. The word boyfriend hadn’t even been breathed between them, yet, except jokingly, but they didn’t often need things spoken out loud.

Momo ruffled Ryouma’s hair, and Ryouma swatted at his hand.

“Cut it out,” he said, sounding sulky. But he turned his head enough to glance at Momo over his shoulder, eyes momentarily softer and mouth curving up at one corner. Momo smiled back, and let his hand rest, briefly, at the back of Ryouma’s neck before falling.

There were easier things than words.

Tezuka

Kunimitsu slung his bag of CDs into a corner, in a rare moment of messiness, and almost collapsed back on his bed. He pressed a hand over his eyes, pushing his glasses up, hoping to alleviate the threatening headache. He’d really never thought a simple trip to the music store would be so harrowing. If he had, he’d have risked whatever musical white elephants Keigo might have chosen for him.

The bed dipped, and he felt a hand pluck his glasses off entirely. “Oh, come along, Kunimitsu, admit it. It was funny,” Keigo chuckled.

Kunimitsu lifted his hand, the better to glare at his lover. Though he couldn’t quite maintain it when Keigo’s cool fingertips pressed across his forehead, driving the tense almost-pain away.

“You’re worried about Fuji,” Keigo observed. Kunimitsu didn’t bother denying it.

“I never expected Mizuki, of all people, to…” he trailed off.

“Lock his interest?” Keigo suggested. “It could be worse.”

Kunimitsu made an inquiring noise, closing his eyes as Keigo’s thumbs stroked the arch of his brow bone.

“Mizuki himself doesn’t seem completely unbalanced about the whole thing,” Keigo told him, thoughtfully. “And I imagine Tachibana will keep Fuji from going too far.”

Kunimitsu was worn out enough to accept Keigo’s judgment over his own fears, though he made a mental note to see if he could get the whole story out of Fuji later. On the other hand, he revised his thought as Keigo’s lips brushed across his, perhaps he wasn’t as worn out as all that. And he really felt he deserved some consolation after a day like this.

He reached up to pull Keigo down against him.

End


Branch: *looks around, slightly hunted* Ok, so, we’ll flip a coin to see which couple gets their smut first, right?

All Muses: *ignore her*

Momo: It’ll be us, first, we’re cuter.

Shishido: You wish! You give her way too much trouble, with all that non-verbal crap. It’ll be us.

Atobe: Speaking of trouble, you have far too much back-story requirement, Shishido. Besides, she loves me best. *preens*

Ryouma: Exactly. You two old guys need a chance to get your breath back.

Branch: *sidles behind Fuji* I’m just glad you don’t like me writing smut for you and Tachibana.

Fuji: *slow smile* Actually, I’ve been considering that.

Branch: *pales, backs away as all muses turn to look at her* Help! Muse Police! I’m being mugged!

Last Modified: May 15, 12
Posted: Aug 25, 04
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14 readers sent Plaudits.

Innocence and Experience

Immediately follows “Confluence”. What would happen if they weren’t in public… Porn Without Plot, I-4

Ryou was aware that he and Choutarou were both still grinning when they got back from the music store and closed the door of his room. It was probably just as well that his parents had taken the day to go shopping as well. Who knew what his mother would make of their expressions. Just to be on the safe side, he locked the door anyway.

“So,” Choutarou spoke from the window near the bed, without turning, “we aren’t in public now.” Ryou’s grin quirked, remembering what he had said to Choutarou’s teasing in the store. If we weren’t in public…

“No, we’re not,” he agreed, eyeing his partner.

Choutarou pulled his shirt over his head in a long stretch, and let it fall from his arms. Ryou caught sight of a tiny smile on his partner’s lips as Choutarou turned his head, not quite far enough to look at Ryou over his shoulder. So, Choutarou wanted to tease him a little more. No one else would ever believe it of his reserved and proper partner, he reflected. Ryou crossed the room to stand behind Choutarou and laid his hands flat on his partner’s stomach, sweeping them up to his chest, feeling Choutarou’s sigh through his palms. Ryou bent his head just slightly to press his lips to the sleek curve of Choutarou’s neck and shoulder.

“Ryou,” Choutarou murmured. His name, in that tone, was an invitation, and Ryou let his hands drift back down to finger the waist of Choutarou’s jeans, unzip them, slip inside to brush against the heat of his partner’s skin.

Choutarou laid his own hands flat against the wall in front of him, leaning forward. The line of his body, his hips rocking back against Ryou’s made Ryou stop and swallow a little hard.

“Choutarou,” he said, softly, leaning against his partner’s back. Did Choutarou mean what Ryou thought he did?

“Not slowly, Ryou,” Choutarou whispered. “Not today.”

Apparently he did. Choutarou’s straightforward sensuality could still surprise him, sometimes. Well, all right, then. Ryou stood back a little and brushed his fingers down Choutarou’s spine to hook jeans and underwear together, and pull them down. Choutarou arched into the touch, sucking in an audible breath, tossing his head back.

Ryou thought he probably set a new speed record stripping off his own clothes, and his hands were shaking just a bit as he fished out the bottle that usually lived in an empty tennis ball can, where his mother would hopefully not find it. He pressed Choutarou closer to the wall.

Choutarou spread his legs further apart and rested his head against his forearms, crossed on the wall in front of him. They were both breathing faster, now. Ryou dropped a light kiss on the nape of Choutarou’s neck, where the silver hair curled under. He ran a slick hand up the inside of Choutarou’s thigh, between his cheeks, and rubbed softly. Choutarou tensed slightly, pressed back into Ryou’s touch. Ryou bit his lip at his partner’s low moan, leaned against the line of Choutarou’s body, enjoying the velvet warmth of their skin brushing together down chest and leg. Remembering that Choutarou didn’t want to wait, he pressed his fingers deep into his partner’s body. Deep, but still slow. Slow enough not to hurt, he hoped. Choutarou’s moan was no longer low, and it distracted Ryou as much as the burning heat of Choutarou’s body.

“Ryou, now,” Choutarou said, soft and husky. A hoarse sound slipped past Ryou’s lips; Choutarou asking for his touch still turned him inside out.

Ryou took a deep breath and drove into his partner, biting his lip harder to keep from forcing himself past the resistance of Choutarou’s body too fast. Sparks ran over him, through him as Choutarou relaxed and opened under him, and finally he felt the sweat-damp softness of Choutarou’s skin all against his own. He wound an arm around his lover, other hand reaching between Choutarou’s legs again, and felt his partner shaking.

Choutarou’s light voice whispered pleas and encouragement as Ryou rocked out and back in, fondling Choutarou, licking the salt from the back of his neck. The taste and sound drew Ryou on, and he was sliding, deep, fast, driving Choutarou against the wall, into Ryou’s hand. Heat gripped him, not letting go, hard, and Ryou was pulling in breaths through the filter of Choutarou’s hair. Faster, and Choutarou cried out. The sound, and the feather of Choutarou’s hair brushing Ryou’s temple as his partner threw his head back completed some circuit in Ryou, driving, reaching, touching lightning that struck down through him. It left him shaking, nerves singed by it.

They collapsed, slowly, to the floor, and Ryou leaned his head on Choutarou’s shoulder, panting. Choutarou’s soft laugh caught his wandering, and slightly dazed, attention.

“What?” he asked, voice a bit rough still. Choutarou turned his head to look at him, brown eyes light and soft with pleasure and amusement.

“I should tease you more often,” he told Ryou.

Ryou buried his head against his partner’s neck again, laughing.

End


Branch: *casts eye back over ShishiTori branch* You made me do all that just to get a PWP?

Ohtori: *apologetic* Do you mind terribly, Madam? We do appreciate it so much.

Branch: *opens mouth, closes it again* … *looks at Shishido*

Shishido: *leans chair back on two legs, smirking*

Branch: *sighs* No, Choutarou, I don’t mind as much as all that.

Shishido: *grins* They fall for it every time. It’s the eyes.

Branch: *glares* You just watch it, boyo, or I really will write that “affair at a summer seminar”. *yells into next room* And Roy! Quit teaching Choutarou your vocabulary! He’s too young.

Roy: *lounging in doorway* Nonsense, Madam. He’s a natural.

Shishido: *narrow look* Oi.

Last Modified: May 07, 12
Posted: Jun 04, 04
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8 readers sent Plaudits.

Assurance

Immediately follows “Confluence”. Mizuki and Yuuta’s various reactions to Mizuki’s clash with Fuji at the music store. Porn with Insights, I-4

Character(s): Fuji Yuuta, Mizuki Hajime
Pairing(s): Mizuki/Yuuta

Yuuta had noticed the sidelong smiles Mizuki gave him on the way back from the music store, and was not surprised by Mizuki’s hand on his wrist, when they turned into the residence halls, urging him toward Mizuki’s room. Nor was he surprised when Mizuki immediately pressed him down to the bed. Yuuta watched the shadowy, blue eyes above him while long, slim hands stripped his clothes away. The eyes were focused intently on him, as if Yuuta were something Mizuki had memorized, but suspected might have changed since. Yuuta smiled. He liked it when Mizuki was like this. Mizuki had told the truth, that first time; he did have a very light touch. Now, though, his hands were slow and strong, and the mouth on Yuuta’s was open and demanding. This was Mizuki without the calculation, and Yuuta liked the honesty of this raw, insistent desire. He stretched and sighed under Mizuki’s caresses.

Normally, Mizuki also liked to take his time with preparation, waiting, coaxing, teasing until Yuuta was hot and wanton, but today seemed to be different all around. He pulled Yuuta, swiftly, up to his knees, back against Mizuki’s chest. Arms wound around him tightly, not letting them part. Yuuta stiffened as he felt Mizuki’s cock pressing against him already.

“Mizuki?”

“I want to feel you, Yuuta, as close as we can get,” Mizuki murmured, mouth brushing against the nape of Yuuta’s neck. “Will you trust me?”

Yuuta thought back to the scene at the store today, to Mizuki’s restraint in not following Aniki’s challenge to the hilt. Mizuki must be wound tighter than a watch spring, still, and edgy from that partial victory. Yuuta probably should have expected that Mizuki would want some reassurance of Yuuta’s welcome and acceptance. Yuuta knew he had always been the flip side of that coin, comfort and sanity to Mizuki when he was lost in his own obsessive drive. Despite the fact that their definition of sanity wasn’t always the generally accepted one. And, after all, hadn’t he just been thinking that he liked it when Mizuki got a little less careful with his intensity? He smiled and relaxed in Mizuki’s arms.

“Yes,” he answered. Mizuki’s arms tightened even further before he reached for the handsome blue glass jar that Yuuta teased him for keeping lubricant in.

He had to breathe deeply against the first ache of Mizuki pushing into him, gasping at the slow pressure. He let Mizuki support him as the slow, slow stretch unwound all his muscles one strand at a time and left him trembling. He felt as if only Mizuki’s hold kept that burn from pulling him apart. The shaking uncertainty of his whole body choked his voice. He could only manage a faint moan as Mizuki paused, completely inside him. Mizuki whispered his name, that normally smooth voice harsh. Then he was moving again.

Yuuta heard Mizuki’s name in his own voice, rough and breathless, and rocked back to meet his lover as he relaxed and opened under Mizuki’s gentle motion. The more he relaxed the stronger Mizuki’s thrusts became, and deep enough to taste in the back of his throat, a rough slide so tight it brushed the edge of discomfort. But Yuuta liked the firmness of the touch, the contact, the closeness of Mizuki so tight inside him. He shuddered as Mizuki slid one hand down and stroked a finger up the underside of his growing erection. Those long fingers fondled him even as Mizuki’s grip refused to let him go far enough to thrust into his lover’s hand. Yuuta groaned and surrendered his last tension, sank back in Mizuki’s hold. He gave himself to the rhythm Mizuki created for them, fell down into the heat of Mizuki’s hands, and the strength of his body lifting Yuuta, driving him under a flood of burning, shivering sensation, heat like sand under a summer sun spiraling up him, finally overflowing.

Mizuki held him close, even after the shuddering heat left him, limp and panting in its wake. He laid Yuuta down gently, pulled on his robe, grabbed a towel and left, returning in a few minutes with the towel cool and damp. Yuuta grinned just a little. The stroke of the towel was as sensual and careful as Mizuki’s usual lovemaking; it was a considerate gesture.

It was also a declaration to anyone who might take notice, in the hall or the bathroom, that Mizuki had just had Yuuta in his bed and, by implication, left him too satiated to move. He’d give Mizuki that; it was close enough to true, and Mizuki needed, right now, to know and advertise that Yuuta accepted and chose him. It would calm him back to his normal levels of manipulativeness, Yuuta thought.

Mizuki lay back down, twining a leg through Yuuta’s and leaning on an elbow so he could see Yuuta’s face as he stroked a hand over his chest.

“So,” he purred, “what were you so amused by at the store?”

Yes, Mizuki was definitely back to normal. Just like him to wait until his target was dazed to ask the question. Yuuta caught Mizuki’s fingers in his as they made distracting circles on his skin, and studied them as he tried to find words.

“You asked if I found everything I wanted,” he said, slowly. “I was smiling because I think I did. You… you were both all right.”

“You were watching my little passage with Shuusuke?” Mizuki asked, casting a speculative eye on Yuuta. Yuuta blushed. Yes, he knew he always said he didn’t like seeing them fight over him, but…

“I was worried,” he muttered. “I’ve never seen Aniki quite that cold, not even the first time he played you, or the first time he played that little bastard Kirihara. And I know you, you don’t let things go. So I was worried. But you…” he brought their clasped hands to his lips and spoke against them, “you held back.”

“Yes,” Mizuki agreed.

“Why?” Yuuta looked up. Mizuki gave him a sidelong glance under his lashes to go with a crooked smile.

“Do you think I want both Tachibanas baying for my blood?” he asked, dryly. “Just the one is bad enough.”

Yuuta couldn’t suppress a snicker. Mizuki freed his hand to stroke Yuuta’s hair.

“It isn’t for revenge anymore, Yuuta,” he explained, gently. “It isn’t to regain my honor. It’s a game proper now, and it doesn’t do to rush a game, or overextend too soon. Besides,” he kissed Yuuta slow and deep, stealing his breath, “Shuusuke takes care with things that belong to you. So do I.”

Yuuta looked up silently for a moment before winding his fingers through the soft strands of Mizuki’s hair and drawing him down to another kiss.

“Everything I wanted,” he repeated, voice husky.

End

Last Modified: Feb 08, 12
Posted: Aug 26, 04
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6 readers sent Plaudits.

Favors Returned

Companion piece to “Games for Fun”. Set after the US-Japan Senbatsu matches. Yet more gratuitous sex. Porn Without Plot, I-3, anime continuity

Pairing(s): Sanada/Atobe

The end of the matches against the US team left everyone just a bit euphoric, and, in some cases, downright giddy. Keigo had expected that. And, having taken the measure of the players involved, he had known that the showers were likely to be the site of considerable horseplay. Judging by the sound of Echizen not-quite-yelling at Kikumaru, he had been right on target. He congratulated himself on having the foresight to hold off on cleaning up until the others were done.

The fact that Sanada had apparently reached the same conclusions simply proved that fate was smiling on Keigo, as it generally did. Keigo eyed Sanada’s back and smiled with appreciation as Sanada tipped his head back and the spray sleeked down his hair and emphasized the sharp planes of his face.

“Sanada.”

“Hm?” Sanada cast a look over his shoulder, brow raised.

“I recall you saying something, a while back, about returning the favor.” Keigo stretched under the water. “This is a good occasion, wouldn’t you say?”

Sanada turned all the way around and regarded Keigo, head tilted to one side. “Just for my curiosity, what did you do after your match with Tezuka?” he asked, mildly.

Keigo laughed. He did like the sharpness of Sanada’s mind; it made him entertaining, if one could edge around all the dour seriousness to reach the slight streak of playfulness underneath.

“I nearly climbed the walls, actually,” he replied, easily. “It was the first time I’d had a match like that. It’s probably just as well,” he added in a thoughtful tone, “that Tezuka and I live as far apart as we do.”

The implication did not make Sanada blush; that was probably too much to hope for. His eyes did widen just a touch, though, which was almost as good, considering. Keigo’s lips curled, pleased. He was absolutely delighted, however, when Sanada’s eyes narrowed again and gleamed just a bit, and he paced toward Keigo. That hadn’t taken nearly as much provocation as Keigo had expected. He sighed as Sanada’s hands settled on his hips, warm from the heat of the water. He stepped into Sanada’s body and drew a deep, satisfied breath as Genichirou’s hands smoothed up his back.

“I hope that doesn’t mean you object to bringing someone home with you,” Sanada said, softly.

Keigo raised his brows, leaning back a tad to see Sanada’s face. There was a slight smile on it.

“I will admit to a certain temptation, when you’re determined to be annoying, to press you up against the nearest wall just to shut you up,” Sanada told him, quite calmly. “But if we’re speaking of favors, I had something slower in mind.”

Keigo bared his teeth. “As if you could handle me.” He leaned closer, raked his teeth very lightly over Sanada’s earlobe. “Slower, hm? Planning to tease me?” He lowered his voice. “Do you think you can make me beg, Genichirou?”

“No,” Sanada replied, clear and simple.

Keigo blinked, and drew back again to examine him more closely.

“I take care with my partners,” Sanada told him, hands firm and still on Keigo’s back. “It’s no more than a fair return.”

Keigo took a moment to process the fact that Sanada, apparently, did not seek or expect submission from someone he made love to. Considering the mild uproar when it had been the other way around, that was rather unexpected. Keigo shelved a growing suspicion for later thought.

“I’ve had guests before,” was all he said.

“Good.” Sanada had that slight smile again. “Then let me help you finish, here, and we can be going.”

Keigo leaned against Sanada’s body as Sanada’s hands, now slick with soap as well as warm, kneaded down his back. This promised to be… very pleasant. He sighed as a hand slid between his cheeks, moaned softly as Genichirou spread him open and water ran, hot and soothing, over him. When Genichirou’s hand closed around Keigo’s erection and stroked, Keigo kissed him, hard, to muffle his own voice against Sanada’s mouth.

Sanada coaxed him over the edge quickly, and as Keigo rested against him for a moment, panting, he had to wonder just how long Genichirou did plan to draw things out, if he was troubling to take the edge off, now.

“Shall we?” Sanada asked, lips brushing Keigo’s ear.

“I think we shall, yes,” Keigo murmured.


Keigo smiled when Sanada’s arms wrapped around him as soon as he closed the bedroom door, and leaned back into the embrace. He had been a little surprised that Sanada had kept in contact with him pretty much the entire way home: a thumb brushing the inside of his wrist, a palm sliding up his thigh, a finger tracing the lines of his palm. Not that it had been a problem in the back of a chauffeured car, just a little startling from someone who was normally so undemonstrative and contained.

He was starting to doubt Sanada’s assertion that he didn’t intend to tease.

Keigo made an appreciative sound as Genichirou’s lips traced down the side of his neck, and gasped as long fingers rubbed, gently, down his hardening length. So very gentle… He closed his eyes and dropped his head back against Sanada’s shoulder.

“Genichirou…”

“Hm?”

Keigo opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling. “What do you want?”

The lips against his neck quirked. “I would have thought that was reasonably obvious, by now.”

Keigo turned in Sanada’s hold, and wound his fingers through thick, black hair so that he could draw Genichirou’s gaze up to meet his. “Why are you taking this much care?” he demanded. “We’re not exactly friends, we’re only temporarily teammates, and this is more care than pleasure requires. Why are you doing this?”

“Perhaps I want to see what you’re like when you’re disconcerted,” Sanada told him.

Keigo examined him narrowly. It rang true enough, but it wasn’t the whole truth. “And?” he prodded.

“Your ego doesn’t need to hear the rest of it,” Sanada said, firmly.

Keigo didn’t bother to hold back a smirk. He very much doubted he had actually captured Genichirou’s permanent interest, but it was still good to know Genichirou hadn’t escaped entirely. It would do to go on with.

With that in mind, he drew away and started undoing his clothes, precisely, with just a bit of flourish because he couldn’t quite resist. The faint, unwilling, curl at the corners of Genichirou’s mouth egged him on. Keigo tossed the last of his clothing over his reading chair and lay down on the bed, stretching provocatively. He watched Genichirou from under his lashes. Interesting. It wasn’t just Keigo’s body, apparently. Genichirou reacted like any normal person to seeing a body like Keigo’s naked and inviting his touch, but there was still a certain detached amusement in his face as he followed suit and folded his clothes over the back of the chair and approached the bed.

Sanada ran a hand down Keigo’s side, and Keigo decided analysis could wait.

He didn’t try to restrain his sighs and murmurs as Genichirou stroked him, following the lines of his body with open hands. He’d never taken anyone to bed who hadn’t been encouraged by that responsiveness, and Sanada didn’t look like an exception. In fact, his expression caught Keigo’s attention, as he arched up into Genichirou’s body, purring at the fingertips circling against his lower back. The amusement was still there, but the detachment was gone. So, Genichirou liked watching Keigo’s pleasure? Well, Keigo could relate; he had enjoyed watching Genichirou, too. And the results were… delectable.

He relaxed into Genichirou’s hands, savoring the slow touch, sometimes firm enough to soothe taut, tired muscles, and then light enough to entice tight-strung nerves. Keigo moaned, softly, when Sanada’s mouth tracked down the inside of his thigh, licking and then biting, gently. He spread his legs wider as Genichirou’s lips brushed over his erection, but those large hands massaged his hips and thighs lax again.

Keigo enjoyed the slow pace a great deal. It was rare, in his experience, to find someone willing to take the time pleasure deserved, willing to build it gradually, and the corner of his mind still thinking was impressed with Sanada’s patience. But there did come a point where even his hedonism drew the line, and finally he pulled Genichirou down against him, shivering a little at the sleek weight.

“I think,” he said, pulling a leg up to twine around Genichirou’s, “that you would feel very good inside me. Now.”

A chuckle rumbled through the chest pressed to his. “You know, I think I see, now, why you didn’t think that you were asking me to yield,” Sanada remarked, trailing his fingers down the side of Keigo’s neck and then combing them through his hair.

“I’m happy for your enlightenment,” Keigo gasped. “But if you don’t hurry up you’re not going to live long enough to appreciate it, do you understand me, Genichirou?”

Genichirou looked down at him with a tilted smile. “Yes, for once I believe I do understand you, Keigo.”

“Good.” Keigo declared. He fished in the headboard, and waved a small bottle at Genichirou before dropping it beside them.

Genichirou rested his forehead against Keigo’s shoulder and laughed out loud. “So direct about these things,” he said, when he recovered.

“As if you’re not,” Keigo snorted, and then had to bite back a startled breath as Genichirou rolled both of them over pulling Keigo over him. Keigo murmured approval when Genichirou’s hands stroked down his legs, parting them. His attention sharpened when he caught a heavy, sensual anticipation in the normally hard eyes watching him. It was all the warning he needed, and he moaned low in his throat as Genichirou’s fingers pressed against him, seeking entrance. “Don’t hold back on me now, Genichirou,” he whispered.

“With you? I know better,” Genichirou told him.

Keigo’s breath broke into short gasps as Sanada drove two fingers, slowly, into him. He arched his back, pressing into that hard stretch and felt Genichirou’s other hand run up to his neck and tangle in his hair, clenching into a fist before he let go. Keigo looked down at him, seeing the dark eyes turned hot and the stern lips parted. He smiled, slow and pleased.

“Like what you see, Genichirou?” he asked.

“Hmmm.” Genichirou drew his fingers back and thrust down again, smiling in turn at Keigo’s groan. “Like what you feel, Keigo?”

“More,” Keigo demanded.

Teeth showed in Sanada’s smile as his hand smoothed down Keigo’s shoulder, over his chest, thumb pausing to circle a nipple, and Keigo jerked. “Sit back, then.”

Genichirou was having far too much fun playing with Keigo’s responses.

Keigo knelt back, over Genichirou’s hips, and reached behind him, gripping, stroking, guiding Genichirou against him. Genichirou gasped, and bucked up, sharply, which was exactly what Keigo had hoped for. He bit his lip, concentrating on relaxing, and let Genichirou’s own movement drive him into Keigo. Genichirou’s hands closed, hard, over his hips.

“Keigo!”

Keigo breathed deeply against the sudden tight stretch. “If you want to take me slow, Genichirou, I don’t mind in the least. But I won’t be toyed with.”

Sanada’s eyes narrowed. After a long moment, one side of his mouth curled. “Slow it is, then,” he agreed, “without teasing.”

He rocked up to meet Keigo, who let his head fall back with a breathless sound for the hardness filling him. Genichirou’s thumbs stroked the hollows of Keigo’s hips, almost tickling, and Keigo closed his hands around Genichirou’s forearms, feeling the flex of corded muscle as Genichirou guided his hips up and then back, stretching him achingly open with each thrust. It was a slow and steady rhythm, not the advance and retreat that would have been teasing, but an easy, sustained movement and taut fullness. The heat of it flowed through Keigo like a river, a single, strong current, never stopping. Genichirou’s hand closed over Keigo’s cock in the same long, slow rhythm and Keigo had to brace his hands on Genichirou’s chest as pleasure hummed through him, sang down his nerves, hovering.

Genichirou’s gentleness held him in that tingling, drenching warmth for longer than Keigo would have thought possible.

When the end came, it was like a stumble, a trip in that sleek rhythm, and the warm, hovering pleasure turned bright and hard, closing around Keigo like the pressure of deep water, ready to drown him. He felt his muscles tense, strain, as burning sensation dragged through him over and over and over. The waves of it were as slow and deep as Genichirou’s thrusts, and for a suspended moment Keigo wondered if it would ever stop and how long he could bear for it to continue. His throat clenched around a harsh moan.

And then it was fading, and he slumped down over Genichirou, felt Genichirou let him down to the bed. After that drawn-out intensity, it felt very good when Genichirou drove into him harder, faster; it was familiar, relaxing. It shook the trembling out of his muscles. And the release and repletion in Genichirou’s face when he tensed over Keigo, made Keigo smile.

All things considered, he was also fairly impressed.

Eventually, Genichirou stirred against his shoulder. “Towels?” he murmured.

“In there.” Keigo waved a languid hand in the direction of the attached bath.

Genichirou untangled himself and strode bath-wards with, Keigo smirked, only a bit of unsteadiness. He returned with a handful of fluffy cotton, and Keigo purred a little at the touch of the soft cloth.

“You weren’t joking about taking care of your partners, were you?” he commented.

“Of course not.” Genichirou leaned beside him on an elbow, and Keigo gave him a sleepy smile. Genichirou’s mouth softened, and he brushed back Keigo’s hair. “You’re much easier to deal with when you aren’t being insufferably pretentious, you know.”

Keigo sniffed. “You have your management techniques, I have mine,” he said. “I could say as much about you, when you aren’t being uptight and unthinkingly condescending.” It would, he reflected, probably be less annoying if the condescension were deliberate.

Genichirou’s brows rose. “That’s a management technique?”

Keigo eyed him. “Extraordinary talent wishes for an extraordinary personality to focus on. You must know that. If, somehow, you’ve missed it, ask Yukimura some time.”

Sanada’s eyes shadowed, and turned distant. Keigo nodded to himself, sure now of his earlier suspicion. He laid a hand on Sanada’s chest to call him back.

“You’re his lover, aren’t you?” he asked.

Genichirou looked at him for a long moment before thumping over onto his back. “I expect I’ll regret asking,” he said to the ceiling, “but how did you know?”

Keigo chuckled. “I certainly can’t think of anyone else you would submit to so readily that you never questioned it, and yet not expect the same from in return. It shows.”

He was utterly delighted to see a faint blush cross Sanada’s cheekbones.

“Well,” he added, breezily, “I expect Yukimura will be able to break you of those terribly traditional habits of yours sooner or later. I have no doubt you’re accustomed to bending to his will, already.”

The tone of the second sentence was as laden with innuendo as Keigo could manage, and he laughed at the expression on Sanada’s face until Sanada, growling, flipped back over and kissed him quiet. Which had, after all, been much of the point.

The night was young, and it would be a terrible shame to waste a favor.

End

Last Modified: Feb 08, 12
Posted: Aug 30, 04
Name (optional):
anehan and 9 other readers sent Plaudits.

Sunao

Ryouma and Tezuka have a mild clash of wills, over which Ryouma gets rather frustrated. Drama, I-3

Note: This particular story really came out of my personal opinion that the whole affair with Kevin Smith in the anime was rather inconsistent with the way Ryouma and Tezuka normally behave.

Most of the time, Ryouma agreed with Kikumaru-senpai. They could do without the scouts and sponsors crawling all over team practice time. It wasn’t like most of them had any real business with junior high students, no matter how talented. Only an idiot would consider going pro straight out of junior high.

After all, all the really fun competition was still going to be in high school.

And the high school scouts were wasting their time, as far as Ryouma could see. None of his senpai looked likely to give so much as a first thought to choosing high schools until Nationals were over. This one, though, had at least brought along an interesting hook. An example.

The example also seemed to think this would be interesting, going by the way he—Takeuchi, wasn’t it?—was eyeing the Regulars. After considering the third-years, though, his gaze settled on Ryouma.

“That’s right,” he said, as if thoughtfully, “this is the team with the first-year prodigy, isn’t it?”

Ryouma could hear the mocking undertone perfectly well, and stifled a grin. It wasn’t quite time to grin at this one, yet. Not until Ryouma had him on the court. He swung his racquet up to his shoulder, and gave the interloper a Yeah, so? look from under his cap.

“Well, that would make a good place to start, wouldn’t it?” Takeuchi asked, lightly.

“Takeuchi-kun,” the scout started.

“An example, Ishida-san. Isn’t that why I’m here?” Takeuchi cut in, without looking away from Ryouma.

Yep, definitely a first class jerk. Just the kind Ryouma liked taking down, when he stumbled across one. He stepped forward.

“No.”

Ryouma checked, and looked around, sharply. His captain had his arms folded, and a particularly unyielding expression on his face. The visitors both sputtered a bit under that forbidding stare. Ryouma felt like sputtering himself. This was a challenge!

Tezuka-buchou’s eyes turned to meet his, and Ryouma stiffened. There was a clear command in that look, and no compromise whatsoever. But he couldn’t really want Ryouma to back down, could he? Not from this, this—Ryouma could only fall back on his childhood vocabulary—this poser! Could he?

“Buchou…” Ryouma trailed off, leaving the appeal hanging.

Still no hint of persuadability. His captain really was ordering him to back down. After a long, disbelieving moment Ryouma took a deep breath, turned on his heel and stalked away.

“Echizen…” Oishi-senpai started to call out, and then stopped. Perhaps Tezuka-buchou had told him to let Ryouma go. Just as well. Ryouma wouldn’t argue in front of visitors, but he wasn’t much in the mood to be polite to his senpai, right now, either.

He found an out of the way corner and took his frustration out on the wall.

It calmed him down some, but he was still in a bad mood when practice ended. This was not helped when he heard his captain’s voice behind him.

“Echizen.”

“What is it?” Ryouma muttered, paying unnecessary attention to packing his racquets.

“I don’t want you playing Takeuchi outside of school, either, if he challenges you again.”

That got Ryouma to look around, wide-eyed. Tezuka-buchou looked serious. This was just a day for firsts, because his captain had never said anything about who Ryouma played in his off time, any more than he had ever expected Ryouma to stand down from a match. Ryouma wrenched his gaze back to his bag, and bit his lip, but it was more than his self control could take.

“Buchou,” he said, and stopped to take a breath and try to moderate his tone. His captain waited. “Why?” he asked, at last, only a little strained. “Why won’t you let me play him? Do you really think I can’t do it?!” Despite his attempts, he couldn’t keep the edge of indignant incredulity out of his voice.

“I’m sure you can.” The even response pulled Ryouma’s eyes back to his captain. “But that kind of game isn’t good for you to get into the habit of.”

Ryouma blinked at him. That kind of game? What was Tezuka-buchou talking about? Apparently the question got through without needing to be verbalized, because his captain sighed faintly.

“The more widely your skill becomes known the less that kind of match will be an object lesson and the more it will be simple bullying,” Tezuka-buchou pointed out. “Does your game need that?”

Ryouma almost winced under the cool question. He wasn’t… was he? But he couldn’t pretend he didn’t know what his captain was talking about, because he did. “No, Buchou,” he muttered, looking aside. He shouldered his bag with a sigh of his own and turned for the door.

“Echizen.” Tezuka-buchou’s voice stopped him again, and Ryouma looked up, questioning. A question looked back at him, unvoiced because his captain would never ask it out loud, but still present. Would Ryouma do as Tezuka-buchou said? Ryouma’s mouth tightened with irritation, and maybe even a little hurt. Of course he would. He wasn’t about to be gracious about doing something he didn’t want to, or not doing something he did, but he would do it.

Ryouma certainly hoped his captain appreciated this.

Tezuka-buchou nodded, accepting that silent assurance, and let him go.


Ryouma had suggested to Momo that they stop by the park courts, hoping that a good game or two would put him in a better mood. Momo had been obliging and played an all out match with him, much to the gratification of the spectators, and Ryouma was finally shaking out enough of his tension to grin back properly at his friend, when he heard a newly familiar voice from the sidelines.

Takeuchi. Ryouma almost groaned out loud. Was some kami ticked off at him, or something?

“What a wonderful coincidence, Echizen, wasn’t it?” Takeuchi sauntered toward them, and Ryouma spared a spiteful moment to note that Atobe did it better. “Now that your babysitters are gone, how about that match?”

“No,” Ryouma snapped.

“Why not? Surely the prodigy isn’t scared?” Takeuchi wasn’t sneering, and somehow that made it even more offensive.

“I don’t know what discipline is like for your team, Takeuchi-san,” Momo said, hard and quiet, “but our captain forbid any matches with you. That’s all there is to it.”

“Ah, so there is still a babysitter,” Takeuchi said, eyeing Momo. “Well, perhaps another time, then.”

Ryouma breathed deeply, fighting down the urge to send a ball flying for some sensitive body part on the jerk. “Was there anyone else around who wanted to play?” he asked, tightly.

“Yeah, but how about one more round with me, just to calm you down enough that you don’t kill them?” Momo suggested with a wry smile.

Ryouma snorted. “Yeah. Thanks, Momo-senpai.”


The next day, at practice, Ryouma came to where his captain was leaning against the fence and leaned, silently, beside him for a few moments.

“Are you sure?” he asked, at last. “It would be a public service, honest.”

His captain looked down at him, sternly.

“Just asking,” Ryouma sighed, and slouched off again. He paused to look back. “Positive?” he pressed, widening his eyes hopefully. He grinned, feeling slightly more pleased over Tezuka-buchou’s rare expression of exasperation, and stepped off more quickly, before his insolence gained him any laps.

Even getting a rise out of his captain didn’t really help his mood for long, though, and when Momo asked whether he wanted to hit a different street court than the one up by the park, he growled. Momo grinned.

“Now, how did I know you would feel that way?” he teased. Ryouma glared at his friend, but had to admit that he would probably be grateful for Momo’s presence. He had no intention of crossing an actual order, but having his friend around might just keep him from trying to throttle Takeuchi, either.

He had second thoughts about whether this was a good thing when Takeuchi proved to be there ahead of them, tonight.

“And still with the babysitter, Echizen?” he asked with a raised brow. “Or is it a bodyguard? I’m really starting to wonder.”

That got him a glare from both of them.

“Maybe he really thinks you can’t handle me,” Takeuchi prodded.

“Hardly,” a deep voice said, repressively, from behind him.

Ryouma’s eyes widened, as Tezuka-buchou pushed away from the lamp post he’d been leaning quietly against. Takeuchi looked rather startled, too, but recovered quickly enough.

“So, has the captain come to deal with me, instead?” he smiled.

Tezuka-buchou paused, just past him, and spoke without turning. “Neither I nor any of my team will play the likes of you,” he stated, crisply. “Echizen.”

“Buchou?” Ryouma’s good mood was entirely restored.

His captain looked down to meet his gaze. “Come play a match with me.”

Small irritants were completely swallowed in the hot glitter of excitement. “Whatever you say, Buchou,” Ryouma agreed, grinning.

A murmur swept through the watchers, two parts Tezuka-buchou’s name and one part shock. Two players hastily declared their match finished and cleared a court for them. Ryouma took the intensely annoyed look on Takeuchi’s face, tucked it away to treasure later, and forgot about him. Even if he hadn’t been able to focus tightly on his own, Tezuka-buchou’s presence pushed everything else from his awareness when he played his captain.

It was like drowning, if your goal was to live underwater. Exhilarating, infuriating, overwhelming. Still overwhelming. Ryouma could do it, now, could hit shots that his captain couldn’t return. Just not enough. He couldn’t break past that well of stillness yet.

He was getting closer, though, and if this game, too, left him on his knees, he could return his captain’s gaze straight on and read approval there.

As Ryouma sprawled on a bench to catch his breath, he noticed Takeuchi fading back through the buzzing onlookers with a rather shell shocked expression. Ryouma made no effort to suppress his wicked smirk. Momo noticed, too.

“Doubt we’ll have any more problems with him,” he murmured, sounding deeply satisfied.

“Mm.” That reminded Ryouma, actually. He slipped around the corner of the courts, to where Tezuka-buchou was just slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Buchou?” he said, softly.

His captain glanced at him with a raised brow. Ryouma glanced down.

“Thank you,” he mumbled.

Tezuka-buchou was still for a moment, watching him. And then he nodded, and moved off, a hand resting on Ryouma’s shoulder in passing. Ryouma watched him go before shoving his hands in his pockets and turning back to find Momo.

End

Last Modified: Oct 17, 09
Posted: Sep 15, 04
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Shinpai

Tezuka observes one of Ryouma’s matches. Drama, I-2

Kunimitsu stood in the shade above a tennis court, and watched Echizen Ryouma play Rikkai’s captain, Kirihara. He was not the only spectator standing discreetly back. Sanada was here also, not too far off, come, as he had, to watch last year’s teammate play.

The two players being who they were, the match proceeded to the accompaniment of taunts and verbal jabs, smug grins and determined glares according to who had scored the last point. Kunimitsu was moderately amused by Sanada’s expression of exasperation over, presumably, his protege’s manners or lack thereof; it wasn’t as though Sanada had a great deal of room to talk on that subject. Not when he was wound up in a game, himself.

And Echizen certainly didn’t seem to mind. Quite the contrary, he and Kirihara appeared to be getting almost as much fun out of provoking each other as they did from the game itself. It didn’t distract either of them from their play, which was all Kunimitsu had ever concerned himself with. That and making sure Echizen had challenges enough to occupy him. He knew people had wondered, sometimes, about how hard he seemed to push Echizen, but he’d never seen it in that light. If it seemed that he placed insanely high bars in front of his best player, he did it with the sure knowledge that Echizen would go off in search of a cliff if left to his own devices. It was something they shared, that hunger to exceed, to exercise all abilities to the utmost. Echizen was the only person Kunimitsu had met, thus far, who he was positive could go just as fast and far as Kunimitsu himself. Except that Echizen would do it with a wicked smile, and brilliant eyes, and a companionable taunt on his lips.

A look like the one he was giving Kirihara, who had just put a drive past him.

Echizen was considerably more flamboyant then Kunimitsu. A year’s passing had done nothing to change that, and Kunimitsu thought it probable that nothing ever would. Watching, now, as Echizen and Kirihara bared their teeth at each other across the court, he thought Echizen would never employ the mantle of quiet that Kunimitsu used in his own game. But, then, Echizen’s profligacy made his intensity none the less.

That was, in fact, one of the things that drew Kunimitsu, and had from the start. It was almost a relief to him to watch it. Kunimitsu was very good at maneuver and manipulation, but it was of necessity. After helping his mother manage his father and grandfather, and their continuous sniping, steering his team and opponents presented only modest difficulties. So he was good at maneuver and manipulation, yes, but those were not what truly came most easily to him. For all that he enjoyed the elegance of understatement in his game, it was eagerness for the bright, sharp edge of confrontation that drove him. He saw the same thing, all unmoderated, in Echizen. The way Echizen threw himself into any match that looked like a good challenge reminded him irresistibly of the way he’d seen birds of prey throw themselves into the air—the same arrogance of absolute commitment. Echizen hid nothing. It was not truly strange to him, that Echizen was so open, almost confiding, with his best opponents. Kunimitsu was a little the same way with the best of his, the only people he could show so much to, and it pleased him that Echizen himself was becoming one of those.

On the court below, Echizen had won. Kunimitsu smiled to himself, and Echizen turned and looked directly at him, just in time to catch it, as if he’d known Kunimitsu was there all along. Echizen raised his chin and traded back a sharper grin. The edge of it tilted, and he tipped his head at the court, as if inviting Kunimitsu to come down and give him a real match. Kunimitsu narrowed his eyes, and flicked his fingers to send Echizen to the net where his opponent was waiting without much patience at all.

Echizen tucked his chin down and went, with a jaunty air, and Kunimitsu let himself smile again, just slightly, at his back.

End

Last Modified: Sep 03, 07
Posted: Sep 19, 04
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Motto

Ryouma drags Tezuka off for an unofficial match. Drama, I-3

When the doorbell rang, Kunimitsu knew exactly who it was. He couldn’t have said how he knew, because he categorically refused to believe that an inanimate object such as a doorbell was capable of ringing in a cocky tone just because of who was pressing it. But the information got through somehow.

He wasn’t particularly surprised.

He had been a bit surprised the first time Echizen Ryouma had appeared on his doorstep, at the start of Kunimitsu’s first year of high school. By this, the middle of his second year, it was nearly routine. It had made perfect sense as soon as he stopped to think about it, of course. Fuji had been chuckling a few weeks after Echizen’s first visit to Kunimitsu, about Echizen’s tenacity and ability to hold a grudge, but Kunimitsu knew that wasn’t the main reason. He had come to the two of them in particular because there was no one left in Seigaku’s junior high that Echizen could keep advancing against. He was not, Kunimitsu thought, particularly fixated on himself or Fuji. If Kunimitsu had permitted it, he would probably have gone up to Kanagawa every weekend to provoke Sanada or Yukimura and spent vacations in Kansai badgering Chitose.

Each time the thought occurred to him, Kunimitsu spared a moment to be grateful Echizen had allowed himself to be restrained from doing so. Most of the time. And if the cost was working with Echizen himself, it was one Kunimitsu was pleased to pay.

Most of the time.

“Echizen,” he said, opening the front door, “it’s eight in the morning on a Sunday.”

Echizen withstood his glare calmly. “I know. But I needed to know whether you were busy today, so I can be in time for the bus to Kanagawa if you are. And you always get up early.”

Kunimitsu refrained from pointing out that Echizen knew this only because of his bad habit of showing up so early. It was hard to keep the glare from turning into a glower, but he managed. Kunimitsu had long ago realized that Echizen derived some sort of satisfaction from provoking unguarded expressions, both verbal and non-verbal, out of him. If nothing else, a match between them had the benefit of redirecting Echizen’s attention to less trivial matters. Sometimes Kunimitsu thought that was the entire point of the provocation. Other times he just thought Echizen had spent too much time in Fuji’s company.

“Have you eaten breakfast yet?” he asked, suppressing a sigh.

Echizen shrugged. “Not really.”

Kunimitsu eyed his visitor, taken with the ignoble impulse to make Echizen sit through breakfast with the Tezuka family in revenge for being visited so early. Judging by Echizen’s expression of trepidation, though, the possibility had already occurred to him. The threat was as good as the reality, as far as making Echizen call at a more reasonable hour for the next couple months, so Kunimitsu didn’t pause too very long after gesturing Echizen inside.

“I’ll just get my bag, then. There’s a fairly good pastry shop down the road.” He restrained a chuckle as Echizen’s shoulders slumped just a bit with relief, and he followed Kunimitsu up the stairs with commendable discretion.

And he had to admit, as they walked down the street, Echizen had chosen a very pleasant morning to drag him out into. Kunimitsu enjoyed early mornings, when he had a reason to be out in them, and at this hour on a Sunday they had the shop more or less to themselves. Because it was Echizen, he did indulge himself in the minor revenge of eyeing the boy’s choice of beverages until he sighed and got extra milk.

“Are we even, now?” Echizen asked, with a rather amused look.

Kunimitsu didn’t dignify that with a reply. If he ever admitted out loud that he lowered himself to sparring with Echizen over these tiny barbs, he’d never get the moral high ground back again, and he would need it next year. “How have you been doing against Sanada, these days?” he asked, instead.

Echizen shrugged one shoulder. “It goes back and forth. He won last time.”

Hence Echizen’s willingness to let Kunimitsu be busy if he wished, and head up to Kanagawa instead.

“It’s Yukimura-san I have a harder time with,” Echizen continued. “Of course, he won’t play me as often.”

“He has his own to take care of,” Kunimitsu pointed out.

Echizen looked at him for a long moment before directing a tiny smile down at his remaining buns. “Yeah. I know,” he said, quietly.

“I hope so,” Kunimitsu returned, just as softly, reminding Echizen of his own responsibilities as captain, this year.

“Yes, Buchou, that too,” Echizen agreed, smile a bit crooked now. Kunimitsu knew that Echizen had not been best pleased to be stuck as captain. Too bad. He needed the experience, and Seigaku’s junior high team needed the best available. That was Echizen, and they both knew it. Kunimitsu didn’t believe for one moment that Echizen called him captain, still, out of any failure of self-confidence.

The private little smirk as Echizen polished off the last bun and they rose to go was proof enough of that.

“Do you have something new for me, today?” Kunimitsu hazarded, as they walked. For a moment he thought Echizen was going to be coy about it, but then he grinned.

“Something. I was hoping to work on it with Sanada-san a little more, but since I have you today…”

Kunimitsu smoothed the smile that wanted to answer Echizen’s sparkling glance into mild approbation. He wondered, as he often did of late, if this would be the day. Echizen was closing on him. Their games were getting closer. But Echizen wasn’t the only one striving to progress as fast as possible, and he had yet to win against Kunimitsu. Their competition would gain a definite edge once he did; Kunimitsu was looking forward to it.

Even as they stood, now, a match with Echizen demanded all of his strength to win. As Echizen served, Kunimitsu abandoned his usual responsible and dignified reserve for the raw ferocity of focus that blanked out any expression but that of the ball against the racquet. Echizen answered with the glee that was so much his signature on the court. Kunimitsu had long since given up on instilling any kind of decorum in him.

It was just possible, though, that his emphasis on greater subtlety had finally begun to pay off. In the third game, Echizen broke free from the Zone. Not by powering through it, which he had tried some time ago and given up as useless in the long run, but with an extremely finely judged return that cancelled all spin. Tezuka missed the ball by centimeters. Echizen’s teeth were bared in a smile of satisfaction. The look Kunimitsu gave him back had not trace of a smile in it, but Echizen looked perfectly pleased with the simple acknowledgement that Kunimitsu gave him.

Echizen did not win their match, but it was close. It would be soon.

Echizen still looked rather disgruntled, as they fished out water and sat, recovering their breaths.

“I trust this won’t discourage you from the subtle approach altogether,” Kunimitsu remarked.

For a moment, Echizen looked like he was about to say it had. Then he grinned and shrugged, apparently calmed enough to leave off baiting for the time being. “I’m going to pass you. I’ll find whatever it takes,” he said.

That won a faint smile. Echizen’s determination was one of the things that made Kunimitsu enjoy these matches enough to tolerate his protege’s apparent hobby of getting under Kunimitsu’s reserve.

“Come,” he directed, rising. “We have time for another match, before lunch.”

Echizen brightened, his eyes turning fierce enough to spark a tingle through Kunimitsu’s blood.

It would be soon.

End

Last Modified: Sep 03, 07
Posted: Sep 23, 04
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Kakugo

Ryouma catches up to his senpai, and takes advantage of his second time around with Tezuka as his captain. This time with, perhaps, a few more insights than last time. Drama, I-3

As soon as Ryouma came within range of the crowd noise that enveloped the high school tennis courts he started praying that his captain had a lineup for the ranking matches that would make the day, in some way, less annoying. He counted three professional grade cameras before he managed to sidle past the last shrill clump of fangirls to reach the board. He blinked a few times, as he scanned it, and pursed his lips in a silent whistle.

The good news was that he and Tezuka-buchou were in the same block. The bad news was that most of the players Ryouma knew to be weaker were also in that block. Glancing up at the person who came up behind him, Ryouma cocked his head.

“Stacking the deck, Buchou?” he asked.

“It’s the captain’s job to balance the blocks in whatever way will give us the strongest team,” Tezuka-buchou pointed out.

“I noticed. Are we really that hard up in doubles, though?” Ryouma asked. His only answer was an even look, but he caught a glint of approval there, too, that he had interpreted the lineup correctly.

It was more or less a given that Kikumaru-senpai and Oishi-senpai were separated. But this time, all the potential doubles pairs were separated. Fuji-senpai from Kikumaru-senpai. Inui-senpai from Kaidou-senpai. Kaidou-senpai from Momo-senpai. Momo from both Oishi and Kikumaru. And then, after taking this precaution, then Tezuka-buchou had thrown all the better players the club had to offer against them.

Leaving, Ryouma was still rather disgruntled to note, the worst players in A block with he and the captain, where none of them would interfere with whatever would be hashed out in the other blocks. He sighed.

“Both Hyoutei and Rikkai have all their strongest doubles pairs in play this year,” Tezuka-buchou commented.

“I know,” Ryouma shot a grin over his shoulder. “I know what the job is, Buchou; though I’m glad you’re stuck with it, this year. Guess I’ll live with being bored this time around.”

“Not,” his captain said, with a sharper glint in his eye this time, “for long.”

The grin got wider. “Whatever you say, Buchou,” Ryouma agreed, and strolled toward the far court and his first match with a bounce in his step. The promise of a serious match against his captain could make up for a lot of boredom.

He was clinging to that thought two days later, and couldn’t quite suppress a sigh of relief when he finished off his last mandatory opponent. Finally. A quick look around showed that he hadn’t been the only one looking forward to this. Just about the entire club was drifting, as if casually, toward B court. Ryouma snorted.

“So,” he said, as he and Tezuka-buchou met at the net, “is it okay to beat the captain?”

One of his captain’s brows gained an ironic arch at this echo of their very first matches. “If you can,” he answered, coolly.

Ryouma certainly tried. Perhaps, though, their audience lent even Tezuka-buchou an extra edge of determination not to lose. Despite every trick Ryouma had learned in two years of playing against him, Ryouma couldn’t pull ahead enough to win. In the end, Tezuka-buchou took the match 7-6; Ryouma heard Ryuuzaki-sensei’s voice in his head grumbling about bone-headed boys and the ridiculousness of a ranking match going to tie-break. A quick glance at the sidelines, and her expression, told him that was probably exactly what she was really doing. Ryouma ignored that, as he thumped down on a bench beside his captain and accepted a towel with a breathless nod.

He also ignored the storm of whispers and exclamations from the rest of the club, and even the Regulars, except for Momo and Fuji-senpai who both looked amused each in his own way. It couldn’t really be that much of a surprise, that he had caught up to Tezuka-buchou, could it? He sniffed, imagining what would happen the first time he actually did win. He’d only managed it twice so far, to be sure, but hitting a moving target was most of the fun.

It was harder to ignore when Kikumaru-senpai pounced on him at the end of practice, while everyone was changing.

“Looks like you’re growing up, Ochibi!” Kikumaru-senpai told him with a grin, ruffling his hair.

“Kikumaru-senpai,” Ryouma said, with a long-suffering look, “I’m the same height you are, now.”

“Can’t be!” Kikumaru declared, looking him up and down with wide eyes. “Inui, he isn’t really, right?”

“Yes, in fact, he is,” Inui-senpai answered, very calmly.

Ryouma gave him a dirty look. He knew, and he knew Inui-senpai knew, that refusing to take part in Kikumaru-senpai’s enthusiasm just inspired him to greater heights to compensate. Sure enough, Kikumaru demanded that their heights be compared right then and there, which involved a certain amount of admonition from Oishi-senpai to be fair and stand with his heels flat to the floor, while Inui watched with a wicked quirk to his mouth.

“Exactly the same height,” Oishi-senpai reported, at last.

“But that means he’s gotten taller than Fuji!” Kikumaru-senpai protested.

“Fuji-senpai’s little brother has been taller than him for years,” Ryouma pointed out, finishing changing. “I doubt he minds.”

Before the glint in Fuji’s eye could materialize into anything unfortunate, Ryouma cast an appealing glance at Momo and made his escape under cover of his senpai’s farewells. Momo was laughing as he caught up.

“I almost forgot how much you liven the team up, Echizen,” he chuckled.

Ryouma snorted and didn’t mention that he was glad to be back with his proper team. Momo-senpai’s smile said he knew already.


The first round of ranking matches looked likely to set the tone for the whole season, Ryouma quickly decided. Stretches of boredom broken here and there with matches good enough to be worth it. Fudoumine was the carrot of the district preliminaries, and Ryouma had a good match against Shinji-san, his most common opponent from Fudoumine. Shinji-san must have thought so, too; he didn’t slip into any side commentary on their games the entire time. Ryouma was hoping to find some decent action sometime before the very end of Prefecturals, too.

At least, he was until he happened to get a look at Ryuuzaki-sensei’s clipboard full of lineups.

He and Tezuka-buchou were taking Singles One or Two for every match.

He wasn’t even going to get to play until the quarterfinals at this rate!

Ryouma spent the weekend in tight lipped silence. He didn’t trust himself not to snap if he did say anything. He’d never lost his temper in public, and he wasn’t going to now. Momo looked a bit concerned, but let him have his space and nudged the rest of the team away from him. Ryouma was grateful for that.

He watched how the rest of the lineups worked out, hoping to see what reason his captain or coach could have for arranging things like this. It took a while to spot, but eventually he decided it wasn’t about any one slot. It was about one player. The only one who played in every single match was Fuji-senpai. He was most often in Singles Three. Wherever he was, though, he always played.

Finally, Ryouma took the opportunity, as they watched Fuji-senpai sounding out yet another opponent, to approach Tezuka-buchou when he was a little apart from the rest of the team. After a few more minutes of watching quietly, Ryouma spoke.

“Buchou, why are you still trying to draw Fuji-senpai out this late?”

His captain shot him an expressionless, sideways glance that gave nothing away. Which was, of course, a dead give-away to anyone who had put in the kind of time Ryouma had watching the tiny cues of Tezuka-buchou’s reactions.

“He won’t be going on in tennis, after this year, will he?” Ryouma asked.

“He won’t,” his captain agreed.

“Then why?” Ryouma persisted. This time, Tezuka-buchou looked at him more directly, and Ryouma gave the look back. If he was getting cut out of the games because of this, he thought he had a right to know the reason behind it. Tezuka-buchou didn’t do things this drastic without a good reason.

If the reason really was purely to test Ryouma’s self-control, he was probably going to fail right here and now; but he didn’t think that was it.

“While he is still a member of my team, I will do my best to call out the best game he can possibly play,” Tezuka-buchou answered, tone unyielding.

Ryouma waited, watching his face; not with challenge, now, but with a silent appeal to the trust between his captain and this member of his team. Tezuka-buchou sighed, very faintly, and looked out over the court where Fuji had decided to wrap things up briskly.

“The things you learn on the court—do they apply only to the game of tennis?” he asked.

The first thing that flashed through Ryouma’s mind was a series of encounters, some successful and some disastrous, with other sports. But then other things recalled themselves to him. Where he had gotten the discipline to keep countenance when he moved and had to deal with the shock of a whole new world. Where he had learned cooperation of any kind. Where he had learned the genuine pride in himself that let him choose his path without fear of anyone’s shadow. He lowered his head a bit, glancing aside toward the court.

“He is toying with them less and less,” he noted, as a roundabout peace offering.

Tezuka-buchou’s eyes were gentler as he looked back at Ryouma. “Yes,” he said. If Ryouma had had to guess, he would have bet that it was relief hidden behind the Captain’s Face, this time.

They stood in companionable quiet as the results of the match were called.


“I’m starving,” Momo declared as they all packed up for the day. “Anyone else want to grab some food?”

Ryouma tossed an Of course grin over his shoulder.

“That could be good,” Kikumaru-senpai decided. “Oishi?”

Oishi-senpai looked up from his bag with a regretful smile. “I have some extra studying I have to get done tonight.”

“You’re always doing extra studying, lately. You’re getting test anxiety way to early!” Kikumaru admonished. “I haven’t started studying for exams. Fuji hasn’t, right?” He waved at Fuji-senpai, who agreed, looking amused. “Tezuka hasn’t either!”

Tezuka-buchou glanced up from the papers he was making quick notes on. “Our schedules are arranged so that we have time to concentrate on Nationals now, and exams after that,” he observed. “But Oishi’s exams are more intensive than the usual.”

Ryouma’s head came up as Kikumaru sighed and leaned on his partner’s shoulder, offering to come make some food while he studied so he would eat something. The tone of “our schedules” had caught his ear.

“Buchou?” he asked, trying to stifle his alarm.

Tezuka-buchou seemed to spot it anyway, from the long, level look he gave Ryouma. “College,” he confirmed, and then added, “first.”

Ryouma started breathing again. The horrifying thought that this might be the last year he could play Tezuka-buchou receded, and he relaxed and finished packing. He also muttered, very quietly to himself, about bad senpai who thought it was fun to scare him like that.

Fuji-senpai agreed to come along for a bite, and the three of them headed off. Ryouma was still rather glum, contemplating the fact that one of his best targets was now going to be behind him rather than in front of him, where he could aim properly. Momo elbowed him.

“What are you sulking about, Echizen? You’ve already won against Tezuka-buchou, haven’t you? I thought we’d have to sweep people’s jaws up, along with the tennis balls, that day.”

Ryouma shrugged, impatiently. “He’ll just win next time, though. I’m not ahead of him, yet.”

“So, what’s to stop you from nagging the poor guy for matches while he’s in college?” Momo asked with a wry smile.

Ryouma’s mood brightened, at that. Maybe Tezuka-buchou wouldn’t mind; just every now and then…

Fuji was laughing. “It’s good to know you’ll be doing something you enjoy so much, Echizen,” he said.

Ryouma glanced sidelong at Fuji-senpai, hesitating. “Will you be, too?” he asked, finally.

“Yes. I will.” Fuji-senpai smiled at him, more reassuring than his usual smile, and Ryouma ducked his head, satisfied. He chewed on his lip for a moment before asking the next question.

“Will he?” Ryouma glanced back the way they had come.

After a thoughtful moment, Fuji nodded. “Yes, I think he will, too.” And then his mouth curled up.

“Moreso after he graduates and catches you up again, of course.”

End

Last Modified: Feb 08, 12
Posted: Sep 25, 04
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Yaru, Part One

During Tezuka’s first year of college, and Ryouma’s second year of high school, Ryouma tracks Tezuka down again and they edge into a relationship not based on the tennis club. Drama With Romance, I-4

Kunimitsu remembered that it had taken less than a month from the time he started high school to the day Echizen Ryouma had come to find him. He was not, therefore, entirely surprised to see Echizen now, not quite two months into Kunimitsu’s university studies. Echizen’s expression also bore a remarkable resemblance to the one he had worn on the previous occasion—a flash of uncertainty muffled under sardonic indifference.

What was odd was that Echizen had sought him out in this place.

Kunimitsu favored this particular outcropping because it was a bit off the main walking trails. After a pleasant, if thoroughly untaxing, walk up, it was nice to appreciate the view somewhere apart from the chattering families and shouting children. Someone had to have told Echizen how to find it, and as soon as Kunimitsu found out that it had been Fuji he was going to have some words with his friend. He preferred not to be disturbed, up here.

“Echizen,” he said, neither welcoming nor rejecting.

Echizen had gotten fairly adept at reading him, over the years, and Kunimitsu was sure he understood the nuance. After a moment of hesitation, though, Echizen picked his way through the underbrush to the span of smooth, sunny rock where Kunimitsu sat and perched beside him. Kunimitsu contemplated his body language. Echizen was slightly less than arm’s length away, arms wrapped around drawn up knees, chin tucked down. He wasn’t looking at Kunimitsu at all. Kunimitsu didn’t think he’d ever seen Echizen telegraph uncertainty so strongly.

“Do you like the view of the city from up here?” he asked, quietly, fishing for the reason Echizen had come to him here.

Echizen looked out, as if he’d just noticed the panorama in front of them. Eventually he nodded. “It’s a lot quieter,” he remarked.

Which was certainly true, if not especially informative. Kunimitsu didn’t think he’d get any better results if he asked, outright, why Echizen was here, though. He decided to wait, and see if silence would draw an answer out.

As silence settled over them, though, filled with the distant hum of the city, and the low shush of wind through the trees, and the sharper rustle of squirrels chasing each other overhead, he noticed that Echizen’s tension seemed to be receding. His arms loosened, and folded on top of his knees. He leaned forward to rest his chin on them with a sigh. His eyes drifted half closed. It was actually very relaxing just to watch.

When Kunimitsu stood, at last, to go, Echizen looked up at him.

“Thanks,” he said.

Kunimitsu nodded a silent You’re welcome, though he still wasn’t at all sure what for. He wondered, as he started back down the trail, whether he would ever find out.


Echizen found him at the same place again the next week, and again the week after that. Clearly, Fuji had also mentioned Kunimitsu’s schedule, which was an unusual amount of information from someone who professed not to have the faintest idea what Echizen had wanted it for. Kunimitsu made a note to have another word with Fuji and see if he could drag whatever his friend suspected out of him. Echizen certainly showed no signs of letting on. Each week he arrived a little after Kunimitsu, and came silently to sit beside him, and didn’t say a word unless Kunimitsu asked him something. Despite the continuing itch of curiosity, his presence was restful.

Normally that only happened after they had played a particularly hard match against each other.

By the end of the first month, in spite of Fuji’s annoyingly steadfast refusal to speculate on why Echizen came to find his erstwhile captain, at the top of a modest cliff overlooking the city, every week, Kunimitsu thought he might have begun to understand. The clue came to him when he realized that he was finding it relaxing to watch Echizen’s edginess soften, each visit.

Echizen’s tension lessened when he was with Kunimitsu.

Which seemed to indicate that he was under quite a bit of it, Kunimitsu reflected, watching Echizen lean back on his hands to look up at the quarreling sparrows. He had pressed Echizen to do and be many things, over the past four years, but at ease was not one of them. Kunimitsu faced a dilemma, if he wanted any more of the particulars, though. Echizen was nobody’s fool, and, if Kunimitsu asked more pointed questions about sources of stress in his life, would understand that Kunimitsu had noticed both the tension and its easing.

And then Kunimitsu would be obligated to either accept Echizen’s presence, and his reliance on Kunimitsu, or object to it. To date, he had avoided doing either.

Kunimitsu sighed, silently. When he had been Echizen’s captain, reliance had been reasonable. Team members relied on each other, and the captain carried an extra share; that was simply part of the position. Kunimitsu had accepted the responsibility, and, in fact, passed it on to Echizen to good effect. Now, though…

Kunimitsu had chosen to go all the way through college before he entered pro tennis. He had no doubt that Echizen would chose to go professional after high school. He was sure they would meet again, professionally, but their paths had diverged. Was it good for Echizen to still follow him so closely?

Unfortunately, perhaps, Kunimitsu chose that moment in his reflections to look again at Echizen’s eyes. They were bright and peaceful, a distinct contrast to their tightness a few weeks ago. Kunimitsu knew that he wasn’t going to deny Echizen that peace without a more significant reason. He had never been particularly good at leaving Echizen to his own devices. Ryuuzaki-sensei had teased him about it. On the bright side, he supposed, that did mean that he was free to press Echizen for details. Prime suspects first, since he knew Echizen, while a good student, did not have the kind of effortless time of his classes that Kunimitsu or Fuji did.

“How has your second year been so far?” he asked.

Echizen looked at him sidelong. “School’s been fine,” he said, eventually.

Kunimitsu gave Echizen his sternest look, the one he had learned from his grandfather. If Echizen knew what Kunimitsu wanted to find out, he wasn’t about to play twenty questions with the boy. Mischievous amusement flashed across Echizen’s face before it faded away, and he looked down at the ground.

“It’s calm, here,” he muttered.

Kunimitsu raised a brow. “Just here?” he asked. Meaning, not anywhere else in Echizen’s life right now?

Echizen nodded. Kunimitsu sighed out loud, this time. Specific problems were so much easier to deal with. There was nothing to be done about something this general; nothing but wait for Echizen to work it out on his own. Kunimitsu didn’t doubt that he would; Echizen wasn’t the sort to stand still and be run over. It was one of the things Kunimitsu had always appreciated about him. And if Echizen needed that little extra bit of familiarity and stability, while he worked on it, Kunimitsu supposed it was acceptable for him to provide it.

Echizen was watching Kunimitsu from the corner of his eye.

“It’s good to have someplace like that,” Kunimitsu allowed. He was hard pressed to suppress a smile when Echizen blew out a quiet breath and relaxed again. He didn’t think he had ever known anyone as artlessly expressive as Echizen was once he let his shell drop. It had always amused him that Echizen opened up faster to his opponents than to anyone else, and that the only reason Echizen had been so free within his team was that each of his teammates could also give him a hard time in competition.

Altogether, perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised that it was he Echizen had sought out.


Kunimitsu had expected Echizen to become a bit more talkative, now that he knew his presence was accepted. But he was as silent as ever, seeming perfectly content to pass each Tuesday evening without exchanging a single word. In retrospect, Kunimitsu did recall that Echizen had always been fairly reticent, off the courts. It was just that his unbridled insolence and provocations on the court tended to overshadow the fact.

He also found that Echizen was visiting their outcropping even when Kunimitsu wasn’t there. While Tuesday was the one day of the week Kunimitsu was assured of having enough time free to take the bus, walk up and still have long enough to just sit for a while, he did try to get out for a decent walk someplace besides the city parks a few times a week. This trail was his favorite, when he thought he’d have time, and Echizen seemed to have taken to it also, to judge from the several occasions Kunimitsu found Echizen there before him on odd days, sprawled on his stomach so that he could look over the drop-off. When that happened, Echizen only looked over his shoulder and smiled before setting his chin back on his crossed arms.

That expanse of weather-smoothed stone became a shared place without Kunimitsu being able to pin down just when it happened. By the middle of summer, though, he knew this to be the case, and so it was simply courtesy that led him to speak.

“I won’t be here, next week. I’m leaving a bit early to get to some of the trails further out from the city.”

He had rather expected Echizen to make a face, or otherwise indicate his disgruntlement. He did not expect the abrupt and seamless blankness that accompanied Echizen’s nod of acknowledgement. Perhaps it was his surprise at an expression so alien to Echizen’s manner that prompted him to say what he did next.

“You can come along, if you’d like.”

Echizen’s eyes lightened, as he blinked at Kunimitsu, and Kunimitsu found himself relaxing to see the opaqueness replaced by faint surprise.

“It would be all right?” Echizen asked.

Kunimitsu reflected that he hadn’t realized just how for granted he had come to take Echizen’s openness, with him. It would bear some thought, whether he should let himself rest against it to the extent his own reaction indicated he did. For now, though, he had made the invitation, and could hardly withdraw it.

“Yes,” he answered.

Echizen nodded. “I’d like to come.”

Kunimitsu told him the time the bus would leave, and wondered whether it was deliberate, this talent Echizen had for getting people to act outside their usual parameters.

TBC

Last Modified: Oct 06, 07
Posted: Sep 26, 04
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Yaru, Part Two

Ryouma comes to terms rather abruptly with the reason he’s clinging to Tezuka. Drama with Romance, I-3

Ryouma glanced up at his companion, and then back down at where his feet were going.

At first, it had been a matter of chance, really. Ryouma had missed his captain’s presence, which always made it easier to be calm. And, when Fuji-senpai had shown up to watch his brother’s match against Ryouma at the district preliminaries, Ryouma had been reminded and asked, in passing, how Tezuka-san was. Fuji-senpai had cocked his head and given Ryouma a long look.

And then he’d told Ryouma to go find out for himself, and given him quite specific directions on how to do so.

When he’d seen Tezuka-san, sitting at the edge of that overlook, Ryouma been startled at the wave of relief he felt. It had reminded him of his first year of junior high, and how he’d felt when his captain had returned to the team. Which was strange, considering that Tezuka-san wasn’t his captain anymore and certainly hadn’t returned. Quite the contrary.

Dissecting his own reaction had helped distract Ryouma from the reaction itself. Ryouma knew perfectly well that he had always depended on his captain, for a challenge, for an example, for a little peace in all the craziness. He had just thought he’d done a better job convincing himself that he had to stop, now they were on different tracks.

Apparently not.

Apparently, the craziness now consisted mostly of Tezuka-san’s absence. Ryouma had never been much for denial, so, having reached this conclusion, he had chosen to keep visiting unless and until Tezuka-san indicated he wasn’t welcome. He had been a little surprised that Tezuka-san hadn’t done so yet, not even after he seemed to realize why Ryouma was there. Ryouma had been even more surprised when Tezuka-san invited him along on a trip that fell on Visiting Day. Not that his surprise had kept him from accepting.

All of which had led him to here, hiking up the side of a mountain. A fairly gentle mountain, of course, this was no hanging-from-ledges affair. Though, Ryouma reflected, that could be fun, too, at some point. Still, he had to keep his mind on what he was doing if he didn’t want to take a spill. Which he had no intention of doing, especially in front of Tezuka-san. Ryouma took some pride in being able to pick up new skills quickly, and had every intention of becoming competent enough to justify being invited along next time, too. So he kept an eye on where Tezuka-san was placing his feet, and how he shifted his weight to keep his balance on the slope.

There was something rather soothing about the activity, actually. Unlike the vast majority of athletics Ryouma had undertaken, there was no real competition, here. He was pretty sure that a huge chunk of rock covered in trees had no interest in defeating him; it was just there. The challenge, here, was… himself.

Maybe that was why Tezuka-san liked it.

This did not, of course, stop him from glaring at Tezuka-san’s back, when he crossed a washed out bit of the trail with one long step. Just because Ryouma accepted the fact that he would always be fairly small and compact did not mean he appreciated it when tall people flaunted their extra centimeters. When Tezuka-san paused and looked back, though, as if to offer his shorter companion a hand over if it was needed, Ryouma merely cranked up the glare a few notches and sprang over on his own.

Taking comfort from Tezuka-san’s presence was one thing. Accepting help for something like this was completely different.

The lightening of Tezuka-san’s eyes said that he probably knew just what Ryouma was thinking. Ryouma raised his chin and smirked back. He was pleased when this won a curl at the corner of Tezuka-san’s mouth, before Tezuka-san turned back to the trail.

When they finally came out of the trees, it was almost a shock. Ryouma thought that, if he took another few strides, he might step into the sky. It must be absolutely incredible at night.

He didn’t realize that he had said that last out loud until Tezuka-san turned to look at him, brows slightly arched.

“Yes, it is,” he confirmed, quietly.

Ryouma turned back to the sweep of blue and air over them, and breathed out a soft sigh. He wondered if he could possibly manage to come up here at night, some time, and see it. He remembered seeing the night sky through thin air, a few times, away from city lights. Personally, he thought Japanese schools won, hands down, when it came to field trips, but he’d been on a few good ones back before they’d moved, too.

Ryouma tipped his head back to follow the path of the sunlight across the sky until he swayed and Tezuka-san touched his shoulder to steady him.


When Fuji-senpai turned up at the next Seigaku match, Ryouma didn’t think it was quite as coincidental as the last time. It didn’t soothe his suspicion at all when Fuji fell in beside him, as the team was leaving.

“Good game,” he complimented Ryouma.

“Thanks,” Ryouma told him, a little warily.

“Your play has come back on-center again, I was glad to see. You seemed a little distracted earlier in the year.”

Ryouma made a noncommittal noise, and took a sip of water; he knew what Fuji-senpai was talking about. He was also glad that irritating, prickly, talking-to-himself babble inside his head had faded. It wasn’t as thought he had ever been able to tell what was wrong.

Fuji-senpai smiled at him, affectionately. “Who would have thought your little crush on Tezuka would last this long, or affect you so much.”

Ryouma nearly inhaled a mouthful of water. “My what?” he choked.

Fuji-senpai chuckled at him. “Did you really think no one noticed?” he asked.

“I’m not… it isn’t… what…” Ryouma bit back further sputtering, and took a very deep breath. It didn’t help all that much. Fuji-senpai was watching him narrowly, and finally made a surprised sound, brows arched.

“You didn’t realize it? Well, there’s one over on me,” he said, cheerfully. “I thought you had.”

Ryouma pressed his lips together and stalked on, trying to ignore Fuji’s presence beside him. He did not have a crush on his captain. Ex-captain. On Tezuka-san. He respected Tezuka-san, of course; Tezuka-san was his best challenge, and the one who understood best how Ryouma felt about the game. Tezuka-san was the one who had always known where Ryouma was trying to get to, and he’d put his own game on the line, more than once, to help Ryouma get there. And of course Ryouma loved playing against him; it was an incredible thrill to go all out and never be sure who would win, and Tezuka-san’s game was beautiful just to watch, never mind actually stand in the middle of and reach out and touch. And, yes, so it made Ryouma feel better to be around Tezuka-san, anyone whose life was as crazy as his would be grateful for a little peace and quiet. And if he just happened, just circumstantially, to have noticed that late-day sun turned Tezuka-san’s eyes bronze, that didn’t… it didn’t…

Ah, hell.

All right, fine, but that still wasn’t a crush!

Ryouma glowered at the still smiling Fuji from the corner of his eye, and was suddenly struck by a horrible thought.

“Fuji-senpai,” he said, slowly, “you’re not…” he nearly choked on the word, “you’re not matchmaking are you?”

Fuji-senpai laughed. “Of course not!” He smiled benignly at Ryouma. “I’m just watching to see what happens.”

“Has anyone ever told you you have bad hobbies?” Ryouma grumbled.

“At times,” Fuji-senpai allowed, serenely.

Ryouma sighed. Yes, that was Fuji-senpai, all right. Not precisely comforting, but a whole lot better than the alternative. “Have you mentioned anything to Tezuka-san?” he asked, crossing his fingers.

“Certainly not,” Fuji assured him. “It’s none of my business.”

Ryouma snorted at the magnitude of this bare-faced lie, but was reassured. If he was sure of any one thing, now that Fuji-senpai had kicked him over the edge of enlightenment, it was that he wasn’t saying anything about this to Tezuka-san. Daydreams were probably no longer avoidable, but that didn’t call for him to make a voluntary idiot out of himself.


A week later, Tezuka-san asked if he really wanted to see what the end of that trail looked like at night.

TBC

Last Modified: Feb 08, 12
Posted: Sep 26, 04
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carolin, PontaFetish and 8 other readers sent Plaudits.

Yaru, Part Three

Tezuka finally loses his battle to stay detached. Romance, I-3

Kunimitsu had come to the conclusion that, if he wanted to know what was going on with Echizen, he would need bait. He no longer had the authority to demand an explanation. Or, at least, if he did, he wasn’t sure he wanted to use it, or even know about it. With no institutional roles surrounding them, any authority he still had with Echizen would be personal. This was a time when Echizen should be growing beyond that. If Kunimitsu had done his job properly, Echizen should not think of Kunimitsu as his captain for much longer. He could only hope that this time together, outside of a shared school and team, would help and not hinder the process.

Which brought him back to the question of bait, because seeking an accounting from Echizen without offering in return would definitely not help. This did not mean that Kunimitsu was above choosing a place and time to his own advantage. For example, the side of a mountain after sunset and before moonrise, when it would be dark enough that Echizen, who was very good at deciphering subtle, non-verbal cues, would not get more from Kunimitsu than he intended to give. It also helped that Echizen seemed absolutely entranced by the sky, and might answer him without thinking.

So. “It’s good to be doing something that requires an effort,” he offered, quietly. “After last year, the Seigaku University tennis club doesn’t offer much of a challenge.”

Echizen made a considering noise. His shadowy outline leaned back a little further. “I bet,” he said, in a judicious tone, “that Fuji-senpai says you should have chosen Rikkai University, instead.”

“He does,” Kunimitsu acknowledged, dryly, giving information to draw information out. He had not expected that Echizen’s sense of humor would make it easier.

“I would say I’m glad I won’t have to worry about that,” Echizen said, thoughtfully, “only the last time I said that to Dad, he laughed. He wouldn’t tell me why, because he likes being annoying, but I bet I know. He thinks he’ll be the only real challenge for me.” Echizen sniffed. “You’d think he’d never seen the rest of you play.”

Kunimitsu held back his smile out of habit, even in the dark. It was good to know that Echizen had taken so much assurance from that very first lesson. It did sound, though, like tennis was not the source of Echizen’s apparent agitation, this year.

“You never held back, with me, Tezuka-san,” Echizen continued, more softly. “Right from the first.”

“Yes,” Kunimitsu agreed.

“So why are you holding back now?”

It seemed that Echizen didn’t need to see him to gather more than Kunimitsu expected. He switched to bluntness. “If I asked you, directly, why you came looking for me, would you tell me?”

The moon was rising, and he could see Echizen’s head turn toward him. “Yes.”

“Why would you answer?” Kunimitsu asked. Before he asked anything else, he wanted the answer to that.

“Because you never held back,” Echizen replied, matter-of-factly. “You’ve always been honest with me. Doesn’t that mean I should be honest, too?”

Silence filled the space between them, until Kunimitsu spoke again. “We should be going.” Before the revelations got out of hand.

Ryouma stood and stretched. “You didn’t usually tell everything,” he said, “but what you did say was the truth.” It was bright enough, now, to guess at the spark in his eyes as he looked at Kunimitsu and smiled.


Kunimitsu visited his mother as often as he had an hour or two free. He felt guilty, every now and then, that he had moved out and could no longer shield her from his father and grandfather’s bickering, but she had laughed at his hesitation and shooed him off. She had even helped him pick out an apartment, and given him her largest, most luxuriant spider plant, the most unkillable live housewarming gift possible. When neither of the other men of the family were looking, she had also tucked Requiem et Reminiscence in among the fronds, with a wink. Realistically, he knew quite well that, while he had learned how to wear a stern and reserved face from his grandfather, it had been his mother who taught him the serenity he needed to wear it easily and well. Tezuka Ayana needed no one to shield her.

His mother examined him over the edge of her teacup. “You’re looking more cheerful again, Kunimitsu. That’s good. Is the tennis club turning out better than you thought?”

“Not particularly,” Kunimitsu answered, frankly. It was generally quite useless to even attempt to keep secrets from his mother.

“Ah. Have you met someone who drags you out of your routines and keeps you from boring yourself stiff, then?”

Case in point. Kunimitsu smiled into his own tea. That was actually a reasonable description of Echizen. It was what made him both infuriating and intriguing to deal with.

“I suppose so,” he said, and gave in, with a sigh, to his mother’s prompting look. “Not someone new. One of my team from last year.”

She smiled at him, affectionately. “They did seem to make you happy, both times you’ve led them. I think you liked helping your team win as much as you enjoyed your own victories. You enjoy being needed, Kunimitsu.”

Kunimitsu consulted the depths of his teacup. He knew his mother was right, and yet…

“Kunimitsu?” she asked, gently. “What is it?”

“I don’t know if it’s good for Echizen to need me, still,” he admitted. “I did my best to help him advance, to stand on his own without any shadow over him.”

“Do you think you failed?” his mother asked, brows raised.

Kunimitsu opened his mouth, and then closed it again. Did he truly believe he had failed? That his own shadow lay over Echizen, now? He held that thought up against the memory of Echizen grinning and prodding at him; of Echizen’s blazing eyes on the other side of a net; of Echizen leaning back on his hands, relaxed, tracing the arc of the Milky Way across the sky.

“I know you don’t want to be like your grandfather that way, and overshadow where you only wished to teach,” his mother said, softly. “You should trust that you won’t; and, perhaps, trust this young friend of yours, too.”

Kunimitsu felt tension unwind from his shoulders, and smiled, leaning forward to brush a kiss against her cheek.

“Thank you, Mother.”


What still astonished Kunimitsu, sometimes, was the fact that Echizen seemed to trust him. Enough to have fallen asleep, beside him on their sunny rock. And, while Kunimitsu was not normally much troubled by protective impulses where Echizen Ryouma was concerned, the black hair fanned untidily across Echizen’s cheek was making Kunimitsu’s fingers itch to tuck it back.

It could, of course, just have been his own ingrained neatness. But Kunimitsu somewhat doubted that was all it was.

Ryuuzaki-sensei had asked him, once, why he took such trouble for Echizen. At the time, he had answered simply that he was Echizen’s captain. It was true enough. But it wasn’t all the truth.

Part of it was, indeed, the desire he felt to see any of his team play at their best, and beyond. Part of it was almost aesthetic; Kunimitsu couldn’t think of any other way to describe it, much as he didn’t want to have anything in common with such a clearly disturbed individual as Jyousei’s Hanamura-sensei. The shape of Ryouma’s potential had been stunning, and it would have been a criminal waste not to do everything possible to bring it out.

Part of it was harder to explain.

Perhaps it was the casual courage that pursued its own goals unflinchingly and didn’t care what the rest of the world thought. Perhaps it was the exultation in the game itself, that thought nothing of losing beyond “next time, I won’t”. Perhaps it was the willingness to drive on beyond reason.

Perhaps it was those things that Kunimitsu recognized because he had felt them, too.

Perhaps it was just that Echizen was the only one who could make Kunimitsu work quite so hard to bite back a smile or a sigh when Ryouma glanced up with that troublemaking gleam in his eye.

He glanced at the angle of the sunlight, and then at his watch. Whatever the whole truth was, it was getting late and they should both be going. “Echizen,” he called, quietly, “Echizen, wake up.”

Echizen stirred, and made a faint grumbling noise. “Echizen,” Kunimitsu said, more firmly, leaning toward him.

Echizen’s eyes opened a little, still hazy. He blinked at Kunimitsu and reached up a hand to touch his face, as if to see whether he were really there.

Kunimitsu held quite still.

Echizen’s fingertips slid down his cheek and across his mouth. It was the last touch that seemed to wake Echizen up all the way, because his eyes abruptly snapped fully open and shock raced through them. He snatched his hand back and started to roll away and onto his feet.

Kunimitsu’s hand flashed out and closed on his shoulder, and Echizen froze.

Kunimitsu nearly sighed at himself. That impulsive move had presented him with a nice predicament. If he had let Echizen go, it was quite possible that they would have silently agreed to ignore this little occurrence completely. But, no, he had to give in to his urge toward confrontation and make things more complicated. He really had let his control lapse around Echizen, this year.

Echizen was still frozen, half way up on one elbow, looking back at Kunimitsu from the very corner of his eye. Kunimitsu could feel the tension in him, poised to go either way, waiting. Well, as long as he’d gone this far, he might as well keep going. It was not natural to either of them to stop halfway. What was that European phrase? In for a sheep… He’d been mildly appalled when he had looked up the historical source of that saying, though no more so than he had at some portions of his own country’s legal history…

He recognized that he was stalling, and that was not acceptable, no matter how far he’d let his self control go. So, then. He tugged on Echizen’s shoulder, and, after a moment, Echizen let himself drop back to the stone under them and look up at Kunimitsu. Still waiting. And Kunimitsu’s mouth twitched.

He lifted his hand to Ryouma’s face and tucked back the unruly strands of hair that had been distracting him earlier. Ryouma blinked at him.

“I’ve never known anyone else with such a talent for getting me to act on impulse,” Kunimitsu observed. The pleased curl to Echizen’s lips at that piece of information pulled a smile out of Kunimitsu in answer, and he let it. He needed to make sure of one more thing, though. “I’m not your captain any more, Echizen.”

He didn’t know if Ryouma heard the hope or the question under that statement, but Echizen nodded. “No, you’re not,” he said.

The surety in his voice soothed Kunimitsu’s last reservations, and he leaned down and touched his lips to Echizen’s. A light brush, another, and then Echizen reached up and wrapped his arms around Kunimitsu’s shoulders and pulled.

When Kunimitsu regained his balance, only a hastily thrown out hand was keeping his full weight off Echizen, and one of his legs was between Ryouma’s. Ryouma grinned, looking insufferably pleased with himself, and leaned up to steal a third kiss.

“You certainly recover quickly,” Kunimitsu told him, and shifted until he could wind an arm around Echizen and pull him tight up against Kunimitsu’s body. He took advantage of Ryouma’s quick breath to offer a more serious kiss, and Ryouma answered readily, opening his mouth against Kunimitsu’s. His arms tightened around Kunimitsu’s back, and when Kunimitsu pulled away Echizen made a noise both disappointed and annoyed. Kunimitsu laughed low in his chest.

“Your enthusiasm is gratifying,” he said, straight faced, and Ryouma glared at him, “but I have no intention of carrying on outside on a rock, however isolated.”

Echizen made another grumpy noise, but his expression agreed. Which was good, because Kunimitsu’s knees were becoming quite definite about the ‘on a rock’ part of the statement. The uncertainty lurking in Ryouma’s glance up at him, though, prodded Kunimitsu to an offer he really hadn’t intended to make so quickly.

“Would you like to come back to my apartment with me?”

Used as he was to seeing it under other circumstances, the brilliance of the look Echizen returned stole Kunimitsu’s breath for a moment. It was the brilliance that made Echizen such an irresistible lure and goad and challenge on the court, and Kunimitsu resigned himself to the knowledge that he had just welcomed all the interest and chaos and trouble and thrill that Echizen trailed after him like a too-long scarf into yet another part of his life.

He couldn’t quite bring himself to worry about that.

TBC

Last Modified: Feb 08, 12
Posted: Sep 26, 04
Name (optional):
carolin, PontaFetish and 10 other readers sent Plaudits.

Yaru, Part Four

Tezuka and Ryouma achieve some closure. Romance with Porn, I-4

Ryouma was entertained by Tezuka-san’s apartment. Most of it was meticulously neat in an absentminded sort of way. He was willing to bet that Tezuka-san put things back in their assigned places without ever really thinking about it. So he had to wonder just who had supplied the huge, untidily sprawling spider plant that hung by the sliding door to the modest balcony, or the equally sprawling jade plant a short stand underneath it.

Actually, he’d bet on Fuji-senpai for the jade plant; Ryouma had seen one like it overrunning Fuji-senpai’s windowsill in a twining riot of tendrils. But Fuji didn’t use the same jab twice very often, so there must be someone else who thought Tezuka-san’s life could do with a bit less order. At least two people, then, who would probably approve of him, Ryouma thought, knowing that the grin taking over his face was likely a dead give-away to his thoughts.

“You look like you’re contemplating making my life difficult,” Tezuka-san remarked, behind him.

Sure enough. When Ryouma turned, though, he could feel the grin turning into something less certain. He’d spent quite some time, by now, sidestepping his physical attraction to Tezuka-san. Having Tezuka-san standing in front of him, close enough to feel his body heat, was a little… disorienting. It only got moreso as Tezuka-san’s expression softened; normally it took a good deal more work on Ryouma’s part before that happened.

It was actually better when Tezuka-san gathered him close. Easier to let his body’s response rule. Ryouma moved closer still, fitting himself against Tezuka-san, stretching up to press a kiss against his mouth.

The expression of Tezuka’s body changed, at that, tautened. So much the better—less time to waste thinking. Ryouma buried one hand in springy, honey brown hair and licked, lightly, at Tezuka-san’s lower lip. Tezuka’s arms tightened around him, hard enough to drive the breath out of him. Tezuka caught Ryouma’s gasp in his mouth, lifting him up and kissing him deeply.

And then Tezuka-san drew in a long breath and started to loosen his grip.

“Don’t let go,” Ryouma protested, pressing close.

Tezuka-san stilled. “Most people like to breathe,” he pointed out.

“Breathing is nice,” Ryouma agreed. “But when you hold me that hard I know I’ve really reached you.”

After a moment, Tezuka’s arms closed snugly again, and Ryouma looked up with a smile. Tezuka-san was studying him, mouth curved with a faintly rueful quirk at one corner. “I never expected you to make a vocation of that hobby of yours,” he said, softly.

“Why not?” Ryouma asked. “Don’t you know what you’re like, when you open up a little?” Tezuka-san’s brows asked the question, and Ryouma chewed on his lip, trying to put it into words. “It’s like water,” he said, at last. “Underwater, it’s everywhere, wrapped all around you, and it seems perfectly calm until a current comes along. And then you can’t do anything to keep from moving with it. That’s what you’re like when we play for real. And then, when you forget to be reserved, it’s like the surface of water—choppy or bright or ticklish when you put your hand in the way of the waves.” He couldn’t say what look there was in Tezuka-san’s eyes, now. It wasn’t one he’d ever seen before. But it made him think of something else, and he slid both arms over Tezuka-san’s shoulders, laughing up at him. “And I don’t know what it’s like, yet, when you touch someone, but I was hoping to find out.”

Tezuka brushed fingers through Ryouma’s hair and down the side of his neck. “Are you sure?” he asked, deep voice a little huskier than usual.

Accustomed, from years of listening, to hearing the things Tezuka left unsaid, Ryouma tipped his head and gave him a slightly exasperated look. “I’m not afraid,” he said, definitely. “And I like this, and I want to feel you.”

Tezuka’s arms tightened fiercely around him, again, but his lips against Ryouma’s were soft and light, coaxing faint, breathless sounds from him. When one of Tezuka’s legs pressed between his, Ryouma moaned, arching up against Tezuka and pulling him down to a more insistent kiss. When Tezuka’s tongue still only flirted with his, Ryouma nipped at it, and then made a pleased sound as Tezuka’s low laugh vibrated down the whole length of his body.

“Bedroom,” Tezuka murmured.

Ryouma growled, but let go long enough for them to cross the apartment without tripping. He would have pounced on Tezuka again, there, but Tezuka closed his hands over Ryouma’s shoulders, brushing his thumbs across Ryouma’s collar bones. Ryouma caught his breath, and stood, curious. Tezuka stepped back and began undressing, without either haste or hesitation. By the time his shirt slid off his arms, only to be caught and draped, neatly, over the closet door, Ryouma’s breath was coming short. Which he couldn’t help thinking was a little ridiculous, considering the number of times he’d seen Tezuka one pair of boxers short of naked, but there it was. It wasn’t until Tezuka stripped off the last cloth, and stepped back to sit on the edge of his bed, dropping his folded glasses on the bedside table, that Ryouma understood. It was in Tezuka’s eyes when he met Ryouma’s gaze, in the hand he held out to invite Ryouma close again. Ryouma had said that he wanted to see Tezuka open. Tezuka was telling him that he could.

Ryouma came and took Tezuka’s hand in both of his, stroking his fingers over the palm and hearing Tezuka’s breath catch in turn. And then he stepped back a little and reached for the hem of his own shirt. He couldn’t quite manage to meet Tezuka’s eyes, but he felt them on him like a beam of sunlight—something hot and tangible where it touched.

When he stepped back to the bed, Tezuka’s hands passing up his back smoothed the awkwardness away, and Ryouma leaned into him with a sigh, relaxing. This feeling, skin sliding over skin, was almost familiar. It felt like those times, when they played, that they both saw each other clearly, the times when they each knew what the other would do, when they… touched. Ryouma eased into the familiarity, straddling Tezuka’s legs so that he could press closer. Tezuka’s hands swept tiny shivers up his legs, over his ribs, threaded into his hair and drew Ryouma down to a kiss that made him glad he wasn’t supporting his own weight.

Tezuka’s mouth muffled the sound Ryouma made when those long hands slipped back down and between his legs. Tezuka let Ryouma’s sudden surge against him tumble them both back onto the bed, and Ryouma found himself sprawled over Tezuka, looking down at the smile lurking at the corners of Tezuka’s mouth. Shifting to twine his legs more comfortably with Tezuka’s, Ryouma paused and sighed. He could feel that Tezuka was hard. He rocked against Tezuka, gasping a little, both at the hot wash of sensation and at the soft groan it pulled from Tezuka. Tezuka’s fingers kneaded against his rear, spreading him open, stroking him, and Ryouma tensed a little. He saw both heat and deliberate restraint as Tezuka looked up at him.

“Have you ever done this before?” Tezuka asked.

Ryouma shook his head. “Not this.”

Tezuka’s mouth softened further, and he wrapped his arms around Ryouma and rolled them over, kissing Ryouma gently until he was breathing deeply again, moving with Tezuka. “Tell me if you don’t like this, then,” Tezuka said, reaching over Ryouma’s head. “Some people don’t.”

Ryouma felt Tezuka’s slick fingers nudging against him, and shivered a little, pulling Tezuka down to kiss him again. One finger pressed, circling, and slid into him. It was… odd. Ryouma couldn’t decide whether he liked it or not. The fact of it, there, was very strange, and yet the sliding movement might be nice. He frowned.

“More.”

He could feel Tezuka’s lips curve as they brushed his neck. A second finger pressed in, and Ryouma snatched a breath. Oh… that… yes, that was better. The stretch felt good, and the slide was firmer, now. He liked that. He wound his arms around Tezuka, arching up into him. “Mmmmmh. More,” he murmured.

Tezuka kissed him, hard, and Ryouma shivered again at the strained control in it. A third finger slid in between the first two, and the sound in Ryouma’s throat was harsher this time. The feeling was more intense, and he spread his legs wider, pushing up into it. Warm. Not rough, but… something like it. He held on more tightly, and returned Tezuka’s kisses with abandon.

Tezuka was letting his control go, too. When he knelt back and pulled Ryouma up with him, Ryouma found himself held almost as hard as he had been earlier, and moaned against Tezuka’s mouth. Now he could say what it was like when Tezuka touched someone. It was like the pull of a wave going out, drawing your feet out from under you and pulling you into the water. And Ryouma was perfectly willing to go.

“Tezuka,” he breathed.

Tezuka slipped around him and drew Ryouma back against his chest, straddling his knees. Ryouma smiled at the arms closed around him.

“You’ll be all right like this?” Tezuka asked, softly.

“Mmm. Yeah,” Ryouma sighed. It would be nice to watch Tezuka’s eyes, because he would bet that they were burning just a little wild. But he wanted more to be held, right now. It kept him from completely losing his breath as Tezuka pressed into him. He did grab for the headboard, though, because this was far more than Tezuka’s fingers had been and he was shaking by the time Tezuka’s hips met his. Tezuka’s hold on him tightened, soothing, mouth brushing the nape of Ryouma’s neck. Ryouma relaxed, slowly, panting a little. It felt good, just… intense. When Tezuka drew back and thrust in again, though, it pulled a sharp sound from him. That pressure, stroking inside him, was hotter, now, sharper. A new edge surged through him with each thrust. It shuddered down his nerves like heat waves off the street in summer, and Ryouma found himself moving, rocking back into Tezuka, straining against that hard slide.

Tezuka answered him, moving faster, hands stroking down Ryouma’s body, between his thighs, fondling him, lifting him up to meet the driving pace. The deep voice in Ryouma’s ear was rough, now, breathless over his name. Ryouma stretched into the tight hold and hard caress, voiceless with the weight of sensation running through him, driven into him, stroked out of him. It rushed down to a hot point and exploded through him, raking down him over and over and over.

Tezuka’s movement against him had a dreamlike edge for a minute, before he gasped sharply against Ryouma’s neck and caught him closer, stilling. A distant corner of Ryouma’s mind decided it was probably oxygen overdose. Most of him was too busy drowning in lax warmth to care. Eventually, Tezuka loosened his hold and drew away, letting Ryouma down to the bed and leaning over him for a slow kiss.

A last, small, shiver passed through Ryouma at the open smile Tezuka wore, and the laughing, rueful, affection in his eyes. He reached up and sighed, pleased, as Tezuka gathered him close again.


Being Tezuka’s lover, Ryouma had decided, was not significantly different from being his friend or his opponent. Well, except in the obvious sense, when Tezuka brought Ryouma home and laid him down on the bed, or pressed him up against the wall, or came up behind him at the door to the balcony and slid a hand…

Ryouma realized that he was getting distracted, and probably rather flushed, and refocused on the rack in front of him. The point was, they both still had their own lives, and their lives were still running along pretty separate tracks, and they had a limited number of times and places to meet. And if Ryouma wanted to keep going along on Tezuka’s hiking trips, which he did, Tezuka chose places with gorgeous views, Ryouma needed shoes that were not sneakers.

First, though, he might just need to read the manual of hiking boots to figure out what the heck all the alleged benefits listed on various tags meant.

A clerk popped up at his elbow. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Only if you can translate this stuff,” Ryouma told him, absently, squinting at phrases like ‘external heel’ and ‘mid cut’.

“That is part of my job,” the man said, easily. “Are you just starting out hiking?”

“I am,” Ryouma specified, “the person I go with isn’t.”

Actual interest replaced the professional smile. “Ah. Do I take it that you cover some more demanding trails?”

Ryouma had to stop and think about that. He suspected Tezuka wouldn’t think they were demanding at all, and he wasn’t having any trouble keeping up. But he certainly didn’t see any families on the trails Tezuka seemed to like best. “Yes, some,” he said, at last. “Probably more, later,” he added.

The clerk looked thoughtful. “Most of my customers who do serious climbing prefer the lower cut shoes, but more ankle support is a good idea when you’re still building up to that. If your friend likes rougher trails, the traditional, high cut boots will likely stay just as useful as time goes on.”

Ryouma had no intention of inviting injury. “Boots,” he agreed. “If he ever breaks out the climbing ropes, I’ll come back then.”

The clerk grinned. “It sounds like your friend really has you hooked,” he commented.

Ryouma choked down a laugh at the image this brought to mind. Though if their excursions ever turned to fishing, he was bringing a pillow. Still…

“Yeah, I guess you could say that,” he allowed.


Ryouma rummaged in one and then another cupboard before giving up and standing in the middle of the kitchenette, glaring impartially at all of them.

“Do you reorganize your cabinets instead of biting your nails like a normal person?” he called into the living room.

“Yes,” Tezuka answered quite calmly.

Ryouma transferred his glare. Tezuka’s sense of humor could be a little abstruse sometimes, but Ryouma could recognize perfectly well when he was being teased. “Good to know that,” he returned briskly, “so where did you put the glasses this time?”

“Beside the refrigerator, of course.”

Ryouma fished out two, muttering, and brought the filled glasses out to the couch. “Serve you right if I dumped this on you.”

“Mm,” Tezuka said, agreeably. He was obviously wrapped up in the textbook on the table in front of him, and Ryouma had to stifle two separate impulses. The first was to spill a few drops of ice water down Tezuka’s neck to get his attention off the physics reading that he really didn’t need to devote such concentration to. The second was to get between Tezuka and the table, and kiss the stern line of his mouth into something softer. The entertainment value of one was about equal to the other.

Ryouma restrained himself for the time being, and set one drink down by the open textbook before taking his own and sprawling on the huge floor cushion that had put in an appearance a few weeks ago.

“Why are you bothering with this?” he asked. “It isn’t like you need a college degree to go pro, and if it’s professional tennis that you want you’re wasting four of your strongest years.”

Tezuka gave him a long look. “It’s debatable whether they’re my strongest years,” he said.

Ryouma narrowed his eyes. He was used to Tezuka’s roundabout conversational methods, but he wasn’t in the mood to be patient today. Tezuka sighed and closed his books.

“I’m planning on a career in pro tennis, yes. But what about after? If I decide I don’t want to teach, this,” he waved at the books and papers, “will give me more options. That’s all.”

Ryouma thought about that. It was true, his dad was pretty much useless since he didn’t play or teach; well, not anyone but Ryouma. He really couldn’t see Tezuka lazing around doing nothing but collecting dirty magazines.

Really, really couldn’t see it.

“I’ve never really wanted to do anything else,” he mused. “Not since…” he broke off, not quite prepared to say out loud not since I first played you.

Tezuka’s eyes lightened. “I didn’t really think you had,” he agreed, a laugh running under his voice.

After a moment of hesitation, Ryouma came to kneel between Tezuka’s legs and comb his fingers through Tezuka’s hair. “You’re coming, then?” he asked, quietly. “You’ll be there?” He felt a little silly asking Tezuka Kunimitsu, of all people, for that reassurance, but still…

Tezuka’s arms wrapped around him, tight enough to make him gasp. “I will,” he murmured in Ryouma’s ear.

Ryouma relaxed in that grip, content to stay there for as long as Tezuka wanted to hold him.

TBC

Last Modified: Feb 08, 12
Posted: Sep 26, 04
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Yaru, Epilogue

Tezuka and Echizen settle in with each other. Romance with Drama, I-3

Kunimitsu stood at the back of the humming spectators and observed the various recriminations and celebrations of Rikkai’s and Seigaku’s teams with some amusement. He had company, as he always did when he came to watch matches between these teams. Both Sanada and Yukimura had come, today.

What amused Kunimitsu most was watching Echizen and Kirihara, engaged in a discussion as vigorous as their just finished match, climbing the stands toward their respective seniors without paying the slightest attention to anyone else. This included several of the scouts who made bids for Kirihara’s attention, only to bounce off his impenetrable focus on Echizen.

“…supposed to be two years ahead of me, not two behind!” Ryouma was saying, in an aggrieved tone, as they came into earshot.

“I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” Kirihara told him. “I’m going to be the one bored out of my mind for a year, until you catch up.”

Ryouma waved a dismissive hand. “No you won’t. Momo-senpai is going straight on. And,” in the tone of someone being fair against his every inclination, “Atobe-san is already in the pro circuit.”

Kirihara made a face. “This is supposed to be encouraging?”

“He’s a good opponent,” Ryouma said, “and it’s the best we’ll get until they graduate. Two years!” he glared impartially at Kunimitsu, Sanada and Yukimura all.

Sanada declined to comment, merely giving Kunimitsu a look that asked him to control his unruly kouhai. Yukimura, though, smiled.

“Well, after all, university is where we’ll find the majority of our favorite opponents, isn’t it?” he teased, gently.

Ryouma eyed him dourly before giving Kirihara a look remarkably similar to the one Sanada had directed at Kunimitsu. Kirihara snorted and stepped around Ryouma to place himself between Echizen and Kirihara’s erstwhile captain. Ryouma’s mouth quirked, and he abandoned that front, apparently satisfied, to saunter over and stand inside Kunimitsu’s personal space, gazing up from under his cap with a gleam in his eye. Kunimitsu stood his ground and looked back with, he hoped, sufficient coolness to indicate that he had no intention whatsoever of being tempted into a public display and Echizen could just put a leash on his mischief right now. Judging from Ryouma’s grin, at least the basic idea got through.

Yukimura had a hand over his mouth.

“Your team is getting ready to leave,” Kunimitsu pointed out to Ryouma. “You should join them. I’ll see you later.”

That promise seemed enough to placate Ryouma. “Sure thing,” he agreed, easily, turning back toward the stands. Kunimitsu was under no illusions that Echizen had actually chosen to shelve his mischief; the bright look he tossed over his shoulder was enough to prove otherwise. Kunimitsu couldn’t quite keep an eyebrow from twitching up with rueful resignation.

“Okay, now I’m really impressed,” Kirihara declared. A glance showed him watching the two of them, wide eyed.

“Akaya!” Sanada rapped out. Kirihara directed an obvious Well, aren’t you? expression up at him.

Yukimura appeared to be having a coughing fit, which was almost convincing, but his sparkling eyes gave away his amusement.

Echizen grinned at Kirihara and strolled down to the Seigaku team. Kunimitsu shook his head. It should be an interesting evening. “Sanada. Yukimura,” he nodded to them. Sanada nodded back, and Yukimura recovered enough to bid him a goodbye that wasn’t too very choked.

As he walked away, Kunimitsu heard Yukimura chiding Kirihara, in his soft “social voice”, for the breach of manners.

“Yes, Yukimura-san,” Kirihara said, tone repentant. “But, really! I never thought, in a hundred years, Echizen would actually catch him…”

Kunimitsu chuckled to himself. That made two of them.

He remembered the comment, later, though, as he lay on the floor of his unlighted living room, reclining on one of his two floor pillows, and stroked Ryouma’s bare shoulder. Ryouma purred and settled closer against his side, tucking his head down against Kunimitsu’s chest.

He had been more or less pounced on, as soon as the door was closed, and clothing was strewn haphazardly around the room. In fact, if he wasn’t mistaken, that was a sock hanging from the jade plant. Not that Kunimitsu had been at all a reluctant participant. But it reminded him.

“Were you chasing me, all that time, Ryouma?” he asked, ruffling his fingers through the sleek, dark hair under his cheek.

Ryouma shrugged, and twined himself still more closely around Kunimitsu. “Not really,” he answered. And then he lifted his head to give Kunimitsu an impish look. “Not any more than you were chasing me,” he added.

Kunimitsu chuckled out loud. “Fair enough.”

Which meant, he reflected, gathering Ryouma just a bit tighter against him, that they had been heading toward this more or less since they set eyes on each other.

Fair enough.

End

Last Modified: Feb 08, 12
Posted: Sep 26, 04
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Delta

Atobe is rather tired of Tezuka brooding, and decides it’s time for another conversation with Fuji to see if the problem is amenable to a swift kick. Romantic Drama With Occasional Porn, I-4

Watching Tezuka Kunimitsu mope was a novel experience. Keigo couldn’t recall ever having seen anything quite like it before. The moodiness wasn’t terribly obvious, of course, Kunimitsu generally wasn’t obvious about anything. But from close up, Keigo definitely noticed a certain distance in his eyes and a wrinkle of brow that was a bit different than usual.

After two weeks of uninterrupted novelty, though, the brooding was getting old. Keigo was perfectly willing to allow that Kunimitsu had a right to be concerned for his friends. But thinking about other people to the exclusion of Keigo himself, when Kunimitsu was with Keigo, was not something he intended to tolerate. Accordingly, when Keigo decided Kunimitsu had been sitting at his desk and staring at team schedules without blinking for just a little too long, he also decided it was time to take action.

Keigo tossed Kunimitsu’s copy of Elective Affinities, which he had been reading in bits and pieces whenever he came over, on the bed and swung to his feet. He stalked across the room and tugged Kunimitsu’s chair away from the desk, swinging it around. Kunimitsu refocused and looked up at him, startled.

“Keigo, what… ?”

Keigo leaned over and kissed him.

Kunimitsu was stiff with surprise for a long moment, before Keigo coaxed his lips to soften and part. Keigo went about the kiss in a thorough and leisurely fashion, tangling his tongue with Kunimitsu’s, nipping gently at his lower lip, and eventually Kunimitsu sighed and his hands lifted to find Keigo’s hips. Keigo smiled against Kunimitsu’s mouth as he let Kunimitsu pull him down to straddle the chair.

“That’s better,” Keigo murmured.

Kunimitsu gave him a dry look. “Feeling neglected?”

“Unforgivably so,” Keigo agreed, easily. “You’re taking far too long to think about something that’s probably very simple.”

“And you know that it’s simple because…?” Kunimitsu asked, mouth tightening a little.

“That is an assumption on my part,” Keigo allowed. “But I’ll bet a case of Dunlop Abzorbers that complication is an assumption on your part. Have you said more then five words to Fuji in the last two weeks?”

“Yes,” Kunimitsu answered, in a very final tone.

Keigo eyed him. “Let me rephrase that. Have you said more than five words about whatever is actually bothering you?”

Kunimitsu’s gaze darted away and then back.

“Thought so,” Keigo said, smiling.

Kunimitsu’s mouth acquired a very stubborn set. “We’re coming into the hardest part of the tournament season. I won’t risk an upset in the team right now.”

And that was that, Keigo knew. Two things Kunimitsu would never compromise: his game and his team. If he had convinced himself that pressing Fuji would be detrimental to the team, there was vanishingly little chance Keigo, or anyone else, could persuade him otherwise. Clearly, then, this was a case where Keigo would have to get involved directly, if he wanted Kunimitsu’s attention back where it belonged.

Wasn’t it a pleasant coincidence that this would also give him some chance of satisfying his curiosity over what had happened to Fuji lately?

Satisfied with his nascent plan of action, Keigo pressed closer against his lover. “Whatever you want, Kunimitsu,” he agreed, as suggestively as possible, in Kunimitsu’s ear.

A soft laugh told him that Kunimitsu consented to the distraction. “Anything?” he asked, a teasing edge in the low voice now.

“Mm. Anything,” Keigo purred, leaning down to Kunimitsu’s mouth again.


Keigo leaned against the wall of Seigaku’s high school campus, tapping his fingers impatiently. Where was Fuji? He was about ready to start pacing when his ear finally caught a familiar voice, light and sardonic.

“…I’m perfectly happy to help, Inui. Provided, of course, that you’re drinking this stuff, too. After all, any good experiment needs a control, yes?”

“Certainly, but, you see, you are the control for this one,” Inui answered, just a bit hastily, as the two emerged from the school grounds.

“About time,” Keigo interrupted, stalking towards them. “Far be it from me to stand in the way of scientific progress, or the possible death of a rival, but we need to talk, Fuji. Come on.” When Fuji failed to follow him, Keigo glanced back, annoyed. “If you don’t hurry up, he’ll be along, too, and then this entire exercise will have been pointless. I don’t intend to go out of my way for you more than once.”

Inui was looking on with raised brows. They twitched up a bit higher when Fuji, after a long, narrow look at Keigo, turned to him and said, “Will it be a problem if we postpone this particular experiment?”

“Not at all,” Inui murmured.

Fuji nodded, and paced forward to join Keigo. “Let’s go, then.”

“If I recall correctly, there’s a halfway decent cafe about ten blocks on,” Keigo noted as they walked.

“That will do, yes.” Fuji’s voice was very even, and Keigo’s lips quirked. Wary, was he? Fair enough; Keigo had a good deal more leverage in this encounter than he had the last time they’d spoken of personal matters. Keigo was honest enough with himself to admit that this was one of the reasons he had gone to the trouble of coming here today.

And, of course, far be it from Keigo to disappoint expectations; as soon as they were ensconced at a table with their drinks he opened up with both barrels.

“So, Mizuki thinks you’re jealous because my presence interferes with your friendship with Tezuka. Is he right?”

Fuji did not, Keigo noted, twitch; instead he became very still. One breath. Two. “Mizuki is perceptive, but also, you must have observed, rather… warped,” Fuji said at last.

“In other words, yes,” Keigo translated, sipping his tea. “Didn’t we have this conversation once already?”

Fuji looked at him with distinct disfavor. Keigo sighed.

“What on earth do you have to be jealous of?” he asked, exasperated. “You have a lover who, unless I’m vastly mistaken, you’re perfectly happy with, you’re still at the same school with Tezuka, which, I should point out, I’m not, and I find it extremely difficult to believe that he’s paying any less attention to any member of his team, let alone you.”

“That’s none of your business,” Fuji told him, tightly.

“Probably not, but it’s troubling Tezuka and he won’t ask if he thinks the answer might disrupt your team.” Keigo caught a flicker in Fuji’s eyes as they turned down to his coffee, and blinked. Had Fuji not realized that was why Kunimitsu kept silent? Keigo would have sworn that Fuji knew Kunimitsu better than that. “What is going on with the two of you?” he asked, puzzled.

“Nothing,” Fuji said, quietly.

Keigo rested his chin in his hands. Fuji was fond of double talk, even when it came to body language, let alone words. Nothing was happening; so, maybe something should be? “Are you saying that Tezuka really is paying less attention to you?”

This time Fuji twitched, though Keigo would have missed it if he hadn’t been watching closely.

“However much he teases about the two of us being similar, I still have a hard time believing I might be replacing you,” he mused. “We’re different things to him, Fuji.”

He realized, later, that he had misjudged just how much what was happening must have been disturbing Fuji, because the one thing Keigo had never expected was that Fuji might actually snap badly enough to say what he did next.

“You wouldn’t think so, of course,” Fuji bit out, eyes narrow and cold. “You’re going to be staying in his world; there’s nothing for him to hold against you.”

Keigo stared, stunned, for a long moment before he heaved a sigh and leaned back, pressing a hand over his eyes. He couldn’t believe Fuji had misread Kunimitsu that badly. No, wait, he could believe it; after all, it wasn’t as though he hadn’t known plenty of intelligent, talented individuals who where, nevertheless, gifted with the people skills of dried seaweed. It was just that he expected this kind of thing from Ryou, not from Fuji. And if this was the root of Fuji’s skittishness, then what he was really worried by must be… Keigo silently recited his choicest German invective. “And here I’d thought you were supposed to have a good brain to go along with the good reflexes.”

“I beg your pardon?” Fuji said, with the mildness of a green and pleasant mountain just before it explodes and rains burning rock all over the landscape. Keigo ignored the hint.

“It happens, all right? It isn’t your fault, it isn’t his fault, it just happens, and it certainly isn’t because he’s angry at you, you idiot!” he snapped.

Fuji blinked at him, temper temporarily derailed. “What happens?” he asked.

Keigo held up one hand and ticked points off on his fingers. “You’re starting to not have as many things to talk about, yes? And he does not, in fact, treat you any less warmly…” he paused to think about that, and amended, “any more harshly, anyway, he’s just not quite there as much, yes? And when you talk about some things, he just doesn’t seem to connect the way you expected him to. Is this ringing any bells?”

Fuji nodded, slowly, as if he thought this might be a trick question. Keigo snorted.

“We’re growing up, Fuji,” he pointed out. “We’re going in different directions. He doesn’t blame you for not staying with tennis, any more than you blame him for his choice to stay. But talking about things only one of you is deeply involved with is different. That’s all.” Keigo lifted his cooling tea for a sip to conceal his expression.

Not fast enough, it seemed.

“You’re speaking from personal experience?” Fuji asked, gaze sharp.

“None of your business,” Keigo answered, brusquely.

It was Fuji’s turn to lean back in his chair. “It is if you don’t want me to think that entire lecture was a self-serving fiction you pulled out of your ear,” he said, coolly.

Keigo glared, and reminded himself never, ever to play poker with Fuji. The man was downright addicted to maneuvering people. “You and Mizuki deserve each other,” he growled.

Fuji smiled at him, if a show of that many teeth could be called a smile.

“Fine, fine,” Keigo said, wearily. “If you insist on being so mannerlessly uncivil to someone trying to do you a favor,” he ignored Fuji’s snort, “yes, it has.” He swirled the dregs of his tea in the cup. “We’re still friends, even if it’s not the same as it used to be. I go to as many of Kabaji’s poetry readings as I can manage, and he comes to as many of my games as he can fit in. We can still have perfectly good talks. It’s just not exactly the same.” He cut himself off, a little annoyed at having said so much, and looked up preparing a barb to distract Fuji.

Fuji was staring at him as if Keigo had been speaking in Arabic. Keigo raised a brow.

“Poetry readings,” Fuji repeated. “Kabaji? Kabaji Munehiro?”

And it was Keigo’s turn for a toothy smile. Fuji was keeping his composure better than most, but disbelief edged his voice and widened his eyes. Ah, it was too bad he didn’t have a camera handy; Kabaji would have laughed.

“Oh, yes,” Keigo confirmed with an airy wave. “His first collection will be published next year. Really, I’m a little surprised you haven’t heard.” He sipped delicately. Cold tea was a small price to pay for the perfect gesture to finish this play.

And now it was time to be going, before Fuji recovered himself.

“Well, I’m delighted we could have this chat,” he said, rising. “I hope it clears things up, and you stop sulking so Tezuka stops moping. I expect I’ll see you at Nationals; until then.”

As he made it to the door, he heard Fuji starting to laugh, behind him. Ah, success. It was a sweet thing.


Keigo expected to see some improvement in Kunimitsu’s mood in reasonably short order. What he did not expect was that Kunimitsu would arrive, unannounced, at the door of his room, a mere two days later.

“Kunimitsu?” he greeted his lover, a bit surprised he had managed to circumvent the staff.

Kunimitsu crossed to the couch before Keigo could rise and knelt, swiftly, catching Keigo’s face between his hands. The kiss that followed muffled any thoughts Keigo might have mustered under the heat of Kunimitsu’s lips smoothing over his, tempting and offering and demanding. Kunimitsu’s hands stroked down Keigo’s chest and around his back, pulling him tighter against Kunimitsu’s body, and Keigo slid bonelessly off the couch to the floor. His quiet moan was swallowed in Kunimitsu’s mouth. Keigo was just starting to wonder whether the door was locked when Kunimitsu drew back and regarded him with a calm expression and laughing eyes.

“What was that about?” Keigo asked, rather breathless.

“Payback,” Kunimitsu informed him, serenely.

“Remind me what for, so I can make a note to do it more often.”

Kunimitsu smiled. “For baiting Fuji badly enough that he gave you an honest answer; for annoying him enough that he was too busy shredding your character to be reserved with me.”

“And then again, perhaps not,” Keigo decided. “He spoke to you about it?”

“Yes.” Kunimitsu sighed a little. “I hadn’t realized he might think…” He pressed his lips together.

Keigo wove his fingers through Kunimitsu’s hair. “For five and some years, now, he’s been close enough to you to guess what you’re thinking without having to ask,” he pointed out. “For all that, though, I’m betting that Fuji’s never been so good with people that he would have recognized what’s happening now until someone thumped him over the head with it.”

Kunimitsu’s mouth curled, and his eyes were distant. “He isn’t, always, no,” he agreed.

“That sounds like the start to a good story,” Keigo suggested.

Kunimitsu returned to the present and gave him a reproving look. “No.”

“You know, it’s very cruel of you to rouse my curiosity like that and then refuse to satisfy it, Kunimitsu,” Keigo told him in an injured tone.

A familiar gleam lit Kunimitsu’s eyes. “Are you really that disappointed?” he asked, one hand sliding down Keigo’s body again.

“That depends,” Keigo gasped as that warm hand closed, firmly, between his legs, “on whether you intend to satisfy anything else.”

Kunimitsu’s tongue traced a slick path up Keigo’s neck. “Yes, I think I do,” he answered, softly.

A low sound rose in Keigo’s throat and he leaned back against the couch as Kunimitsu’s hand kneaded against him. Kunimitsu wasn’t normally the one who pushed things this quickly. But those were definitely Kunimitsu’s fingers undoing Keigo’s pants, and Kunimitsu’s hands urging him back up to the couch, and spreading his knees apart.

And it was very definitely Kunimitsu’s mouth closing on him, hot and wet and slow. Keigo fell back against the cushions, moaning as Kunimitsu sucked, hard, before his mouth gentled again. Kunimitsu’s tongue flirted with him, rubbed back and forth across screaming nerves, and Keigo tangled his fingers in Kunimitsu’s hair again. The silky spring against his hands somehow felt very much like the the touch of Kunimitsu’s mouth sliding down his cock, and Keigo flexed his fingers against that softness to keep himself from thrusting up into the sleek heat of Kunimitsu’s mouth too forcefully.

That compunction frayed as Kunimitsu slid Keigo’s pants a little further down, and strong fingers reached under him, pressing, massaging. Keigo cried out, sharp and yearning, as that touch pushed into him, almost harsh, almost rough without anything to smooth the way. The contrast with the softness of Kunimitsu’s tongue sweeping over him put an edge like a knife on the heavy pleasure building low in Keigo’s stomach and tensing his thighs. He bucked up as Kunimitsu’s lips stroked him, and Kunimitsu’s fingers drove into him again. And again. And again. Keigo spread his legs wider and arched with the tantalizing, electric promise of Kunimitsu’s touch.

And, just as the raking burn of Kunimitsu’s fingers thrusting into him steadied into a deep, open heat, Kunimitsu’s mouth slid down him one more time and hardened, sucking, the stroke of Kunimitsu’s tongue almost rasping. Demanding. Keigo’s body answered, tensed, shuddered as raw sensation surged through him, wringing him so hard he could barely gasp. Over. And over. And over. Until it dropped him back to the cushions, panting, a little dazed.

Slowly Keigo’s senses resumed their normal proportions, and he stared up at the ceiling while a thought formed in the stillness of his mind. Not that Kunimitsu entirely left him in peace to contemplate. Kunimitsu’s hands, tugging Keigo back down to his lap, were insistent, and Keigo leaned against him, smiling, while he caught his breath.

“You know, when you’ve been worrying over something and finally manage to stop, you tend to break out really quite noticeably,” he said, at last. “I think, perhaps, you need better stress management techniques.”

“Are you complaining?” Kunimitsu asked, against Keigo’s shoulder.

“Certainly not. Just mentioning it, in case you want to fine tune things so as to keep that famous composure of yours better.”

“That matters less with you,” Kunimitsu said, without lifting his head.

Probably just as well, because Keigo was fairly sure his entire expression had turned soft, and it still made him just a touch embarrassed when Kunimitsu actually saw how he affected Keigo sometimes. Keigo rested his cheek against Kunimitsu’s hair.

“Are the two of you all right, now?” he asked.

Kunimitsu nodded.

“Good,” Keigo declared, and put a hand under Kunimitsu’s chin to tip his face up to Keigo’s. “Then I think it’s my turn,” he murmured.

He felt Kunimitsu’s lips curve under his, before they parted for him.

End

Last Modified: Feb 08, 12
Posted: Oct 05, 04
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Bo and 9 other readers sent Plaudits.

Third Watch

When the third years retire from the club, Kirihara has to deal with taking over. Drama, I-3

Akaya counted off the days of the past week in his mind, as he walked toward the tennis courts. One day of recovery from Nationals, to make sure no one had injured themselves in an excess of enthusiasm, as Yanagi-senpai put it. Three frantic days of learning what paperwork the captain of the tennis club had to take care of while the rest of the club sorted out their new rankings. Two rather boring days of proving that, yes, he was still the best player out of the first and second years. And third, too, barring Sanada-san and Yukimura-san, but that didn’t matter any more. One day to sit home and catch his breath and bite his nails.

And now here he was, for his first day as captain of this club.

He came most of the way down the stairs to the courts and stopped. He was fairly sure he could make himself heard over the noise of horseplay and half-hearted warming up, but he really didn’t want to invite comparisons to Sanada-san, who had been able to do it with no effort at all. So he just stood and waited. It worked. Quiet spread across the courts, and everyone drifted toward him. Akaya tried to banish his nervousness; he didn’t succeed very well. At least, he reflected, he could be reasonably sure he wasn’t showing it to everyone else.

“I’m not going to say this will be an easy year,” he stated, without preamble. “It won’t. Our strongest players are gone, and however hard we work it isn’t likely this year’s team will be as strong. We aren’t them.” He saw some grimaces, and a few expressions of resentment, but not many. It was an obvious truth that few, if any, of them could become what Yukimura or Sanada or Yanagi was. Akaya nodded, and raised his voice. “It doesn’t matter. What we are is Rikkai. We will win.” A murmur passed through them, and nods, sharp and proud. They were Rikkai; they might or might not be the best, but they would damn well try. “Regulars, stay here. The rest of you, get warmed up. I want first years playing against second years.”

The club scattered, chattering, first years either groaning or bouncing, depending on how confident they were. His new team gathered around Akaya.

“Inspiring speech, there,” Furuya said, with some sarcasm.

Akaya gave him a narrow look. “You want me to send a message up to the third years, so Sanada-senpai can come down to play you and you can prove me wrong?” he asked, secure in the knowledge that Furuya would sooner carve out his own liver with a spoon than do any such thing.

Furuya looked away.

“Didn’t think so. All right, we should have doubles pretty well sewn up through Regionals; most of our major competition have half pairs left. When we get closer to the tournaments, we’ll work more on that, but for now I want to focus on singles.”

“Kirihara,” Hiiyama interjected, quietly, and nodded off to the side when Akaya glanced at him.

Akaya turned to see an adult standing at the wall around the courts, watching them all. He thought he recognized the man as one of the coaches. What now?

“I’ll see about it,” he said. “Hiiyama, rotate the doubles players against the singles.”

His vice-captain nodded.

“Waste of what we’re best at,” Furuya grumbled, quietly. “Real doubles players never play as well in singles.”

Akaya spared a moment to be thankful, first that he only had one dedicated doubles pair to deal with, and second that Furuya’s partner, Chiba, could usually curb Furuya’s quarrelsomeness. “Learn,” he snapped over his shoulder. “You never know when there might be an accident that demands you play alone.”

After the hell of the past year, mention of accidents shut everyone up, and Hiiyama started to sort them out as Akaya stalked over to the man watching them.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

The man smiled at him, which surprised Akaya a bit considering his tone hadn’t been the politest. He examined their visitor a little more closely. Tall, but rangy rather than big. Dark. Pretty nondescript. The only notable features were a pair of sharp, champagne colored eyes. And the smile.

“Actually, I was wondering if I could help you. Kirihara-kun, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Akaya admitted, a touch warily.

“Suzuoki,” the man introduced himself. “The faculty advisor for the tennis club is doing a little reorganization this year, and I noticed no one seemed to be assigned to work with the junior high division. I thought I’d come see how things were going.”

Akaya smirked. He hadn’t been around for it, but he’d certainly heard the story from his senpai, about how the advisor had said the wrong thing to Yukimura-san and been run off. All the coaches had stayed well away from them, actually. He eyed Suzuoki, wondering whether he’d heard the story too.

Suzuoki eyed him back. “You don’t look like the type to bite heads off, but I understand the last captain didn’t either.”

That sounded like a yes.

“And you seem to have a pretty fractious bunch fairly well in hand,” Suzuoki continued, “so I’ll refrain from snap judgments, I think. Which leaves us with the real question: do you want my help?”

Akaya considered this. They had done well enough without either advisors or coaches for the past two years. But what he’d told the club held true here, too. The team didn’t have Sanada-san and Yanagi-senpai to put together training schedules for them anymore. Akaya wasn’t sure he believed Suzuoki would have the fine touch for it that those two did, but he knew for sure that he himself didn’t. He couldn’t turn away something that would help him strengthen his team.

On the other hand, he was used to the idea of working without interference, and didn’t especially like the idea of someone who thought he could override the team captain. How to tell whether this guy would be more trouble than he was worth?

A sudden thought struck Akaya, and he grinned. “How do you feel about paperwork?” he asked.

Suzuoki looked like he was biting back a grin of his own. “I’ll lend you my office, if you need a quiet place to work on it,” he offered, blandly.

Okay, not a stick in the mud, and not a pushover either. Akaya’s grin sharpened. He could work with that. “I might take you up on that. And yeah, I think I would like your help. Suzuoki-sensei.”

“Good.” Suzuoki leaned against the wall. “So, what do you need, Kirihara-kun?”

Akaya ran an absent hand through his hair. “Like I was telling them, I want to work on singles for now…”


Akaya was perfectly willing to admit when he’d been wrong. Well, maybe not perfectly, but he was lucky enough not to have voiced his doubts to anyone but himself, and therefore didn’t have to admit the mistake to anyone else, either. Suzuoki was turning out to be a great deal of help.

Of course, he also drove Akaya absolutely nuts, but that was at least half Akaya’s own fault.

“I think it’s time Ueda started practicing more often against you,” Suzuoki mused over his clipboard. “He’s starting to win pretty regularly against both Kuwabara and Tsunoda. He needs to work against someone with a stronger focus on technique.”

“He came along faster than I was expecting,” Akaya admitted, leaning on the wall beside Suzuoki where they could watch the team practice.”The climbing exercises you gave him really helped his speed.”

Suzuoki smiled. He never said Of course, but, then, the results said it for him. Akaya snorted.

“Now that singles are in hand, Kirihara-kun, have you noticed what’s been happening in doubles?” Suzuoki asked.

Akaya frowned. “I’ve noticed that Tsunoda and Kuwabara have seemed… a little odd lately. Distracted, maybe.”

“Mm.” Another smile. “I was working with the first years last week. Tsunoda is gravitating toward Sakamoto. They make a good pair; quite possibly a stronger pair than Tsunoda and Kuwabara. I expect Sakamoto will suggest the idea some time soon.”

Akaya winced. There were a lot of stories about his temper, he knew. And, for that matter, Hiiyama, while normally a quiet guy, could go off like a warehouse full of fireworks when pushed too far. But Sakamoto topped them all. Mouthier than Furuya, more explosive than Hiiyama, and meaner than Akaya when the mood was on him. Akaya occasionally had to wonder whether it was compensation for being small and delicate looking. He was also, however, an excellent doubles player, and had remarkable rapport with the few partners he really bonded to. What a mess. Akaya slanted a look at his coach and crossed his mental fingers.

“Do we allow that kind of ranking challenge in the middle of the year?” he asked, as innocently as he could manage.

Suzuoki raised his brows and looked back, amused. “I don’t know, Kirihara-kun, do we?”

Akaya sighed. Oh well, it had been worth a try. “I’ll look into it,” he muttered, leaning back on his hands.

He did have a certain reluctant admiration for the way Suzuoki managed not to be conned into things like this. And he had to admit, the presence of a coach who was willing to let Akaya keep full authority over the team was a blessing. The entire club followed Suzuoki’s lead without thinking twice about it. But Suzuoki steadfastly maintained that Akaya had to lie in whatever bed he chose to make. Either he could shove off half of the administrative chores onto Suzuoki, and half his authority with it, or else he could keep one hundred percent of both.

It did not entirely help that Akaya was convinced that, if Yukimura-san knew about all this, he would gently point out that it was good experience for Akaya and that he could hardly fault the man for his integrity. And that Yukimura-san would then go somewhere else and laugh for a long time. Akaya wasn’t sure whether this would be better or worse than the stern lecture that would, no doubt, be forthcoming from Sanada-san if he knew. And he just wasn’t going to think about how Niou-senpai would respond. Altogether, he thought he was grateful that they were all busy studying for their exams.

He pushed off from the wall. “Well, no time like the present. Ueda! You’re playing a set with me, come on!”


Akaya was busy enough that December came as a surprise.

The visit came as a surprise, too, though it shouldn’t have.

“Kirihara-kun,” Suzuoki, put in, between last minute admonitions to Sakamoto at the end of the day’s practice, “you have visitors, I think.”

Akaya looked up, blinking, and around to see Yukimura-san and Sanada-san leaning against the wall, watching the club members trickle past on their way out the doors. He was torn between two such strongly conflicting impulses that, for a moment, he swayed on his feet. He wanted to hide behind Yukimura-san and beg him to take care of all this crap. He wanted them to go away, far away, from his team, his people.

He was vaguely aware of Suzuoki taking over the conversation with Sakamoto, and shook off the moment of disorientation before walking over to greet his erstwhile captain and vice-captain. Yukimura-san smiled as he approached.

“Akaya. We stopped by to see how you were doing. Things look well.”

Akaya, who had been feeling harried all day, laughed. “I guess so. Except for the paperwork. And maybe Sakamoto.”

Yukimura-san glanced over his shoulder to where Sakamoto was tossing his bright hair, restlessly, in response to whatever Suzuoki had said. “That one?”

“Yeah.” Akaya raked a hand through his own hair. “Temper like a powder keg, and you wouldn’t believe the mouth on him.”

Sanada-san snorted and gave him an extremely sardonic look. Akaya flushed and looked down, abruptly recalled to his relationship with Sanada-san as the order keeper of the old team.

Yukimura-san was a bit more polite about it, though his eyes danced. “Well, maybe he’ll be as good for your team as you were for mine.”

Akaya fought down a twitch as his world view flip-flopped again. Yes, it was his team here, now. Sakamoto was his problem, he was not their problem. Right.

Yukimura-san set him spinning again with a sharp look at Suzuoki. “And this coach? He isn’t giving any of you any trouble?” The hard edge in Yukimura-san’s voice said very clearly that he would step in if Akaya was having trouble. The thought that Yukimura-san still considered Akaya his to protect warmed Akaya like an embrace, but at the same time it was in conflict with everything he had spent months telling himself and acting on. Rikkai might not be as cutthroat as Hyoutei, but it was a lot wilder. If Akaya was going to succeed as captain, he couldn’t let himself be seen leaning on Yukimura-san’s strength.

“No,” he managed, “Suzuoki-sensei has been a lot of help.” He wanted to elaborate, but was afraid it would just draw him deeper into the spiral of clashing perspectives.

“Good. And the rest of the team? I remember you were a little concerned about Ueda.”

Responses rushed through Akaya’s mind. Well, yes, but I’m worrying differently these days, because they’re coming along, and Hiiyama can almost match me, his speed makes up for a short reach you know, but I’m worried because I’m measuring all of them against myself, because I’m the best there is, here, now, but will that be enough against the other schools, and what if my own edge is blunted exactly because I’m the best here, now, and I can’t bring them on enough and we lose?

Akaya couldn’t say any of it.

There was no good reason why he couldn’t talk shop with Yukimura-san, and compare captainly woes with him, except that… it was Yukimura-san. He could feel himself slipping, falling back into someplace more comfortable, where all he had to worry about was his own game. He could feel himself stiffening, too, trying to pull himself back together under the sidelong looks of the lingering club members.

“Ueda’s doing much better,” he answered, as evenly as he could. “Like I said, Suzuoki-sensei has a lot of good ideas for training exercises.”

Yukimura-san tipped his head and gave Akaya a long, slightly quizzical, look before his eyes softened. “I’m glad to hear it. I’m sure your team will do well this year, Akaya.” He touched Akaya’s shoulder in parting, and swept Sanada-san out with him, leaving Akaya in possession of the tennis club’s domain. Akaya was fairly sure he’d done that on purpose, and reminded himself not to squander the gift by collapsing in a stressed heap or scuttling off to hide in the club rooms until he got a grip again. Instead, he took a long breath and strolled back to Suzuoki, as if to finish a discussion with him.

“Impressive,” Suzuoki commented, quietly. “I don’t think anyone has ever delivered such a sharp warning to me without saying a word.”

“Yukimura-san’s like that,” Akaya said, stifling a shiver.

Suzuoki looked him up and down, measuring. “Well, you’ve got your work cut out for you, haven’t you?”

Akaya mustered a glare. “Gee, thanks.”

“My pleasure,” his coach murmured.

The man really did drive him absolutely nuts. And half the time it wasn’t Akaya’s fault at all.


Akaya rather liked Suzuoki’s office. Of course, it wasn’t just his, several other teachers shared it. But at this time of day the other teachers had generally left, and Akaya could take possession of the extremely battered, brown armchair someone had wedged into one corner at some point, while Suzuoki worked at his desk. Akaya had no idea what he did with those stacks of books that were always threatening to topple across or completely off of his workspace; it looked more like research than grading or anything. The office was quiet and warm, though, and if the paper dust made him sneeze every now and then it was a small price to pay.

Akaya tossed yet another page of equipment request forms on the growing stack by the chair, and stretched his arms over his head. He could hear when his spine popped.

“I really, really hate these things,” he declared, glaring at the remaining sheets.

“Enough to get someone else to do them?” Suzuoki asked, as he often did when Akaya grumbled.

Akaya eyed his coach, who hadn’t even looked up from whatever notes he was taking. “Not quite that much,” he sighed.

“I have to wonder what you would have done if I weren’t around to keep reminding you of that,” Suzuoki commented, sounding amused.

“I’d have still done them, of course,” Akaya told him, absently, biting the end of his pen as he tried to remember how many cases of balls he had wanted to order, “only I’d have had to get someone else to listen to me complain.”

Now Suzuoki looked up, with a thin smile that glinted in his eyes. “You know, every time I think your basic immaturity is shining through, Kirihara-kun, you surprise me.”

Akaya sniffed. He’d spent far too much time baiting people, himself, to rise to that one. “This chair needs new stuffing,” was all he said.

“I wasn’t actually expecting you to accept the offer to do your paperwork in here,” Suzuoki told him, returning to his books. “Most people don’t seem to be comfortable spending much time in my office.”

“What, just because you’re abrasive, snide and enjoy punching people’s buttons just so you can watch them go off?” Akaya waved a dismissive hand. “I’m used to that, Suzuoki-sensei.”

Suzuoki leaned back in his chair and laughed. “Most people have to be drunk before they can be that honest with someone senior to them,” he noted, recovering.

Akaya gave Suzuoki his most engaging smile. “But, Sensei, you’re the only one I can keep in practice with, anymore.”

Another glint. “Yes, you do seem to be more stable when you have regular opportunities to mouth off to someone. It’s worth putting up with your insolence to watch you gain control of your team. And of yourself. Besides, you can be amusing.”

Akaya paused, looking down at the papers in front of him. Yes, he had been aware that Suzuoki was encouraging such a casual relationship because he wanted Akaya to succeed. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“You’re welcome,” his coach answered, quite evenly.

And, of course, all this just made Akaya think of the other person who wanted him to succeed. The one he couldn’t face. He could deal with Suzuoki, and his sardonic sense of humor, and his silent sharpness, and his casual, unbending demands. Suzuoki kept his distance. Akaya could manage that. What he couldn’t deal with was Yukimura-san’s passionate caring.

Which was another good reason for sticking around Suzuoki’s office after practice. It minimized his chances of encountering Yukimura-san, and having to see that understanding look as Yukimura-san let him escape with nothing more demanding than a few pleasantries. It spared him having to see the flash of worry or almost-reaching-out that the understanding covered up. Which was a good thing, because damn it hurt to watch that. Akaya shifted, uncomfortably, in his chair. He didn’t like not being able to answer when Yukimura-san reached for him. But as soon as he did answer, he was overwhelmed again, and there went all the sureness and centeredness he needed to deal with his team. It wasn’t that he lost self-control; after all, that was one of the things Yukimura-san had helped him find.

It was just that, when he answered Yukimura-san, Yukimura-san became his center.

And when Yukimura-san had been his captain, that had been fine. But it wasn’t now, and Akaya wasn’t strong enough to stop it. On bad days, he wondered if he ever would be.

“Are you going to fill out those forms, or just brood at them in hopes they’ll spontaneously combust?” Suzuoki inquired.

Of course, there were also good reasons for not sticking around Suzuoki’s office. Akaya glared as best he could into the sun slanting in through the windows.

“It’s getting late. I’ll finish them tomorrow,” he declared, gathering up the stack and shoving it into his bag.

“See you tomorrow morning,” Suzuoki said, agreeably.

Akaya trudged out of the building and across the grounds, muttering to himself. “… really annoying … thinks he’s so cool … thinks he knows everything … worst part is when he does …”

“Ah, here he is.”

“I was starting to wonder whether you were planning to camp out in there, tonight!”

Akaya started at the familiar voices, and blinked to find Niou-senpai and Jackal-senpai falling in on either side of him.

“Senpai? What are you doing here?” he asked.

“We haven’t graduated quite yet,” Jackal-senpai pointed out, sounding amused.

Niou-senpai draped an arm over Akaya’s shoulders. “Thought you’d get rid of us that easily? Think again.” He grinned down at Akaya with just a hint of friendly malice.

Akaya sighed. “As if Suzuoki-sensei, and his bad sense of humor, wasn’t enough,” he shot back with as much forlorn resignation as he could manage.

“Hey!”

Akaya ducked out of Niou-senpai’s hold, laughing, and nipped around the other side of Jackal-senpai. He paused there, and looked up, curious. “I thought you didn’t like looking after me, Jackal-senpai,” he said, a little hesitant.

“I’m remembering the reason why,” Jackal-senpai noted, dryly. But the exasperated gaze fixed on Akaya was warm. Akaya smiled, and ducked his head a little.

“Someone mentioned that you’ve been staying late,” Niou-senpai provided, recapturing him by the ends of his scarf and reeling him in. “We thought we’d see how you were doing. Maybe drag you out for a while.”

“If I can’t avoid you, the least you can do is feed me,” Akaya agreed, pleasantly. The conversational tone of this insolence earned a gratifying double take; it was a trick he’d learned from Suzuoki.

Niou-senpai arched his brows and gave Akaya a long, slightly unnerving look. “Hmm.” An even more unnerving smile. “Let’s hit the University Cafe, then. You look like you’ve been studying way too hard for a second year. We can get you some coffee, too.”

“Food first,” Jackal-senpai specified, firmly. “I’ve seen Akaya on caffeine before, Niou.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” Niou-senpai demanded.

“The problem is more your threshold for what you consider an adventure,” Jackal-senpai told him. “If you want someone who will let you run wild, get Yagyuu.”

Akaya let himself be swept along, feeling a little better about the whole world.

End

Last Modified: May 15, 12
Posted: Oct 15, 04
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Demonstration

In honor of issue 250 of the manga. After that match Tezuka and Oishi have wild sex in the locker room. Porn Without Plot, I-4, manga continuity obviously

“That wasn’t necessary,” Tezuka told him.

Shuichirou tossed aside his towel and smiled over his shoulder. “Yes, it was.” As he turned back to his locker for fresh clothes, Tezuka’s hand wrapped around his wrist, not quite firmly enough to hurt.

“There were other ways it could have been done.” That cool deep voice was close behind him, now. Shuichirou shivered as he turned back to face his friend and captain.

“It was worth it.” Which was only the truth. The club had needed to know Tezuka was back as strong as ever. And, then, too, Shuichirou didn’t often get a chance to push Tezuka that hard on the court; receiving that much of his strength made for an exhilarating match.

The shadow of a smile said that Tezuka heard the double meaning. He shifted his grip on Shuichirou’s arm and tugged him closer.

“There are easier ways to get a demonstration from me. Ways that don’t involve stressing an injury right before major games,” Tezuka pointed out.

“No there aren’t,” Shuichirou contradicted with a chuckle. “You never show off.”

“Perhaps not in public,” Tezuka allowed. The way he stepped into Shuichirou and pressed him back against the wall, though, added the unspoken rider that they were in private, now. And Tezuka was, apparently, still just a little wound up from their match. That made two of them. Shuichirou closed his free hand in Tezuka’s shirt and pulled him in tighter.

Tezuka’s mouth found his, hard and demanding, and Shuichirou forgot the slight chill of the wall at his back. A hand slid down his stomach and shoved down the waist of his boxers, calluses scraping just faintly. Shuichirou made a harsh sound and his hips jerked into the touch; Tezuka’s grip on his hardening erection was as firm as his grip on Shuichirou’s arm. He wasn’t quite rough, but the urgency in his hands added an extra tingle to the heat flushing every inch of Shuichirou’s skin.

Distantly, Shuichirou wished there were a way to predict Tezuka a little better. Sometimes a hard game made him pensive and gentle. Sometimes, like today, it made him aggressive. Both were good, each in its own way, but it would be nice to know which was coming. Well, he could worry about that later.

Shuichirou yanked on Tezuka’s shirt. “Off,” he demanded. He couldn’t tell whether Tezuka’s slow smile was for Shuichirou’s answering urgency or for his obviously limited coherence. In any case, Tezuka shed his clothing with customary efficiency before leaning back into Shuichirou. Shuichirou moaned softly at the smooth resilience of Tezuka’s body againt his chest and legs contrasting with the smooth hardness of the wall behind him. Tezuka’s sleek muscles shifted under Shuichirou’s hands as they searched over Tezuka’s back and shoulders. They sighed together, swallowed into a kiss, as one of Tezuka’s hands smoothed down Shuichirou’s spine in turn. The other hand pressed between Shuichirou’s legs again, and his sigh broke into a louder moan.

“Tezuka,” he said, hoarsely, as strong fingers, stroking, spread heat through his stomach.

“Hmm?” Tezuka murmured, and bent his head to nip Shuichirou’s neck with sharp teeth.

“Ah! Tezuka…” Shuichirou leaned his head back against the wall, panting now. “You took me slow once already today. Hurry up.”

Tezuka laughed low in his throat at this interpretation of their match. “If you like. Turn around, then.”

Shuichirou turned, bracing his arms against the wall and resting his forehead on them while the sounds of brief rummaging came from behind him. Then Tezuka’s warmth was at his back, and Shuichirou found himself pressed full length against the wall. Tezuka’s hand closed around him again, slick this time, sliding fast and tight, even as long fingers pressed against Shuichirou’s entrance. Shuichirou gasped and his entire body bucked at the insistent sensations. Tezuka was certainly taking him at his word, he decided, slightly dazed.

Tezuka’s fingers drove into him, and Shuichirou shuddered, slumping into the wall as his body opened, clenched, relaxed again. Tezuka’s fingers worked him roughly until Shuichirou was straining against the warm press of Tezuka’s body, legs spread wide, almost clawing at the cool plaster in front of him, gasping for breath between the flickers of electric heat snapping down his nerves.

When Tezuka took his fingers away and replaced them with his cock in a long, hard thrust, the sound he made was as harsh and breathless as the sound Shuichirou made. Shuichirou smiled, teeth bared for a moment. Whether it was on the court or off, he took a certain satisfaction in making Tezuka pant and sweat. Then Tezuka thrust again and Shuichirou lost the thought on a long moan at the stretch and burn and force of it.

“Good?” Tezuka gasped, sounding as though he was speaking through his teeth.

“Yeah.” Shuichirou pulled in another breath. He almost never said things like this to Tezuka, but today it seemed appropriate. “Tezuka. Fuck me hard. Fuck me as hard as you play me.”

A deep, wordless sound answered him. Both Tezuka’s arms were around him, now, holding him, and it was a good thing as Tezuka drew his thumb over the head of Shuichirou’s erection and thrust in again. He drove Shuichirou hard up against the wall each time, drove fire up his spine higher and higher, and it didn’t take long at all before Tezuka’s powerful strokes unraveled him, just like they did on the court. Shuichirou jerked against Tezuka’s hands, almost thrashing as orgasm snatched away the tension of his muscles in a burst of heat and sharp, drenching pleasure.

Shuichirou leaned, laxly, against the support of Tezuka’s arms, grinning at Tezuka’s choked off moan as he thrust against the lingering clench of Shuichirou’s body. He was relaxing again when Tezuka followed him, rhythm breaking short, and they both finally stilled. Tezuka’s arms settled around Shuichirou more loosely, and his breath brushed the back of Shuichirou’s neck as they rested against the wall for a few moments.

“Thank you,” Tezuka murmured, at last.

“Definitely my pleasure,” Shuichirou told him, laughing a little.

Tezuka’s mouth pressed to Shuichirou’s bare shoulder. “For both.”

Shuichirou turned around, muscles twinging and complaining a little. He sighed, pleased, as Tezuka’s hands dropped to his thighs and rear, massaging the complaints away. “You know you don’t have to thank me for either.”

Tezuka looked down at him, bittersweet brown eyes lightened with calm. “Yes. I do.”

They smiled, quietly, at each other.

End

Last Modified: Feb 09, 12
Posted: Dec 14, 04
Name (optional):
darkemochic and 7 other readers sent Plaudits.

Wild

Pet Shop of Horrors crossover. While visiting the US, some of the tennis boys come across an unusual pet shop. This evolves, as such things do, into some strange situations for a few of them. Drama, I-2, Future PoT anime continuity, middling PSoH manga continuity

Ryouma strolled down the narrow street, trying not very hard to more or less keep an eye on most of his teammates. It helped that he’d expected for, weeks, to be doing this. He’d been roped into playing tour guide the last time it was the US’s turn to host the Kantou vs. West Coast competition, too, so he’d been ready for it this time and only put up a token protest.

“Hey, Echizen!” Momo’s hand emerged from the crowd and snagged Ryouma’s arm, dragging him in front of a window display. “What are all these?”

“How should I know?”

…though he did spare a few moments to wish that the regular teams of the chosen players hadn’t all managed to come watch. He might have gotten out of this altogether, if they hadn’t. The only player from his temporary team who was along today, and not one of Seigaku, was Yukimura-san. Everyone else had split up like a handful of same-pole magnets as soon as the closing ceremonies were done. Tachibana-san was with his own team today; Sanada seemed to be hiding out in his hotel room; and Ryouma hadn’t asked where Atobe was going. He did wonder why they all seemed so eager to get some distance again. After all, it wasn’t like the coaches had done anything really cruel with the lineup this year.

Well, not to them, anyway. Pairing Tachibana-san and Yukimura-san for Doubles One had turned out to be pretty cruel to the other team. Ryouma didn’t think he’d ever seen a match played so… fiercely.

“This is a busy part of the city, isn’t it?” Fuji-senpai asked, appearing beside him. “And such a varied crowd! Did you ever come here to watch the people?”

“No.”

Then again, he’d probably have been stuck anyway, Ryouma decided, watching Fuji-senpai slip through the clumps of people. If nothing else, Fuji-senpai would have latched onto him for a good audience to act all nonchalant in front of. Ryouma had been fairly impressed that Sanada managed to keep Fuji-senpai serious all through their match, but he’d known it wouldn’t be permanent. Fuji-senpai liked to play around too much. On the bright side, at least Inui-senpai had carried Kaidou off to the Natural History Museum to look at bones, and Kikumaru-senpai had been dragged away by Mukahi and Oshitari-san.

He hadn’t asked where they were headed, either.

Ryouma leaned against a shady bit of wall, hands tucked in his pockets, and relaxed while his teammates darted back and forth across the street, dragging this person or that to be shown the newest interesting shop. Having repelled the latest attempt at this, Tezuka-san leaned beside him.

“Good choice of location,” he commented.

Ryouma grinned at his captain. “I thought so.”

If anyplace could hold the interest of his senpai when they were determined to play tourist, he’d figured Chinatown would be it. Something was always happening.

“Risi, not that door!” a faint voice exclaimed. A few doors down, a bright bird with a long tail flitted into open air and nearly crashed into Yukimura-san. A quick snatch captured it, and he held it gently while it cheeped in protest.

“Hush, now,” Yukimura-san told it, petting the small head with a fingertip. “I don’t think the owner would like it if I aid and abet your escape.” The bird eyed him for a long moment before it settled down in his hands with a coo and a ruffle of feathers.

“Well, at least she didn’t go far.” A young man in formal clothes emerged from the shop doors. “Although,” he added, in Japanese, tipping his head, “I can’t say I’m surprised she likes you.”

“Really?” Yukimura-san’s eyes narrowed a little, and his smile sharpened.

Ryouma wondered for a second whether they knew each other or something. Yukimura-san was usually impenetrably charming with strangers. He drifted toward them. Actually, everyone was gathering back around them.

“What a beautiful bird,” Oishi-senpai said, softly.

The man smiled. “She’s a very rare breed; the shop specializes in exotic pets. Would you care to come in and look?” He ushered them all inside, and accepted the bird back from Yukimura-san. “Now, are you going to behave?” he asked it. The bird cheeped and bobbed a few times, and he nodded. “Good.” He set it on an open perch, where it settled down and started to preen its trailing tail feathers.

“Is it a songbird?” Fuji-senpai asked, coming to stand beside him.

“Oh, yes,” the man answered, low voiced. “She sings at dawn.” His smile looked very strange for a moment, and Fuji-senpai gave him a sidelong glance.

Ryouma observed that, while most everyone else was fanning out to make impressed noises over the animals, Fuji-senpai seemed more entertained by the proprietor.

“Dottybacks!” Oishi-senpai exclaimed from the cluster of aquariums one corner. “And is that one… a Cypho?” he looked over his shoulder at their host, wide-eyed. “How do you keep this many of them alive when they can see each other?”

The owner perked up. “Ah, you’re familiar with the breed, then?”

“I would love to put together a coral tank, and maybe even keep a breeding pair of these.” Oishi-senpai touched a finger to the corner of the tank, looking longingly at the tiny fish.

“Wow,” Momo whispered, peering into the tanks, “look at those colors.”

“But they’re so aggressive,” Oishi continued. “They’d take a lot of attention to make sure the young didn’t all kill each other off. Not to mention they’re worse escape artists than that bird.” He made a deprecating face, and turned away from the tanks with a last, lingering look.

“Most fish owners simply take a certain percentage of loss for granted,” the owner said in a very neutral voice.

“That’s irresponsible,” Oishi-senpai frowned. “Of course they can’t be controlled completely, they’re living animals after all. But when we take them out of the wild, we have a duty to do our best for them.”

The owner gave him a long, measuring look and smiled slowly. He reached for pen and paper, and wrote something out quickly and neatly. “This is our address. If you think you might be interested in some of our animals, there are a few trans-Pacific shippers that I trust. Just let me know.”

Oishi-senpai glanced around at the shop full of cheeping, growling, gurgling animals, at the sheet of paper and back at the owner, looking a bit dazed. “Thank you. I’ll keep it in mind.”

“You do seem to have a talent for keeping the peace between your tenants,” Yukimura-san noted, looking down at a racoon sprawled asleep on top of a small bear, “Mr…”

“D,” the owner supplied.

“Of course.” Yukimura-san smiled. “This place has a very relaxing atmosphere.” He turned. “Don’t you think so, Tezuka?”

Tezuka-san was not, naturally, oo-ing and ah-ing. He was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and his eyes closed. “Very,” he agreed, without looking up.

Ryouma blinked. Tezuka-san did actually sound relaxed. Fuji-senpai stopped beside their captain and asked something, softly. Tezuka-san leaned his head back against the wall and shrugged one shoulder. Fuji-senpai abruptly left off his curious examination of D and focused on Tezuka-san. Yukimura-san was looking very amused for some reason.

“The incense helps with that,” D answered, drawing Yukimura-san’s eyes back to him. “I blend it myself. That way I can always send a packet with the more sensitive animals, to give them something familiar while they settle into a new place.”

Ryouma was really starting to wonder if he was missing something, because Yukimura-san was looking at D with wide eyes. “Send it with them?” he repeated, still staring.

“Oh, yes. It’s very helpful.” D smiled, and for one second it was sharp as a knife. And then he was looking cheerful again.

Yukimura-san gave him a tilted return smile, and his eyes glinted. “Indeed.”

“So, who’s up for dinner?” Ryouma put in. He figured hunger was probably making him lightheaded. The conversation would surely make more sense after he’d eaten.

A chorus of agreement answered him, Momo loudest of course. D recommended a restaurant down the street and waved them goodbye at his doors.

“Do feel free to stop in again, if you’d like,” he called. “Any time.”


D closed the doors after his visitors. “Well! That was something you don’t see every day.” He turned toward the back. “T-chan, you can come out now.”

Tetsu shouldered through one of the curtains, grumbling. “Why couldn’t I be out here?! What if one of them had gone nuts? Worse, what if one of them decided he liked you?”

D smiled indulgently at Tetsu’s ferocious glare. “They were both wild, T-chan. Neither of them was likely to stay here.”

“Yeah?” Tetsu bristled. “That tiger sure looked like he was thinking about it.”

“Actually,” D sighed, “I hope he comes again before he goes home. For his own sake.”

Tetsu snorted, cynically. “And because you want to grill him about how he’s managing to pass.”

D chuckled. “All right, that too.”


Kunimitsu walked down streets without really looking where he was going. He knew quite well that it was dangerous to wander a strange city alone, at night, but right now he was too agitated to care. In fact, for the first time in a very long time, he was almost hoping for the appearance of some lowlife who would give him an excuse to set aside his self control.

He scolded himself for the thought, but his heart wasn’t in it.

Today had been more stressful than usual, and Yukimura’s sense of humor hadn’t helped. Who would have thought that they’d find someone who recognized them while out playing tourist? He’d spent the remainder of the day torn between the relief of knowing there was someone he might talk to, if he chose, who would understand, and the reflex terror that someone knew what he was.

A familiar sign caught his eye, and he stopped short on the sidewalk. Count D’s Pet Shop. Kunimitsu snorted, silently. It seemed his instincts had had a destination in mind after all. Now, if he could just decide whether that was a good thing or not.


About to lock the doors, a faint sound caught D’s ear. A chopped off rustle, very much like someone standing outside the doors and wondering whether he should approach or not. D smiled, and if there was as much darkness as sympathy in the expression, well, his visitor couldn’t see him yet.

“Welcome to Count D’s Pet Shop,” he said, more softly than he would have for a human. “Please, come in.” He opened the doors to meet the very level gaze of the young man outside, and his smile turned more cheery. “Would you care for some tea?”

Tezuka-kun’s mouth tightened. “Thank you.” He didn’t sound grateful at all, but he did stalk inside. D stifled a grin, and closed the doors behind him before making a comforting and domestic fuss with the tea set.

“So,” he said, as they sipped, “if I gathered correctly, you and the other young men here this afternoon play tennis?”

Tezuka-kun nodded, gazing into his tea.

“A useful outlet for competitiveness,” D mused.

Tezuka-kun gave him a mildly exasperated look. D decided that one of his friends must have a habit of speaking obliquely, too. Very well, then, he would be a bit more direct.

“It must be very stressful, living in a city, among such crowds, when your instincts call for space,” he suggested.

“There are adjustments that have to be made,” his guest agreed, sitting back. D nodded. The scent of the shop was starting to relax Tezuka-kun again.

“Adjustment, adaptation,” D nibbled a cookie. “They’re the true wonders of the natural world. That which adapts lives. And animals are capable of the most amazing feats, really. Changing from rural to urban habitats; from being carnivores to being omnivores.” He looked back up into the opaque brown eyes across the table. “From a range that consists of land to one that consists of people.”

Tezuka-kun’s eyes narrowed, and topaz flashed in them for a breath. Another observer might have thought it was only the lamplight.

“Yes, I thought that might be it.” D sipped his tea. “Those others who were with you, they are your team?”

“Yes,” Tezuka-kun said, and an edge of vibrato had entered the deep voice. He was tense again, coiled to move.

“I make no claim on them,” D assured him, softly.

Tezuka-kun took a deep breath and sat back again, passing a hand over his forehead. “My apologies,” he said, at last. D waved this off.

“It’s only in your nature. Actually,” his mouth quirked, remembering, “I was surprised that you and Yukimura-kun dealt so peacefully with each other, seeing that he was in the middle of your territory.”

A shrug answered him. “He has his territory, and I have mine; we don’t interfere with each other that way.” Tezuka-kun’s mouth twisted. “This week of being on the same team hasn’t been especially easy,” he admitted.

D was fascinated. “And it’s all subsumed into this game. Territory and challenge, and all. Truly an amazing adaptation.”

Tezuka-kun looked away, abruptly. “Maybe.”

“Is there a problem?” D asked quietly, not pressing.

Tezuka-kun was silent for a long moment. “In school, there are times I can’t properly mark or defend my territory. And after this year I will have to find another. As you said—stressful.”

D considered this. No wonder Tezuka-kun was tense. His kind were not terribly social animals, and while he could ameliorate that a little by considering some humans his territory, humans didn’t hold still the way landscape did. Stressful, indeed. Still, he thought Tezuka-kun might be overestimating his trouble; not uncommon in the young of any species.

“Surely your territory won’t be entirely broken, even if you part ways somewhat,” D pointed out. “That nice young man, Oishi-kun will never abandon you, I’m certain. And the quiet young man who smiled so much. Not to mention,” D’s mouth quirked, “the one who was rolling his eyes at everyone else.”

That made Tezuka-kun look thoughtful. “Oishi and Fuji I might be able to keep, I suppose,” he said at last. “Echizen, though, is almost ready to go looking for his own territory. I wouldn’t do either of us any favors by trying to stop him.”

D raised his brows. Interesting. It sounded as though Tezuka-kun regarded Echizen less as part of his territory and more as one of his own kind. Well, that had no bearing on the situation right now. “You should relax for a while, Tezuka-kun.”

The look he got this time was completely exasperated. “In the middle of a city? Where?”

“I’ll show you.” D rose, and beckoned his guest through the door to the back.

A corner of Tezuka-kun’s mouth twitched as they walked down the long halls, but he didn’t bother asking how it was possible. His eyes did widen a bit when D finally opened a door and they stepped through into a cool, rustling forest. D set down the censer he had picked up, and settled on a patch of grass next to it. D saw Tezuka-kun take a deep, deep breath of the breeze, and laughed gently as longing crossed his face. “Run and hunt here as long as you like,” he said. “I’ll stay with you; follow my scent to come back to the door, here, when you’re ready.” He had to take his own breath in at the burning, wild desire in Tezuka-kun’s eyes when they met his. Brown lightened to topaz, and Tezuka-kun turned toward the trees, and in a few steps he was bounding on four velvet paws.

D smiled as the jagged stripes in Tezuka-kun’s fur blended into the forest. He had rarely been thanked so… thoroughly. He leaned back and inhaled deeply again, waiting for the scent of blood on the breeze.


Ryouma stalked down the streets that he hadn’t necessarily shown his senpai during the day. He’d been restless after they all got back to the hotel. Not the only one, either. Tezuka-san and Fuji-senpai had both gone out, too. A day like this one should have left them all tired enough to sleep, but it looked like not. Ryouma felt a little wound up, actually. Not dissatisfied with the recent games, but as if he was ready for another right now. He’d considered prodding one of the others into a match in the hotel ballroom, but when he’d mentioned the idea he’d gotten a vehement veto from Oishi-senpai. So, walking it was. He didn’t pay too much attention to where he was going, besides making sure to follow lit and crowded streets.

He didn’t notice Fuji-senpai until they nearly ran into each other.

“Echizen,” Fuji-senpai smiled. “Revisiting today’s sights?”

Ryouma blinked at him, and then at their surroundings. A familiar sign caught his eye. Count D’s Pet Shop. Of all the places to wind up.

“Not really,” he answered. “You?”

Fuji-senpai eyed the doors. “I did wonder whether Tezuka had come back here. When I asked him if he felt all right, earlier… Well.”

Ryouma gauged Fuji-senpai’s worry by what he had almost said directly, and decided it was greater than he’d seen it since their captain injured himself. “The shop did have a nice, relaxing atmosphere,” he offered.

Although, now he thought about it, he’d been feeling whatever he was feeling ever since they’d come out of this place. Well, there was one way to find out. He tapped on the doors, and pushed them open, hearing Fuji-senpai come in behind him.

The shop was empty of any humans, though the animals all eyed them with interest. The doors in the back wall were open. Ryouma glanced up at Fuji-senpai, who was frowning faintly. Part of Ryouma’s head was pointing out that they should announce themselves, or find a bell to ring, or something, and just ask whether Tezuka-san had been in. The rest of his mind didn’t seem to be listening, and when Fuji-senpai moved toward the back doors, Ryouma followed him.

He was positive that Tezuka-san was back there.

They made their way down a long hall, which, the logical part of Ryouma’s mind pointed out, was a little peculiar, even for this part of town. Logic seemed to be fighting a losing battle, though. The hall dead-ended at yet another pair of tall doors. This was the place. Ryouma pushed them open.

The two of them stepped into a forest.

Ryouma felt only vaguely surprised, though it would occur to him later that he should have been completely freaked out. Fuji-senpai certainly seemed shocked, standing still as a stone, wide eyes darting around. Then he stiffened. Ryouma followed his gaze and saw Tezuka-san lying stretched out, uncharacteristically lax, with his head resting in D’s lap. D’s fingers carded through his hair, and Tezuka-san seemed to be asleep.

“Tezuka?” Fuji-senpai choked.

Tezuka-san stirred, and a tiger lifted his head from D’s lap to blink at them.


D raised his brows at the two intruders. Well. He certainly hadn’t expected them to follow Tezuka-kun—hadn’t expected them to be able to. Fuji was shaking his head and staring very much like someone who distrusted the evidence of his senses. Echizen…

Echizen walked forward, grass swishing against his shoes. “Buchou,” he said, with surety.

Tezuka-kun narrowed his eyes and growled, tail flicking twice. Echizen ignored this sign of displeasure as if he’d had practice, and kept coming. His eyes, now that D could see them, were very calm and a little distant, and, as he came closer, their bright brown flickered with gold. Two more steps, and another tiger paced toward Tezuka-kun.

Tezuka-kun tucked his chin down and his growl scaled up into a startled, inquiring sound. He glanced at D.

“I think you saw more truly than you were aware, Tezuka-kun,” D murmured, thoughtfully. He was ready to swear that Echizen was entirely human, but the speed of this change said that the boy had a powerful affinity for the wildness in himself.

Tezuka-kun snorted, and stalked toward Echizen, glaring. Echizen twitched his ears and stood his ground, head tipped to one side. D put a hand over his mouth to hide his smile. Echizen either didn’t really understand the language of his current shape or else liked living dangerously. The young tiger ducked Tezuka-kun’s swipe, and made to nip the raised paw. A brief tussle of fur and growling resolved with Tezuka-kun lying on Echizen’s shoulders and washing his ears vigorously. Echizen-kun sighed, and laid his chin down on his paws.

Footsteps sounded beside D, and he looked up to see Fuji staring down at him with hard eyes.

“Have we been drugged?” the young man asked, very calmly.

D sighed at this echo of his detective’s favorite accusation. Humans. “You are under the influence of something,” he answered, gesturing to the smoking censer, “but it isn’t a drug.”

“What is it?”

A corner of D’s mouth curled up. “You might think of it as reality,” he suggested.

Fuji looked from D to his two friends, and D could see reluctant understanding in his tight expression. He was actually a bit impressed with this boy’s iron refusal to give way to panic or hysteria. His mind was evidently still working, in face of what must be very strange to him, and that was rare. Possibly troublesome, too.

“Tezuka,” Fuji said, quietly, “why…” He gestured to D. Probably, D decided, asking why someone so strong willed had let another person meddle with his integrity. An honest answer, which he had little doubt Tezuka-kun would give, would reveal far too much. He really might have to do something about Fuji’s interference.

Tezuka-kun leaned his forehead against Echizen-kun’s fur for a moment and sighed before he looked up. “Because this is what I am, Fuji,” he answered, his voice equally low. “You should forget.”

Fuji gazed at him for one frozen moment before his calm broke into a glare and he stepped toward Tezuka-kun. “Forget?! Forget that you turned into a tiger? Excuse me?!” His sharp gesture of denial turned into an upsweep of wings, and he fluttered up to a branch where he assaulted everyone’s ears with some very strident commentary.

Echizen-kun rolled onto his back, under Tezuka-kun’s arm, and propped himself up on his elbows. “I’d have thought you’d be bigger, Fuji-senpai,” he commented, with an insolent grin.

“Lovely markings, though,” D cut in over a particularly piercing rejoinder. “The Eurasian variety of Lapwing is a lovely bird.” He smiled up at Fuji, who had paused to cock his head in a remarkably skeptical manner. “Their common name refers to the irregular rhythm of their flight, a great fascination to bird watchers. They’re also one of the breeds that will feign injury to lead predators away from their nests.” Fuji flipped his wings at D, clearly not mollified much.

Echizen-kun, on the other hand, was bright-eyed and looking deeply amused. “Suits you perfectly,” he prodded.

Fuji-kun spread his wings, looking ready to dive at his young friend, and Echizen-kun crouched, ears back, tail lashing. Tigers weren’t technically able to grin, but he was definitely grinning. Fuji-kun flung himself off the branch, only to pull up at the last minute, and peck Echizen-kun soundly between the ears. Echizen-kun’s claws parted Fuji-kun’s tail feathers, for his trouble, and they were off through the trees, leaping and diving at each other. D was now very impressed with Fuji-kun’s amenability to the wild when he finally acted.

Tezuka-kun put a hand over his face and laughed, silently. D laid his hands on Tezuka-kun’s shoulders, urging him to lean back against D. Tezuka-kun gave in with a sigh. “He really should forget,” he said.

“Perhaps,” D murmured. “Your Fuji has more in him than is immediately obvious.”

Tezuka-kun snorted, settling his head against D’s chest, and purred as D combed his nails through Tezuka-kun’s fur. D contemplated the evening’s events, Echizen-kun’s part in particular. The speed of his change was unusual. Normally, a little of the incense D blended merely enabled humans to see what they normally did not. It took a higher concentration for human consciousness to enter into that part of the world they regularly ignored, and higher yet for a full transformation to follow. Fuji-kun had followed that pattern, though the break in his temper seemed to release a transformation hard on the heels of the second stage. Echizen-kun, though… to move so quickly, and into the shape of Tezuka-kun’s spirit…

D smiled down at the tiger snoozing on his lap. Tezuka-kun had had a good hunt, earlier, as D had hoped. He had brought Tezuka-kun here only to relax and refresh him from the strain of living among humans, but it might turn out that there was more for him to do tonight.

Tezuka-kun woke when the other two returned. Echizen-kun flung himself down in a pleased sprawl, panting. Fuji-kun landed on his head, ignoring the resulting ear twitching. Tezuka-kun sat up, adjusting his glasses.

“We should go soon.”

Echizen-kun heaved a vast sigh, and hauled himself upright, too, crossing his legs. D held out a hand for Fuji-kun to flutter down to, and stroked one finger over his head. Fuji-kun stretched, lacing his fingers together over his head, and smiled cheerfully at Echizen-kun.

“Maybe next time,” he suggested. Echizen-kun sniffed.

“That could be a bit difficult,” Tezuka-kun pointed out, dryly.

Echizen-kun looked at him, biting his lip. “Not for you, though,” he said, slowly. “That’s what you meant, isn’t it?”

Tezuka-kun nodded, silently. Echizen-kun pursed his lips, and looked from him to D with a question in his eyes.

“There are ways for a human to take on another nature,” D told him, evenly. “They are not reversible.”

“D-san!” Tezuka-kun exclaimed, sharply, and frowned at his protege. “Echizen…”

Echizen-kun looked up at him, solemnly. “If it’s reality, like he said, why shouldn’t I want it?”

“Echizen,” Fuji remonstrated, softly, leaning to take the other boy’s shoulder, “it can’t be easy; and it must be dangerous.”

Echizen-kun made a derisive noise, ignoring Tezuka-kun’s definite nod. “Like pro tennis is easy and safe?”

“Tennis isn’t something you have to hide from everyone you know,” Tezuka-kun pointed out, approaching a glare.

“Not everyone,” Echizen-kun answered, simply.

Tezuka-kun had to swallow and take a long breath. D folded his hands in his lap, hiding his sympathy for both sides of the argument. When Tezuka-kun seemed unable to speak, though, he felt compelled to add a practical warning.

“It is unlikely you and Tezuka-kun would be able to have much contact, outside of your competitions.”

“No,” Tezuka-kun put in, at last. “We could share to an extent.” He shrugged, as D’s eyes widened. “You spoke of adaptation. My family learned to take the females’ way, when we started to take humans as mates, and share territory. Inside the family, at least.”

“Remarkable.” D felt the little bubble of joy that rose in his chest whenever he encountered some animal managing to win in spite of everything.

“I want this,” Echizen-kun said, very firmly, looking both Fuji and Tezuka-kun in the eye.

Fuji sighed, and smiled wryly. “If you’re that determined, I suppose that’s all there is to it.” He turned a sharper eye on Tezuka-kun. “And if you suggest, now, that I forget…”

Tezuka-kun ran a hand through his hair. “No, I won’t suggest it again.” His eyes softened a shade as he glanced at Echizen-kun. “The choice is yours.”

Echizen-kun gave him a bright, wicked smile. “I know.”

Tezuka-kun looked down his nose, and D chuckled. They would do well.

“Come here, then, Echizen-kun,” he directed. When Echizen stood in front of him, D drew his finger along one sharp corner of the censer, cutting it. He marked Echizen with his blood between the eyes, on his palms and over his heart, and called. A sharp twist of wind and scent swirled around the boy, and he folded up, gasping. When it left, Echizen-kun looked back at D with gold eyes and arched his whiskers in question. D held out his hand, and Echizen-kun swiped the blood off his fingers with a long, rough tongue. A second later he looked mildly revolted, and folded his arms.

“Done?” he asked.

“Done,” D smiled.

“Doesn’t feel all that different,” Echizen-kun observed.

“No, it wouldn’t I imagine,” D agreed. “You were half way there already. The result of accepting Tezuka-kun’s influence, I believe.”

Tezuka-kun blinked.

“I’ve never seen anything quite like it,” D admitted, “but I have to wonder whether this would have happened, eventually, in any case.” Tezuka-kun and Fuji both moved closer to Echizen-kun, who relaxed a little, probably calmed by their scents. D ruffled Echizen-kun’s hair, getting a glower in return, and looked around at his three guests.

“It will be well.”


Ryouma yawned his way through the breakfast buffet, weaving among hotel guests back to the tables his teammates had secured. Tezuka-san, of course, had already efficiently filled his plate and chosen a seat. Ryouma contemplated the high proportion of meat on Tezuka-san’s plate, and then on his own, and sighed. At least his mother would probably be happy when his eating habits turned more to the Western food she prefered. Ryouma deposited his plate at the next place, glancing around to see who else was up and about, and ground to a halt.

“Echizen?” Fuji-senpai asked from behind him, setting down his own plate and laying a hand on Ryouma’s shoulder. He’d been doing that a lot, since last night; Ryouma didn’t mind, especially right now. Having Fuji-senpai’s scent so close steadied him.

“You didn’t mention that,” he muttered through his teeth to Tezuka-san.

Tezuka-san raised his brows, and followed Ryouma’s glance. “Ah. Yes. You get used to it.”

“What do you see?” Fuji-senpai asked, softly.

“Yukimura-san is a dragon,” Ryouma said, very flatly, not taking his eyes off the members of Rikkai who had just come through the door.

Fuji-senpai was silent for a long moment. “That could explain a few things,” he said, at last, in a contemplative tone. Ryouma glared at him, but couldn’t keep it up for long before his eyes were drawn back to Yukimura-san.

Who was now staring back at Ryouma.

Waving his team to an open table, Yukimura-san strolled toward theirs. Tension wound through Ryouma’s whole body, as Yukimura-san’s scent fanned over him, sharp and blue like lightning. “I see the reputation of that family for meddling is the truth,” Yukimura-san said, looking Ryouma up and down with a slight smile.

Ryouma jerked his chin up. “It was my own choice,” he snapped. He had a strong urge to claw that look off Yukimura’s face. His tension eased again as Tezuka-san’s scent folded around him. His captain had risen and stepped forward, nudging Ryouma just a bit behind him.

“Don’t push him yet, Yukimura. He’s still new to this.”

“Of course,” Yukimura-san murmured, stepping back. “I can wait.” His eyes narrowed for one moment, wild and glinting, and then he smiled at them sunnily and turned back toward his team. Ryouma took a deep breath, throttling down his own fizzing aggression, and leaned against Fuji-senpai.

“So, eventually, I get to bite his throat out, right?” he asked.

Fuji-senpai laughed, and even Tezuka-san’s shoulders twitched with what looked like suppressed amusement.

“Figuratively,” his captain specified, sternly.

“Ok, I can work with that.” Ryouma pulled out his chair and started in on his breakfast. As the comforting chatter of his team surrounded him, punctuated with Momo and Kikumaru-senpai stealing each other’s bacon, he relaxed further. He could work with this.

It was reality, after all.

End

In order to make locations and participants match up, I have hypothesized that the coast v coast competitions take place on the high school level, as well as the junior high level.

Last Modified: Apr 04, 12
Posted: Dec 26, 04
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Qem and 22 other readers sent Plaudits.

Verbalize

In which Momoshiro is inexplicably exhbitionist. Also featuring Atobe Keigo, Sex God. Genre: Smut Recollected in Tranquility. Pairing: Yes, lots. Rating: I-4. Continuity: Not particularly

Nearly limping back toward his room, praying quietly that the beds had been remade by now and there would be some nice, cool sheets for him to collapse on, Momo paused to check the bath more out of hope than any expectation there would actually be room at this time of day. Rather to his surprise, there was only one head showing over the edge. Maybe the coaches had decided to torture everyone today, and he was just one of the first back. Not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, Momo hobbled in, shedding his uniform and scrubbing off as hastily as he could. Which wasn’t very.

“Momoshiro,” the other occupant greeted him, cracking an eye.

“Am…” Momo broke off to grit his teeth as he hauled his second leg over the edge. “Amane,” he finished on a sigh, sinking into the water across from his roommate.

Amane’s brows lifted. “Hard practice?”

Momo leaned back with a groan. “I know that it’s a great chance for the Junior High level players to be able to play against the best of the High School level, and I know how rare a mixed seminar like this is, and it really is great to be able to measure up against our senpai without feeling like a pest for bothering them when they have their own training to do. I know all that. But I’ve gotta tell you, Amane, Kurobane-san could give Tezuka-san and Sanada-san a run for their money when it comes to ruthless drills, and the coach just stood there grinning.”

Amane closed his eyes again, smirking faintly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Momo said with a grin, good nature restored by hot water. “Your ex-partner ran me into the ground. Just don’t forget who won the official matches this year.”

“You’re a better analytical player than I am,” Amane shrugged. “That’s why I like doubles. So be ready for it when Bane-san and I play together again, next year.”

Momo examined his roommate, thoughtfully. He’d been meaning to ask, and it seemed like a good time. “Hey, Amane? Are you and Kurobane-san lovers?”

The water rippled as Amane started a little, and gave Momo a wide eyed look. Momo shrugged. “Just wondering. The way you sound, sometimes, when you talk about him.”

Amane tilted his head and his eyes narrowed a bit. “What about you?” he challenged.

Momo’s mouth curled up. It was always kind of fun when he could get people to play this game, especially someone who didn’t like backing down. He’d given the viper a nosebleed, once, that way. “Well, I’m with someone else now, but the first person I was with on my own team was Tezuka-san.”

The water sloshed as Amane sat bolt upright and blinked at him. “Tezuka-san?” he repeated, deep voice scaling up in disbelief.

“Yep.” Momo chuckled, reminiscently. “It was just the once. I caught him at the right time. And, um, I kind of pushed it,” he added, running a wet hand through his hair. “It was after some of the Prefectural matches, last year; it had been kind of a tense day in general, and I had lost my temper with someone from another team. Tezuka-san had to call me back, or I would have tried to pound Akutsu into paste, I really would have. When we all got back that night, I went over to apologize to Tezuka-san for acting like that. For making things harder for him, when I knew how much pressure he was under already. And he actually smiled.”

Momo gazed up at the tiled ceiling, remembering that moment. The tiny quirk of Tezuka-san’s lips, and the hint of fondness in his even voice.

“He told me if I felt guilty about it I could run punishment laps the next day. And I honestly don’t know what I was thinking, maybe Echizen’s match had wound me up more than I thought, but I asked him if that was the only punishment he ever gave, and if he couldn’t think of something more imaginative.”

A faint choke came from Amane, and Momo laughed.

“Oh, yeah. The only thing that kept me from spontaneously combusting from the embarrassment was that, for just one second, his eyes were on fire. I couldn’t breathe, looking at him. So when he covered that up and gave me The Eyebrow I came and stood right up against him and said if he wanted me he could have me. So he took me.” Momo decided to leave out the details of how hot Tezuka-san’s hands had felt, closing on his shoulders, or how much like begging it had been when Momo had looked up and whispered his captain’s name.

“It was kind of overwhelming,” he said, instead. “Tezuka-san all over. Not that he was rough, really.” Momo grinned. “In fact, since there wasn’t anything else handy to make it easier, he bent me over the side of his bed and opened me up with his tongue, first.” A glance at Amane showed a bit more flush on his cheeks than could quite be blamed on the heat of the water. Momo grinned wider, and continued, airily, “So my brain wasn’t working too well in the first place, being pretty much taken up with how incredible that felt, but when he got around to fucking me properly, I couldn’t think of anything but how deep every thrust was. And how I could feel him everywhere, with his arm around me and his cock inside me and his mouth on my neck.”

Momo traced two fingers over the curve where his neck met his shoulder, and couldn’t hold back a shiver, remembering Tezuka-san’s teeth scraping there, lightly, tongue following after, slowly, and how he’d nearly come with the shock of it when Tezuka-san finally bit down hard.

“And when it was over,” he finished, “he helped me get cleaned up, and kissed me once, very gently, and let me go.”

The bath room was silent for a long moment, until Momo broke it with a bright, “So, what about you and Kurobane-san?”

Amane sputtered for a moment before getting a grip. “Yes, we’re together,” he managed.

Momo lifted his brows, and have Amane a cool, challenging look. Was that all? Amane glared just a little. Momo decided to prod him. “What’s he like, with you?”

Amane actually stopped to think about that. “Strong,” he said at last, “gentle. He likes to be able to laugh.” A sudden smile lightened those still features. “He teases, sometimes. Touches with just his fingers until I tell him to hurry up already.”

These two made a cute couple, Momo decided. “Atobe likes to do that, too.”

Amane’s jaw dropped.

“You didn’t know?” Momo blinked, genuinely taken aback. He’d thought everyone knew. “Oh, yeah. For most of this year. He was a lot more aggressive about it than Tezuka-san, of course.”

“How…?” Amane asked, finally tempted into a question. Momo stifled a snicker.

“Well, Atobe shows up at the street-courts a lot,” he said, expansively, making ripples in the water with a toe. “And I always thought his attitude sucked, when he did. So one time I told him off about not respecting the other player. And, of course, he looked at me like I was speaking gibberish and said he respected good players.” Momo snorted, remembering. “I told him just respecting Tezuka-san didn’t count. So then he said he respected me. And then my mouth kind of got away from me again, since I was pretty surprised, and I asked if he’d respect me in the morning.”

Amane snorted, himself, and Momo scrunched down in the water a little.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Kamio asked, later, if I had a death wish or something. Atobe really can’t resist a challenge; he’s almost as bad as Echizen, that way. The next thing I knew, we were in his bedroom, and he had me down on the bed, kissing me like there was no tomorrow. But, yeah,” Momo swerved back to the topic at hand, “he likes to tease. He has the most amazing hands, and he’ll just… stroke until I’m nearly going crazy.” Momo let his voice drop, remembering Keigo-san’s silky voice in his ear, Anything you want; tell me what you want. “Until I’m spreading my legs and telling him to fuck me so deep I can taste him.”

Momo smiled lazily, as he noticed Amane’s blush was back in force.

“The thing is,” he continued, “it isn’t a power trip, or anything. It’s just that he wants to hear it, to know that I want him. Atobe is very generous when he feels wanted.” Momo stretched, dripping water over the edge as he flexed his hands behind his head. “The first time he finished with me I couldn’t even stand. And he kisses hot enough to make you forget your own name.”

Amane finally broke, and got out of the bath. “I’ll just go ahead back to our room,” he murmured.

“Yeah, see you there,” Momo replied, pleasantly.

He didn’t break out laughing at his roommate’s obvious flusterment and even more obvious erection, until the door closed.


Momo strolled down the hall to his room, whistling, in a far better mood than he had been an hour ago. Echizen said he was getting bad habits from his boyfriend, but Momo had always liked competitions, and especially winning competitions. The fact that very few people had the basic brashness to match him at this particular game didn’t make watching the usual results any less fun.

“Amane,” he said, as he closed the door behind him, “did you want to go down a little early to dinner… errr… um, I didn’t know you were busy, I’ll just go take a walk, how’s that,” he finished, taking in a magnificently naked Kurobane-san leaning over Amane, on one of the beds, licking his way down Amane’s bare stomach. He couldn’t help noticing, also, that Amane looked very sexy with his head thrown back and his lips parted as he arched up toward his lover. Now was clearly not the moment to pause in appreciation, though. Momo made a smart about face, and had taken two steps back toward the door when Kurobane-san’s voice stopped him.

“Momoshiro. You don’t have to go.”

Momo paused, trying to decide how he should take that statement, and two strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him back against a warm, lean body.

“After all,” Kurobane-san added with a soft chuckle, “it’s mostly your fault.”

Momo cleared his throat. “Ah, well.” Anything else he might have said was lost on a gasp when Kurobane-san nipped a path down the side of Momo’s neck. His eyes fell closed. He hadn’t mentioned the part about liking teeth, had he? It was a little hard to remember at the moment. Especially when one long, capable hand moved down to cup between Momo’s legs. “Kurobane-san,” Momo breathed, and moaned when strong fingers rubbed over his growing erection.

“Bane,” Kurobane-san… Bane-san corrected. “My whole name is a pain.”

Momo could sympathize with that. He’d sympathize with anyone who had such warm hands and used them to fondle and massage him like this. Let alone someone he respected as an excellent player, both singles and doubles.

Wait, wasn’t there something missing, here?

A rustle came from behind them, and then other hands, broader than Bane-san’s slid under Momo’s shirt, lifting it up and off. Momo opened his eyes to see Amane standing in front of him, with a wicked gleam in his sharp, blue eyes.

“It is mostly your fault,” Amane reiterated, “and since you seemed to want to know, I thought showing would be more effective than telling.”

Momo burst out laughing. “Much more,” he couldn’t help but agree. The laugh slid into a groan as Amane’s thumbs circled Momo’s nipples, teasing, while Bane-san’s palm stroked against him, promising. “If I start begging now, will you skip the teasing?” he asked, a little strained.

“You don’t even have to beg,” Bane-san told him, magnanimously. His teeth raked Momo’s earlobe, lightly, drawing out a shudder as his fingers slid the last of Momo’s clothing down. Expecting Bane-san’s hand again, Momo took a few moments to process it when Amane sank to his knees.

“You forgot to ask what I’m like in bed,” Amane pointed out, hands tightening on Momo’s hips.


Keigo raised his brows, as Kurobane and Amane came out of the room Amane was sharing with Momoshiro. They looked… sated. “Shall I take it Momoshiro is out for a walk somewhere?” he asked.

“Oh, no,” Kurobane replied, dark eyes glinting with amusement over something. “He’s right inside.” He swept his partner off down the hall, taking care, Keigo noted with some curiosity, to stay between Keigo and Amane. Interesting.

Keigo tapped on the door, and entered to find Momo sprawled on his bed with a towel barely wrapped around his waist, giving the ceiling a somewhat dazed examination. “Momoshiro?” he asked.

“Keigo-san.”

Keigo weighed the combination of the pleased curl at the corners of Momo’s mouth, and the slight color across his cheekbones, and shook his head. “Someone finally one-upped you, I assume.”

“Kind of,” Momo admitted, breaking into a grin. “Amane and I called it a draw.”

Keigo tossed back his head and laughed. Yes, that was his lover, all right. He slid onto the bed, nudging Momoshiro over with a hip. “So?” he asked, threading his fingers through still-damp black hair. “I trust they were worth it?”

“Mmm.” Momo’s smile softened. “You’d like Amane’s mouth. Hot and soft and strong, and he obviously likes to use it. Never mind cherry stems, he almost tied me in a knot with his tongue. Good thing Bane-san was there to hold me up, when Amane was done with me. Bane-san was the one who figured out I like teeth, though.”

Indeed, Momo’s nipples looked a little redder than usual, and Keigo ran his thumb over a bite mark on Momo’s shoulder. Momoshiro made a soft sound and shivered, and Keigo smoothed a soothing hand over his skin. He could just imagine Momo’s muscles standing out hard as he surged up against a rough mouth on his chest, and strong hands holding him to the bed; he’d felt Momoshiro’s body strain under his often enough, when Keigo did something like that, after all.

“He was careful,” Momoshiro added. “It’s strange. He’s so solid, so there, but it felt so light when he touched me. Even when he was lying over me with his arms wound around me and his mouth on my throat. Light, even when his cock was sliding in and out of my ass, and he was lifting me up so he could drive in deeper. Amane was right; Bane-san is strong, but he feels like laughing.”

“Very poetic.” Keigo smiled down as Momoshiro turned on his side, transferring his head to Keigo’s leg instead of the pillow.

“Mm.” Momo’s eyes were sliding shut. “And you feel like breathing, Keigo-san.”

Keigo stroked Momoshiro’s hair for a few minutes, until he was sure Momo was asleep. Then he fished out his pocket copy of Theory of Colours, and settled down to read.


The door clicked open and Kurobane’s voice floated through the room.

“…knew you liked him. You even snitched dinner rolls for him.”

“Bane,” Amane growled, and then rocked to a stop as he spotted Keigo and Momo on the bed.

“He’ll appreciate that,” Keigo noted, glancing up from his book. Momoshiro stirred, but didn’t wake. “Supposing he has time to eat them before leaving,” Keigo added. “Don’t both of you have a meeting to be at pretty soon?”

Amane checked the time, and nodded, dropping a package on the end of the bed and gathering up a notebook. Keigo set his book aside, and shook Momoshiro’s shoulder. “Momoshiro. Wake up.”

An indecipherable sound answered him, and Momo burrowed into his lap. Keigo considered for a moment.

“You’re going to be late, and Tezuka is at this seminar. How many laps will he make you run?”

Sure enough Momo rubbed his eyes. Ten years from now, Keigo swore, Tezuka’s team would still jump if he gave them an order. “What time is it,” Momo mumbled, looking up hazily.

“Twenty till. You have five minutes.”

Momo blinked twice, and then his eyes widened and he scrambled up onto one elbow. Keigo caught him by the back of the neck.

“You’re not late yet, though,” he purred, and kissed Momoshiro with concentration. He leaned over Momo as his lover sagged back down to the bed, covering Momo’s body with his weight, pressing a leg between Momoshiro’s. Momoshiro’s mouth opened under Keigo’s, hot and wet and willing, and an eager sound vibrated in Momoshiro’s throat. His hips jerked up a bit against Keigo’s thigh. Keigo drew back, and smirked down at him.

“Just something to remind you to hurry back, after the meeting,” he murmured.

A spark lit Momo’s eye, and his lips drew back off his teeth. “Right.” He shoved Keigo’s shoulder until Keigo let him up.

Momoshiro pushed himself off the bed, hauled on his clothes, and paused, only then noticing Kurobane and Amane, both silently watching the show. Momoshiro’s grin tilted, and he glanced over his shoulder at Keigo, now reclined on his bed with the book open again. “Possessive bastard,” he said affectionately.

“Don’t forget the rolls,” Keigo answered, nudging the napkin wrapped package toward him.

Kurobane leaned against the wall, contemplating Keigo as their respective lovers left. “You know he’s going to be deliberately late getting back, now,” he remarked.

“Most likely.” Keigo smiled and crossed his legs, pushing Momoshiro’s pillow a little more firmly behind his back. “It will give me time to think how to greet him properly when he does.”

Kurobane rolled his eyes and shook his head. “I think Davi-kun will be staying with me, tonight, seeing as Fuji said he’d be visiting Saeki. You have fun.”

“Definitely,” Keigo pronounced with confidence, and returned to his reading.

End

Last Modified: Feb 09, 12
Posted: Jan 02, 05
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raggirare and 4 other readers sent Plaudits.

Confession

This is an answer to a challenge, the challenge in question being to write a serious story featuring Girly!Sanada and, preferably, Manly!Yukimura. Valentine’s and associated pratices seemed to offer a useful occasion for this. See Yukimura get chocolate from an unexpected source; see Sanada fidget and blush. Seriously. Romance, I-2, manga continuity

Sanada Genichirou paced down the sidewalk beside his captain, listening with half an ear to Seiichi’s amiable comments on exams and how nice it would be to watch the third years finally graduate and leave the high school to them. Genichirou made listening noises, but his attention was elsewhere. Part of him was still howling in futile disbelief that he had actually done what he had done this morning. Most of him was searching for things to focus on besides his nerves.

A very small voice in the back of his mind was praying fervently to any kami that might listen and feel merciful that Niou never, ever found out about this.

Ostensibly, he was going home with Seiichi today so that they would each have some moral support while they sorted through this year’s Valentine’s chocolate and wrote thank you notes. It was a yearly tradition for them. For the first time, though, Genichirou found himself with a personal interest in one of those boxes; it was the one he had placed in Seiichi’s locker, atop several others even by that early hour, after making very, very sure no one was around to watch.

He had never been so nervous in his entire life. Not for exams. Not when he was called to demonstrate for his grandfather’s advanced classes. Certainly not for any match he had ever played! His respect for the courage of the girls who delivered their gifts in person had increased rather abruptly today.

Seiichi’s mother was dotingly amused by their little tradition, and waved them both up to his room with the briefest formalities. Genichirou was grateful, since he didn’t know how much longer even his self control would allow him to make casual small talk without starting to fidget. Why had he done this to himself?

Well-trained memory recited that Valentine’s Day was the proper and traditional day for confessing affection to its object, and that chocolate was the proper and traditional, and appealingly nonverbal, way to go about it. The holiday had been instituted in order to give people who normally didn’t have such an opportunity the chance to actually express their love. Genichirou was simply taking advantage of it. High school was the proper time for this. All told, this was about as much buttressing from tradition and propriety as Genichirou could give the desire that had managed to weave itself into the friendship and admiration he’d always felt for his captain. The increasingly strident voice of cynicism, which Genichirou normally and properly muffled and ignored, noted that Genichirou sounded more and more like he was trying to convince himself. What was he going to do next, in this traditional progression, wait to be asked on a date?

Seiichi paused by his desk, as Genichirou tripped over thin air, and looked at him with some concern. “Are you all right? I hadn’t thought today’s practice would have tired you that much.”

Genichirou collected himself and sat on one end of Seiichi’s bed. “I’m fine. Just a little distracted.” Anxiety, he decided, must be making him lightheaded. He tried to breathe more slowly. This was ridiculous.

It shouldn’t last much longer, though, one way or another. Seiichi settled on the other end of the bed and they both spilled out their piles of small boxes and bags over the thick, blue blanket. Genichirou managed to sort through his as briskly as ever, only slightly impeded by having one eye always fixed on Seiichi’s pile for the appearance of one particular box. Thankfully Genichirou hadn’t received any homemade this year, and only three items were extravagant enough to require a note in return. He set them aside, sweeping the rest back into his bag and wondering how many he could pawn off on his brother and father.

And then he had to shove his heart back down out of his throat and fold his hands together, hard, because Seiichi had picked up a small, dark red box without any logo. Here it was. Either Seiichi was about to charitably suppress laughter, or… or something else.

“Only one homemade this year,” Seiichi remarked. “It seems the girls are finally learning.”

Genichirou throttled down a flinch.

His captain’s long fingers flicked open the attached fold of paper, and Genichirou’s nerve broke. He couldn’t watch. He fixed his eyes on the blanket instead.

“Genichirou?” Seiichi’s voice was quiet.

It was a very nice blanket. The last one had been worn to a rather dull shade of green before Seiichi consented to replace it. How long ago had that been?

Seiichi’s hand reached out to touch Genichirou’s chin and lifted his head again with uncompromising pressure. Genichirou swallowed. He had really thought he was used to how penetrating Seiichi’s gaze was; perhaps not. He could feel his face heating.

“I don’t know that I’ve ever seen you blush before, Genichirou,” Seiichi observed. “It really was you who gave me this, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Genichirou managed, just a bit stifled. He did not, however, look away.

Seiichi’s eyes focused on him as if they were playing a match. “I’m honored.”

Genichirou relaxed slightly; at least kindly restrained amusement didn’t seem to be forthcoming, and this was a significant relief. A traditional offer had been made, and accepted in a traditional fashion. This was also reassuring. He stiffened again, though, when Seiichi’s thumb brushed the very corner of his mouth and Seiichi smiled.

The last time Genichirou saw that speculative smile it had been directed at Echizen. The time before that, at Kirihara. This was not especially reassuring. It got even less so when Seiichi came up onto his knees, leaning over Genichirou, lifting his chin further still. Was he really going to…

Genichirou’s eyes fell shut as Seiichi’s mouth covered his. It was a compelling kiss, warm and vibrant, much like Seiichi himself. It wasn’t until Seiichi’s tongue stroked out, coaxing Genichirou’s lips to part, that an uncertain sound found its way up his throat.

Seiichi drew back, not very far, running his fingers through Genichirou’s hair. His eyes were considering as he looked down. “Was that your first kiss?” he asked, softly.

Genichirou sternly ordered the flush rising back to his face to go away and nodded.

Seiichi’s lips gained an extra curl, sharp and pleased. “Good.”

His second kiss was hard enough to press Genichirou down to the bed, hot enough to steal his breath and leave him gasping under the weight of the hands on his shoulders. “Seiichi…”

Seiichi drew back again, rather reluctantly, but he smiled more gently this time. “Too much?”

Genichirou glanced aside. This kind of intimacy was not a casual thing, to him, and while he was reasonably sure it wasn’t casual with Seiichi either, he would prefer just a little longer to be more sure. He did not, however, protest when Seiichi kissed him again, light and easy. This was, after all, exactly what he had offered; his captain knew him, knew that. And, really, it wasn’t as though he was unused to just how forceful Seiichi could be, after standing across the net from him all these years.

A shiver coiled down Genichirou’s spine at the thought of Seiichi kissing him as fiercely as he played when they were serious.

Seiichi slid a searching hand down Genichirou’s chest, laughing low in his throat. “I have to say, this is by far the best Valentine’s Day I’ve ever had,” he murmured.

All things considered, even with the unaccustomed nerves and the problems of making chocolates in dead secret from his mother, Genichirou had to agree.

Seiichi’s eyes glinted. “And now I have a real excuse to give all those girls.”

A kiss swallowed both Genichirou’s growl and Seiichi’s laugh.

End

Last Modified: Feb 09, 12
Posted: Feb 13, 05
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anehan and 9 other readers sent Plaudits.

Strategy

Kirihara meets Yanagi while out studying, and they chat about literature, history, psychology and teammates. Drama, I-2

A current of cold air passed over Akaya where he sat, sideways, in one of the University Cafe’s few booths, and he looked up. In part, he wanted to make sure the newcomer wasn’t a college student who would evict him from his spot, this being their proper territory after all. Akaya had only kept his place so far because so few students had stuck around campus for such a cold, wet weekend.

Of course, in the past few weeks Akaya had also learned that if he didn’t look up when the door opened he was liable to find himself lassoed by Niou-senpai’s scarf or pounced on by Marui-senpai, who turned out to be a lot more solid than he looked.

This time he was lucky. It was Yanagi-senpai. Akaya waved without hesitation. Yanagi-senpai was a lot less extreme about the whole ‘keeping in touch with Akaya’ thing than the rest of them. It had recently occurred to him to be very, very grateful that his birthday had fallen before the project got going.

Akaya swore to himself that he would never be such a trial to his own kouhai.

“I didn’t expect to see you here on a weekend, Akaya,” Yanagi-senpai noted, as he settled across the table. “Were you hoping for some company? Or,” his mouth curved just a bit, “did you hope to avoid everyone by coming here when they would expect you to be at the arcade?”

Akaya shrugged, riffling the pages of his book with a fingertip. “I’ve just gotten used to coming here. It’s a nice place to study. Not so quiet I can’t hear myself think, like the library.”

Yanagi-senpai tipped his head, examining the spine of the book. “Ten Nights of Dreams? They gave you that for homework?”

Akaya snorted. “We have to write a report for Japanese, and I asked if I could do this instead of Botchan. Which I’ve read before anyway, and this is on the alternate reading list, so Yoshimura-sensei said it was all right.” He sighed. “Couldn’t get out of the boring books for History, though. I don’t suppose … ” he trailed off hopefully.

Yanagi-senpai’s lips quirked strangely. “I might not be the best person to ask for help just now, Akaya. I’ve been working on a comparison of the old History text with the new one. I wouldn’t want to confuse you with references you won’t need for your own tests.”

Akaya blinked. “Is it a class project?” It didn’t sound like one, but every now and then weird things popped up in the elective courses.

“Purely for my own interest. The differences in the editions are politically instructive. Genichirou says I have too much taste for contention, but it’s a fascinating study. In any case, Genichirou is the one you should speak to about Japanese history.”

“Mmmm.” Akaya poked at the crumbs of his snack from earlier in the afternoon.

“Since I’m here and he’s not, though,” Yanagi-senpai went on, “what’s giving you trouble?”

Akaya eyed Yanagi-senpai through his lashes. He’d been wondering when the loaded questions would start. “It isn’t that I don’t want,” he started and paused. “I just,” he tried and stopped again, frustrated at the clumsiness of all the words suggesting themselves to him. He was supposed to be good with language, he reminded himself.

“I know,” Yanagi-senpai told him, quietly. “Don’t worry too much, Akaya. It wasn’t entirely unexpected.”

Akaya blew out an exasperated breath. “If you knew I was going to have trouble when you guys left, you could have warned me,” he muttered.

“It wasn’t sure, and if it wasn’t going to happen I hardly wanted to suggest it to you,” Yanagi-senpai pointed out, reasonably. “One of the hazards of prediction.”

Akaya raised his head, staring as a sudden thought leaped up. “Is that why you say it out loud on the court?”

Yanagi-senpai smiled.

Akaya leaned back, unsettled. “Maybe I’ll start with catching Sanada-san, instead,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

“You style is, perhaps, better suited to overcoming him,” Yanagi-senpai agreed.

Akaya made a note of that “perhaps” to chew on later. When Yanagi-senpai used such smooth qualifiers it usually meant he was bluffing. But Yanagi-senpai probably knew by now the kinds of things Akaya noticed, so maybe it was a trap. Akaya sighed. Definitely start with Sanada-san; the head games with Yanagi-senpai would just make him dizzy.

“Enough of that,” Yanagi-senpai said, chuckling. “We can play again later, if you like. I don’t want to distract you too much from your work.” He nodded at the book, now fallen closed on the table. “Do you know what you’ll say about it yet?”

“That the spirit is eternal and love kind of sucks,” Akaya answered, promptly.

Yanagi-senpai laughed out loud. “Anyone would certainly think so after reading Soseki for a while,” he allowed, “but you should probably concentrate on the first part, for the teacher’s benefit.”

“Figured,” Akaya shrugged.

“So classes are going well. What about your team?”

Akaya sprawled back down on the table, groaning. “Yanagi-senpai, please, please tell me both your doubles pairs are nice and stable and not going anywhere. Please?”

“I take it yours are not entirely stable at the moment?” Yanagi-senpai asked with only the faintest wobble of amusement in his voice.

Akaya buried his fingers in his hair. “I’ve never seen dramatics like this outside of afternoon television,” he declared. “Kuwabara didn’t take it too badly when Tsunoda threw him over to pair with Sakamoto instead. Well, not too badly considering he got upstaged by a first year; I’m surprised you didn’t hear him bellowing all the way across campus, but he didn’t break anything. But now there’s Niiyama, who was pairing with Sakamoto, all in a snit, and he challenged Ueda this week and won. So now I’ve got him sniping at Tsunoda over Sakamoto, and half the second years getting pissed off about two first years being Regulars, and Sakamoto doesn’t seem to care who he plays with as long as they hammer the other side six feet into the ground, and Niiyama and Tsunoda are making a personal competition of who can make him happiest!” He paused to catch his breath.

“Sounds like a fairly standard restructuring period for the team,” Yanagi-senpai murmured.

Akaya looked up at him, blankly. “Are you joking?” he asked, finally.

“Not at all, Akaya. That doesn’t sound all that unlike how Niou and Yagyuu came to be a pair.”

“It is?” Akaya sat back, blinking. On the one hand, it was a bit comforting to know his pack of crazies wasn’t some kind of karmic punishment for him personally. On the other … “Yukimura-san let them?”

Yanagi-senpai turned a hand palm up. “When the players balance each other’s strengths and weaknesses, it’s usually best to let them sort it out. Only when they are unbalanced do they need their captain to step in and provide the counterweight.”

Akaya considered this. “Maybe they do balance out,” he said, slowly. “At least … Niiyama never lets Sakamoto actually go too far. I thought he would, but he doesn’t.” They were silent for a while before Akaya nodded. “Thanks, Yanagi-senpai.”

“My pleasure,” Yanagi told him with a wry smile. “I think we’re more than just teammates after this past year. Friends look out for each other.”

Akaya smiled back. The words “more than just teammates” sparked another thought made him look down again, though. “Yanagi-senpai, does Sanada-san … ” he paused, fishing for the right word. Understand, he supposed. He knew Yukimura-san understood, but he hadn’t seen Sanada-san at all lately.

“He understands,” Yanagi-senpai offered, hand resting briefly over Akaya’s. “He’s been staying away from you for many of the same reasons you’ve been staying away from him.”

Every now and then, he didn’t mind so much that Yanagi-senpai knew what he was going to say before he said it.

“So,” Yanagi-senpai said in a brisker tone, “what part of History has been giving you trouble?”

“Not trouble,” Akaya protested. “It’s just so boring it’s hard to remember sometimes.”

Yanagi-senpai’s mouth curled up at one corner. “Ah. What you really want is to ask Niou, then. His historical narratives are anything but boring.”

Akaya gave him a flat look. “I’m sure they are, Yanagi-senpai, thanks very much.” Did anyone else know Yanagi-san was this evil?

“Oh, very well,” Yanagi-san said, tolerantly, “let me get some tea; pick a period, and I’ll tell you about it. Did you want anything?” he added, rising.

“Hot chocolate!” Akaya tucked away his book as Yanagi-san made his way to the counter, and prepared to listen.

He was glad he’d come here today.

End

Last Modified: Sep 03, 07
Posted: Feb 25, 05
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Wildflower

Yukimura, a bit troubled over Kirihara, talks first with Tezuka and then with Suzuoki. Drama, I-3

Seiichi didn’t come out to Makuyama Park very often. The harshness of the landscape didn’t generally appeal to him. But today he needed to remind himself of a few things, and Makuyama suggested itself. In January there were few other people there, and Seiichi wandered among the plum trees, thinking.

He was troubled over Akaya. He wanted to give his successor all the time he needed to get his feet under him. But the way Akaya was still shying away from him worried Seiichi. On the other hand, he couldn’t very well interfere when he himself seemed to be the problem. That fact still annoyed him greatly. Renji teased Seiichi about being possessive, but Seiichi didn’t think he was. Not the way Renji meant, at any rate. Seiichi chose a sunny shelf of rock to settle on, and looked up at the spray of branches that hung over it. This one was almost ready to blossom, lavender buds showing brighter rose at the edges as it prepared to unfurl.

“You don’t care, do you?” he asked, reaching up to touch a branch. “Not that you’re growing on volcanic rock, not that it’s winter. You just keep growing.” He sighed and smiled, a little crookedly, at the tree.

“Yukimura?”

Seiichi looked around to see, of all people, Tezuka standing near. “Tezuka,” he greeted, a little surprised to see him out here. “You’re rather early for the tourist season in this park.” He was amused to see how much distaste a single shrug could convey.

“I’m not fond of tourist season.”

“I’m not either,” Seiichi admitted. “I wonder if they mind.” He stroked the branch, lightly.

Tezuka tilted his head, consideringly. “They seem to keep growing, regardless,” he said, at last.

Seiichi had to laugh. “That was why I came out here today, actually.” He leaned back on his hands and gazed out across the trees. “Sometimes, when one of the plants in my garden isn’t doing well, and I can’t figure out why, I come out to one of the parks. It reminds me that plants are a lot tougher than most gardeners like to think they are. They survive just fine on their own.” He took a deep breath and ordered the tightness in his chest to go away. “I do wonder, sometimes. If my plants could talk to me, would my seedlings tell me I’m jostling their roots, and to stop fussing over them?”

Tezuka didn’t answer, but he didn’t move off, either. When Seiichi glanced at him, he was simply waiting, a little the way Genichirou did when he knew Seiichi wanted to talk about something. Only less patiently. Seiichi chuckled again. Tezuka’s presence was a silent offer to keep listening, but the crossed arms and faintly quirked brow said that obscure whimsy would not be tolerated. Genichirou tended to be amused by such things, and would reflect them back as poetry if Seiichi caught him in the right mood. Somehow, Seiichi doubted Tezuka wrote poetry. Which made his implicit offer a bit of a mystery. Maybe he was feeling a little bereft, too, without his own team.

And perhaps it would help to talk with someone outside his team, Seiichi reflected. More than that, to talk with another captain. So.

“Do your seedlings ever cause you worry, Tezuka?” he asked. “Momoshiro. Echizen.”

“Sometimes,” Tezuka said, brows raised. “We both had rather willful teams this year, Yukimura.”

“Now there’s an understatement. I find myself worrying more, now that I have to leave one of them behind.”

“There will still be someone there to oversee the ones I’m leaving,” Tezuka said, slowly. “It helps. Ryuuzaki-sensei is a good teacher. If I’ve gotten them to start on their own paths, I can trust she’ll see that they keep going. A good coach provides a great deal of continuity.”

“A good coach,” Seiichi repeated, hearing his own voice chill. From the watchful expression on Tezuka’s face, he knew his had probably turned hard and cold. “I found those in short supply, and declined to have any interfering with my team. Though one has found his way to Akaya.”

“Is he any good?” Tezuka asked, calmly.

Seiichi felt his fingernails scrape against stone and forced his hand to unclench again. “I have no idea. I’ve never dealt with him; he worked with the high school division until this fall.”

Tezuka was silent for a long time, which was probably just as well since Seiichi was busy trying not to snarl at the thought of the tennis club’s faculty advisor taking the same tone with Akaya he had once presumed to take with Seiichi.

“Yukimura,” Tezuka said, at last, “do you trust Kirihara?”

Seiichi blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Even if Ryuuzaki-sensei wasn’t there, I don’t think I would be afraid for Momoshiro or Echizen.” Tezuka waved a hand at the plum trees surrounding them. “They’re strong. I know that. So do they.”

Seiichi felt something in him relax. Not all the way, but a little. It helped, to hear the logic that had drawn him here today stated in someone else’s voice. “I do trust Akaya,” he answered, softly. And perhaps, he thought, ruefully, Akaya would trust himself more if Seiichi could offer a better example of confidence in his own teaching. And then he smiled up at Tezuka. “I suppose Echizen never has accepted any fussing over himself. But, then, that doesn’t seem like a mistake you’re prone to.”

“It isn’t something he’s ever complained about, no,” Tezuka agreed, in a dry tone. “The only regular complaint they make is of overly vigorous pruning.”

Seiichi stared at him for a long moment, before he laughed with genuine delight. Perhaps he’d been right, and Tezuka was in the same place he was, missing the connection of a team collected around him. He couldn’t imagine many other things that would bring such a reserved person to trade metaphors with him. He clasped his hands around one knee and leaned back against them.

“I think next year will be difficult,” he said. “For all of us. Our teams this year … were something special. And now we’re broken apart. Nor am I at all sure our senpai will be pleased to see us again.”

Tezuka’s eyes were shadowed, as he looked down at Seiichi, and Seiichi decided he had, indeed, been right.

“Will you be there, next year, Tezuka? You and Fuji?” Something to look forward to; something to keep him going.

“Yes.” Iron rang in Tezuka’s voice, the tone of someone who had never backed down from any challenge.

Seiichi closed his eyes, and tipped his head back to feel the sun against his face. It was simply warm, now; but come summer it would be bright and hot and dangerous. Yes. He would look forward to summer. “Good. We’ll be there, too.”


The one question Tezuka had asked him that Seiichi hadn’t been able to answer nagged at him over the next few days. Was Suzuoki a good coach? He didn’t know. And Seiichi was aware enough of the irrationality of his prejudice that it made him uncomfortable.This was what had led him to one of the halls he didn’t normally frequent.

Seiichi knocked on the frame of Suzuoki’s door. The man barely glanced up.

“Yukimura-kun, I was expecting you sooner. Come in.”

Points for observation, Seiichi noted. He also filed away the thought that Suzuoki was the sort who liked to unnerve his opponent. Well, then, bluntness in return for bluntness—Seiichi hooked a chair around to face Suzuoki and seated himself without waiting for an invitation.

A thin smile crossed Suzuoki’s face as he took his cigarette out of his mouth. “Was there something you wanted to talk about?”

Seiichi considered for a moment. Clearly, this one would not be susceptible to the same kind of intimidation that had worked in the past. Suzuoki knew what this confrontation was about, and was prodding Seiichi to show his hand first. A cautious approach seemed called for.

“I was wondering,” he began. “I hear you’ve been working with the high school division for years. Was there a particular reason you switched, now?”

“It would certainly have been interesting to stay and deal with you, instead, Yukimura-kun,” Suzuoki allowed, smoothly. “But both rumor and results say that you have all the help you need. The junior high division, however, is losing that support. As a coach, it behooved me to offer some help to the new captain.” He paused, and snorted. “Who actually accepted it, to my increasing surprise the better I get to know him.”

The abrupt shifts from bluntness to reticence and back were enough to set even Seiichi off his pace. Caution, definitely. “Surprise?” he probed.

An eyebrow lifted. “You have a reputation as a perceptive young man,” Suzuoki noted. “It can’t have escaped you that Kirihara-kun is a spitfire. To put it mildly.” And then sharp eyes glinted. “Or perhaps it did escape you.”

Seiichi kept a firm hold on the flare of anger that answered that suggestion, that he might not know the measure of one of his own team. He felt his focus start to narrow, as it did when he faced a good opponent on the court, and answered Suzuoki’s provocation with the waiting poise that had swallowed so many challengers before. “I am familiar with Akaya’s temper,” he returned, coolly.

Rather than pressing in, though, Suzuoki eased off. He blew out a long breath and leaned back, shaking his head. “No wonder the kid’s so tangled up.”

Seiichi’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll bet my next pay packet that he’s spent two years being overshadowed by you,” Suzuoki answered, apparently not affected at all by Seiichi’s increasing sharpness. Suzuoki flicked his fingers, trailing cigarette smoke through the air. “It isn’t always a bad thing. But he’s always had your control to rely on, hasn’t he?”

“Akaya has learned to control himself, or I wouldn’t have made him the next captain,” Seiichi returned, firmly.

Suzuoki blew a stream of smoke at him. “I’m not surprised you don’t see it. He’s probably too close to you. You defined the edge of acceptable temper for him, Yukimura-kun. Your self control is the pattern he’s blindly followed; it’s obvious in the way he relaxes when he’s with you. Now he’s having to find that stopping point for himself, and relaxing is the last thing he can afford to do.”

Well, this certainly answered Seiichi’s questions about the quality of help Akaya had attracted. Suzuoki was right, and Seiichi did, in fact, know it. That left only one question outstanding, and answering that one would require different tactics. So Seiichi relaxed, disengaging from the focus of confrontation, and smiled.

“I trust Akaya’s strength,” he said, quietly.

A momentary pause, followed by a one sided smile, said he had caught Suzuoki by surprise. Seiichi waited, holding off his tension, for the response.

Suzuoki’s smile gained ground, though it was still rather tilted. “Actually, so do I. At least,” he added, “I think he has the potential. I’d rather like to see him succeed.”

It really was amazing, Seiichi reflected, the variety of people Akaya managed to capture without seeming to intend it. “Would you?” he asked, teasing just a little, now that he was more sure Suzuoki was on the right side.

Suzuoki gave him a narrow look. “I have to have a very good reason before I’ll put up with the kind of mouthiness that kid gives me on a regular basis,” he stated, dourly.

Seiichi bit back a laugh, but knew his amusement was probably showing anyway. “Akaya is a good reason,” he said. “Thank you for taking care of him, Suzuoki-sensei.”

Suzuoki’s look turned sardonic. “Thank you for leaving him alone, this year, Yukimura-kun.”

“Hm.” Their glances practically rang off each other. One pass made it quite clear that, just as Seiichi had no intention of leaving Akaya wholly to his new coach, Suzuoki had no intention of backing down. “Well enough,” Seiichi said, softly, and turned toward the door.

Seiichi was not, after all, the only one from the old team who was interested in Akaya’s welfare.

“Yukimura-san?”

Seiichi turned from closing the door to see Akaya standing in the hall, looking startled. His glance flicked from Seiichi to the office he’d just come out of and back, and widened. Seiichi laughed.

“Everything’s all right, Akaya.”

Akaya examined him for a moment longer, and nodded, relaxing.

And visibly caught himself back.

Seiichi tipped his head to one side, contemplating his protege. Akaya had a little over a year to settle this thing for himself. Would that be enough? Seiichi knew Akaya was phenomenally capable, when he needed to be. Look how far he had come in a year and a half, starting from the simple decision to overcome Seiichi and Genichirou and Renji.

Seiichi thought about that.

“Akaya.” When Akaya looked up at him, Seiichi smiled the way he did when inviting Akaya to play a serious game against him. “I’ll be waiting.”

Akaya’s head came up, sharply, and his eyes focused, darkened. “I’ll find you, Yukimura-san,” he answered.

“Good.” Seiichi took himself off, and only barely caught the exchange behind him.

“You look like you’ve been standing in a fire,” Suzuoki commented.

“Did I ask?” Akaya snapped back, irate and fearless, before the door closed.

Seiichi chuckled all the way down the stairs. Yes, he believed that Akaya would do fine.

End

Last Modified: May 15, 12
Posted: Feb 27, 05
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The Other Side

Kirihara deals with a stressful practice and finally snaps. In a good way. Drama, I-3

“We would have won if I’d been playing with him!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t have the reach to counter Chiba.”

You don’t have the speed!”

Akaya tried to unclench his teeth before he gave himself a headache. “Both of you be quiet,” he growled. Niiyama and Tsunoda shut up but didn’t stop glaring at each other, Niiyama’s eyes fiery and Tsunoda’s chill. Akaya throttled down the urge to whack them both over the heads with his racquet, and never mind that Tsunoda was tall enough he’d have to reach for it.

Sakamoto leaned against the fence, staying out of it for all he was worth, and Akaya wished once again that he knew whether that was because Sakamoto didn’t care or cared too much. He’d really like to figure out whether he could use Sakamoto to quash these fights or not. Right now he was stuck doing all the work himself, and it was getting old.

“I don’t suppose, just possibly, for the good of the team you’re both allegedly a part of, you could actually agree to share Sakamoto’s time instead of using him as your tug-of-war rope?” he asked with tired sarcasm, raking a hand through his hair.

“Yeah,” Furuya muttered from where he was fetching a water bottle, “after all, you had really good examples of sharing this past year, right?”

Akaya knew it had been a long practice, and that everyone was tired. He knew that when Furuya was tired he sneered more than ever. He knew it was now his responsibility to keep his temper when everyone else didn’t. But in the shocked silence following Furuya’s remark, Akaya could hear the singing rise of his own blood pressure and feel the clenching tightness in every muscle that meant he was going to break something very soon.

“Furuya,” he gritted out, enunciating carefully, “you will not say things like that, here.”

Later, Akaya would place the look on Furuya’s face as nervous bravado. At that moment, though, he saw only defiance and it tinged his vision in red. It had been more than a long day, for him, it had been a long four months. Rage hovered in the back of his mind, bright and gleeful.

“Or what?” Furuya shot back. “You’ll get Sanada-senpai to come down here?”

Akaya’s pride reared up, hauling him away from the edge. He would not be less than those three, and this court was his now. These people belonged to him, and it was his choices that would steer this team. Suddenly Furuya’s question, his doubt, was another opponent, and Akaya’s focus snapped around the question the way it closed around an opponent’s game. Ice washed through Akaya’s mind, replaced the red with stark clarity. “I am the captain of this club,” he said, very softly. “You will not say things like that in front of me.”

Furuya gave back a step and glanced away. “Yeah, fine.” His expression was unnerved, now.

Akaya turned away, dismissing him as the cool edge of his thoughts suggested something about the original problem. He swept a look over the three in front of him.

“Niiyama,” he said, at last, “I’m pulling you out of doubles. Your skills are solid enough there, you need to work on singles for a while. When I’m confident you’ve made a good start,” he continued over Niiyama’s choke of protest, “I’ll rotate Sakamoto out to singles and we’ll see how you and Tsunoda do as a pair.”

“What?!” Niiyama nearly screeched, blue eyes a bit wild. The look on Tsunoda’s face wasn’t any more sanguine.

“You’re the one who wanted a place on the team so badly,” Akaya rapped out. “Act like it. Or was I wrong about what you want? Because if I am you can leave now.”

Niiyama inhaled sharply and his chin came up. “Yes, Kirihara-buchou,” he said though his teeth.

Akaya swung his racquet up to his shoulder. “Good. Then come play a set with me.”

Niiyama’s eyes widened and then narrowed, and he followed readily. Akaya nodded to himself; better Niiyama focus that competitive streak on him than on Tsunoda.

And it did seem to do some immediate good. Niiyama’s game was as flamboyant as ever, but more efficient than usual. A stronger opponent drew him out. Akaya thought about that as he pulled out a ball for his next serve. Was this what Yukimura-san had seen, looking at him?

For one moment he was disoriented, as if he had stepped around the other side of a one-way mirror and seen a familiar room from a skewed angle. How had he gotten to be on this side? Akaya took a deep breath and pushed the strangeness away. He had a player who needed him to do this, to stand back and watch and think how to teach Niiyama something he might not want to hear.

Hmm. That did suggest something, though.

Akaya looked across the net and let himself lean into Niiyama’s anger and aggression. The edges of the world tucked in around them. “Niiyama!” he called.

“Yeah?” Niiyama shot back, eyeing him.

“Focus,” Akaya ordered. “Because I’m not holding back with you today.”

Niiyama’s eyes widened and whipped around to follow the serve as it tore past him, and snapped back to Akaya. His lips tightened, and Akaya saw it—the first surge of Niiyama’s intent pushing back against him.

“Much better,” he murmured to himself.

Suzuoki was waiting for him when they came off the court and Akaya dismissed practice. “Very nice,” he observed.

“Mm,” Akaya answered, taking a long drink. In the end, Niiyama had pushed him harder than he’d expected. “It’ll do for now. Though I wonder what will happen when I pair him with Tsunoda.”

“They’ll do well, as long as they have a reason to,” Suzuoki predicted, watching those two fall in on either side of Sakamoto. “You might consider arranging some practice games against rival teams for them.”

“Now there’s a thought.” Akaya tallied up teams that still had seasoned pairs in his head. “Wonder if Fudoumine still wants to draw and quarter me.”

Suzuoki snorted, having gotten that whole story out of Akaya weeks ago. “Well, how good are you at pretending to be reformed?”

“Hey!” Akaya glared. “Though, you know,” he added as Suzuoki chuckled into his cigarette, “I wouldn’t mind playing him again.”

Suzuoki’s glance sharpened. “Tachibana?”

“Yeah. I feel like I got short changed, after what I saw of him at Nationals.” Akaya frowned. He’d like to know why Tachibana hadn’t shown his strength during their match, too. “Besides, I need someone besides my own team to practice against,” he concluded.

“Good call,” Suzuoki approved. “Though it wouldn’t hurt you to depend less on your opponent’s spirit to raise your own.” He smiled, dryly, as Akaya blinked at him. “Consider it, Kirihara-kun.”

Akaya made a mental note of it, but most of his thoughts were on the bus schedule to Tokyo. Good competition, that would help. That would make him feel more familiar to himself, again.

End

Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
Posted: Feb 28, 05
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Mock Battle

Kirihara sets up some practice matches with Fudoumine, to the general annoyance of most concerned. Drama, I-3

Akaya trudged across the campus of Fudoumine feeling put upon. Why couldn’t Suzuoki have set this up? Why did it have to be him? Fudoumine as a whole wanted his guts for garters. He knew it was, in the final analysis, his own fault, which didn’t help in the least. It helped even less when he finally reached the tennis courts only to see that Tachibana was there along with Fudoumine’s proper team, albeit not in uniform. What was it, he thought crankily, with pushy senpai who couldn’t retire properly when they were supposed to?

A slightly more charitable corner of his mind noted the stifled conflict in every line of Kamio’s stance beside his ex-captain. It looked like Akaya wasn’t the only one dealing with standing in someone else’s shadow, this coming year. He really did sympathize.

“What are you doing here?”

Sympathy evaporated in face of that challenge, and Akaya eyed the girl now standing at the gate. Tachibana’s sister, wasn’t it? He’d heard stories about her.

“I’m not here to talk to you, that’s for sure. So, if you’ll excuse me.” He edged around her and gauged his welcome from the people he was here to talk to. Not much of one from what he could see. Measuring cold from Ibu and Kamio both, a couple growls from the others, some muscle-flexing from the tall one especially; probably a good thing one or two seemed to be missing or they might have succeeded in causing him to combust in the collective glare. Tachibana himself was the most neutral.

Which meant that Akaya was in a receptive mood when the imp of the perverse made a suggestion. He leaned in the gateway and let his mouth quirk.

“So, who’s actually in charge, here?” he needled, with a meaningful glance at Kamio.

Score. The lines around Kamio’s eyes and mouth tightened in a way that would probably look familiar if Akaya had spent more time looking in the mirror this winter. When Tachibana was the first to speak Akaya had to bite back some fairly black laughter.

“What is it you’re here for?”

“To see about arranging some practice matches,” Akaya shrugged.

Now Kamio stepped forward, and the fact that he didn’t seem to think about it first raised his credit in Akaya’s eyes. “Between Fudoumine and Rikkai?”

“Mm. Between one of my doubles pairs and one of yours, in particular,” Akaya expanded. “You and Ibu, for preference, but I’m not terribly picky.”

From behind him the girl muttered something about not being surprised, and Akaya hid a grin. She was even easier to get worked up than Sanada-san was. Come to think of it, she glared a lot the same way, too. Only from a lower angle.

Kamio had the distant look of someone paging through a calendar in his head. Akaya was pleased that he’d accepted the idea so readily; at this rate he might actually end up respecting his opposite number before he left. A little, anyway. Kamio looked at Ibu. “Thursday?”

Ibu nodded, silently; he hadn’t taken his eyes off Akaya for one second. It felt unnervingly similar to having Yagyuu-senpai’s eyes on him, and Akaya made a mental note to be a little careful about this one.

“Works for me,” he said, pushing upright. And then he paused and heaved a sigh. He was here; Tachibana was here. He might as well get it over with. “Tachibana-san.”

“Yes?” Still the neutral tone.

“I apologize for what happened during our last match,” Akaya said, managing to be only a little stiff.

He was less successful in not rolling his eyes at the looks of surprise and, in a few cases, outrage on the faces of the Fudoumine team. Behind his shoulder, Tachibana’s sister growled.

“Accepted, of course.” Tachibana’s quiet voice cut across the less cordial reactions.

“Tachibana-san … ” Ibu murmured.

Tachibana shook his head. “It would be… inconsistent to hold the past against him, Shinji.” He held Ibu’s gaze until Ibu nodded his assent, still looking displeased about it. “I’ll look forward to another match at some point, Kirihara-kun,” he concluded.

Akaya’s shoulders relaxed. “I’d like that.” He cocked his head. “If you’re not holding back next time.” He was still kind of pissed off about that.

Tachibana’s expression slipped out of its neutrality into a faint, rueful smile. “If it isn’t to be a repeat, both of us will have to hold back on at least one front.”

An odd hint of sympathy lurked in Tachibana’s eyes, and Akaya added that to the things he’d heard from Yanagi-san. Yeah, he’d thought the rumors about Tachibana having been a violent player were probably true, after the way Tachibana had performed at Nationals. Akaya’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t hand out anything I can’t take, Tachibana-san. One way or another.”

“A good thing to know,” Tachibana returned coolly. But there was a spark in his eyes, and Akaya smiled. The next match should be worth it.

“See you Thursday,” he told Kamio.

As he turned to leave, though, he came face to face with two more members of Fudoumine, carrying baskets of balls. One he was vaguely familiar with. Sakurai, the tall one’s doubles partner. The other was far more of a surprise.

“Fuji Yuuta?” Akaya resisted the urge to rub his eyes and double check the uniform. There was no question it was the Fudoumine uniform. “Well, well, isn’t this interesting?” Akaya purred, almost to himself. He hadn’t really hoped for a match with the younger Fuji; no one expected St. Rudolph to advance past Prefecturals in the upcoming season. But wouldn’t that be a nice jab at the older Fuji? To give him a heart attack after the fact, when he heard his precious brother had been playing someone with Akaya’s reputation for brutality? The idea appealed mightily to Akaya’s sense of mischief. He grinned at Yuuta. “I’ll see you Thursday, too, I hope.”

Bounce was back in his step as he left.


“… can’t believe you’re making us play an actual match like this,” Niiyama grumbled, as he’d been grumbling under his breath the entire way to Fudoumine.

“If you don’t stop complaining, I’ll find something even worse,” Akaya threatened, very evenly, casting a quick look over the courts to see if Tachibana or his fire-breathing sister were present. Fortune smiled on him; they didn’t seem to be.

Niiyama shut up, just in time for Akaya to greet Kamio with some dignity. Had he ever given Sanada-san this kind of trouble? Well, all right, his sense of justice forced him to add, had he been this much trouble before Sanada-san took him to bed? He honestly didn’t think so.

On the other hand, Niiyama’s snippiness did mean that Akaya felt far less guilty than he might have about what he was doing. A thin smile tugged at his mouth as he watched Niiyama and Tsunoda set themselves across from Kamio and Ibu. He didn’t expect his players to make any foolish mistakes; they were both experienced in doubles. But Kamio and Ibu had been through a much hotter fire, and their rapport was seamless.

Sure enough, Kamio and Ibu took three games in quick succession. Akaya grinned as he noted that Niiyama and Tsunoda’s glares were shifting from each other to their opponents.

“You look awfully cheerful,” a voice noted beside him.

Akaya glanced over to see Fuji Yuuta leaning against the fence watching the match. “Moderately,” he agreed.

Yuuta shot him a sidelong look. “Are you that confident they’ll make a comeback?” He didn’t sound like he believed it. Nor, for that matter, did the rest of Fudoumine, from the pleased sound of the remarks a little further down the fence.

“It’s possible,” Akaya said, watching one moment of clear understanding flicker between his players as their eyes met before Tsunoda fell back to support a series of Niiyama’s quick drives. Not entirely likely, but possible. Either way it would work out, and these two would get a wake up call.

Yuuta’s eyes darkened. “You’ve got a real ruthless streak, Kirihara.”

Akaya was mildly surprised that Yuuta had unraveled the purpose of this exercise. Of course, he couldn’t actually be an inattentive player, if he’d played a good game against Echizen; but his reputation was more for power than finesse or analysis. Another note for the mental files. “As if you have any room to talk,” he returned.

“Only with myself,” Yuuta countered, disapproval in his voice.

“You think a team captain has that luxury?” Akaya asked, curious. He had wondered what Yuuta was doing here, when he had been expected to take over the St. Rudolph team; maybe now he knew.

“Hm.” Yuuta declined to spar any more and turned his attention back to the game.

In the end it went the way Akaya had expected, and even a bit more so. The final score was 6-4, thanks to an edge of brilliance and viciousness in Ibu that he didn’t remember seeing before. He made a note to talk to Suzuoki about Ibu later. For now, he had a lesson to round off. He pushed away from the fence and waited for Niiyama and Tsunoda to come to him.

“Well?” he asked, coolly.

Niiyama’s spine straightened, and his eyes glinted, daring his captain to censure him. “We won’t lose again,” he pronounced.

Tsunoda was quiet, but the same determination showed in his level gaze. They were, Akaya was pleased to note, standing shoulder to shoulder instead of turned warily toward each other the way they normally did.

“I expect not,” Akaya answered, softly. Success! He left Hiiyama to give the pair notes on the match and looked over the Fudoumine team. “Anyone else up for a match?” he inquired.

Ishida stepped forward, just enough to loom a bit. “Sure.”

Akaya considered what he knew about Ishida’s style. “Sakamoto. Your turn.”

“Me?!” Sakamoto squawked. Ishida blinked a bit, too, taking in Sakamoto’s small, slight build.

“Yes, you,” Akaya confirmed, impassively. Sakamoto wasn’t training in singles right now purely so that Akaya could metaphorically handcuff his two regular doubles partners together. Akaya had every intention of developing all the skills his team had as far as they would go. Sakamoto was a perfectly capable singles player, and Akaya wasn’t about to let him slack off. Besides, Akaya had pulled out the small-and-cute card on his teachers too often not to notice when someone tried to play it on him. Sakamoto’s glare, as he fished out his racquet, hinted that he was catching on to this fact.

“Kirihara-buchou, I really hate you. Just so you know,” Sakamoto told him, in the petulant tone he only ever used with the team.

Akaya’s lips twitched. “Yes, I know. Now get going.”

“Going, going,” Sakamoto grumbled, stalking past a bemused Ishida.

“Interesting team dynamics you’ve got, Kirihara,” Kamio remarked dryly.

Akaya shrugged, carelessly. “It works for us.” Sure enough, Sakamoto was the one who was pushing the pace right from the start, aggressive enough to rock Ishida back onto the defensive. “You know, Hiiyama,” Akaya murmured to his vice-captain, “it’s too bad you don’t play doubles. You and Sakamoto would be an unstoppable pair. Just like a pair of explosive little super-balls bouncing around the court.”

Hiiyama shot him a dark look. “Your sense of humor is going to be a bigger legend than your temper at this rate,” he muttered.

Akaya had to admit that this was probably true. Which only encouraged him, really. At that thought, with what could only be fated timing, his eye fell on Yuuta, still observing from the side. Ah, yes. A bubble of amusement lightened his voice. “Fuji. You look bored. How about a match?”

He almost laughed at the ripple of unease that passed through Fudoumine. Well, all of them except Yuuta. Yuuta looked distinctly suspicious. Akaya offered his most engaging smile. “Come on, you know you want to.”

He caught an exasperated look from Hiiyama, and knew that he would be hearing, later, about the proper dignity of a captain. Akaya tossed him a wink, just to be provoking. Niiyama’s eyes were a little wide, as he watched, never having seen Akaya like this from up close before, but Tsunoda just shook his head and nudged his reluctant partner back against the fence, out of the line of fire.

Yuuta’s suspicion didn’t fade, which, thinking about it, Akaya didn’t find surprising; Yuuta was smiled at by an expert on a regular basis, he was sure. The suspicion was joined, however, by a certain hungry light. Yuuta glanced at Kamio and raised an eyebrow. After a moment Kamio nodded.

It was different from his usual games, and maybe this was what Suzuoki had meant. Akaya found himself wavering, rather uncomfortably, back and forth over the line of complete engagement. Yuuta was too strong a player to deal with lightly; his shots were precise and powerful, and his counters annoyingly effective. But never so much so that Akaya could just relax and respond automatically, or stretch out to his limit without thought. For someone who was supposed to be bullheaded, Yuuta was a very deliberate player, and it ruffled Akaya that he couldn’t automatically find the right rhythm to deal with him.

As he set himself to serve he closed his eyes for a moment, searching for stillness he had learned under pressure from Yuuta’s brother, hoping that would work where his usual fire hadn’t. Looking across the net into suddenly attentive eyes he felt the catch, like a spark against bare skin. Yuuta was moving, even as the serve arrowed in, to catch it and throw it back. The edge of wariness between them dissolved, and Akaya almost laughed. Much better.

The second half of the match was brutally fast, and they were both breathing hard when they met at the net. “Good game,” Akaya panted, grinning. He had won 6-4.

“Yeah, it was,” Yuuta agreed, and Akaya had to suppress the urge to make a face at the hint of surprise in his voice.

“So just how did you wind up here, anyway?” he asked, instead.

The openness in Yuuta’s gaze folded closed again. “The St. Rudolph team was Mizuki-san’s. Without him, it’s a different thing.”

“It’s a thing that would have been yours,” Akaya suggested.

Yuuta’s eyes never flickered, and the line of his mouth was proud. “I like this thing better,” he said, waving a hand at the courts around them.

Akaya was impressed, not that he was going to admit that.

As they rejoined their teams, Hiiyama gave him the raised brows, asking whether it had been worth it to show his game that openly. His vice-captain had very expressive eyebrows, Akaya reflected. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, under his breath.

Hiiyama snorted.

“It isn’t worth it unless it’s for real,” Akaya said, firmly.

Niiyama stirred, against the fence, expression more thoughtful than was typical for him. Akaya hid a smile; extra dividends, how nice. He kept half an eye on Niiyama through the parting courtesies, wanting to know where that expression was leading. They were half way home before he got an answer.

“Kirihara-buchou.”

“Yes?” Akaya nodded to the seat beside him.

Niiyama sat, slowly. “What did you mean, ‘for real’?” For once he sounded serious, though serious looked just as intense on him as any other emotion.

Why the hell did Akaya feel old, all of a sudden?

Akaya leaned back. “When you have a good opponent and you’re not paying attention to anything else—when nothing but the game exists for right then and it takes up everything you are—that’s when it’s real. When you’ve been there once it’s hard to stay away.” Not that he intended to tell this particular audience about the permutations of that passion, the way it could twist, especially when you were in pain. Niiyama didn’t need to know about the details of that, and Akaya didn’t like to think about it. He shot a sidelong glance at Niiyama’s thoughtful attitude. “It works better when you’re not wasting your attention showing off for your partner,” he added.

Niiyama opened his mouth with an indignant expression, but Akaya overrode him.

“If you were a dedicated doubles player it might be different,” Akaya conceded, thinking of Niou-senpai and Yagyuu-senpai. “But this little competition you and Tsunoda have going is distracting you. You can play better than that.” Watching Niiyama wondering about what a real game meant had convinced Akaya of that much. And it was, he reflected, a damn good thing Niiyama hadn’t been around to see what Akaya had been like as a first year, himself, or he’d probably have been accused of total hypocrisy by now.

After a long, fraught, moment, Niiyama lowered his eyes. “Yes, Kirihara-buchou.”

Akaya made a shooing gesture. “Go think about it, then.”

As he slouched down in his seat a little further and closed his eyes, he considered his own first year again, and wondered whether he should write a letter of apology to Yukimura-san when they got home.

End

Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
Posted: Mar 03, 05
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4 readers sent Plaudits.

Quick Days

Side-story to the Third Watch arc; follows from “Fly”, in Challenge. Fuji and Tezuka move from the court to the bedroom. Porn with Insights, I-4

Pairing(s): Fuji/Tezuka

The walk back from the court was relaxed in a way Kunimitsu was becoming familiar with. It wasn’t the quiet of exhaustion, though both he and Fuji came out of their matches drenched and out of breath. Kunimitsu liked to think of it as the ease of honesty.

It had certainly taken long enough.

He had never said that out loud, but he rather thought Fuji had gotten the idea anyway. There was a rueful quirk to Fuji’s lips those times when Kunimitsu stood watching him for just a little longer than was reasonable, just to confirm that, yes, it really was Fuji playing such a magnificent game. That quirk was as close as Fuji would ever come to an apology for the years of frustration he had put Kunimitsu through by refusing to grasp his real strength.

Kunimitsu didn’t truly need an apology, because when that quirk smoothed into stillness Fuji unfolded for him, played matches with him that demanded every iota of his own strength. He was still losing half of them, and that was all the proof he needed of Fuji’s honesty and engagement. It was enough.

Sometimes, of course, Fuji chose to take his reassurances further anyway. Or perhaps it was Fuji’s own need for reassurance. Kunimitsu wasn’t sure the two could be separated. Given that they had just passed the turn off toward Fuji’s house, though, he thought that today was probably one of those times. And when they reached his house, and Fuji had finished being charming for Kunimitsu’s mother, and the bedroom door was locked behind them, Kunimitsu tipped his head at Fuji in question.

The gleam in Fuji’s eyes and the full fledged grin on his face were sufficient answer. It was definitely one of those times. Kunimitsu stifled a chuckle and sat down on the edge of his bed, leaning back to keep eye contact. If anything, Fuji’s eyes brightened; it looked like he was in an aggressive mood today, a conclusion that didn’t alter in the slightest when Fuji came to sit on his heels in front of Kunimitsu. He took one of Kunimitsu’s hands in his, uncurling it, stroking the palm and fingers.

“I like your hands, you know,” Fuji remarked, head bent over the one in his possession.

Kunimitsu made an inquiring sound, bitten short as Fuji’s tongue flicked out to taste a fingertip.

“They’re very well proportioned; long without being too thin,” Fuji noted, conversationally. “And very strong.” Fuji tasted the inside of Kunimitsu’s wrist this time, lingering just a bit. Kunimitsu turned his hand swiftly to curve along the line of Fuji’s jaw.

“Don’t tease,” he said, softly.

Fuji smiled with genuine amusement; they both knew he was never more straightforward than when he was touching and being touched. “All right.” He uncoiled up off the floor, hands finding Kunimitsu’s shoulder and chest to push him back flat on the bed. Kunimitsu wrapped an arm around Fuji’s waist to bring him along, and Fuji was laughing as he landed in a sprawl on top of Kunimitsu, driving his breath out.

The laugh flavored their kiss with a little wildness. Kunimitsu was getting used to that, with Fuji, though. Fuji’s mouth was hot against his, and as impatient as the fingers flicking open the buttons of his shirt. And then his pants. Kunimitsu threaded a hand through Fuji’s hair, pulling him closer as Fuji’s hand spread against his stomach and slid up. Fuji’s lips curved at the sound Kunimitsu made when Fuji’s hands paused for a thumb to stroke the line of a muscle, the arch of a rib, the outline of a nipple, tiny sparks of pleasure skittering under his light touch. Kunimitsu wrapped a leg around one of Fuji’s, levering their hips together. Fuji tossed his head back with a gasp, and Kunimitsu took the opportunity to tug Fuji’s shirt loose so his own hands could wander more freely. Fuji’s skin still seemed heated from their game, flushed and taut.

“Yes,” Fuji bent his head down again to murmur in Kunimitsu’s ear. “Like that.” He braced his free leg and turned them both over, pulling Kunimitsu on top of him. “Much better.”

Kunimitsu was not particularly surprised to feel Fuji’s hand smooth down his spine, under the loosened waist of his pants, until his fingertips rubbed over Tezuka’s entrance. A low rumble of approval filled his throat, rolled into Fuji’s mouth as they kissed. Fuji’s fingers pressed harder.

Sometimes, on slow days, they explored each other a little, had patience, for a little while, under each other’s mouths and fingers. But today wasn’t a slow day.

Kunimitsu spread his legs wider over Fuji’s hips. He liked this, liked the raw feeling of Fuji’s fingers working into him without anything on them. It was Fuji’s fierceness that drew him, fascinated him, made him want to touch Fuji as soon as their games ended, without waiting to be in private. He counted it a good day when that fierceness lasted until they were.

Those were often the quick days.

“Tezuka,” Fuji breathed against his throat.

“Mm.” Kunimitsu nipped just under Fuji’s ear, enjoying the sharp arch of Fuji’s body under his and the tension of the fingers inside him. “Yes.”

Fuji shoved down Kunimitsu’s pants, disentangling himself long enough to strip off his own as well. Kunimitsu rolled onto his back, stretching; he smiled at the flare in Fuji’s eyes. Fuji had an absolute passion for seeing him naked, something Kunimitsu was not above taking advantage of. When he spread his legs apart and held out a hand, Fuji was pressed against him again almost too fast for the eye to follow. Kunimitsu made a pleased sound into their hard, fast kisses, and reached over to fish a small foil tube out of his bedside table. With its contents cool in his cupped hand he reached down to stroke Fuji’s erection.

A hard shudder shook Fuji and he bit back a cry too loud for a house with other people in it. “You like surprising me,” he accused, between his teeth.

“I have a lot to catch up on,” Kunimitsu murmured back to the glint in Fuji’s eyes. “Now.”

Very little could distract Kunimitsu from the feeling of Fuji pressing into him, but Fuji’s hands behind his knees, Fuji’s thumbs stroking the soft skin there, did pull an extra sigh from him. When Fuji’s touch slid down his thighs, pressing along the length of stretched tendons, it was Kunimitsu’s turn to shudder. In that moment of relaxation, Fuji was inside him.

Kunimitsu released a breathless moan for the hot stretch and the shaking, always-alarming openness as Fuji pressed deeper.

On quick days, Fuji’s thrusts were fast and light, and the ripples his movement sent down nerve and muscle made Kunimitsu laugh today. Fuji caught his breath.

“Oh. Do that again,” he whispered, voice husky, pausing deep inside Kunimitsu.

“You can’t expect me to laugh too very often,” Kunimitsu returned, rocking up against him. Not that his expression was very sober at the moment with his eyelids heavy and his lips parted from the tingling tenseness Fuji had been driving through him.

“Something else, then, perhaps,” Fuji suggested, lacing the fingers of one hand through Kunimitsu’s. He slid their joined grip down Kunimitsu’s erection.

His entire body flexed toward the pleasure of that touch. He would have said something about Fuji enjoying surprises, too, but Fuji’s renewed thrust into him stole his voice. Fast pleasure caught him and dragged him under a swirl of sensation, aware of his body tightening to support it, of his fingers locked hard around Fuji’s, of Fuji’s moan, of his breath stilled in his lungs.

He opened his eyes in time to watch Fuji’s turn distant and his mouth soften. He liked to see that, especially since it didn’t ever take long for Fuji’s expression to return to his usual watchfulness. A watchfulness slightly tinged with smugness just at the moment.

“Mmm. That works, too,” Fuji commented, easing himself away and then down to lie beside Kunimitsu.

Kunimitsu took a moment to recall the track of their words. “That similar an effect just from me laughing?” he asked, turning on his side so he could stroke Fuji’s back.

Fuji stretched like a cat, nearly purring like one. “Of course.” He looked at Kunimitsu evenly, brushing his fingertips over Kunimitsu’s lips. “You could win every game we ever played with your laugh.”

“Perhaps that’s why I don’t.” Kunimitsu tucked Fuji closer against him, kneading the back of Fuji’s neck now.

Fuji closed his eyes with a tiny smile. “I know.”

End

Last Modified: Feb 09, 12
Posted: Mar 05, 05
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7 readers sent Plaudits.

Sunrise

The new year starts, unsettling Kirihara a bit until he talks with Jackal. Drama, I-3

Akaya thumped down into the grass under the stand of chestnut trees at the edge of campus. For a long time he just lay, looking up at the sky, which was a lovely, clear blue that day, just about as empty as his mind. With luck, no one would notice him for a while.

Luck clearly thought that he’d gotten enough favors lately, though, because he heard footsteps well before he had recovered himself.

“You look dazed.”

Akaya levered himself up on an elbow to make sure that was who it sounded like. “Jackal-senpai.” Who looked rather amused. He let himself thud back down. “That’d be because I feel dazed. I mean,” he rambled on, “there have got to be eight billion new first years running around today, and half of them are in the tennis club, and they’re all calling me Buchou.”

Jackal-senpai leaned against one of the trees, humor hovering at the corners of his mouth. “Surely you’re already used to that, Akaya; everyone has been calling you that for months, now.”

“It’s different,” Akaya muttered. He sat up and folded his arms around his knees. The second years he could handle; he had earned what he saw in their faces when they called him Kirihara-buchou. Respect or fear or pride, he had earned it. But the glow in the first years’ eyes, the awe in their voices when they whispered to each other about him, that made him twitchy.

“Hm.” Jackal-senpai sat down next to him, but didn’t speak for a while. “You know,” he said, finally, “this is one of my favorite places on campus. It’s where I used to come when culture shock was getting to me.”

Akaya rested his head on his knees, looking sideways at Jackal-senpai. “Culture shock?”

“When you feel unsettled and out of place. When you feel like either you or everything around you is changing and you’re not sure which it is. When you don’t feel like you can connect.” Jackal-senpai leaned back on his hands. “This is a nice, quiet place to calm down again.”

Akaya bit his lip, hard, as his stomach lurched. Disconnected. Yeah. But it wasn’t like he was alone, was it? He had his team, just a different one this year. And next year he could go back.

Couldn’t he?

Out of place… no, that wasn’t exactly the problem anymore. “What do you do when you’re in place and it’s a different place than it was?” he asked, softly.

A crooked smile twisted Jackal-senpai’s mouth for a moment, more like one of Niou-senpai’s than his own. “Ah. That’s what comes next. When you get there you just have to stand as firm as you can.”

He could do that, Akaya was pretty sure. The first years didn’t make him twitch because he thought he couldn’t live up to those looks. Actually, he picked at his feelings, slowly unraveling them, he was twitchy because he was so sure he could. He sighed at his own total illogic. “I’m an idiot,” he said to his knees. “There’s no such thing as being too good.”

“Wouldn’t think so,” Jackal-senpai agreed. “But you’ve had two years under Yukimura; none of us will be surprised if it takes you a while to get used to being on your own.”

Another cold shiver grabbed Akaya’s insides, and he grimaced. This was ridiculous. He wasn’t afraid of catching up to Yukimura-san. He knew he wasn’t. He didn’t need to lean on Yukimura-san. He knew he didn’t. He just…

He just wished he did.

“Complete idiot,” he muttered to himself.

Jackal-senpai made a questioning sound, though, when Akaya lifted his head, he turned out to be looking up at the sky. A breath of a laugh caught Akaya by surprise. He was getting to appreciate that kind of tact more every day he had to deal with Niiyama and Sakamoto.

“I miss it,” he whispered. Missed the comfort of not being the strong one.

Now Jackal-senpai looked at him, steel eyes level. “Yes. And it won’t be quite the same when you go back. But that isn’t something we can help, Akaya. Any of us.” Suddenly he smiled—his own smile, serious and kind. “But I really don’t think anyone is going to toss you back out the door; my aunts and uncles certainly don’t, though the comments on how much I’ve grown since they last saw me almost make me wish they would.”

Akaya had an absurd mental image of Yukimura-san pinching his cheeks the way his own aunts did when they visited, and broke down laughing.

Jackal-senpai reached over and ruffled his hair, a rare casual gesture from him. “It’ll be better when the tournament season starts and you have other things to distract you,” he assured Akaya.

Akaya snorted a final laugh. Come to think of it, the tournaments probably would cure him of this irritating introspection, if only by providing him with opponents to take away any silly qualms about winning. And winning. And winning some more. He smiled, feeling better just thinking about it.

Summer would be a good time.

End

Last Modified: Sep 03, 07
Posted: Mar 09, 05
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Distance

Inspired by ep. 174, and the anime version of the Rain Scene. Just how might Fuji answer the demands Tezuka is making? Drama with UST, I-3, anime continuity

Pairing(s): Tezuka/Fuji

Chill radiated from the glass behind Shuusuke’s head, creeping through the dampness of his hair. He searched for words to explain why he played matches like the one just past. “Tezuka. I don’t really think I have the passion for winning.”

“Fuji.” There was startlement, maybe even apprehension, in Tezuka’s voice. Shuusuke tried not to react.

“I think I just enjoy the thrill of seeing my opponents play to their limits.” He looked up at Tezuka, searching for understanding in dark, guarded eyes. “What about you?”

The stern focus of Tezuka’s gaze on him never wavered. “What do you mean? I’ll win; regardless. Winning Nationals is all I can think about right now.”

Ah. Everything for the team. Yes, that was their captain all over. Strictly responsible—the leader, the teacher, taking nothing for himself anymore. Shuusuke’s eyes fell. “If it is a mark against me, then please remove me from the Regulars.”

Now Tezuka stirred. “Don’t let that happen.”

The fresh edge in his voice pulled Shuusuke’s eyes back up, for all that he didn’t want Tezuka to see the helpless frustration he was sure showed there. He couldn’t go against his own nature, so what did Tezuka want from him?

He remembered enjoying the silent pleasure with which Tezuka watched his games. Remembered seasons of offering Tezuka his encouragement, and learning that particular angle of brow and faint curve of mouth with which Tezuka returned it. He wished he understood why he was losing these things this year.

He held a hand out to Tezuka, though he wasn’t entirely sure what he was asking for or offering any longer. Finally, Tezuka’s eyes softened, only serious and not hard—the eyes of his friend. Tezuka touched Shuusuke’s fingers, lightly, before their hands fell apart again.

“Fuji,” Tezuka said quietly, “I am the captain of this team, now.”

Meaning, of course, he would not, could not, lessen his demands even on a friend. Shuusuke closed his eyes. “I know,” he whispered.

They flickered open again, wide with surprise, when Shuusuke felt a hand, still cool from being rain drenched, touch his face. Tezuka was standing much closer over him, now. Shuusuke’s breath caught; it was so rarely Tezuka who moved close.

“Is there anything you do have passion for?”

A shaky laugh escaped from Shuusuke. “You’re asking me that right now?”

Tezuka’s brows tipped up, and Shuusuke smiled up at him, a little rueful for that unthinking admission.

Tezuka’s hand slid over his shoulder, down his arm, caught Shuusuke’s wrist and pulled him to his feet. An arm tightened around Shuusuke’s waist, drawing him snugly against Tezuka’s body.

“Show me.”

The moment fractured in Shuusuke’s senses as his thoughts froze. Little things stood out: Tezuka’s fingers, closed lightly around his hand; rough, damp creases of cloth, pressed between their bodies; the lag between a flash of lighting and the rumble of thunder that followed it.

He didn’t think he could speak to save his life. So he abandoned words for the time being. It was easier, and surely clearer, to slide his free hand into Tezuka’s hair, ruffling it even further than Tezuka’s rough toweling had. Clearer to lift his face and open his mouth under Tezuka’s. Surely nothing could be clearer than his moan, as Tezuka’s grip tightened.

“Show me,” Tezuka murmured again, against his lips, and Shuusuke shivered. He wanted to. He tugged his hand free of Tezuka’s fingers and wound that through Tezuka’s hair too, threading his fingers into the strands drying in messy spikes. He smiled at the stray thought that the chance to disorder Tezuka didn’t come along every day. Shuusuke kissed him fiercely, searching, asking, and was answered. Both Tezuka’s arms closed around him, hard enough to lift his weight off his feet, and his breath left him on a pleading sound. More than Tezuka’s tongue stroking against his own, that firm hold occupied Shuusuke’s mind and defined the world for him at that moment. It was so unmistakably Tezuka holding him. Powerful, demanding, overwhelming. He felt so light in Tezuka’s grasp, as if Tezuka might breathe him in.

Shuusuke pulled away and buried his head in Tezuka’s shoulder, panting. “Tezuka…”

Immediately, Tezuka’s hold gentled. A hand lifted to settle on Shuusuke’s hair. “It’s all right, Fuji,” Tezuka told him, evenly.

Tezuka stroked his hair while the thunder died away into the distance.

End

Last Modified: Feb 09, 12
Posted: Apr 29, 05
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Given

The start of the new year gives Fuji some new problems to deal with. Yamato-buchou is his mildly evil self. Drama, I-2

Shuusuke regarded the lineups for the first ranking matches of the year as though the board might bite him. In a sense, it already had, actually. He had expected to see Tezuka’s name there. No one would argue, any more, that it didn’t belong there. What he hadn’t expected was to see his own, in the same block. He looked back down at Yamato-buchou, who was leaning back in the chair behind the table, apparently quite relaxed. He raised his brows in inquiry at Shuusuke’s suddenly rather tight smile.

“That wasn’t a very kind thing to do, Buchou,” Shuusuke noted.

“Wasn’t it?” his captain mused, twirling a pen through his fingers. “Perhaps not. But if you choose to keep going, Fuji, you’re going to have to face Tezuka in competition sooner or later. Isn’t it better to start now than be surprised in a professional setting?”

Shuusuke’s mouth tightened a bit further, and he didn’t answer. He and Tezuka had played each other, over the winter and spring, as often as studying for exams allowed. He had started, and this was just gratuitous. But he knew perfectly well that Yamato-buchou was remarkably stubborn for someone who seemed so easygoing, and that nothing Shuusuke could say was likely to change his mind.

So he murmured an acknowledgement, and resigned himself to it. He would wade through the second and third years, and he would play as a Regular this year; he would likely incur some resentment, but that had never really bothered him in the past. He would give the team his best, and if that failed to reconcile any of the club members to having yet another younger player pass them by, well, then their opinions weren’t worth being bothered by.

And he would play seriously against Tezuka when they faced each other, here. Despite his continuing dislike of exposing himself. He couldn’t do any less, not anymore, not without hurting his friend badly. Yamato-buchou really was too perceptive for other people’s good, sometimes.

Two days layer, he was having a hard time not glaring at the murmuring club members gathered around the court as he and Tezuka met at the net. Yes, it was a new thing for him to show himself so clearly; yes, he was better than they had thought; yes, this would be an interesting match, thank you so much, and would they please shut up already? There was a gleam of amusement behind Tezuka’s calm expression, and Shuusuke indulged himself and did glare at Tezuka for a second.

“On edge?” Tezuka asked, quietly.

“Irritated,” Shuusuke clipped out.

“Mmm.”

Too ruffled, and too busy not showing it, to pursue what was on Tezuka’s mind, Shuusuke set himself and waited for Tezuka’s serve.

It was not the best game he had ever played.

It was harder than usual to focus on Tezuka the way he needed to, to match Tezuka’s game. This was unlike Nationals, where challenge and need had taken up all his attention, unlike their games alone, where nothing but the contact between them mattered. Now, awareness of the watching eyes prickled at him all the time, and he found himself having to fight his own long-standing reflex toward concealment. He had to remind himself, constantly, that he wasn’t playing that kind of game anymore, couldn’t play that one if he wanted to stand against the person on the other side of the net.

Tezuka won cleanly, 7-5.

Frustrated with the audience, with Tezuka’s forbearance in not asking what was wrong with him, and with himself in particular, Shuusuke favored his captain with an unusually sour look when Yamato-buchou strolled over to them.

“Impressive,” Yamato-buchou said.

Shuusuke barely pressed a snarl into a smile.

Yamato-buchou shook his head. “I mean it, Fuji-kun. To play aggressively was never your preferred style, mentally or technically; you’re making quick progress. You just need to remind yourself that no one watching can make much use of what you show them.”

A valid point, Shuusuke had to admit. Still. “That won’t be true when outsiders are watching,” he pointed out. “Especially at competition matches.” And, really, he was just being contrary, because he already knew that, in a competition match, he was far less likely to care. Still. He didn’t feel like letting Yamato-buchou off easy.

“That’s true,” Yamato-buchou admitted, “but it still doesn’t matter.”

Shuusuke blinked.

“Fuji, if you intend to play seriously, you can’t afford to spend any game second guessing yourself. Play to the extent the opponent demands you play. If you lose a match because you were thinking twice about a potential future opponent, then your caution will have defeated itself, won’t it?”

The words sank into Shuusuke’s mind and rang there, because he knew they were true. So much for being contrary; he should know better, with Yamato-buchou, he supposed. He took a deep breath and let some of his tension go. His captain smiled and patted his shoulder, which Shuusuke took half as reassurance and half as an admonishment to get it right next time. He offered a slightly crooked smile back. “Yes, Buchou.”

“Good! If you have more trouble acclimating to an audience, just let me know. I’m sure we can come up with some exercises to help.”

“I’m sure it won’t be a problem,” Shuusuke said, with as much confidence as he could inject into one sentence. He crossed his mental fingers, hoping this would be accepted. He had enough interest in his life right now without Yamato-buchou’s often quirky ideas of useful exercises.

“Excellent,” Yamato-buchou declared, not looking deceived at all. “And Tezuka, watch that side step. You’re stepping wide on your push-off; it will set your balance off if you do that when you play someone besides Fuji.”

Tezuka acknowledged this with a respectful nod. Shuusuke looked up at him, surprised. He hadn’t realized they had been playing hard enough today for that. Tezuka shrugged, minimally, one corner of his mouth quirking. Shuusuke’s smile softened. He knew that was exactly what Tezuka loved about their games.

Shuusuke walked for a long time after practice that day. Wandered might be closer to the truth, he reflected, as he sauntered down dark sidewalks. He had a lot to think about. He fetched up, eventually, at the street courts by the park, watching the matches under the floodlights. Some of the players were just here for fun, and won or lost with a laugh. Some were clearly serious, and focused on their opponents in a manner he found familiar, though they fell far short of the intensity he was used to seeing. He found himself remembering something he had seen and heard over and over again: someone mentioning that they had been saving a particular move for later, but would use it prematurely rather than lose. It had never entirely made sense to him, not viscerally. He’d never had to do any such thing. He’d rarely been driven to develop new moves. Now…

Now, he thought it would happen far more regularly.

He had unfolded himself, opened his talent out as far as it would go and found himself among the very best. But the very best did drive themselves forward; he’d seen it. And they would overtake him if he stood still. It was a precarious feeling. Yamato-buchou was right; he would have to show himself, and watching opponents would plan and work and develop based on what they observed in order to defeat him, and he…

He would have to do the same.

A tiny shiver tracked down his spine, and he laughed, breathlessly, to himself. Precarious, yes, but also thrilling. A challenge.

A familiar tilt of head caught his eye, down on one of the benches that surrounded the courts. Shuusuke’s brows rose, and he picked his way through the onlookers.

“Kirihara. You’re a ways from home tonight,” he greeted, coming to stand beside him.

Kirihara shot a quick look up at him before turning back to the match in progress. “Yes, I am,” he agreed, sounding very pleased with this condition.

“A bit below your level, isn’t this?” Shuusuke prodded, curious.

“As if you have room to talk,” Kirihara snorted.

“I hadn’t thought to play here.” It was entirely true, but Shuusuke was arrested by a sudden thought. He eyed Kirihara, and the courts at large. Opponent. Audience.

Opportunity.

“Would you care to play a match against me?” he asked.

Kirihara’s head snapped around, eyes wide. “Now?”

“Yes.” Shuusuke gave him the kind of bright smile he knew would be annoying. “We’re not, technically, in opposing teams this year, so there shouldn’t be any problem, right?”

A little to his surprise, Kirihara didn’t bristle, merely gave him a long, serious look. “For real?” he asked.

Shuusuke had to admit, he was somewhat impressed. Very few people could stand him being cheerful at them with equanimity. Kirihara seemed to have gotten a better grip on his temper, if nothing else, this year. “For real,” he agreed.

It wasn’t as difficult as Shuusuke had thought it might be, to put the watchers out of his mind and concentrate on what the match demanded. By the end of the second game he had to start wondering whether his own club actually made him more nervous than potential rivals. He tucked the thought away for later.

Already thinking about the shape of his own game, Shuusuke noticed some interesting changes in the shape of Kirihara’s. For one thing, Kirihara was silent. When Shuusuke caught himself on the edge of fidgeting, waiting for Kirihara to prod at him and give him an opening to bait back, he had to laugh at himself. Yamato-buchou was right; the habit of playing defensively was one that could get him in trouble if he let it get out of hand and distract him from the other possibilities.

The other thing Shuusuke noticed, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with yet. Kirihara relaxed, as the match went on, even when Shuusuke gained a two-game lead. It made Kirihara’s game smoother than the tension of their last match had, but Shuusuke wasn’t at all sure that was a deliberate adaptation on Kirihara’s part. His curiosity was piqued, especially since Yuuta’s account of his own practice match against Rikkai’s new captain had hinted at something similar. Perhaps he could have another chat with his brother about this particular player.

Kirihara was out of breath as they met at the net, but still held his head high.

“Good game,” Shuusuke told him, offering his hand.

Kirihara snorted as he extended his own hand. “I’ll catch you, too.”

“Considering who else you have on your list, I’ll take that as a compliment,” Shuusuke answered, lightly.

He turned the match over in his head, as he walked home. It was possible, he thought, that Kirihara’s play style was shifting. Where he had previously relied on his strength and speed to break past any opponent, this new relaxation might be the start of a move toward a more rounded style. Not that the boy was any less aggressive, to be sure. That was all the more obvious in comparison to the match Shuusuke had played with Tezuka, today. The stillness at the core of Tezuka’s game made a stark contrast to the reaching outward that characterized Kirihara.

That was something he could use, Shuusuke mused. The stillness of Tezuka’s techniques was, he thought, based on the perfection with which Tezuka controlled the ball. Equal precision could answer that, making the competition between them a matter of who could achieve the finest degree of control.

A thought struck him, making Shuusuke pause under one of the streetlights. He was already making the kind of plans he had told himself he would have to start making—had already accepted the challenge, at least in one case. A certain smugness followed on the heels of that realization. Yamato-buchou might have been right, but so had Shuusuke. That made him feel much better about taking his captain’s advice.

Tezuka would probably give him an exasperated look, if Shuusuke told him about this.

He continued on his way, chuckling at himself.

End

Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
Posted: Apr 30, 05
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Warming Up

Tournament season starts, and Kirihara gets a present from his coach. Drama, I-2

“That was boring.”

Akaya shot a glance at Hiiyama, sunk, arms crossed, in the next seat. From anyone else that would have been a complaint; from his vice-captain it was just a statement. Albeit not a very happy one.

“You can say that again,” he agreed, easily. “Prefecturals was boring last year, and it was boring this year.”

“You might want to speak to the team about that,” Suzuoki murmured from behind them.

Akaya turned to prop an arm over the back of his seat and raise his brows at their coach.

“Considering that there are real challenges coming up,” Suzuoki expanded with a sigh that said Akaya should have thought of it himself.

Akaya gave him an evil look, but had to admit that he had a point. So when their bus rolled in to Rikkai’s parking lot and his chattering team members piled off, he hauled them together one last time.

“All right, we’ve had a pretty good warm up,” he told them. “We’re about to have some good competition. Regionals are around the corner. This is where the real thing starts for us. Fudoumine will be waiting for us there; also Seigaku and Hyoutei. We’ll face two of them, the way seeding is most likely to fall. Provided no one gets over-confident and screws up.” He gave them a medium stern look and was pleased that they looked back with serious expressions rather than offended ones. “Good. Get out of here, then; I’ll expect everyone to be focused on Monday.”

The team scattered, but Suzuoki snagged him before Akaya could follow. “Apropos of which,” he said, “come say hello to your visitor.”

“What visitor?” Akaya asked, a bit suspiciously.

“The one I arranged for you,” Suzuoki answered, imperturbably. “Come on.” He steered Akaya toward the courts.

Since Akaya’s imagination suggested any possibility, from some pro friend of Suzuoki’s to Yukimura-san, he was relieved that the person waiting for them by the courts looked like a normal sort of student; high school or college probably.

“Sasaki-kun, it was good of you to stop by,” Suzuoki called, sounding so amiable that Akaya’s suspicions instantly doubled.

“Always glad to do a favor for my ex-coach,” Sasaki returned with a wry smile. “Besides, you made it sound interesting.”

Akaya turned a glower on Suzuoki, silently demanding to know what he was up to this time. Suzuoki smirked at him. “You got to play exactly once this weekend and last. You should unwind a little. Besides, you could use an actual challenge.”

Since Akaya couldn’t argue with any of that, he turned back to the visitor and offered him a resigned greeting. “Kirihara Akaya; pleased to meet you.”

“Sasaki Kouji.” A wry smile. “Likewise.”

“Sasaki-kun was captain of the high school team last year,” Suzuoki tossed over his shoulder. “He’s on the university team, now, which may, if he’s patient, finally result in playing on the same team as Sanada-kun.”

“I expect Sanada-kun to go professional straight out of high school,” Sasaki contradicted briskly. “If we ever play on the same team it will be longer than three years from now.”

“You know Sanada-san?” Akaya asked, slowly.

Sasaki’s smile crooked oddly. “I played with him last year. He came to the tennis school I practice at sometimes, looking for someone to sharpen his skills on. He’s a very powerful player; it was exciting.”

Akaya had to agree, though he found his mind wandering down side paths it really shouldn’t be at the moment, and hauled himself back on topic. He hoped he wasn’t blushing, now. The sudden hint of speculation in the angle of Sasaki’s brows didn’t make him hope very hard. Sasaki didn’t ask, though, for which Akaya was very grateful.

“So, Prefecturals were as boring as usual?” he asked instead.

“Deathly,” Akaya agreed, sourly, now that he didn’t have to set an example for any teammates.

Sasaki laughed. “So come play a more interesting game,” he invited with a grin.

And it certainly was far more interesting than the past few weeks had been. Sasaki was a very good player, indeed, and Akaya relaxed against that strength with a shiver of relief. It was good not to have to think about little details every second, good to let go and stretch out against an opponent he absolutely had to throw everything at.

Sasaki was smiling even more brightly when they met at the net. “Impressive.”

Suzuoki grunted from the sidelines. “Perhaps. But it’s still a bad habit.” He snorted when they both cocked their heads at him. “The techniques of not-thinking are strong ones, Kirihara-kun, and you learned them from players who use them well. But if thinking about your game is always a burden to you that will be your weakness.”

“So why did you arrange an opponent I could not think with?” Akaya wanted to know, feeling slightly guilty and exasperated by it.

“Because you’re not ready,” Suzuoki told him, bluntly.

“All right, I take the point; I’ll work on it,” Akaya grumbled, and looked a bit wistfully up at Sasaki. “Can I still play Sasaki-san sometimes, though? I mean,” he added, directly to his not-quite-senpai, “if that’s all right?”

“I’d like that.” Sasaki gave him a sympathetic look before turning questioning eyes on Suzuoki.

“I suppose so,” their coach agreed, grudgingly. “He needs someone stronger to work against; you’ll do for now.”

“I’m so flattered,” Sasaki shot back, dryly.

“Nice to know he’s like this with everyone,” Akaya muttered.

“Oh, no,” Sasaki corrected, quite serene. “He’s only like this with the very best. You know,” he leaned on the net pole, frowning thoughtfully, “I’d rather have liked to see what he would be like with Sanada-kun and your Yukimura-kun.”

“No you don’t,” Akaya stated, with a shudder at the very idea. “Really.” He set the horrifying thought away quite firmly and gave Sasaki a hopeful look. “Can we play one more set?”

It was not, he reflected as they set themselves across from each other again, quite as good as playing Sanada-san. But there were enough similarities to make him happy for now.

End

Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
Posted: May 05, 05
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The Rush

Kirihara’s second spin through Regionals, and Nationals, as a captain this time. Drama, I-3

The pace of what Akaya couldn’t help but think of as the real tournament season had two very different parts. There was the daily practice with his team, which, while demanding and sometimes intense, had a smooth swoop to it. And then there were the actual tournament matches, that sprinted along like a heartbeat after an adrenaline spike. Aside from the pressure of the matches themselves, he finally decided it was the people that made the difference. His own team was familiar; he knew them. Other teams were always a bit of a question mark.


Akaya could feel the difference, pacing down the sidewalks of the grounds hosting Regionals. Rikkai Dai didn’t have quite the same edge of cool confidence they’d had last year. The ready fire that had replaced it pleased him, though, even if it did mean keeping an eye out for trouble.

The first bit of trouble turned up, right on schedule, when they came face to face with Fudoumine in front of the match chart.

“Ah, the almost-Champions are here,” quipped one of their doubles players, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Ready to defend your second place title?”

Akaya stifled a sigh. Being responsible and captainly and not breaking people like that into little pieces was such a pain. He kept his gaze on Kamio, who, to his credit, looked a lot less cocky and more serious than the one who’d spoken.

Sakamoto was bristling. “Like you have room to talk, Spectator-san,” he snapped.

The other player (Mori, wasn’t it?) straightened up. “Not this year.”

Akaya held up a hand to cut off any escalations from his team. “We’ll expect to see you at the final round, then,” he told Kamio, and waved Rikkai on. He did take a bit of satisfaction from the disgruntlement on Mori’s face at being deprived of any openings. Akaya knew from his own experience just how annoying that could be, when you were geared up to provoke someone. It made his day a little brighter.

Tsunoda, who had taken the opportunity to examine the chart, came up beside him. “Do you think we will see them there? They’ll have Rokkaku, Yamabuki and Hyoutei to get through.”

“We’ll see.” Akaya glanced up at Suzuoki. “There shouldn’t be anything very urgent on our plate today. Can you take a look at the competition for me?”

“Certainly. Anyone particular you have in mind?”

Akaya huffed with exasperation at the slight curl to their coach’s mouth. Everything had to be a test, with Suzuoki. “We know something about Fudoumine already,” he sorted teams out loud. “And Hyoutei is across the chart. Seigaku first. Then Hyoutei. I’d like to know something about Rokkaku, this year, too, but there isn’t time.”

“Send Hisakawa,” Suzuoki suggested.

Akaya gave him a sharp look, and nodded slowly. Hisakawa was a good observer. With some experience he might be the analyst of next year’s team. Which, of course, was exactly what Suzuoki was suggesting. “Can you tell him some of what to look for?”

“Of course.” It was annoying, sometimes, how Suzuoki could sound so disinterested.

“Then I want him to look in on Midoriyama, too.” Akaya smiled; that had gotten Suzuoki to look at him straight on. “They still have most of their people from last year. And Seigaku lit a fire under them, then. I want to know how they’ve turned out.”

“Of course.” Suzuoki was grinning his thin, sharp grin when he said it this time.


Akaya watched Tsunoda starting to flag. He’d expected that. Kaidou really did have phenomenal staying power. Momoshiro had been wise to put him in Singles Three, the turning point of their matches. Again.

Suzuoki, leaning on the rail behind him, blew smoke past his ear. “Worried about a repeat of last year?” he asked, low voiced.

Akaya snorted. “No.”

When he returned to the bench, drenched and panting from his own match with Echizen, Suzuoki smirked at him. “Still not?”

Akaya glared. “No.” He thumped down on the bench, and beckoned to Hiiyama. “I’m not worried about you winning this,” he said, quietly. “But don’t underestimate Momoshiro. He’s an analytical player, and a tricky one. Think like you were playing Niou-senpai.”

His vice-captain nodded, silently.

Akaya sat back to watch.

“Kirihara-buchou?” This time it was Niiyama leaning on the rail behind him.

“Yes?”

“Did you take Singles Two so you could play Echizen?”

Akaya cocked his head at Niiyama. “Hm. Caught your attention, did he?”

Niiyama looked aside and shrugged. Akaya smiled. He could come back to that later; now looked like a good time for another little push. “Well I didn’t object to the idea, that’s for sure. But it was kind of a gamble. If Momoshiro had placed Echizen in Singles One, the match would have ended with that last set, because Momoshiro isn’t strong enough to beat me.” He fell silent, waiting to see how Niiyama would take that.

The look on Niiyama’s face was a little sour. “That’s kind of… well…”

“The kind of tactic the weaker team uses?” Akaya finished, softly. “It could have looked that way, yes. But strategy is also part of the game; and a good strategy lets you win either way.” Words of wisdom from Niou-senpai and Yanagi-san both.

“Mm.” Niiyama frowned, and Akaya left the lesson at that. “Buchou, do you think…” Niiyama paused, and Akaya raised a brow. “Do you think I might get a chance to play Echizen?”

“Almost certainly. Next year,” the spirit of bedevilment prompted Akaya to reply. He relented, though, at Niiyama’s unamused glower. “It’s possible.” There was, after all, a certain precedent for practice matches. It could be good for Niiyama.

After he’d polished his game a little more with Fudoumine, perhaps Akaya would set it up.


Akaya leaned against the fence beside Momoshiro, wearing a rueful smile. Echizen was hammering Niiyama into the clay.

And they were both grinning.

“Your player looks like he’s having fun,” Momoshiro observed, sounding amused.

Akaya shrugged. “He asked to play Echizen, after our Regionals match. I wouldn’t have agreed if I didn’t think he’d get something out of it.”

Momoshiro cocked his head. “Is that why you threw him in against Fuji Yuuta, when you played Fudoumine?”

Akaya reminded himself to take his own advice and not underestimate Momoshiro. “It’s good to play a variety of opponents,” was all he said.

“Yeah,” Momoshiro snorted, “how else could you and Echizen pick up so many weird moves to throw at each other.”

That, Akaya didn’t answer at all. Anything he said would give too much away to an analyst as sharp as the one standing beside him. He didn’t really want the people they might still face at Nationals to know that he’d finally learned what Suzuoki-sensei meant, and had figured out exactly why he’d lost to Seigaku’s Fuji last year.

It was fun, all right, to toss techniques back and forth with Echizen, playing in a hall of mirrors where anything either of them used might be reflected back again. But it was ultimately useless unless he kept enough awareness to gauge his own strength and movement, and plan accordingly.

Niiyama, now… Akaya watched as he dashed to catch a Drive B. Niiyama would have to come at it from a different angle, he thought. Niiyama tended even more to the straightforward than Akaya had; his best path might simply be to find the strength to support that. If Niiyama found the point where he just acted, Akaya suspected his game might become pure enough to approach even Echizen’s. Not that he’d likely be around to see it. “It’s really annoying that the High School and Junior High divisions have tournaments at the same time,” he remarked with a sigh.

Momoshiro made agreeing noises, apparently following Akaya’s train of thought. “There’s always video, but it just won’t be the same,” he mourned.

Considering the possibilities running in the other direction, though, Akaya decided he wouldn’t complain too much. He wanted to have a little edge of surprise on his senpai, after all. He smiled as Niiyama drove back a smash. Let Niiyama try to catch him by surprise, too. Fair was fair.


Akaya bounced the ball, eyeing Ibu across the net. He wasn’t really surprised that the last round of Nationals had gone to Singles One, though he hadn’t expected it to be because Chiba and Furuya slipped up. Clearly, winning against Fudoumine at Regionals had made them cocky. He was going to have a talk with them about overconfidence, as the pair’s rather hangdog expressions showed they knew.

He could feel Ibu’s focus on him, like the edge of a knife laid against his skin. Not unexpected—he’d known Ibu would be all the more dangerous for having lost once. Now it was time to see who could keep better control of his temper. That was still the crux when he and Ibu played.

As his first serve came back at him, low and fast, it crossed Akaya’s mind to be grateful that the final round was against Fudoumine, not Seigaku. Playing Echizen was a rush, albeit with a frustrating aftermath when he came down and realized he’d lost again. But Echizen was too bright, and he dragged people along with him. Ibu played fiercely, but colder, and against him Akaya could find the place he needed, sink down and ride the edge of not-thinking without losing himself in it.

Unlike their last game, this one was silent. Silent and deliberate, for all their speed. Ibu’s play was quicksilver, slipping aside from direct attacks only to slash straight in through the slightest gap in attention. Quite like their last one, though, Akaya reflected, as he caught a vicious ankle shot and dropped it back over the net, they were still taunting each other. Body shots and shots that were just barely misses, silent threats and provocations, flew between them—a contest of precision and anger and temptation.

It was, he decided, a damn good thing he wasn’t trying to injure Ibu, or he would have been caught in the spiral and pulled off his focus just the way Ibu wanted him to be.

In the end, Akaya wondered whether it wasn’t Ibu’s own disbelief that Akaya could resist that lure that gave him the edge he needed. He tucked the lesson away in his mind and returned Suzuoki’s smirk with an even look, as the referee declared game, set and match.


This year’s award and closing ceremonies seemed strange to Akaya. What supported him, as they waited through speeches and stood for pictures, was not a sense of triumph, as when he was a spectator in his first year. He felt triumph, certainly. But what he felt most was quiet satisfaction.

“Dazed?” Suzuoki asked in a low voice as they wound their way through the dispersing crowd.

Akaya snorted out a half-laugh. “Maybe just relaxed; not sure I could tell the difference.”

“Hm.” They walked in silence the rest of the way, and it wasn’t until they were watching the team file onto the bus that Suzuoki spoke again. “You’ve done well.”

Akaya blinked at this rare bit of praise, and smiled. “Yeah,” he agreed, softly. “We did.”

End

Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
Posted: May 10, 05
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Change

After the tennis season ends, and the third years retire, Kirihara finds himself at irritatingly loose ends. Drama, I-1

When Akaya found himself wandering down the hall where Suzuoki’s office was, he knew it was going to be bad. He stood and stared at the door he really hadn’t intentionally moved toward at any time that afternoon, finally giving in and thumping his head against it a few times.

“Come in,” Suzuoki called in dry invitation.

Akaya toed the door open and leaned in the frame. “Have I forgotten anything?” he asked, unable to keep the plaintive note out of his voice.

Suzuoki eyed him with sardonic amusement. “Hard time letting go, hm?”

“It’s not that!” Akaya protested. “It just feels like there must be something I forgot, or something I have to do.” He trailed off and crossed his arms, frowning at the tile floor.

“There isn’t and you don’t,” Suzuoki told him bluntly. The twist of his mouth spoke of sympathy as well as amusement, though. “It’s going to be uncomfortable for a while, Kirihara-kun. But this is a good time to start learning from Yukimura-kun’s example again, and trust that Niiyama-kun will do well by the team.”

Akaya grumbled under his breath as he stalked out of the building and across the school grounds. He knew all that, it just felt all wrong, and… His thoughts slid into silence as he noticed who was leaning against the gates.

“Yukimura-san.”

Yukimura-san looked up and smiled. “Akaya.” He pushed off from the wall and fell into step beside Akaya, who stole tiny glances from the corner of his eye, wondering.

“I thought you might be feeling a little dazed today,” Yukimura-san said, at last.

“It’s just weird not to be so busy anymore,” Akaya muttered.

“That, too,” Yukimura-san agreed, quietly.

After a few more minutes of walking in silence, Akaya sighed. “It’s hard. To just stop.”

A rueful chuckle answered him. “It nearly drove me crazy, last year,” Yukimura-san agreed. “Do you trust the one you’ve left behind?”

Akaya stuffed his hands into his pockets, slightly grumpy again. “Of course I do.” He’d made as sure as he could that Niiyama was ready, after all.

“Well, it won’t stop you worrying,” Yukimura-san told him in a factual tone, “but it will stop you from going completely insane. As long as you remember it.” He gave Akaya a fond smile. “I speak from experience.”

Akaya almost missed his next step and felt his face heat.

“I’ll be glad when you’re back with us, next year,” Yukimura-san finished, tactfully looking straight ahead, though the corners of his mouth tweaked up.

Akaya didn’t answer but he did feel, as they walked along, a little less as though he had run into a brick wall this week. He tucked his hands into his pockets.

“So how are the classes in the High School, Yukimura-san?”

End

Last Modified: Sep 03, 07
Posted: May 19, 05
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Extra – Rematch

Kirihara finally gets that serious match he wanted out of Tachibana. Drama, I-2

Akaya flipped restlessly through the pages of his book, cursing the English language and the educators who thought it was a good idea to make Japanese schoolchildren learn it. The voice that interrupted him wasn’t one he especially wanted to hear, most times, but at the moment even Seigaku’s terrifying old lady coach would have been welcome.

“Kirihara?” Tachibana stopped beside him, eyeing the stack of books on the park bench. “You’ve come a long way to find someplace to study.” He sounded amused, and Akaya growled, totally out of patience with everyone who had already gotten past the high school entrance exams.

And this was just the start of the study season, he reflected glumly.

Nevertheless, he had a sufficient fingernail-grip on his manners to answer without actually spitting. “If I’m doomed to study, I might as well do it in the sun.”

“Ah. I find a study partner often helps, too,” Tachibana offered with mild sympathy.

That made Akaya snort a little with laughter. “Yeah, well. My study partner threatened to nail my feet to the floor and tape my hands to the book if I didn’t stop fidgeting. A break seemed like a good idea for both of us.” School work tended to flatten out Hiiyama’s always subtle sense of humor completely.

That got a brief laugh out of Tachibana, too. “That bad, hm?” Akaya could tell the moment Tachibana’s eye lit on the tennis bag Akaya had taken along out of habit, because his smile suddenly turned considering and far less impersonal. “How about a game, to work off the jitters, then? Since we’re both here.”

Akaya shut his book with a clap and shoved the whole stack back into his bag. “That would be fantastic,” he agreed with enthusiasm.


Four games later, he was getting annoyed again.

He stood in the middle of the court with his hands on his hips, giving Tachibana a very displeased look. “I thought you said you would play for real the next time we played, Tachibana-san.”

He got a cool once-over in return. “Are you saying I’m not, Kirihara?”

“Yes that’s what I’m saying!” Akaya snapped. He stalked to the net, glaring. “I saw you play at Nationals. This,” he waved a hand, “is you holding back!”

Tachibana stood still, considering him for a long moment. “You’re restraining yourself as well,” he pointed out at last, quietly.

Akaya was now thoroughly aggravated. “I can’t do anything else while you’re playing like this! It wouldn’t…” he broke off, chewing on his lip. “It wouldn’t be right,” he mumbled finally, looking aside. Tachibana broke into a brilliant smile, and Akaya glared again. “Yeah, yeah, fine, I get it, all right? Now can we play for real?” It must be some kind of disease captains caught, wanting to reform players, he decided grumpily. At least he restrained himself to only picking on his own players.

“For real,” Tachibana agreed. “Your serve, Kirihara.”

This time the return nearly took the racquet out of Akaya’s hands, and he smiled. That was more like it. Still concientiously trying to remember Suzuoki’s advice, he edged toward greater intensity instead of diving headlong. Every step he took, though, every increase in strength, in speed, in ferocity, Tachibana met and passed, daring him to keep going. By the time the last point slammed home, Akaya was shivering with the effort of not matching the taunting undercurrent of violence in Tachibana’s game, too. That, he hadn’t expected.

“Are you all right?” Tachibana asked, voice concerned, as they met at the net.

“Yes.” Akaya breathed in and out, carefully. “Can we do that again?”

Tachibana blinked at him. Akaya knew it wasn’t exactly approved of, to train with someone from another team, but… how else could he really learn to deal with that part of his game? Instead of just supressing it.

And for that matter, how else could Tachibana learn to do it?

… all right, so maybe Akaya didn’t confine himself to his own players.

“It’s the time of year for studying,” he offered, obliquely.

One corner of Tachibana’s mouth curled up wryly. “I suppose it is.” He gazed at Akaya for a long moment before nodding. “All right. Give me a call the next time you have a study date around here.”

Akaya grinned at the sardonic note in Tachibana’s tone. “I will.”

This might be fun.

End

Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
Posted: Sep 02, 05
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Extra – Courtship

Tachibana and Kirihara stumble into intimacy. Total Smut, I-4

Akaya dropped his racquet into his bag and fell back against the wall, breathing hard, almost laughing. Tachibana leaned beside him, on one hand, grinning.

“Good game,” Akaya panted. “You should play like that more often.”

“Should I?” Tachibana asked, looking down at him. “Why?”

Akaya grinned back. “It would get your opponents excited. That’s always worth something, isn’t it?”

“That,” Tachibana’s eyes glinted, “depends on the opponent.”

“Does it?” Akaya murmured, tipping his head back. He was enjoying this.

“Oh, yes.” Tachibana was leaning over him, now, playing the same game of dare and counter-dare they played on the court.

“Nice to know I’m special.” Akaya set a hand on Tachibana’s shoulder.

Tachibana slid an arm around him and closed the last few centimeters. Akaya met his kiss open mouthed, and pressed into his hold, feeling the roughness of Tachibana’s shirt against his palms, the smoothness of his lips against Akaya’s, the hardness of his thigh between Akaya’s legs. Akaya sighed into the kiss, and stretched a little against Tachibana’s body. Tachibana’s hand kneaded against his back, and Akaya thrust against Tachibana’s hips, pleased to feel that Tachibana was reacting to this, too.

He was not especially pleased when Tachibana drew back.

“Kirihara,” Tachibana sighed. He looked calmer, now, which was just not acceptable.

“If you say we should stop,” Akaya warned, “I won’t be responsible for what I do next.” He didn’t want to stop; this felt good. He ran a hand up Tachibana’s chest and into his hair, intending to pull him back down.

Tachibana caught his wrist, with a breath of laughter. “Demanding, aren’t you?” His thumb stroked, softly, against Akaya’s palm.

It might have been intended to soothe, but what it actually did was wash a shivering tingle down through Akaya’s entire body. He gasped and dropped his head back, eyes half lidded. He felt Tachibana tense, against him, and looked up to see that Tachibana’s eyes were hot again. Tachibana’s thumb caressed Akaya’s palm once more, and Akaya shivered.

“Don’t stop,” he whispered.

Tachibana smiled, and brought Akaya’s hand down, bowing his head over it. The wet, warm glide of his tongue tracing patterns in Akaya’s palm drove a long shudder through Akaya. It was the most sensual thing he could remember ever feeling, and he was distantly astonished to find his own hands so sensitive. Tachibana’s mouth closed over each finger in turn, tongue sliding up them in a way that made Akaya’s knees weak. Tachibana nibbled his way down Akaya’s middle finger and flicked his tongue into Akaya’s cupped hand, and Akaya moaned at the layering of sharp and silky sensation. If the wall hadn’t been behind him, he was sure he would have been a heap on the ground.

He wanted a matter transmitter, he decided, fuzzily. So that they could move instantly to someplace with a bed and he could lie down and spread his legs apart and feel Tachibana stroking him inside until he came; traveling instantly would be good, because he was very close to the edge now.

Perhaps Tachibana could tell, because he pressed Akaya back harder against the wall, and slid his free hand down between Akaya’s legs. He was gentle, fingers rubbing against Akaya as softly as his tongue, and it was far too much when Akaya was already wound up from a hard game. He groaned and his hips jerked up into Tachibana’s hand as fire washed through him, hazing out the world.

Tachibana pressed more firmly until Akaya stilled, and wrapped an arm back around him in support as Akaya sagged against the prickly brick behind him. He let Akaya’s hand go to brush Akaya’s hair back and stroke his cheek. Akaya looked up at him, a bit startled by this gentleness from someone he had come to know on the court as hard, and fast, and sharp edged.

“You’re wonderfully responsive, Kirihara,” Tachibana remarked, softly.

Akaya smiled. “You like your partners to let you know they’re enjoying it?” he asked.

“That’s part of it,” Tachibana agreed, looking amused. He stepped back and snagged a towel from the benches behind them. With commendable tact, he fiddled with his bag and didn’t watch as Akaya cleaned himself up. Which was good, because, otherwise, Akaya was sure he would have been blushing fit to fry something on his face. Someday, he swore, he was going to figure out how to stifle that reaction.

“So, what’s the rest of it?” Akaya asked, stuffing the towel back into his own bag and reminding himself to throw it in the wash the next day he did laundry himself.

Tachibana lifted an eyebrow at this nosiness, which Akaya parried with his best blithe look. Tachibana snorted.

“I like knowing that my partner is relaxed enough to enjoy it and unrestrained enough to express that. Not,” he added, dryly, “that this is exactly the best place for either of those.”

“Hmm.” Akaya looked sidelong at Tachibana. “You know of somewhere better?”

Tachibana gave him a thoughtful look, at this implicit offer, thoughtful and measuring. “I don’t generally do things like this casually, Kirihara,” he said, at last. “Are you sure you want a lover from another team?”

Akaya considered this. Did he want to be Tachibana Kippei’s lover? He liked their games. He rather liked Tachibana’s sense of humor. And he liked how seriously Tachibana took him. Akaya nodded; good enough. “Yeah, I think so,” he answered.

“Well, then,” a gleam lightened Tachibana’s eyes, “if you think you can deal with my sister, there’s always my house.”

Akaya gazed at him, trying to keep his mouth from twitching. “They’re all wrong,” he declared, “you are still a complete bastard. It’s a good thing I like that.”

“I had noticed the tendency,” Tachibana agreed, mouth curling up at one corner.

Akaya glared, until Tachibana, chuckling, caught his chin and kissed him.

“Okay,” Akay sighed, when Tachibana let him go, “I guess I can brave your little sister. How much worse than your devoted followers can she be?”

Tachibana opened his mouth, and then closed it again. “Mm.”

Akaya eyed him. “Great,” he muttered. Exactly what was he getting himself into?

Tachibana patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry too much,” he encouraged. “I wouldn’t let her actually break anything.”

Akaya spent the entire walk wondering whether that had been a joke or not.

He managed to get through his introduction to the Tachibana family as “a friend I’ve been practicing with” with only a few twitches under the blowtorch intensity of Tachibana Ann’s glare. She was obviously someone who held grudges. The last time he’d seen a look that dire, it had been on Sanada-san. Only her brother’s whispered admonition, as he waved Akaya up the stairs ahead of him, relieved her attempt to scorch him with her eyes. Akaya heaved a sigh of relief, as the door locked behind them. He slumped back against Tachibana, who wound obliging arms around his waist.

“She’s rather protective,” Tachibana told him.

“You can say that again,” Akaya agreed, fervently.

Tachibana laughed, and bent to press a kiss against Akaya’s neck. Akaya sighed and arched back a little further, inviting more extensive liberties. That was, after all, why he had braved the girl-shaped dragon downstairs. He murmured appreciation as Tachibana’s hands moved under his shirt and slid up his sides to close around his ribs. Tachibana’s thumbs, stroking just shy of Akaya’s nipples, sent a complex shiver of heat straight to his groin. The hands slid down to his hips and back up, fingertips tracing over his stomach, and Akaya stretched his arms over his head in a pointed invitation to get rid of the shirt, already. Tachibana took the hint.

“Are you always this impatient?” he asked, sounding amused.

Akaya turned, and gave him a wicked smile. “Pretty much.”

“Will you be a touch more patient if I ask you to?” Tachibana asked, trailing light fingers down Akaya’s back.

Akaya’s breath hitched, and he wound his arms tight around Tachibana. “The only time I put up with teasing is when I’m pinned to the bed and can’t do anything else,” he said.

Tachibana curved a hand under his chin to make Akaya look up. “Not teasing,” he said, seriously. “Just taking it a little slower.”

Akaya was a bit surprised. Sanada-san would have taken what he said as a suggestion. But this was Tachibana, he reminded himself. Not the same person at all. “If you want,” he agreed, after a moment. And then he grinned, and tugged meaningfully at Tachibana’s shirt. “Not too slow, though.”

Tachibana gave him a wry look, but stripped off his shirt before pulling Akaya back against him.

“Mm. Much better,” Akaya sighed against his shoulder. Now he could feel Tachibana’s body heat against his skin.

Tachibana’s hands came to rest at the small of his back, and started digging into his muscles; they worked up his spine until Akaya was sagging against Tachibana, practically purring. Finally, they slid back down, and Tachibana’s fingers slipped inside Akaya’s waistband. Akaya pushed a little away, languidly, to let Tachibana slide it down and made a soft sound of pleasure as Tachibana’s palms slid back up to cup his rear. He moaned a little as those strong hands kneaded against his bare skin.

His own hands searched over Tachibana’s chest and down, brushing across his stomach and drawing a gasp from him. Akaya reached Tachibana’s pants, and looked a question. Tachibana nodded, and Akaya noted Tachibana was breathing almost as fast as his was. That was good. He eased Tachibana’s pants down, and Tachibana stepped out of them, pulling Akaya tighter against him. Akaya squirmed a little, delighting in the feel of skin against skin, and in the low sound Tachibana made when his erection slid against Akaya’s stomach. Tachibana laughed, breathlessly, at Akaya’s grin.

“I’d call you imp, but I’m not sure that’s evil enough,” he observed.

“You’re one to talk,” Akaya gasped, as Tachibana’s fingers spread him open and feathered over sensetized skin. “Tachibana…”

Tachibana guided him to the bed and slid onto it, tugging Akaya after him. Akaya ended straddling his lap, as Tachibana sat, cross-legged, against the wall. It put Akaya’s knees rather far apart, and he leaned against Tachibana for balance.

“Do you mind being this spread open?” Tachibana asked, softly, passing his hands down Akaya’s thighs as if to check for strain.

A flush rose in Akaya’s face and he shook his head. “I like it,” he murmured.

Tachibana’s smile held satisfaction and promise. “Good.” He wove one hand into Akaya’s hair and drew him down to a slow kiss. Akaya made a sharp sound as the other hand smoothed over his entrance, slick and cool. He relaxed as fingertips circled, lightly.

“You don’t need to go too very slow with this,” he said, against Tachibana’s mouth, before sinking back into another kiss. It muffled his moan as Tachibana took him at his word, and slid two fingers into him, stretching him sharply.

“Good?” Tachibana asked, deep voice velvety.

“Oh, yeah,” Akaya husked.

He soon found that it was difficult to rock back into Tachibana’s touch in his current position. But Akaya wasn’t at all sure he could have anyway. Tachibana had amazing hands. His fingers weren’t always thrusting, but somehow they were always pressing or sliding or twisting against the place that felt best. Akaya had never contemplated the possibility of someone… caressing him inside like this, but here he was draped, shuddering, over Tachibana, moaning, abandoned, as those long fingers stroked waves of pleasure through him.

As Akaya’s body started to tighten, Tachibana slowed. “How do you want to finish this?” he asked, breath warm against Akaya’s ear.

Well, if the choice was up to him…

“Fuck me,” Akaya gasped.

“Gladly,” Tachibana whispered, and pushed his weight forward, spilling Akaya back onto the fuzzy blanket. Tachibana leaned over him, and Akaya noted that his smile was both gentle and burning hot. “How do you like it?” Tachibana murmured.

“Hard,” Akaya answered, with no hesitation. The slow, sensual pleasure had been overwhelming, and he was tense with it, now. He wanted something extreme to release him.

Tachibana’s smile gained a laughing edge. “You should probably turn over, then.”

Akaya shrugged, and did so, to find a pillow under his chin. At least, he consoled himself, Tachibana probably couldn’t see this blush. He’d almost forgotten there were other people in the house who might hear if they got enthusiastic. Which he certainly hoped they were about to.

Tachibana’s hands raised Akaya’s hips a little, and his knees spread Akaya’s apart. His fingers smoothed fresh lubricant between Akaya’s cheeks, cool against hot skin. The position and attention felt very wanton, which suited Akaya perfectly just at the moment. They were closing in again on how he felt when he and Tachibana played full out, and that was not a restrained sort of place.

One hand fisted in the blanket, crushing the fuzz, as Tachibana pressed against him, hard and insistent. Akaya sucked in a breath as his body opened and Tachibana slipped inside. That solid length pressed a little further in, and drew back, and then drove in again, hard and deep. Even muffled, Akaya’s cry was loud in the room. He bucked up as Tachibana thrust into him again and again, driving him hot and full. It felt wonderful, pounding and shaking Akaya’s muscles, wrenching them loose, unclenching him until Akaya felt liquid and bright and heated. Nerves that had strained against the slow pleasure from Tachibana’s fingers screamed now. He relaxed into it and burning pleasure broke through him, surged across his body, twisted and released him again and again, until Akaya was empty and breathless, almost drifting. He savored the fullness of Tachibana inside him, lying boneless and satiated under Tachibana’s weight until his rhythm, too, broke.

Akaya did grumble a bit, when, after catching his breath, Tachibana made him move so he could strip the blanket off the bed. The crisp cool of the sheets reconciled him, though, and Tachibana gathered Akaya back against him, stroking his hair when Akaya pillowed his head on Tachibana’s shoulder.

“That was great,” Akaya mumbled, wriggling just a bit to get more comfortable.

“Thank you,” Tachibana chuckled, “I thought so, too.” He pressed a kiss to Akaya’s forehead. “You’re remarkably sweet, for someone so impatient and demanding.”

Akaya blinked up at him before tucking his head back down against Tachibana’s chest to hide yet another damned blush. The effort went for nothing as Tachibana rolled them both over so he could lean over Akaya and lift his chin.

“Don’t tell me no one’s ever said something like that to you before,” he said.

“Just… no one outside my own team,” Akaya muttered, glancing aside.

“You’re cute when you blush, too,” Tachibana commented.

Akaya glared firey death, and Tachibana laughed. Akaya growled, and heaved, flipping them back over again so he could kiss Tachibana until he stopped, which he did fairly quickly.

Just before his brain unravelled again, the thought drifted through: what was his team going to think about this?

End

Last Modified: Feb 09, 12
Posted: Sep 22, 05
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Extra – The Fairest

The new year begins and Kirihara suffers a bit of culture clash. Drama, I-3

First day of tennis club practice for the new year.

Akaya wasn’t precisely nervous, but there was no room in his mind for any thought but that one, running in echoing round. The ramifications of that thought occupied him even more than they had three years ago; this time he knew what was waiting for him.

Despite his preoccupation, he was aware that Hiiyama had probably chosen deliberately to walk ahead of him and clear people out of the way. At least, that was the effect he was having on the other students around them, and Akaya thought Hiiyama was likely wearing one of his Irresistible Force looks. They weren’t glares, but nevertheless managed, in a very deadpan way, to convey the idea that the recipient could either move or be mowed down.

They had changed and were almost at the courts before Akaya thought to say thank you, though.

Hiiyama snorted, looking up at Akaya from the corner of his eye. “Go on and get it over with,” he ordered, gruffly.

Akaya smiled and reminded himself to breathe. Why was he so wound up about this? He’d played his senpai dozens of times before. Busy thinking about this he paid even less attention than usual to the run-of-the-mill senpai around him, and started when one of them suddenly blocked his way.

“Where do you think you’re going? First years are gathering over there.” The obstruction jerked his chin toward the growing cluster of Akaya’s yearmates.

Akaya eyed the interloper up and down. Not someone he recognized. “Yes, I noticed,” he drawled, in answer, and didn’t budge.

The other player’s eyes narrowed. “Who do you think you are?” he growled.

Before Akaya could decide just how to answer that, a familiar laugh came from behind him.

“Making trouble already, Akaya?”

Akaya glanced back. “Niou-senpai, who is this?” he asked, pointing his racquet at the player in front of him.

“Saizen Tadahisa, second year,” Niou-senpai waved in a vaguely introductory manner, “meet Kirihara Akaya, first year.”

Akaya tapped an impatient foot. “So is he any good or not?”

“Not too bad,” Niou-senpai said, judiciously, while Saizen-senpai gaped at them.

“That’ll do,” Akaya decided, and turned back. “If you’re not to scared to take a challenge, senpai, play me a game and I’ll show you who I think I am.”

Niou-senpai was right; Saizen-senpai was fairly good. He kept two of his service games.

“Thanks senpai,” Akaya said, when they were done. “That was a good warm up.”

“And what is it that you needed to warm up for?” asked the voice Akaya had been waiting for, from the side of the court.

He breathed in and out, carefully, stomping on the shiver that tried to wind up his spine. “Yukimura-buchou.” He turned to see all three of them there, Yanagi-san looking discreetly amused, and Sanada-san looking, for him, only mildly disapproving. Yukimura-san …

Yukimura-san’s eyes sharpened as they met Akaya’s, and his gentle smile turned bright.

“Please,” Akaya said, quietly.

“Of course. One set.” Yukimura-san paced to the other side of the net, Saizen-senpai nearly scuttling back out of his way.

The sound of the club members watching, which had been a mixture of amusement and grumbling, changed tone. No sooner had he noticed, though, than they faded from Akaya’s attention. He had occasionally wondered, during the past year, whether his perception of Yukimura-san was simply a matter of inexperience—whether it would be different now. And in a way it was different; Akaya no longer felt completely out of control as they played.

But Yukimura-san’s brilliance was still enough to burn everything but the game, the now, the collection of movement that was the net and the ball and the two of them, from Akaya’s mind. Still the thing that could draw him further than he thought he could go and leave him rushing madly to keep his own balance.

In the end, Yukimura-san took him six games to four.

As Akaya hauled himself upright the sound of the club around them returned to his ears. Now it was a soft, incredulous buzz. He would have laughed if he wasn’t panting so hard for breath.

Yukimura-san was laughing for both of them, softly, just a bit breathless, as they met at the net. “Soon,” he said, and then added with a teasing gleam in his eye, “So, did you want to keep up your first year tradition with the other two? You should start getting used to multiple sets, you know.”

Akaya contemplated this. “Ten minute break, first?”

“To start with,” Yukimura-san agreed.

Before he could accuse Yukimura-san of developing sadistic tendencies they were interrupted by the last person Akaya had expected. “I see that my suggestion of some matches to fit the first years into the current rankings has been pre-empted.”

“What are you doing here?” Akaya exclaimed, wide eyed.

Suzuoki blew a stream of smoke at him. “The coaches drew straws to see who would stay with each division this year. I got the short one.”

Akaya tried to remember some of the French swear words Marui-senpai had taught him one slow afternoon at the Cafe. He snatched a quick look at Yukimura-san and winced. His captain’s eyes were cold. Suzuoki didn’t normally say things that stupid …

Oh, hell.

Akaya drove a hand through his hair and growled under his breath in frustration. “You,” he pointed at Suzuoki, “cut it out. And yes, I’ll do it,” he answered the slightly elevated brow, “so get lost for a little.”

“Of course.” Suzuoki smirked and strolled away, waving his clipboard in a careless farewell.

Akaya spun back to put himself square in front of Yukimura-san. “Yukimura-buchou. Please.” He made himself not back up as Yukimura-san’s eyes tracked back to him. Instead, he talked fast. “Look, on the one hand, there are times when I hate his guts, and today looks like it’s going to be one of them, but, on the other hand, he’s a good coach. He can see what people need to do, and he can get people to do it.”

Yukimura-san was silent for a long moment. “Can you give me an example, Akaya?” he said at last.

Akaya chewed on his lip. “Well … like right now, for example, when I’m pretty sure he provoked you to make me speak up.” He looked down. “Even if it isn’t quite what you want to hear.” And Suzuoki, that bastard, knew part of Akaya had been hoping to go back to the way it had been, hoping to relax again. So much for that. He sighed and raised his head again. “He can be useful, Yukimura-buchou. Even to you.”

Finally Yukimura-san’s eyes warmed again and his lips quirked up. “I see. You make a convincing argument. I’ll consider it.” The faint smile became a broader and more mischevious one. “Now walk around some so you don’t stiffen up to much for your match with Sanada.”

He raised his voice to assign exercises to the club, most of whom had gathered to watch by now, and Akaya tried to discreetly shake the trembling out of his legs while he moved and stretched obediently. From now on, he swore, Suzuoki was on his own with Yukimura-san. He snorted.

Short straw, indeed!


The club spent the rest of the week hammering out rankings. There weren’t many surprises, and the quiet time gave Akaya a chance to get reacquainted with how his senpai played tennis and find his feet and relax some.

He should probably have known better.

Thursday afternoon his match against Marui-senpai was interrupted by the suddenly raised voices of Furuya and Tsunoda. Akaya blinked at them, as Tsunoda, for once, abandoned his cool attitude to yell back and Furuya rocked forward on his toes like he was about to jump on his teammate. He’d been expecting something from Furuya ever since this morning, when Chiba had turned up absent, but not this!

“Furuya! Tsunoda!” he snapped, without thinking. The yelling stopped, but they still looked five seconds away from ripping eachother’s throats out. “Excuse me for a moment, please, senpai,” Akaya said, abandoning his match. “Tsunoda,” he said, quietly, coming between them, “go get a drink and calm down.”

Tsunoda closed shadowed eyes for two long breaths before he spun on his heel and walked away. Akaya let his own breath out.

“All right, what was that?” he asked. Furuya didn’t look at him and Akaya fought down the urge to grind his teeth. “Damn it, Furuya, I know you can still control your temper when Chiba isn’t around, why aren’t you?”

Furuya rounded on him, and Akaya found himself on his own toes, ready to move, because he recognized that tension—that snap that was ready to aim at someone. Furuya met his eyes and froze.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Akaya murmured, “remember who you’re talking to.”

Furuya’s hand flexed around his racquet. “Mamo is in the hospital,” he ground out at last.

Akaya’s tension redirected itself at once. “What happened?”

“I don’t know!” Furuya yelled before stifling himself again. “All I know is he was out with his little sister and got into a fight with some kids who were teasing her, and now … ” he broke off, lips pressed into a pale line.

“Go find out, then.” Akaya sighed when Furuya blinked at him. “You’ll be worse than useless around here until you know. I’ll take care of things. Go.”

Furuya’s shoulder slumped. “Thanks,” he said, softly, and nearly ran for the gate.

Akaya planted his hands on his hips. “What a mess.”

“What mess is that, and where is Furuya going?” Sanada-san asked, suddenly at his shoulder.

“I need to talk to Yukimura-buchou,” Akaya answered, distracted. Tsunoda was already edgy, separated from his partners, and if Chiba was seriously injured that would both suck in its own right and make Furuya unmanagable. He really didn’t need this …

Akaya’s thoughts jerked to a halt, as he remembered that he was not their captain this year.

Oops.

He glanced up at Sanada-san warily. A hint of surprise looked back at him. “Yukimura is coming,” was all Sanada-san said, though.

Indeed, Yukimura-san was arriving. “What’s going on?”

Akaya bit his lip, guiltily aware that he had seriously overstepped his authority. Really very seriously. “Furuya’s partner, Chiba, is in the hospital; Furuya hasn’t had a chance to find out why or how bad it is; he was distracted and upset enough to be a problem during practice, so I told him to go see Chiba.” He bowed, which had the added benefit of hiding the flush of embarassment he could feel in his face. “I apologize for my presumption, Buchou.”

After a pause long enough to make him squirm, Yukimura-san spoke. “I trust your judgement, Akaya.”

Akaya straightened in surprise. Yukimura-san smiled at him. “Just make sure you tell me about it, when it affects the club,” he added.

Akaya had to swallow a few times. “Yes, Buchou.”

Yukimura-san nodded in a that’s settled, then manner and moved back toward the matches he had been overseeing. Akaya stared after him for a few moments before looking up at Sanada-san who was still beside him.

Sanada-san wore a thoughtful look. “You’ve grown,” he said, at last.

Akaya’s eyes widened; Sanada-san moved off as well, touching his shoulder in passing. Akaya stood, rather dazed, until Marui-senpai came to collect him so they could resume their match.

And here he’d thought this year would be simpler than the last.

End

Last Modified: May 15, 12
Posted: Sep 22, 05
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Touch And Go

Kirihara’s relationship to Sanada and his temper. Drama, I-3

1

The first time wasn’t really a surprise. Even one summer of observation was enough to tell anyone that Sanada-senpai had no sense of humor. But the frown he had been wearing at the end of Akaya’s smash practice was too good to resist.

“Sanada-fukubuchou,” Akaya said, as solemnly as if he were imparting the secret of immortality, “if you’re not careful, your face will freeze like that.”

The expression didn’t change one bit as Sanada-fukubuchou fetched Akaya a brisk swat across the back of the head. “Your grip is too light. Work on that,” he directed, as if Akaya had never spoken.

Akaya’s mouth quirked. “Yes, Sanada-fukubuchou.”

2

The second time, Akaya ducked out of range and the swat missed. Sanada-fukubuchou gave him a steady look.

“Two hundred laps. Now.”

Akaya made a face at Marui-senpai, who was laughing, and started running. Easier not to duck, he decided.

3

It was another three months before he stopped trying to get a rise out of his vice-captain and Sanada-fukubuchou stopped letting him.

In December.

4

“Is it really spring? It’s too cold,” Akaya complained, wrapping his jacket around him as the team finished changing. He admitted to himself that it might just be the atmosphere, with Yukimura-buchou gone, but he wasn’t about to say that out loud.

“Should we bring you flowers to cheer you up?” Niou-senpai tossed over his shoulder. “Didn’t know you liked spring so much, Kirihara.”

Akaya gave his smirking senpai an evil look. “Well, I guess that depends on how much you’re selling it for, Niou-senpai,” he drawled.

The faint sting of a cuff across the side of the head made Akaya start. It had been months since that had happened. He blinked at Sanada-fukubuchou, who was giving him a look of distinct disapprobation. The entire team was still for a long moment, and then sound rustled through them as everyone seemed to let out their breath at once. A faint grin tugged at Akaya’s mouth.

Yeah. It was spring again.

5

Akaya stood silently as Sanada-fukubuchou approached. He was distantly aware that he was in shock; he had never lost to anyone but those three. And now… an unofficial match with a first-year from the school they were about to play in tournament. He could tell when Sanada-fukubuchou saw the scoreboard by his abrupt stillness.

“I lost.” The words brought it home, made it real, and the sharp impact that jarred him off his feet was a strange kind of relief. Even the ache along his jaw, when it caught up with him a moment later, helped. It snapped the world back into focus, and Akaya actually felt the hard clay under him and the small scrapes on his palms where he’d caught himself.

When he looked up the flash of hot rage in Sanada-fukubuchou’s eyes was already fading back into tight, measured determination. His gaze rested on Akaya with hard question, and Akaya bit his lip and nodded shortly.

He would not fail again.

6

Akaya watched the suppressed exasperation with which Sanada-fukubuchou dusted Akaya’s footprints off the coach’s bench, and ignored both Yagyuu-senpai’s tolerant look and Marui-senpai’s snort; he just pushed the hair back out of his eyes from where it had fallen when Sanada-fukubuchou swatted him.

It was good to know he was definitely forgiven for the other day.

7

Akaya felt like he couldn’t breathe. There was no tension between Sanada-fukubuchou and Yanagi-senpai, as they spoke; all the tension was in Akaya, watching them.

This was wrong.

It was one thing for Sanada-fukubuchou to strike Akaya for being an idiot, and careless enough to lose. But Yanagi-senpai… okay, maybe he had let his feelings get in the way, but…

But they were the center of Rikkai! The three of them together. For Sanada Genichirou to strike Yanagi Renji… it was wrong. No matter what Yanagi-senpai said about setting an example for the club.

That feeling of wrongness had already pulled Akaya to his feet. The tightening line between Sanada-fukubuchou’s hand drawing back and Yanagi-senpai turning his head with quiet acceptance snapped Akaya into motion before thought could intervene.

Under other circumstances, the startlement of his senpai, as they both stood there looking down at him and his interposed racquet, would have made him laugh.

He half expected to feel the brief clip of Sanada-fukubuchou’s hand that his insolence usually got him. All he got, though, as he skipped out from between them again, was the weight of thoughtful eyes on the back of his neck.

8

Akaya didn’t remember losing, this time. Didn’t remember the end of the match at all. But Sanada-fukubuchou’s statement of the score echoed through his head.

He had failed.

Again.

Could he even call himself Rikkai, anymore?

Choking shame threw him out from under Yanagi-senpai’s hand and over the rail to stand before Sanada-fukubuchou. But his half-frantic demand for the reprimand that a team member could expect for such a loss dropped without a ripple into Sanada-fukubuchou’s considering look.

And then he was stepping past Akaya with only a quiet “Sit down.”

Akaya did as he was told.

9

Sanada-fukubuchou’s hand on his shoulder as they left the courts that day reassured Akaya. But it reassured him a lot more when, a week or so later, he collected a swat for taking a nap on top of Sanada-fukubuchou’s uniform jacket.

End

  • Note: “Selling spring” is a Japanese euphemism for selling sex.
  • Last Modified: Feb 09, 12
    Posted: Oct 11, 05
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    Zoology and Mythology

    Some friendly bickering within the Rikkai team. Drama, I-2

    Yagyuu started the game, not to any of Masaharu’s surprise. Successful surgery or not, the bus ride back from the hospital needed some distraction, and Yagyuu had these flights of fancy. This one was abundantly suggested by Jackal’s remark that Marui reminded him of a hummingbird: voracious and viciously territorial, but pretty enough to watch that almost no one noticed those parts.

    While Marui tried to decide whether he was insulted or complimented, Yagyuu smiled. “What animal would you be, then, Jackal-kun?”

    “Should be a horse,” Kirihara put in. “They like him because he’s just as strong as they are.” Masaharu’s lips twitch, recalling that the horses had not gotten along quite so well with Kirihara.

    “Nah.” Marui shook his head. “Lizard. You should see him basking in the sun some time.”

    “So what’s Sanada-fukubuchou?” Kirihara asked with a grin. Sanada gave him a dark look, but it didn’t have quite the usual weight.

    “A tiger, perhaps,” Yanagi mused, ignoring Sanada’s snort.

    “Prickly and dangerous, and really good at glaring,” Kirihara agreed, secure in the two bus seats separating him from Sanada.

    “Does that make you the deer then, Akaya?” Sanada inquired, and returned a sardonic look to Kirihara’s glower.

    “Akaya’s an otter,” Marui corrected. “Always showing off.”

    “All right, then, what’s Yanagi?” Jackal asked, over Kirihara’s indignant Look who’s talking!

    “A turtle,” Sanada answered, finally entering the game in the name of payback. “All observation and deliberate movements.”

    Yanagi simply laughed softly.

    “And Niou-kun?” Yagyuu asked, in the tone of someone baiting a trap. Masaharu snorted and lifted a brow, placing a small bet with himself.

    “Fox,” Kirihara said, decidedly.

    Yes, he’d rather thought that would be it.

    “Perhaps also the snake,” Yanagi offered. “Given how rarely he does anything in a straight line.”

    “That should count for Hiroshi, too, then,” Marui pointed out with a thoughtful bubble.

    “Their combination is a snake?” Yanagi sounded amused. “So what is Hiroshi alone?”

    The whole team paused, considering. “A bear,” Jackal said, at last. “Powerful. Needs a large range. Extremely dangerous if provoked. Very communicative, if you know how to read their body language.” He traded a slightly sheepish smile for Marui’s astonished look. “I took my brothers and sisters to the zoo last weekend.”

    Masaharu leaned back in his seat. “What’s Yukimura?” A much longer pause followed his question.

    “A crane?” Kirihara suggested, at last. “His game is graceful enough.”

    “A butterfly would seem most appropriate to his emergence, just now,” Yagyuu murmured.

    “A dragon,” Sanada said, quietly, looking out the window.

    And the game ended on a rustling sigh of agreement.

    They were all getting off the bus, stretching and exchanging dinner plans, when Masaharu heard Yanagi ask Kirihara, softly, “So which are you going to be, Akaya? A tiger cub, or the boy who swallowed a dragon pearl?”

    Glancing over his shoulder he saw Kirihara looking up at their strategist with an expression caught halfway between question and decision.

    “I’m going to be the thunder.”

    Masaharu tucked away the glint of approval in Yanagi’s smile to think about later.

    End

  • Note: See this site for several versions of the story of the boy who swallows a dragon pearl.
  • Last Modified: Feb 09, 12
    Posted: Oct 12, 05
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    The Quality of Mercy

    Yukimura’s reaction to his team’s behavior during his absence. Drama, I-3

    Yukimura

    The day of his return to the tennis club, Seiichi held the Regulars back for a moment at the start of practice.

    Standing and watching them, arms folded, Seiichi could see the signs of release. Stifled yawns and strained eyes from late-night celebrations, or possibly hysterics; but also the relaxation in their grips on balls or racquets, the easier lines of their mouths. He could sympathize entirely.

    Which didn’t change one word of what he was about to say.

    “I’ve watched the video taken at Regionals,” he started, evenly. The entire team paused, as if they all held the same breath.

    “I was not impressed,” Seiichi continued, letting a bite come into his voice. “Too many of those games were sloppy, and too many were aimed at cheap victories that were unworthy of you. We are Rikkai. We are the best.” His eyes narrowed. “We don’t need to win by default. Ever.”

    Niou merely gave him a faint shrug, shifting closer to his silent partner, but Akaya hunched up and Sanada’s gaze flickered aside.

    “Remember this,” Seiichi stated, quiet enough that they all leaned forward, “we win because we are the superior team. I will not permit anything less. I will not allow you to make anything less of yourselves, or of Rikkai. Understood?”

    A subdued chorus of assent answered him, and he nodded. “Then start running some laps to warm up.” He glanced at Niou and Yagyuu. “Or, possibly, to cool down. I’ll tell you when you’re done.” A few winces met that last statement, but he could also see a wry familiarity in their glances as they turned away. A comfortable familiarity.

    So much for the easy part. As the team set off he held Sanada back with a look, and set a hand on Akaya’s shoulder. “Akaya.”

    Kirihara

    Akaya tried not to flinch as his captain held him back. Getting chewed out by Yukimura-buchou was one of his personal definitions of not-fun. To be honest, he preferred Sanada-fukubuchou’s reprimands; they were over sooner and they hurt less. And even when it was a hundred laps, at least it was simple and defined and you could see the end of it. Yukimura-buchou’s reprimands were… more difficult.

    But he knew that he had played too loosely, with Seigaku’s Fuji at least, and Echizen too, really, and probably deserved it. So he took a breath and straightened his shoulders. “Yes, Yukimura-buchou?”

    Yukimura-buchou’s eyes were sharp. “During your match with Fuji you found something new in your own game, didn’t you?”

    Akaya blinked. That was not what he had been expecting. “Yes,” he answered, hesitantly.

    “Do you think you can find it again?”

    Akaya thought back, and stole a look at the vice-captain, waiting silently beyond Yukimura-buchou’s shoulder. “Yes,” he said, slowly. “Sanada-fukubuchou showed me. At the start of his match with Echizen.”

    “Good, then work on it,” Yukimura-buchou directed, briskly. “A technique you can call on deliberately, that doesn’t depend on you losing, is one that may actually let you win. I’m pleased to see you coming at this from the right direction, finally.”

    Akaya blinked some more, opened his mouth and closed it again.

    Yukimura-buchou’s mouth curled up in a crooked half smile. “Mere uninhibited play will never defeat us, Akaya. Or Tezuka.” His eyes glinted. “Or, it seems, Fuji and this Echizen.”

    Now there was a motivational thought. “Yes, Yukimura-buchou,” Akaya answered, voice firm now.

    “Good,” Yukimura-buchou repeated, softly. “Because I don’t want to see such inferior tactics from you again.”

    This time Akaya did flinch, and ducked into a bow. “Yes, Yukimura-buchou,” he said, slightly stifled, feeling blood rising to his cheeks.

    “You were chosen for this team for your strength, Akaya,” his captain stated. “I will not accept you falling short of that.” A sigh made Akaya look up again. Yukimura-buchou’s expression had softened just a bit. “Though I don’t believe it was entirely your fault, this season.” Akaya’s eyes widened, and Yukimura-buchou snorted faintly. “Don’t get too far ahead of yourself, Akaya. You’re our responsibility, still.” He gave Akaya a small push after the rest of the team. “Laps. Get going.”

    Akaya took off, still feeling the sting of Yukimura-buchou’s censure, but also holding a new bit of hope. Which was fairly standard, after Yukimura-buchou was done with a person. He sighed and fell into stride with Jackal-senpai who at least wouldn’t tease him about the flush still on his face.

    Sanada

    Genichirou stifled an unworthy desire to take off running along with Akaya.

    He’d known this was coming. Euphoria had touched everyone, in the wake of the surgery’s success, and Yukimura had forgiven them easily enough for their loss to Seigaku, simply agreeing with Genichirou that they would keep their pride and focus, now, on Nationals. That, however, had been before he’d seen the videos, and Genichirou had been waiting for the axe to fall ever since he’d delivered those disks. His loss had been unforgivable, and he knew it. He stood, now, to hear what punishment the captain of his team would assign.

    “I don’t believe it was entirely your fault, either,” Yukimura murmured, dryly, watching the team complete another lap. “So I don’t want you taking it on yourself to run laps until you collapse. You will keep your own training menu in balance, and focus on advancing strength, precision and endurance in step with each other, as usual.”

    Genichirou nodded silently, still waiting.

    “You got a bit out of control, yourself, Sanada,” Yukimura mused. “Along with Akaya. You two remind me a good deal of each other, at times. Though, with your experience, you should have known better. Whether it was distraction or too much focus, misdirected, you lost sight of why we are the best, and let yourself get blindsided by someone who remembered.”

    Genichirou’s mouth tightened as he restrained the urge to ask Yukimura to get on with it, already. He stood a little straighter as Yukimura finally turned to look at him, level and measuring. And with that uncanny knack of his, Yukimura’s next words reflected the heart of Genichirou’s thoughts back at him.

    “Given that, do you deserve mercy, Sanada?”

    Genichirou turned his face aside. “No,” he stated, flatly.

    Yukimura’s gaze, resting on him, was dispassionate. “You lost, and you know why. That is the only punishment you will get.”

    Genichirou’s jaw clenched, and he closed his eyes for a breath. The message, between the two of them, was clear as morning light. Simple expiation was denied to him—it wouldn’t be that easy. “Very well,” he managed, at last.

    “I want you to work with Akaya,” Yukimura continued. “He won’t be able to use the technique as cleanly as we do, but take him as far as you can.” He paused and pursed his lips. “Was it Renji’s suggestion to turn him loose against Tachibana?”

    Genichirou nodded. “As soon as Renji turned up Tachibana’s history.”

    “Renji will explain his reasoning to Akaya, then. There’s no excuse for leaving him ignorant of why facing a violent player set Tachibana so off his game; especially since I doubt it will work twice.” Yukimura’s mouth quirked. “Renji, I trust, is already sufficiently motivated not to repeat his own mistakes?”

    “I would say so.” Genichirou could feel months of desperate tension, of sole responsibility for the unruly tangle that was a tennis team, easing out of him. If Yukimura refused to give him answers or allow amends for Genichirou’s past mistakes, at least he wasn’t making Genichirou continue to play the part of leader alone.

    Yukimura nodded. “Good.” After a moment he added, “You will also come with me on my training runs in the evenings. There’s a good deal of condition I need to regain quickly; I’ll need someone to pace me.”

    Genichirou bowed his head. That was the offer of his friend, more than the order his captain—the offer of time when wider responsibility didn’t bear down on either of them. That was the compassion that turned the team’s respect, which Yukimura’s ruthlessness alone would have won, into devotion. “Of course,” he said, quietly.

    Yukimura

    Seiichi shook his head a little, hiding a smile. For years he’d waged a silent tug-of-war with Sanada’s grandfather, and for years Sanada-jiisan had been winning. Sanada played tennis as with as much passion as Seiichi could wish, but he had always carried with him the strict formality and discipline of Kendo, and an air of faint disapproval for the freewheeling manners and fluid ranking of the tennis world. Seiichi had not been surprised when Sanada, having to stand as captain, had been pressed even deeper into the system he knew best.

    The two players he had been proudest of, after watching the videos, were Akaya and Sanada. Akaya, for finally starting to grasp his true strength, and Sanada…

    Sanada for finally leading the team, after their loss. For reaching past his personal shame to give the team a confident center and a way forward again.

    He was not going to let Sanada lose that, and lean on the simple, rigid rules of tradition again. He gestured Sanada to follow him, joining the team on their next lap.

    “Let’s go.”

    End

  • Note: This was written before issue 300 came out, and should be considered Divergent Future.
  • Last Modified: Sep 26, 08
    Posted: Oct 13, 05
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    Essential

    Sanada practices, and considers connections between sword and tennis. Drama, I-2

    Sometimes intense focus shut out the rest of the world; sometimes it only brought the world closer.

    Sometimes, especially during kata when he attended to the essential line and nature of each movement, Genichirou found moments of connection between the sword and his other passions. They didn’t come as thoughts, they had no path, no start or finish; they were moments of knowing, moments of fact, present and then gone like a reflection in some window he walked past.

    Yukimura would use this low guard, that tempted the unwary to make an overhead attack, and then step in, light and flowing, and make this strike full across the body, inexorable destruction smooth as running water.

    Renji would make this step, that turned out of the way with such simplicity and hard calm, and allowed attack or retreat with the same poise.

    Akaya would always take the outside, like so, the powerful, rounded attack that cut through where the opponent thought he was strongest, a challenge to the one who used it.

    Tachibana would use this strike, overhead and centered, ferocious and direct.

    Atobe would take this step, sliding under a high guard into a low, efficient cut.

    Fuji would favor this straight thrust to the center, the one that demanded patience until its moment came to drive through the inside guard as though nothing had ever impeded it.

    Tezuka would use this stance, the one that appeared so stable and unmoving to the thoughtless, motion spiraling up from the feet, invisible and contained through the body, a riptide released only once it was focused.

    Pieces of his own team, pieces of other players, if Genichirou only watched and didn’t wait they showed themselves in flickers, bright and passing and true as sun glinting on the spine of his sword.

    No movement in a kata had reflected Echizen, yet.

    What came to Genichirou, as he stood and breathed in stillness, was that if he ever followed the sword far enough to use a live edge outside of kata and tameshigiri then he might find Echizen there.

    “What are you thinking?” Yukimura asked, from where he leaned in the doorway.

    “Nothing,” Genichirou answered with perfect honesty.

    A low laugh tumbled through the warm air. “And what does nothing look like today?”

    Sometimes Genichirou wondered how Yukimura learned these things about him without ever being told. He considered for a moment. “The first thing it looked like was you,” he stated, at last.

    Yukimura smiled, and all of the day’s moments of fact rearranged themselves around that fact.

    End

  • Note: tameshigiri is cutting practice with a live blade, a la Iaido, generally done with straw mats or rolls or bunches. This is, if I’m not mistaken, what we see Sanada doing in the manga.
  • Last Modified: Sep 26, 08
    Posted: Oct 14, 05
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    Relational

    Twenty thoughts of Niou Masaharu. Character Sketch, I-2, manga continuity

    Character(s): Niou Masaharu, Rikkai

    Yagyuu puts a wall of reflective glass between himself and the world. For Niou, the distance between his eyes and his thoughts is sufficient.

    Yanagi’s strategy encompasses more detail than his own; Yanagi’s concrete observations range far wider. But Niou knows there is a space of colorful intuition at the heart of his own strategies that Yanagi does not like to enter.

    His initial equation to describe Sanada was ‘winning equals everything’. His new equation is ‘winning equals everything, but duty equals everything squared’. The line this equation describes has become interestingly curved.

    Yukimura, on the other hand, is the same quadratic equation he’s been since Niou met him; equally gentle or merciless depending on how he calculates. Which is the positive conclusion, and which the negative, Niou has never tried to resolve.

    He suspects he will need calculus to graph Kirihara properly.

    Marui, he puts on like a festival mask when they play together, showy technique concealing unsmiling concentration. They smile at each other once the game ends.

    Jackal’s quiet sense of humor curbs Niou’s dispassion. It wasn’t until he met Jackal that Niou understood dispassion could be as wild and out of control as any emotion.

    Steel tipped darts have the most satisfying weight in the hand. It requires weight to fly true.

    Red meat has the same weight in the body, and the richness of its taste has the same weight on the tongue.

    Watching opponents on the court stumble and freeze and fail has the same weight in his soul, round and satisfying.

    He likes the numbers that describe fractals; he finds it typical that he prefers the numbers alone, while Yukimura always sketches the design out in the margin of a notebook.

    He likes the taste of greens with sesame; it tastes like fresh air. He knows that he thinks so only because his mother often makes it in the fall, as the heat passes and the windows are opened, a stubborn association that isn’t shaken no matter how often he eats it in other seasons. The irrationality of this delights him.

    He likes the blues of the sky best at sunrise or sunset. When they’re changing.

    He thinks Yagyuu’s taste for standing outside in storms is a bit much. But he joins his partner to watch what he’s like, then.

    He thinks Yagyuu is very like water. He takes on the shape of his container until he breaks it. He takes on the colors around him and remains clear in himself.

    He thinks Yagyuu’s eyes are the color of water.

    Niou and Kirihara have an even record of winning at Ou-sama, because no one has found a truth either of them hesitates to tell. Unless, of course, the King is Yagyuu, because they both like the dares he comes up with.

    Perception calms him; it is precise and uncompromising. There are times it feels like anger, that way. The sure knowledge that Sanada would never understand this comparison amuses him.

    To deceive is to control the perception of others. Niou would rather like a match against Hyoutei’s Atobe some time. He wonders how much it would be like playing Marui or Yukimura.

    No one will control him. The point of the whole thing is freedom.

    End

    Last Modified: Sep 26, 08
    Posted: Nov 15, 05
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    305 The Way It Should Have Been

    An exercise in rewriting canon, in cooperation with Kizu. Atobe does it himself. Drama with Mild Crack, I-2, manga continuity

    One

    Keigo watched with dazed detachment as the world faded back into arm’s reach. He took a slow breath and blinked hard a few times, pulling the court back into focus.

    And then he almost regretted it, because Echizen was trotting toward him with a smirk, waving an electric razor in one hand. “You lost,” Echizen announced with insolent cheer, and flicked on the razor and held it out.

    Keigo regarded the buzzing implement with a sneer. Unfortunately, a quick look at the scoreboard showed that Echizen was telling the truth. Keigo had lost. And he had also made a deal.

    And Atobe Keigo did not go back on his word.

    Keigo plucked the razor out of Echizen’s hand, loftily ignoring the brat’s grin. He lifted it and then paused. There was something missing, here. He considered it for a moment, lips pursed and head cocked and slowly turned to regard his club members. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it his way.

    “Why,” he quietly asked that sea of wide eyes and pale faces, “aren’t you cheering?”

    Oshitari’s brows vanished under his bangs while Mukahi choked. Shishido sat down, hard. “Atobe, have you stripped a gear?” he asked, weakly.

    Keigo gave him a cool glare. “Certainly not.” He waved a hand at the club and snapped his fingers imperatively.

    “A… Ato… be…” a voice in the crowd faltered.

    Well, it was a start. Keigo nodded graciously and ran his fingers through his hair, lifting it so it wouldn’t matt in the clipping edge.

    “Atobe…” a few more voice breathed.

    Keigo carefully ran the razor around his ear, working up in sections. No sense doing this in a haphazard, un-classy manner. He shook strands of hair off his fingers, taking a certain satisfaction in the way they shimmered, blowing away in the sunlight.

    The voices of his club picked up momentum and volume. “Atobe! Atobe! Atobe!

    Keigo ran a hand over his head to be sure he hadn’t missed any spots, which would be unsightly, and nodded with satisfaction. He tossed the razor, flipping it through the air, and caught it again, and raised it fisted in his hand. His club roared.

    Echizen’s smirk, when Keigo looked, was as wide as ever, but there was a faint, grudgingly impressed, crook to it. Keigo smirked back.

    “Better luck next time.”

    Echizen blinked. “I won,” he pointed out. “What do I need better luck for?”

    Keigo caught his coat as Shishido, mouth twisted ruefully, tossed it to him, slinging it over his shoulder with a stylish flair. He looked back at Echizen, head high. “You won once.”

    Echizen snorted, and eyed Keigo, and the chanting club, and Keigo again. And then he laughed.

    Keigo strode off the court and tossed the razor to Kabaji. Echizen wasn’t getting it back, not after making such a nuisance of himself over it. That razor was, by damn, going to be Keigo’s trophy of this match. “Pack that up, Kabaji.”

    For once, though, Kabaji didn’t acknowledge his instructions. Instead he looked, for a long moment, at the razor in his hand. Then he clicked it on.

    The chanting of the club faltered on the first pass, but as Kabaji calmly made another and tufts of black dropped to the clay, the cheering swelled again, louder than before.

    “Hyoutei! Hyoutei! The winner will be Hyoutei!

    It was Keigo’s turn to laugh, throwing back his now-bald head and lifting a hand to conduct the cheers.

    Two

    Ryouma shook his head, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he strolled back to his team. Seeing the monkey king bald was pretty satisfying, and all of Hyoutei bald should be even better. He’d have to see. He grinned at his teammates as he approached. Oishi-senpai still had a faintly horrified expression, but Momo was laughing so hard he had to lean on the fence and the corners of Fuji-senpai’s mouth were curled up.

    Tezuka-buchou, on the other hand, had his arms folded and shook his head. Ryouma tucked his chin down just a bit, looking up from under the brim of his cap as he rejoined them. Okay, so it hadn’t been very nice. Or gracious or any of that stuff. But Atobe had been the one to bet, and Ryouma had won. And Tezuka-buchou wasn’t actually frowning. He actually looked just a little pleased—just a quiet little bit, as he watched Ryouma and Atobe.

    Who looked to be directing a riot by now.

    Ryouma took a long drink of water and jerked his head toward the other team, where half the club was flocking down to line up for a turn at that razor. “They’re all crazy.”

    Inui-senpai adjusted his glasses, suspiciously straight-faced. “I believe the phenomenon is commonly called mass hysteria.”

    Momo-senpai finally managed to catch his breath and slung and arm around Ryouma’s neck. “Only you!” he laughed. “Only you would get a whole club to shave themselves bald!”

    “That part wasn’t my idea,” Ryouma pointed out, trying not to be pulled off his feet.

    Momo-senpai considered that. “You’re right. Only Atobe,” he corrected himself.

    Tezuka-buchou made what might have been a snort of agreement. So Ryouma didn’t bother hiding his grin as they watched the breeze blow strands and puffs and tufts of hair away from the Hyoutei tennis club.

    Omake

    Shishido grumped as he fumbled with the back of his head. “Can’t believe I’m cutting my hair again for this damn club…”

    Atobe sniffed. “No one asked you to.”

    Shishido growled at him direly, and then yelped as the razor nipped the skin at the back of his neck.

    “Here, Shishido-san, let me,” Ohtori offered in a soothing tone, taking the razor. “You missed a spot in the back.”

    Shishido hmphed but sat still while Ohtori finished him off.

    Mukahi ran a hand over his head thoughtfully. “Actually, you know, this is kinda nice. It’s a lot cooler for summer, that’s for sure.” He rubbed at his head again. “Feels kind of weird though. Hey, Yuushi, let me feel yours.”

    Oshitari caught his partner’s reaching hand. “Later,” he murmured.

    “Doubles pairs,” Hiyoshi said, very quietly, handing the razor back to Kabaji, who packed it away with what might have been a tiny glint of satisfaction.

    Atobe looked over his, now largely hairless, team with something like affection. “All right. Time to be going.”

    End

    Last Modified: May 15, 12
    Posted: Mar 23, 06
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    Untitled Drabble

    The first true drabble I ever wrote. For Athena, in a drabble exchange. Humor, I-1

    Character(s): Atobe Keigo, Shishido Ryou
    Pairing(s): Atobe/Shishido

    “‘Young and fun loving’?”

    “Are you saying it isn’t fun to win?”

    “You’re the only one winning! What about ‘Generous’?”

    “Who paid the membership fee for us to play here?”

    “You know, I should have known it was you as soon as I read the bit about ‘too elegant and refined for a personal ad to encompass’.”

    “So why are you here?”

    “Because it sounded funny, before I knew it really was you!”

    “And now we have objective proof that you admire me.”

    Shishido glared. “I am never using a dating service, ever, ever again,” he declared.

    Atobe just smirked.

    End

    Last Modified: Feb 09, 12
    Posted: May 23, 06
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    The Law of Rikkai

    Possible origin of Rikkai’s “law”, and what it means to different people. Drama, I-3, manga continuity

    Seiichi stands behind the coach’s bench with his companions, one new and one old, watching the team captain take point after point. Seiichi isn’t even breathing hard from his own match, just finished. His voice is low, though, as he says, “We can’t lose.” That surety sings through him, like the blood through his muscles; he feels it. Not just his own strength, but the strength of these two with him.

    They will meet the best. They will be the best. He wraps his hand around that certainty and feels it like the familiar grip of his racquet.


    Genichirou’s spine pulls a little straighter. “Of course,” he states, frowning a little. It’s unthinkable that he, that they, would lose. Loss is not something to be tolerated by the strong. Not something the strong should permit themselves. Contemplating the possibility of loss is a failure of the spirit, only worthy of contempt.

    They can never lose.


    “We will not lose,” Renji agrees. It’s quite clear that this is the case. Even though his figures on these two as yet barely fill a dozen pages of the fresh, white notebook he bought when he moved, the curve those figures will graph is already evident. He suspects it will be an asymptote in the end, but for now the curve is steep, and its movement is upward.

    There’s beauty in that curve, and it soothes his still rather sore heart. He will follow it.

    End

    Last Modified: Sep 26, 08
    Posted: May 28, 06
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    Story Notes

    Setting, background, titles.

    The Translated arc is a retelling of the Prince of Tennis manga in the style of samurai stories.

    It was inspired by my long-running frustration with the way Konomi draws on the tropes of the samurai story but sets them in the context of a shounen sports story. The two kinds of stories do not mix well, and character behaviors which would be explicable, and even poignant, in a samurai story become dissonant and even distasteful in a sports story. Echizen, for example, is a classic samurai figure: the character so brilliantly talented that he’s a little mad from it. That is not, however, the kind of character who makes a good sports hero, and the shape of journey Echizen needs to take is totally at odds with the journey of a good sports hero. Finally, egged on by my fellows, I decided to have done with it and write the tennis boys in the setting they so manifestly belong to.

    This arc will not cover every single event in the tenipuri storyline. It will only touch on the key points that most fixed my attention. That will, however, cover most of the teams sooner or later.

    Setting

    The arc is set in the late Muromachi period, somewhere around 1480 to 1550. This is the Sengoku era, the time after the Ounin war, when centralized authority failed and many great overlords were overthrown. The great domains broke up and the land was claimed by the lesser samurai, the peasants, the monasteries who worked and lived locally. This was the era of constant small battles, border skirmishes month after month and year after year, when the number of retainers a lord could claim and soldiers he could support and mobilize was vital to who survived and who didn’t.

    Thus, the tennis clubs become the body of various domain lords’ retainers, and the Regulars become the generals and captains among them.

    Liberties

    This is not intended to be historically accurate in every aspect. I am drawing as much on the, at best, semi-historical genre of Japanese samurai stories as on actual history. The places in which Konomi has already performed that same maneuver only complicate my attempts at historicity.

    Among other things, Konomi drew many of his character names from actual clans and heroes of this period. Rather than attempt to contort the plot around those facts, I have simply omitted any reference to the historical Sanada or Tachibana or Echizen clans and let the characters keep their names in their fictional situations.

    For another thing, all the tenipuri characters get to keep their hair, rather than be partially shaved for a fasionable samurai coiffure. In this, it seemed best to follow common practice for demi-historical manga and anime rather than cause my readers to snarf their drinks all over the screen while trying to envision Tezuka with a proper period head-shave, moustache and topknot.

    The historical aspects that I have used directly, such as the Takeda and Uesugi rivalry, are intended to echo, rather than precisely reproduce, actual historical events. In many cases I have considerably compressed, stretched or altered the timeline of events which did occur, historically.

    Similarly, I have moved around some of the events and, more importantly, realizations within the tenipuri timeline to accommodate things like the lack of inter-domain travel and the segregation of the sexes. Sakuno would not, for example, be on a battlefield to intervene when Echizen is injured, but she can gain the same understanding of his determination in other ways.

    I have assumed a much larger age range for the tenipuri characters, as well. The third years are now in their late twenties and early thirties and the second years in their twenties, generally. Echizen is about sixteen, as our story opens.

    In other words, they are the ages they act, now.

    Needless to say, a certain amount of fudging has been done to keep the fatalities down among the major characters.

    Titles

    I have used period, rather than modern titles, which I realize may set some readers off their strides. Most of them should be clear in context, but for those who would like a separate definition:

    -sama/-dono: these were the titles of common courtesy, used both with peers and superiors. The usage is roughly equivalent to the modern-day -san.

    -gimi or no kimi: two forms of the same title applying to a landed warrior or noble. Used in pretty much the same way as -dono.

    Taishou/bushou: General. Bushou is a broader word for it, while Taishou is more personal and specific, and more particularly exalted as a title.

    Taii: Captain. A sub-commander within the ranks of a clan’s samurai.

    -hime: used for a woman or girl who is well born, as, for example, a member of a domain lord’s family. A girl from the lower ranks of the warrior class might be called ojou-sama by her inferiors (or ojou by a superior who’s being kind), or simply Name-dono.

    -gozen: a title used to address a woman of rank. Initially an address for noble women, by this late in the period it was shifting toward an address for the wives of samurai.

    Tono/Oyakata-sama: terms for one’s own domain lord, the ruler to whom one owes allegiance or fealty. Note that Tono is the direct-address form of -dono.

    Domainname no Kami: title of the lord of a domain, such as might be used to refer to him in conversation. Eg the Uesugi clan lord would be Echigo no Kami when the Takeda generals are talking about him.

    These are only a fraction of the titles actually in use during this time period, of course. Rather than pull out the whole bewildering array, I have picked out a few of the most common for the sorts of situations the characters find themselves in.

    Last Modified: Sep 26, 08
    Posted: May 31, 06
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    Immanent

    A new, young samurai arrives at the central castle of the Uesugi clan. Drama, I-3

    Echizen Ryouma had been in Kasugayama for a week, and one of Uesugi’s warriors for three and a half days, before he ran into trouble. It was different than the trouble he’d expected.

    One of the older and, in his briefly considered opinion, obviously lesser samurai was watching Ryouma while he practiced cuts alone. He’d known to expect that; people generally did watch him and it didn’t make any more difference to him than the slight tickle of sweat running down his neck or the small roughness against his palm where the wood of the practice sword had been chipped. It was when the man started talking to his friend that trouble started.

    Not for Ryouma, of course. Not yet.

    “So that’s supposed to be one of our new warriors? What, are the generals taking on pages, now, and letting them walk around with their fathers’ swords strapped on, pretending they’re samurai?” The man’s friends chuckled with him.

    Since Ryouma wouldn’t have touched his father’s sword if it had been delivered as a gift with the Emperor’s compliments, he snorted.

    The talkative one straightened up from the wall where he’d been leaning. “You! What was that? Are you disrespecting your betters?”

    Ryouma straightened in turn and eyed the loud-mouth coolly. “No.”

    It took a moment, but eventually the implication penetrated and the loud-mouth started turning red and stepped forward with a hand tight on his sword. “Why you…”

    A corner of Ryouma’s mouth turned up. It was always so easy; too easy, really, but he did get some amusement from teaching idiots not to make assumptions. His weight shifted and his shoulders relaxed as he waited for the loud-mouth to come into range.

    A shadow filled the doorway. “Enough of that, Arai.” The newcomer smacked the loud-mouth briskly across the back of the head. “You know how Taishou feels about fights. You want to lose your head? And the kid’s too?”

    “Momoshiro-taii!” the loud-mouth sputtered. “But…!”

    The newcomer raised his brows and the loud-mouth hunched his shoulders and backed away. The newcomer cocked his head at Ryouma, still standing and quietly watching. “If you didn’t know, fighting in the clan is forbidden, here,” the man smiled.

    Ryouma shrugged a shoulder; he doubted it would matter. Fights found him and he found fights, no matter what the rules were. The newcomer paused and looked at him harder, eyes suddenly gleaming. “Of course, training hard, on the other hand, is encouraged,” he murmured. He plucked a wooden sword off the rack and stepped out onto the floor, grinning. A streak of sunshine from one of the windows made his inviting glance even brighter.

    Ryouma eyed him for a moment and grinned back. This one looked like a better challenge than the loud-mouth; if he was a captain he should be at least a little good. Ryouma slipped into the dusk between the slanting bars of gold light and set his feet.

    After six exchanges Ryouma was smiling for real and shifted his sword to his left hand. He’d been right; Momoshiro was strong. He ignored the murmurs from the watchers around the walls, as inconsequential as the dusty breeze blowing in the door. Momoshiro’s teeth flashed white at him. “That’s more like it.”

    Ryouma’s grin turned wicked and pleased. This Momoshiro had seen that he wasn’t leading with his strongest hand. It looked like a captain, in Uesugi’s forces, really was a little good. Good. That made this match worth something.

    The next pass sent them both staggering back with impressive bruises starting, he could tell, and Ryouma spun around, feet sliding over the sleek wood of the floor, ready to lunge in at full strength.

    Momoshiro stepped back. “Good practice,” he declared. “I’ll have to be sure to defeat you quickly, next time.”

    Ryouma considered this and nodded, resting his practice sword over his shoulder. “Later, then.” A corner of his mouth curled up. “When your leg is healed, Taii.”

    The captain blinked at him and laughed. “I like you.” He reached out to rumple Ryouma’s hair as he left, now limping a bit though there was no blood showing through the bandage Ryouma was sure must be wrapped around his calf.

    He glared a bit after Momoshiro’s broad back and smoothed his hair back down and settled back to his solitary practice, ignoring the whispers and glances around him. A tiny smile lingered.

    Maybe he would like it here.

    End

    Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
    Posted: May 31, 06
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    At First Sight

    The young women of the castle sneak a look at the new warriors. Drama with Pre-Romance, I-2

    “Oh, oh, over here! Come here, Sakuno, you can see the new warriors from here!”

    Sakuno squeaked as her friend grabbed her hand and pulled her toward an open screen. “Tomoka! But… if they see us…”

    Tomoka paused to give her an exasperated look. “One of them might be someone we’re married to. You know Sumire-gozen is thinking about that for you these days. You want to look, don’t you?”

    “Well…” Sakuno nibbled her lip.

    “Good. So come on!”

    Sakuno didn’t resist being dragged this time, though she did entertain a very brief and uncharitable thought that Tomoka’s kimono were plainer than hers and less likely to be seen through the screening leaves. That was unkind, though, she scolded herself. Tomoka was her friend and would never leave her in trouble.

    Even if she did get them both into trouble with her boldness.

    They did have a good view of some of the new, young samurai gathered under the trees. They must have just finished some training. They all looked tired and dusty and one was all wet from the well-bucket he’d just turned up over his head.

    “I’ll be given rank soon,” one of them was saying. “Thanks to my two years of battle experience, I have advantages.”

    Tomoka snorted, inelegantly, beside Sakuno. “I bet his father was a foot soldier.”

    “Tomoka!” Sakuno hissed, making hushing motions.

    And then she was distracted.

    One of the samurai who had been standing quietly on the edge of the group took the well bucket and dipped up some water to drink. The calm of his expression and the economy of his gestures fixed her eyes on him. “Oh…”

    “Hm?” Tomoka nudged against her shoulder. “What?”

    “The dark one,” Sakuno murmured. “With the deep eyes.”

    “The one at the water?” Tomoka made approving sounds. “He looks just about our age! He must be really good to be here at the castle so young.”

    “Yes…” Sakuno sighed as the one they were watching pushed his hair back. He was so graceful.

    “Sakuno-hime! Are you in here?”

    Sakuno jumped and squeaked at the voice of one of her kinswoman’s ladies in waiting. “They’ll find us!”

    “Hurry up, then,” Tomoka hissed back, jumping to her feet and pulling Sakuno toward an inner room.

    Sakuno went along as fast as possible, but she also threw a last look over her shoulder, though the small spring leaves, at the young samurai.

    End

    Last Modified: Sep 26, 08
    Posted: May 31, 06
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    Convex

    Echizen cleans his sword and thinks about his new place. Drama, I-3

    Character(s): Echizen Ryouma

    Ryouma sat in his rooms in the middle town, with his sword over his knees, cleaning it. His hands moved automatically, years and years of familiarity guiding them while his eyes rested on the blade without seeing it.

    There were strong people, here. Not many that could give him trouble, but a handful who might be worth something to him. A handful who might help him step up. Not that he cared about rank, not like Horio, or even Kachiro, whose ambitions were a lot more realistic. He’d watched his father’s distant smirk at generals who passed through their town. Rank wouldn’t help.

    His sword flashed lantern light up at him as he turned it over and he blinked dark spots out of his eyes as he reached for the oil.

    Rank wouldn’t help. Talent wouldn’t help. Plenty of people were talented; Ryouma was talented; talent wasn’t enough to get past his father. The rest of the world fell away from Ryouma’s sword and left only him standing, and still he couldn’t find the step to reach where his father stood.

    Stood smirking.

    Ryouma gazed blankly at the surface of his sword as his hands smoothed a fold of soft paper down its curve, wiping away excess oil.

    Maybe Uesugi would be different. Maybe he would finally find it here.

    Whatever it was.

    End

    Last Modified: Sep 26, 08
    Posted: Jun 01, 06
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    Unnoticed

    Echizen escorts Sakuno and deals with a little trouble. Other sorts of trouble, he misses completely. Drama, I-3

    Sakuno’s eyes were sparkling behind the light veils of her travelling hat.

    Not only had Sumire-gozen said that she might go visit the local shrine, but Echizen-dono was escorting her. Sakuno suspected Sumire-gozen had had something to do with that. Normally the high-handed manner of her mother’s noble cousin alarmed her, but if Sumire-gozen approved of someone then no one else would thwart them.

    Even the clan lord didn’t often go against his mother’s wishes.

    And it seemed that Sumire-gozen approved of Echizen-dono and the fact that Sakuno liked him. However much the crowds out on the streets jostled around her, nothing could make Sakuno regret coming out in public today.

    Even if there were an awful lot of awfully loud people…

    “Don’t you know anything? The Tatsumi school holds the saya like that, so you can draw like this!”

    Sakuno squeaked, starting back and treading on her own hem so that she wobbled, as a blade swished past her nose, close enough to catch on her long veils. The brightly dressed samurai demonstrating for his friends didn’t seem to notice.

    “That training journey you took really taught you a lot, Sasabe-sama,” one of them exclaimed.

    The one with his sword out laughed expansively. He was in the middle of the way, now. Sakuno bit her lip, wondering how she could pass.

    Beside her, Echizen-dono looked around and sniffed. “You must not have journeyed very far. That isn’t the Tatsumi school’s grip.”

    The gaudy samurai spun around, face red. “What?!” His sword speared out, pointing between Echizen-dono’s eyes. “What does a brat like you know about it?”

    Echizen tipped his head to the side, so careless of the sharp point a bare thumb’s width from his face that Sakuno gasped. “Well, if you need a lesson…” He dropped his hand to his sword. “It’s the first finger that holds the guard. Like this.” Steel flashed and his sword struck the other aside so hard it spun out of the other samurai’s hand. Echizen-dono lifted a brow. “And your grip is too weak.”

    “E-Echizen-dono…” Sakuno whispered behind her hand. That was… an awfully provoking thing to say… And then she stumbled a little as the fuming samurai pushed past her to retrieve his sword.

    “I’ll give you a lesson, you little runt!” he yelled, making a lunge toward Echizen-dono.

    Echizen-dono slipped back out of the way of a vicious cut. “Is that the fastest you can move?” The other samurai didn’t answer, glare fixed and furious, and Echizen-dono shrugged, left foot sliding out, sword dropping low.

    “Hah! You think you can defend from below?” The angry samurai bared his teeth and swung down.

    Sakuno wasn’t sure what happened next. Echizen-dono’s sword barely seemed to twitch but the other man’s strike went awry and he stumbled forward, eyes wide.

    “Too slow,” Echizen-dono said, softly. There was another flash and the other man was down in the street, clutching his leg and keening through clenched teeth as blood pooled rapidly under his thigh.

    Echizen-dono flicked his sword away from Sakuno with a snap of his wrist and sheathed it, and turned to look Sakuno up and down. “You didn’t get dirty. Good. Let’s get to the shrine, then.”

    Sakuno hurried to his side and they walked on, leaving the commotion behind as the wounded samurai’s friends clustered around him, shouting.

    “Echizen-dono… thank you,” Sakuno murmured at last, blushing.

    Echizen-dono blinked at her. “For what?”

    “Ah… nothing.” She tilted the edge of her hat a little lower, wondering whether Echizen-dono was just being modest or whether he really didn’t think protecting her needed comment.

    Or, she admitted to herself with a silent sigh, maybe he hadn’t done it for her at all. He was a samurai, after all; she was young, but she knew how the men of her own class could be about fights and challenges. Sumire-gozen complained about it enough, even though she smiled when she did.

    Perhaps she’d ask the kami to tell her which it was, and whether she had any hope of drawing the eye of someone like Echizen-dono.

    They walked on with silence drifting between them.

    End

    Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
    Posted: Jun 01, 06
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    Tarnished

    Tezuka watches his newest warrior and wonders about him. Drama, I-3

    Kunimitsu watched his men training, silently, eyes moving from one to another, pausing to rest on the group in the corner, leaning on their blunt spears and laughing, until they fell quiet and straightened and returned to practice. His gaze returned, again and again, though, to one particular pair of warriors.

    “So, Echizen convinced Inui to train with him? Such impressive enthusiasm.”

    Kunimitsu glanced aside at Fuji, come to stand with him and watch. “Inui invited him.”

    Fuji’s brows rose and he looked more sharply at the circling pair as they closed yet again. “He’s interested by someone so young? Echizen can’t have had a man’s name for more than a year or two.” The murmur was absent, though, and Kunimitsu waited to hear what Fuji saw.

    Inui was pressing the younger warrior, never following the openings offered by Echizen’s stance, always cutting for the real weakness. Echizen’s eyes were wide and sweat had soaked through his shirt in places, even in the cool morning air, but…

    “He’s not afraid,” Fuji stated.

    Kunimitsu nodded agreement. Echizen wasn’t afraid. He was watching.

    Inui’s next strike didn’t connect. Echizen’s wooden sword slid inside his and slashed high across his hip. Inui was suddenly stiff as they stepped apart again, and Echizen was grinning. Kunimitsu settled back a bit.

    “You think he’ll win.”

    Kunimitsu glanced at Fuji and didn’t answer. Inui was the best tactician among the Uesugi forces. No one could count more than a handful of successful attacks on him, in training, besides the other generals. And Fuji, of course.

    But this boy, with the sharp eyes and unreasonable strength and arrogant mouth, was going to defeat Inui in a training bout.

    “He’ll come with us, when we move out next month,” Kunimitsu said, and Fuji cocked his head.

    “Will that be enough to show you? Kaga’s forces are pretty raw.”

    Kunimitsu was quiet for a moment, watching the soft, warm sheen of polished wood as practice swords flickered in the morning shadows of the training hall, listening to the crack and scrape as they met.

    “When the temple in Kaga gathered the peasants and small samurai to rise,” he said at last, softly, “Tachibana was wise enough to ally them to one of the stronger overlords, to throw the rest out. And when they had, he and those he had gathered to him were strong enough to throw Togashi out in turn. Tachibana himself…” Kunimitsu’s eyes narrowed. “They will be enough.”

    It was Fuji’s turn to nod silently and Kunimitsu settled back against the wall as Fuji moved away through the training pairs.

    Kaga would be a good place to see Echizen’s real mettle. Kunimitsu’s mouth tightened.

    Echizen’s form was beautiful. Deadly.

    And wrong.

    Somehow, it was both too much and not enough. There was a hunger and a bleakness behind those bright, focused eyes, a desperation that contrasted strangely with his obvious strength. Kunimitsu needed to know what was wrong, and know it before this ragged edge on Echizen’s spirit cut apart any of his fellow samurai.

    He would hope to find out when they fought Kaga, and Tachibana’s men.

    End

    Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
    Posted: Jun 02, 06
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    Need Beyond Want

    Echizen enters his first battle as a samurai of Uesugi, against the forces of Kaga under Tachibana. Drama, I-3

    Momo snorted with disgust as his only opponnent of the day so far broke and scrambled back. He let the man go, though; the signal banners were changing. Momo nodded to himself as the colors came up and yelled “Fall back!” to his squad, and waded back into the fight to make sure the very few men with determined opponents got free. One last scan of his bit of the field revealed one last warrior still engaged and Momo frowned. Echizen was good enough, he shouldn’t need any extra time…

    “Echizen,” he called sharply, “fall back!”

    Echizen didn’t even seem to hear him. Momo waved his squad on, with a growl, and went back for Echizen himself, keeping a wary eye out. These worthless rounin Kaga had taken on after Ginka’s fall might be jumping at their own shadows, but, as his father said, you were just as dead if they killed you with a big stick.

    They would probably have been fine if Echizen’s opponent hadn’t seen himself about to be caught between the two of them and panicked. Momo reacted automatically to the man’s desperate, circling slash.

    So did Echizen.

    It ended with Momo’s and Echizen’s swords tangled and the unharmed opponent staring, open mouthed, at his amazing good luck. He scrambled back without questioning it, leaving Momo and Echizen glaring at each other.

    “Why did you interfere?” Echizen snapped.

    “We’re supposed to be falling back,” Momo growled back. “Don’t you ever pay attention?” He hauled Echizen back toward the rallying point with him, and Echizen came, scowling.

    “I had him.”

    Momo muttered under his breath, wondering what had possessed him to offer to keep Echizen under his wing, for his first battle with Uesugi. Just because he liked the kid’s style…

    The kid’s very aggressive, really kind of familiar style…

    “Fine,” Momo snorted, hiding the start of a grin. “See if I ever try to remind you about orders again.”

    Echizen glanced up at him, eyes suddenly gleaming. “Whatever you say. Momo-taii-dono.” His own grin was bright and wicked.

    They smirked at each other, in perfect complicity, and dove back into the fighting.


    Kunimitsu suppressed a rueful sigh as he realized that Ooishi was, indeed, planning to keep close to him the entire battle. He knew his friend didn’t approve of Kunimitsu coming even this far forward.

    His doctor probably wouldn’t be very pleased, either.

    A nearly healed injury was no excuse for ignoring his duties, though, and he had a duty to be here, to show his standard and anchor the lines he had ordered. Even, or perhaps especially, his oldest friend knew better than to dispute that.

    So Kunimitsu merely had a bodyguard.

    Of course, there was an extra reason he wanted to be far enough forward to observe closely, today, and Kunimitsu’s mouth tightened a shade as Momoshiro hauled a severely limping Echizen past the last of the engaged warriors. The hasty bandage on the boy’s leg was already bleeding through.

    “Looks like he got into trouble, after all,” Ooishi murmured, pulling loose a sash and waving the two in.

    Kunimitsu was not surprised, any more than he’d been surprised to see Echizen fighting the strongest, and wildest, of Tachibana’s warriors.

    Echizen bore with having his leg rebandaged and stood with a brisk nod. Momoshiro tossed his sword back to him, and they both looked satisfied.

    Ooishi, on the other hand, did not. He shook Echizen by the shoulder, sharply. “You can’t go back out like that!”

    Echizen didn’t even wince at the shaking. “I have to finish it.” His eyes were nearly blank with determination and dark with wariness, gazing up at Ooishi.

    Ooishi frowned. “You’ve done well, today. Don’t push yourself foolishly. It’s more important to continue fulfilling your duty, as a samurai of Uesugi.”

    On anyone else, Kunimitsu reflected, that appeal to propriety and pride would have worked. No flicker of acknowledgment marred the boundless determination of Echizen’s expression, though. Only a hint of the need Kunimitsu had seen before.

    Kunimitsu nodded to himself and held up a hand, stifling a smile as Ooishi frowned at him, in turn. “Finish it,” he told Echizen. “And then you will come back behind the lines with the other wounded.”

    Pure relief lit Echizen’s face with a smile that might have been soft if it weren’t sharpened by such intent focus. “Yes, Taishou.”

    “Tezuka,” Ooishi remonstrated softly, as they watched Echizen drive back through the battle, straight for a slim, pale samurai with burning eyes who was clearly waiting for him.

    “There’s nothing that holds him back, right now,” Kunimitsu murmured. “And nothing that drives him on. Nothing true.”

    Ooishi let out a slow breath.

    Kunimitsu watched Tachibana’s warrior falling back as Echizen’s stikes steadily picked up speed and strength. “He deserves better.”

    He didn’t know if he could show Echizen everything the boy needed to see. But he would try.

    For duty and for the brilliance of the samurai Echizen might become, he would try.

    End

    Last Modified: May 15, 12
    Posted: Jun 10, 06
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    Pride

    Tachibana’s officers renew their bonds in the aftermath of their battle with Uesugi. Drama, I-3

    Akira hovered beside his friend as Shinji flexed his arm. He wanted to go on to recheck the rest of their injured, but he was wary of the thoughtful expression on Shinji’s face. It was the one that might just turn into wanting to excercise the arm immediately, and never mind what the doctor said.

    “Shinji…”

    The screen behind them slid softly open, letting in a spill of sunlight. “Well, that’s the temple settled with. All the injured will be cared for here until they’re on their feet again. Kamio? How is everyone?”

    Akira stood quickly, feeling a bit lightheaded with relief just to hear his leader’s voice, deep and collected as always. “Tachibana-dono! Everyone’s going to be all right with some rest, the doctor says…” He swayed, vision blurring for a moment. Maybe it wasn’t just relief…

    Strong hands caught his shoulders, pushing him back down to the tatami, and Akira focused on the quirk of Tachibana-dono’s smile.

    “I think you’d better rest, then. That was a pretty heavy head blow you took.”

    Akira nodded, setting the world briefly swimming again. “Yes, Tachibana-dono.” Next time, he vowed to himself, he would be ready for Kaidou of Uesugi’s perseverance and would not let his guard down too soon. Gathering his scattered thoughts he continued his report. “Shinji’s shoulder was only dislocated, and Ishida and Sakurai came out with no injuries, though both their squads had serious losses.” Akira bit his lip.

    “I saw that Mori and Uchimura had to fall back,” Tachibana-dono said quietly, looking over at the pallet by the far wall. “How bad?”

    “Mori took one of Ooishi’s arrows in the leg.” Akira ordered his hands not to clench on each other. “Uchimura… he took Kikumaru’s knife in the side. It got past his armor.”

    Tachibana-dono squeezed his shoulder and rose, moving toward the three captains clustered around their heavily bandaged fourth. Akira and Shinji followed silently.

    “Tachibana-dono!” Uchimura made as if to sit up, only to be held down by his co-captain.

    “The doctor said to stay flat, so stay flat, damn it!” Mori ordered, fiercely, before looking up at their General. “Tachibana-dono.” He bowed his head, formality hampered by the bandaged leg stuck out in front of him and the grip on Uchimura’s arm he hadn’t let go. “I’m sorry. We couldn’t—”

    “No,” Tachibana-dono interrupted with a smile. “You have nothing to apologize for.

    Mori frowned down at his lap. “But we didn’t—”

    “You reached the command lines, and opened up the center for the other squads.” Tachibana-dono settled down beside them, resting a hand, for a moment, on Mori’s bent head. “You occupied their attention for the time we needed. You did well.”

    Akira smiled himself, as he sat down, though he had to catch himself against Ishida’s shoulder when he swayed, head giving a warning throb. Mori still didn’t look happy, but he was holding his head up again. No one would ever wonder at their trust in Tachibana-dono, who had seen his trust in them.

    “No one yet has been able to defeat Ooishi Shuuichirou when Kikumaru is fighting beside him,” Tachibana-dono told them. “They’re a deadly combination in the field. You did well to hold them as long as you did.”

    Uchimura and Mori both looked up at him with clear eyes, now, and Akira nodded to himself. Much better.

    “So, I guess we’re eating dinner here, today?” a light voice asked from behind them.

    “An-dono!” Akira could feel Shinji laughing, silently, beside him, and knew his face must have brightened right up. But he couldn’t help it. An was leaning in the door, overkimono just a bit askew with how briskly she walked, eyes laughing.

    “An.” Tachibana-dono smiled at his sister. “I was coming back soon.”

    “Oh, of course you were.” She came and let the very large parcel she was carrying thump the the floor, and gave her brother a look of tolerant amusement. “In the meantime, though, you might as well all get a good meal. It’ll help you heal up.” She undid the parcel’s wrappings and started unstacking the trays inside. “Tell me how it went.”

    She listened and nodded and insisted on details as they took turns telling her, and stuffed a bit of rice into Uchimura’s mouth when his eyes darkened over the explanation of how Kikumaru had gotten through to him.

    “If you were having trouble with Ooishi-bushou’s ranged attacks, then you’ll just have to practice harder with me, when you’re on your feet again,” she declared, filling her brother’s sake cup again.

    “It’s Ishida who’s going to be practicing more with you,” Tachibana-dono corrected, returning the favor. “You’re strongest with a short blade, not the bow, and it will do him as much good to work with a small, fast partner as it will you to face raw strength you can’t overcome directly.”

    An huffed at him and some sympathetic grins appeared among the officers. Her determination and ferocity drove An to take her warrior’s responsibilities far more seriously than most women of their class, but they also made her a bit too direct for her own good at times.

    Of course, that was one of the things Akira liked best about her. One of the things all Tachibana-dono’s officers could most relate to.

    “We need to be stronger than we are, though,” Shinji observed. “All of us.”

    Akira met his friend’s eyes and they smiled at each other, sharp and hot. “We will be.” He looked up at Tachibana-dono, willing their leader to accept their determination.

    Tachibana-dono’s mouth curved slowly. “Of course you will,” he answered, soft and strong as the first breeze in typhoon season.

    The seven of them nodded at each other while An smiled over them with gleaming eyes.

    End

    Last Modified: Feb 09, 12
    Posted: Jun 15, 06
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    Hold

    Tezuka tries to break through to Echizen. Drama, I-3

    “Echizen. Come with me.”

    Ryouma blinked at that casual summons, but waved to Kachiro and followed along behind the General calmly enough. Everyone said he’d done well against Kaga and he was reasonably sure he wasn’t in trouble. Whatever reason Tezuka-dono had to come fetch him just as Ryouma’s work shift ended, it probably wouldn’t be any worse than boring.

    He thought twice about not being in trouble when they came out into the practice grounds. Tezuka-dono’s ideas about keeping order ran heavily to extra training. With weights. For hours. Not that it was any difficulty to him, but it did take up a lot of time, and it was near sunset already. Ryouma glanced around and saw no one else working in the soft, slanting light. They were probably all eating. Was he going to miss dinner completely because of whatever this was?

    Then the General turned to face him across the practice ground and loosened his sword, and a spark of excitement brushed aside those thoughts. Ryouma could feel his pulse speeding up as the General drew and nodded for him to do likewise. Tezuka-dono had ignored all his previous hints, but now it looked like he was finally going to get a match against the warrior who was supposed to be strongest, out of all Uesugi’s forces.

    “Come,” Tezuka-dono told him without any preamble, light sliding down his edge as he beckoned.

    Ryouma smirked, and cheerfully did as he was told.

    He expected his first slash to be caught. He did not expect it to be turned easily aside, as if he’d attacked at completely the wrong angle. He backed up again, fast, eyes wide, knowing he’d been open.

    Tezuka-dono’s expression was no longer even. Still and steady, it burned. “Come.”

    Ryouma’s eyes narrowed, and he did.

    Blow after blow, no matter how he came in, every one was caught, turned, the force muffled and spent for nothing. Ryouma’s focus narrowed, and narrowed again, searching for the key, the pattern in Tezuka-dono’s movements that he could match. He could almost see it; he could catch parts, but something was escaping him no matter how far he reached for it.

    In the end it was his own pattern that broke first. One step lunging just too far beyond his balance, and Tezuka-dono’s foot brushed his aside, and Ryouma stumbled to his knees. Training and determination brought his sword in, ready to cut upwards, and…

    Ryouma knelt where he was, staring up at the General. He could feel the deadly thin line of Tezuka-dono’s sword against his throat. It didn’t move when the General spoke.

    “Why do you fight, Echizen?”

    “To win… against my father,” Ryouma managed.

    “Your father isn’t here.”

    No, he wasn’t, though there’d been a few times in this fight when Ryouma would have sworn he was. Except that Tezuka-dono was nothing the same. Except that Ryouma had… lost… he never lost, except to… but Tezuka-dono wasn’t… Ryouma’s thoughts tangled, and he couldn’t answer.

    The edge of the sword flicked away. Instead, the General’s unmoving gaze pinned Ryouma where he was. “You are part of Uesugi. Find your place in support of this clan.”

    His place? Support? What did that have to do with his father? Ryouma got slowly to his feet as the General stepped back. He felt rather unsteady on them; he hadn’t lost to anyone but his father in years. Now there was… another bar. There was a challenge, serious and steady and sharp as his sword, in Tezuka-dono’s eyes. Ryouma pulled in what felt like his first breath in hours. Days.

    Maybe even years.

    “Yes, Taishou.”

    End

    Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
    Posted: Jun 16, 06
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    Washed Dry

    Fuji decides to try his hand against Echizen. It provokes a lot of thought. Drama and Romance, I-3

    Tezuka had been in a demanding mood, lately, Shuusuke observed. The results were fairly entertaining, at least for those strong enough to actually keep up with the suddenly increased pace of the garrison’s training. He had to wonder, though, who they were going to be taking the field against after the rains were over; it had to be someone with a powerful force, to drive this sort of effort.

    Tezuka didn’t answer questions like that, of course, not directly. He would only confirm them, silently, if Shuusuke guessed right. So, for now, Shuusuke simply wiped dripping sweat away briskly and looked around for someone still on his feet to practice with.

    His eyes lit on Echizen, leaning on a fence catching his breath quietly. Echizen’s head had a sardonic tilt as he watched the histrionics of some of the other young samurai, declaring that they were about to die of exhaustion. Shuusuke chuckled to himself; he had to agree, no one who could still complain that loudly was anywhere near death. He collected a pair of wood swords and tapped Echizen on the shoulder with one. “Care for a match?”

    Shuusuke saw Tezuka’s head come up from the corner of his eye and threw a small, quick smile over his shoulder. It wasn’t fair, his glance said, for Tezuka to have all the fun.

    The sword left his hand, and when he looked back around Echizen was grinning.

    Shuusuke felt a touch of excitement flicker along his nerves as they moved out into the open, feet scuffing up tiny puffs of dust to mark where they set themselves. Echizen was good. Not good enough to make Shuusuke lose, but perhaps…

    The thought suspended itself as Echizen drove in and every movement sharpened its edges in Shuusuke’s eyes. He turned one blow and slid inside another but Echizen was already gone, turning too, and Shuusuke barely recognized the abruptly tightening angle of his side stroke in time to stop it. Echizen’s grin was a notch wider as they drew apart. Shuusuke’s own smile sharpened for an instant. Well, if Echizen was so confident he could break through…

    Shuusuke gave him a clean opening and was hard put not to laugh when Echizen took it instantly. A smooth shift back drew Echizen in and sent him on past, all the driving power of his thrust no longer directed at Shuusuke. Echizen whipped back around, eyes narrowed, and Shuusuke smiled at him. Echizen’s glare lit with answering ferocity and Shuusuke had to take a slow breath for focus and control as Echizen’s passion tugged at him. This was what a good fight should be like.

    Another opening, and another, and another. Echizen came after every one with fire in his eyes, and Shuusuke was aware of the watchers starting to murmur. They probably thought it was just Echizen’s stubbornness, he reflected. But he could feel it—the tiny changes every time their swords met, the constant pressure of Echizen seeking the weakness in Shuusuke’s defense. Thrill sang through him, kept him offering those openings just to see the beauty of Echizen’s straight, driving lines, just to feel that rare danger.

    And finally there was one more tiny shift that didn’t seem to call for any alteration in Shuusuke’s stance… but Echizen’s sword flashed over his own and kissed his ribs. They broke apart, both panting for breath, and satisfaction barely touched Echizen’s face before that ferocious, driving focus consumed it again.

    “You don’t have to give me chances any more, Fuji-dono,” he prodded, and Shuusuke chuckled.

    “Well, then.” They came together again, hard and fast.

    It wouldn’t happen yet, no matter how much Tezuka had set Echizen on his mettle, but the possibility of losing breathed through every contact of their swords and danced chill down Shuusuke’s nerves. So much so that he didn’t recognize the real chill air stirring around them until sudden, drenching rain swept down. Shouts and clatters rose around the practice ground as men grabbed up weapons and made for cover.

    Shuusuke and Echizen stood, unmoving in the sheeting gray wet, eyes fixed on each other.

    A single flash of lightning showed another figure, as unmoving as either of them, standing by the fence with folded arms. Shuusuke smiled as thunder shivered through the rush of rain; Tezuka would not stop them.

    Their feet slid in the wet dirt as they closed, this time, but the angles of motion were as tight and brilliant as ever in Shuusuke’s sight. It was exhilarating. It was beautiful. It was…

    …interrupted by a dripping messenger skidding to a halt at Tezuka’s side. “Taishou! Sumire-gozen is asking for Echizen.”

    Shuusuke thought he might just have caught a flash of calculation in Tezuka’s eyes before he nodded. “Echizen! Go dry off and attend on Sumire-gozen.”

    Echizen lowered his sword and gave Tezuka such a look of betrayal that Shuusuke could barely stifle his laugh. Echizen glared at him for a long, fulminating moment before stumping off through the rain muttering. Tezuka’s glance after him narrowed with a moment of satisfaction. Shuusuke shook his head; always the leader, Tezuka was.

    His thoughts felt slick. Fast and flashing. Shuusuke watched Tezuka dismissing the messenger and the lingering samurai and waited for the world to slow, the distance to recede and bring him back to everyday.

    Before it quite had, he heard Tezuka’s footsteps behind him.

    “Why did you toy with him like that?” his friend asked, quietly. “Echizen is not a light opponent. Why didn’t you fight to win?”

    Shuusuke lifted a hand and let the drops of rain patter against open his palm. “It’s thrilling to see something so close to perfection; to draw it out fully. That’s all I wanted.” He cast a rueful smile over his shoulder, suspecting Tezuka wouldn’t like that. Still, considering what he was positive had happened between Tezuka and Echizen recently… “Would you have done it differently?” he challenged lightly.

    The faintly troubled question in Tezuka’s face washed away. “Victory is our duty,” he stated inflexibly. “And it should be our only calling.” A shadow of weariness touched his eyes. “This is why you’re not an officer, Fuji.”

    Shuusuke bent his head. “I know.” He sighed softly. He still thought he was right about why Tezuka was so taken with Echizen, that he was drawn by the same fascination that engaged Shuusuke. But… perhaps there was also more, for Tezuka.

    The warmth of Tezuka’s hand on his shoulder was shocking, and he realized he’d cooled down too much, standing in the rain. So he didn’t protest when Tezuka beckoned him to come along and they passed through a handful of courts and walks to arrive at Tezuka’s house. Ayame met them at the entry to welcome her husband home and covered a soft laugh to see how drenched they were. When they emerged from the inner rooms, dry and decently clothed again, she looked up from heating sake with a smile. “Will you eat with us, Shuusuke-dono? It’s been too long since you visited.”

    “I wouldn’t want to impose,” Shuusuke murmured, an answering smile curving his lips at how Tezuka’s hand lingered on Ayame’s as he took a cup from her, and the way their eyes warmed as they met.

    “It isn’t an imposition at all,” Ayame declaimed more firmly than mere manners required, turning back to her guest. “Your company would be a favor.”

    So Shuusuke let himself stay and be enfolded in the serenity of Tezuka’s household. The irony of that serenity always appealed to him. He knew perfectly well Ayame controlled the house with an iron hand to match her husband’s, for all her gentle charm. The contrast had entertained him for as long as he’d known them. The genuine warmth between husband and wife plucked at him, though, the moreso for how subtle it was; they fit each other so well, and it was in an effort to turn his mind aside from those thoughts that he asked, “Was it like that for you, when you fought Echizen?”

    Tezuka’s brow quirked. “So you did know about it, then.”

    “Mm.” Shuusuke took another sip. “It was fairly obvious. To me, at least.”

    Tezuka looked out at the rain that was still falling. “Echizen needs true challenges.”

    “You seem to have given him one,” Shuusuke observed. Echizen had certainly been more focused today than had been usual in the past.

    “I gave him a beginning.” Tezuka’s eyes were distant. “We will see. Even someone who finds his way doesn’t always go down it.”


    When Shuusuke left, this time covered by a straw raincoat at Ayame’s insistence, he headed straight down into the town. Only occasional lamps lit a bit of darkness with silvery flickers of rain, but he took a path his feet knew without any direction from his eyes. He smiled gently at the girl who met him at the door.

    “Will Yumiko see me?”

    He waited in the room she showed him to, gazing silently past the slats of the window. It was sooner than he expected when the door whispered open and closed.

    “Shuusuke!”

    He looked up and smiled ruefully. Yumiko was dressed for the evening, kimono falling around her like a story told in silk, hair as light as his own folded sleekly up and held by bright combs. “Did I call you away from someone?”

    She dropped down beside him in a rustle of fabric, tossing her sleeves back to hold out her hands to him. “It was a large party. Chiharu will look after them, and they won’t miss me.”

    Shuusuke caught her fingers in his. “I don’t believe it,” he teased. “No one could possibly not miss you.”

    She tipped her head and gave him a long, clear-eyed look. “Shuusuke. What happened today?”

    His smile relaxed into a laugh. “I can’t hide anything from you, can I?”

    “Not a thing.” She tipped her head thoughtfully for a moment and then drew his hands to her and placed them on the elaborate knot of her obi, smile turning playful. “It’s only fair.”

    Sometimes Yumiko knew him better than he knew himself. Shuusuke let his troublesome thoughts fall away for a while, and it was much later, with the softness of her hair lying over his bare shoulder, that he answered the question she had asked.

    “I think Tezuka wants me to be an officer,” he said quietly, watching the shadows move over the ceiling. “And I would work toward that if—” Her fingers covered his lips.

    “Only an officer is likely to receive enough land to afford my contract,” she agreed. “And such a highly placed samurai should not have a courtesan who doesn’t know who her father might be for a wife.”

    Shuusuke sighed. He hadn’t really thought her answer would change, but… “I will take you out of this place, Yumiko,” he said, low and serious.

    She leaned up on one arm, looking down at him as gold lamplight slid over her skin and the depth of her eyes, only a shade darker than his but so much more beautiful. “Someday,” she said, at last. “Yes. You will.”

    Shuusuke smiled, small and true, and drew her back down against him and closed his eyes.

    End

    Last Modified: May 15, 12
    Posted: Jul 12, 06
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    Three Plus One

    A scene that might come just after issue 339. Kirihara angsts a bit until his team makes him see reason. Drama, I-3, manga continuity

    Akaya looked down at his knuckles turning white where he held the rail behind the coach’s bench. Out on the court, Sanada-fukubuchou was cutting down his opponent, but Akaya knew how that looked, he didn’t really need to watch.

    And he wasn’t sure he wanted to meet anyone’s eyes right now.

    He wanted to ask “why”, except that that was obvious. He had been really struggling with his opponent. His teammates hadn’t. He knew why, it was just…

    Wasn’t it ever going to change? No matter how much his game evolved, no matter what tactics he found to make himself stronger? Where they always going to be ahead of him like this?

    “Yukimura-buchou.” He’d spoken before he realized he was going to, and bit his lip. What did he think he was going to say, anyway?

    Yukimura-buchou didn’t look away from the game. “Did you hear what they were calling you?”

    Akaya blinked. “What?”

    “While you were defeating the other player. Did you hear what the crowd was calling?”

    Akaya thought, but he couldn’t really recall much besides the beat of his pulse in his ears. “No.”

    Now Yukimura-buchou looked over his shoulder, smiling though his eyes were chill with the edge of being on the court. “Demon.”

    The thought fluttered around Akaya’s mind, that that was kind of neat, after all it was what they called Yukimura and Sanada and Yanagi, wasn’t it? The three demons.

    His eyes widened.

    “I won’t be waiting,” Yukimura-buchou said, voice soft. “But I will be ready.” He turned back to watch the game and added, more briskly, “You know you can do it, now, so stop lazing around.”

    “Yes, Yukimura-buchou,” Akaya managed. He stepped back and sat down on a bench with a thump, where Niou-senpai promptly messed up his hair and asked, “Dense much?”

    “Ah, don’t mind,” Marui-senpai put in with a lazy bubble. “It was kind of fun. Good practice for precision and all that.”

    “And you justified our trust admirably,” Yagyuu-senpai added with a faint smile.

    Akaya scrunched down a little and said “Okay” in a small voice. His senpai took care of him; he was used to that.

    “And you’re still conscious and standing,” Yanagi-senpai noted a bit wryly, from where he, too, was watching Sanada-fukubuchou. “So obviously you were also well up to the endurance training menu Seiichi had Genichirou construct for you.”

    “I was?” Akaya thought about that. “Oh. Good.”

    Marui-senpai groaned. “He didn’t even notice! Is he really human?”

    Niou-senpai smirked, thin and sharp. “Definitely a demon.”

    Akaya straightened at that, determination gripping him, fierce and familiar. “Yes.” He would be. He would find his way and catch them all and be number one. He grinned up at his senpai. “Thanks.”

    They smiled back at him, bright and sharp, as the match was called. Rikkai’s victory.

    Just the way it should be.

    End

    Last Modified: Feb 09, 12
    Posted: Mar 30, 07
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    Six Examples

    Takes place after the Sanada v Atobe match (manga). With some prodding from Yukimura, Sanada loosens his brain up, and finds some new techniques. Also with sex via tennis. Drama with Sub-Romance, I-3, manga continuity

    “I would not have lost.”

    “Yes you would. Perfection is your weakness.” Yukimura stowed his racquet away and held out his hand, eyeing its steadiness critically. “That’s why you lost last time, too.”

    Sanada snorted. “That was chance. A chance no sane player would have counted on. It won’t happen twice.”

    Yukimura shook his head and smiled, though his eyes still glinted sharp and cool. “You know your own strength. And, unlike nearly every other player in the middle school or high school circuit, your confidence in it is fully justified. And that,” he added, pointedly, “is what slows you down in face of the unexpected.”

    Sanada frowned, leaning back against the low wall around their courts. He wanted to say he didn’t need to develop new responses, because his tennis already had perfected responses to any situation. If that had been true, though, Atobe would not have taken so many points from him this afternoon. “Perhaps.”

    Yukimura tossed his bag up onto the grass and leaned beside Sanada, sighing. “I hadn’t thought it would matter. Until now it’s really only been Tezuka we had to think of. You know his strength, too; I knew you wouldn’t underestimate him. But this Echizen…”

    “Mm.” Sanada’s mouth tightened. “Our margin of superiority against Seigaku is going to be lower than we had planned for,” he admitted.

    Yukimura looked over the emptying courts, distant and thoughtful. “Tezuka. Echizen. Perhaps even Fuji.” He was quiet for a moment. “We’re going to have to push Akaya harder. If we can bring out his true strength by the time we face Seigaku, we’ll have the advantage again.”

    Sanada nodded; he’d actually quite like to see what form Akaya’s real game would take, before they had to leave their kouhai to his own devices.

    Yukimura thumped him lightly on the shoulder. “And you have to take care of your own problem.” He pushed up to his feet and slung his bag over his shoulder. “I don’t care how you do it. But we can’t afford to have you paralyzed whenever someone besides Tezuka actually manages to push you.” He looked back over his shoulder, laughter bright and wicked and cutting in his eyes, the way it hadn’t been for too long. “Hurry up, too, or I’ll do it for you.”

    Sanada gave his friend and captain a rather dour look. Yukimura’s notions about how to help out teammates who were stuck in their training were… strenuous.

    Yukimura laughed.


    Sanada spend the evening feeling mildly out of sorts. Restless. He fidgeted through his chores. He couldn’t focus on his science homework, and finally set it aside, resolving to get up early and do it in the morning.

    At last, he pulled on his hakama and gi and made for his practice room, determined to regain his focus one way or another.

    Kata calmed him, as he’d know they would. The rough weave of the tatami mats against the soles of his feet was familiar, soothing. The constant chase after perfection in each breath, each step, eased his tension into something smooth and poised. At the end, he sank down to the mats to rest, eyes closed, feeling his spine loosen and straighten. Slowly, his thoughts took up their spiral again, more controlled this time.

    This fierce peace was what he always returned to. It balanced the wild thrill of matches, whether with shinai or racquet.

    In the fresh silence of his mind, the thought rang false.

    Sanada opened his eyes and frowned. How could this have changed? Against the surprises of competition with opponents, he held the steady striving with himself that kata involved. Today was the perfect example. He had come to this pointed serenity to balance the uncertainty of his match with Atobe.

    The uncertainty… that it had taken Yukimura’s interference to point out to him.

    Sanada sucked in a slow breath, taking a firmer grip on this idea. How long had it been since he’d felt the rush of uncertainty during a tennis match? Had it really been since… Tezuka?

    And yet, it had been there in his matches with Echizen and Atobe as well. He’d just discounted it. Had he really let himself think that only Tezuka could bring that thrill to a match? Had he let his mental discipline slip that badly?

    Sanada snorted. Pitiful!

    He surged to his feet and stalked back to his room. There was one sure way to get a grip on his game again. He fished out his phone and dialed one handed while he changed his clothes.

    “Yukimura,” the laconic answer came.

    “Are you free for a game right now?” Sanada asked without preamble.

    After a moment of silence, Yukimura answered. “Sure. Meet you on the little court down by the river?”

    “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”


    Yukimura rested his racquet over his shoulder, regarding Sanada’s expression as they finished warming up. “That was quick. Good.”

    “I’m not done yet,” Sanada said grimly. Indeed, thinking he was done, that any part of his game was completed, was the problem.

    “Of course not.” Yukimura’s smile cooled with the chill of a game. He set his racquet down with precision and spun it. “Which?”

    “Rough. You can do this?”

    Yukimura’s mouth quirked as the spin ended on rough. “Yes.”

    Sanada nodded and walked back to serve. He spared nothing, and Yukimura sent the ball singing back, slicing through the air like a knife.

    It was hard and fast because that was how Sanada needed it to be. He needed the driving, brutal precision of Yukimura’s game to take into himself and answer.

    The ring of the ball against clay and the harsh panting of their breath drowned out the cicadas. This was the thrill he remembered seeking, the dripping exhaustion he remembered pursuing. The uncertainty that needed the peace of kata to balance it.

    Fire vanished without a ripple into Yukimura’s return. Sanada had to reach for the steady measured strokes of Forest to break Yukimura’s rhythm and keep himself from being caught up in it, and as he did he wondered. When had his balance fallen? When had his game become so stiff, so closed?

    Move like the Wind.

    Stately as the Forest.

    Raid like Fire.

    Immoveable as the Mountain.

    They were powerful because they could shift and move. Even the stillness of no-self moved!

    As the last ball flashed by to strike behind him, the purity of the moment shuddered up his spine. Yukimura’s game broke his open, stretched him as far as he could go. That openness called to be filled with the all the force and brilliance both of them could wring from each other.

    That was a match.

    What he had been playing this year was… kata.

    Sanada braced himself against the light pole to catch his breath. He frowned when he saw Yukimura had collapsed on the bench beside the court. “You said you could do this.”

    Yukimura’s teeth glinted in the streetlights. “I won, didn’t I?”

    There was that, Sanada had to admit.

    “You weren’t the only one who needed this,” Yukimura added, more quietly.

    Sanada smiled and held out a hand to pull Yukimura up again. “Let’s walk to cool down, then.”


    The dark river water glimmered with occasional lights up the embankment. The soft lap of it rippling against the shore filled the cooling evening air.

    “I don’t think you need to actually rework any of your techniques,” Yukimura said, finally. “Just wake up some more.”

    “Mmm.” Sanada turned that thought over a few times. It was true enough, but… “There’s something. I could tell as we played. There’s more I can do.”

    Yukimura smiled. “There’s always more you can do. Especially you.”

    “That means something, coming from you,” Sanada said dryly.

    Yukimura laughed, low and bright. “Once you remind me of my courage, yes.” He turned and climbed a few steps up the embankment, stretching out in the grass. “It would be hard to integrate anything else into FuuRinKaZan, though, wouldn’t it?”

    Sanada joined him and leaned back into the cool, green-smelling hill. “The techniques do come as a complete set,” he agreed.

    And then his breath stopped as a thought seized and shook him.

    Not complete.

    Wind, Forest, Fire, Mountain, Shadow, Lightning. There were six in the original.

    “Invisible as Shadow,” he whispered. “Strike like Lightning.”

    Yukimura watched him, head cocked.

    Sanada took a long breath, already testing possibilities in his head. “Yes. Yes, there is something more. It will work.” It would work, and he would move forward the way a player should, and crush his opponents the way Rikkai should.

    “I never doubted it,” Yukimura said quietly, lying back in the dusk.

    End

    A/N: Sanada’s technique names echo those Takeda Shingen took from Sun Tzu’s dictates on the movement of armies. Takeda, though, only used four of the original set of six. For Nationals, Sanada seems to be calling on the remaining two.

    Last Modified: Feb 09, 12
    Posted: Apr 21, 07
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    Architect

    Mizuki reflects on their defeat and has an epiphany. Drama, I-3

    Hajime leaned back in his seat on the bus, staring into the vanishing point of space, deaf to the murmurs of the St. Rudolph team around him.

    They had lost.

    He wasn’t quite sure what to do with that. That maniac from Fudoumine could say what he liked about starting over again, but Hajime had known from about the age of six that failure was failure; it meant you weren’t good enough, and that was all. Your inadequacy was laid out in action for all to see and remember. And besides, Hajime wasn’t sure there was anything to start over with. He felt much as though he had spent a long time building a fortress, balancing the weight and load of each stone against the others, making a marvelous flying sweep of interlocking tension that would stand against any pressure.

    And Seigaku had come along and kicked a few blocks out of it and the whole thing had collapsed in a rattling heap and he couldn’t even tell whether any of the blocks were unbroken.

    Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Akazawa and Kaneda had both come through the match well; he was even, a bit grudgingly, impressed with the way Kaneda-kun had gotten Akazawa to play actual doubles. Well enough to take a match from Hyoutei, no less. Hajime hadn’t thought it would be necessary, or he’d never have put Akazawa there in the lineup. He hadn’t thought a lot of things would be necessary.

    Clearly he’d been indulging in unforgivably wishful thinking.

    Most of the club looked as angry and depressed as he felt, after being beaten down twice in a row. Yuuta, though… Yuuta seemed downright cheerful, despite having lost even worse to Akutagawa than he had to Echizen.

    Hajime wasn’t sure he understood Yuuta any more.

    Of course, Yuuta had, by today’s work, inherited the team. He had another year to train, and, if his brother would be gone from the next tournament, it seemed Yuuta had found other players to interest him. Whereas Hajime would be retiring from the club, now, and studying for exams, and going to St. Christopher high school, the best of St. Rudolph’s affiliates, where there was no tennis club. If he wanted to keep playing at all he’d have to—

    Hajime’s eyes widened, and his lips almost moved with the force of the realization.

    He’d have to start over.

    He could, if he wanted, start completely over.

    The sudden thought felt like a door being unlocked, like walls falling out around him and opening on empty horizons. Hajime took a slow breath in and let it out, eyes fixed on the possibility of nothing. “Akazawa,” he murmured, barely noticing how the conversation around him quieted at the sound of his voice. “It was St. Sebastian you were thinking of attending for high school, correct?”

    His classmate turned in his seat, elbow resting over the back, to look at Hajime. “You know I am; we’ve talked about it. They have good athletics programs.” His brows lifted as Hajime met his gaze.

    “Think about St. Christopher.”

    Akazawa frowned, though his eyes were suddenly sharp and steady on Hajime. “They don’t have a tennis club, do they?”

    Mizuki smiled slowly. “No. They don’t.”

    After a moment Akazawa smiled. “All over again, huh?” He looked out the bus window. “I’ll think about it.”

    “Do that.” Hajime crossed his legs and leaned back, sorting through fallen blocks in his mind. He didn’t know, yet, which he might keep. But the ground had been cleared for something new; surely it would be a shame not to use it.

    End

    Last Modified: Sep 26, 08
    Posted: May 12, 07
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    The King is Dead

    Yuuta takes over the tennis club; he and Kaneda talk about club politics and their senpai. Drama, I-3

    Character(s): Fuji Yuuta, Kaneda Ichirou

    “All right, everyone shut up already! Second years, break up in pairs and volley, six to a court, don’t hit each other! First years, twenty laps to warm up!” Yuuta heaved in a breath as the chaos of the club divided itself in half.

    “You really think they need more warming up today?” Kaneda murmured.

    “Of course not,” Yuuta muttered back. “But this gets them out of our hair while we figure out what to do next.”

    Kaneda laughed and Yuuta scowled at him. This captain thing wasn’t nearly as easy as Akazawa-senpai had made it look.

    Of course, Akazawa-senpai had had Mizuki-san to help. Yuuta stifled a sigh. He hadn’t seen Mizuki-san at all today. Akazawa-senpai had come to say his good-byes and wish Yuuta and his team luck, but Mizuki-san had spent most of his time since they got off the bus from Prefecturals in his room or the library.

    Yuuta had kind of hoped he wouldn’t stay angry for this long.

    He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, turning back to Kaneda. “Okay, I guess we’d better start with skills tests for everyone, and then we can get going with playoffs to choose the new Regulars.”

    Kaneda smiled and handed him a sheet of paper. “You’ll probably want to revise this, if we’re testing them first, but I thought this might make a good order for the matches.”

    Yuuta blinked at it and then burst out in a relieved grin. “Kaneda, have I told you you’re a lifesaver? ‘Cause you are.”

    “Hey, I’ll do whatever I have to to make sure you’re the team captain and not me.” Kaneda’s smile tilted. “I’m not good at shouting at people.”

    “Unless they’re Akazawa-senpai?” Yuuta laughed as Kaneda turned red and sputtered. “Seriously, though, thanks.” He ducked his head for a moment. “I think some of the others would have been happier with an original member as captain.”

    Kaneda snorted. “Those would be the ones who haven’t seen you play.” He looked considering for a moment. “Or train. I don’t think there’s anyone in this whole club who’s put in more work than you, Yuuta. If that isn’t good values for this club, I don’t know what is.”

    Yuuta was quiet for a couple minutes, watching the club work. “I agree with Mizuki-san, though,” he said, at last, voice low. “He knows what he’s doing. He knows what we need to do. Maybe I don’t always like the tactics he chooses. But I like how hard he was on us.” He liked that Mizuki-san would never dream of protecting him, from life or tennis or anything else.

    “Kind of figured that, yeah.” Kaneda cocked his head at Yuuta. “You went your own way, in the match against Echizen, though, didn’t you?”

    “Well of course.” Yuuta crossed his arms. “If I was going to win, I was going to win my way.”

    Why was Kaneda grinning?

    His vice-captain clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll do fine. Quit worrying.”

    As they went to start the second years on precision tests, Yuuta figured he’d just have to do his best.

    And maybe see if he could catch Mizuki-san in his room one of these evenings.

    End

    Last Modified: Sep 26, 08
    Posted: May 12, 07
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    Foundations and Extensions

    Mizuki studies the opposition, looking for the things he missed last time. Drama, I-3

    Hajime now spent his afternoons in a library carrel, watching the video take from Prefecturals, making notes, assembling his observations like a hand of cards. He was starting to think that it wasn’t his facts that had been wrong, exactly. They just hadn’t been enough, and he’d been missing some pieces.

    Especially some of those strange pieces that changed every time he looked at them.

    Akazawa stopped by now and then, bringing him a bottle of water or offering a handful of chips from his bag, leaning on the back of Hajime’s chair to watch the best clips.

    “There.” Hajime tapped the end of his pen against the screen, freezing it on a moment of Fuji Shuusuke pushing off sideways. “I thought so, when I had time to actually think again. He wasn’t telling the truth about that being his strongest side. He is consistently slower to respond on that side; I had the pattern right.”

    “He was playing head games with you?” Akazawa bit down on another chip, thoughtfully. “I suppose that does seem like him.”

    “Psychological games, definitely.” Hajime leaned back, crossing his arms. “He wasn’t entirely lying, though, either. That side got stronger, as he needed it to.” He frowned, twining a lock of hair around his finger while he turned over his handful of facts, trying to fit them together. “I think…” He gritted his teeth and finished. “I think no one has ever truly pushed him. The close games he’s had… they were close the way the one with me was. Because he let them be.” And he was going to turn that result around if it was the last thing he ever did. If Fuji thought it was safe to toy with him like that, Hajime would show him differently. Surely Fuji’s penchant for holding back and his arrogant assurance could be a weakness in and of themselves.

    They had to be.

    Akazawa grunted. “That’s a hard kind of player to predict.”

    Hajime sniffed. “The only thing about that entire team that’s predictable, so far, is that they will all pull out something no one has ever seen before when they are pushed.” Which was an odd kind of variable, but once he saw it he could work with it. “My new team will have to focus very intensely on strength and endurance training in order to keep up.”

    “Well, I guess we’ll have to hope St. Christopher has people willing to work.”

    Hajime paused in reaching for the next tape, not looking around. “You’ve decided?”

    Akazawa chuckled. “If I didn’t approve of what a ruthless bastard you are, I wouldn’t have run the team for you this year. Let’s do it.”

    Kisarazu was going back to Chiba; Yanagisawa wasn’t sure he was going to go on in tennis; but that was all right. Two of them would be enough to start it. Hajime smiled. “We have three years.”

    And in that time he would find what he had missed, and they would win.

    End

    Last Modified: Sep 26, 08
    Posted: May 12, 07
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    Palm to Palm

    Mizuki comes across Yuuta practicing and they have words; and a match; and maybe another epiphany. Drama with Pre-Romance, I-3

    Character(s): Fuji Yuuta, Mizuki Hajime

    Evening brought cooler air and fewer people, which suited Hajime just fine at the moment. He wanted to get his practice in without being questioned about why a third year was so concerned with such things. Only a few lights were on around the courts, not quite drowning out the clear, deep indigo of the sky. It was a lovely evening and he was in a good mood.

    At least he was in a good mood up until the moment he saw that Yuuta was on the court before him, and lined up for the Twist Spin shot.

    The ball sang off Yuuta’s racquet, tore past an invisible opponent and climbed the fence. It was an excellent shot, and it made Hajime grit his teeth.

    Using a shot that wore so hard on his body, Yuuta would never last three more years at this rate! What was the boy thinking? How was Hajime supposed to draw Yuuta back, year after next, if he went on like this?

    Hajime stalked onto the court and snapped. “Yuuta-kun!”

    Yuuta tried to stand up and spin around at the same time, and wobbled. “Mizuki-san!”

    “What are you doing, using that shot during practice?” Hajime lectured. “There’s more than just this season to think about, now. And why are you out here, anyway, you should be training weights at this hour.”

    “I was hoping to see you.”

    Hajime’s brows rose. “… why?” Surely Yuuta had enough to keep him busy, taking over the club. And, unlike Hajime, Yuuta was the sort to throw himself headlong and absolutely into everything he did.

    All right, maybe it wasn’t so surprising he was still using that shot.

    Yuuta scuffed a toe against the clay. “The coaches are good; their suggestions for exercises help a lot, with the club. But I feel like my personal training is really falling off.” He looked up, eyes clear. “I was hoping you’d be willing to help me.”

    The corner of Hajime’s mind that hadn’t been entirely sure Yuuta wouldn’t hold a grudge breathed out a sigh of relief. He buried that under his week-old sense of annoyance, though, and folded his arms, raking Yuuta up and down with a long look. “And how am I supposed to train someone who won’t do as I say?”

    “I do!” Yuuta protested. “Well, I mean… it wasn’t…”

    Hajime sighed and waved a hand to quiet him, mouth quirking. “Yes, yes, all right.” Honestly, he knew perfectly well there was a difference between disobeying a tactical order and not sticking to a training regimen. Yuuta had never once slacked on his training.

    He also knew it would take Yuuta several more minutes to articulate that. If Hajime’s weapon was forethought, Yuuta’s was intensity, and subtlety was generally a bonus for him.

    This was a good opportunity to set his hand on Yuuta’s training again, though. “Come along, then.” He pulled out his racquet. “Play a set with me so I can see how it’s affected your game.”

    He watched, as they played. Yuuta had judged correctly; there was a starting spring missing from his footwork, an edge of power missing from his shots. He was still magnificent—the best Hajime had ever trained. But he could be better, and, knowing that, Fuji Yuuta would never rest.

    They’d agreed on that from the beginning.

    He nodded to himself, at the last point, and came to extend his hand over the net, as usual. “All right. Double your running time to start with.” He paused, less for real thought than to get more of his breath back; even off his peak, Yuuta was strong. “I’ll stop by tomorrow evening to adjust your weights.”

    Yuuta nodded, still sharp despite the sweat sticking his shirt to him, and shook Hajime’s hand once, quick and firm. “Yes, Mizuki-san.” He tucked his chin down for a moment before glancing up and adding. “Thank you.”

    “Just focus on getting stronger,” Hajime directed. And then he frowned, remembering. “And stop using the Twist Spin during practice. Really, you shouldn’t use it even in official matches until after your next growth spurt.”

    Yuuta looked down, and Hajime felt the hand in his tense. “I know,” Yuuta said, quietly. “I was listening to everything, last weekend. Tonight I was testing to make sure I’d recognize that kind of strain.” He opened his mouth to add something and then closed it again, chewing on his lip.

    In the back of his mind, where the truth lived, Hajime thought that he really didn’t understand Yuuta. Yuuta’s forthright passion was something he didn’t think he’d ever felt. He didn’t understand why it wasn’t driving Yuuta away from him, now that the harshness of Hajime’s calculation was out in the open.

    And yet, he was glad it wasn’t. For one thing, it was surely good for Yuuta to temper that enthusiasm with at least a little considered judgment, which he was clearly starting to do. For another…

    Well, never mind that.

    “I have longer term plans in mind, now, than I have this past year,” he said at last.

    Yuuta’s hand relaxed and he looked up with a faint smile. “Okay.”

    The clarity of those grey eyes stole Hajime’s thoughts for a moment, before he shook himself and fished out another ball. “Well, come on, then. One more set, since you’re out here.”

    As Yuuta fell back to the baseline, Hajime told himself not to think foolish things. Personal interest, even in someone with Yuuta’s brightness, had absolutely no place in his search for perfection. None at all.

    Surely not.

    End

    Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
    Posted: May 12, 07
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    Ace, King

    Yuuta tries to decide how it’s going to be between he and Mizuki from now on. Drama with Pre-Romance, I-3

    Character(s): Fuji Yuuta, Mizuki Hajime

    Yuuta worked through his last set of repetitions and let the bar clank back down to rest, sprawling over the bench as he caught his breath. He grinned up at the ceiling, satisfied with the feeling of burning muscles and heaving lungs. This was the feeling he remembered, the feeling of driving right up to the edge of his strength and endurance and staring the limit down. The feeling of advancing.

    The feeling Mizuki-san gave him.

    He sighed a little and reached for his towel, levering himself up. He wished Mizuki-san had had a better match with Aniki. Not that it hadn’t been an amazing match, of course, but… neither of them seemed nearly as happy with it as he and Echizen had been with their match. He didn’t like thinking that maybe Mizuki-san didn’t know what it was like to just play. Play all out, play your best, and feel satisfied that you had. It had been so fantastic! Did Mizuki-san never feel like that? If he didn’t, it made the way he played seem really cold. Cold and distant.

    And, yeah, losing sucked, but that was what training was for, right? So you could win next time. Only it seemed like Mizuki-san didn’t think so.

    Or hadn’t thought so. Mizuki-san said things had changed.

    Yuuta really hated not knowing whether he could trust that.

    He leaned over the sink in the changing room, splashing water on his face more vigorously than necessary. Mizuki-san was the one who showed him a way to stand on his own—a way to respect himself. And, yeah, he’d order people to run until they dropped, and practice moves until you did them in your sleep, and dissect mistakes in chilly and excruciating detail. Mizuki-san had always been three times as demanding as the coaches, and pretty damn merciless. But Yuuta liked that. He didn’t want mercy; he wanted to be the best.

    Of course, he also wanted to keep being the best for more than one season. Hard to do that with a busted shoulder.

    Mizuki-san said it wasn’t like that anymore. He had told Yuuta to stop with that shot.

    Yuuta leaned his elbows on the counter, staring down at the trails of water running down white porcelain. He’d trusted Mizuki-san. Was it stupid that he still really wanted to?

    “Ah, there you are. What was your lap time this afternoon?”

    Yuuta started at the sound of Mizuki-san’s voice behind him, and turned to find Mizuki-san standing in the door, brows lifted, foot tapping as Yuuta tried to remember the question. “Oh. Yeah, um, fifty-eight seconds.”

    “Hm.” Mizuki-san folded his arms, dark eyes turning distant. “That should do. Increase the speed two notches, next time you practice with the ball machines.” He paused in the act of turning away and looked more sharply at Yuuta. “How is the team doing?”

    Yuuta blinked. “It’s doing fine. We have a handful of good players already sorted out to work on.”

    “Hmm.” Mizuki-san frowned. “Are your classes going well?”

    “Yeah,” Yuuta said, slowly, starting to wonder what the inquisition was for.

    “Well then try eating better,” Mizuki-san ordered. “You don’t look well. It won’t do either of us any good if you fall ill enough to affect your training.”

    Either of us.

    Yuuta relaxed all at once. Mizuki-san was looking annoyed, not considering or sleek; he hadn’t thought before saying that. He really did see Yuuta and Yuuta’s plans, and not just himself and his own. “Yes, Mizuki-san.”

    Mizuki-san looked at him, unreadable, for a long moment before nodding. “Very well. Protein and then bed, Yuuta-kun.” As he slid the door closed behind him he murmured, “Sleep well.”

    Yuuta smiled down at his hand-towel for no reason at all. “You too, Mizuki-san,” he said, quietly.

    End

    Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
    Posted: May 13, 07
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    Approaching Fineness

    After watching Regional finals, Yuuta and Mizuki both have a new range on their goals. Drama with Romance, I-3

    “…didn’t think that doubles pair would hold out nearly that long!”

    “I didn’t think Aniki would hold out that long! I never thought you could play tennis blind like that.”

    “Or like that Echizen did. Did you see that jump?” Yanagisawa shook his head in amazement.

    Yuuta snorted. “Since I’m not blind, yeah.”

    Hajime leaned back in his bus seat and half listened to them, eyes closed, letting numbers dance behind his lids. The rate of progress among Seigaku’s second years was indeed very unusual. Fuji’s breakthrough was a little less so, perhaps; if his new model was correct, then Fuji was just mining skills he’d already had.

    Echizen, of course, broke all the curves he’d predicted, but that was, itself, starting to be predictable.

    “Echizen is still in motion,” he murmured. “He will not be entirely predictable until he stops, as Tezuka has.”

    After a moment of silence, Yuuta asked, slowly, “Does that mean Tezuka-san is actually the easier one to beat?”

    Hajime smiled; observing the tournaments seemed to be doing good things for Yuuta’s awareness of the mental game. That would be useful. “Indeed. In strategic terms, at least.” He glanced over his shoulder at them. “You need the basic strength to carry out any plan to defeat him, but he is less likely to break the parameters than someone like Echizen.”

    “Yeah, but who’s got the strength to beat Tezuka?” Yanagisawa asked, skeptical.

    Hajime’s mouth tightened. “Possibly no one,” he admitted, grudgingly. “Yet.” Any stable variable could be solved for.

    “Yeah, but I’m not going to have a chance for another two years.” Yuuta sighed, rather wistfully Hajime thought. “You guys will get him next year.”

    Hajime pursed his lips and said, reluctantly, “With a brand new team, perhaps not. Unless of course we can catch Seigaku again at Prefecturals.” He might get lucky and find strong players who just happened not to have formed a club yet, but he’d be foolish to count on such a thing.

    “So there you go, no one from our side will be taking Tezuka on before you catch up.” Yanagisawa grinned at Yuuta. “If you do, I mean. You could go back to Seigaku for high school after all.”

    Hajime stiffened. He hadn’t even thought of that. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of that. Yuuta might… !

    Yuuta growled. “Shut up, senpai.”

    Hajime tried to swallow sudden panic down out of his throat, as Yanagisawa snickered. “Do you… think you’ll go on to St. Christopher, then?” He tried to sound careless; from the startled way Yuuta looked around at him he didn’t think he quite succeeded.

    “I’d pretty much planned to, yeah,” Yuuta answered, a little tentative.

    “I’m glad to hear it,” Hajime said with generous understatement. “I shall plan for your arrival.”

    Yuuta smiled, relaxing again. “I thought you already were, Mizuki-san.”

    Hajime blinked. Yuuta had seen that, and he… didn’t seem to mind. “I had hoped,” he murmured, while he turned the thought over.

    Yuuta nodded, looking satisfied. “So this year and next I’ll concentrate on the team, and taking us just as far as I can, and the year after I’ll meet up with my senpai again.”

    The way that knot in his chest eased, on hearing that Yuuta would follow him, made Hajime tense up in a different way. Yuuta was his ace player; Yuuta’s game was excellent, and growing better; Yuuta’s passion cast light around him, on the court.

    And Hajime didn’t want that passion to go away.

    This… this was not what he had expected, when he’d found Yuuta at that tennis school and dangled St. Rudolph in front of him.

    Was it a problem, though? He worried at the question as Yuuta and Yanagisawa discussed the new Regulars behind him. Perhaps he and Yuuta could just… balance each other nicely. That could work, on the courts as well as off. So perhaps it was all right to want.

    To care.

    He would try to make it be all right; because he didn’t want to stop, now.

    End

    Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
    Posted: May 14, 07
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    Heat Imaging

    Yuuta plays some with Fuji and they wind up discussing Mizuki. Drama and Romance, I-3

    Character(s): Fuji Shuusuke, Fuji Yuuta

    Yuuta swung and missed again. “Damn!”

    “As your opponent, I appreciate that, but you’d better not let Kaa-san hear you saying it,” Aniki called across the net.

    “I don’t see Kaa-san here right now,” Yuuta pointed out, swinging his racquet onto his shoulder. In fact, no one at all was here right now; they had found the most out of the way court at the least lively tennis school they could. Aniki obviously didn’t want his new move scooped, and Yuuta really, really didn’t want anyone to see them playing.

    If anyone said anything about the genius, and, oh, his little brother too, he didn’t think he’d be able to do anything but blow up at Aniki. Again.

    Aniki chuckled and fished their water bottles off the bench, tossing Yuuta his. “You’ve improved since Prefecturals.”

    Yuuta grinned, pleased. “Yeah? Good.” He took a long drink. “Mizuki-san’s been helping me with my training schedule, but it’s hard to be sure sometimes.”

    Aniki coughed and sputtered. “Mizuki? Yuuta you can’t tell me you’re still training with him!”

    “Why not?” Yuuta blinked at his brother.

    Yuuta! He nearly crippled you!”

    Yuuta snorted. “Oh, he did not. One hard match with that shot wouldn’t have hurt me.” He examined at his water bottle while Aniki stared at him. “A whole season might have. But it didn’t happen.”

    “But it could have!” Aniki caught his shoulder, frowning. “Yuuta, please.”

    Yuuta squirmed. He’d kind of hoped not to have to discuss this with Aniki. “Mizuki-san is good at what he does, Aniki. And it’s different now.”

    “Different how?”

    Yuuta lifted his chin. “Different because I know what I’m doing, and he knows I do. And he has plans that need all his players in good shape.” And Mizuki-san looked at him differently, too, which Yuuta wasn’t going to say because he didn’t know how to describe the difference. At least not so that Aniki wouldn’t have a heart attack.

    Aniki was quiet for a moment. “Do you really think he can teach you what you need, to play at the level you want to?”

    Yuuta was quiet for even longer, struggling to find the right words. Finally he said, “I think determination and working hard enough can take us to the top. And you must think so too, Aniki, or you wouldn’t be out here, coming up with new moves and trying them out on me. Mizuki-san makes everyone work harder than they ever thought they could. Including himself, now.”

    “There’s working hard, and then there’s destroying yourself.” Aniki’s eyes flickered, at that, though, and he looked away. “If you’re sure,” he said, finally.

    Yuuta smiled a little, finger tracing around the cap of his water bottle. He’d admit, to himself, that sometimes he’d like it if Mizuki-san let go a little more, ran a little hotter. He couldn’t help thinking that getting to the top needed some of that, too. But he was very sure that Mizuki-san wanted to win and was looking everywhere for ways. Maybe… maybe he could get Mizuki-san to see this one. And that way they could help each other. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

    Aniki sighed. “All right. I guess we already know you’re more stubborn than I am.” He lifted his racquet. “Once more?”

    Yuuta grinned. “You bet! I’ll catch that ball before we leave.” Yuuta set himself, ready to throw everything into the game, the way he always did. It was just about his specialty—kind of the way calculation was Mizuki-san’s.

    Mizuki-san had showed him the way to grow and stand on his own; maybe now it was his turn.

    End

    Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
    Posted: May 14, 07
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    Steel and Cypress

    After watching the National semifinals, Mizuki wrestles with his ambitions and fears—at least until Yuuta gives him a push. Drama with Romance, I-4

    Character(s): Fuji Yuuta, Mizuki Hajime

    Hajime lay on his bed with his arms crossed behind his head. To the absent Yuuta, he repeated, “Your brother really, really irritates me.”

    Fuji’s match against Shiraishi had been magnificent. It had been a good match, unlike the one he’d had with Hajime. Fuji had found, not only determination, but passion. Passion that made him truly look like Yuuta’s brother for the first time Hajime could recall.

    Passion Hajime had never played with.

    The understanding twisted at him, made him turn on his side and curl in on himself, trying to escape his own thoughts.

    Did he need it? Was that really one of the pieces he’d been missing? Did he have to… to expose himself that way, to play at the top?

    Yuuta did.

    Fuji had.

    He would be damned before he’d be less than Fuji Shuusuke.

    A quick rap on the door interrupted his brooding, followed by Yuuta’s voice. “Mizuki-san, did you see… Oops.” Yuuta’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Sorry.”

    Hajime turned over in time to see Yuuta tiptoeing back out the door and his mouth twitched up at one corner. “I’m not asleep,” he said dryly.

    Yuuta looked over his shoulder. “Ah? Oh, good then.” He turned around again and came to bounce down in Hajime’s desk chair. “Did you see the tape Akazawa-senpai got of some of the other matches?” Yuuta’s eyes were a little wide. “Are all Nationals games really like that?”

    Hajime turned over the various Nationals matches he had seen, in his head, marking the texture and intensity of them all. “Yes, I’m afraid so,” he murmured.

    “Wow.” Yuuta sat back, eyes fixed on something besides the room around them. “That’s amazing,” he said softly. And then his focus snapped back to Hajime. “We can do it, though. Right, Mizuki-san?”

    Hajime felt breathless, pinned by the burning-glass of that fierce, grey gaze. He had, in fact, little doubt that Yuuta could do it.

    Could he?

    Could he refuse?

    “Yes.” He closed his eyes. “Yes, Yuuta-kun. We will.”

    When he opened his eyes again Yuuta was smiling, brilliant and… somehow already triumphant. Hajime’s mouth quirked. What a spot to put himself in, a sensible, logical person agreeing to go forward alongside this firebrand and push both of them to the edge and beyond.

    All because he wanted Yuuta to look only at him, the way he was right now.

    He sighed and leaned back on his elbows as Yuuta enthused about some of the shots he’d seen, mind already racing ahead in time, tracing the curve of his conditioning, mapping it steeper. He would climb that curve, and win. That was the important thing.

    He would keep Yuuta beside him.

    End

    Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
    Posted: May 14, 07
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    Percentage by Volume

    Yuuta puts some work into repairing Mizuki’s reputation among the St. Rudolph tennis club. Drama with Romance, I-3

    When Mori looked at the new training menu and growled, “This is Mizuki’s!” and the three first year Regulars actually looked alarmed, Yuuta knew he was going to have to do something drastic. He couldn’t very well show up, year after next, at St. Christopher with these jokers in tow, still thinking Mizuki-san was demon-spawn. He and Kaneda might not be the only players the team needed.

    “Wherever the exercises came from, the menu is mine,” he said flatly, still hoping to head things off.

    “He’s screwed this club up badly enough already,” Mori shot back, ploughing right over Yuuta’s attempt. “Look how low our ranking was this year!”

    Yuuta’s eyes narrowed. “So, you think that was because of Mizuki-san’s training?”

    Behind the other two second years, Kaneda suddenly grinned and then tucked it away and looked sober. Yuuta caught his eye and winked, very quickly. Kaneda didn’t lose it, but he did look like he was biting his tongue not to.

    Mori, on the other hand, walked right into it. “Yeah, that’s what I think!”

    “Well, he’s still training me, so why don’t we see about that?” Yuuta pointed to all his Regulars, one after another. “Mori, Toriume, Arima, Miyamoto, Kimura, Ogata. You’re all playing me, today.” He showed his teeth as they all stared at him. “And I guess I’ll finish up with Kaneda.” Or else Kaneda would finish up him, if this went badly.

    “Sure thing,” Kaneda agreed, cheerfully.

    Yuuta strolled out onto the nearest court, turning to look over his shoulder at Mori. “Well? Let’s go! One set match, Mori. Your serve.”

    “You’ll never be able to do it.” Mori stalked back to serve.

    “Guess we’ll see,” Yuuta murmured, setting himself.


    Yuuta ordered his knees not to give out and gave his team a glare, hands on his hips. They stared back, most of them in shock, though Kaneda looked wry and Ogata had a speculative gleam in his eye. Yuuta had won all seven sets, though just barely from Ogata and Kaneda, and he really hoped he didn’t die before he made it back to the dorms.

    After all, he had to tell Mizuki-san how well training multiple sets had paid off.

    “I didn’t do that with any special skill or talent,” he said, flatly. “I could do it because I’ve been working my ass off, according to a training schedule Mizuki-san made.” He paused to let that sink in, and to catch his breath. “Now. Do you want to be able to do that?”

    Ogata pushed away from the fence and stepped forward. “Yes.”

    Kimura grinned and joined him. “Yeah.”

    Arima chuckled and clapped a hand on Miyamoto’s shoulder, and they stepped forward together.

    “Sure looks like it paid off,” Toriume allowed, and stepped up.

    Mori growled. “Oh fine, all right.” He frowned at Yuuta. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

    Yuuta leaned on a bench, laughing. “I think I’ve heard it said.”

    Kaneda took a long look at him and turned to the team. “All right, then, let’s get on with practice proper. First the weights…”

    Yuuta cautiously stretched his legs as Kaneda took the team in hand, and made a note to do something nice for his vice-captain. If he’d tried to actually lead practice today, he’d have fallen on his face for sure, and that wasn’t quite the lesson he was trying to teach.


    “That was foolish, Yuuta-kun,” Mizuki-san told him that evening. “Surely there was another way to make your point.” He tested the shaking of Yuuta’s wrists with light fingers, looking disapproving.

    “It worked,” Yuuta defended himself.

    “There was no need for it.”

    “I couldn’t just let them spread it to the rest of the club,” Yuuta insisted. “What would that mean two years on? Besides—” he broke off, biting his lip.

    Mizuki-san raised his brows. “Besides?”

    Yuuta swore at himself for slipping like that; he really did need to learn to watch his mouth one of these days. He looked down and muttered, “I don’t like them talking about you that way.”

    “Yuuta…” Mizuki-san sounded startled. He looked startled, when Yuuta glanced up. Slowly startlement melted into a smile and his hand on Yuuta’s wrist closed gently for a moment. “Thank you.” And as quick as that he was brisk again. “But it won’t do for you to strain yourself like this.”

    Grateful to get off without embarrassment, Yuuta nodded. “Yes, Mizuki-san.”

    He took the rest of the lecture fairly meekly, and folded the memory of Mizuki-san’s smile away to take out and look at later.

    End

    A/N: Ogata and Miyamoto were created by Lys ap Adin, for St. Rudolph’s next generation, and are used by permission.

    Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
    Posted: May 14, 07
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    Cold Fingers and Hot Drinks

    Yuuta and Mizuki train with each other over the winter and find their way toward an understanding. Romance with Drama, I-3

    Character(s): Fuji Yuuta, Mizuki Hajime

    Hajime’s hands were cold.

    He didn’t bother telling himself it was because they were playing outside in the dead of winter. He knew better, and he did try not to lie to himself, at least.

    He flexed his fingers around the handle of his racquet, breathing deeply, feeling the chilly air tingle in his lungs.

    “Ready whenever you are, Mizuki-san!” Yuuta called cheerfully across the court. Hajime snorted.

    “You’re always ready,” he called back. Before Yuuta could answer, before he could wind himself any tighter than he already was, he threw the ball up and served, hard and fast.

    He watched Yuuta catch it, watched Yuuta like a hawk and stooped on the ball as it came back again. And again. And again. The ball would not get away from him; today he would not let it, no matter what. He heard Yuuta laugh, bright and exhilarated, across the net, felt the heaviness of the return straining at his arms and threw it back anyway.

    This was terrifying.

    Yuuta was a better player than he was. Not a better strategist or athlete or planner. But a better player; he had been for almost a year, now. And today, in defiance of all common sense and logic, Hajime was going to try to win an all-out match from him.

    Again.

    This was senseless. His hands would be shaking if the racquet wasn’t keeping them busy and the ball keeping them steady. He watched and dashed and dove for the ball and always, always sent it back, and felt like he’d taken hold of a live wire and now electricity was running through him, snapping and spitting. He was drenched with sweat, even in the cold, and wondered with every breath if he could keep going.

    When they reached six all he wondered if he could stop.

    And today whatever fire or fate ruled games like these favored him. The last point was his. Yuuta met him at the net, grinning, nearly glowing. He didn’t seem to mind Hajime’s victory; he never seemed to.

    Hajime was just grateful to get inside and sit down and breathe air that didn’t seem to sparkle in his blood.

    A clank, and the warmth of a can against his hand, brought him back to the world and he took the coffee Yuuta had brought him. “Thank you.”

    Yuuta sprawled on the bench beside him, opening his juice. After a moment he said, “You’re getting better at that.”

    Hajime sniffed. “I can read a scoreboard.” He knew he was getting better; that was half of what alarmed him. What if he let this passion, this openness, slip out at some other time and knock some delicate calculation or other awry? What if it ran away with him?

    Yuuta smiled down at his drink. “I know. I just mean… it’s really great to play against you like this.”

    Hajime regarded Yuuta ruefully. He sometimes wished he wasn’t starting to understand that. “I know.”

    Yuuta traced a finger around the top of the can. “Mizuki-san…” Finally, softly, he said, “Thank you.”

    Hajime tried to breathe slowly past a sudden tightness in his chest. “For what?” he asked, lightly. All right, so he was, in significant part, doing this for Yuuta—Yuuta didn’t know that.

    Yuuta raised his head and looked back with such clear eyes that Hajime suddenly doubted his own thought. “For everything,” he said, quiet and sure. “For all of this.”

    Hajime couldn’t quite look away, and thought for one crazy moment that he would drown in that living grey. When he spoke, his voice was huskier than he had thought it would be. “Perhaps I should be thanking you.”

    Yuuta’s eyes widened and red stole over his high cheekbones. “Mizuki-san.”

    One of them was going to have to look away, Hajime decided distantly. Otherwise they’d be here until full darkness fell to separate them. He traded one contact for another and reached out to rest his fingers on the back of Yuuta’s hand as he closed his eyes and drew a breath and told himself to be sane.

    Yuuta started. “Mizuki-san, your hands are freezing!”

    “That,” Hajime informed him with dignity, “is because I react like a normal person to winter: by getting cold.” Unlike Yuuta, who just seemed to get more bounce in his step the chillier it got outside.

    It was his turn to start as Yuuta took his fingers and chafed them between his hands. “You should have said.” Yuuta wrapped Hajime’s hand back around his still-warm can of coffee.

    Hajime hauled his breath back under his control and laughed softly. “Well, there was something outdoors I wanted.” He was secretly delighted to see Yuuta color again. Yuuta was so transparently sincere; it was enough to enchant a person, really.

    Yuuta resettled his shoulders and lifted his chin. “So. You wanted another game, then?”

    Hajime blinked at the riposte and finally laughed out loud.

    “Yes, Yuuta. Perhaps I do.”

    End

    Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
    Posted: May 16, 07
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    Heart Shaped Petals

    It’s graduation, and Mizuki’s intentions are finally unmistakable. Romance, I-3

    Character(s): Fuji Yuuta, Mizuki Hajime

    Yuuta supposed it was all sorts of good omens and stuff like that for the third years to graduate just as the sakura were blooming, but this year he felt just a little lost, watching the petals fall over everyone’s carefully pressed uniforms.

    Mizuki-san was leaving.

    He walked beside Yuuta, under the trees, hands tucked into his pockets. “So, Yuuta-kun. What are your plans for the next year?”

    Yuuta blinked. “You know what my plans are. We’ve talked about it. You’re the one who wrote my training menu for the next two months.”

    “Not your tennis plans, your academic ones.” Mizuki-san gave him a sharp look. “You’ll need to keep your grades up to the mark, to join me again a year from now.”

    Yuuta stopped and looked at Mizuki-san with a certain exasperation. “Yes, Mizuki-san. I know that,” he pointed out, as patiently as he could. “But my grades have always done just fine, here. You know that.”

    Mizuki-san shrugged, as if tossing something off his shoulders. “Well, I suppose so.”

    Yuuta’s mouth tugged up at one corner. Maybe he wasn’t the only one who was feeling jittery about this graduation. “I’ll be fine.”

    Mizuki-san turned to face him, silent and inscrutable for a long moment. “Yes. I believe you will.” And then his lips curled just a bit, the way they did when some plan of his was about to succeed, and he lifted a hand to cup Yuuta’s cheek. “You always have so far. It’s one of the things I like about you, Yuuta-kun.”

    Yuuta had to swallow hard as Mizuki-san’s thumb brushed over his cheekbone. It was hard to catch his breath all of a sudden. “Oh… Good…” This was not the place he’d expected Mizuki-san to do something like this. He was glad Mizuki-san had, because damn it was nice to be sure, finally, but…

    Mizuki-san took one light step toward him, and Yuuta’s heart started going faster, and—

    “Mizuki!”

    Mizuki-san stepped back again, hand slipping away with a last brush of fingertips as Akazawa-senpai came around the curve of the path.

    “Mizuki, are you coming with—” Akazawa-senpai broke off, brows rising slowly as he eyed the two of them.

    “Ah, are we leaving already? Yes, I’ll be right there,” Mizuki-san said, as collected as if Yuuta wasn’t standing beside him turning red.

    “Sure,” Akazawa-senpai agreed in a tone knowing enough to make Yuuta squirm. As he turned back down the path, Mizuki-san huffed and looked at Yuuta out of the corner of his eye.

    “Perhaps we can continue our discussion later, Yuuta-kun.”

    “Yeah. Sure,” Yuuta managed. He nearly lost his breath again at the way Mizuki-san smiled, rueful and genuinely amused for one unguarded moment.

    “Perhaps you’ll visit me at St. Christopher’s dorms; I’ll send you my room number.” His fingers stroked the back of Yuuta’s hand. “Until then.”

    Yuuta thought, watching Mizuki-san walk down the path, that that almost-promise might just have been worth the entire past year.

    End

    Last Modified: Feb 09, 12
    Posted: May 16, 07
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    Strawberry Season

    Yuuta lets himself be a little distracted by new things; his team notices; maybe Yuuta doesn’t care. Romance with Humor, I-3

    Yuuta didn’t really mind Kaneda’s amused look, when he practically floated into morning practice on Monday. He didn’t even mind the quiet murmur of, “Someone had a good weekend.”

    It was true, after all.

    And he had figured out, by now, that most of the world could probably tell by the grin he couldn’t stop that something very nice indeed had happened to one Fuji Yuuta. Strangers had smiled at him indulgently on the walk home last night. That was all right, too. Everything in the whole world was all right, because he could still remember how Mizuki-san’s desk chair felt under him, and the warmth of Mizuki-san’s hand on his shoulder, and the way Mizuki-san’s eyes turned softer as he leaned over Yuuta, and the slide of Mizuki-san’s lips moving against his.

    He guessed it probably was distracting him, though, because it took him a while to pay attention to the whispering behind him.

    “…just happy for Fuji-buchou that Mizuki-senpai finally made a move,” Miyamoto said.

    “Yes, but his timing could have been a bit better,” Ogata murmured back, dryly.

    A snort that sounded like Mori. “What, his timing was great. Now maybe Yuuta will chill out on us, a little.”

    The silence that followed that made Yuuta glance over his shoulder, curious. He found all three of the now-second years giving Mori the look of (mostly) dutiful kouhai who thought they had the world’s greatest idiot for a senpai.

    “Fuji-buchou? Chill out?” Kimura scoffed. “Just because he got… well, whatever he got last night? Not a chance.”

    “I think I have to agree, Senpai,” Ogata put in. “It’s less than a month to the start of tournament season. I bet he’ll be himself by afternoon practice.”

    “Two onigiri says it’s by the end of morning practice,” Miyamoto came back, promptly.

    Kimura looked thoughtful. “Kind of depends on just what happened last night, doesn’t it?”

    Yuuta took a few moments to will the heat out of his face before he spun around and barked, “Okay, twenty laps and then pinpointing practice, everybody!”

    Everyone stretched and groaned and started running, and Yuuta might have escaped the morning with at least a little dignity. Except that he heard Miyamoto whisper to the other two, as the second years passed him, “Told you.”

    It didn’t help that Kaneda was trying not to snicker while he jogged beside Yuuta.

    “Kaneda,” Yuuta growled, knowing he was more flushed than exercise could excuse, “they are betting on my personal life.”

    “Yeah.” Kaneda caught his breath, though the corners of his mouth still twitched. “They have been for months.”

    “WHAT?”

    Kaneda lost his stride for laughing and Yuuta could only take a little comfort in the fact that his second years looked back at them and decided it would be a good idea to run faster.


    “Yuuta,” Mizuki-san said, closing Yuuta’s door behind him, “is there any reason why Ogata-kun gave me an extremely knowing smile on my way up the stairs?”

    Yuuta groaned and pulled his pillow over his head.

    A moment of silence. “I see.” Mizuki-san sighed and the bed dipped as he sat on the edge beside Yuuta. “Well, I suppose gossip gets around sooner or later.”

    “I am going,” Yuuta gritted out, “to make them run laps until they don’t have any breath left to gossip with.”

    Mizuki-san laughed. “That will do well all around, I’m sure.” He tugged on Yuuta’s pillow. “In the meantime, they’re not here. And I am.”

    Yuuta let the pillow slide away and looked up ruefully. “You are.” He reached up to run a hand down Mizuki-san’s arm, just because he could. “How is your club going?”

    “We have ten members, three of whom may conceivably be useful.” Mizuki-san slipped his fingers around Yuuta’s, looking thoughtful. “One of them might even make a new partner for Yanagisawa, who is still complaining of having lost Kisarazu. I have my doubts whether we will be able to move beyond Prefecturals this year; too many of the strong teams have too much continuity.” He smiled, looking satisfied in a catlike way. “But a loss at that stage, this year, will spur them on for next.”

    Yuuta hesitated a moment before saying, “You’re going to try, though, right?”

    Mizuki-san lifted a brow at him. “Of course.” His eyes glinted. “I have never taken a loss willingly, Yuuta-kun.”

    Yuuta relaxed, smiling. That was true; it would be all right.

    Mizuki-san’s eyes narrowed and he leaned over Yuuta, one hand slipping up to cup Yuuta’s face. “I’ve spent a great deal of effort on catching something of drive and passion. I have no intention of letting it go again.”

    Yuuta was pretty sure Mizuki-san wasn’t just talking about tennis, and that made him feel warm and tingly all over. Which probably meant he was blushing again. He didn’t care. “Mizuki-san.” He reached up to touch the curve of Mizuki-san’s lips.

    Mizuki-san leaned down to him, and this kiss was a lot more involved than the last one. He’d probably remember this one for days. But while Mizuki-san’s tongue was stroking his Yuuta couldn’t remember why that might not be a completely fantastic thing.

    He’d worry about it later.

    End

    A/N: Ogata and Miyamoto were created by Lys ap Adin, for St. Rudolph’s next generation, and are used by permission.

    Last Modified: Feb 09, 12
    Posted: May 16, 07
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    The Bees and the Bees

    Yuuta wants Kaneda to explain some facts of life to him. Humor with Romance, I-3

    In the end, Yuuta decided Kaneda was the best person to ask. Kaneda was the one who most deserved to be asked. Of course, then he had to actually ask.

    “So,” he tried, as they climbed the steps to their floor of the dorm. “You and Akazawa-senpai are, um… right?”

    “We’re right?” Kaneda stared at him for a moment before his eyes widened. “Oh.” The corners of his mouth curled up. “We’re ‘um’? Yeah.”

    “Ah. That’s, um, good. I was just. Um.” Yuuta shoved his hands in his pockets and glowered at his feet. How did you ask these things?

    “Curiosity?” Kaneda asked casually. “Have a bet on with the second years?”

    Kaneda was having way too much fun with this.

    “Um. Mizuki-san. Well, maybe, I mean… ” Yuuta muttered, finally.

    “So?” Kaneda was definitely grinning. “You wanted to celebrate or something?”

    “No.” Yuuta kicked the door shut behind him, because he really didn’t want the whole dorm hearing this. “I just… well I wondered… what it’s like. I mean what happens. When you… um.”

    Kaneda sat down on his bed with a thump, amusement disappearing in shock. “Are you, um, sure you don’t want to go find a website for this?” he asked, a bit weakly.

    Yuuta folded his arms. “Mizuki-san says never to trust anything on the web.” Besides, Kaneda damn well owed him this, after laughing so much.

    “Oh.” After a moment, Kaneda sighed. “If it wasn’t you… All right, look.” He ran a hand through his hair and flopped back on the bed. “Tell me you already know what a blow-job is?”

    Yuuta could feel his face getting hot. “Yeah.”

    “The rest… well, a lot of it’s mostly just… touching. Like you do yourself, only… each other.”

    Yuuta managed to make a ‘keep going’ noise.

    “And you want to know about the part that isn’t,” Kaneda muttered. “Well it’s… Okay, look.” He took a deep breath. “He might also want to be, um, inside you.”

    Okay, Yuuta really had understood that bit right. He frowned. “I gotta tell you, that still sounds weird. Are you sure?”

    Kaneda gave him a flat, exasperated look, and finally said, “He might want to put his fingers or cock up your ass. Yes it’s kind of weird. It’s also kind of nice.”

    Yuuta always managed to forget how blunt Kaneda could be if you pushed him far enough. He hoped his face wasn’t about to catch fire. “Ah. So. You’re sure about the nice part?” he said, strangled.

    Kaneda laughed, though he was pretty red in the face, too, by now. “Yeah, I’m sure.” His eyes got a little distant as he stared up at the ceiling. “It’s really… close. As close as you can get, to do things like that.” He glanced back at Yuuta, and smiled just a little evilly. “And even if it’s Mizuki-senpai, he’ll probably be gentle when he’s getting you ready.”

    Yuuta wrestled with himself; he knew Kaneda was setting him up. He knew it. But he had to ask. “Getting me ready?”

    Kaneda downright grinned and leaned over to fish a tube out of his desk drawer and toss it to Yuuta.

    Yuuta turned it over a few times, frowning, and read the label. “…for silky smooth sensation…

    “KANEDA!”


    “So, what was it you wanted to talk about?” Akazawa looked over his shoulder at Hajime as he dumped his bag beside his desk.

    Hajime sighed. This was going to be uncomfortable, he just knew it. “Well. I suppose it may sound like a strange question, or, perhaps, too personal, but you and Kaneda-kun…”

    End

    Last Modified: May 15, 12
    Posted: May 17, 07
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    Cotton Sheets

    Mizuki and Yuuta have some pillow-talk about the ongoing tournaments and more about names. Romance with Light Porn, I-4

    Character(s): Fuji Yuuta, Mizuki Hajime

    Hajime had to admit, despite the embarrassment of various preparations and the general awkwardness of their first few tries, there was something very nice about being in bed with Yuuta. Once he made up his mind to something, Yuuta had no self-consciousness Hajime had been able to discover, and he seemed perfectly content to lie in bed naked and discuss tennis while Hajime’s hands wandered over him.

    “…so if we manage to take Hyoutei in Semifinals, we’ll be dealing with Fudoumine in Finals after lunch. It’ll be a hard day on everyone. Mmm.” Yuuta wriggled a little as Hajime stroked his stomach, muscles tightening under Hajime’s palm.

    “You’ve trained hard for endurance, yes?” Hajime traced his fingers down the hollow of Yuuta’s hip; he thought he might never stop being fascinated with the texture of Yuuta. “It is a disadvantageous order, though. Fudoumine will be the greater threat, this year.” Especially since, from his information, Tachibana had chosen to coach his proteges in favor of actually playing this year.

    “Then we’ll just have to see if we can beat them all,” Yuuta said, suddenly steely tone in direct contrast to his lazy stretch and return to fold his arms around Hajime, fingers smoothing over Hajime’s ribs.

    Yuuta’s willingness to touch back was the other really nice thing, even if Hajime was still getting used to the whole idea. “I have confidence in you,” he murmured into the curve of Yuuta’s shoulder.

    A quiet laugh brushed past his ear. “That’s one of the reasons I believe we can win, Mizuki-san.”

    “Hmmm.” Hajime propped himself up on an elbow and looked down at Yuuta thoughtfully. “You know, all things considered, I think you might use my given name.” He leaned down again to stroke Yuuta’s lips apart with his tongue and demonstrate one of the things to be considered.

    Apparently it was a good demonstration, because when he drew back, heat still curling through him, it took Yuuta a few breathless moments to murmur back, “Hajime-san…”

    Hajime smiled; he liked the way his name sounded in Yuuta’s mouth. The way Yuuta’s tone made everything between them perfectly clear to anyone who might listen was a warm, satisfying weight in Hajime’s chest.

    The brilliant smile that followed took him by surprise, though, and so did the way Yuuta’s arms tightened around him, drawing him down snugly against Yuuta’s body.

    “Hajime-san,” Yuuta repeated against his neck, mouth soft.

    Hajime shivered and swallowed. “Yuuta,” he answered, husky, before he got enough of a grip to laugh and spread a hand against the small of Yuuta’s back. “Ready again so soon?” he teased.

    The low, pleased sound Yuuta made in answer, the flash of white teeth in a grin as he spread his legs against the white sheets, sent such a jolt of heat up Hajime’s spine he couldn’t breathe at all for a moment. Only pull Yuuta tighter against him and kiss him slow and deep.

    He supposed, in the back of his mind, that the way he looked at Yuuta, turned towards Yuuta, would also make things perfectly clear to anyone with eyes. He was more or less resigned to that, if it made Yuuta answer him so powerfully, so purely.

    If old fears still nagged at him to keep his face smooth and impenetrable, to seek the perfection that was cool and sure and safe, Yuuta’s wild, spendthrift excellence had tempted him not to mind the danger. To reach for fire and chance instead, to ride them the way he rode Yuuta’s body and savor their sharp pleasures.

    Fear was his past. Yuuta was his future now.

    End

    Last Modified: Feb 09, 12
    Posted: Jun 02, 07
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    See and Raise

    Mizuki comes to see Yuuta play; so does Fuji; a little silent competition ensues. Drama with Romance, I-3

    Hajime nodded to himself thoughtfully as St. Rudolph’s match with Rikkai was called. In a way it was a compliment, that Kirihara had seen the threat Yuuta was early on and played his best to defeat Yuuta. He doubted Yuuta wanted to hear that yet, but he filed the thought away for later, when they planned out St. Rudolph’s next training push. He had little doubt, after all, that Yuuta’s team would still be going to Nationals, once the consolation matches were played.

    For now he just waited under the trees as the spectators wandered off and the players clustered around their captains. He couldn’t hear what Yuuta was saying, but the energetic gestures told him it was probably encouraging. And emphatic. He smiled, leaning against the smooth trunk behind him. He’d never really taught Yuuta anything about managing people; he’d never had to. The only person Yuuta couldn’t seem to manage on instinct was…

    Hajime’s brows rose as Fuji came down the stands to speak to Yuuta. Apparently he wasn’t the only one who had left off observing the high school Regionals to come watch this match.

    Yuuta waved his team off to get on with packing their equipment and ran a hand through his hair as he turned to his brother. Hajime watched narrowly, poised to move forward; this was a delicate moment for team morale and Fuji had better not upset Yuuta in front of his players.

    He watched as Yuuta made a tight, frustrated gesture, turned away from his team so they wouldn’t see it. Fuji moved closer; it looked like he was trying to calm Yuuta down, and Hajime snorted. He wished Fuji all the luck in the word with that. Yuuta wasn’t a calm sort of person. Sure enough, Yuuta’s mouth went tight; Hajime could see it from where he stood.

    He could also see the wry tilt to Fuji’s mouth and the cock of his head, as he laid a hand on Yuuta’s shoulder and said something serious. Whatever it was, it worked. Yuuta’s shoulders settled a bit and he folded his arms loosely, not tight the way he did when he was upset.

    Hajime snorted and pushed away from his tree and started down the stands himself. Fuji had had his family togetherness moment, and now he could just leave Yuuta to Hajime to get on with things.

    Fuji saw him coming first, over Yuuta’s shoulder, and his eyes flashed for a moment. Hajime let his own narrow; he wasn’t the interloper, here. “Yuuta,” he murmured as he came level with them.

    Yuuta turned with a sudden smile. “Hajime-san! I didn’t think you’d be here.”

    “For your Semifinal match? Of course I came.” Hajime smiled back, lightly, watching Fuji stiffen just a bit on hearing the way Yuuta spoke the familiar form of Hajime’s name. Hajime shifted a step closer to Yuuta, close enough to feel the heat of Yuuta’s bare arm against his. Fuji now looked rather frozen.

    That was gratifying, but not nearly as gratifying as it was when Yuuta turned toward him, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be standing so close for everyone to see. Hajime’s smile softened as the brightness of Yuuta’s eyes wrapped around him. “I wanted to be ready for what your team might need after this. Of course I had to see you play.” And if those two statements weren’t quite as connected as he made them sound, no one but the two of them had to know.

    He started a little when Fuji spoke; for a moment he’d actually forgetten anyone else was present.

    “Well, it looks like you have things to take care of, Yuuta. Are you still coming home next weekend?”

    “Oh, yeah.” Yuuta waved. “Tell everyone I’ll see them then, okay?”

    “Of course.” Fuji gave Hajime a hard look. “Mizuki.”

    “I’m sure I’ll see you later, Fuji-kun,” Mizuki purred and smiled smoothly as Fuji stalked back up the stands.

    It was so good to win.

    “Hajime-san?” Yuuta was looking at him curiously.

    Especially when he’d won someone as frankly astonishing as Yuuta. Hajime brushed discreet fingers down Yuuta’s arm as he turned back. “We can discuss my notes later; I imagine you’ll want to take your team home.”

    Yuuta’s mouth quirked. “Yeah. I want to make sure no one gets too off track while we’ve still got another match to go.”

    As was only right. “Perhaps I’ll visit later this evening, then,” Hajime suggested, and had to supress a shiver at the way Yuuta’s eyes warmed.

    “I’d like that.”

    Hajime watched for a moment as Yuuta moved back to his team, marshalling them to depart. Yuuta had chosen him. And whenever he remembered that he wondered if he would ever have a better victory.

    End

    Last Modified: Feb 09, 12
    Posted: Jun 12, 07
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    Shreds of Cinnamon

    Yuuta and Mizuki enjoy some intimacy and experiment a little in bed. Total Smut, I-4

    Character(s): Fuji Yuuta, Mizuki Hajime

    Yuuta moaned softly as Hajime-san’s hands moved up his legs and warm palms slid over his inner thighs, pressing them apart. It always made his stomach flutter, the way Hajime-san lingered over his body at the start, fingers tracing his ribs and smoothing over his stomach. The look in Hajime-san’s eyes, hot and pleased, made his breath come faster.

    When Hajime-san’s mouth closed over his cock Yuuta had to reach up, hands grabbing for his headboard, his pillow, anything he could grip hard enough, because the silky, hot slide of Hajime-san’s tongue was enough to make him need to hold on. Hajime-san downright purred around him and Yuuta’s whole body flexed with the thrill of pleasure. “Hajime-san!”

    “Mmmm.” Hajime-san’s lips brushed Yuuta’s head as he spoke, husky and intimate. “You’re so magnificent, Yuuta. Especially when I can see all of you.” His hands slid down Yuuta’s raised arms, down his body, over his hips. “When you’re bare for me to touch.” Long fingers traced delicate circles behind Yuuta’s balls and Yuuta’s hips lifted helplessly into it. He moaned as heat shook him.

    Yuuta had figured out fast that Hajime-san liked teasing him, liked to be in control. But Hajime-san always made it good for him, and the way he talked

    Hajime-san’s mouth stroked his cock again, and then it was slick fingers, a little chilly, sliding up and down him. Yuuta looked up at Hajime-san, a bit dazed. Usually that slick touch went somewhere else. “What…?”

    Hajime-san laughed, the soft, throaty sound that he only ever made in bed, the one that made Yuuta hard just hearing it. “I thought perhaps you’d like to try something different tonight.” His fingers slid away and he moved up to straddle Yuuta’s hips, kneeling over him. His other hand, the one Yuuta suddenly realized he hadn’t seen or felt for a little while, guided Yuuta’s cock against him, and Yuuta’s eyes widened.

    “You… ” That was all he had time for before Hajime-san pressed slowly, slowly down onto his cock, and he couldn’t speak because it was hot again and incredibly tight, and everything was gone but the electric pleasure sliding down him and through his body.

    Hajime-san’s eyes were closed and he panted, one hand braced hard on Yuuta’s chest. “Yuuta,” he whispered.

    Yuuta reached out to stroke Hajime-san’s thighs, just as breathless, hands shaking a little. The little breath he had left him as Hajime-san rocked up and back down on him and heat spilled over him again. “Fuck,” he gasped with absolute reverence.

    Hajime-san was smiling again, eyes half lidded. “You feel good, Yuuta.” He rocked up further and slid back slowly.

    Yuuta moaned, hips lifting to meet Hajime-san, heat wrapping around every nerve. His hands wandered over Hajime-san’s body, stroking the lean, hard lines of him, asking for more in a way that didn’t need the words he couldn’t string together right now. Hajime-san laughed, arching in his hands, and the tightening of his body around Yuuta as he did made Yuuta groan, bucking up.

    Hajime-san made a husky sound low in his throat, grinding down to meet Yuuta and it was too much. Pleasure fired up into something else, something fierce that raked through his body over and over as he came.

    As he stilled, Hajime-san eased away and settled to lie beside him. “Well, that was rather nice.”

    “Yeah,” Yuuta agreed, a bit dazed. “That was… wow.”

    Hajime-san leaned into his shoulder, laughing.

    Yuuta blinked and looked down and almost blushed again. And here Hajime-san was so careful about that, with him! He turned and wound an arm around Hajime-san, kissing his shoulder softly, and slid a hand down Hajime-san’s hip to close on his still-hard cock.

    Hajime-san gasped and shivered. “Yuuta!” The curve of his body as his hips pressed up into Yuuta’s hand was sleek and gorgeous, and Yuuta just had to be stunned all over again that Hajime-san wanted him. He stroked slow and hard until Hajime-san’s arms tightened sharply around him and Hajime-san moaned against his neck, hips jerking quickly. Slowly the shudders in Hajime-san’s body stilled.

    “Mmmmmm.”

    Yuuta grinned. That was the sound Hajime-san made when he was satisfied with the world; there were times he thought Hajime-san should have been a cat. “Sometimes I’m glad no one else ever sees you like this,” he said softly.

    Hajime-san sniffed. “I should hope not. Vulnerability is nothing to wave around in people’s faces.”

    Yuuta shook his head, rueful; of course that was the way Hajime-san thought of it. “Only sometimes, you know? Other times I think more people should see how amazing you are. Well, at least you show it when you play, now.”

    Hajime-san lifted his head. “Yuuta, what are you talking about?”

    “All of you,” Yuuta said, searching for the right words. “The… the depth of you.”

    The way Hajime-san’s eyes softened made Yuuta’s arms tighten around him. Hajime-san didn’t answer, and letting Yuuta have the last word was all the agreement they needed, between the two of them.

    Yuuta smiled and carefully held Hajime-san closer.

    End

    Last Modified: Feb 09, 12
    Posted: Jun 12, 07
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    The Evening and the Morning

    Yuuta is down, after Nationals, and Mizuki prods him out of his end-of-the-world gloom. Drama with Romance, I-3

    Hajime’s shoulder brushed Yuuta’s, every now and then, as they walked in the suspended light of dusk. Yuuta walked silently, watching his feet on the pavement, and Hajime glanced at him every now and then, waiting for the right moment to speak, himself.

    Finally, he decided there wasn’t going to be one if he didn’t make it and discreetly nudged Yuuta left at the next corner. “So, who’s taking over the team now?” he asked.

    Yuuta twitched, half a flinch, and Hajime stifled a sigh.

    “Ogata,” Yuuta finally answered, voice lower than usual. “I thought maybe Kimura, but Ogata is better at long-term thinking.” A faint smile. “And he can growl and snap with the best; he just doesn’t do it very often. It’ll be a good change of pace for the club.”

    Hajime turned them north again and nodded. “It’s good that you think of these things, as you leave them.” Glancing over at Yuuta, he could see Yuuta’s jaw clench for a moment. One more push, he decided; but it would have to be the right one. “It was a good team this year. You brought each other further than anyone else could have.” He paused for a measured, contemplative moment. “With the possible exception of Mori-kun.”

    A snort of laughter broke through Yuuta’s increasing gloom. “Mori is a pain in the ass.”

    “Well, all things can be useful. Mori-kun is good leadership practice. Think of him as a variety of resistance weight,” Hajime advised.

    This time, Yuuta’s laugh was quicker, brighter. “Tell me I never gave you and Akazawa-san that much trouble?”

    “You were your very own brand of trouble,” Hajime informed him serenely. And then he smiled, taking Yuuta’s arm to steer him though a green fence of cypress trees. “But one I’ll be very pleased to have back.”

    Yuuta stopped short, looking out over St. Christopher’s courts, which they had come out at the back of. “Oh,” he said, very quietly, eyes wide.

    Hajime nodded to himself, pleased with this change of expression. And luck favored him today, because Yanagisawa was out alone, practicing against the wall of the club offices, and noticed them.

    “Yuuta!” Yanagisawa batted the ball down and caught it and waved. “Look who’s eager! Here to start with your new team already?”

    “I, um…” Yuuta’s eyes were still wide, and Hajime’s fingers itched to stroke his arm, to make some kind of contact and soothe Yuuta. But the point of this exercise was to for Yuuta to let this season go on his own. “I guess so,” Yuuta finally said, softly, and Hajime smiled.

    Yanagisawa trotted over and rumpled Yuuta’s hair vigorously. “Good!” He leaned back, hands on his hips. “And you know,” he added, abruptly serious, “that was really good, taking your team that far in Nationals. Really good.”

    Yuuta looked down at his feet again for a moment, but finally nodded. “I guess so.” When he looked up his eyes were fierce and bright again. “We’ll do better next year.”

    Yanagisawa grinned. “Of course we will.” And then he grinned wider, and Yuuta braced himself, on pure reflex as far as Hajime could see. “So, you guys doing a double date or something? I saw Akazawa and Kaneda going by just a little while ago…”

    Yanagisawa ducked and laughed as Yuuta dove for him, red-faced and growling, and Hajime shook his head ruefully. Things were definitely getting back to normal. A new kind of normal, perhaps. He caught Yuuta on his way past and twined their fingers together, smiling.

    They would most definitely do better, this time.

    End

    Last Modified: Feb 09, 12
    Posted: Jun 25, 07
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    Patience and Concentration

    A year and a half later, Mizuki and Yuuta have some more hot sex for very good reasons. Porn with Characterization, I-4

    Character(s): Fuji Yuuta, Mizuki Hajime

    Yuuta lay, quite relaxed, with his ass in the air and Hajime-san’s cock sliding in and out of it. He’d come already, under Hajime-san’s mouth, before Hajime-san nudged him over the piled pillows; the pleasure now was slow and warm, not urgent, letting him appreciate the slick thickness of Hajime-san moving inside him.

    Hajime-san’s hands kneaded Yuuta’s ass slow and hard, in time with his thrusts; Yuuta thought he might have marks there for a little. It felt good, though, the strength of Hajime-san’s hands squeezing those muscles and turning them loose. “Mmm, wouldn’t mind if you did this forever,” he murmured, resting his cheek on his folded arms.

    Hajime-san laughed, husky. “Even I don’t have that kind of self-control, Yuuta.” A harder thrust made Yuuta moan with the tight flicker of heat. “You feel too good.”

    “Mm, I sure as hell do,” Yuuta agreed, grinning.

    The sound Hajime-san made was a little too velvety to be a growl, but only a little; it made shivers run down Yuuta’s spine. Or maybe that was just the way Hajime-san’s fingertips were following the curve of his back, delicate and purposeful. “Perhaps I should make you feel too good for a little longer, then, after all,” Hajime-san suggested.

    Yuuta made a rather disappointed sound as Hajime-san’s cock slid all the way out of him. “And how is that supposed to—ahh!” His breath froze as something touched his entrance, hot and slick and incredibly soft.

    Hajime-san’s tongue, he realized, a little shocked by how good it felt.

    “Sounds like it worked fairly well,” Hajime-san murmured and nipped the curve of Yuuta’s ass, sending Yuuta jerking against the pillows at the contrast of sharp with soft. And then Hajime-san’s tongue was sliding over him again and the softness made Yuuta just about melt in a puddle.

    Except for his cock, which was getting really hard again as Hajime-san’s tongue teased and stroked and circled.

    “Hajime-san,” Yuuta moaned, draped over the pillows in a boneless sprawl, panting with the not-quite-enough pleasure coiling in every muscle. “More…”

    Hajime-san made a thoughtful sound that tightened Yuuta’s stomach with anticipation; that was the sound that meant Hajime-san had thought of a new way to tease him.

    Sure enough, a slim hand ran slowly up the back of Yuuta’s thigh and Hajime-san’s thumb came to rest just behind Yuuta’s balls. It moved in slow, firm little circles and Yuuta groaned into the sheets at the tingling surges of heat it sent up and down his spine to throb between his legs.

    “You need… firmer pillows…” he gasped, discovering all over again that Hajime-san’s pillows were too soft to rub himself against to get off. That didn’t stop his hips from bucking, looking for something to focus all the hot sensation.

    Hajime-san laughed, low and wicked. “But Yuuta, I like my pillows the way they are.”

    Yuuta just bet he did.

    “Hajime-san, fuck me,” he growled, and shuddered, moaning, as Hajime-san’s thumb pressed a little harder and his tongue flicked Yuuta’s entrance in answer. “You are the most evil—ahhh!”

    Yuuta arched then, pushing his ass further up, because Hajime-san’s cock was back, thrusting into him deep and hard and it felt so incredible after being teased that Yuuta could only groan as Hajime-san took his hips and lifted him higher and fucked him hard and fast.

    “Yes, yes, fuck yes!” Yuuta’s throat was raw with the sound that left it when the pleasure all finally spilled over and tore through him in a flash flood of heat.

    By the time he could pick out individual sensations again, Hajime was finishing too and Yuuta made a small, satisfied noise as Hajime-san’s weight settled against his back.

    “So, I’m evil?” Hajime-san murmured against Yuuta’s shoulder, after a moment.

    Yuuta laughed. “Yep. I like it that you are.” He tangled his fingers with Hajime-san’s and pulled his hand close to kiss the knuckles. “It’s fun.”

    “I’m glad you agree.” Yuuta could hear the smile in Hajime-san’s voice. The soft kisses Hajime-san brushed over the nape of his neck made him smile, too.

    “So. Feel more relaxed about the Regional matches tomorrow?” Yuuta asked casually.

    Hajime-san rested his cheek against Yuuta’s shoulder, thumb rubbing over Yuuta’s fingers. “I would say you know me too well, except that most of the time I’m glad you do.” He sighed. “Yes, I am. I suppose there’s no point in fretting.”

    “Nope. And, hey, maybe we’ll get lucky and Tezuka-san will be put in early and I’ll get him,” Yuuta added cheerfully.

    After a moment, Hajime snorted. “Only you, Yuuta.”

    Yuuta could feel Hajime-san relax against his back, though, and smiled, satisfied.

    He was pretty sure Hajime-san and Aniki would have a better game this time.

    End

    Last Modified: Feb 09, 12
    Posted: Jun 26, 07
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    7 readers sent Plaudits.

    Lignin

    Loosely based on the Five Stages of Love prompt. Yukimura and Sanada, over the years. Drama with Romance, I-3, manga continuity


    Seed (Attraction)

    Seiichi ran his eye over Rikkai Dai middle school’s tennis courts, judging them. The other first years clustered together, most chattering and excited. The knots of older members were more aloof, a few of them already rallying on the far courts. He noted the calm ones, the ones who knew enough to watch quietly, and his lips quirked at the few senpai who knew enough to watch him.

    Ah. There.

    He moved over to the wall and let his bag drop beside another’s. "Sanada. It’s good to see you here."

    "Yukimura." Sanada nodded a greeting, turning from his own contemplation of their new club to focus on Seiichi. "You chose Rikkai also, then."

    "It’s the best." And that was all that really needed saying. Seiichi nodded toward the rest of the club. "What do you think?"

    Sanada crossed his arms, gazing across the courts again. "I’m glad you’re here."

    Seiichi threw back his head, laughing. "Yes. They’re good, but we’re better." He tipped his head, glancing sidelong at Sanada. "Shall we warm up?" And perhaps show the club who they were and save having to argue about it.

    The gleam in Sanada’s eyes answered him. "Yes."

    Seiichi ignored the muttering as they took a court. He knew it would stop soon enough. Right now, he had one of his two best opponents from the entire Elementary circuit across the net from him and nothing mattered but the brilliance of the game.

    When it ended, and they came to the net to clasp hands in the middle of the silent courts, they held on for a moment longer than usual. Satisfaction melted into agreement where their hands and eyes met, and Seiichi showed his teeth for a moment before they turned to face the club captain.

    He and Sanada together would make this team something that had never been seen before.

     

    Sprout (Romance)

    Seiichi liked watching Sanada play, especially in tournament matches. The way he drove his opponents was artistry.

    "You can’t win with your strength!"

    The next ball tore past the opponent’s racquet, inches beyond the other boy’s flustered reach.

    Seiichi leaned on the rail next to Renji, smiling, eyes fixed on the proud straightness of Sanada’s back. "Sanada’s confidence makes such a strong weapon."

    Renji’s mouth curled. "Intimidation is most frightening when it’s only the truth."

    Seiichi laughed, stretching upright slowly, careless and relaxed. "It is, isn’t it?"

    Renji’s eyes slid past his shoulder, measuring the reaction of the Shitenhouji players. "Not to mention it’s a weapon you and Genichirou both enjoy using."

    "As if you have any room to talk." Seiichi met Renji’s eyes for a moment, dark and pleased.

    "Well, perhaps," Renji allowed with a tiny smile.

    Seiichi turned back to the court to see Sanada’s last play, taking in the way he set himself, the clarity of his voice as he called the shot, the fierce focus in his eyes as he hit it. A frisson danced down Seiichi’s spine at the beauty of that drive, pure and untouchable.

    "Game and set!"

    Seiichi drew in a slow breath, savoring the taste of their victory; he could already feel the weight of it in his chest, though there was still his match to go before the rest of the world knew it.

    Sanada strode off the court and nodded to their captain before his eyes turned to Seiichi, questioning, challenging. Seiichi paused beside him, racquet in hand, and murmured, "You should be harder with them next time. Shall I show you?"

    Sanada’s even expression didn’t flicker but the ferocity flared again in his eyes. "If you can."

    Seiichi stepped out onto the court, head high, thrill singing in his blood, and prepared to do so.

     

    Root (Intimacy)

    Seiichi waved good night as Renji turned off onto his street. "So," he said, as he and Sanada continued on, "the club is ours now."

    "Mm." Sanada glanced at him. "Are you going to bring in Kirihara?"

    "Oh yes." Seiichi eyed his friend back, curiously, though. "You’re that sure it will be me?" He had expected Sanada to hold out to the last.

    Sanada was silent for a moment. "You will make a good captain for Rikkai."

    Seiichi breathed out, slowly, and rested a hand on Sanada’s arm. "Thank you." Sanada’s fighting spirit commanded his respect the way few things did. Sanada’s support would be priceless.

    Sanada smiled a little and repeated, quieter. "You will be a good captain." His words said that only practicality made him accept it, but his tone said something more.

    They were at Seiichi’s turning and he let his fingers slide down Genichirou’s arm as he stepped away. "I’ll see you tomorrow, then."

    "And we’ll start making our third National win," Sanada agreed, nodding goodby.

    When Seiichi looked back, halfway down his street, Genichirou was still standing at the turn, watching him.

     

    Leaf (Passion)

    Seiichi stood in the door of Sanada’s practice room, looking out into the summer dark, listening to the snick and rustle behind him as Sanada put away his sword and started gathering up the dismemberd straw bundles. "You know we won’t be able to play like that tomorrow," he said quietly.

    There was silence behind him.

    "Power is only a part of strength." Seiichi’s voice sharpened. "You will not lose sight of that, Sanada."

    "Not with you to remind me, I suppose."

    Seiichi’s mouth tightened with some exasperation as Sanada came to stand in the door beside him. "Stubborn."

    Sanada chuckled, leaning against the frame. "Of course."

    A corner of Seiichi’s mouth twitched up; of course Sanada would take it as a compliment. "We will win," he stated, soft and dangerous.

    Sanada’s eyes glinted in the low lights as he turned to look at Seiichi. "Yes." The heavy, dark heat of the night curled around them. "We will."

    Seiichi relaxed, letting go some of the fierce control that had kept him standing upright these weeks of retraining and planning. Sanada agreed with him; he didn’t have to force this part to happen.

    Sanada’s mouth curled in answer. "Of course we’ll win," he said quietly, words floating on the darkness. "It’s what we are."

    Seiichi felt the words catch fire inside him, the fire they shared to forge the team they had. The victories they had. It had always called to him. He tipped his head, considering the winter and the summer and the matches they would play tomorrow, and slowly reached out to close his fingers in Sanada’s kendo gi.

    Sanada laughed and stepped forward to meet him. They kissed in the doorway, mouths open against each other. Seiichi ran his fingers into Sanada’s hair, eyes sliding half closed at the tightness of Sanada’s hands on his hips, and growled low in his throat. Tomorrow he would have to be controlled, remember their strategies, not be swept away in the heat of the match.

    Tonight, though, he could forget all of that and drink the fire down straight.

    He pushed Sanada back against the door frame and they laughed, hot and husky as the night air around them.

     

    Flower (Committment)

    "So, what now?"

    "Now?" Seiichi leaned back on his hands, watching the setting sun glimmer on the pool in his back yard and gild the long, slim leaves of the irises. He felt a bit like those plants, relaxing from the heat and busyness of summer into the cooler flowering of fall. "Now I suppose we take our exams and start over." He chuckled. "I wonder if our senpai will be pleased to see us again."

    Sanada snorted, leaning against the porch rail, arms crossed. "They’d better. We’ve held up Rikkai’s name against harder competition then any they’ve faced." He waved a dismissive hand. "They won’t hold out this time any longer than the last."

    "Quite likely. Will you be there for it?"

    Sanada’s head turned, brows lifting. "Why wouldn’t I be?"

    Seiichi’s mouth tilted and he kept his eyes on the water. "I know your grandfather would like you to pay more attention to your kendo. I’ve been wondering which you would choose to follow, during high school."

    Sanada was silent beside him for a long moment before he finally said, quietly, "It isn’t a matter of which. It’s a matter of who."

    It was Seiichi’s turn to look up. Sanada’s eyes, on him, were level and calm, and the curve of Seiichi’s lips softened into real amusement. "Would you really follow me that far?" he murmured. Warmth curled through his blood at the thought and flared into heat as Sanada smiled, showing his teeth.

    "All the way."

    Seiichi laughed out loud in the slanting sunlight, and reached out and pulled Genichirou down to a kiss. "Then that’s how far we’ll go," he whispered into Genichirou’s mouth.

     

    End

    Last Modified: May 15, 12
    Posted: Feb 01, 08
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    If It’s One That You Can Keep

    Yukimura and Sanada have victory sex in the shower, after Nationals. Porn with Characterization, I-3, Canon? What Canon?

    Seiichi tossed his head back under the spray of the shower and laughed softly just because he couldn’t help it.

    He had won.

    In spite of everything, and there had been a damn lot of everything, he had lived and recovered and won. He felt so light he might float if it weren’t for the weight of water on his skin. The sound of his team rummaging around and getting dressed beyond the tile wall was both immediate and distant, the way everything had been since the blinding moment he realized the last point was his.

    He was glad for it when warm arms slid around him and pulled him back against a solid chest.

    "You were incredible," Genichirou said against his shoulder, tongue stroking water drops off his skin.

    Seiichi leaned his head back on Genichirou’s shoulder, smiling. "Mm, so were you, in case I hadn’t mentioned that yet." His laugh turned husky as Genichirou’s mouth slid up his neck. "So, was Tezuka good for you?"

    Genichirou snorted at his teasing and Seiichi turned so he could pull Genichirou tight against him, pull him down for a hot kiss.

    "Not as good as you," Genichirou murmured into his mouth, satisfaction heavy in his voice.

    "Just the way it should be," Seiichi purred back. This might be the perfect ending for the day, pressed tight against each other, hands running over wet skin, feeling each other’s strength.

    Perfection got better when Genichirou slid down his body to the floor and closed his mouth on Seiichi’s cock.

    Seiichi leaned back against the cool tile, light-headed and breathless once again. "Oh. Yes." His fingers wove through Genichirou’s hair and he moaned low in his throat as wet heat stroked over him. "Genichirou."

    Genichirou was going slow this afternoon, taking his time to be thorough. His tongue slid over and over Seiichi’s cock, slow and firm and Seiichi’s fingers flexed in his hair with every curl of hot pleasure. Seiichi watched Genichirou under his lashes, eyes following the breadth of his shoulders, wet and gleaming under the shower’s lights, the bend of his head as he ran his mouth down Seiichi’s cock. And Seiichi smiled as Genichirou’s hands slid up the back his thighs to curve around his ass, encouraging. He took the offer, letting his hips rock forward. Genichirou’s moan answered his as he thrust slowly in and out of Genichirou’s mouth.

    "We did it." Seiichi tipped his head back against the wall, panting. "Our promise. We kept it."

    Genichirou looked up at him, eyes dark, and a soft shudder ran through Seiichi. His hand slid around the back of Genichirou’s neck and he pushed into Genichirou’s mouth slow and deep. The low sound Genichirou made sent heat straight up his spine. When Genichirou’s hand ran down between his legs, closing on his own cock, the heat turned fierce and wild.

    Seiichi moaned as pleasure wrung him out, letting his hips flex hard, eyes never leaving Genichirou’s as his cock slid between Genichirou’s lips in fast, short thrusts. When Genichirou’s eyes closed and his breath caught Seiichi smiled. They stilled slowly, touches lingering on each other.

    Seiichi finally pulled Genichirou up against him and they stood under the spray of the shower, leaning together. After a moment, Seiichi sighed. "I’m not sure I believe it’s over."

    "Nothing ever ends," Genichirou said, quietly, against his hair. "And nothing ever starts."

    "Doesn’t it? Then we’ll go on," Seiichi answered, just as soft. "We’ll all go on."

    He liked that thought.

    They stood close until Renji tapped on the shower wall and Akaya called cheekily that the team would leave without them. Seiichi laughed.

    "Let’s go."

     

    End

    Last Modified: Feb 09, 12
    Posted: Feb 29, 08
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    Reconstruction

    Twenty things about Yukimura. (Because Konomi lost his thread completely and I don’t find Yukimura’s Svengali Tennis the least little bit convincing.) Character Sketch, I-2, manga continuity

    Character(s): Yukimura Seiichi

    At first he thought it was strange, playing tennis in teams, but he’s come to like the school club. It makes inside and outside clear.

    People on the inside are the ones who see him smile, who hear him shout. People on the outside only see his calm.

    His team makes him smile the same way his garden does, to see subtle and bright colors unfurling in harmony, to see the fierce, unrelenting desire all things have to grow. He loves that.

    He thinks Akaya might have gotten a bit frost-nipped at the start, but he seems to be recovering, finally shedding dead leaves and putting his energy into new ones.

    Then there are the ones like Yagyuu, his morning glory—charming and ruthless. Only trees are strong enough to bear up a morning glory and not be strangled.

    He’s sure few people would imagine Niou anything as firm and solid as a tree, but he thinks it’s appropriate.

    He thinks he will come to his art after he’s done with tennis. Mathematics, though, he keeps with him at all times. That isn’t a career; it’s the underpinning of his world.

    Sometimes tennis and art tangle in his mind. Jackal reminds him of the Impressionists—solid and everyday, but always striking in the texture of his existence, in the way light falls on him.

    Marui, on the other hand, reminds him irresistibly of Mondrian, all stark, strong lines and cheery, primary colors.

    The time his class was assigned a self-portrait, he used dark outlines and intense colors for the background. His image looked at the sky, though, and he painted that a pale, clear blue.

    All things have a pattern. All things can be described and understood. He shares that conviction with both Niou and Renji, though they show it in three very different ways.

    His own technique is really quite simple. He fills the space that the game creates—whatever that is. Renji says he’s like water, pouring into different shaped containers. He likes the image.

    The shape that his games with Sanada make is brutal and complex and fine as the edge of Sanada’s sword. Sanada makes him think of the stone and earth that plants grow out of.

    For Sanada, muga no kyouchi is an extra step into concentration, discipline, purity. For Seiichi it’s like pulling muscles out that last bit into a full stretch.

    When he stretches out on the court, no-self exists in the spaces between his breaths.

    As an artist, he knows, a blank sheet is not empty; the moment eyes and intention touch it it holds color and line that the artist must find. His tennis is like that, too.

    It was not his strongest opponents who named him Kami no Ko. The strongest can throw off his domination, keep their will to fight. It’s only the weak that he stuns simply by uncovering his spirit.

    Renji teases, gently, that Seiichi’s spirit is the sun of this garden, his team. Seiichi says that, if so, Renji is the rain. He isn’t teasing; without rain, the sun would only scorch.

    He knows he will stay with his club and his team through high school. He loves the competition that runs down the years, woven tight and intimate. And only here is there the devotion that saw him through months of slow terror and helped him stand at the end of it.

    He knows the love and pride of these years will live on in his heart even after he leaves. But he’s never let go of anything he’s truly wanted. He sees no reason to start.

    Last Modified: Sep 26, 08
    Posted: Mar 11, 08
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    Full to Overflowing

    Arriving in high school, Kirihara gets a nice welcome back from Sanada. Written for Porn Battle, with the prompt: Sanada/Kirihara, size queen. Pure Smut, I-4

    Akaya moaned, rubbing against the pile of towels he was currently bent over, and again as large hands tightened on his hips.

    "Hold still, Akaya."

    The deep, velvety purr from behind him brushed a shiver down Akaya’s spine. "Yes, Sanada-san," he murmured, husky, and gasped as Sanada-san’s cock thrust into him deeper. "Ohh…"

    The day couldn’t get much better than this. It was a new year; he was a Regular on the high school team; everyone else had gone home and Sanada-san was fucking him, hard and big, stretching Akaya open perfectly. "Mmmm. Oh, harder…"

    Sanada-san laughed. "Demanding, aren’t you?" Strong hands lifted Akaya’s hips higher and Sanada-san drove into him hard.

    Akaya gasped, breath hitching. It felt so good to have Sanada-san’s cock filling his ass over and over, stretching him mercilessly wide on every thrust. The heat set Akaya panting, approval and entreaty tripping over themselves on his tongue. "Nn, yes… so big… mmm, please, more…"

    "Haven’t found your limits yet, hm?" Sanada-san asked with a teasing edge. "Good." He pushed Akaya down firmly against the towels, holding him still as he shifted over Akaya and rode him, fucking him fast and rough.

    Akaya’s words dissolved into breathless moans as Sanada-san gave him exactly what he wanted and hot pleasure tightened low in Akaya’s stomach. The thickness of Sanada-san’s cock worked his ass ruthlessly, making his whole body tingle in response, making him feel intensely, incredibly full until, at last, the fullness was more than he could take and fire rushed down his nerves. He bucked helplessly, groaning as the bigness of Sanada-san’s cock inside him kept his body from wringing tight, drawing it all out until he was totally limp from pleasure. It didn’t take long before Sanada-san stilled, over him, and slow hands ran down Akaya’s back.

    "Mm. Welcome back, Akaya."

    Akaya grinned, hearing the smile in Sanada-san’s voice, and wriggled a bit, pleased with the hint of soreness in his ass. "Glad to be back."

    Very.

    End

    Last Modified: Feb 09, 12
    Posted: Jun 19, 08
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    12 readers sent Plaudits.

    Brittle Edge

    An outsider samurai visits, looking for a challenge. Echizen gives it to him and comes a little closer to figuring things out. Drama with Action and Blood, I-4

    The room was noisy and hot.

    Ryouma sat a bit back from his group, far enough that no one could easily
    refill his sake cup, though that didn’t really seem to stop Horio.
    He watched. Warriors of the garrison laughed loudly, some staggering
    between the low tables, drunk feet catching on worn places in the floor.
    Merchants of the town smiled at each other with congratulation or gloating,
    hands waving over steaming cups. Matrons and servants with market baskets
    for dinner rested on the benches by the door.

    It was just the kind of scene he’d watched before, in another town…

    "Echizen! You’re not drinking!" Horio leaned precariously far over to
    elbow Ryouma in the ribs and fill his cup to the brim again.

    …though never in quite these circumstances. Ryouma sighed to himself
    and sipped. It seemed he didn’t have a choice, these days. Whether
    it was Horio dragging him along to drink or Momoshiro to the bathhouse
    or Kikumaru-taii to the theater with Ooishi-bushou, he seemed to be
    firmly stuck taking part in the life of the garrison.

    It was really a little strange. An improvement over watching his father
    chase girls in and out of the public houses, but strange.

    The door curtains flapped, catching Ryouma’s eye, and a samurai he’d
    never seen before stepped through them. Ryouma tipped his head; a new
    warrior?

    The man prodded one of the drunk samurai by the door with his toe. "Hey.
    There’s supposed to be some strong warriors around here. Who’s the
    strongest?" His flat tone made the back of Ryouma’s neck prickle.

    The nudged samurai, on the other hand, looked too far gone to notice,
    and smiled cheerily. "Oh, that would be Tezuka Kunimitsu-sama, our
    Taishou."

    The sudden light in the man’s eyes pulled Ryouma forward onto his knees, tense.
    "Where is he?" the visitor asked.

    Arai pushed up from the next table. "Wait a minute. Why do you want to
    know?" He squinted at the man in the doorway. "You a ronin or something?
    Taishou doesn’t take challenges from the likes of you."

    Steel flashed and blood sprayed across the table of suddenly shouting
    samurai. Arai was on the ground without even a scream. The man’s expression
    didn’t change at all. "The likes of you don’t tell me what to
    do."
    He raised his head and looked around at the samurai with swords out
    and the commoners scrambling back. The man’s eye fell at last on Kachiro,
    fresh sake bottles held loose in his
    hands as he stared down at Arai bleeding out nearly at his feet.
    "You. Where’s this Taishou of yours?"

    Kachiro paled and Ryouma’s eyes narrowed. "He isn’t here," he
    said, clearly, standing.
    "Other people are, though."

    The intruder looked down at him and smiled, thin and crooked. "Oh?" His
    arm lashed forward again.

    Ryouma turned the first cut on his sheath and the man swayed back out
    of range as Ryouma’s own sword licked out. "Yeah."

    The man laughed and swung down heavily. Ryouma darted in under it
    only to take a kick to the stomach from an impossible angle. The intruder’s
    hilt cracked into the side of his face so hard Ryouma saw fireworks
    behind his eyes as he stumbled back into a table. He wrenched himself
    back up, bracing for the next blow, knowing it would get through.

    Only it never came.

    Kawamura-taii stood frozen in the door, hangings half pushed aside as
    he and the intruder stared at each other. "Akutsu…" he said at last,
    hesitantly.

    The intruder snorted and sheathed his sword with a violent snick.
    "I’ll come back later for your answer." He brushed past Kawamura-taii,
    striding out into the late summer dusk. The captain looked after
    him with a troubled frown for a long moment before shaking himself
    and calling sharply for people to carry Arai up to the castle doctor.

    Ryouma pushed himself onto his feet, holding back a wince. A strong hand
    caught his shoulder, steadying him.

    "Are you all right, Echizen?" Kawamura-taii asked quietly.

    Ryouma’s eyes followed Arai’s bloody body out the door. He wasn’t at
    all sure the doctor would be able to do anything. "I’m fine," he bit
    out.

    Or, at least, he would be.

    He looked up to meet Kawamura-taii’s concerned eyes. "I need to talk
    to Taishou."


    "… so you knew him."

    "For years, yes. My mother still talked to his, after she married
    a… well. But listen, Ooishi, Akutsu is dangerous."

    "Well, obviously, if he took Ochibi down like that," Kikumaru-taii
    chipped in. "But why is he here? You’d think a ronin making trouble
    would know better."

    "Well, there was a rumor that Ise-no-kami, took him on." Kawamura-taii’s
    hands twisted the cloth of his sleeve. "And he has a reputation
    for sending his warriors on training journeys whether they want to
    go or not."

    "Hmmm."

    Ryouma knelt on the mats, ignoring the conversation of the officers as
    it swirled around him, staring intently at the General, who was staring
    at one of the lanterns with a distant expression.

    "Well, somebody’s going to have to meet him, one way or another."

    Ryouma caught the firming of the General’s mouth and the faint, sharp
    nod of decision, and leaned forward. "Taishou." He wasn’t
    sure himself whether it was a plea or a demand, in his voice.

    Tezuka-dono met his eyes evenly. "Echizen will meet him."

    Ryouma settled back, breathing out a sigh of relief. He didn’t know what
    he would have done if he’d had to sit on his anger.

    It was so much worse when it wasn’t just for himself.


    They met in the training yard.

    "The kid again, hm?" Akutsu looked down at Ryouma with cold eyes.

    Ryouma shrugged. "We didn’t finish, last time."

    This time he was watching properly, and this time he was ready for the
    attack that came out of nowhere. Three exchanges—five, and he thought
    he might have Akutsu’s rhythm—and then he was knocked back, a slice
    burning across his shoulder from a stroke with no rhythm or reason.
    The harsh crack of Akutsu’s laughter taunted him as he straightened,
    eyes narrowed.

    There was something strange about this, about the way Akutsu was always
    looking through him and not at him. Something that let the man attack
    without reason.

    The thought echoed back to him in the General’s voice. Without reason…

    Ryouma shook his head. He didn’t have time to think about it now. He
    focused and drove himself to move faster, seeing nothing but the wild
    flex and bend of Akutsu’s form. This time it was Akutsu who fell back
    with blood welling up to trickle down his side. Akutsu pressed his
    hand to the slash and glanced down at blood streaking his fingers.

    Abruptly those flat, cold eyes focused on Ryouma and turned bright. Ryouma’s
    breath caught and the sudden fierceness of Akutsu’s grin drew him
    back in like he was pulled on a string, faster still, muscles burning
    with the new pace.

    One flashing, brutal strike followed another, staggering both of them
    back with bared teeth only to dive in again. Around and around each
    other, looking for a way to cut and thinking nothing else. The watching
    warriors were shouting and Ryouma couldn’t hear them over the driving
    beat of his own heart, faster and faster.

    In the end Ryouma’s speed
    finished it, as he’d been almost sure
    it would, and Akutsu’s sword crashed to the dirt behind him. Both of
    them stood frozen for a long moment before Ryouma nodded and stepped
    back.

    "You lose."

    A few chokes around the edges of the yard answered Ryouma’s bluntness.
    Akutsu’s hand flashed out to fist in the fabric at Ryouma’s neck and
    drag him close with a snarl.

    Ryouma ignored the shouts behind him, and balanced on his toes in Akutsu’s
    grasp, waiting. His opponent’s eyes were still bright and intent on
    him.

    Just as abruptly as he’d done everything else, Akutsu let him go and
    threw back his head, laughing. Ryouma watched him with raised brows
    as he collected his sword and walked away, still chuckling. Momoshiro
    appeared at his side, glaring after Akutsu.

    "That guy’s crazy."

    "Mmm." Ryouma frowned a little. He didn’t really think Akutsu
    was crazy… He didn’t have much time to reflect, though,
    before he was buried in congratulations from the rest of the garrison.
    Ryouma bore with it as patiently as he could, but when he caught sight
    of Kawamura-taii moving off quietly in the same direction Akutsu had
    gone, he muttered something about getting cleaned up and escaped.

    It wasn’t that he was worrying, he decided as he cut behind houses to
    catch up. Kawamura-taii was an officer, he could look after himself
    just fine. Ryouma was just… just curious.

    Which was why he leaned against the wall around the corner and out of
    sight, when he finally caught up with the two men.

    "Akutsu…" Kawamura-taii said, hesitantly.

    "Captain for Uesugi, hm?" The well-bucket rattled and splashed
    downward. "Place
    suits you."

    "I heard Taira Banda-dono took you on."

    A snort. "Old bastard." More splashes and a sound Ryouma readily identified
    as the stifled hiss of pain from washing a wound. "Don’t know if
    I’ll be going back."

    "But," Kawamura-taii protested. "Ronin… Akutsu, that isn’t…"

    "Kawamura," Akutsu interrupted. "I’m satisfied."

    There was a long pause Ryouma had no idea how to interpret and then a
    soft "Oh," from Kawamura-taii. It sounded like he might be smiling,
    though, when he added. "Good luck."

    Another snort. "Whatever. Don’t get killed."

    "I won’t." Definitely smiling.

    A new voice, bizarrely bright and cheery called out, "Akutsu-sama! Are
    you done already?"

    Ryouma blinked and risked a quick look around the corner. A boy who looked
    even younger than him was standing next to Akutsu, arms full of gear,
    beaming up at him.

    Akutsu glared and growled. "Yeah, I’m done. Thought I told you to stay
    with the damn horses."

    The fierce tone didn’t even make a dent in the boy’s smile. He didn’t
    answer the growl either, just bowed to Kawamura-taii. "I’m Dan Taichi,
    sir." Then he ignored Kawamura-taii, too, to fuss over the slash in
    Akutsu’s side.

    Akutsu snorted and smacked his hands away. "I’m fine, Taichi."

    Dan sighed, looking ever so slightly exasperated. "Yes, Akutsu-sama."
    He cocked his head and looked up—way up—at Akutsu. "So, if you’re
    satisfied, are we going home?" he asked, matter-of-factly.

    Ryouma was fascinated—it was
    like watching a rabbit boss around a wolf.

    When a fresh glare didn’t work Akutsu turned
    to shrug his coat back over his shoulders. "Yes," he bit
    out. Then he glared at Kawamura-taii instead, who quickly stifled the
    smile twitching at his lips and looked back without saying anything.
    Akutsu snorted, with a bit less emphasis this time, and waved a casual
    hand as he turned and walked away. Dan took a more formal leave and
    trotted to catch up.

    Ryouma took a look at Kawamura-taii standing, smiling after them, and
    quietly took himself off.

    As he made for the baths, and hot water to keep him from stiffening up
    too badly, Ryouma tried to get his mind settled. He felt oddly divided,
    which was not how he usually felt after a hard fight. This time, though,
    the passing calm of accomplishment was already ragged.

    Unsatisfied.

    His sword had satisfied someone. But that someone… wasn’t him. He turned
    the thought over, poking and prodding at it. It had been a good fight.
    And that seemed to be enough for Akutsu, enough to rest against. Obviously,
    Ryouma needed more than just a good fight.

    A reason… the General’s voice murmured in his head.

    Ryouma walked on, frowning.

     

    End

    Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
    Posted: Aug 01, 08
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    Feline

    Tezuka coaxes Atobe into an afternoon of relaxation. Written for the Porn Battle prompt: Tezuka/Atobe, languid. Porn with Atomosphere, I-3

    Pairing(s): Tezuka/Atobe

    It was Kunimitsu’s personal discovery. If Keigo was petted for long enough he unwound, forgot to be driven and arrogant, and relaxed into a languid sprawl of limbs, lounging against Kunimitsu’s chest for hours at a time without protest.

    "Mmmmm." Keigo pressed closer as Kunimitsu rubbed the back of his neck slowly. "Keep doing that."

    Well, perhaps he didn’t entirely forget about being imperious and demanding.

    Keigo opened one eye, looking up at Kunimitsu with lazy suspicion. "What’s so amusing?"

    "Nothing." Kunimitsu leaned down and kissed him gently.

    "Mmm. Well good," Keigo murmured against his mouth, twining slow arms around his shoulders. "Now make love to me some more."

    Kunimitsu laughed quietly. No, Keigo never really forgot to be imperious. "Very well." He stroked his hands down Keigo’s body, slowly, savoring the sleekness of his skin and the solid warmth of him. Keigo arched wantonly into his hands, nearly purring. He was irresistible, like this, openly reveling in sensuality, and the sound he made as Kunimitsu spread his thighs apart went straight to Kunimitsu’s groin.

    He kissed down Keigo’s throat, open mouthed, tasting his skin, and Keigo tipped his head back, stretching out against the sheets and making little murmurs of pleasure as Kunimitsu’s fingers gently opened him again.

    When Kunimitsu slid into him, slow and slick, they both moaned.

    The hot grip of Keigo’s body closed around him and Kunimitsu’s hips found their own rhythm, steady and hard. Pleasure shivered through him and he gasped as Keigo smiled, eyes dark and drowsy, and rocked up into his thrusts. He closed a hand on Keigo’s cock, stroking firmly, wanting the entire pleasure, and watched Keigo draw taut, abandoned to sensation, and moan as his body clenched around Kunimitsu’s cock.

    He caught Keigo up, lifting him, driving into him faster, deeper, and Keigo’s lazy purr was the last thing it took to send pleasure burning through him, wild and sweet.

    They settled back against the pillows, twined around each other, and Kunimitsu rubbed a slow hand up and down Keigo’s back, soothing him back into perfect relaxation.

    If he was careful, they could be here all afternoon. And Kunimitsu tried never to be careless in anything.

     

    End

    Last Modified: Feb 09, 12
    Posted: Oct 05, 08
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    Elemental

    Kirihara’s view of Yukimura. Written for the Porn Battle prompt: Yukimura/Kirihara, elemental. Character Sketch with Porn, I-4

    When Seiichi-san made love to him it was pure and intense and wiped Akaya’s mind clean of everything but the body over him, inside him, the hands spread against his back, the dip of Seiichi-san’s dark head over him.

    And the heat.

    It almost wasn’t even pleasure. It was sensation, the trembling of nerves screaming a pure signal of yes, the tingle in muscles stretched and flexed, the throb of his cock rubbing against Seiichi-san’s stomach with bright flashes of heat that burst up his spine until they were light behind his eyes.

    It was Yukimura Seiichi.

    And Akaya gave himself to it completely, gladly, opening his hands to let the rest of existence flutter away and closing them instead on the firm, long muscles of Seiichi-san’s arms, letting his body flex and buck, wild and abandoned, as Seiichi-san’s cock drove into him again and again, letting himself scream as the heat finally condensed and exploded through his whole body.

    It was incredible, hot and brilliant and overwhelming. There was nothing else quite like it, and it wrung Akaya out like a rag every time, left him breathless and lax and a little dazed. But it was the next part he thought he might love the most.

    Because Seiichi-san gathered him up, held him tight and shuddered against him, whispering Akaya’s name. And Seiichi-san didn’t let go, just slid back and close again, cradling Akaya against him and kissing him softly until Akaya was pliant and trembling in his arms, more undone by the tenderness than by all the wild sensation. This was what he clung to.

    It was Seiichi-san.

     

    End

    Last Modified: Feb 09, 12
    Posted: Oct 05, 08
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    Things to Wear

    Yukimura really, really likes the way Sanada looks in a kimono. Written for the Porn Battle prompt: Yukimura/Sanada, traditional dress. Porn Without Plot, I-4

    Seiichi liked how Genichirou looked in traditional clothing. The falling lines of a kimono or even yukata displayed Genichirou’s broad shoulders and straight height, reminded everyone who watched of the power waiting in that still, composed figure.

    The crisply wrapped fabric hid the long muscles that a shirt and shorts showed, but that very thing invited anyone who had watched Genichirou play, who had seen that much of him uncovered, to imagine the sleek, hard flex of his body from shoulder right to ankle, all of one, bare piece under the cloth.

    And wrapped cloth was so easy to draw aside.

    He swallowed Genichirou’s husky sound, pressing him back against the smooth wood of the wall, one hand slipping inside Genichirou’s clothes to tug loose his equally traditional underthings and close firmly around his cock.

    "Seiichi," Genichirou gasped, hips pushing into Seiichi’s hand, "I should be inside."

    "You should be right here," Seiichi murmured against Genichirou’s throat, drawing his tongue up the taut line of tendon. He stroked his thumb back and forth over Genichirou’s head and smiled as Genichirou’s hands worked on his shoulders. "Your grandfather can hold this reception without you for a bit."

    He caught Genichirou’s mouth again, stroking Genichirou’s tongue slowly with his own, deliberate contrast to his demanding grip on Genichirou’s cock. He savored the openness of Genichirou’s moan, and the texture of his cock in Seiichi’s hand, hard and thick, and the way Genichirou leaned against the wall and let his hips buck into Seiichi’s hand as he came.

    Seiichi took in the sight of Genichirou flushed and breathless, kimono pulled open over strong, bare thighs, and stored it away to see him through the next couple hours of a rather boring reception. Genichirou’s mouth quirked and he shook his head as he re-ordered his clothes before pulling Seiichi close for another kiss.

    "I should stop having you invited to occasions when I have to dress like this," he murmured into Seiichi’s mouth.

    Seiichi laughed. "Don’t you like the effect it has?"

    Genichirou’s stern expression was spoiled by the gleam in his eyes. "Afterwards."

    "I suppose I can save up, then." The outside lamps flashed on teeth as they smiled at each other and turned to go back inside.

     

    End

    Last Modified: Feb 09, 12
    Posted: Oct 05, 08
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    Fire and Gravel

    Guessing gift for Lynn. A moment of tension before a match reminds Ibu of why he fits in with Fudoumine, past and present. Character Sketch, I-3

    Shinji listened to the murmurs that followed his team, braiding together into one curious and surprised and speculative strand.

    "…first years, come on."

    "They made it Nationals that year, didn’t they?"

    "Next one too…"

    "Only because they didn’t come up against any strong teams. It was a fluke. Only the captain is really good."

    Shinji’s head turned, eyes tracking the one who’d made that last, disparaging, comment. He could feel the old, quick rage boil up, the fury that wanted to claw that smug dismissal to ribbons, that raged against the wall of disbelief.

    The heat of his teammates closed more tightly around him, and he knew they had heard it too, were also angry with slow-burning memory. He leaned into that; it was the thing that had bound them together from the first, that had made him welcome. All of them were looking in the same direction, now, and from the corner of his eye Shinji saw Tachibana-san’s glare, not smoldering but bright and fierce.

    The one who had spoken swallowed and stepped back quickly.

    "No need to listen to the howling of stray dogs." Tachibana-san’s statement gathered them back up, moved them forward again.

    Shinji’s anger didn’t fade, though; it just banked, waiting for fuel to make it flare again. He wasn’t really surprised when Tachibana-san fell in next to him and laid a hand on his shoulder.

    "Let it go, Shinji," his captain murmured. "You know you’re better than that."

    Shinji hesitated and bent his head. "Yes, Tachibana-san." He supposed he did know. It just didn’t make him any less angry.

    The hand on his shoulder shook him gently. "Come on. We have a match to play. Remind yourself how good you are, until you really know it."

    Looking up, Shinji saw Tachibana-san was smiling at him, intent and wry with a glint of starting fire. This time, he smiled too. "Yes, Tachibana-san." He straightened.

    There were other bonds, and better welcomes, than anger, now. He would try to remember.

    End

    Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
    Posted: Oct 30, 08
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    Time-lapse

    Post-canon. Yukimura has recovered and Fuji has left tennis. They cross paths over art and weave a new acquaintance. Drama with Romance and Porn, I-3, implicit spoilers

    Pairing(s): Yukimura/Fuji

    Thirteen Months After The End

    Seiichi walked slowly from one classroom full of art to the next, scribbling impressions in his notebook. One more session and the workshop would be done; he was still amazed at how much Sumitomo-sensei had fit into one weekend. It had certainly been a good experience for him, and he wanted to give good responses to his fellow students’ work—especially, perhaps, to the media he was less familiar with since that had been part of the project for this workshop.

    "What are you thinking?"

    It was not the kind of question Seiichi expected to hear out of the blue, but he recognized this voice and so it surprised him less. "Fuji." He turned away from the first piece of the photography section. Fuji was standing at his shoulder, watching him, head tilted just a bit as if to catch a faint sound; he looked relaxed, smiling, but his gaze was sharp. Seiichi had to smile, too. He’d rather missed seeing that expression across the net, this year. "Just considering the difference between a painter and a photographer."

    Fuji seemed to turn this answer over behind his eyes for a moment. "And what is the difference?"

    "A photographer looks for what’s present, to capture it." Seiichi spread his fingers toward the line of black and white images that flowed down the wall. He paused there, wanting to see what Fuji made of that, and wanting, with a spark of amusement, to prod back at him for having started the conversation so bluntly, so personally.

    "I suppose that’s true enough," Fuji finally murmured, when Seiichi didn’t go on. "And a painter?"

    Seiichi folded his arms, looking back at the room he’d just come from and the sweep of oil paints down canvas, colors over and under each other. "A painter looks for what isn’t there, to create it."

    "So. Photography is merely derivative?" There was an edge in Fuji’s voice, sliding underneath his smile. "I think Hatakeyama-sensei might disagree."

    Seiichi’s mouth curved in answer. "Is reality derivative?" he countered.

    Fuji’s weight shifted back and Seiichi almost laughed. This was different from a game on the court, but similar enough to draw him. Getting Fuji Shuusuke to be serious was interesting under any circumstances.

    And he hadn’t had a chance to on the court, this year, after all.

    "Reality simply is," Fuji finally answered.

    Seiichi shrugged slightly. "And I would say the same of imagination."

    Fuji was quiet for another moment, puzzlement and amusement tangling together in his quirked brows. "A moment ago you were saying how different the two art forms are," he pointed out.

    "Nothing is all one color." Seiichi flashed another smile, sharper this time, deliberately provoking. "A painter learns that early on."

    "And what does a photographer learn? This hasn’t been a very productive seminar for you if you can’t answer at least some of that," Fuji shot back.

    A good shot, Seiichi acknowledged. He had to think about this one more deeply. "Answering that might take more time than we have left," he returned lightly. "Perhaps I should write you instead."

    "And buy extra time," Fuji murmured. His smile grew slowly. "If I give you a time-out, I think I should get to finish the discussion face-to-face."

    Seiichi had never backed down from a challenge in his life. "How about the Tokyo Metropolitan Museum, then? Next weekend?"

    "Two o’clock," Fuji agreed, chin lifting.

    Seiichi was looking forward to it.

    Five Months Later

    "Do you miss tennis so little? Or do you just miss it that much?"

    Shuusuke blinked, looking down from the huge multi-media canvas, and his lips curved. Yukimura had gotten him with that one; he’d have to ask.

    "What do you mean?"

    "You didn’t come to watch any of the matches last year." Yukimura ran a fingertip over the plaque with the title, head tipped as though contemplating the canvas or the question.

    "Well, Tezuka is gone, isn’t he?" Shuusuke returned lightly. It was harder to tell how frustrated Yukimura was by that, but you could practically see the steam coming off both Sanada and Atobe whenever Tezuka came up.

    Yukimura’s eyes cut toward him, dark. "I hadn’t thought Tezuka was your only friend on that team."

    Shuusuke stifled a spurt of irritation. Of course he wasn’t. Eiji was still playing. And Inui. And Taka always tried to watch the matches, himself. And none of that really mattered, because Yukimura was turning the topic. "I’ve taken everything I can from tennis," he said, firmly turning it back.

    When he saw Yukimura’s tiny smile he let out a soft breath. So he’d fallen for the false bait, had he?

    This was why he liked conversations with Yukimura.

    "So Tezuka is part of what tennis gave you?" Yukimura probed, circling back around.

    Shuusuke was silent for a moment, moving to the next canvas, this one all in greens and grays and titled Mountain, Sky. He let his eyes follow the curves of paint as he thought. Yukimura reminded him a lot of Tezuka, sometimes. Other times not. Yukimura might just understand his reasons.

    "It isn’t as though I found my tennis just for Tezuka," he told the silent presence behind his shoulder. "Not in the end."

    Yukimura made an agreeing sound.

    "But who is there, now, who can tell when I’m doing my best or not?" Shuusuke finished, quietly.

    "We could."

    When Shuusuke looked over his shoulder Yukimura’s arms were folded. That was a sign of judgment, he knew now—of suspended patience. He couldn’t help a dry laugh at the thought of how close he’d come to facing that on a regular basis.

    "I thought about transferring, you know. For a while." Shuusuke turned around and leaned against the wall. "I decided not to, but—" he broke off, unsure he wanted to share the rest of it. The temptation he felt watching a game, now.

    "But?" Yukimura’s head tilted again, dark hair feathering over his cheek. "You still could you know."

    Now it was Shuusuke’s arms that were crossed, tightly. Their conversational game was getting too close to the truth. "Tennis isn’t what I’m going to do when I graduate, though. Why should I transfer just for that?" He meant it to come out light and didn’t think he’d managed very well.

    Yukimura bowed his head. "True enough." He was the one who led the way to the next painting this time. Shuusuke rested his eyes and mind on the indigo and sleek white of this composition.

    They didn’t speak of anything other than artistic technique again until they were choosing sandwiches from the vending machines.

    "Whatever it is, you should come watch the matches. Or you’ll never settle it."

    Shuusuke glanced at Yukimura to see what kind of gambit this was and stopped short, leaning half over to pick up his lunch. There was no calculation in Yukimura’s expression. Not pushing, not pulling, not lying in wait. Just a simple moment of kindness, and Shuusuke found himself at a loss how to answer it.

    Finally Yukimura smiled and shook his head. "So? Where should we go next time? It’s your turn to choose, again."

    Shuusuke regathered his wits. "Konica Minolta Plaza will have some new work by Nishigaki Kanako next month."

    Yukimura laughed. "And you can scout another gallery location while we’re there, right?"

    Shuusuke smiled back, back on balance. "I think about the future."

    That got another sober look from Yukimura. "Yes. You do. And that’s good. But we all need something that takes us up completely in the now, too."

    Shuusuke thought about that so hard he didn’t taste his sandwich as he ate it.

    Five Months Later

    Finishing National matches swiftly had a psychological value that Seiichi appreciated. He thought he liked the practical value better, though, getting a chance to scout some of the other teams without having to rely on third parties. In a generation of strong players, lesser players and club hangers on quickly lost the range to judge some games and teams accurately.

    Renji made a satisfied noise as they stopped by the fence and Sanada snorted in answer, crossing his arms.

    "I’m simply pleased to see Sadaharu playing as I expected," Renji answered mildly.

    Seiichi eyed the scoreboard. "It looks like we’ll be seeing them in the quarterfinals. You think he’ll place himself in Singles Two, then, against you?"

    "Quite likely," Renji murmured, tilting a brow at Seigaku’s third year captain, standing on the sidelines looking both pleased and stiff while Seigaku’s current singles ace played, and Ooishi and Kikumaru behind him, toweling off and talking together quietly. "He will have made the same calculations I have, and that will be the deciding match."

    "No mistakes this time, then," Sanada stated.

    Renji’s gaze didn’t leave Inui’s match. "Certainly not," he murmured.

    A flash of light on the sidelines drew Seiichi’s attention away from their half teasing, half serious exchange and his own brows rose as his eyes found the source.

    Fuji was standing around one side of the court, camera in hand, photographing the match. A tiny smile tugged at Seiichi’s mouth and he resettled his jacket on his shoulders and strolled around the corner. Fuji probably heard him but ignored his approach, completely absorbed, hands moving swift and sure over focus and lens adjustments and he snapped frame after frame. The last one caught Inui’s final shot with what looked to Seiichi like perfect timing. He stood quietly as Fuji snapped a few more of the players’ realization that the round was over.

    Finally Fuji lowered his camera with a sigh and surfaced. "Yukimura." He nodded.

    "Fuji." Seiichi leaned against the fence, biting back a smile. "I’d heard something about you shooting at the Prefectural games."

    Fuji’s eyes glinted for a moment. "Coming on my own terms seemed worthwhile."

    "Always," Seiichi agreed, and watched as Fuji’s hand relaxed on the camera case. "I would be interested to see how it all comes out. If you decide to show any of the results."

    Fuji actually laughed at that. "I’m sure you would." His eyes turned distant as he looked across the courts. "We’ll see."

    Seiichi accepted that with a nod. Some things couldn’t be rushed, and by now he was pretty sure Fuji was one of them.

    "I might get some interesting shots of you, I suppose," Fuji mused.

    Seiichi’s mouth curled. "Any shots you can get you’re welcome to, of course. It’s a public court."

    "No studio shots, then?" Fuji asked with a sly sideways glance.

    Seiichi considered that for a moment and leaned back, satisfied, as the answer came to him. "If you’ll sit for me in turn."

    Fuji rocked back just a bit himself. Seiichi wasn’t surprised; he had a few reservations about sitting still to be examined that intently and he doubted Fuji felt much different.

    "I’ll… think about it."

    "Of course," Seiichi murmured. He couldn’t take too much more time aside for this but he couldn’t resist just one last shot. "Perhaps we’ll see you for the next match as well, then."

    Fuji gave him back a smile, sharp and slanted and oddly companionable. "Perhaps. It’s a shame you didn’t come by in time to see Shiraishi’s second round match, too."

    The teasing malice of the observation drew Seiichi back, turned him to lean into Fuji’s return gambit. "Oh? Is he playing differently this year?"

    Fuji gave him a perfectly sunny look, shrugging the camera strap over his shoulder. "Perhaps."

    Seiichi’s teeth flashed in a quick smile and he shrugged, casual. "Surprises are no problem. For those with sufficient confidence."

    "I’ll ask you how it went in two weeks, then," Fuji tossed over his shoulder as he moved toward the gate to join his ex-teammates.

    Seiichi was chuckling under his breath as he rejoined his own.

    "What was that all about?" Renji asked, curiously.

    Seiichi waved a hand. "Nothing to do with tennis."

    He didn’t actually hear what he’d just said until both his friends turned to look at him. Then he had to pause, himself, and reflection tugged his mouth into a more rueful line. "It’s just… something different," he murmured. And that might well be his motto, regarding Fuji Shuusuke. "He did mention Shiraishi," he added, "but I’m not entirely sure he wasn’t just teasing."

    Sanada’s brows rose and Renji looked amused. "Indeed? Well, I suppose we’ll see in the finals."

    Seiichi spent a moment looking forward to the art-date in two weeks, and then put it aside to concentrate all his attention on the game they were really here for.

    Four Months Later

    Shuusuke settled into his seat with a sigh of pleasure for warmth of winter sunlight through the window and sipped the Pokka Lemon he’d found in the third vending machine.

    Yukimura shuddered delicately. "I have no idea how you can drink that straight."

    "I like tart things." Shuusuke chuckled reminiscently. "It’s even come in handy every now and then."

    Yukimura raised a brow and clearly refrained from asking. Just as well, perhaps; Shuusuke didn’t know how someone who held his team’s reins as tightly as Yukimura did would take Inui’s wicked sense of humor.

    "You’re so serious," he murmured around his straw, following the train of thought. And then, because it was so apropos, teased, "You should smile more often."

    Yukimura leaned his chin in one hand, mouth quirked. "I smile plenty often. But I also concentrate seriously when it’s called for."

    "Mmm." And that sent his thoughts right back to the gallery they’d just left, and the techniques Shuusuke had observed there. "If I were trying to capture what you are," Shuusuke mused, "I would use black and white, just like that showing. As fine grained as possible. You have so many shadings to you."

    "I’ll model for you when you model for me," Yukimura returned, the argument months old and well worn, now. Then he tipped his head, though, eyes dark and curious. "Is capturing what I am something that matters to you?"

    He’d never asked that before and Shuusuke answered without thinking, caught up in the usual speed of their exchanges. "Yes."

    They looked at each other for a long, silent moment before Yukimura finally looked away, finger tracing a bead of condensation down his water glass. His voice was soft and neutral and undemanding when he asked, "Why?"

    Shuusuke opened his mouth and closed it again slowly. Because it’s so hard to find was the first answer that came to his tongue, but… it didn’t feel complete. If the question had been part of their usual sparring that wouldn’t have bothered him. Yukimura had asked this one differently, though.

    That difference was owed honesty.

    "The challenge appeals to me as an artist." Shuusuke laid out the words carefully, wanting to be sure of their composition. "And being able to see what you are appeals to me as," he hesitated, but the sentence led him to it, "as a friend, I suppose."

    Yukimura looked up and this smile was one Shuusuke had never seen before, bright and gentle. "All right, then."

    Shuusuke blinked.

    "I wasn’t entirely sure, you know." Yukimura took a sip of his water. "Whether we’re going to these galleries as opponents or as friends."

    Habit prompted Shuusuke to ask, "How much difference is there?"

    Yukimura’s chin was in his hand again and he tipped his head in wry acknowledgement. "For me, sometimes not much. But I think it’s different for you."

    The tingle of the alertness that their sharper exchanges always brought brushed over Shuusuke, but this time it didn’t make him brace as he usually did. He glanced down, moving his straw back and forth with a fingertip. "Maybe so." He looked back up. "You’ll really do it?"

    Yukimura laughed. "Well, I’ll go first, anyway."

    "Thank you." Visions of lighting effects and calculations of film speed danced through his thoughts as he stared off over the plaza, and he supposed he couldn’t honestly blame Yukimura when he kept laughing.

    Four Months Later

    "So, this is an art classroom, right?"

    "Mm," Fuji agreed around the canister top between his teeth.

    "Then there must be heaters hidden around here somewhere. Go find them."

    Fuji blinked. "Mm?"

    "There’s nothing between me and the tile floor but paper," Seiichi pointed out, tartly. "I’m about to freeze something off."

    "Mm." Fuji took the top out and closed up his latest roll of film. "Okay, hang on."

    Somehow, Seiichi was not surprised when Fuji turned to adjust his tripod instead of rummage in the classroom’s cupboards. "Fuji," he said, low and definite, "either you pull your mind out of the inside of your cameras and get me the heaters or I’ll go look for them myself."

    "No, no, no! I just got the shadows right!"

    Well, that had gotten his attention, at least. "Then get me the heaters," Seiichi repeated with, he thought, great patience for someone who was freezing his ass off far more literally than was usual.

    Fuji sighed and finally went to root through the cupboards. "Last time you complained that the lights were too hot."

    "Last time I was wearing more."

    "What is it about captains and perfection? You’re never satisfied." Since Fuji was shifting two small heaters over while he said it, Seiichi let that one go. "Happy?"

    Warmth radiated from the grilles on either side of him and Seiichi sighed. "Much better."

    Fuji looked over his shoulder as he adjusted the tripod again, with a teasing curl to his mouth. "I notice you didn’t actually say you were happy. What did I just mention about perfectionism?"

    Seiichi’s brows rose. "And who is it who’s taking fifteen minutes to get the angle just right for shots that are going to take about two minutes, if that?"

    Fuji blinked as if it hadn’t occurred to him and Seiichi couldn’t help settling back a bit, vindicated. Fuji put his hands on his hips.

    "Don’t move."

    "Not moving," Seiichi agreed, letting out a deep breath and holding still again as Fuji slipped behind his camera and the first click of the shutter licked through the darkened room.

    Seiichi held himself still, impassive, watching the edges of the lights sliding off counters and stacked desks as Fuji moved around him. This was very odd, really, almost like some kind of meditation. It wasn’t very inward, though. The touch of Fuji’s attention on him was like the heat of the lights—almost a pressure. The focus wasn’t entirely unfamiliar, but he was used to responding to it.

    "You could smile, you know," Fuji interrupted his thoughts. "If I wanted a stonefaced model, I would ask Tezuka next time he’s home."

    An image of Tezuka, arranged nude on the cold tile and paper flashed through Seiichi’s mind and he snorted helplessly. "Fuji! You can’t tell me to hold still and then make me laugh!"

    Fuji snapped three shots, rapidfire, and emerged from behind the camera looking faintly smug. "I certainly can."

    Seiichi looked up at him, arrested. "You wanted me to laugh?"

    Fuji made a sound of agreement. "Line and texture and shadow are one thing. I’ve got some shots already I think will come out very well. But something that shows how alive you are… well, that’s different."

    Seiichi was quiet while Fuji moved the lights for the next pose, and finally asked, "Are you going to turn that one in with your portfolio, too?"

    Fuji paused, back to him. "No."

    Seiichi tucked the warmth that answer brought carefully away and leaned obligingly on the box Fuji dragged over, stilling himself for the next set of planned, artistic shots, occupying his mind with where they should go for their next outing. Perhaps he would choose something besides art, this time.

    Three Months Later

    "Shuusuke, you have a visitor."

    Shuusuke looked up from arm-deep in a bag of sandy potting soil, expecting to see Yukimura, or perhaps Eiji, and got a surprise. "Tezuka!"

    "Fuji." Tezuka stepped out onto the deck with a polite bow to Shuusuke’s mother.

    "I thought you weren’t going to be home for another four days." Fuji stood, brushing off his hands and arms and waved his friend to one of the deck chairs.

    "I found a standby seat on an earlier flight." Tezuka settled into the second chair and looked with approval at the plate of onigiri Shuusuke’s mother had left out for him earlier. "It’s good to be back."

    Having heard Tezuka’s opinions of Western food before, Shuusuke chuckled and nudged the plate over to him. "So it went well."

    "Fairly well." Tezuka took a bite and leaned back in his chair a bit. "The final match was close, and I’m satisfied with it. And I have an offer for endorsements."

    "Tezuka, that’s wonderful!" Shuusuke knew that an endorsement deal meant more money to travel and enter the important tournaments. Tezuka did not, of course, agree with him, but he smiled faintly and that was just as good.

    "Everyone seems to be doing well here," Tezuka observed instead.

    Familiar with his friend’s thoughts, Shuusuke had no trouble decoding this. "Yes. I think Seigaku might just be at Nationals this year. It seems appropriate, for our third year again." Well, his third year, anyway, and Inui and Eiji and Ooishi’s. Tezuka was on a different time table now.

    Though, even if Seigaku got past Hyoutei, there would still be Rikkai to deal with. Shuusuke and Yukimura weren’t talking about that this week. Instead they had argued about whether Shuusuke’s translation of Mallarmé’s "Un coup de dés jamais n’abolira le hasard" for his French class was taking too much poetic license, and how much was too much when translating a poem, after all.

    Tezuka was looking at him with a brow quirked and Shuusuke realized he was smiling at nothing. "How long are you going to be home for this time?" he asked.

    "At least a month, I think." Tezuka’s fingers tapped on the arm of his chair and Shuusuke read impatience in that kind of fidgeting. "There has to be time for filming as well as training, now."

    "Perhaps you can get me in to watch," Shuusuke said, lightly, and chuckled at the dour look Tezuka gave him. "Seriously, though, will it eat into your training time that badly?"

    Tezuka’s mouth thinned a bit. "I want to train toward entering the Australian Open, this winter."

    Shuusuke sat back, letting out a slow breath. "Aiming for Federer already?"

    Tezuka brushed a few grains of rice off his fingers and glanced over at Shuusuke with a tiny smile. "Of course."

    Yukimura would get that glint in his eyes when he heard, Shuusuke reflected. He was already annoyed enough that Tezuka had gone on ahead, without Tezuka starting on the Grand Slam tournaments. "This should be interesting," he murmured.

    "I hope so," Tezuka answered, and Shuusuke had to shake his head to pull his thoughts back onto the conversation.

    "Well, if you do happen to have a day free anywhere, let me know." He smiled cheerfully.

    Tezuka gave him a long look. "You have something in mind?"

    "I had thought I might visit some of the area botanical gardens, this summer," Shuusuke murmured, which was entirely true. He and Yukimura already had plans for a week and a half on. There were other gardens he thought would do Tezuka more good, though.

    "Which one?" Tezuka asked with prompt wariness, undiminished by over two years out of Shuusuke’s immediate range.

    "I was thinking an outdoorsman like you might enjoy Atagawa park in Shizuoka." Shuusuke nibbled delicately at a rice ball.

    "I’ll see, then."

    Shuusuke looked forward to the email he’d get when Tezuka looked Atagawa up and found the bit about the alligators. He grinned behind his snack. He liked to think that, when Yukimura went pro, he and Tezuka might meet at tournaments and have the extra bond of both having been teased by Shuusuke. He’d consider it his personal contribution to their professional rapport.

    When Yukimura went pro and Shuusuke’s weekends were reduced to repotting his cacti and buying new lenses without anyone along to talk to who understood why light was important and days without anyone who laughed at his teasing. Without someone who sometimes, lately, touched the back of Shuusuke’s hand in a way that made his breath catch. Shuusuke quashed a sigh. He didn’t want to think about that.

    "So, at any rate, tell me more about this last tournament." He settled back in his chair and prepared to listen.

    Eight months Later

    Seiichi dug through his drawers and frowned. "Do I already have a blue T-shirt in the packing pile?" he called over his shoulder.

    "No, just the black one."

    Seiichi made an annoyed sound and went to rummage through his closet. "Are you sure you should be helping me pack instead of getting a start on your reading for classes?" he asked over his shoulder.

    Fuji shrugged. "I can catch up. You’re going to be gone for five weeks this time."

    Seiichi smiled, folding his blue T-shirt. "Maybe you’ll have some new art to show me, when I get back, then, instead of having to go look at other people’s."

    Fuji shorted. "In between my coursework."

    "Since when has that ever stopped you?"

    Fuji shrugged again, and Seiichi frowned a little. "If you wanted to go professional right away, you could have…"

    "Like you?"

    The question had an edge to it, one Seiichi didn’t often hear from Fuji any more. He tossed the T-shirt into his bag and turned to look at Fuji directly. "What’s wrong?"

    Fuji looked away. "It’s nothing."

    Seiichi waited, patiently.

    Fuji crossed his arms, frowning down at them. "Everyone’s leaving," he murmured, finally.

    "Not everyone, surely," Seiichi said softly.

    "Both my best friends take up a lot of space when they’re gone." Fuji still didn’t look up.

    "You know we’ll always come back, though."

    Fuji’s mouth tightened.

    Seiichi sighed to himself. So that’s what it was. He laid a hand on one tense shoulder and said, quietly, "Shuusuke."

    His friend’s eyes widened a little. It was the first time Seiichi had called him by his given name.

    "This is still home."

    Shuusuke smiled, but the shadows didn’t leave his eyes. "I know."

    Seiichi stifled a snort. No one had ever budged Fuji Shuusuke when he didn’t want to be budged, and he’d clearly decided he was going to lose something. Seiichi had practice overcoming the immovable and impossible, though, and he had no intention of being lost, no matter what Shuusuke thought.

    He turned his hand over and cupped Shuusuke’s cheek, thumb stroking over his cheekbone, and Shuusuke leaned into the touch, but those shadows stayed, flavored with a hesitance that made Seiichi’s voice gentle, even in his exasperation.

    "This is home," he repeated with deliberate emphasis, and leaned down and brushed his lips over Shuusuke’s.

    Shuusuke’s hand closed tight around his wrist, and Seiichi’s mouth quirked. Even after that, Shuusuke wouldn’t reach for what he wanted, wouldn’t hold Seiichi in place, would only ask around the edges. Time to try something else, then.

    "Listen," he murmured against Shuusuke’s mouth. "Whatever else is happening, even if it’s a major tournament, even if it’s a Grand Slam tournament, I will be here for your first gallery showing. I promise."

    Shuusuke’s breath hitched against his lips, and he stared up at Seiichi, last of the shadows finally wiped away by shock. "Seiichi…"

    Seiichi smiled. "I promise."

    Shuusuke closed his eyes and laughed, husky, and took a long breath. "All right." When he opened them again, his eyes were clear.

    "I believe you."

    Three Years Later

    "An amazingly good show, Fuji-san, all things considered. I’m sure we’ll all have to keep an eye on you in the future!"

    Shuusuke smiled quite insincerely at the woman and murmured his thanks. He resolved to apologize to Yuuta the next time they were both at their parents’ house for dinner; the condescension of the art critics was making his jaw clench in a way he found extremely familiar from watching his brother, and if this was how Yuuta had felt for years, well. A lot of things became clearer.

    He passed on, mingling with the respectable crowd, being sure to smile and nod politely no matter how inane the remarks. He wished Seiichi could have been home for this show. He was better than Shuusuke at being charming and imperious at the same time.

    In a way, of course, Seiichi was here. Shuusuke smiled genuinely as his gaze passed over the sequence of five photos that had pride of place in the gallery. The fluid arch of Seiichi’s spine, and the shadows that turned the muscles of his legs into an abstract had turned out just the way Shuusuke envisioned, and he had named the series "Edges of Perfection".

    His face was starting to ache from the constant smiling, though, and he thought it was time for a break. Slipping past some unused panels into the back room, he rummaged out a paper cup and ran some water. His mouth was certainly grateful, after so long chatting.

    "Hiding from your fans?"

    Shuusuke’s eyes widened and he had just started to turn when arms slid around him, catching him back against Seiichi’s chest. He laughed softly. "Weren’t you supposed to be in France this week?"

    "I told my manager it would cost about the same to fly home and back as to live there for the time until the tournament. I started telling him as soon as you wrote to say you had a showing." Seiichi dropped a light kiss under Shuusuke’s ear.

    Shuusuke leaned back with a pleased sigh. "Mm. You don’t have to make it home for every one."

    "Just all of them that I can." Seiichi’s lips curved against his neck. "So are you hiding out, back here?"

    Shuusuke let his head rest back against Seiichi’s shoulder. "Just taking a break. First one this evening, I should point out." He could feel Seiichi’s laugh against his spine.

    "Good. They won’t miss you for a little while, then." Seiichi’s hand slid down Shuusuke’s chest, and further down his stomach. "I missed you," Seiichi murmured in his ear, hand finally coming to rest between Shuusuke’s legs.

    "Seiichi…" Shuusuke’s voice was suddenly husky. He could feel the heat of Seiichi’s palm through the fabric of his slacks. "You pick the strangest places."

    Seiichi laughed again. "What, you didn’t think the studio was appropriate?" His fingertips rubbed up and down Shuusuke’s length. "It was just the way you were looking at me."

    "Through a lens?" Shuusuke teased back, breathless.

    "Focused," Seiichi corrected, tongue tracing lightly over Shuusuke’s ear. "Completely intent. I love seeing you that way."

    "Seiichi," Shuusuke said, low and insistent, and lifted a hand to twine through Seiichi’s hair, tilting his head back until he could catch Seiichi’s mouth. Seiichi’s hand tightened between his legs and he made an approving sound.

    "Since you’re sure," Seiichi murmured, and his fingers worked Shuusuke’s slacks open and slid inside to wrap around him.

    "Very," Shuusuke agreed, a bit distracted. The heat of Seiichi’s fingers was taking up all his attention, and the faint roughness of Seiichi’s calluses. "Nnnn…" He leaned back into Seiichi, hips rocking up into the touch. Seiichi’s hands always made him stop thinking, especially when they moved over him slow and hard and deliberate, and he tipped his head back further as Seiichi’s mouth moved down his throat. The wet slide pulled a shiver down his spine; this was Seiichi, present and dense and sensual, and later he would want to capture those things in light on film, but sensation was their medium right now and this picture, this pleasure was too immediate for him to want anything but to complete it. Seiichi pulled Shuusuke back more tightly against him and his hips ground hard into Shuusuke’s rear. The sound Seiichi made, half moan and half growl, made Shuusuke’s stomach tighten, and the hardness of Seiichi’s cock pressing against his ass made him think of sun-warm afternoons draped naked over the velvet arm of their couch, and thinking of that sent a tingle of heat through him so sharp that it condensed pleasure around it. Shuusuke had just enough mind left to bite back the open moan as he came. Seiichi’s mouth covered his again, kissing him fierce and hot as Seiichi’s hips jerked against his ass.

    It took Shuusuke a few minutes before he could say, breathless and laughing, "Welcome home."

    "Mm. I’m back," Seiichi murmured against his ear.

    The visceral proof of the polite phrases left a warm glow in Shuusuke’s bones and he breathed out a soft sigh. They stood together for another moment until Seiichi reached past him to the towels over the sink and Shuusuke had to laugh again, quietly, with genuine amusement, as they cleaned themselves up. Seiichi drew him back for another kiss, when they were done.

    "So, have you had enough of a break?" There was a certain amount of mischief in Seiichi’s eyes.

    "You want to go back out with me and watch people admiring you?" Shuusuke teased back.

    "Admiring your work," Seiichi corrected serenely.

    They strolled side by side through the crowd and Shuusuke was amused to watch how many of the critics suddenly found a reason to simply smile and nod at him. They paused by the images of Seiichi, and the original looked up at them thoughtfully.

    "I’ll tell you another thing that photographers learn," he murmured.

    It was their second oldest game, the only one they both still played, and Shuusuke tipped his head inquiringly.

    "Photographers learn that there are two subjects in any photo: the one in front of the camera and the one behind it." Seiichi looked back down at Shuusuke with the smile that was reserved for him, gentle and intent.

    A delicate shiver brushed down Shuusuke’s spine. There was nothing he would trade for the way Seiichi saw him, saw all of him.

    Nor for the way he saw Seiichi.

    He reached out to lace their fingers together briefly, out of sight of the crowd. "If they have subjects that touch them. Yes."

    Seiichi’s thumb stroked the inside of Shuusuke’s wrist before he let go. "You didn’t get much of a drink earlier. Come get another, and tell me things."

    Shuusuke smiled. "Well, I’ve been asked to teach at a workshop on artistic technique next week…"

    End

    Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
    Posted: Jan 08, 09
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    The Finest Things

    Atobe deals with some trouble among his officers. AU, Drama, I-3

    Keigo drew his horse down to a walk, trying to keep a discreet eye on
    everything as his men filed back up to the castle, sweaty and dusty
    and noisy, the winners of the mock battle teasing the losers. Their
    lord was watching, imposingly still on his own mount. Taki was riding
    with his head down, barely lifting it to snap back when Mukahi prodded
    him about today’s resounding loss. Shishido…

    Shishido rode with his head raised for the first time in many weeks,
    and his eyes burned bright. He had earned that pride back, to be sure.
    But Keigo rather thought he knew what today had been all about, and
    he tried once again to catch Shishido’s eyes and signal him to leave
    his victory to speak for itself for now. Once again he failed and stifled
    an impulse to throw over subtlety and just bang the idiot over the
    head a few times. Tarou-sama was beckoning Keigo to his side, though,
    and he would just have to trust fate for now. He drew rein beside their
    clanlord and bowed. "Tono."

    "How badly were Taki’s forces defeated?" Tarou-sama asked, evenly, eyes
    on the men passing him.

    "Completely," Keigo reported, keeping his voice dispassionate, no matter
    how much he wanted to grind his teeth with frustration. "They would
    have lost two out of three, had we been in the field."

    "Hiyoshi will take his place as sub-commander in the future."

    Keigo inclined his head, having more or less expected this. Of course,
    he also half expected the scuffle of abruptly halted horses behind
    him and Shishido’s sharp protest.

    "Tono!" Shishido hauled himself out of the last of their men, who, wise
    to the ways of their clan, were making their way out of earshot as
    quickly as they could manage without actually running. "This was my
    victory! You can’t…!"

    Keigo cut him off before he said anything too unwise. "Shishido, what
    did you expect? This doesn’t erase the way you lost to Tachibana."

    Shishido wasn’t listening. As usual. He flung himself off his horse and
    down to the ground before their lord, and his helmet hit the dust beside
    him. Keigo stifled a sigh. Someday, Shishido would learn patience.

    And then none of them would recognize him.

    Keigo stiffened as Shishido pulled out his knife, though. Surely he wouldn’t…
    And then he had to force his jaw shut as Shishido sliced away his
    hair with a few savage strokes. Keigo thought the soft whistle from
    behind them might have been Oshitari. This was certainly a gesture
    no one who knew Shishido’s vanity would have expected, even in repentance.
    Even Tarou-sama’s brow lifted.

    It put the cap on the day’s surprises when their youngest captain stepped
    forward and knelt beside Shishido.

    "Oyakata-sama," Ohtori said quietly, formally, "Shishido-dono has worked
    harder than any of us to repair his weaknesses. Surely he has earned
    his rank back."

    Tarou-sama’s other brow lifted and Keigo had to stifle a wince this time.
    He appreciated courage in his sub-commanders, but couldn’t any of them
    take the trouble to learn to read their lord’s moods and pick their
    times?

    "Would you trade your rank for his, then?" Tarou-sama purred.

    Ohtori’s eyes widened and Keigo saw him swallow; but then his back stiffened.
    "I would."

    Keigo really, really hated it when his officers put him in a spot like
    this. But he also really, really didn’t want to lose Ohtori’s talents
    in the field, and Keigo was the only person who could tip the balance now. He swung
    down from his horse and came to stand at Tarou-sama’s stirrup.

    "Tono. Ohtori is a valuable officer. And Shishido has, I believe, overcome
    his faults." He bowed. "I ask this, as well."

    He could feel Tarou-sama’s eyes on him for a long, hot moment, before
    his lord murmured, "Do as you see fit, then," and turned his horse
    away toward the castle. Keigo let his breath out and straightened up.

    And then he turned to glare at Ohtori and Shishido, both of whom looked
    a little stunned. "You’ll be co-captains," he snapped. "And you’d better
    prove that I’m right."

    "Yes, Taishou," Ohtori agreed, dusting off his knees briskly.

    Shishido snorted. "As if we wouldn’t." And then he looked sidelong at
    Ohtori. "Choutarou. …thanks."

    Keigo rolled his eyes and left them to it, stalking over to the rest
    of his officers. "No one says anything about this to Taki or Hiyoshi
    until I do," he ordered.

    Mukahi sniffed, nearly lounging in his saddle with what Keigo could only
    call aggravated insouciance. "As if they won’t have heard
    a dozen times by the time we get back to the castle."

    Oshitari reached over and rested a hand just above the boy’s knee. "There
    is a difference between general gossip and an account of Ouchi-dono’s
    own words directly from our highest general, Gakuto," he murmured, and Mukahi subsided with a shrug.

    It was, Keigo reflected a bit sourly, a good thing for Mukahi’s
    continued health that he and Oshitari were so inseparable. Even
    if Keigo, personally, thought Oshitari could have had better taste.
    "Let’s go," he told them all, mounting again and reclaiming
    the reins from Kabaji.


    Taki was infinitely easier to deal with than Shishido, and Keigo was
    thankful for the fact. Taki didn’t push or snap, and he quietly accepted
    Keigo’s subtle assurance that his skill and accomplishments would be
    brought to Tarou-sama’s attention at an opportune time.

    Unfortunately, Hiyoshi was even more of a handful than Shishido, in his
    own way. He took the news that his impending rank had been snatched away again without a word, merely bowing at an entirely correct angle. His eyes never fell, though, and they burned into Keigo’s back as he left.

    He resolved to keep a closer eye on Hiyoshi. The times were unsettled enough to give young almost-officers ideas. The last thing they needed in this province was any more of the small samurai seeking to overthrow their superiors.

    End

     

    Note: The clan lord is, of course, Sakaki. He is roughly equivalent
    to a mix of Ouchi Yoshioki and Ouchi Yoshitaka.

    Last Modified: Feb 10, 12
    Posted: May 02, 09
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    2 readers sent Plaudits.

    Detachment

    Yukimura and Sanada discuss the future a little. AU, Drama, I-3

    Yukimura lay with his head turned to look out the open screens, into
    his garden. Spring sunlight, softer and lighter than the heat of summer,
    made the small leaves glow and skipped over the water of the pool as
    the breeze ruffled its surface.

    It was beautiful and serene, and normally Genichirou would have shared
    an appreciative quiet, complimenting his friend silently on this space.
    Today was not normal, though. They hadn’t had normal days since the
    start of winter.

    Yukimura turned his head back to look up at the ceiling. "I may not be
    with you at Kawanakajima this time." The curve of his mouth could not
    be called a smile.

    Genichirou frowned. "Yukimura."

    "Have you seen?" Yukimura asked, quietly. "The peach blossoms are already
    passing." His expression was calm. "As everything does."

    An unaccustomed chill settled in Genichirou’s stomach. Yukimura
    could be chilling at times, of course, but it was the brutal, living
    cold of spring water—something that never froze and always
    moved. This… this was the dead chill of ice. His own years of study
    and meditation told him it was a good and suitable thing, that Yukimura
    realized the passing nature of all life. But the hotter core of him
    insisted it was wrong.

    Attempting to balance his own thoughts, Genichirou found himself remembering
    another afternoon in this garden, years ago. "You promised you would
    lead us back there as many times as victory required," he said, and
    his lips quirked wryly as he looked down at Yukimura. "It isn’t like
    you to break a promise."

    Yukimura blinked and his eyes refocused on Genichirou at last, wide with
    surprise. They were silent for long moments, watching each other while
    birds called in the garden.

    Finally Yukimura smiled, and this time it was genuine. "Of course." The
    breeze lifted the leaves of the maple beyond the screen, and sunlight
    poured over them showing gray eyes gleaming and alive again. "I’m
    sorry to have troubled you, Sanada."

    Genichirou waved a hand, disclaiming any trouble, and they both relaxed,
    looking out once more into the strong, serene lines of the garden.

    End

    Last Modified: May 02, 09
    Posted: May 02, 09
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    4 readers sent Plaudits.

    Fire and Fleet and Candle Light

    A rewrite of the end of Regionals and the month until Nationals. Echizen gets obsessed, Rikkai is still on edge, Tachibana is brooding, Momo is insightful, Kirihara retrains, Atobe is annoyed, Fuji gets down to business, An is delighted, Yukimura is not particularly happy, Tezuka is plotting, and everyone is coming to town. Action, Drama, I-3

    So here’s the thing. About three quarters of Tenipuri Nationals was a dreadful letdown for me, what with the floating Synchro glow-fairies, and the Hadoukyuu that launched a thousand Kawamuras, and Discoball no Kiwami, and Do-over Devil-mode, and Svengali Tennis. But that wasn’t where the trouble started. It started in the last match of Regionals, which was where the underdog heroes won, not just a place at Nationals but first place in the tournament against the incumbent National champions, thus defusing all the dramatic tension in one fell swoop. Not coincidentally, I think, that was also the match where Echizen stopped winning because of his superior experience or evolution of technique, but because… well, because Konomi magically hand-waved it. We get no detail about Echizen’s comeback against Sanada and why Sanada suddenly can’t match his game any more, no explanation of how he recovers from burning himself out with muga no kyouchi so early, not even some kind of excuse like one of his senpai cautioning him that Sanada fatally underestimated him and won’t do it again so Echizen has to keep working. No, he just, somehow, wins decisively, 7-5 against a player who’s established as a peer of Tezuka and Yukimura.

    But there’s still Nationals to go. A Nationals that is largely lacking in interest, because what is there to overcome now that the champions have already been defeated? And thus we were launched straight over the shark into who-cares-land with more and more absurdly overpowered new opponents in a bid to add some artificial tension, to say nothing of the abrupt descent into the "my moral is pastede on, yay" notion that Fun Is Everything.

    There are still a few saving graces. Some of the matches are still decent. Those are, of course, the ones that still have some real stake and develop the players in some way. There’s Sanada’s rivalry with Tezuka and his struggle between prudent strategy and his own need to face Tezuka head-on. There’s Fuji’s experience of a significant loss, which finally solidifies a genuine motivation for him. There’s Tachibana’s need to lay his demons to rest by facing Chitose again, which was a pretty good match despite the Discoball Door. I liked those matches; I wanted more like them.

    The goal of this project, then, is to restore that significance and tension to all of the players, including Echizen. Accordingly, we pick up toward the end of his Regionals match with Sanada.

    Note: In case it isn’t obvious, canon after Regionals is as dead to me, and only the most useful bits after that have been retained. Let’s see what else can be done that’s more interesting. Also, this is largely manga-based up through Regionals. After nine years, the bunnies finally came back and let me finish this, so let’s do this thing.

     

    Kantou Regional Finals

    When the match with Sanada reached five games all, Ryouma knew he was in trouble. It was a new feeling. When he played his dad, he was always in trouble, so the knowledge was meaningless and he’d learned to ignore it. When he’d played Tezuka he’d barely had time to understand that he really was in trouble, and notice what it felt like, before the game was over. After all, it wasn’t like a lower score meant he was losing! He’d come from behind plenty of times and won anyway.

    But he could feel his pace falling, now.

    Ryouma flexed his hand around the grip of his racquet and pulled in a deep breath. He would do this. He would find a way. He threw the ball up to serve, watching its shadow come back down out of the scorching sun, and sent it singing over the net with a vicious spin.

    Just because Sanada could return the Twist Spin serve was no reason to back down now.

    The ball came back to him, and back again, and back again, and Ryouma sprinted across the court, light on his toes no matter how his calves were burning. That didn’t matter; it never mattered. He’d always kept going, always gotten up again (and watching Tezuka-buchou get up again during his match with Atobe had been the moment he’d known he belonged here after all, really belonged). One point to him, with a Snake that Sanada just barely missed. One point to Sanada when he he returned a Drive A deep to the corner, without even shifting his stance, and curled his lip. Ryouma narrowed his eyes and put everything he had into a Drive B, sending it curving high and tight over Sanada’s racquet. He aimed the next serve beside Sanada’s left foot and made an annoyed noise, too out of breath to swear, when Sanada scooped it up easily and dropped it just over the net. He could feel Sanada’s eyes on him like he could feel the sun beating down on his neck, feel Sanada watching his feet, gauging his speed as he dashed forward to catch the drop shot, and he knew Sanada would see he was just a little slower than he had been. The calculating part of his head knew that was a bad thing. But he couldn’t think about that; it couldn’t matter. He’d just keep going and make it not matter!

    He made it just in time and batted the ball back over the net. He lunged for the return Sanada sliced deep into the back of his court, and missed it by almost a foot. Thirty all. He could feel his legs shaking.

    This had never happened before. He could match Sanada’s game, he knew he could; he was still matching it! But he wasn’t pushing the pace any more, and he knew in his bones that was a mistake.

    Two more points. Two more points, and then he’d have the game, and the advantage. He could hear someone in the stands yelling the same thing, but only distantly. Right now, nothing mattered but what was here on the court, and that meant him and Sanada and this win. Ryouma worked his fingers around the ball, testing his grip; his hand tingled a little, but he was used to that. Most of the people he played hit heavier balls than he did. He still had the grip and control to do this.

    Fuji-senpai’s Disappearing Serve cut over the net, and Ryouma rocked up on his toes; even if Sanada could return, the spin on it would send it into Ryouma’s left court and a forehand drive should…

    “How naive are you?” Sanada demanded, stance sliding smoothly back to cut the ball again in the opposite direction. Ryouma missed the return by more than a foot, this time. “Don’t think inferior techniques will work with me! If you’re reduced to that, you have no business on this court!”

    Ryouma tugged down his cap, eyes narrow, and stalked back to serve again. Inferior techniques, huh? Fine, then. He’d damn well beat Sanada at his own game, and make him eat those words. He got enough of that crap from his dad, he wasn’t taking it from anyone he could beat. He feinted toward the net, inviting another of those bruising deep drives and whipped it back across with Wind, aimed as low as he could and still give it full speed. He grinned when the point was called; he could almost hear Sanada sniff. Deuce.

    He half expected it when Sanada gave him back a Snake for the next return, ball curving tight and vicious out around the reach of his racquet, exactly the move Ryouma had taken the first point with. Even though it meant the advantage to Sanada, Ryouma still smirked at his opponent, pleased with having goaded Sanada into answering him like that. Sanada seemed to realize it, too, and drew himself up with a dark look. Ryouma spared one ragged breath to laugh.

    The next rally was a long one, both of them fighting for the point, and Ryouma could feel how fragile his edge was now. He didn’t dare stop, didn’t dare pause, because the instant he did, all the fatigue he’d built up would crash down. He had to stay hot and in the moment, one drive after another, turning three Fires in a row back across the net when Sanada tried to drive him back with sheer force. Was he going for a drop shot? Ryouma set his feet and gritted his teeth, getting ready to smash his way forward.

    Another of those high lobs flashed far over his head and came down hard on the baseline.

    Ryouma wavered on his feet for a breath, and then he muttered a low curse in English as the referee called the game. Five to six, and Sanada had the advantage now.

    Ryouma was really getting to hate those lobs.

    All right, then, he’d just have to take this game and force a tiebreak. Ryouma set himself back in his court to receive, watching Sanada with narrow eyes.

    Sanada was watching him back. “I’ll credit you with amazing potential,” he finally said, “but you’ve picked up this sword too early. I know of only three players in the junior high school circuit who have achieved a completed state of no-self. Rikkai’s captain, Yukimura, is one. Kyuushuu’s Chitose is another. Both of them have the endurance and strength of body to support it.” He turned on his heel and strode back to his baseline, and Ryouma’s eyes widened at the sudden, breathless pressure reaching over the net. “The third, of course, is me,” Sanada finished, perfectly even, turning to face the net, and Ryouma nearly rocked back on his heels from the force of Sanada’s gaze falling on him.

    He didn’t, though. He breathed deep and settled down into himself, reaching for the edge of that clarity again. It wouldn’t come, not completely; he couldn’t feel that perfect transparency reaching from his his fingertips to his spine and back, not this time. But it was enough to see Sanada’s serve coming and meet it with both hands on his racquet, to see the set of Sanada’s racquet that meant another high lob and be back at his baseline to catch it.

    He could feel the heat of the moment starting to burn higher, fiercer, letting him move faster. He caught one ball, another, lost the third into the net, spinning wildly. He was back to receive the next serve before the net ball had stopped bouncing after being swatted out, and the new ball came scorching in, aimed low. Sanada missed the return when Ryouma spun it into a Drive B, but the next serve hit his racquet as hard as Fire and he was too far back on the court to return it cleanly. Next serve.

    He could feel his strength burning away, feel the end of it coming like the edge of a cliff, and he didn’t know how far the fall would be. He’d never crossed that edge before. But he wasn’t going to stop.

    He wasn’t sure he knew how to stop.

    He didn’t think he would, even if he did know.

    He was a member of Seigaku, and their captain was the one who’d stood up and played for almost another hour after his shoulder gave out. Ryouma had found a team where he belonged.

    Deuce. A Fire he was just a little too slow to catch in his center of gravity, and advantage to Sanada. A feint toward Drive A ending with a drop shot, and deuce again. Another lob, and Ryouma stumbled as he dashed to catch it and missed. Advantage to Sanada again.

    Ryouma felt like every next step might take him over the edge of the cliff. He kept moving anyway. He had to take this game and send them to tie-break so he could find the end of this match. He needed two points somehow. Somehow. He ran forward and jumped to smash Sanada’s return deep into the corner, watched Sanada’s grip shift as he spun and dashed to catch it, every movement sharp as a knife, sure as the tide coming in. Ryouma felt the muscles of his legs shaking and knew he wouldn’t be able to make it back to the baseline to catch the next lob that was coming.

    There was still a way to return it, though.

    Before the thought even completed itself, he was running, leaping, scaling the referee’s chair to give him the boost up he needed and reaching for the sky, for the ball flying above him, tightening his half numbed grip so he could send the ball back down in a Cool Drive. He could make the shot work this time and Sanada wouldn’t be able to return it, he could feel the sureness in the pit of his stomach as every muscle tensed, ready. This was the shot he needed, to take this point and the next. He reached up…

    The ball sailed past just above his racquet.

    Ryouma landed hard, pitching onto his knees as his legs gave way. He stared at the ball, the last ball, bouncing away from the baseline.

    “Game and set!” he heard, over his head. “Game won by Sanada. Game count seven to five.” The stands exploded in cheers and groans. Ryouma didn’t move.

    He’d lost. Again.

    He didn’t move until a shadow fell across him and he looked up to see Sanada looking down at him. For a long moment, they were both silent.

    Finally, Sanada hmphed under his breath and bent to grip Ryouma’s elbow and haul him back to his feet. And kept hold of him when he almost fell again. “If you use no-self before you have the strength to sustain it,” Sanada said, quiet and flat, “this will always be the ending you face. Remember it.” He held out his free hand and after a moment Ryouma gritted his teeth and shook it to end the match, glaring up from under the brim of his cap.

    “Next time, I’ll win,” he said fiercely. Whatever it took, he’d find a way.

    Sanada examined him, head to foot. “We’ll see.” Momo was beside them, then, hand under Ryouma’s arm to take his weight away from Sanada, and Sanada turned back toward his own team. Over his shoulder he added, “Tell Tezuka I said he made a good choice.”

    Ryouma frowned after him, leaning on Momo. A good choice about what? About Ryouma? Well, yeah, he guessed it looked good from Rikkai’s point of view, but… but Sanada hadn’t been smirking enough to mean it that way. So what was good about it?

    “Hey, are you all right?” Momo asked, low, turning him back toward Seigaku’s bench as the rest of his senpai spilled onto the court and hurried toward them.

    “I’ll live,” Ryouma muttered, hanging on to Momo as his steps wobbled left and right unpredictably. His legs felt like boiled noodles and he could feel, now, how raw his lungs were from panting for breath. And there was no victory to counter-balance the exhaustion. He’d never felt like this, before, and he was a little glad Momo was hanging on to him so he knew something was still solid.

    “Echizen, are you all right?” Ooishi nearly pounced on them. “Is anything strained? Can you tell yet?”

    “That was amazing,” Kikumaru broke in, wide-eyed. “Hey, Ochibi, what was that you did at the beginning and end, there?”

    “Here, drink this,” Inui added before Ryouma could answer either of them, not that he’d really intended to, and wrapped Ryouma’s fingers around a suspiciously opaque water bottle. “Keep moving a little, if you can.” He nodded to Momo, whose arm tightened around Ryouma.

    Ryouma rolled his eyes, comforted by how normal all the fuss was in this deeply abnormal situation. He managed to drop the probable Inui Juice over the wall as Momo helped him hobble up and down a little, and grinned faintly when Kachirou oh-so-casually dropped a towel over it and looked around innocently. Everything as usual, even if Ryouma was feeling like someone had turned his world with the “this end up” arrow pointing sideways.

    “All right, all of you pipe down,” Ryuuzaki-sensei finally called over the chatter. “We lost the match. Well, we’re still second place at Regionals and that means we’re going to Nationals. So everybody is going to train even harder from now on, understand?” Everyone straightened up a little at that, even Ryouma. Rikkai had won Nationals last year, he remembered, so they’d almost certainly be playing Rikkai again in the end. He would have another chance.

    Training, yes, he needed to train harder obviously. To train for strength, the way he’d never really had to before. Ryouma’s eyes narrowed and he nodded sharply to himself. He’d do it.

    He looked up as Momo-senpai chuckled. “What?”

    Momo was smiling down at him. “Nothing. Glad to see you’re back, that’s all.”

    Ryouma huffed. “I’m fine Momo-senpai.”

    Or, at least, he would be. He’d make sure of it, the way he always did. Ryouma set his jaw and wobbled off the court with determination, dragging Momo along.


    Genichirou got through the closing ceremonies only by reminding himself firmly that none of them would be allowed up to see Yukimura until he was out of recovery and awake. There was no point in rushing now.

    The thought made him flick a look over at the second place row, where Echizen was standing upright by dint of pure stubbornness, at least if the way his friend Momoshiro hovered discreetly behind him was anything to judge by. Genichirou admitted to being a little impressed that the boy hadn’t passed out again at the end of their match. Tezuka had most definitely left something interesting behind, for him to meet, and more of a challenge than Genichirou had been able to believe at first.

    Not that that would help Seigaku when Yukimura returned, and Rikkai was at full strength again.

    He stepped forward when first place was called to accept the plaque, latest in a long line of first place awards Rikkai had taken from the Regional tournament over the years. The weight of polished wood and metal in his hands settled some of the fear that kept trying to climb out of the back of his mind and make his shoulders tighten. They had won. He would not claim that they had kept their part of the promise perfectly; today’s two losses in singles nipped at him like flies under the hot sun. But they had won the tournament and Rikkai remained undefeated as a team. Surely that would be enough to satisfy fate, to coax the world back onto its right path. Surely.

    He shook his head impatiently, banishing his wandering thoughts, and stood straight to acknowledge the cheers from the stands, for the eight teams1 going on to Nationals. He waited with an iron grip on his patience while everyone else filed out of the courts. And finally it was time to go.

    They weren’t running, but all seven of them moved fast, down the broad walks of the Arena courts, passing by one group after another. A few of the other clubs gave them startled looks, probably wondering what all the urgency was, now the matches were over. People in Rikkai’s uniform quietly cleared their way, though, knowing where they must be going.

    “We should arrive just about the time he comes out of Recovery, if there are no complications,” Renji said quietly at his shoulder, and Genichirou thrust down the abrupt spike of tension at the very word ‘complications’.

    Akaya, of course, wasn’t so reserved. “There won’t be, right?” he asked, looking back and forth between them anxiously. “You said it was a common treatment, right?”

    Genichirou’s mouth tightened, and it was Renji who laid a hand on Akaya’s shoulder. “The treatment is common and proven, yes. But this particular surgical approach is relatively new, and… well, it requires more expertise.”

    Akaya was chewing on his lip, as they spilled out the entry arch and down the steps toward the bus stop. Marui was walking close enough to Jackal that their shoulders bumped. Genichirou could feel their tension in his own back and shoulders. “It will be fine,” he told them, glaring straight ahead of him as if he could command the universe, the way he had the tennis club this year.

    Ten minutes until the bus came. Thirty to Shimbashi station. Only fifteen to Yokohama station, but another bus to the hospital after that, and Genichirou had to force himself not to fidget with the strap of his bag as he watched blindly out the window with only half an ear on the sound of Akaya wheedling some of Marui’s stash of sweets out of him. Akaya didn’t particularly like sweets, so it was probably a bid to divert his senpai. Sometimes it occurred to Genichirou that Akaya would probably make quite a good captain, next year, and he turned the thought over a bit to distract himself.

    Finally they were at Kanai Hospital and Genichirou went to the desk to ask about Yukimura.2

    “Yukimura-kun, yes.” The receptionist smiled at him, cheerful. “He should be back in his room in about half an hour. You have very good timing!”

    “Thank you,” Genichirou muttered, and stalked across the waiting room to his team. “Thirty minutes,” he said, curt, and sat himself down in one of the flimsy plastic chairs. They settled around him, shifting now and then on the uncomfortable seats, staring at faded schedules and posters on the walls, fiddling with cel phones, and breathing shallowly in the harsh, chill air.

    After the past year, Genichirou was convinced that hospital waiting rooms were actually a refined instrument of torture, designed as the master-work of a career sadist. The single time he’d said so, however, Renji had laughed out loud, and he’d kept his grumbling to himself after that.

    Glancing over at his friend, he thought both of them could use some distraction from today’s torture and asked quietly, “Echizen. What did you think of him?”

    Renji leaned back in his chair, the stiffness of his spine relaxing a little. “Interesting. He obviously has a great deal of experience; probably more than either of us had, at that age.”

    Which suggested something rather unusual, considering how long they’d both been playing. Genichirou frowned. “You think he’s the son of a pro, maybe?”

    “Not a current one, or I’d have known already.” Renji tapped his fingers thoughtfully on his knee. “I’ll check. At any rate, he’s stubborn and reckless, as I’m sure we could all recognize,” the whole team glanced at Akaya, who sat up and looked indignant, “but I judge it’s very likely that, up until today, he’s always had the ability to back that up.”

    “That last move,” Niou murmured, arms crossed as he slouched down in his chair until it creaked. “He knew exactly what he was doing. If he’d been strong enough to pull it off he’d have gotten his two points, and you’d have been six games all.”

    Genichirou eyed him. “A deep drive, even if he’d made it, wouldn’t have escaped me, and certainly not twice in a row.”

    Niou smiled, sharp and fey. “That wasn’t what he was going for. The way he was coiling up to launch the shot… he was trying to deform the ball enough to affect its path on the bounce.”

    “Could he really have hit it that hard?” Jackal asked, dubiously. “He’s good, yes, I could see that too, but he’s still a first year. A small first year, at that.”

    “Hmm.” Renji’s eyes gleamed, focused on a problem rather than their mutual fears. “He would have, effectively, had his whole weight behind the drive. It would be a considerable gamble, but possible if he caught the right angle.”

    Genichirou sat back with a thoughtful sound; perhaps the match had been closer than he’d thought. “If he hadn’t run out of strength… if he’d made that leap a little higher…” A smile tugged at his lips. “Very interesting.” He doubted Echizen would be able to quite match the first tier players until he grew into a little more raw strength, but the boy was astonishingly close already. He glanced over at Akaya. “Watch out for this one next year.”

    Akaya’s eyes were bright and hard as he lifted his chin. “I’ll look forward to a rematch.”

    Genichirou nodded, satisfied.

    “Sanada-kun?” the receptionist called. “You can go up now.”

    Finally! Genichirou discarded the analysis of the game instantly and strode for the stairs with his team crowding behind him. Four floors up and down the hall, and they were once again facing the scuffed wood door with Yukimura’s name in the slot beside it. Genichirou took one last breath for courage, and opened it to see the results of what he himself had urged Yukimura to do.

    Yukimura was sitting up with the bed raised behind his shoulders and he smiled a little to see all of them. “Come in,” he said quietly, voice huskier than usual.

    They crowded into the small, sparse, pale room and surrounded the bed, a little hesitant. Genichirou caught Marui also eyeing the small bulk of bandages he could see under Yukimura’s loose shirt. The hesitance evaporated when Yukimura lifted his brows at them, though. “Well? Tell me how it went.”

    “We won,” Genichirou told him, getting the important parts out of the way first, “though not without two losses in singles.” He wanted to ask Yukimura if the surgery had been successful, but… maybe Seiichi didn’t know yet. Maybe something had gone wrong and he didn’t want to say so to the whole team. Genichirou’s fingers tightened on the rough, cotton spread under them. “Rikkai won, though.”

    “Ah, good.” Yukimura leaned back against the pillows behind him and murmured, “So did I.”

    Ease ran through them like the slackening of a rope suddenly unknotted, audible breaths and half exclamations and brightening, relieved smiles. Yukimura half laughed, catching it short and said, “Don’t make me laugh right now, that still hurts.” The murmurs of agreement didn’t do a thing to dampen the grins surrounding the bed. Genichirou carefully uncurled his fist from around Yukimura’s blankets and let his bag slip to the floor as his shoulders settled. “Do you want the whole account now?” he asked.

    “Mm.” Yukimura’s mouth twisted a little. “I’m still on some fairly strong pain-killers right now. Though the dreams waking up again were very interesting, I must say; I’ll have to remember some of those images for when I have my sketch pad again. The red sakura was especially striking. Just give me the overview, for now.”

    Genichirou blinked a bit; the drugs must be strong for Yukimura to ramble like that. He nodded to Renji and gave the wide-eyed Akaya a quelling look before he could speak. Yagyuu rested a quieting hand on Akaya’s shoulder, and their youngest member settled under it obediently, only nibbling his lip as he watched Yukimura.

    “Seigaku is strong this year,” Renji reported dispassionately. “Tezuka has gathered players who seem just as driven as he is himself. They’re weak in doubles, and not quite as strong as we are in singles, but the gap isn’t as wide as would be comfortable.”

    “Especially for a very driven team,” Yukimura mused. “They won’t be idle for the next month, not after losing. You’ll need me for Nationals, then.”

    “Will you be able to play by then?” Jackal asked, dark eyes level on Yukimura. “Something as intensive as our training… Yukimura, that usually isn’t started for six weeks after even minor surgery.”

    Genichirou straightened sharply. He hadn’t heard that before now! Glancing around, he saw Yagyuu and Niou also frowning, Akaya and Marui looking shocked. Renji and Yukimura didn’t seem startled at all, and Genichirou thought of a few things he was going to say to them about that, later.

    “In two weeks I should be off all the post-operative drugs.” Yukimura didn’t look away from Jackal, but Genichirou thought he was speaking to all of them. “That gives me two weeks to recondition. I will be there.” The haziness was chased from his eyes as he spoke, and his voice was the voice of Rikkai’s captain. A breath of Yukimura’s old presence, the crushing domination he cast over a tennis court, curled through the room.

    “All of Rikkai will be there,” Genichirou agreed firmly, satisfied by the way their team straightened up and nodded.

    He tried to ignore the bit of tension that re-wove itself up his neck and whispered in his ear.

    Four weeks.

    Three Weeks Before Nationals

    Momo tried not to wince at the heavy thud of Echizen’s wrist and ankle weights hitting the changing room bench. He couldn’t help asking, though, “Are you sure it’s a good idea to increase your weights this fast?”

    Echizen narrowed his eyes at thin air, yanking his uniform shirt off. “I haven’t strained anything.”

    The unspoken yet hung in the air, and Momo sighed. Echizen had been adding another weight every other day, and after a week of build-up, his training schedule was as heavy as Kaidou’s. Even Inui-senpai was starting to hesitate before he gave Echizen each new training menu.

    He hadn’t said no yet, though.

    “Make sure you don’t, okay?” Momo finished buttoning his shirt and slung his bag over his shoulder. “We don’t have time for two of you to be gone.”

    That made Echizen pause as he shoved his feet back into his shoes, and Momo nodded to himself. It was probably playing dirty to use Tezuka-buchou’s injury as a lever to get Echizen to be careful, but it also worked. “Want to come get something to eat?” he offered in compensation. “Burgers. You need protein to build muscle.”

    “Excellent rationalization, Momoshiro,” Inui said dryly from across the room, and Momo grinned.

    “Not yet,” Echizen said, low, rolling both his school uniform and his tennis uniform into his bag but leaving those weights out. “I still have running to do.” He looked up at Momo, and Momo’s mouth twitched up at the corner. There wasn’t the slightest hint of apology in Echizen’s expression. Just a fierce demand that Momo could understand perfectly well.

    “Later, then,” he agreed, and watched Echizen bounce on his toes a few times before taking off running straight from the club house door.

    “Is Ochibi really going to be okay?” Kikumaru-senpai asked, worried, looking after Echizen too.

    “He’ll be okay,” Momo said quietly and smiled a little at Ooishi-senpai’s frown and Fuji-senpai’s dubiously arched brow. “Inui-senpai understands too, right?”

    “Mmm.” Inui-senpai straightened up, tugging his uniform cuffs into place, not looking at anyone.

    Ooishi-senpai just frowned deeper as he crossed a foot over his knee to tie his shoe. “Of course a loss motivates him to work harder. But do you really think Echizen knows how to stop before he hurts himself?”

    Fuji-senpai made an amused sound at that. “This is Seigaku, Ooishi. Do any of us know how to stop?”

    Ooishi-senpai opened his mouth, only to close it again with a rueful look when Fuji’s fingers flicked the wrist he’d injured. “I suppose we’ll just have to watch out for him, then.”

    Momo slipped out the door while Ooishi-senpai was grilling Inui about what kind of training Echizen was up to, thinking about his own month of ferocious training after Inui-senpai had edged him out of the Regulars. He recognized Echizen’s drive, and the outrage and self-directed anger that fueled it. He knew nothing was going to help that except to train harder and get stronger, and eventually defeat Sanada. He believed Echizen could do it, and therefore he believed that Echizen would be just fine in the end.

    He just hoped this wouldn’t put Echizen back where he’d been when they’d first met.

    Momo unlocked his bike and swung it out the school gates. He didn’t turn for home quite yet, though. He rode slowly up hill, deeper into the residential parts of the neighborhood, thinking.

    His very first thought, on meeting Echizen, had been that someone had obviously treated the kid pretty badly. A first year shouldn’t look at everyone he met like he was expecting them to be a bully, and was already planning how to make sure they didn’t mess with him. Watching the glee in those sharp eyes a few hours later, as Echizen demolished Arai and his cronies, hadn’t done a thing to change Momo’s mind. He’d wondered how Echizen would do, in the club; obviously he’d enjoyed his tennis, but always with that edge on his smile, always with that feeling like it was the winning, the proving they couldn’t mess with him, that he enjoyed the very most.

    Momo was pretty sure it had been Tezuka-buchou who’d changed that. He guessed there’d been a match or two outside of club hours that none of the rest of them had seen. He’d figured that was the best possible thing for Echizen, to play someone who was even stronger than he was but who you just couldn’t imagine acting like a bully, or even a plain old jerk. He’d seen Echizen start to relax a little, have fun with the game itself a little, and he’d been proud of his club and his captain for giving Echizen that. Not every school would have been able to.

    Now…

    Momo stood up and leaned into his bike pedals as he started up another hill, enjoying the stretch and burn in his legs. He thought Echizen had been enjoying stretching out his game, the same way. But Echizen had just lost to Sanada Genichirou, and Sanada was pretty harsh when he stood on a tennis court. Momo understood Echizen’s need to meet Sanada again and overcome his loss. He just hoped Echizen wouldn’t recoil back into that hair-triggered wariness of all opponents.

    Momo crested the hill and paused for breath, leaning on his handlebars. Maybe he’d pry Echizen away from his training tomorrow to play a little actual tennis. Remind him it was fun.

    The sound of a ball against hardtop caught his ear and he looked around blinking. When he realized where he’d ended up, he laughed. Speaking of fun, it was the street court where he’d met Atobe.

    Well, maybe he’d go see if there was anyone interesting hanging around this month.

    There was a game on when Momo got to the top of the steps, but no one who looked very strong was playing and he sighed a little. He could kind of go for a game right about now to shake his worries out, but playing a teaching match wouldn’t do much good for that. Oh well.

    “Momoshiro?”

    Momo looked around, startled. He knew that voice and it wasn’t one he’d expected to hear here. “Tachibana-san?” Sure enough, that was Tachibana, sitting on one of the benches back by the trees that surrounded the courts, watching the games with his elbows braced on his knees.

    Tachibana smiled a little. “Did you come looking for Kamio? I’m afraid he probably won’t be back to the street courts until after Nationals.”

    Momo nodded soberly. After what had happened when Fudoumine played Rikkai, he was ready to bet the whole team was training just as fanatically as Echizen. “No, I was just passing. Thought I’d come see if anyone interesting was around, on the off chance.”

    Tachibana’s quiet smile turned a little rueful. “I’d offer you a game, but I don’t think it would be my best right now.”

    Momo stiffened. “Were you injured in that match, Tachibana-san?” It hadn’t looked like it, or not badly, but you couldn’t always tell on video. Fortunately for his peace of mind, Tachibana waved a dismissive hand.

    “A little bruised is all.” He snorted softly. “Karmic justice, I suppose.”

    Momo couldn’t help the protesting sound he made, at that. Tachibana had been the very model of an honorable opponent to them, this year! Tachibana’s mouth tilted wryly as he leaned back and looked up at Momo. “It’s true enough. I used to play a lot like that, myself.”

    Momo sagged against the low retaining wall, bag slipping to his feet as his grip loosened in shock. “You… you did?”

    “Mm. Right up until it caused problems.” Tachibana propped his elbows over the back of the bench, looking up at the leaves with distant eyes. “I suppose Chitose was right when he said my game has gotten weaker. But I couldn’t use that again.”

    “If you were playing like that, really aiming to injure, then of course you couldn’t,” Momo said slowly. “But I can’t believe you were actually doing that. Not you, Tachibana-san.”

    Tachibana hesitated. “Perhaps… not quite that maliciously, no. But just as brutally and just as dangerously.”

    Momo frowned, propping himself against the wall and folding his arms. He was starting to wonder just how much trouble Tachibana was borrowing, here, because he sounded an awful lot like Ooishi-senpai when he was caught up in worrying. “It’s not like tennis is a safe game,” he said at last. “You could just as well call the game Atobe and Tezuka-buchou played brutal, but Tezuka-buchou didn’t let that stop him. Just like Echizen didn’t let it stop him when he had that accident playing Ibu.” He stilled, startled, when he saw Tachibana actually flinch, fist clenching tight. This really had Tachibana wound up!

    “That was an accident, though,” Tachibana said, low and fierce. “It wasn’t the same.”

    Momo considered that; Tachibana was definitely acting like Ooishi-senpai in the worst of his worry-moods. And the thing to do, then, was generally to use logic. Yeah, he thought he saw an opening, here. “It happened because they were both doing all they could to win. It wasn’t on purpose, but they were both doing dangerous things. Whatever happened in your game, that wasn’t on purpose either, was it?”

    “Of course not!” Tachibana flapped an irritated hand. “But it still happened because I—”

    “Tachibana-san,” Momo interrupted, quiet and firm. “If you don’t want to take those risks, then don’t. But that’s part of what tennis is. Do you want to keep playing tennis or not?”

    The glare Tachibana turned on him was hot and fierce, but when Momo only ducked his head a little and looked back stubbornly, it started to soften into amusement. Finally, Tachibana relaxed and laughed. “Do you talk back to your senpai like this, or just to other teams?”

    Momo rubbed a hand through his hair, sheepish. “Sorry. It’s just… well, I’d like to play you some time, you know. And find out if what your sister said about your real strength is true.”

    Tachibana’s brows rose. “Just what did An say?” he asked rather warily. Momo grinned.

    “That I’d be in trouble.”

    “I’m not too sure about that,” Tachibana noted dryly, pushing himself up off the bench. “You play a pretty ruthless game, even when we don’t have racquets in hand.” While Momo fidgeted with his bag, face hot, Tachibana looked out at the court where two beginners were rallying slowly amid shouts of contradictory advice from the bystanders. “I do want to keep playing tennis.”

    “So do the rest of us, Tachibana-san.” Momo hesitated, but Tachibana seemed more amused than annoyed with him, still, and he finally added, “Trust that the rest of us know what we’re facing when we step onto the court, and that we choose to do it anyway.”

    “Just like I need to choose, hm?” Tachibana smiled a little and caught up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. “Good advice, Momoshiro.” There was a glint in his eye as he glanced over at Momo. “Come see me after Nationals, and I’ll give you that game you want. No holding back. My word on it.” And then he laughed, and Momo figured he’d probably lit up like a lightbulb; he certainly felt that way.

    “I will!” He straightened up, reminded of what they were all aiming for right now. “And we’ll see you there.”

    Tachibana gave him a firm nod and turned away, down the steps to the street. Momo watched him go, excitement tingling through him at the thought of getting to play someone like that for real. He’d have to tell Echizen. Nothing like a bit of healthy envy to remind someone of what was really important. Knowing Echizen, he’d instantly plot to come along and scam a game of his own out of Tachibana.

    Momo grinned and fished his racquet out of his bag. He felt like playing for a while, after all, and if there was no one here up to his level maybe that was okay.

    Sometimes it was good to just play.

    Two Weeks Before Nationals

    Genichirou watched Akaya lean against the low wall around the Rikkai tennis courts, braced on both hands and panting for breath. They had been trying, for days, to push Akaya back to a state of no-self, and had yet to succeed, but Akaya was certainly improving his endurance as a side effect.

    “I think,” Akaya finally gasped, “the other way was easier than this!”

    “I imagine it was, yes,” Genichirou agreed, crossing his arms. “No-self is, after all, what you reached for when your old way of playing a strong opponent failed.” Akaya made a pitiful sound and gave him a tragic look. Genichirou firmly stifled the smile that wanted to twitch at his mouth, at these theatrics, but relented far enough to add, “It’s a good thing in the long run, Akaya. You would never have defeated Yukimura or Yanagi or I playing the way you have been.”

    Akaya’s dramatic pitifulness turned into something between a glower and a genuine pout. “You could have mentioned that sooner, Sanada-fukubuchou!” He grabbed his water bottle and took a quick swallow, muttering, “Why did you let me play like that for so long, if it wasn’t going to work?”

    Genichirou wrestled with his pride for a long moment, but he finally admitted, “I probably shouldn’t have.”

    Akaya froze in the middle of another swallow, staring at him wide-eyed.

    Genichirou looked away, over the courts, mouth tight. But he owed Akaya this much explanation, as a member of his team and the person who would lead Rikkai next year. “For a while, I thought all you needed to do was learn to control that overdrive mode of yours. Managed properly, it could be a powerful technique.”

    He still remembered Renji’s voice, quiet and just the faintest bit admonishing, the day he’d said, It isn’t a technique, Genichirou. That’s just how hard Akaya runs away from his fears. The fear of losing, in particular, Genichirou had understood then.

    Akaya was, perhaps, not the only one. The thought pricked at him uncomfortably, but self-deception was no part of his discipline. Akaya wasn’t the only one who’d turned his fears into anger. Genichirou had let himself be distracted and had fallen for a little while into driving his team instead of leading them. Akaya was the one who’d stopped Genichirou before he went too far, out of that suppressed fear. Yes, Genichirou owed him this understanding.

    “When it became clear how unlikely you were to be able to control it,” he went on, levelly, “we were already in the middle of tournament season and I held back from suggesting any alterations while you were still winning by using it. That only encouraged your lack of control, and you’re right that I should not have done so.”

    “Oh.” Akaya laced his fingers around his water bottle, looking down, maybe a little shaken.

    “I’m pleased that you found a stronger approach on your own,” Genichirou allowed, a bit softer, knowing from experience that Akaya needed encouragement from his senpai. Really, he should have seen how fragile Akaya’s game was long ago. “Very few have that ability.”

    Akaya looked up at that, old ambition flickering back to life in his eyes. “You and Yukimura-buchou, you said.”

    “And Chitose and apparently Seigaku’s Echizen,” Genichirou finished, still having trouble believing that last. He hesitated and added slowly, “I can’t say exactly what Tezuka may have done in the time he’s been away from the tournaments, but he certainly has enough raw ability for it.”

    Akaya nodded seriously, and Genichirou smiled just a little, watching the way his focus tightened. That was what he liked to see in his players, and more strategic awareness would serve Akaya well, next year. He picked up his racquet again and beckoned sharply. “Come along, then. Try it again.”

    Akaya stepped back out onto the court quickly, for all his complaining, and was ready to meet Genichirou’s first serve as it whipped over the net. They had been working for almost two hours, and Akaya still hadn’t managed to move himself into no-self, though Genichirou thought he’d come close a few times. What was far easier to see was the way Akaya kept catching himself back from that furious overdrive of his, and the frustration in his scowl and the set of his hands on his racquet as Fire blew past him yet again.

    “Akaya,” Genichirou called out calmly as the scowl flickered darker for a dangerous moment. Akaya stopped and stood for two slow breaths before he looked up again and nodded, mouth in a hard line. Genichirou considered, as he pulled out another ball, and finally decided to see whether an example would do the trick, the way his example had helped Akaya understand what he’d done in the Regional finals matches. “You won’t win like that,” he said flatly. “You won’t win unless you stop running away from the game.” He settled stillness over his own mind and released his awareness of the other courts, the rest of the club, what he planned to do for the rest of the day. There was nothing but here and now, and his opponent across the net, and his heart settled into the clarity of no-self.

    Akaya’s heaving breath stilled, and his eyes widened, blank and dark.

    “Come,” Genichirou ordered, and threw the ball up to serve.

    Pressure and presence to almost match his own blazed up like fire across the net, and Akaya was there to catch the ball, angle as perfect as Genichirou had ever seen. Their rally took off with blazing speed and the cutting precision that Genichirou reveled in. He loved playing at this level. Akaya turned back ball after ball, dashing forward and leaping back with perfect timing to catch even Fire. He was gasping for breath and dripping with sweat, letting no-self sweep him up without moderation, but he was smiling through it, brilliant and wild.

    It was one too many attempts to return Fire with Fire that finished the point, just as it had when Akaya played Seigaku’s Fuji, and Genichirou noted with the merciless clarity of this state that Akaya hadn’t completely shed his need to beat Genichirou at his own game. Genichirou had no particular objection to that, of course, but it showed that Akaya’s no-self was still incomplete.

    He lowered his racquet and let that unthinking perception fall away, subsiding back to all the little, daily concerns of what might be instead of the purity of what was. Akaya’s eyes were still fixed on him, and Genichirou shook his head. “Akaya. We’re done for now.”

    It took a few moments before Akaya blinked and shook his head, settling back onto his heels. “That…” he said hesitantly. “That was…?”

    Genichirou smiled faintly. “That was it. It isn’t complete yet, for you, but you found it again. Do you think you can do it one more time?”

    Akaya looked down at his hands, flexing them, and stooped to pick up his racquet from where the last ball had knocked it. “Yeah, that was… I… it was like…” Akaya took a breath and closed his eyes, lips moving silently. Genichirou thought he caught the shape of limits and win, and when Akaya’s eyes snapped open again they were clear and sharp. His whole body shifted, poised around his center.

    “Good,” Genichirou murmured, fishing out another ball. “Let’s see what you can make of this, then.”

    They only stayed out for another hour, not even going past the time allotted for club practice. Akaya’s endurance was improving, but he’d spent a lot of strength against Genichirou, even before he started burning it with the breathless speed of those perfect, instant perceptions and actions that made no-self such a powerful tool. “Strength training in the mornings,” Genichirou directed as he shepherded Akaya toward the changing rooms with the rest of the team. “And work on your grip exercises during the day in class, too, since you can’t seem to resist using Fire when you’re in that state.”

    “Well, it’s what works,” Akaya protested, stumbling and righting himself with a grab at Niou, who looked amused and permitted it. “I mean, I can see that it’ll work, it’s right there, it’s like I can’t not use it.”

    “Then we will also be taking you around to view more games, where you can study more techniques than just ours,” Genichirou told him, inflexibly. “Use this to play your own game, Akaya, not mine.”

    Akaya sighed and thumped down onto the bench in front of his locker and started untying his shoes. “Yes, Sanada-fukubuchou.”

    “Quit complaining, it’ll be good for you.” Niou ruffled Akaya’s hair as he passed behind. “You’re still the worst on the team for leaping to conclusions about an opponent. Not,” he added with a glance at Genichirou, “that you don’t come by the habit honestly.”

    Genichirou ignored him, which got a smirk, but rising to Niou’s bait would only amuse him more. “Do you have the list of Nationals teams for Yukimura?” he asked Renji instead.

    “Right here.” Renji nudged his bag with a toe as he pulled on his uniform pants.

    “Is he well enough to plan strategy?” Yagyuu asked, knotting his tie precisely.

    “He came off the opiates yesterday,” Renji said, answering the real question, as he tended to do. “He should be entirely coherent by now.”

    “He’ll still be in pain, though,” Jackal said quietly, closing his locker. “Don’t tax him too much.”

    Marui gave his partner a curious look, sucking a bubble of fresh gum back in. “How do you know all this about injuries, anyway?”

    “I had appendicitis when I was eleven. The surgery was pretty similar, just in a different location.” Jackal hesitated for a long moment, and finally added, more to his bag than to his teammates, “It was two months before I was ready to play at strength again, and that was against other Elementary players.”

    Shocked silence fell on the changing room.

    “That,” Renji said, hanging his bag over his shoulder, “is what we will be discussing today.”

    Everyone but Niou relaxed at that assurance, used to trusting Renji’s strategy. Niou just watched the two of them silently, eyes sharp. Genichirou felt them on his back, as they left.

    “This is going to be a gamble, isn’t it?” he asked, once they were off school grounds and into the maze of residential streets.

    Renji actually smiled. “It’s always a gamble, Genichirou. Even for us, winning and losing often comes down to chance.”

    “You know what I mean.”

    “I know.” Renji looked up at the sun-dappled leaves of a tree reaching over a low brick wall as they passed. “Seigaku will be trouble, if Tezuka is back. Shitenhouji will be, as well, most likely. But we know them both, and we will not meet them unprepared.”

    Genichirou sighed and made himself relax his grip on the strap of his bag. “Yes. You’re right, of course.”

    “The bigger problem,” Renji said, lightly, “will be keeping Seiichi from hurting himself by pushing too hard, too fast in his reconditioning.”

    Genichirou considered their friend, and his merciless drive to advance his game, and grunted. He had no doubt whatsoever that Renji was right. Considering that, he was actually relieved when they found Yukimura in his back yard, merely stretching out.

    “Sanada. Renji.” Yukimura straightened up from touching his head to his knees and pushed his hair back off his face. “Now that I can pay attention properly, tell me again who’s going to be at Nationals.” His eyes on them were as intense as his body was relaxed, with none of the alarming haziness of the past weeks, and something in Genichirou settled with relief as he dropped his bag and sat. Everything was as it should be, again.

    Renji settled cross-legged on the grass and pulled the list of teams out of his bag, and handed it over. “Only a few of these have enough strength to give us trouble. But those few who do will take careful planning.”

    “Hm.” Yukimura ran an eye down the list. “Who’s a challenge this year?” His mouth quirked up. “Besides Seigaku.”

    “Shitenhouji has two powerful singles players and a very strong doubles pair,” Renji recited, spine straight. “Their other doubles pair is… erratic but not certainly not negligible. Shishigaku has only Chitose left, who could match us, but they have one good doubles pair and another strong singles player; I doubt they would be trouble, but it wouldn’t do to be careless against them. Fudoumine has Tachibana, and he could well choose to place his two best players in singles instead of doubles, against us. Again, I doubt they’ve progressed fast enough to be real trouble, but they have a personal cause after the way Akaya played against Tachibana.”

    Genichirou sniffed. “Hypocrisy.”

    “His new team doesn’t seem to know about that, though.” Renji cocked his head thoughtfully. “Speaking of which, there are conflicting reports about the Kyuushuu champions, this year. Higa. Kite Eishirou leads them, and several reports say they play very violently.”

    Yukimura’s eyes narrowed. “All of them?” At Renji’s nod, he glanced at Genichirou. “That might be useful, if we encounter them.”

    Genichirou nodded slowly, following the logic. “I’ll keep working with Akaya, then. The more complete his state of no-self is, the better a lesson that will be.”

    “Ruthless,” Renji noted, not at all disapproving. “The rest seem to present little threat. Makinofuji has fallen off sadly, this year, and Yamabuki has played solidly but has no truly first tier players. Hyoutei could have been some trouble, but they’ve been eliminated.”

    “So only Shitenhouji and Seigaku might be strong enough to force the matches to Singles One.” Yukimura looked back and forth between them, eyes bright and hard. “Should I take Singles Three, if we meet them?”

    Genichirou bit back a protest. He hated the thought; it wasn’t fitting! “That would be… bad for morale, I think,” he said, instead.

    “The power of your reputation is a strong weapon in itself,” Renji agreed. “And if we meet them both, then the second will know you can’t be fully recovered, if you play in that slot.”

    Yukimura leaned back on his hands in the sun-warm grass, looking thoughtful. “So. You would have me stay in Singles One, and hope that I don’t find Tezuka or Shiraishi there, if the match goes that far?”

    “That has always been our pride,” Genichirou said quietly. “That we do not alter our line-up for Nationals. Many of the other teams will, putting their best players in sooner to end the match early or turn its momentum. Not,” he added, annoyed by the irregularity as he was every year, “that the game order at Nationals makes that easy.”

    Yukimura laughed. “That’s the point, Genichirou. They want to see everyone play, if possible.”

    A taste the organizers shared with Yukimura, and which Genichirou had never entirely approved of. “You are the best of Rikkai,” he said firmly. “You should play Singles One, as usual.”

    Yukimura’s smile turned a little mischievous. “Hoping to get Tezuka to yourself?”

    Genichirou firmly ignored the heat in his face, and Renji’s quiet chuckles. “I will play and defeat whoever I meet in Singles Two.” The pivotal slot, for Nationals, the third match that could turn the entire thing one way or the other.

    Yukimura touched his knee in unspoken apology for teasing. “Of course you will.” And then he stretched up onto his feet. “So! Who will play a few games with me?”

    Genichirou recalled his thought that Yukimura was being sensible about his recovery, and chided himself for foolishness. This was the captain of Rikkai, after all.

    His captain.

    He stood as well, slinging his bag back over his shoulder as Renji sighed and shook his head at both of them. “Let’s go.”

    Seven Days Before Nationals

    Keigo waited at the top of the stands surrounding Hyoutei’s tennis courts, avoiding the sun-hot plastic of the seats and leaning against the rails instead, arms crossed. He watched the first and second years running energetically around in the uniform he’d had to pack away, and refrained from glowering, because that was beneath him. He waited until Hiyoshi dismissed the club for the day before he drew his racquet from the bag at his feet and came down. He actually preferred to stay away entirely until after the club was gone, but today he had business with Hiyoshi; business he’d thought to have more time to take care of before he had to retire.

    That wasn’t what he needed to be thinking about right now, though.

    “Hiyoshi.” He caught his successor at the edge of the stands, last out of practice, and jerked his head back at the courts. “Come play a match with me. I think it’s about time.”

    Hiyoshi stopped looking ever so faintly harassed and brightened up in a bloodthirsty way, instead. Keigo bit back a grin. He liked Hiyoshi’s attitude; it was why he’d chosen Hiyoshi to follow him as captain. Hiyoshi’s drive shone fierce and bright enough to hold even Hyoutei’s club, and he’d always had an appropriately disdainful approach to the copious and pointless advice of less-capable senpai. Keigo appreciated such things, and approved of the alertness with which Hiyoshi set himself on the far side of the net. They would see, today, just how far that alertness could take him.

    Keigo didn’t bother with taunts or prodding words, today. Hiyoshi didn’t need them, and had stopped responding much to them months ago. Keigo approved. His first serve was hard and fast, challenging Hiyoshi to catch it and be ready in time for the deep return. Hiyoshi was in place to catch that, too, easy and sure, and he sliced the ball home behind Keigo for the first point.

    Keigo smiled.

    Point after point tore by, drive and drop shot, smash and lob, testing and prying and hammering at each other. He took the first three games before slowing just a little bit to let Hiyoshi try to catch up. Hiyoshi focused tighter when he was chasing someone. Keigo drew him out and out, pressing him to show the true strength of his form. When Hiyoshi sank down in his stance, sinuous and flexible, and caught the first shot of the Rondo on the face of his racquet, Keigo laughed out loud and drove the ball deep into the far corner instead. Hiyoshi’s eyes glinted back at him with silent challenge.

    The ferocity and determination of Hiyoshi’s game did a heart good to see, and Keigo thought that, even if he didn’t have a lesson to teach today, he might have drawn the game out just to see more of this. When he let Hiyoshi take his sixth game, he had to turn his back so Hiyoshi wouldn’t see his expression, or the pleasure he was taking in that blazing hunger Hiyoshi showed so openly.

    Playing for a tiebreak turned the game hotter. When two points either way would win the match, there was no room to relax, no room for mistakes. Even Keigo was pushed hard, though his goal was not to win—not yet. He returned the fierce speed of Hiyoshi’s drive with a cord ball, forcing an abrupt change in direction, and watched closely as Hiyoshi sprinted after it. He only barely missed, and there was no rasp in his breathing, no tremble in his calves. Good. They’d played to 33-32 and Hiyoshi could still keep going. The word Keigo had had with their coach a few weeks ago, about Hiyoshi’s endurance training, was clearly bearing fruit.

    The serve returned to Keigo and he bounced the ball a few times. “Looks like you’re finally able to deal with a long game,” he called, casually. “About time. We can’t have you being walked all over by a first year again.”

    Hiyoshi straightened abruptly, staring at him. “You…”

    Keigo’s smile this time showed teeth. “Let’s see how far you can go.” He tossed the ball up and served with his full strength.

    Hiyoshi bared his teeth in answer, dashing to meet the ball and drive it back.

    Another point, and another, and Hiyoshi was clawing his way level with Keigo every time. A sinking drop shot gave another point to Keigo. A flat drive hit from a leap, higher than any drive had a right to be, gave another to Hiyoshi. In the end it was the Rondo that finished the match, Hiyoshi tiring and just a little too slow to sink down in his stance and catch the first shot before it struck his racquet from his grip. They reached 47-45 before it ended, though. Keigo was satisfied.

    “You were drawing the game out on purpose,” Hiyoshi half-accused, flexing his no doubt stinging hand.

    Keigo crossed his arms and leaned against the net pole. “Did you believe you were really keeping up?” When Hiyoshi nodded, short and unwilling, Keigo held up a finger. “Remember what that looked like, then. There are always a handful of players who use that tactic to unsettle an opponent.”

    “Yes, Atobe-buchou,” Hiyoshi answered slowly, scowl easing into a more thoughtful frown, and a corner of Keigo’s mouth tilted up.

    “You’re the one I chose to lead Hyoutei, Wakashi. Start thinking like a captain.”

    Hiyoshi looked at him for a long, silent moment, eyes steady and serious. Finally, he drew himself up, chin lifted. “Yes, Buchou.”

    Keigo nodded, satisfied, and flicked his fingers in the direction of the club changing rooms. “Get going, then.”

    Hiyoshi dipped his head, halfway between the mocking respect he gave loud-mouthed senpai and genuine acknowledgment. As he passed Keigo, he murmured, “I’ll catch you by my own effort. Don’t wait up.”

    Keigo laughed out loud, and swatted Hiyoshi’s rear with his racquet. “As if I would! We’re Hyoutei, after all.” He chuckled, watching Hiyoshi make his way off the courts, straight-backed and just a little pink. It faded, though, as he thought about Hiyoshi’s admonition not to wait. There was something else he’d been meaning to do, for a few days now. Perhaps, now that his duty to his club and his kouhai was taken care of for a while, he should think about that again.

    Not that it took much thinking. He knew who he had to go to, to finish working out his new technique. He just wasn’t really looking forward to it.

    Keigo took himself off to the private showers and stood under the hot water for a while, turning things over in his head again. In the end, there was just no other option. Tezuka was still gone. Yukimura was still gone, and for all his sharp edge, he’d always been a lot harder to provoke than Sanada. Who knew whether Yukimura would even have agreed to play him, right now.

    Sanada was going to be a complete ass about this, was the thing, Keigo reflected, as he toweled off. That was part of Sanada’s mental game, after all. Keigo was honest enough to know that he was very much the same, but that didn’t mean he was looking forward to being taunted by a player who was going on to Nationals when he couldn’t, this year.

    His eye fell on a magazine someone had left behind, open to an article covering the “exciting” final match of the Kantou Regional games. He curled his lip and dropped the damp towel on top of it, pulling on fresh shorts and a hooded shirt briskly. He’d already planned to take Hiyoshi and Ohtori to the National games, so they could watch the competition and get some practice judging the players and strategies of other teams. He didn’t expect to entirely enjoy that. The match he needed to play with Sanada was more of the same. It was his duty, this time to his own game, and he would do it. He hauled his bag over his shoulder and jogged down the steps of the athletic building to head for the station and catch a southbound train.

    Fortunately, Rikkai’s courts were almost as obvious as his own, and he didn’t have to ask directions from or deal with any of the native students until he got his feet down onto hardtop and issued his challenge.

    Sanada planted his hands on his hips as his club goggled at their visitor, and looked Keigo up and down. “You want what?”

    “A match, Sanada, you do remember what those are?” Keigo snapped. “You should be grateful; you obviously need to play more of them against real opponents, if you almost lost to a first year.”

    As he’d confidently expected, that fired Sanada right up. “And you think you’re a real opponent, do you?” He caught up his racquet and gestured sharply at two of his players to clear one of the courts. “I’ll show you differently, then.”

    Keigo grabbed one of his own racquets and walked out opposite him, breathing slow and deep. He needed an opponent of Sanada’s caliber to test his developing technique against; he didn’t expect it to be easy, but he knew this could work. He fixed his eyes on Sanada and started to widen his focus, bit by slow bit, still as acute as ever but taking in more and more of the court that surrounded Sanada, of the pattern his movement made over time.

    And then Sanada served.

    Keigo’s focus wavered, tightened, wavered again as he chased ball after ball, fighting to keep equal attention on the weight and spin of the ball against his racquet and the building shape of Sanada’s movement across the net. He’d never tried this with a player of his own level yet, and after being provoked, Sanada was showing even less mercy than usual. Keigo was wringing wet and panting for breath, but he could see it. Moment by moment, he could see the shape of Sanada, of his game, of his attention and fields of vision, coming clear.

    “You couldn’t even make it to Nationals this year,” Sanada called, pushing at Keigo’s game with the words, “and you thought you could challenge Rikkai? Challenge me?” He drove home another point and straightened up, eyeing the way Keigo leaned with his hands braced against his knees. “Is this some kind of joke, Atobe?”

    Keigo didn’t spare the breath to answer, just dashed for the next ball, gritting his teeth with the ache starting behind his eyes as he focused tighter and wider, fighting to bring what he saw into a coherent pattern, to make a weapon of his perceptions. Watching so closely, he saw the words that Sanada said too quietly to be heard.

    Is that all you’ve got?

    The ball came back to Keigo and he saw Sanada settle into the stance for Mountain. Before anyone said it, his intention was obvious; he wanted to make this an endurance game, grind Keigo down in his own area of strength. The Mountain was exactly the technique Keigo hadn’t been able to get past, the last time they played.

    But this time, he saw it.

    He saw, for one flash, the whole pattern that Sanada’s movement over time had built. As if they had weight in his hand, he could feel, trace where Sanada’s lines of sight were. Exultation spiked through him like lightning, blazing and brilliant, and he set himself to make the shot straight into Sanada’s blind spot. For one instant, the world crystallized into cool perfection around him: the World of Ice he’d been struggling to reach since he first caught a glimpse of the possibility.

    And then he started, shocked, as the net abruptly sagged between them. The start shook him out of position, and the ball flashed past, and he blinked, half in and half out of that web of perception, watching the net slip down to rest against the surface of the court. Finally, he managed to turn his head to see Yukimura by the net pole.

    “That’s enough,” Yukimura said firmly, coming out to stand between them and set one foot pointedly on the net.

    Keigo glared, furious. He’d just had it, and that point would have been his and turned the game! “What,” he growled, “are you my opponent instead?”

    Yukimura just cocked his head, ignoring the burst of outrage from the rest of the club. “I’ll be glad to play you,” he finally said, and a tiny, infuriating smile curved his lips, “if it’s an official match.”

    Keigo jerked back. He was used to the way Sanada taunted opponents, and he gave as good as he got, thank you very much. But he’d never thought Yukimura had a taste for that! “What?”

    The tiny smile got wider. “Hm. You’ll know soon, I think.” When he tipped his head meaningfully at the stairs up out of the courts, Keigo could only throw his racquet back into his bag and go. After all, he couldn’t very well strangle Yukimura with his bare hands in front of the whole Rikkai club. Pity, that.

    He fumed all the way home, and when he got back to the school grounds he stalked into his own courts and took his frustration out on a box of tennis balls. He hurled one serve after another across the net, the new serve he’d been working on ever since he started wondering exactly what Seigaku’s Echizen had thought he was doing when he leaped for that last ball. He thought he’d figured it out, and the bruising, muscle-clenching force that the technique required suited his mood right now. Ball after ball struck the court with ferocious spin, deformed, scuttled along the ground without bouncing.

    His concentration (and brooding) were interrupted by his team clattering down the stands behind him, yelling. He sighed and cast a rather dour look over his shoulder. Even after it was all over, he apparently couldn’t escape…

    “We got the host-city spot in the National tournament!” Mukahi called down, nearly bouncing with excitement. “They picked us, this year! We can go!”

    Keigo stood very still. This was what Yukimura must have meant.

    On reflection, he might just be even more insulted, now. Him, Atobe Keigo, to take his team to Nationals despite losing? To let everyone say they’d only made it there out of someone’s pity?

    Shishido, who knew him better than Keigo really would have liked sometimes, yelled down, flatly, “We’re going, Atobe! We’re going no matter what!”

    “We want to show our real strength!” Ohtori chipped in, and that argument, at least, Keigo could understand. Still…

    Hiyoshi’s voice cut through the others, sharp and fiery. “Please, Buchou!”

    Keigo sighed and grumbled silently to himself about kouhai who had learned strategy a little too well. Of course, Hiyoshi would know, now, to appeal to his responsibility as his team’s captain. He glowered at the balls scattered across the court, wavering between hunger and outrage.

    And that was when he heard the chant.

    Hyoutei’s chant echoed out from the building that overlooked the courts, and he turned to see what must be the entire rest of the club, and most of their supporters to boot, leaning out windows and crowding the roof. From the roof rail a long banner unfurled. Congratulations, Hyoutei Gakuen men’s tennis club, for making it to Nationals!

    Keigo rolled his eyes. “Idiots,” he muttered. He turned and glared at his apprehensive looking team, sparing an especially sharp look for Hiyoshi, who returned it without the slightest hint of shame over this blatant manipulation. Yes, Keigo was pretty sure it was his successor who’d told the rest of the club about this, made it impossible for Atobe to gracefully refuse, and grudging approval for the canniness of that move blunted his annoyance. “Fine, then.”

    He lifted his hand and snapped his fingers, cutting off the chant into breathless, waiting silence. It tugged at him, that silence, the weight of his club’s eyes on him, sparkling down his nerves with the same tingle of exhilaration, chance, danger as always. He lifted his head and tossed a dangerous smile back at them. “Follow me to Nationals, then!”

    Cheers rolled down over the team, like a wave breaking.

    Keigo dropped his racquet into his bag; no time for more practice with this right now. He’d have to talk to Sakaki-sensei at once about their strategy against the other teams they might meet. There wasn’t much time left to prepare. He gave one more glance to the scuff marks on the far side of the court, though, and smiled a little. Tannhäuser, he’d name this serve. After the legend of redemption and second chances that came if you only waited a little while. He’d polish this, and his other techniques, for Nationals as soon as he had time.

    Other techniques.

    Keigo stopped short at the foot of the stairs up into the stands where his team was waiting. They were going to Nationals. And it was not at all unlikely that he’d be meeting either Sanada or Yukimura there. Two very dangerous players who, by chance and fate and a single second’s delay, had not seen the completion of World of Ice, today.

    Keigo started laughing and couldn’t stop, even when Oshitari made sardonic remarks about the effects of stress and Shishido demanded, more bluntly, whether he’d finally stripped a gear.

    An official match, indeed.

    Keigo caught his breath and swept a glance over his team, fiercely delighted, watching them straighten and step toward him in answer. He slung his bag over his shoulder with all his usual flair, head high.

    “Let’s go.”

    Six Days Before Nationals

    Tachibana An was a well-raised girl, and she would normally never dream of eavesdropping on her brother’s personal conversations (unless, of course, there was no chance of getting caught). But considering the recent upsets in her brother’s life, and especially in his tennis, and considering Fuji Shuusuke’s reputation for unpredictability, she felt justified this one time in lurking just inside the doorway to hear what Fuji wanted from her brother. Especially what he wanted that had him visiting this late at night with his tennis bag over his shoulder. She listened through the barely open door while they exchanged pleasantries about everyone’s healing injuries, or possibly those were threats, or maybe both at once. Boys. Her ears perked up when Fuji asked Onii-chan to come with him.

    “Where?” her brother asked, obviously curious about all this himself.

    “Mm. I was thinking the street court just near here, actually.”

    She knew it! Fuji wanted a match!

    …this close to the tournament, though? An puzzled over that as she slipped back into the kitchen and finished feeding the dog, keeping a sharp ear on the sounds of her brother moving around upstairs. Fuji must want something that only her brother could give him. What was unique about Onii-chan?

    Well, when she put it that way, it was actually kind of obvious. When he came back down with his own tennis bag and called that he’d be back in an hour or so, she ran for her room. More specifically, for her cel phone.

    This was too good an opportunity to pass up.

    “Hurry up, hurry up,” she chanted under her breath as she ran back down the stairs and jammed her feet into her sneakers, phone ringing in her ear.

    “Hello?”

    “Kamio-kun, it’s An.” She slipped out the door, patting her pocket absently to make sure she had her keys.

    “An-chan! I was just about to call you!” His voice turned shyer. “I have these tickets to a live concert…”

    An flapped an impatient hand, even though he couldn’t see it. “Kamio-kun, this is way more important! Fuji Shuusuke was just here, and he asked Onii-chan for a match! You have to come!”

    “Why?” he asked, sharp and focused again, thank goodness. “Is something wrong?”

    “Of course not, but I think Onii-chan might be ready to play seriously again!” An broke into a trot down the street. “You need to see this, you’ll understand everything if you just see. Just meet me at the street court near our house, okay?”

    “Okay, I’m coming.”

    An nodded with satisfaction as she slid her phone into her back pocket and broke into a lope. She’d never found the words to explain to Kamio or to Ibu what had been so incredible about her brother’s tennis, or why the match against Kirihara had troubled him so very much. But if Kamio could see for himself, she knew he’d understand, and understand what it meant that her brother had bleached his hair again.

    And why she had cried when she’d seen it, helpless to gulp back those tears of hot relief.

    She bounced impatiently on her toes when she got to the stairs up to the court, looking up and down the street for Kamio. Fortunately, he was only a minute or two behind her.

    “They came here?” he asked as he slid to a stop beside her, not even out of breath.

    An nodded and took his arm. “Come on, we’ll stay quiet and watch from the top of the stairs.”

    They snuck up to the court and crowded into the shadow of the low wall that ran around it. They were just in time to hear Fuji’s voice, silky and provoking, say, “Could it be that you’ve been overrated?”

    An promptly clapped a hand over Kamio’s mouth, just in time to stifle a sharp exclamation of outrage. Her brother was laughing.

    “You don’t have to try so hard to provoke me, Fuji. If you want a game against my real strength, I’ll give it to you.” An watched Onii-chan shift his shoulders and straighten under the floodlights spilling over the court. Kamio made a startled sound around the hand she’d forgotten to take away as the very air turned heavier.

    “Try not to get hurt,” her brother said, low and clear, and An’s breath caught. She’d seen her brother play, back before he’d moved to Tokyo; she remembered that perfect confidence, tinged with amusement, and she pressed her clasped hands against her mouth, hoping.

    The next ball was almost too fast to see, and it tore by just a breath away from Fuji’s face. An’s heart leaped with excitement.

    “What…?” Kamio whispered beside her, and his eyes were wide when she glanced over.

    “I thought I warned you,” her brother told Fuji, arms crossed. “If you don’t pay attention, you’re going to get hurt.”

    Fuji’s still shock melted into a slow, fey smile, blue eyes gleaming under the lights. “So I see.”

    An was having a hard time not squeaking with glee, and she leaned forward, eager for the next ball. This one, Fuji caught, and the rally was on, flashing back and forth across the net at a speed that set her pulse pounding.

    “This…” Kamio sounded just as breathless as she felt. “This is Tachibana-san’s real strength?”

    “Yes,” she whispered back. “Oh yes! Finally, he’s finally playing for real again!” And then she bit her lip, because Fuji had given her brother a lob, and she knew what Fuji’s specialties were, now. Beside her, Kamio gasped, “If he smashes it, Fuji will just—” he broke off with a wordless sound of frustration as Fuji, sure enough, spun into the stance for Higuma Otoshi. An, though, held her breath, still hoping.

    And then she punched the air, triumphantly, as Fuji’s racquet spun out of his hands, gut burst. “Yes!” she hissed.

    “He broke Higuma Otoshi!” Kamio exclaimed, starting up out of their concealing shadow.

    Onii-chan didn’t look at them, but he answered calmly, “Not quite.” An looked up at a flicker of movement and stared as the ball came down in her brother’s court and bounced past his feet. “Not bad, Fuji.”

    Fuji smiled over his shoulder, sharp and challenging, before it faded into a rueful look at his racquet. “I suppose this means we’re done for now,” he sighed, picking it up. “I’d wanted to play you for longer.” He came to the net and held out his hand. “Thank you, Tachibana. I think I know what I need to, now.”

    “Good.” Onii-chan smiled, fierce and pleased. “We’ll look forward to meeting you at Nationals.”

    Fuji strolled past An and Kamio with a friendly nod, and An thought she was the only one who watched him long enough to see the casual smile melt off his face, replaced with the most edged look she thought she’d ever seen in another player’s eyes. She shivered a little, hoping she’d get a chance to see this one play for real, himself. She’d never seen anyone return one of her brother’s smashes cleanly, broken gut or not.

    “An, Kamio.” Her brother sounded just a tiny bit exasperated. “What are you two doing here?”

    An turned, recalled to the present as Kamio stammered a little. “I called Kamio-kun to come watch, once I figured out Fuji was probably going to ask you for an all-out game,” she said, matter-of-fact. “He’s never seen you play like that, and he needed to.”

    Her brother gave her a bit of a glare, but it faded when Kamio said, husky, “That was incredible, Tachibana-san.”

    Of course, it came back a bit when Kamio added, “Why haven’t you played like that before?”

    An nibbled her lip, just a little guilty for putting Onii-chan on the spot, as her brother’s mouth tightened for a moment. “My closest friend on my old team was injured while we were playing,” he finally said, quietly. “If I hadn’t been using that style, it wouldn’t have happened.”

    An’s brows went up when Kamio relaxed, startled that that put him at ease. At least until he said, “It… it wasn’t because of us, then?”

    “Of course not!” Onii-chan gave Kamio a very startled look. “Why would you think such a thing?”

    “Well, I mean!” Kamio ran a hand through his bright hair and said to his shoes, “None of us is strong enough to be a decent opponent for you, and you have to spend so much time doing the things that a coach should be doing, and when that guy said you’d gotten weaker and you didn’t, you know, grind him into the pavement or anything… it seemed like the most likely answer.”

    An watched her brother open and close his mouth a few times, and shook her head. “Oh, Kamio-kun.” She came to wrap an arm around him and whapped him firmly over the head. “You’re such an idiot, sometimes.”

    “Ow,” he muttered, pushing his disordered hair back into place. But he leaned his shoulder against hers.

    “You know, An, I’ve always been grateful that I’m never going to be one of your players. Your leadership techniques are a little too vigorous.” Onii-chan was smiling, though, and he came to rest his hands on Kamio’s shoulders. “It wasn’t your fault, in any way. All of you were what brought me back to tennis. I don’t know if I’ve ever said how grateful I am.”

    Kamio looked up at her brother with shining eyes. “Tachibana-san…”

    And that, An thought, smiling a bit ruefully to herself, was why she always dodged Kamio’s shy almost-date offers. Way too much of Kamio’s heart already belonged to her brother, and An didn’t intend to take second place to anyone. “So when are you going to give in and play me like that?” she prodded.

    Kamio looked horrified. “An-chan!” She glared at him, and he backpedaled quickly, hands lifted. “I mean, you’re really good, you really are, it’s just…”

    “Not until you show me you can do at least four sets of flyes with half my weights, regularly,” her brother said firmly. An pouted a little, but that was, at least, a reasonable bar to set, considering the weight and velocity of her brother’s shots when he played seriously.

    She’d have to work on her weight regimen more intensively.

    Onii-chan obviously knew her well enough to follow the thought, because he asked, “How has your own training been coming, Kamio?” He tucked his racquet back into his bag and lifted it over his shoulder, leading them both back down the steps of the court.

    Kamio brightened. “It’s been going really well! My time is up to fifty minutes of intermittent sprints before my speed falls.” He smiled up at her brother. “Everyone is working really hard, and it’s paying off.”

    “Of course it is,” Onii-chan said with the perfect confidence that made all of his team kind of glow to hear. An strolled along beside them, smiling quietly. She’d always known her brother wouldn’t be able to give up tennis. He was born to do this, and after Nationals, everyone would know it.

    It was probably just as well Kamio was distracted, because the glint in her eyes as she thought that made her look very much like her brother.3

    Four Days Before Nationals

    Genichirou stood beside Yukimura, watching as the tennis club filtered off the courts, chattering and excited and confident. Of course they were confident. Their captain had returned, the miracle had happened, there was no way they could lose.

    Genichirou envied them that innocent conviction, a little.

    “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked quietly, not looking at his friend.

    “Of course I’m sure. We know, now, how recovered I am against another first rank player…”

    Because yesterday Yukimura had played Genichirou until he dropped where he stood, losing 3-6.

    “…now I need to know where I am against the second rank.” Yukimura unfolded his arms and stretched. Glancing over, Genichirou caught a gleam in his eye and snorted.

    “And you told me to be careful.”

    “I didn’t say a thing about being careful,” Yukimura defended himself, smiling. “I just said you and Atobe should finish it in an official match, not off record like that one was.”

    “That wasn’t the only reason you stopped us,” Genichirou stated flatly.

    After a moment of silence, Yukimura shook his head. “Atobe is arrogant, but he’s not foolish. He had something specific in mind, when he came to find you. I’m not inclined to help opponents with their training when we’ve yet to meet them in the tournaments.”

    “Hmph.” Genichirou settled back, though. At least Yukimura hadn’t thought he’d lose or something foolish like that. “Well go on, then. I think the courts are clear enough, now.”

    Sure enough, Akaya had waved Marui on toward the changing rooms and was trotting across the cleaned courts to them. “You said you wanted me for something after practice, Yukimura-buchou?”

    “Yes.” Yukimura stepped down off the grass and onto the courts. “I wanted a match with you today.”

    Akaya lit up like a sparkler someone had just set a match to, and Genichirou felt a smile twitch at his mouth. At least it looked like they’d enjoy themselves.


    Akaya set his feet against the surface of the court, breathing deeply. He hadn’t been able to play Yukimura-buchou for months and months, but he remembered very clearly what it was like. And it was a lot like drowning in something. He braced himself for the weight of it as Yukimura stepped back to his baseline, and it was still a shock when his captain looked up, eyes suddenly sharp enough to cut, clear across the length of the court. The rush of danger and excitement and fear down Akaya’s nerves plunged him straight down into the response he’d been practicing for three weeks now, the clarity of no-self. The world sharpened, clear and light and waiting.

    It was an effort to pull himself back out.

    Yukimura was smiling, still holding his first ball. “It’s a better response than your old one, Akaya.”

    Akaya gave his captain an extremely patient look. “Of course it is, but I’m not going to use it until I need it.” As if he didn’t know he couldn’t last a whole match against Yukimura, like that. Not yet, anyway.

    Yukimura laughed. “Good.” He threw the ball up and the sheer force of his focus hammered into Akaya.

    He’d never understood exactly how Yukimura-buchou did it, but he’d seen it in game after game, felt it every time they played. Some players, especially the ones who were afraid or just weren’t ready for it, even froze up completely. Sanada-fukubuchou got all old-fashioned about it and talked about sword-spirit and gathering your ki. Yanagi-senpai talked about Yukimura’s confidence and focus and subliminal cues that reached the other player.

    Niou-senpai just said that even an idiot could tell when there was a knife coming at him.

    Akaya drove himself through that pressure, past it to reach the ball, settling back into the familiar balance of desperation and exhilaration. This. This was his goal, and there was nothing in the world quite like the strain in every muscle and tendon to catch Yukimura’s shots, the spike of triumph whenever he did.

    He was catching more of them, today. Yukimura-buchou was playing closer to his level than usual, and a corner of his mind wondered if that was the point. Was this a training exercise? Practice in conserving his strength?

    Even with his captain holding back, Akaya was losing ground, though. One shot and then another struck past him, beyond his reach as Yukimura turned his racquet, steady as rock and fluid as water, to spin the ball. One more wickedly curving slice and Akaya was down two games, including his service game.

    All right, fine; now he’d let his instincts have their way.

    His captain smiled coolly as Akaya let himself feel the threat of Yukimura’s strength, and stilled himself into the transparency of no-self, the poise so perfect it wasn’t even waiting. The intensity of it felt like an exact match for the weight of Yukimura’s game, and Akaya saw the next serve coming, was behind it in four strides, felt the spin of the ball against his gut and moved, countering the spin and throwing the ball back to the far corner all in one breath.

    This game was longer, rally after rally as the ball sang back and forth between them, and Akaya only lost after he’d taken three points. Observations came together without any words to frame them, in the back of his head, and sent him diving into the fourth game. When Yukimura jumped to serve or to smash the ball, he pulled up just a little short. His drives had all the finesse Akaya remembered in muscle and bone, but less strength. His breath had a faint catch in it at the top. All those things braided together and called fast, hard shots out of Akaya’s hands.

    This game, Akaya took. The next, as well, snatching the last two points with the driving force of Fire twice in a row.

    Startlement was enough to shake Akaya out of no-self, and he straightened up, puzzled. He’d seen Yukimura-buchou return Fire, with no more apparent trouble than any other shot, stealing the force from it with seeming ease. “Buchou…?”

    Yukimura’s eyes gleamed like steel across the court. “No time for that right now, Akaya. Come.” The weight of his presence abruptly turned overwhelming, towering up like a tsunami wave. Adrenaline spiked through Akaya, and plunged him back into no-self, into the space of pure perception and action that might stand a chance of answering that same state in his captain.

    There was no time for thought, no time for evaluation or planning, only time to move, to see, to move again. Another game to Yukimura. Another, by one point, to Akaya. He could feel his strength starting to drain, though, the fine edge of his responses blunting. The last two games went fast, and they didn’t go to him.

    Akaya stumbled to his knees as match point cut past his racquet, and stayed there for a few moments, gasping for breath as he slid back out of no-self into the everyday tangle of “won” and “lost” and “oh yeah, it’s hot out.” It had been closer than he’d ever come before, this match, and he was satisfied and frustrated at the same time. Especially since, looking back on it, there had definitely been something odd about Yukimura-buchou’s game.

    “That was definitely more painful than I’d hoped it would be.” There was a breathless edge in his captain’s voice, and Akaya looked up to find him leaning hard against one of the net posts with Sanada-fukubuchou hovering beside him. Yukimura’s face was pale in a way it hadn’t been since the bad months.

    “Yukimura-buchou?” Akaya scrambled back to his feet and hurried to them. “Buchou, what…?”

    His captain smiled at him and waved a hand. “Don’t worry, Akaya. I knew what I was doing.”

    “What were you doing?” Akaya demanded, eyes raking up and down Yukimura, not that he didn’t know by now that the scariest injuries were the ones that didn’t bleed. “I thought, at the start, you were working on conserving your strength, maybe…”

    “Possibly a wise tactic, if not quite today’s goal,” Sanada-fukubuchou noted, one hand on Yukimura-buchou’s shoulder as if to steady him.

    Yukimura-buchou laughed, only to catch it short the way he’d been doing right after his surgery, and that twisted something in Akaya’s chest. “I’m measuring just how much I’ve recovered, Akaya. And how long I can play against someone who’s just below our level.”

    Akaya chewed on his lip. “Echizen,” he said, softly, and Yukimura’s smile brightened.

    “Very good. You’re getting better at strategy.”

    “You did win,” Akaya offered, finding himself glad of that, now.

    His captain’s eyes darkened. “Barely.” He slowly straightened up, though, and reached up to ruffle Akaya’s hair. “You’ve come a long way in just a few weeks.” Quiet and serious, he finished, “I’m proud of you, Akaya.”

    Akaya swallowed and bent his head under the weight of that approval, cheeks hotter than even a hard game could account for. “Thank you, Yukimura-buchou.” His captain’s hand slipped down to his shoulder and held him firmly for a moment, steady and encouraging.

    “Well, I think we’re done for the day,” Yukimura-buchou said more lightly. “I should stretch a little more, though. Go on ahead, Akaya.”

    Akaya looked up at that, worried all over again. “Are you really sure… I mean…” He eyed Yukimura-buchou’s lingering paleness and glanced up at Sanada-fukubuchou. He would be staying, wouldn’t he? To make sure their captain was all right?

    A corner of Sanada-fukubuchou’s mouth curled up, dryly amused, and he jerked his head toward the changing rooms. Akaya relaxed a little at that, and collected his bag, and went.

    And he tried not to think too very hard about how much Yukimura-buchou still had to recover, if his captain’s crushing strength was only enough, now, to defeat him six games to four. Thinking about that made his chest twist tighter. Instead, he thought about the training he’d do in the days they had left, and how none of them would let any other team drive them to Singles One.

    They should not let any match go that far.


    “He can be very protective, sometimes,” Genichirou observed, keeping one hand under Seiichi’s elbow as they walked slowly along the half-wall around the empty courts.

    Yukimura sighed, leaning on his hand for a moment’s balance as they turned the corner. “I scared him. I had hoped he wouldn’t notice—that he’d think it was just an exercise in control.”

    “So how bad is it?” Genichirou asked bluntly, now there were no other ears to hear.

    They were at the next corner before Yukimura answered. “The pain wears on my endurance worse than I’d expected. If Akaya had been able to hold on a while longer, I’d have lost.”

    A finger of chill ran down Genichirou’s spine. “Your range of motion is still impaired also. How much of that is the pain?”

    “Pain by itself, I can get through,” Yukimura said sharply. “I can’t pull too hard on the incisions, yet, though. Anything that requires a long reach, or for the core abdominal muscles to clench… I’m barely at seventy percent of what I could normally do.”

    And that seventy percent gained by forcing his way against the pain until he’d almost passed out. Genichirou’s hand tightened on Seiichi’s arm, though he let go again at his friend’s annoyed sound. Seiichi’s steps were steadier now, and his breathing easier. “I think you’d better plan to take some painkillers before the match, if we have to meet Seigaku or Shitenhouji,” he said quietly.

    Yukimura laughed full out, this time, but it was bitter. “They won’t do more than take the edge off, not unless I take so many they affect my game.” After a long, quiet moment, he sighed. “Still, that’s something.”

    “We will not lose,” Genichirou said firmly. “You’re with us again, and we won’t lose to anyone.”

    Seiichi looked up at him, mouth tilted wryly, and there was, perhaps, a shade of exasperation in his eyes. But he sounded as sure as ever when he said, “I know you won’t.”

    Genichirou nodded and stayed close as they made another lap around the courts in the low, golden sunlight.

    Two Days Before Nationals

    Tezuka Kunimitsu knew the value of self control; he’d been taught that from a young age by his grandfather. That was why his step was measured as he walked down the hallway to the classroom on Rikkai’s campus where the place-drawing for Nationals was being held, and his hands didn’t shake in the least as he quietly opened the door. He was just a little late; he’d missed one of his connections in Osaka and had to wait for the next train. He’d hoped to be here from the start, for the first real moment of the National tournament. Stepping softly into the room, he could feel the weight of anticipation already built up, the silent challenges passed back and forth between the other captains and vice-captains in the room.

    Looking down the sloping rows of seats to the platform at the front of the room, he saw the drawing had already started. Indeed, he seemed to have arrived just in time for Seigaku’s name to be called. Ooishi was getting up, untangling one foot from his chair, looking a bit flustered. The edge of silent challenge blunted in a rustle of amusement among the others. Perhaps even contempt.

    Kunimitsu wasn’t prepared to put up with that, not after the way Ryuuzaki-sensei said Ooishi had been holding their team together. He let the door close with a small thump behind him and called down, “I’ll get this, Ooishi.”

    Heads snapped around, across the room, and the weight of the atmosphere locked around him like jaws. Kunimitsu nodded to himself a little, satisfied. No one would be permitted to treat Seigaku with disrespect.

    “Tezuka!” Ooishi was smiling now, bright and relieved. And then he huffed out a small, exasperated breath that said Kunimitsu should have let him know he would be getting home today. Kunimitsu offered a small tilt of his head in apology, and Ooishi shook his head and sat back down, relaxed and rueful. Kunimitsu was forgiven.

    He strode down the shallow stairs, marking their upcoming opponents as he went. Kite’s expression was calculating and chill in a way that said the rumors about Higa might be true. Shiraishi said something quiet to his vice-captain, never looking away from Kunimitsu. Atobe’s eyes were glittering and his smile was fierce and pleased. Rokkaku’s young ‘captain’ was nearly bouncing, but Saeki just watched Kunimitsu, sharp and measuring. Kunimitsu stepped lightly over the long leg Kuroshio’s Tamaki casually stuck out into the aisle and raised an eyebrow; Tamaki only laughed, apparently satisfied.

    Sanada, not to Kunimitsu’s surprise, didn’t look around at all. Yukimura might have been stifling laughter over that.

    Kunimitsu climbed the steps to the platform and murmured his apology for his lateness. Paper rustled against his fingers as he fished out a single slip from the blue box that held the lots for seeded teams. He drew C block. A quick glance at the chart showed he’d drawn a spot on the same side of the bracket as Shitenhouji. He’d speak with Ryuuzaki-sensei about how to prepare for that match.

    As he turned away, his eyes finally crossed Sanada’s, and the fire in them sent a curl of anticipation through him. Perhaps, this year, they would finally meet on an official court again. Or perhaps…

    Yukimura’s gaze was lighter but sharper, fit to cut an opponent to pieces. For now, though, he only nodded to Kunimitsu, quiet acknowledgment that they had both returned to their proper places. Kunimitsu nodded gravely back. If the two of them met, this year, it would be a good match.

    He climbed back up to sit beside Ooishi and watch the rest of the drawing. “How is the team?” he asked quietly as Takashiro was called up.

    “They’re well,” Ooishi answered softly, watching the chart starting to fill in. “Everyone’s training hard. Losing the Regional finals by such a thin margin seems to have inspired them.”

    That was as it should be. “Echizen too?”

    Ooishi hesitated. “I… want you to see for yourself, before I say anything.”

    Kunimitsu held back a frown; that sounded less promising. To be sure, Echizen was the one he worried most about, the one of his team most lacking a clear path to follow, in the game. But he’d hoped that the anchor of a team to fight for would steady the boy. Apparently not.

    Perhaps, remembering Echizen’s blank bewilderment that day on the street court underneath the tracks, he wasn’t actually all that surprised.

    Team after team went up to draw from the black or blue boxes of lots, and be placed by the organizers in the block they drew. Fudoumine fell on Seigaku’s side of the bracket, the seeded team for B block. Hyoutei fell on the other, one of the two unseeded teams in F block, and an urge to smile tugged at Kunimitsu’s lips when he saw Atobe’s disgruntled look.

    “Will you be ready for the ranking matches Ryuuzaki-sensei wants to hold?” Ooishi asked, very quietly.

    The same topic he’d just been thinking on, in a way. Kunimitsu was silent for a long minute before he spoke. “I don’t think ranking matches would serve the team well right now.” He watched Murigaoka’s captain mount the stairs, not really seeing him, seeing instead the team he had built and come to know, this year. The one he had brought Echizen Ryouma into, and given to him as a charge and a cause.

    “But…” Ooishi frowned. “We have nine players, now, and only eight spaces.”

    “Every one of those nine has proven his right to be a part of the Nationals team. The only one whose fitness should be in any doubt is me, and if it’s necessary to demonstrate my recovery, I can do that without ranking matches. If we have a nine-person team, we will call one person alternate and choose whoever seems most suited to any given match.” His team had earned that, all of them.

    It was Ooishi’s turn to be silent, searching look fixed on Kunimitsu. Finally, he nodded slowly. “I understand. We’ll talk to Ryuuzaki-sensei about it when we get back.”

    Kunimitsu settled back in his seat, satisfied, and started paying attention to the chart again.

    Finally, Rikkai was called, and the background murmurs of conversation fell silent as Yukimura stood. The eyes on him were, if possible, even more devouring than they had been on Kunimitsu. Yukimura climbed the stairs with familiar, careless grace, every step sure and easy, and smiled at the officials as if he didn’t feel the pressure of his opponents’ regard at all. Rikkai fell across the bracket from Seigaku, in the H block, and Atobe brightened up at once, even as a few other captains on the same side looked grim.4

    Perhaps only Kunimitsu was still watching closely enough to see the way Yukimura’s hand tightened on the back of his chair as he sat back down. Perhaps only Kunimitsu had recent enough memories of pain to recognize it from only that sign.

    Yukimura would be in Singles One, then, no question, to keep him from having to play too often. Kunimitsu thought about that, about the still-incomplete recovery that flash of pain indicated. Perhaps… perhaps Kunimitsu would take Two after all, and try to make sure of Sanada instead. He wasn’t sure, though, whether Yukimura, and Yukimura’s intimidating presence on the court, would be a good match, a good lesson, for Echizen right now.

    He would decide once he’d seen Echizen play, for himself.

    One Day Before Nationals

    Kunimitsu prowled the edges of club practice the next day, nodding approval as the second years ran by in their laps, pausing here and there to correct a first year’s swing. But it was his team he kept most of his attention on.

    “Kikumaru has improved his endurance considerably,” he murmured as he stopped beside Ooishi, watching Kikumaru playing Kaidou. Pride in his partner lit Ooishi’s smile.

    “He has. By almost half an hour, playing at full strength.” He nodded at the next court over, where Momoshiro and Fuji were taking turns serving to each other with multiple balls. “Fuji still won’t say exactly what he’s working on, but Momo has been making good progress on his situational awareness and his speed.”

    “And Echizen,” Kunimitsu finished, with a faint edge, “appears to be testing the limits of his wrists.” On the third court, Kawamura hit yet another heavy drive and Echizen bared his teeth as he met it and threw it back, two-handed.

    Ooishi sighed, sounding resigned. “He’s been… very focused on his training.” He waved Inui over. “What is Echizen up to, by now?”

    “He’s up to seven kilogram weights for his flyes and wrist curls,” Inui reported. “Thirty kilometers a day, running with ankle weights. And, as you can see…” he nodded toward the court where Echizen was returning one after another of Kawamura’s balls.

    “I think Sanada said something to him, after their match,” Ooishi said quietly, watching their youngest member with worry dark in his eyes.

    Kunimitsu folded his arms, watching thoughtfully. “If Echizen played from a state of no-self for long, I imagine Sanada told him he needed more physical strength to support it.”

    Ooishi made an aggravated sound. “There’s only so far Echizen can push himself until he grows some more!”

    “Perhaps he needs to be reminded of the strength of technique, over raw power.” Perhaps he really would put Echizen in Singles One against Rikkai. If the match chanced to go that far, Yukimura was certainly the strongest possible lesson in the advantage of superior technique.

    And then he realized Ooishi and Inui were both watching him expectantly. He thought again about what he’d just said, and suppressed a rueful snort. He supposed he was another such lesson, yes.

    Well, a match with Echizen would certainly serve more than one purpose, today. Kunimitsu nodded silent agreement and went to gently pluck Kawamura’s racquet from his hand.

    “Come on, come on! Burni… eh?” Kawamura blinked at him, wiggling his empty fingers in a puzzled way. “Tezuka?”

    “Try some precision drills with Inui, for a while,” Kunimitsu directed.

    Kawamura glanced at Echizen, who was suddenly looking eager instead of grimly determined, and smiled. “Sure thing.” He and Inui made for the next set of courts, though they didn’t do it as fast as they might have.

    Kunimitsu took his place on the court, nodding to Echizen and ignoring the sudden rustle of the club as they all tried to draw closer. “Let’s see how far you’ve come.”

    Echizen just nodded back, and the lack of words, cheeky or otherwise, rang a note of warning for Kunimitsu. He watched the development of their first game carefully, awareness of the club dropping back in his mind. Echizen had certainly made progress. He’d always been alarmingly quick, and that quickness was matched with a more solid step, now. His returns were harder, cleaner. The drives he’d developed himself came sure and easy to his hands. When he took his third point with a new drive, ball scuttling wildly along the ground without bouncing, he swung his racquet up to his shoulder and gave Kunimitsu a triumphant grin.

    “Drive C,” he announced to the excited whispers and exclamations of the club around them.

    “A useful addition,” Kunimitsu agreed, “particularly if you complete it.”

    Echizen made a face. “I did. It just freaks out the referee if I use the complete version too often.”

    Kunimitsu wondered for a moment what the referee had to do with anything, and then considered the height Echizen would need, to give that ball the force and spin it required, and eyed the no doubt very handy ladder steps up the side of the referee’s chair. He caught back an amused smile and merely nodded, gravely. Echizen’s eyes sparkled under his cap as if he’d seen the smile anyway.

    That was better.

    Kunimitsu took the first game, and the second, and Echizen’s scowl was only normally annoyed, and only for a moment before he set his feet and gave Kunimitsu a challenging look. His eyes turned distant and focused, and very familiar pressure swept across the courts—a feeling like a storm was coming. Kunimitsu was impressed, if not exactly surprised, when Echizen spoke.

    “Do you do this, too?”

    “Always,” he answered quietly, watching Echizen’s eyes widen and then narrow in fierce speculation. The boy pulled his focus back together, though, and Kunimitsu watched him, pleased. Echizen was already past the first senseless rush of no-self.

    And if Echizen seemed far more inclined to follow Yukimura’s use of it, to stun the spirit of his opponent, than Kunimitsu’s own subtle integration of awareness into his game, well each player had to find his own style.

    They played faster, after that, fast and hard and precise, and part of Kunimitsu’s awareness was taken up with watching how Echizen tracked the path and spin of every ball, reaching and reaching again for answers to Kunimitsu’s tennis. When Echizen took his first game, chatter broke out around them, among the watching club. Echizen wrinkled his nose briefly, and then grinned at the flash of Kunimitsu’s amusement he clearly caught, straight face or no. Yes, Kunimitsu told him silently, ball after ball, I am not surprised. I always believed this of you. And ball after ball, Echizen’s focus sharpened, brightened, and his spine relaxed. Force flowed properly into his shots again, and when he took a second game Kunimitsu lifted a brow, asking if he understood. Echizen just looked back, waiting, silently demanding, and Kunimitsu finally nodded agreement.

    It had been a very long time since he’d let himself play full out, a year and a half since he’d realized there was lasting damage to his arm that the demands of his real game would tear into something irreparable, if he didn’t take care. It felt good, to stretch out again at last, and Echizen’s breathless laugh, ringing through the shocked whispers of the club, said he might understand. Tennis, this thing they did, was for joy, not for pain or fear or ambition, though all of those might be in it before the end. Kunimitsu stroked the ball across his racquet, spun it sharp as glass, controlling the path with a pure precision he’d missed with a year and more of heartsick ache. Echizen threw himself after each ball with fierce determination, thought and strategy burning up in the immediacy of his response.

    This, Kunimitsu understood as he watched, was why Echizen had lost to Sanada. Echizen didn’t have the raw strength to meet Sanada here, without thought, without strategy, without the aid of Echizen’s cunning. But Echizen would throw himself into the game anyway, body and heart, trying to win. Kunimitsu couldn’t say he disapproved, but Echizen would need to learn better balance.

    Echizen took one more game, taking the last point with what must be his completed Drive C, ball spinning so fiercely it broke even Kunimitsu’s control. In the end, though, Echizen’s control of the ball wasn’t equal to Kunimitsu’s yet, and the last game was Kunimitsu’s sixth instead of Echizen’s fourth. Echizen’s eyes were hidden under the brim of his hat as they met at the net, and Kunimitsu shook his head a little.

    “As long as you have a cause to move forward for, there’s nothing to fear in a loss,” he said quietly, under the swell of excited talk from the club.

    Echizen looked up at that, eyes still dark but also puzzled. “A cause?”

    “Your reason to win,” Kunimitsu clarified, and a chill stole through him at the absolute incomprehension on Echizen’s face.

    “Reason?”

    Kunimitsu took a slow breath, holding on hard to his outward calm. The realization settled into his mind, icy and edged: Echizen hadn’t understood. Kunimitsu had left his club with the thought that Echizen had understood and accepted his charge to be come the team’s support, and thereby to let the team support him. Clearly, he hadn’t. And he’d fought Sanada without any cause driving him forward but victory itself. When he failed to grasp victory…

    No wonder there was fear in Echizen’s tennis, now.

    “All right,” Ryuuzaki-sensei called, “enough gawking, everyone get back to work!”

    “Water,” Kunimitsu suggested to Echizen, to give himself time to think. When they were both sitting down to drink, and stretch their legs carefully, back out from under the eyes of the whole club, he finally ventured, “Why did you think I fought so hard to win, against Atobe?”

    Echizen frowned up at him like he’d asked why the sky was blue and opened his mouth, but after a long moment he closed it again and took a sip of water, frowning down at his toes instead. “You didn’t seem to… mind,” he muttered, eventually. “Even though you fought that hard, it was like you didn’t mind losing.”

    “It was a good match. And there was still you to play, yet, so I was confident Seigaku would win.” Kunimitsu watched Echizen carefully, sidelong, as he drank, hoping this time it would make sense. Echizen was still frowning, turning his water bottle in his hands.

    They both started when Ryuuzaki-sensei spoke from the other side of the fence, behind them. “You have to be a lot blunter than that, Tezuka-kun, trust me. And even then, well, his father never did quite get it.” She was standing with her arms crossed and a tilted smile making small lines around her eyes. “Listen, brat, no one has blamed you at all for losing, have they?”

    Echizen shook his head silently, a little wide-eyed. “How do you know my dad?” he asked, low.

    Ryuuzaki-sensei stared. “He didn’t even tell you that? Why that little…!” A slow breath through her nose seemed to restore her grip on her temper, though her hands were still tight on her folded arms. “He went to school here. I was the little ingrate’s coach. I think that’s why he brought you back here for junior high, and it’s obviously a good thing he did.” She waved a hand at the busy courts, the training exercises of the team and the club. “No one blamed you for losing, because Seigaku wins or loses as a team, Ryouma. The team is always here to support you. And for you to support. Even,” she added, with a mock-glower at Kunimitsu, “if that sometimes makes you do crazy, reckless things.”

    Echizen looked back and forth between them. “The team,” he said, slowly. “You mean you were trying that hard… for the team. And that’s why it was okay to lose?” There was a thread of incredulity in his voice.

    “That’s why I wasn’t afraid to lose,” Kunimitsu corrected. Echizen finally stilled, at that, staring up at him for a long, long moment. The sounds of the club seemed far away as Kunimitsu waited.

    “You wanted me to not be afraid to lose. That day by the tracks.”

    Kunimitsu nodded silently.

    Echizen looked down at his water bottle, fingers tightening around it. “I hate losing,” he said, very soft but also very harsh.

    “Hate it all you like,” Ryuuzaki-sensei exclaimed, throwing her hands up. “No one likes to lose! But Tezuka’s right; it’s nothing to be afraid of. Everyone loses sometimes.” She smiled, wry and crooked. “If they don’t, that just means they aren’t playing hard enough or long enough.”

    Something passed between her and Echizen, some understanding, and when Echizen stood he lifted his chin with every bit of determination he’d ever shown. “I’m not stopping,” he declared.

    Ryuuzaki-sensei had a gleam of something like triumph in her eyes. “I didn’t think you would. So what are you doing lazing around by the bench, hm?”

    Echizen sniffed and tugged on his cap. “Waiting for my old lady coach to get done lecturing.” He shot them both a cheerfully insolent smirk and trotted back out to the courts, intercepting Momo as he and Fuji finished.

    “Brat,” Ryuuzaki-sensei muttered, though Kunimitsu could hear the affection clear in her voice.

    “Sensei. Thank you,” he said quietly. He doubted he could have gotten all of that through to Echizen on his own, at least not without a solid few months of regular matches to demonstrate the point in.

    She just snorted. “It’s my job.” She flicked her fingers at him. “Go do yours, now.”

    Kunimitsu nodded respectfully, because Ryuuzaki-sensei’s advice was always worth attending to even when she gave it teasingly, and rose to make another round of his club. They were excited, energized. He paused by Fuji, who was leaning against the fence, dripping with sweat and testing the strings of his racquet with a faint frown, like he was considering going straight back out. “You’ve been training more seriously than usual, today,” Kunimitsu observed.

    Fuji smiled, faint and crooked. “Mm. I thought I’d try it, and see if I could. Be serious, I mean.” He leaned his head back against the fence, looking up at the hot, cloudless blue of the sky. “My match against Kirihara was something new. I liked the difference.”

    “I’m glad,” Kunimitsu said, honestly. He had been disturbed by their conversation, earlier in the year, about Fuji’s lack of motivation when it came to playing a real game. If his friend had found a motivation, Kunimitsu was very glad for him.

    Quiet fell between them for a while, but Fuji didn’t move back toward the courts so Kunimitsu waited.

    “I went to Tachibana,” Fuji said at last. “He was the only one strong enough, who I thought I could ask a favor from. He played a quick game with me, at his full strength.” He laughed, soft and breathless, as though he’d just finished the game in question. “I want to be stronger than I am, Tezuka.”

    Kunimitsu couldn’t completely suppress his smile at that, words he’d once doubted he would ever hear from Fuji. “How is that going?”

    “Well, I think,” Fuji murmured, and straightened up from the fence. “Come play a little, and I’ll show you.”

    Kunimitsu sorted matches in the back of his head as he set himself on the court opposite Fuji. Echizen to play Yukimura, if it went to Singles One. Fuji… perhaps he would put Fuji in Singles Two or Three against Shitenhouji. He was fairly sure of finding Shiraishi there, after Shiraishi’s frustration last year at not getting to play before Rikkai mopped up his team. That could be a good match for Fuji, now, even if it risked a loss. As Ryuuzaki-sensei had pointed out, Seigaku won or lost as a team.

    If both his friend and his protégé were finally ready to play as part of that team, Kunimitsu would trust that Seigaku could win.


    Chitose Senri leaned back, balancing his tall wooden chair on two legs, rubbing his forehead with one hand. “Let me get this straight,” he said to the dining room’s hanging lamp. “Daimaru was saying bad things about Seigaku and you got pissed off and challenged him to a game.”

    His sister, nearly vibrating with nine-year-old outrage, nodded vigorously.

    “And you froze up for a second and he nearly hit you with the ball, except Tezuka intervened.”

    “He even returned the point for me!” Miyuki burst out, bouncing earnestly on her toes. “It was really cool!”

    “I’m sure it was,” Senri agreed, ignoring the stifled sounds of hilarity from his vice-captain. “So then Daimaru started picking on Tezuka instead. Tezuka Kunimitsu, one of the top players in our age bracket, who is down here for rehabilitation after busting up his shoulder so bad some people thought he’d never play again.” Obviously, it had been a good choice to keep Daimaru off the team this year. That was not the kind of reputation his team needed to get.5

    Miyuki paused. “Well, I didn’t know all of that until you told me. But yeah!” She scowled. “He said if Tezuka-niisan wouldn’t play him, that would mean Seigaku must be really weak again this year and he’d tell everyone. Daimaru is really a jerk.”

    “Just don’t say so in front of Kaa-san,” Senri sighed. “So Daimaru won the first match, but in the second Tezuka kicked his ass?”

    “Don’t let Kaa-san hear you say so,” Miyuki sniped back at him, and Senri took his hand away from his eyes to glare at Tanaka. His vice-captain was folded over the Chitose’s dining room table with his head buried in his arms, laughing.

    “Well,” he said, letting his chair fall back down to all four legs. “The way I see it, we can do one of two things. We can kick him out of the club for interfering with another player like that. Or we can throw him to the wolves, line up some practice matches with Higa or something, and hope some of the idiocy gets beaten out of him.”

    Tanaka finally wiped his eyes and caught his breath. “It sounds like Unoki was involved, too.” He glanced at Miyuki for confirmation, and she nodded. “With the two of them encouraging each other, letting them run around outside of the club might just make them worse.”

    Senri made a long arm to ruffle Miyuki’s hair until she batted at his hand, scowling. “What do you think?” he asked her. “Is getting thrown to the wolves enough, or should I talk to the coach about booting them out?”

    She thought about it, pursing her lips in a move that was obviously copied from their mother. “You should throw him to Tezuka-niisan,” she finally said. “At Nationals! So he can show he’s better than Daimaru with everyone watching.”

    Tanaka grinned. “Cut-throat little thing, isn’t she?”

    Senri made a dubious face. “I don’t think that would be the best possible line-up, if we get far enough to face Seigaku, but I bet I can find someone just as embarrassing before then. And maybe,” he added, when she started to pout, “we can have some practice games with Seigaku while we’re in the same city.”

    Miyuki grinned and held out her hand. “Deal.”

    Senri shook on it solemnly, and sent her off to show her mother the tournament medal that had been the occasion of her telling him, on their way home, all about the nice guy she’d been practicing tennis with this month. The one who’d helped her get over her anxiety on the court. Tezuka Kunimitsu, who’d have thought?

    “She has you totally wrapped around her finger, you know,” Tanaka chuckled.

    “Hey, it’s part of being a big brother,” Senri said easily, and flicked a finger at the potential line-ups they’d been writing out. “All right, back to work. Maybe we should put you in Singles Three against Fudoumine.”

    “They do seem to like to front-load their matches,” Tanaka agreed, judicious. “You think we really need me for that, though? I mean, they’re all in their first tournament season. I know they’re seeded, but you said they weren’t really National level, when you saw them at Kantou Regionals.”

    Senri’s mouth quirked. “Yeah, but you could have burned through steel with the glare Kippei’s vice-captain gave me, when I remarked on the fact. They’ll have been training hard, and these are the ones Kippei gathered, after all.” He sighed, leaning his chin in his hands as he brooded over the paperwork spread out on the polished surface of the table. “He was just about born to be a team captain. I think I’m going to strangle him for running off and making me do it, instead.”

    Tanaka rolled his eyes. “Yeah because the poor guy was only traumatized by permanently injuring his best friend, I mean it’s not like he has an excuse or anything. Though shaving his head and giving up tennis and moving in with his mom in Tokyo was going a little overboard. Maybe I’ll just phone up his vice-captain and we’ll lock the two of you into a tennis court and not let you out until you’ve settled this between you.”

    Senri smiled and tapped Singles Two on the sheet for Fudoumine. “Yeah, you will. Right there,” he said quietly, absolutely sure. “That’s our match.”

    Tanaka gave him a long look. “It will never not be creepy when the two of you do that,” he said, filling in the slot with Senri’s name. “Just try not to tear each other up any worse, okay? I kind of want our other wing back, when we get to high school.”

    Senri had to admit, he did too. “I’ll do my best.” As Miyuki’s voice rose in the next room, eloquently protesting the cosmic injustice of having to do homework after she’d won her very first tournament, he grinned. “If all else fails, I’ll sic Miyuki on him.”

    “Ruthlessness clearly runs in the family,” Tanaka murmured, and pulled out another sheet. “Okay, so what about Shitenhouji?”

    “We’ll need Nakamura and Oonita in doubles, no question,” Senri said, leaning back again with his arms folded behind his head. “Shitenhouji has some pretty fierce doubles this year, and I’d probably better take Singles Two again with them; everyone knows how antsy Shiraishi is after last year, so he’ll come in early…”


    “Singles Two against Seigaku, I expect?” Shitenhouji’s coach asked, pencil poised.

    “Definitely.” Kuranosuke reached up to catch another of Kintarou’s wild shots before it could hit the window above them and shook out his stinging hand. “If Tezuka isn’t there himself, it should be Fuji. Tezuka hasn’t seen me play in a while, any more than I have him, but I’m sure he remembers enough not to take us lightly.” Kintarou came bounding over to retrieve his tennis ball in time to hear that, and made big eyes at Kuranosuke.

    “Why can’t I play in this year’s tournament, huh? Seigaku has a first year! I bet I’m just as good as him! I won all over at Regionals!” He jumped up on the bench they’d taken over and leaned against Watanabe-sensei’s back, pushing their coach’s hat down over his eyes as he peered down at the match sheets.

    “Because you aren’t focused enough yet, Kin-chan,” Kuranosuke said briskly, tossing the tennis ball to Koishikawa as his vice-captain came after his drill partner to drag Kintarou back to practice. “You’re even worse than Zaizen at judging your opponents. You’re not playing in Nationals until you can do that.”

    “I’m gonna play at Nationals next year!” Kintarou called back as Koishikawa herded him back toward the courts. “Hikaru will let me!”

    Zaizen paused in the act of serving against Konjiki to give Kintarou a look eloquent with silent denial, and Watanabe-sensei chuckled, pushing his hat back where it belonged. “You’re sure about not letting him play in Nationals?” he said, quietly enough not to catch Kintarou’s attention again.

    “Absolutely not,” Kuranosuke said, just as quietly but fierce. “Kin-chan is a genius, I’m not arguing with that, but he still hasn’t figured out that that’s not enough. Shitenhouji is as strong as it is this year because we have very talented people who know their own strengths, inside and out. Kin-chan only thinks he knows his own strength, right now, and he has no feel for how to gauge anyone else’s. Genius alone will only get you so far.”

    Watanabe-sensei hooked a foot over his knee, looking relaxed but watching Kuranosuke with sharp eyes. “Letting him lose to one of the stronger players might teach him that.”

    Kuranosuke shook his head, adamant. "Yeah, it probably would, but I’m not interested in giving up a tournament match for that. We can set up some practice matches before the fall Invitationals."

    His coach smiled and waved a casual hand. “Okay, you’re the boss. You are planning on letting the kid watch, at least, aren’t you? Not that I think that’ll be quite enough, but it might prepare the ground.”

    Kuranosuke snorted softly. “Since I’d need to chain him to the school gates to stop him from coming, yes. Kenya can look after him once we’re there.”

    “You still haven’t forgiven Kenya for losing that third game against Makinofuji’s Shinokura, have you?” Watanabe-sensei asked with a tiny grin.

    “Not really, no.” Kuranosuke eyed his best speed player, who was currently rallying with Ishida and laughing every time he lost his grip on his racquet. He’d hoped partnering Kenya with Zaizen would calm him down, but no such luck so far, any more than Kenya had lightened Zaizen up.

    “Well, you’re the captain, whatever you say.” Watanabe-sensei evened up his stack of match sheets and stood. “I’m sure it will be a learning experience for everyone.”

    Watching his coach saunter away, Kuranosuke wondered exactly what Watanabe-sensei was up to. He was definitely up to something. He always was, when he sounded like that. Kuranosuke supposed he was lucky that they could count on it always being something for the good of the team.

    Not always very nice, but always good. And after all, it wasn’t like he was a terribly nice person himself, so he supposed it all worked out. He smiled, sharp and pleased, as he scooped up his racquet and turned toward his players.


    Keigo stood at the window of Sakaki-san’s office, one hand spread against the cool glass, watching the busyness of the tennis courts below. “We’re rushing everyone’s reconditioning. You might have told me sooner that there was a possibility we’d be playing in Nationals after all.”

    “If the thought hadn’t occurred to you, I certainly wasn’t going to suggest it,” his teacher murmured, pen moving over a student assignment from the stack on his desk.

    Keigo’s mouth curled. He liked the ambiguity of that. On the one hand, perhaps Sakaki-san hadn’t wanted to disturb Keigo’s little struggle to hand the club over to Hiyoshi. It hadn’t been the easiest thing Keigo had ever done, and doing it while distracted by the ‘maybe’ of Nationals hanging over his head would not have been pleasant. On the other, Sakaki-san had always been very strict about his students advancing on their own merits and efforts, and Keigo had never been an exception to that. He had never wanted to be. So perhaps he’d merely been left to figure it out on his own. Perhaps it was both at once.

    That would be very like his teacher.

    “Speaking of thinking. What do you think about Mukahi’s request?” Sakaki-san asked, glancing up, eyes sharp.

    “Mm.” Keigo turned and leaned back against the windowsill, arms crossed. “I think he’s ready to play. He’s been very determined to not drag his partner down again, and that motivation has driven him hard these past two months. I say let them play as a Doubles pair again.” He met his teacher’s eyes steadily, prepared to stand by his judgment. Sakaki-san had been the one who’d taught Keigo to do that, after all.

    Their coach nodded slowly. “Very well. I’ll leave the decision to you, then.”

    Keigo smiled, sharp and amused. “Of course.” The decisions were always in their own hands, in the end. Not always the consequences, but the decisions. That was Hyoutei’s way.

    That was how they would win.


    “We will win,” Kite Eishirou told his team quietly, “by whatever means are necessary.”

    A chorus of enthusiastic affirmatives answered him and he nodded, satisfied. “All right, then, go get some rest. We catch an early plane tomorrow.”

    “You know,” Kai said, leaning against the wall with a foot braced on it and his arms folded while the others made their way off the courts, “that won’t hold any water with Rin, if he gets really wound up in a match.”

    Eishirou snorted, catching up his towel from the bench and scrubbing it over his face. “That’s why we’re putting him in Singles Three against Rikkai. As long as it’s only Kirihara, he shouldn’t be too tempted.”

    “Hm. You really think Kirihara has totally changed his form?”

    “You have only to watch the video from the Kantou Finals,” Eishirou pointed out. “He hasn’t just changed it, he’s broken his old form. This is the perfect moment to strike, while he’s still uncertain of his new one.”

    “And you’re that sure Rikkai won’t change their line-up at all?” Kai tossed over his water bottle. “And drink something already; you haven’t had enough water, as hot as it is out today.”

    Eishirou’s lips quirked up. “Perhaps what I should really start threatening you with isn’t gouya, but letting everyone in on what a secret mother hen you are.” He took a couple long swallows, though, knowing Kai was right. He usually was, however obnoxious he might like to be. “Rikkai won’t change anything. That’s their version of intimidation. They’ll send Kirihara against Hirakoba, because they won’t think they need Yanagi or Niou, for us. Their loss.”

    Kai’s eyes glinted behind the fall of his hair, frizzy and damp after the practice they’d just had. “It sure will be.”

    Eishirou nodded, short and sharp. They would win. They would prove themselves. And then he would have both the leverage to get rid of Saotome, and the profile to attract a coach worth the name. He thought he might like to see what Higa’s tennis could become with something better than that pathetic excuse for a coach.

    Honestly, some weeks he thought they’d be better off if he had a little accident and drowned Saotome, and did the coaching himself.


    Kippei shook his head over his team and called out, “All right, everyone come here.” Fudoumine stopped their exercises (after a few last balls) and came to gather around him, dripping with sweat and breathing hard but still determinedly on their feet. “It’s the day before the tournament starts,” he admonished them. “It won’t do any good if you wear yourselves out completely today. I want everyone to cool down and go home for a solid dinner. And no sneaking out to the street courts, after!”

    Kamio looked faintly guilty at that, and Kippei had to laugh, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Stop worrying! We made it to Nationals. We’ll play, and play well.”

    “Yes, Tachibana-san,” they all answered, and laughed a little themselves at the rough chorus. That was better.

    “Of you go, then. I’ll see everyone at the gates tomorrow.”

    Ishida and Mori, Uchimura and Sakurai, all clattered off to gather up the balls and sweep the courts. Kippei held Kamio back, and Shinji, after one look, waited quietly by him as well.

    “What is it, Tachibana-san?” Kamio asked.

    Kippei leaned back against the wall of the club storage building with a sigh. “I spent most of this summer wondering how much I should tell you about Shishigaku, if we wound up against them. I suppose I should be grateful that An forced my hand by telling you about me and Senri.” Not that he was particularly grateful, but he supposed he should be. Telling them was the right thing to do. He just wished it weren’t.

    Kamio and Shinji shared a meaningful look, and it was Shinji who said, “You have something to settle with Chitose. We understand.”

    “That too, yes,” Kippei admitted, recalling his own absolute certainty that Senri would be there to meet him in Singles Two, the familiarity of that knowing. “But more than that, I wanted to be sure I told you something.” He looked down at them, serious. “I’m the captain of Fudoumine, not Shishigaku’s ex-ace. You’re my team, now. And I’m proud to lead a team like this.”

    Kamio’s eyes got wide, and he might just have turned a little pink. His voice was definitely shaky when he said, “Tachibana-san…” Shinji only went still, but it was the stillness of draining tension, far rarer than his dangerously poised stillness on the court. He was the one who said, softly, “Thank you, Tachibana-san.”

    Kippei nodded, satisfied. He would always be grateful to these six players for making a place he could belong, where he could find his tennis again, and he would take them just as far as they could all go.


    Seiichi walked home between Renji and Sanada, savoring the feeling of finally being back where he belonged after so long away. Most of the way back, at least. Far enough to be a promissory note for the rest, one that Seiichi believed, had to believe, would be honored. If he wasn’t quite fit, yet, to be Rikkai’s captain again, they believed that he would be, enough to want him to stand in that place and be with them at Nationals, if only as an adviser and icon. The thought warmed him and frustrated him at the same time.

    Not that they were talking about that at all.

    “Do you think Akaya will be invited to the fall training camp, this year?” Renji asked, as they walked through the falling dusk.

    “Surely he will be.” Sanada glanced over at Renji, brows raised. “I expect all of our team will be.”

    “Good.” Renji smiled. “You know he won’t be satisfied without a few final matches against us.”

    Against their real strength, Seiichi filled in silently. Against Seiichi’s fully recovered strength, especially. But none of them said it.

    “I expect it to be a full camp this year,” he said, instead. “Most, if not all, of Seigaku should be there. Probably a few from Hyoutei and Rokkaku. Possibly most of Fudoumine. And, of course, a handful each from whoever winds up in the Nationals’ best eight.”

    “Do you ever wonder,” Renji asked, rather whimsically, “if the real point of the fall camp is to let us all settle any left-over scores and un-played games from the tournament?”

    Seiichi laughed and swerved to nudge Genichirou with his shoulder. “No wonder you were so frustrated last year, when Tezuka didn’t show up.”

    “Hmph.” Genichirou hitched his bag more firmly up on his shoulder, but didn’t pull away. “The point is to work with some of our high school senpai, so they know our potential and we’re familiarized with our new clubs. Why else would they bring the new high school captains or vice-captains in, during the last week?”

    “To be sure,” Renji murmured, so perfectly sober that Seiichi knew he was teasing.

    “The last week was rather amusing, our first two years there,” Seiichi admitted, peaceably. “I don’t think most of our respected senpai knew whether to be covetous or alarmed, over us.”

    Sanada smiled slowly, at that. “It will be interesting to see how they react to Akaya, then.”

    They finally came to the corner where the three of them turned down different streets, and paused a moment, silent among the long shadows.

    “I’ll see you both tomorrow,” Seiichi said, at last.

    “For the start of our third victory,” Sanada agreed, standing straight.

    “For the most interesting matches of the year,” Renji smiled.

    Seiichi breathed in their confidence and nodded, reaching out to grip their shoulders for a moment. “Until then.”

    The three of them turned away as one, and Seiichi paused at the start of his road home. He tipped his head back to watch the brightness slowly fade from the sky, moving on toward the night that would bring the morning of Nationals.


    Ryouma braced his feet against the shingles of the roof and folded his hands behind his head, looking up at the stars starting to come out. This was one of the few places he could be fairly sure his dad wouldn’t find him and bug him, and he needed that. He needed to think, before he played tomorrow.

    When he’d first lost to Tezuka-buchou, he’d been startled, but he’d also kind of thought it was a fluke—that Tezuka-buchou must the the exception to the rule, the one person in his age bracket that could beat Ryouma. He’d thought that right up until he’d lost to Sanada.

    Then he’d thought, little and small in the back of his head, that maybe all the bullshit his dad said when they played was really true. Maybe he really wasn’t all that good. He’d thrown himself so hard into his training this month, not just to get stronger, but also to shut up that little thought. It had worked sometimes, when he could see the numbers written down on his exercise sheets, and watch them rising steadily. It helped, at least.

    And then Tezuka-buchou had come back.

    Ryouma had hoped playing Tezuka-buchou again would tell him something, and he’d gritted his teeth and braced himself for maybe losing again. But something had happened while they played. The longer the match went on, the less he’d wanted to grit his teeth and the more he’d been able to relax, in spite of his uncertainty. In a weird way, it felt steady, even while he’d been tearing across the court, going all out after the ball.

    And now he was thinking about it, the last games against Sanada had felt a little like that. Under the desperation to not lose, there’d been a little of that same feeling, every time he looked across the net and saw Sanada watching him with absolute concentration and attention. Like he was a serious opponent who really mattered. He’d made Sanada acknowledge that, even though he hadn’t won, which he hadn’t thought was something that could happen. It never had before, anyway.

    Maybe… maybe that was how things could work, somtimes. Maybe at Nationals he’d have a chance to find out.

    Ryouma stared up at the darkening sky and thought the little lightness in his chest might be hope.

    End

     

    1. There are eight teams from Kantou going to Regionals, in this AU, in order to make the teams match up better with the population density of the regions. See note 4, below, for more detail. back

    2. Okay, so Rikkai is from Kanagawa. However, the only canon we have for where Yukimura is hospitalized is a sign out front that says Kanai General. There is no such hospital, of course, and Kanai city is in Gunma prefecture, significantly inland and north of Kanagawa. The fact that Echizen is in Kanagawa when he meets Kirihara for their unofficial match, and that the rest of the team, on being notified, arrives by the end of a one-set match, suggests that “Kanai General” cannot possibly actually be in Kanai, and must be in Kanagawa, most likely in Rikkai’s home district itself. The same issue also suggests that Konomi was, despite the clear equivalence with the feeder schools for Tokai University of Hiratsuka, thinking of Rikkai being in Yokohama, seeing as Echizen is only supposed to go “23.8 kilometers” to get to the store he’s visiting when he encounters Kirihara. I hereby declare that, for the purposes of this project, Rikkai, and Kanai hospital, are in Yokohama, possibly in the Kanagawa ward which has a likely looking river inland, and Seigaku is, therefore, most likely in Meguro.

    As for the surgery itself, I’m loosely basing it on laproscopic, video assisted thymectomy, which involves several small incisions in the torso. This is actually a treatment for myasthenia gravis, not Guillain-Barre, and the therapeutic effects take one to two years to become clear. It’s also usually done by trans-sternal surgery, which would be absolutely impossible to play tennis four weeks after. Konomi, you lose so hard on details. It is, however, a surgical procedure used to treat a neural disorder involving an immune malfunction, and is, therefore, about as close to a real-life equivalent as can be had. Which isn’t very, but there you go. back

    3. I refuse to believe that the sharp, scrappy girl we meet at the District tournament, the girl who’s uncompromisingly proud of her brother’s strength, and who approves of Fudoumine—the Fudoumine we’d just been shown has a reputation for violence which is actually pretty well-earned—would be distraught and weeping over Tachibana’s real play style. I flatly refuse. This is the girl who went to smack Atobe a good one just for denigrating her local street-players. An is not some kind of limp noodle, for pity’s sake! She’s a tennis player herself, and in this universe, good tennis players understand the risks of the game and do not protest them. That’s left to the small fry like Arai. I refuse to consign An to that fate after the raring start we saw from her. back

    4. The National Tournament bracket is considerably altered in this universe. You do not need to know any detail beyond what’s in the story to get the basics, but in case anyone is interested, here are some extra details. First of all, it’s divided up into eight blocks, A-H, to appropriately distribute the seeded and unseeded teams. Places are drawn using a box of seeded lots, which contains only one copy of each block letter, and a box of unseeded lots, which contains two copies of each block letter. The unseeded teams in each block will play each other in Round One, and the seeded team for that block will play the winner in Round Two. Shitenhouji, Fudoumine, Shishigaku, and Seigaku are all in the same half of the bracket. Yamabuki, Hyoutei, Rokkaku, Higa, and Rikkai are all in the other half. Two Kantou teams were swapped for Kansai terms, one Kantou team was assigned to a different prefecture, and one Kansai team likewise. Kantou now has four seeds, Kansai two, and Chuubu two. For the visual version of the bracket and a full explanation of the alterations, see the arc Appendix. back

    5. This Chitose never left Shishigaku. Sending him off to Shitenhouji only reduced the centrality of his story with Tachibana and screwed with the Shitenhouji match weirdly. Konomi could have given Discoball no Kiwami to some other player, if he was that hot to have Tezuka confront it. In this version, Chitose’s still at Shishigaku, with all the weight of that history, and, while I’m willing to preserve a few idiot bullies for the sake of Tezuka’s recovery, I’m not willing to suppose that Chitose would have that kind on his team. So the guys who got into it with Tezuka are non-regulars. back

    Last Modified: Dec 29, 21
    Posted: Dec 27, 21
    Name (optional):
    sent Plaudits.

    The Fire Shall Never Make Thee Shrink – Day One

    Rewrites the Nationals matches in which tension and uncertainty still abound, motivations are examined, justice is served, second-years consider the future, and everyone gets extremely heated up. Action, Drama, I-4

    Round One

    Ryouma liked his cousin Nanako, and one reason he did was that she understood how important tennis was. She’d been the one with the most sympathy for him, the times he’d overslept and was late for practice, or even a tournament. She’d even promised to personally make sure he got up on time for Nationals. So at eight-thirty, a wonderful hour later than he usually had to wake up on a Friday, he came blearily out of sleep to a gentle and extremely persistent hand shaking his shoulder.

    “Ryouma-kun? Ryouma-kun, it’s time to wake up.”

    “Mgh,” Ryouma answered, prying one eye open.

    Nanako smiled down at him and mercilessly hauled him upright with a hand under his elbow. “There we go!”

    “Ngh.” Ryouma scrubbed his palms over his eyes and finally managed to mumble, “Thanks.”

    “Oba-san is making breakfast this morning,” she informed him, far too cheerfully for this early in the day. “Get dressed!”

    Eventually, Ryouma got himself washed and brushed and his regular uniform on the right way around, and stumped down the stairs. “Morning,” he informed his family as he slid into his chair at the table.

    “Good morning, Ryouma!” His mother ruffled his hair as she passed behind him to the stove. “So today is a big day, hm?”

    “Only the first day,” his dad put in from behind the paper. “Not that big.”

    Kaa-san smacked her husband lightly over the head. “Now, you stop that! I can’t believe a man your age is sulking just because it isn’t you.”

    Oyaji emerged from behind the paper to glower at his wife. “As if I’d care about some junior high tournament full of bumbling kids!”

    “I’ve said for years that if you want to play again, you should compete,” Kaa-san told him briskly, setting down a plate of toast on the table. She shook her head affectionately as Oyaji retreated behind his paper again, grumbling under his breath. “Here you go, Ryouma.” She took a pan off the stove and served up scrambled eggs and sausage.

    Ryouma nudged the sausage aside; he didn’t think he could face that at this hour. Toast and eggs, though, he could probably manage. Halfway through a mouthful of eggs, however, it dawned on him that they tasted different than usual. Kind of… sweet. He prodded the eggs on his plate, cautiously, with his fork. “Kaa-san? What did you do to the eggs?”

    She smiled sunnily at him. “Well, since I know you like Japanese food better for breakfast, I mixed them like tamagoyaki! Only scrambled.” She took an enthusiastic bite of her own. “Mmm! They turned out well, don’t you think?”

    Okay, that wasn’t too alarming. It could have been a lot worse. Ryouma forked up another bite and chewed stoically.

    He was glad that his mother liked to cook. He figured she probably needed a hobby that was artistic or domestic or something, to give her a break from legal papers. But she also liked to experiment, and some of them were more successful than others. On a scale of one to ten, though, where one was ‘pretty good’ and ten was ‘Inui Juice’, this was probably a solid two.

    By the time he was done, and had slugged down his mandatory glass of milk, Momo was ringing the front bell and it was time to go. Ryouma exchanged grins with his senpai, starting to wake up for real with the prospect of the games ahead. His dad just waggled his fingers as Ryouma stepped out to the entry, to put on his shoes, but his mother walked him to the door and hugged him goodbye.

    “Good luck, sweetheart,” she murmured in English. She was the only one who still spoke it with him, here. She pulled away and smiled down at him wryly. “I know you’ll only roll your eyes if I try to say anything more about the tennis itself, so I’ll just leave it at that.”

    Ryouma grinned up at her; she was definitely his smartest parent. “Thanks, Kaa-san. I’m going!”

    “Take care!” She waved them off, from the door as Momo pedaled his bike away with Ryouma perched on the rear axle.

    “Ready for Nationals?” Momo called over the whir of the wheels.

    “Of course!” Ryouma leaned forward and took a firmer hold of Momo’s shoulders. “Ready for the hill?”

    They were coming to the top of a steep hill, the one Momo insisted on pedaling them both up at the end of the day, saying it was good training for his legs. At the start of the day, it was their treat before school, and today they were coming in late enough that there wouldn’t be lots of other students in the way. Momo’s grin showed his teeth. “I’m always ready.” He pushed them over the peak and they went whizzing down the slope at what was probably a crazy speed, but neither of them cared. They both leaned into the turn at the bottom, skidding around it and shooting down the road toward school, both of them laughing.

    When they got to the school parking lot, there was a bus waiting, and Ryouma had to blink a little. Ryuuzaki-sensei had made a few remarks, recently, about people who were late to tournaments, with some hard looks at Ryouma, and a few more at Momo and Kaidou-senpai, and a downright glower at Ooishi-senpai. So when she’d announced that the team would have a bus to get to Nationals, Echizen had expected she’d rent something.

    This, though, was clearly official school property, painted blue and white with Seigaku’s school crest on the sides.

    Ryuuzaki-sensei was leaning against it and grinning like a fox, as the club started to assemble.

    “Oh wow, our own bus!” Kachirou enthused, eyes bright.

    “We get a bus again!” Kikumaru-senpai cheered, trotting around the thing to admire it from all angles. “Finally!”

    “It’s somewhat thanks to you boys, actually,” Ryuuzaki-sensei told them, patting the blue and white side with proprietary pride. “When the old bus died last year, the principal insisted we didn’t need to get a new one because so few of our teams had to travel much to get to matches. With the boy’s tennis team going to Nationals, though, I finally argued him down, even if it is in Tokyo. Said it would embarrass the school if we didn’t at least have our own bus. It only took a few descriptions of the Hyoutei and Rikkai buses to convince him.” She smirked.

    “Ryuuzaki-sensei is dangerous,” Fuji-senpai murmured, just loud enough to be heard. Ryuuzaki-sensei just sniffed.

    “And don’t you forget it.” She straightened up, hands on her hips. “Well, what are you waiting for? Get on!”

    Everyone filed on board, sniffing at the heavy scent of new upholstery. Momo and Ryouma raced each other, jostling down the narrow aisle, to lay claim to the last seat in back, and the bus rumbled off.

    “So.” Ryouma settled down to quizzing his senpai about the important things. “Have you ever been to this Ariake place before? And why is it called a tennis forest?” He’d had to shake off a few ridiculous mental images of tennis racquets growing out of the ground in groves or balls growing on trees, when he’d first heard the name.1

    “It’s landscaped with a lot of trees down the paths and around the courts,” Kawamura-senpai explained. “It’s really pretty, actually, and it makes the courts a little private, too, if there isn’t a huge crowd.”

    “I went to see the Japan Open there, last fall,” Momo reminisced, slouching down in the seat. “There was a huge crowd, then, but it still wasn’t crowded, you know? It’s a nice place.”

    “I remember the year before that one, too!” Kikumaru-senpai bounced up onto his knees, backwards on his seat. “Federer won men’s singles, that year, and Bartoli took first in women’s. The center court is amazing.”

    “If we do well enough, we’ll get to play there ourselves,” Ooishi-senpai said, pulling his partner back down as the bus braked for a light. “Even the courts out in the park are nice to play on, though. There’s forty-eight of them; it’s the biggest tennis park in Japan. I remember, our first year, Yamato-buchou took the club on a trip out there to play on Ariake’s clay courts, so we’d see how it felt.”

    Ryouma listened quietly to the descriptions, as they turned away from the park itself and toward what matches everyone had seen played there. When they arrived, he had to agree: it was a nice-looking place. The first two rounds were being held on nine of the blue hard-courts, all in a line. Opening ceremonies took place on the wide stretch of pavement in front of the Coliseum, and Ryouma took the opportunity to look around instead of listening to the officials droning, up front. Fenced sets of two or three courts stretched away, off to the left, surrounded by low bushes and walkways, and bordered by a whole lot of trees. There also seemed to be an open grassy field, past the Coliseum, or at least past its roof. The roof was kind of huge, and overwhelmed the Coliseum itself. It looked like it slid apart on runners, too, maybe far enough to cover where they were standing now. That was actually kind of cool, for something so massive.

    That stadium, wrapped in three storeys of decorative arches and the vast roof over them all, was where the last two teams would play the final match.

    Ryouma smirked up at the Coliseum, proprietary, and tuned back in just in time for someone in Rikkai’s uniform to hand a heavy, fringed flag over to the officials. The tournament flag, he guessed. Ryouma was more interested in the player, and watched closely as he walked back to the head of his team. This must be Yukimura. He wasn’t hugely tall or muscled or anything, but something about the way he moved tugged at Ryouma’s attention. It was smooth. Graceful even.

    Prowling.

    Ryouma felt a flutter of excitement, edged with uncertainty. He was sure Yukimura would be fun to play. What he wasn’t sure of any more was that he’d win. But Tezuka-buchou and Ryuuzaki-sensei both said that was okay, not being sure. That it shouldn’t make him scared. Ryouma took a breath and tried to concentrate on the excitement part.

    When the opening was finally over, and all the photos had been snapped, and everyone was allowed to stretch and go find their places, Tezuka-buchou marched them promptly down the broad, shady walk that stretched along the short ends of the courts, and turned in between the first three courts and the next two. Short fences framed the space between the two sets, with benches set against them. The two teams who would play on C court were dropping bags by those benches and warming up, and Seigaku’s team settled under the long, open shelter between the courts and stretched out on the benches or leaned against the shelter posts to wait.

    “Who are they?” Kachirou asked, slipping up next to Ooishi-senpai, who smiled down at him encouragingly.

    “Maikozaka, who came in fourth at the Kansai Regionals, and Joushuuin, who were third in Chuubu. They won against Murigaoka in the play-off to determine third and fourth place, and I heard it really stirred Murigaoka up.”

    For some reason, that made Kaidou-senpai twitch,2 but before Ryouma could brightly inquire why, black uniforms caught his eye, settling at the other end of the shelter.

    “Tachibana!” Ooishi-senpai crossed over to offer his hand. “That’s right, Fudoumine is the seed for B court, aren’t you?”

    “We are.” Tachibana shook Ooishi-senpai’s hand, firmly. He merely looked satisfied, but Ryouma thought most of the rest of Fudoumine looked smug. He wondered if he’d get a chance to change that, and grinned a bit himself.

    “So you’ll be facing Shitenhouji before us, in the bracket.” Ooishi-senpai sobered. “Be careful; I hear they’re very strong this year.”

    “That’s appropriate enough.” Tachibana’s smile bared his teeth. “So are we. And I was glad to see you back, at the drawing, Tezuka,” he added, nodding to Tezuka-buchou, who nodded back quietly. Ryouma thought he started to say something else, but the teams out on the courts were gathering at the net. Tezuka-buchou straightened, attention firmly locked on C court, and Tachibana’s own focus swung back to B court, on the other side of the walk. Ryouma settled down on his bench, elbows on his knees and chin in his palms, to watch their prospective opponents.

    He didn’t really stay interested for long.

    Maikozaka and Joushuuin both had solid players. Joushuuin’s Single Three, Atsumi, had the kind of staying power that always made for a long, hard game. In the end, Ryouma almost thought it was Kinugawa of Maikozaka’s sheer frustration with not being able to take points quicker that made him careless and lost him the match. As Doubles Two got started, Ryouma had to admit that Maikozaka’s Okunishi and Koishihara were a tight pair, and responded fast and well. They never seemed to get tangled up in who was going to cover what.

    But it was so slow.

    None of the players were so far beneath the others that they could be taken advantage of, and none of them were high-level enough to make the points flow fast by pitting technique against technique. Ryouma slouched and sighed deeply. A glance over his shoulder at the A and B courts showed that it wasn’t too different there, and he sulked a little in Shishigaku’s direction. That was where that guy Chitose was supposed to be, the one who used no-self like Sanada and Yukimura. No such thing was anywhere in evidence, though. Ryouma flexed his feet a little, wondering if he could use the excuse of warming up to go do something more interesting.

    Tezuka-buchou’s voice broke his brooding. “Ooishi, it would be wise to see how the other side of the bracket is doing. Take the first years with you and check, will you? It will be good for them to hear what you see happening.”

    Ryouma straightened up, hopeful, and he could almost hear Tezuka-buchou rolling his eyes behind that straight face. “Echizen, go along with them. You’ll be useless if you wear yourself out before we even play.”

    Ryouma knew that was a reprimand, but he didn’t care, as long as he got to move around a little, and maybe see some more interesting tennis. “Yes, buchou.”

    At least Ooishi-senpai was looking amused. “Come on, then, all of you.” He herded their little group back out onto the main walkway and down between the third and fourth set of courts. These were both two courts each, and they had to wind their way around the teams playing and the teams waiting.

    Yamabuki was playing on E court and Hyoutei on F, over to the left, and Rokkaku across the way on G. Ryouma didn’t know either team on H, and didn’t think much of what he saw of them. He had to squeeze his way between the crush of extra Hyoutei club members to see anything, though, and spotted more of them among the trees on the hill above the far end of the courts. “Doesn’t the monkey king know how to pack light?” he grumbled. Kachirou and Katsuo clapped hands over their mouths to stifle nervous laughter. Horio just looked plain nervous as he dodged taller players.

    “It’s the Jimmies, playing for Yamabuki,” Katsuo exclaimed, standing on his toes to see. Ooishi-senpai smiled.

    “Different teams have different strategies, for the first round. Some try to conceal their best strengths. Others will put their strongest players in early, hoping to win three games quickly and let the seed team watching think that they deliberately slacked off on the last two games. I think Sengoku probably chose the second option. Yamabuki is up against Maki no Fuji, from Kansai, who won’t already know them from Regionals.”

    “Is that why they’re playing so hard?” Kachirou asked, and Ryouma nodded silently along with Ooishi-senpai’s approving agreement. Minami and Higashikata were flicking signs back and forth, rapid-fire, and taking points fast. The Maki no Fuji pair were hanging on grimly, but this was more the kind of speed Ryouma was used to, in serious tournaments. Even as they watched, Minami slammed one last point past the other pair and Yamabuki’s club roared from where they stood against the fence on the far side of E court.

    Ooishi made a satisfied sound as the referee called Doubles Two in favor of Yamabuki. “Look, they’re sending Muromachi in for Singles Two. It’s a bit of a gamble, since he isn’t as strong as Sengoku, but Sengoku is the one everyone’s heard of from the invitational camp last year. If Muromachi can take this match, Sengoku can play lazily for Singles One and be the threat that still isn’t entirely known.”

    “Nationals takes a lot of strategy, doesn’t it?” Kachirou asked the question solemnly, but Ryouma grinned at the sparkle in his eyes. Kachirou obviously liked this kind of thing. Ooishi-senpai smiled down at his kindred spirit.

    “It does. And this is where all the work we’ve done and things we’ve learned, all summer, come out. Look there.” He nodded at the match right in front of them, Hyoutei’s Oshitari and Mukahi. “They’re playing much more tightly than they were at Regionals, aren’t they?”

    While the other first years peered and nodded, Ryouma snorted. “Mukahi isn’t wasting as much time showing off, anyway.”

    “As I said.” Ooishi-senpai gave him a mildly admonishing look, and Ryouma tugged his hat down. He still really didn’t like Mukahi’s type of player.

    Doubles Two was finishing up there, also, and Ryouma cocked his head, interested, as Atobe strode onto the court for Singles Two, and the cheering from Hyoutei suddenly got louder. “That’s new.”

    “I guess Atobe-san is kind of nervous, after he lost to us.” Katsuo sounded a little proud and a little sympathetic. Horio crossed his arms and stuck his nose in the air.

    “He should be nervous! Tezuka-buchou would totally kick his butt, if they played again.”

    As if he’d heard, Atobe looked right at them, and Horio quailed and sidled behind Ooishi-senpai. Ryouma’s mouth quirked. Given the chanting all around, he was pretty sure Atobe had just seen the Seigaku jerseys, and was looking for Tezuka-buchou. He dismissed them fast enough, when he saw it was just Ooishi-senpai and Ryouma.

    “This could be a pretty subtle strategy in itself,” Ooishi-senpai murmured, watching. “People are used to Atobe being very self-assured. If they think he’s shaken up, they’ll expect an advantage.”

    “You don’t think they’ll have it?” Ryouma asked, cocking his head. Ooishi-senpai had a little glint in his eyes as he glanced down.

    “No. Not over Atobe.”

    Ryouma was quiet while he thought about that. It sounded like Ooishi-senpai actually respected Atobe, despite all the monkey-posturing. He hadn’t really expected that. In Ryouma’s experience, people who swanned around that arrogantly were usually over-inflating their ability. After all, why boast like that, if all you really had to do was just show people how good you were? Though he had to admit, watching Atobe demolish his opponent, Atobe did seem to be able to show it.

    “That’s Tsubakikawa’s Noto he’s playing,” Ooishi-senpai said quietly, resting a hand on Ryouma’s shoulder. “Tsubakikawa are the champions from Hokkaido two years running, now, and Noto played last year, too. He’s known as a strong, aggressive player.”

    Ryouma looked up at him and back down at the match. “Atobe is playing aggressively, too. He didn’t do that before.”

    “Tezuka says he used to play like this more often, before he had his run-in with Sanada last year.”

    “So you’re saying he’s growing.”

    Ooishi-senpai smiled down at him. “Yes. And what effect do you think defeating Noto in his own area of strength will have on Tsubakikawa?”

    Ryouma tugged his cap down more firmly. Okay, fine, so the monkey-king could back up his bragging. And maybe use decent strategy, too. And Ryouma should probably keep that in mind if he didn’t want to lose through stupidity, the way so many of his own opponents did. He sighed. “Okay, Ooishi-senpai. He knows what he’s doing.” Maybe Atobe was like his dad, then. Ugh, bad thought.

    “It’s usually best to assume that Nationals level opponents do,” Ooishi-senpai said mildly, glancing around at the other first years to draw them back in. “If you’re wrong, you’ve lost nothing, and if you’re right, it’s a good thing you were careful.”

    “Yes, Ooishi-senpai,” the other three chorused.

    “So what do you see happening in Rokkaku’s match?” he asked, turning them around to face G court.

    Ryouma spared a last look at Atobe blazing through his opponent’s game with one fast, singing ball after another, and had to agree that there wasn’t anything all that new to be seen there. Rokkaku was just starting Singles Two themselves, now, and Ryouma rolled his eyes as he watched Aoi nearly bouncing on the bench as he admonished one of the guys who hadn’t played against Seigaku.

    “We didn’t see him, during Regionals,” Horio objected.

    “Aoi-kun has already played, though,” Kachirou said, nodding at the towel around Aoi’s neck. “He likes Singles Three, doesn’t he?”

    “Midoriyama is playing a little stronger than they did during Regionals. I think,” Katsuo put in hesitantly.

    Ryouma glanced at the score-board. “Doubles Two lost. Must be hard to do strategy with Aoi in charge.”

    Ooishi-senpai looked a little rueful. “Rokkaku’s strategy this year has been very… straightforward, it’s true.” He pulled himself back together, into teaching mode, and pointed out players. “It looks like Doubles Two was probably Minamoto and Habu from Midoriyama, and Kisarazu and Itsuki from Rokkaku. You remember them?”

    Kachirou nodded, enthusiastically “Kisarazu-san had really amazing feints!”

    “Itsuki-san was, um, really flexible, wasn’t he?” Katsuo put in.

    Ooishi-senpai smiled at them. “Yes. If they have any kind of teamwork, they’d be a pretty powerful pair, able to cover the whole court and strong on technique. So what does that suggest?”

    Ryouma sighed when the other first years just frowned, puzzled. “They under-played and sacrificed Doubles Two.” Then he frowned himself. “But I don’t see a seed team watching on this side.”

    “Mm.” Ooishi-senpai’s mouth tightened a little, disapproving. “Sometimes, a seeded team won’t watch the first round, in an effort to intimidate their opponents with their confidence. It’s a tactic that backfires easily, though. At any rate, Higa may have chosen not to watch the first round, but Rikkai is the seed in H block, and will almost certainly be who the G block winner meets for Quarter-finals.” Ooishi-senpai nodded soberly across the two courts to where Rikkai’s jerseys were lined up against the fence, quiet and still. And, Ryouma couldn’t help noticing, really well placed to see what was going on in more than one match at a time. They certainly weren’t paying much attention to the H block match going on, not that he could blame them.

    “So Rokkaku is looking ahead?” Kachirou hesitated. “Um. Aoi-kun is?”

    “Most likely Saeki, actually,” Ooishi-senpai admitted. Everyone nodded firm agreement with this.

    “Wow.” Kachirou was nearly sparkling. “Nationals is amazing!”

    Ryouma made a mental note that Kachirou was going to be captain or vice-captain in two years, no question. He’d actually like making up match rosters and researching other teams.

    They stayed long enough to see Rokkaku’s Shudou win Singles Two, and Bane and Davide start mowing down the opposing pair for Doubles One. Hyoutei’s Shishido and Ohtori were playing like they didn’t know they were supposed to ease up or keep something concealed, now that Hyoutei had three matches won. Kita and Nitobe, from Yamabuki, on the other hand, were practically lounging around the court, to the obvious annoyance of the Maki no Fuji Doubles One pair. Ooishi-senpai took one last look around the courts, and smiled a little.

    “This will be a good tournament, I think. Come on, everyone. Back to our own court, and let’s see who we’re playing after lunch!”

    Ryouma trailed along after the rest, watching the seeded teams, and the way they were starting to talk quietly among themselves. Planning, now that the first round winners were starting to come clear, he thought. He also thought Tezuka-buchou hadn’t just sent him over here to wear the jitters off. There’d been a real point. Ryouma didn’t usually think about team strategies; he thought about his own game. At the local, or even national, tournaments for different age brackets, that was all you needed to think about. Now, though… now he was part of a team, in a team tournament, one of these bigger and more complex things. A team Tezuka-buchou wanted him to support, and somehow take support from.

    He didn’t know whether he really could. But for the first time, walking after his teammates under the rustling arch of leaves, he realized that he wasn’t the only person trying to make his part in this work. His whole team was thinking about these things, and including him in the planning. Relying on his strength, yes, of course. But also thinking about who he could best be matched with and where his game would best fit, to help him win.

    That… that felt kind of nice.

    “Ryouma-kun!” Kachirou stuck his head around the corner of the fence, waving to him. “Hurry up! It’s going to be Joushuuin! Ryuuzaki-sensei wants to talk to you!”

    Ryouma smiled just a little bit, and walked faster.


    Ryuuzaki-sensei cheated. Yes, she wanted to talk to Ryouma about his likely opponent—probably not Atsumi, but Manaka, the light-footed second year who’d played Singles One in the first round—but she’d also wanted to draft him, along with the rest of the first years, to help fetch bentos from the cooler in the bus.

    “Why aren’t the girls around to do this?” Horio grumbled as they got back under the shade of the trees and everyone sighed with relief.

    “Because they don’t let regular students out of class just to cheer for us, Horio-kun,” Kachirou told him dryly.

    “And Sakuno-san said her captain was really strict about watching the all women’s matches,” Katsuo added, hefting his bag of lunches as they turned down the walk that ran along the grassy park area, passing knots of team jerseys here and there.

    Ryuuzaki-sensei was eyeing them with amusement. “And a good thing, too. Onohara is a good captain, and looks after her team’s development. Sakuno finally said she wanted to try for a Regular spot next year, and Onohara told her to start watching the people she’d actually be playing, instead of the boys.”

    “She’ll need more than a year, unless the level of the women’s matches is really low,” Ryouma said critically, thinking about the slow swings he’d seen her practicing.

    All three of the other boys gave him long looks. “Ryouma-kun, you’ll never have a girlfriend,” Kachirou finally said, and the other two nodded sad agreement.

    “Ah, here’s the rest of the club.” Ryuuzaki-sensei was obviously trying not to laugh. Ryouma just shrugged; he had no idea what they were talking about. What did tennis have to do with girlfriends?

    The rest of the team had settled in the shade of the trees scattered through one corner of the park area, as had Fudoumine and two other teams Ryouma didn’t know. They all pounced on the lunch boxes like they’d been the ones playing in the first round, and Ryouma had to elbow his way out of the frenzy, guarding his own box, before he could slide down to sit on a root beside Momo with a huff. Momo laughed at him.

    Ryouma looked around the park area as he ate. The group of teams who had taken over the grove of trees in the middle caught his eye, and he studied them.

    “Those are most of the teams that lost in the first round,” Momo said quietly, apparently concentrating on his little skewer of fried pork.

    “They’ll stay to watch?”

    “Most of them.” Momo glanced over the open grass, at the clusters of quiet players. “I think it would be hard to do at Nationals, though. At least at the other tournaments, you have a week to come to terms with having lost, before the next set of matches.”

    “Not like we’re going to lose,” Ryouma told him, and cracked open the Ponta he’d detoured to the vending machines to get. He nearly spilled it when Momo laughed and scrubbed knuckles over his hair.

    “Yeah, that’s the spirit.” He dunked his croquette in the sauce cup with all his regular enthusiasm for lunch, and Ryouma rolled his eyes and smiled faintly behind his drink.

    “So, Joushuuin for us,” Kawamura-senpai said, pushing aside the shrimp in his box with the delicate disdain of a sushi-chef’s son. Ryouma snuck one for himself with a quick grab of chopsticks, before Kikumaru-senpai got the other two. “And Kushimakitou for Shitenhouji.” His brows drew in with worry. “Good luck to them.”

    “And Shishigaku for Fudoumine,” Fuji-senpai added, softly, glancing over at the knot of black jerseys a few trees away. “That will be a tense match, I think.”

    “I thought Chitose was a really laid back guy?” Kikumaru-senpai said around the shrimp.

    Fuji-senpai cocked his head a bit. “Well, so are you Eiji. But if Ooishi left Seigaku and started a team somewhere else, and you had to play him at Nationals…”

    Kikumaru-senpai paused, chopsticks halfway to his mouth, eyes suddenly dark. “Okay. Yeah, I see what you mean.” He finished his bite of rice and, clearly wanting to talk about something else, asked, “Hikogashima won too, right? They’ll play Echigo Hira Daini? The champions from the smaller regions are really coming out on top of the lower ranking teams from the bigger tournaments. What about the other side?” He cocked a brow at Ooishi-senpai.

    “Yamabuki and Hyoutei both won,” he answered, pausing obligingly half way through his diced vegetable salad. “I haven’t heard much about Nagoya Seitoku, for all they were the Chuubu champions, but Okakura is supposed to be a strong team. The papers say they gave Shitenhouji a good fight at the Kansai finals.”

    “Hm.” Inui-senpai unscrewed the cap of a bottle full of something alarmingly dark green and took a long swallow that made half the team shudder. “Who won in G block?”

    “Rokkaku.” Fuji-senpai smiled. “I went to congratulate Saeki before we broke up for lunch.”

    “They’ll be against Higa, then.” Inui-senpai nudged his glasses up, and Ryouma thought he looked more serious than usual, behind them. “They should be careful. I’ve heard some alarming things about that team.”

    Fuji-senpai’s eyes glinted. “Like what?”

    “That they’re like a whole new team, this year. That they can reach the net in a single step, and play with moves no one has ever seen before. And that they’re a violent team.”

    “I’ll warn Saeki,” Fuji-senpai said quietly, and set his box down on the stack of empties with a sharp click.

    “And Murigaoka is playing Rikkai.” Ooishi-senpai’s tone was rueful and amused, and Ryouma thought he was trying to defuse the tension. “I’m almost sorry for them.”

    Kaidou-senpai sniffed. “They deserve it,” he muttered under his breath, and turned promptly away when the entire team looked at him.

    “Didn’t think you liked Rikkai that much, Mamushi,” Momo needled him, and Ryouma leaned back against his tree as the two of them devolved into a scuffle that Kawamura-senpai had to break up.

    His teammates knew things he didn’t. Knew things about the teams here and who they were and what they’d done years before. It was like… like a road that they’d been walking down and he’d… he’d been in a train tunnel. He knew everyone on the train, all the best international players, their moves and their statistics. But he didn’t know this road, and it felt strange. He had to rely on other people’s knowledge, here.

    If this was also what Tezuka-buchou meant about his team supporting him, he wasn’t sure he liked it. But his dad’s train-tunnel way obviously wasn’t good enough to win with, so he supposed he’d have to try this one anyway.

    Momo finished brushing himself off and sat down again, nudging Ryouma with an elbow. “Hey. Everything okay?”

    Ryouma finished his Ponta in a long swallow and leaned back, looking up at the leaves, gold and green, here, just like they’d been back home. “Sure.”

    He could hear Momo’s smile. “Good.” His friend’s shoulder settled against his as Momo leaned back too. “We’re going to kick all their asses, right?”

    Ryouma grinned. Okay, parts of this team-stuff he did kind of like.

    “Right.”

    Round Two: Fudoumine vs. Shishigaku

    Akira glanced around at his team and couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at his mouth. Fudoumine had a definite swagger in their step, as they strolled back toward B court from the park where they’d eaten lunch. He figured they were entitled. Not only had they made it to Nationals, but they were one of the seeded teams. For a team in their very first year, he figured they had something to smirk about.

    The only one of them that wasn’t grinning was Tachibana-san, and Akira spoke up out of a desire to at least change his captain’s distant thoughtfulness to here-and-now presence. “Don’t worry, Tachibana-san. We know how to handle Shishigaku.”

    Tachibana-san, as he’d more than half expected, gave him an admonishing look. “You know what they showed against Saint Icarus. Don’t let yourself be trapped by expectations. Every unseeded team is going to do what they can to conceal their true strength; they know very well their second round opponents are watching.”

    Akira lowered his eyes, satisfied. “Yes, Tachibana-san.” At his shoulder, Shinji snorted softly, obviously knowing perfectly well what Akira was doing. He wouldn’t say anything, though; Shinji was just as pissed off as he was about the attitude that Chitose guy had taken with their captain. The knowing attitude. The proprietary attitude.

    Well, Tachibana Kippei belonged to Fudoumine this year, and Chitose and his whole team could just suck on it.

    With that thought in mind, he was the one who stepped forward to open the gate to the court where Shishigaku was waiting for them, for the second round match. They were mostly third years, he thought, as the waiting team turned to give Fudoumine measuring and curious looks. Except for Chitose, whose eyes were locked on Tachibana-san like no one else existed. Akira glanced over his shoulder at his captain, a little worried about how this would go, to be perfectly honest.

    Tachibana-san met his eyes, smiling faintly, and Akira ducked his head, caught. Tachibana-san’s hand fell on his shoulder and shook him, very gently. “Let’s go win this one,” their captain told them, as sure and confident as ever, and Akira straightened up, relieved.

    An edge of worry crept back, though, when they lined up across the net from Shishigaku, because Tachibana-san and Chitose were still looking at each other like there was a conversation going on that no one else could hear. Akira eyed Shishigaku’s vice-captain across the net, noting the rueful and completely unsurprised way he was watching Chitose and Tachibana-san, and exchanged a dark look with Shinji. Tachibana-san was their captain, and no one who hadn’t been around for the past year had any right to look so knowing, to think they could understand.

    “Just don’t let it distract you,” Shinji murmured softly as the referee announced Singles Three and he brushed past Akira on the way to the long benches set out at the low fence behind each coach’s bench.

    “I won’t,” Akira murmured back. When it was that vice-captain that stayed out on the court across from him, though, he decided he would let his anger drive him. Loyalty and anger, those were what had brought Fudoumine this far, this year.

    Akira would show Shishigaku what that meant.

    The first serve fell to his opponent, and Akira flexed lightly on his toes, watching Tanaka’s stance. There was still nothing special there that he could see, as he dashed forward to meet the ball. It was solid against his racquet. Solid, but nothing more than that, and Akira snorted to himself as he whipped it back into the opposite corner. His lips curled up as the first point was called, and Tanaka’s eyes narrowed.

    The second serve was sharper.

    Akira slipped into the rhythm of the match, and started pushing. Faster and faster the balls sang over the net, pace increasing bit by bit, until Tanaka was breathing hard as he ran to catch them. He kept his service game, but he was frowning as he pushed back sweat-dark hair. Akira rolled his shoulders as he fell back to serve. His breath was easy, and his muscles were just warm; he could take this one.

    None of his serves got past Tanaka, but Akira hadn’t really expected them to. He wasn’t Shinji. His strength went the other way, and the whole court was his playground. It didn’t matter how cleverly Tanaka spun his returns, because Akira caught every single one, dash after dash, falling into the hot glow of speed, feet light against the court as he spun to set himself behind a deep drive and hit a straight smash back over the net that the solid, earthbound Tanaka had no chance of catching.

    This was where Akira lived, in the weightless freedom of his whole body working to lift him up and throw him forward.

    He took two games before Tanaka seemed to figure out how much trouble he was in, and Akira bared his teeth when the next shot spun off the face of his racquet at an angle he’d never intended. So did the next one, and the fourth game was Tanaka’s.

    Tachibana-san beckoned him over to the bench, eyes sharp. “You can’t cancel that spin if you hit the ball back as fast as you usually do. Tanaka’s using your own speed against you. Be as fast as you need, to catch the balls, but keep them on your racquet as long as you can, so the spin dies.”

    Akira frowned, swiping the back of his arm over his forehead; the heat was getting heavier as the day wore on and the sun climbed over the surrounding trees. “Those balls are too sharp to keep for long.”

    His captain smiled. “Not if you’re moving forward when you catch them.” Akira forgot the heat for a moment and straightened up, as understanding dawned. Tachibana-san gave him a nod, eyes glinting. “Go on, Kamio. Show them.”

    Akira knew he was smirking as he took the court again, but he didn’t really care to stop. This was Fudoumine’s edge. Match after match, all this summer, Tachibana-san had showed them how to win. How to find their strengths, and how to play them, and how to find the holes in an opponent’s game. Having Tachibana-san there on the coach’s bench, watching, was like having a downhill under his feet, when he ran. It carried him forward.

    It carried him forward again, now, as Kamio pushed himself faster, not just to catch each return, but to set himself behind it and dash forward against it, holding those balls against his gut each time until the wicked spin fell and he could cut them back over the net to one side and the other, wearing Tanaka down. Sweat was running down Akira’s spine under his shirt, now, but his breath was still light in his lungs, quick and easy as his feet against the court.

    Tanaka kept one more service game, but the last three flashed by into Akira’s hands, perfectly balanced on the edge of his speed. When the set was called, Akira tossed back his sweat-soaked hair and laughed. This was theirs, this triumph, this unstoppable momentum. He turned toward the sidelines, and his team waiting there, and lifted a fist. They threw back a cheer, and Tachibana-san smiled at them.

    Fudoumine would win this one.


    Tanaka came back to where Shishigaku had gathered on the bench at their side of the court, and thumped down beside Senri, panting for breath. “Okay,” he said, catching up his water bottle for a long swallow. “Now I see why you wanted me to take Singles Three against them.” He pulled out his towel and rubbed vigorously at his damp hair.

    Senri snorted as he watched his Doubles Two pair sort themselves out on the court, ready to start. “Yeah. And they still managed to out-flank us. They’ve improved since Regionals.” The tall Fudoumine player threw the ball up and served, fast and deep to the corner, his slender partner watching Senri’s own pair like a hawk. Both the Fudoumine players were smiling a little, anticipatory, confident. Shigaki and Kushiyama, on the other hand, were both wary, shaken by their vice-captain losing 3-6 in the very first match. Senri sighed. “Damn Kippei, and the way he messes with people’s heads.”

    Tanaka emerged from under his towel, dark hair sticking up, and gave him a long look. “You can’t tell me that his players are this good just because Tachibana is good at morale-building.” He took a look at how the game was shaping up and winced as the short Fudoumine player slid out of his big partner’s shadow and slammed the ball right down the center line with perfect timing. Senri’s mouth twisted in silent agreement. One game gone in barely five minutes.

    “It isn’t just morale,” he answered quietly as Goumoto-sensei made vigorous ‘shape up’ gestures at Shigaki and Kushiyama. “And Kippei doesn’t just front-load his matches to play it safe. I’m betting that red-head is one of the strongest of Fudoumine, maybe only second to Kippei himself. Kippei wanted to rock our nerve and encourage his own team, and it worked.”

    Tanaka’s hands tightened around his towel as the Fudoumine pair hammered another ball past their opponents. “So it’ll be down to you, in Singles Two, won’t it? To turn this around.” He shot Senri a sidelong look and added, very quietly, “If you can.”

    Senri gave his vice-captain a wry smile. “We’ll see, won’t we? But it might not be quite that bad.” He nodded toward the court, where their pair were finally shaking off their shock and pulling together. Kushiyama flicked a signal at Shigaki, who closed on the net with a fierce expression to engage the littler player in a duel of short drives—right up until the moment that he melted aside to let Kushiyama dart forward, and smash the ball past both Fudoumine players like a bullet.

    …or at least that was how the move usually went.

    On the sidelines, Kippei raised his hand and Fudoumine’s taller player met the smash, which none of their opponents except Higa’s Kai had been able to return, with bared teeth, and drove it back one handed. It blasted straight through Shigaki’s attempt to defend.

    “Chitose,” Tanaka said, very levelly, “did I just see that?”

    Senri ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “If you just saw that guy return Kushiyama’s strongest shot and blow the racquet right out of Shigaki’s hand, then yes.” Which brought them to three games to one, in Fudoumine’s favor, and left Chitose’s Doubles Two pair shaken up all over again. Senri really was going to strangle Kippei for taking all his alarming charisma and strategic sense off to lead another team.

    “Who the hell are these guys?” Tanaka demanded, sounding torn right down the middle between being indignant and being appalled. “I’d never even heard of Fudoumine before this year! Where did they come from?”

    Senri hooked his toes under the edge of the fence in front of them and leaned back on his hands, staring up at the brutally clear blue of the sky. “If what I hear about them getting into fights last year is right,” he mused, “I’d bet there was some kind of mismanagement going on in the club, that these kids were victim of, and Kippei wouldn’t stand for. So these guys probably think he hung the sun in the sky, and they worked their asses off for him. You add to that the obvious fact that Kippei’s the one making strategy for every game, and that they trust him to follow it, and you’ve got a really tight, dedicated team.” One that wasn’t Shishigaku. He glanced back down, and a sharp twinge of betrayal tore lose from his control as Shigaki faltered and Kushiyama was a little too slow to come forward and catch the ball he missed.

    Tanaka was quiet for a moment, looking steadily at him. Eventually, he took a long swallow from his water bottle and rested his elbows on his knees. “That really casual tone isn’t fooling anyone, you know,” he said quietly. “Are you going to keep your temper enough to play Tachibana with a clear head?”

    Senri closed his eyes as dismayed exclamations went up all around them, from his club. Four games to one, now. “As long as Kippei isn’t too much of an idiot,” he said lightly.

    “Great,” Tanaka grumbled. “In other words, no.” He kicked Senri’s foot lightly. “Sit up straight and watch your damn team, Chitose. Appearances to the contrary, this round is about more than your grudge-match.”

    Senri obediently pushed himself back upright. “I don’t know why Goumoto-sensei didn’t just make you captain, this year.”

    “Because you’d never take directions from anyone but Tachibana.”

    Senri’s head whipped around and he stared at Tanaka. Tanaka looked back, unblinking. “I sure as hell wouldn’t want to try to get you to do what I said,” he added, “so there was nothing to do but make you captain yourself.”

    Senri sat very still under the weight of sudden memory, of old plans to be Kippei’s vice-captain, in their third year, and rag on him thoroughly, and lighten up Kippei’s seriousness—for the good of the team of course. Finally he shrugged out from under the weight and managed, “And you got nailed down to be the responsible one, huh?”

    “Yeah.” Tanaka stowed away his towel and water, eyes on the match again. “So you’re not the only one who’s kind of pissed off at Tachibana for jumping ship on us.”

    “Well,” Senri said after a long moment. “I’ll try not to make too much more work for you.”

    He watched with a calm expression as Kushiyama and Shigaki wrested one more game from Fudoumine’s Doubles Two pair, and fought to the last, grim point for the final game. He came forward to meet them as they left the court, sympathetic and encouraging. He nodded reassurance to Goumoto-sensei’s faintly worried frown, and fished out his racquet, and sauntered onto the court with every appearance of ease. And he suppressed a shiver of anticipation as Kippei finally stood up from the coach’s bench. He’d tried to take care of the team, this year, and he was glad for all of them that they’d made it to Nationals again, but this match had been his real goal from the start.

    Kippei was the only one he thought could help him find his real game again.


    Kippei knew Senri was still angry at him (of course he was!), because Senri was smiling but not smiling at anyone. Nevertheless, when they met at the net, their hands wrapped around each other’s forearms, easy and familiar, and Kippei had to swallow a little hard. “Senri,” he said quietly. “It’s good to see you on the court again.”

    Senri’s lazy grin sent a tingle of anticipation through him. “Likewise. And I’ll tell you something right now, Kippei.” Those dark eyes turned hard, and his hand tightened on Kippei’s arm. “The one thing I won’t forgive is you holding back. Understand?”

    Kippei sucked in a quick breath, stifling his immediate protest. That was something more than one opponent had said to him, and some part of him knew he should have expected it from Senri, too. He couldn’t help remembering that moment of sinking cold, though, when he’d heard Senri had been permanently injured, had dropped the tennis club because of it. It took a few seconds of fighting that memory before he could bring himself to say, low, “All right.” Senri nodded back firmly.

    “Good. Then let’s play this game.”

    Kippei set himself on his side of the court, to receive. Senri tossed the ball up and his body arched into a long, easy curve, and suddenly it was like they’d never been apart. Kippei knew where the serve was coming in, was moving without thought to meet the tricky curve of its bounce and slam it back over the net. Like breathing out after breathing in, Senri was across the court to catch the ball, teeth flashing as his grin turned fierce. Kippei stretched into the return and a helpless laugh caught in his throat.

    He’d missed this so much.

    “Getting old and creaky, there, Kippei?” Senri taunted when he sliced the ball past Kippei for the first point. Kippei snorted, shifting his grip lightly on his racquet.

    “See if you can do it twice!”

    The next point was his, with a return ace that tore past before Senri could spin to catch it.

    “Who’s slow and creaky, again?”

    “Either that or fast and clumsy,” Senri shot back, and served again, fast and sure. “You need to get some style, Kippei!”

    The banter was comfortable and familiar, but the second time Kippei took a point he’d expected Senri to catch, the oddness caught Kippei’s attention. Both times, Senri should have been able to return with a backhand; the second time, Kippei had actually been hoping for a cross shot to the corner of his court, so he could get a good angle for his return.

    Both shots had been to Senri’s right side.

    The first game went to Fudoumine, and Kippei eyed his old partner as he fished out a ball to serve. If he was right about this…

    He served with all his strength, hard and fast toward Senri’s right side. And Senri hesitated just a moment too long, wobbling almost imperceptibly as he turned much further than he should have needed to. If he’d been able to see clearly on his right side, that is.

    Kippei’s throat closed for a moment, and his hand clenched around the next ball. He couldn’t do anything to fix this. And he wouldn’t insult his friend by playing at less than full strength. But he could confine his shots to Senri’s left side, and put them back on even footing. It wouldn’t change what he’d done, nothing could fix that, but he could at least play evenly!

    It was hard. His tennis wasn’t built on restraint or calculation. It was built on strength and strategy, hand in hand, and strategy said to aim for the right. The knowledge of his own guilt was sufficient to turn him back, but it made some of his shots awkward, and when he nearly tripped, spinning to catch a ball with his backhand instead of his fore, Senri called, “Did you forget how to tie your shoelaces, too, without me to remind you?”

    Down one game already and two points behind Senri in the current one, Kippei had to admit Senri had cause to rag on him, and his mouth quirked. “Maybe.”

    Senri’s eyes narrowed abruptly, and Kippei scolded himself for showing his own disturbance.

    And all of a sudden, balls were coming relentlessly at his forehand side. The side that made it easiest to return to Senri’s right. Kippei scowled across the net at his friend, and stubbornly drove himself to get far enough behind each ball to return left instead. It cost him the last point of the third game, when Senri spun the ball hard and Kippei’s return went into the net. Senri straightened up, face dark.

    “Goddamn it, Kippei!”

    “Shut up, Senri!” Kippei snapped back pointing a warning finger at his friend. “I’m not aiming at the side you’re half blind on!”

    Senri sliced his hand through the air. “And how the fuck am I supposed to figure out how to compensate for that if you won’t, you asshole?” he demanded furiously.

    Kippei stopped short, staring. “You…” Senri wanted… Kippei’s help?

    Senri was glaring. “I told you at the start, damn it! The one thing I won’t forgive is you holding back, so get your head out of your ass and play like you mean it!” He let out a harsh breath and finished, lower, “Or don’t you mean it, any more?”

    “No, that’s not…!” Kippei ran a hand through his hair, thoughts jumbled into a confused pile-up. He hadn’t expected this. “You… do you think you can?” he finally asked, a little hesitant. He was sure, by now, that Senri’s peripheral vision on the right was significantly reduced.3

    His friend lifted his chin, mouth hard and proud. “Who do you think you’re talking to, Kippei? Just play full out, so I can, too.”

    It hit Kippei abruptly that, just as he’d been holding himself back, so had Senri. Senri wasn’t playing with the weight or speed of no-self. “Senri…”

    “Just play, Kippei,” Senri said, and his voice was flat, but his eyes on Kippei were intent, waiting, demanding.

    Kippei took a deep breath. If this was what Senri wanted, then he’d do it. “All right.”

    Senri nodded shortly and stalked back in his side of the court to receive. When he turned around, poised and still, Kippei felt his spine straightening and his shoulders settling. He knew that stance, knew the weight of Senri’s focus when he reached down into himself for the blazing reflexes of no-self, and played like nothing could stop him. Not his opponent, not his injury, not gravity itself. Kippei threw the ball up and answered that focus with all the wild force and eagerness Senri’s game had always called out of him. The ball tore the air toward Senri’s right side.

    And Senri… was there. Even though he hadn’t turned, probably couldn’t see the ball, his racquet was there, right where it needed to be, and the ball was singing back over the net on a perfect line.

    This rally was twice as fierce as their first, and Kippei threw himself into it without restraint. It felt like he was being pulled forward, unable to resist the speed and brilliance. It was brutal. It was incredible. He never wanted to stop. He could hear the cheering from the side of the court, knew both teams were on their feet and shouting for their captains, but it was distant. Right now there was only Senri, and the fight between them as they clawed for control of the ball. The sixth game reached deuce seven times before Kippei slammed two consecutive points past Senri’s razor-sharp defense.

    And though Senri faltered now and then to start with, as the match went on he answered the shots on his right side steadier, faster, until his returns were as sure as they’d ever been, settling solidly into place once more. Now Kippei understood. Senri had needed him, needed someone whose game he knew as well as his own, who could still push him to the edge. He’d needed the familiarity and force of Kippei’s tennis to help him find the edge again. Kippei had been wrong; he was exactly the one, the only one, who could help fix what he’d done. It was the absolution he’d never thought was possible, and it washed away every hesitation until he was driving shot after wild, glorious shot toward Senri, without fear. This was his partner, his rival, the one he would never give up to.

    It wasn’t until the referee called the set, 7-5 in Senri’s favor, that Kippei remembered he’d started the real match one game down. Damn it. He met Senri at the net, panting for breath, and seized his hand. “Your set this time. Don’t get cocky; I’ll take it back next time we play.”

    Senri laughed, just as breathless. “A win is a win, and don’t you forget it. And next time I’d better not have to kick your ass to get you to play for real.” He hauled Kippei in and they pounded each other on the back, grinning like madmen.

    “You won’t,” Kippei promised, holding Senri off at arm’s length. “I’m sorry I left like that,” he added, quieter. “And I’m sorry I held back. You had every right to kick my ass for that. I didn’t understand.”

    “Ah, that’s okay. You’ve always been a little slow.” Senri waved a magnanimous hand, and laughed when Kippei slugged him in the shoulder.

    It was hard to pull away, to turn back toward their separate teams, and Kippei flushed a little when he saw the lingering shock on his players’ faces as they stood up against the short, wire fence at the edge of the court. That had been a lot less dignified than they were used to expecting of him, he supposed.

    He still couldn’t quite stop grinning.


    Kamio Akira watched the Doubles One match getting started and shared a rueful look with Shinji. Mori and Uchimura were off balance, and the Shishigaku pair were pressing their advantage ruthlessly. From the coach’s bench, in front of them, Tachibana-san sighed softly.

    “If I’d had any idea I might be playing that kind of match again, I’d have tried to explain my old style in a little more detail,” he murmured.

    “It wasn’t the style, Tachibana-san,” Shinji said flatly.

    Their captain turned his head a little, brow arched at them.

    “It wasn’t, really,” Ishida put in, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I mean, it was an intense game. It was amazing! But… it’s you. We weren’t too surprised by that part.”

    “What was the surprise then?” Tachibana-san sounded amused, even as they all watched Shishigaku take the first game and sweep into the second, pressing Mori and Uchimura hard.

    “Well, I mean… we’ve um…”

    “It was kind of a shock to hear you calling another player names like that,” Sakurai came to his partner’s rescue as Ishida started turning red.

    Tachibana-san cleared his throat. “Ah. That.”

    Akira swore Tachibana-san was turning a little red, too, which was a little alarming, coming from their normally collected captain.

    “Senri and I only ever really did that with each other. I… didn’t honestly think we’d ever play like that again, though.” Tachibana-san glanced over at the corner of the fence, under the trees, where the Shishigaku club was spread out, Chitose sprawled on the walk beside the rest of his team, and Akira sighed.

    “So, does this mean it’s okay for me to call Kaidou ‘viper’ from now on?” he asked, joking, and relaxed when Tachibana-san laughed out loud, distracted again from his painful history with the player who was so obviously still his best friend and best rival.

    “Only if both of you can keep your tempers while doing it!”

    “So, no,” Shinji translated. He leaned his shoulder briefly against Akira’s though, silent approval for helping their captain settle after that incredible game they’d just watched.

    Mori and Uchimura were settling down, too, finding their feet again and pushing back against the Shishigaku pair. Akira nodded with satisfaction as Uchimura broke off his vicious short-range volley with his Shishigaku opponent and fell aside to let Mori slam the point home, catching the other pair off guard. Shinji, though, frowned at the scoreboard and caught Akira’s eye, shaking his head faintly. Akira hesitated, but when the Shishigaku pair dashed into a solid two-up formation and took another point, he growled grudging agreement.

    Tachibana-san glanced back at them again. “Do you see it?”

    “Both pairs are really closely matched,” Akira said for both of them. “And Mori and Uchimura are down two games.”

    “Exactly.” Those straight shoulders didn’t slump, but Tachibana-san’s voice got quieter as he said, “Because of my miscalculation, Mori and Uchimura had a handicap at the beginning, and they’ve lost ground it will be very hard to regain.”

    “The last match will be ours,” Shinji said levelly, eyes fixed on the court. It was encouragement, an offer of confidence, and the smile Tachibana-san shot them over his shoulder gave it back doubled.

    “Of course it will.”

    Akira felt the team steady around him, upheld by that confidence. Not for the first time this summer, he wondered what the hell they were going to do next year, when Tachibana-san would have graduated.

    Again, Shinji’s shoulder brushed his, and Akira glanced over to see the faint smile on Shinji’s lips, though he hadn’t looked away from the court. Akira grinned back for a moment. Yeah, maybe together they’d manage. It wouldn’t be the same, but… maybe they could still do it. Especially since Akira was pretty sure a few of the onlookers clustered on the little hill south of the court were from Fudoumine. They were gawking instead of cheering, but Akira figured it was a start.

    Fudoumine would keep going.


    “That was not a brand new pair,” Nakamura declared flatly, throwing Oonita’s water to him as his partner collapsed on the bench panting. “Why haven’t we heard about them before?”

    “I heard,” Oonita said between swallows, “they played Seigaku’s Ooishi and Kikumaru early on this season. Took four games off them.”

    “Kippei found some good talent, and he’s had them training hard, I bet,” Chitose murmured, with a lazy smile at the opponent’s coach’s bench.

    Tanaka Keiichi rolled his eyes. No one had ever been entirely sure, watching Chitose and Tachibana play, whether to call for a fire-truck or tell them to get a room, and that clearly hadn’t changed just because of a year apart.

    He was glad to see it.

    “Ihara,” he called to their second year singles player, “looks like it’s up to you.”

    “Sure thing, senpai,” Ihara said coolly, testing the gut of his racquet.

    Keiichi pursed his lips, wanting to remind Ihara to be careful, but if Ihara hadn’t taken enough note of one after another of his teammates coming back off the court wrung out and half-shocked, whether they’d won or not, then he’d just have to learn the hard way. He knew Ihara didn’t think too highly of the casual tone they’d all fallen into this year, what with Chitose as captain. He was probably going to be an absolute demon as captain, next year. But he really needed stop taking other players quite so much at face value.

    “Is he going to be okay?” Nakamura muttered, as Ihara strode out onto the court and shook hands briskly with his dark-haired opponent “I know we thought Tachibana would completely front-load their line-up, so Doubles One and Singles One would be weaker, but I’m telling you Tanaka, if that pair hadn’t been off their stride, at first, I don’t know if we would have won.”

    Nakamura and Oonita hadn’t lost a match yet, this season. Not even to those bastards from Higa. Only one other pair had even pushed them to a 7-5 score, like the one that had finished this match. “I guess we’ll see,” Keiichi said quietly, watching the first serve.

    The whole match was a quiet one. Neither opponent had a word to say to the other, and Fudoumine was sitting back with apparently perfect confidence, while Keiichi’s own team were all just about holding their breaths. It looked like Ihara was holding his own, though; at least Ibu didn’t seem to be driving the pace. Fudoumine’s confidence made Keiichi watch closely, though, and he cursed softly when he realized that Ibu wasn’t drawing the rallies out because he couldn’t finish them.

    “What?” Nakamura demanded, glancing at him.

    Chitose chuckled, leaning back with his hands clasped around his knee as he watched. “That kid’s a vicious one. It’ll be right about… now.”

    Ihara completely missed what should have been an easy return.

    It happened again, as they watched. And again. “Repetitive motion,” Nakamura finally said, frowning. “He’s forcing exactly the same motion to return his shots, over and over.”

    “Alternating over and under, too, until the muscles just freeze up,” Chitose agreed, eyes sharp on the Fudoumine player, for all his lazy pose. “Goumoto-sensei sees it.”

    Indeed, their coach had called Ihara over for a few words, after which Ihara stalked back out onto the court, glaring fit to fry his opponent to a cinder. Ibu, Keiichi couldn’t help noticing, was smiling faintly. “Tachibana isn’t the only one over there who knows a little about psychological games,” he said dryly.

    “Mmm.” Chitose eyed Tachibana thoughtfully, across the court. “Kippei found a team full of fighters, that’s for sure.”

    Found them and sharpened their edge, Keiichi thought, and did it at full tilt for a year, with no Chitose around to take up his energy. Suddenly, this year’s Fudoumine made much more sense to him.

    With that thought in mind, he was less surprised than the rest of the team when Ibu started pushing the pace ruthlessly, taking three points in a row with a sharp twist serve, catching Ihara’s subtle low slice without a blink, brushing a delicate drop shot over the net just when Ihara was wound up from returning a series of fast, hard drives. It was like watching a musician playing his instrument.

    By the time Ibu won, six games to four, no one was really surprised.

    They all lined up properly to end the round, and Keiichi tried to decide whether he was more irritated that they’d been beaten by the team their own ace had run off and formed, or more satisfied that at least it was their ace’s team they’d lost to. The vivid triumph on the faces of the team across the net actually helped; clearly they thought defeating Shishigaku meant something. His amusement at the way Chitose and Tachibana eyed each other, hands still clasped over the net, looking like they’d be perfectly happy to go another round, also helped. When Tachibana’s vice-captain eyed those clasped hands and stirred restlessly, like he wanted to pull his captain away from Chitose, Keiichi’s sense of the ridiculous revived all the way, and he chuckled.

    It was a good thing he’d recovered his equanimity, because as they were packing up, he had to go collect his nominal captain from among Fudoumine.

    “You realize, if you lose after this, I’m going to kick your ass,” Chitose was saying as Keiichi reached them.

    Tachibana laughed. “You can try.”

    “Asshole.”

    “Jerk.”

    “Chicken.”

    “Nag.”

    “When are you coming home, Kippei?” Chitose asked, suddenly serious. Keiichi winced a little at the flash of pain and conflict over Tachibana’s face. It wasn’t only on the court that those two were a little brutal with each other.

    As Tachibana was drawing breath for whatever reply he might have made, though, it was his red-haired vice-captain who stepped forward. “Next year,” he said firmly.

    Tachibana turned his head, brows lifting, but the red-head stood firm, looking up at him steadily. “We’d lose you next year anyway, once you graduated,” he said, and glanced at Chitose. “And this is… it’s something you need, Tachibana-san. We could all see that.” Then he lifted his chin and glowered at Chitose. “But until then, Tachibana-san is captain of Fudoumine!”

    After a long moment, Chitose smiled. “Yeah. Okay. I can wait that long.”

    “Do I get any say in this?” Tachibana asked mildly, but he smiled and rumpled his vice-captain’s hair when the kid turned red. “I’m Fudoumine’s coach, as well as captain. I’ll stay until I graduate.” He looked up at Chitose, eyes suddenly burning the way they did on the court. “And Fudoumine will carry Shishigaku’s honor along with our own, in this tournament.”

    Chitose nodded, though his smile was tilted, and Tachibana gathered up his team with a single gesture. They fell in behind him as he strode down the tree-lined walkway, heads high despite having to face Shitenhouji next. Keiichi sighed a bit wistfully; he’d have really liked to have had a captain like that, this year.

    “He’s so damn old-fashioned, sometimes,” Chitose muttered, shaking his head, and clapped Keiichi on the shoulder. “Well, come on, then. Kaa-san said she’d drop Miyuki off at the hotel tonight, so she can watch the second day matches; I should be there when she comes, so she doesn’t destroy the place or anything. Ihara!” he called. “Quit sulking and come eat dinner!”

    Keiichi sighed a little and went to direct packing up the team’s bus, turning in their paperwork, and all the other little details Chitose was so bad at. He was really looking forward to next year.

    Watching Fudoumine made him remember what it was like to play on a team with both Chitose and Tachibana, and he wanted to feel that again.

    Round Two: Rokkaku vs. Higa

    Kite Eishirou watched with quiet satisfaction as his club cut through the chattering crowd of Nationals like divers through the water, quick and confident. The first round had gone just as he’d predicted, even without watching, and his accuracy had calmed his team’s nerves. They walked straight and proud, now, among the clutter of Kantou teams.

    “Rokkaku first, then,” Kai remarked, strolling at Eishirou’s shoulder with his hands jammed into his pockets. “You sure about putting Tanishi in for Singles Three? I mean, we’ve got you and Rin for Two and One; I haven’t heard Rokkaku was that strong in singles.” He cocked an eye up at Eishirou under the brim of his cap, obviously wanting to know if his captain was holding out on him.

    Eishirou smiled faintly. “Tanishi-kun will simply hedge our bets.” He would be cautious, even though he hadn’t heard anything singular about Rokkaku’s young Aoi. There must have been some reason to make a first-year their captain, after all.

    Their court for this round was at the far end of the line of courts, and the sun was falling full across it as the afternoon drew on. The hard surface sent up little shimmers of heat. Eishirou nodded with silent satisfaction, as they filed in through the gate and lined up across from Rokkaku, Saotome trailing in their wake to thump down on the coach’s bench. None of these teams who lived and trained on central Honshu would cope with the day’s heat as well as a team from Okinawa. Despite that, he measured the members of Rokkaku carefully, as they bowed to each other. He noted the powerful leg muscles of one, the long arms and sharp eyes of another, the eagerness of Aoi, youngest of them all but bizarrely well-grown for a first-year. Most of all, he noted that Saeki, the vice-captain and the one who’d calmed Aoi all during the place drawing for Nationals, was watching his opponents just as intently as Eishirou.

    That would be the player to watch for, all right, and no guarantee where Saeki might show up.

    The referee called the names for Singles Three and Eishirou snorted to himself as the club retired to their side of the court, outside the low fence that topped the retaining wall on that end. He had counted on Saeki not being Singles Three, but that was only because of the downright monotonous persistence with which Aoi seemed to take that slot. “Set the pace for us, Tanishi-kun,” he murmured, as he passed, and Tanishi nodded, eyes glittering as they fixed on his bouncing opponent.

    Aoi set himself and served, quick and respectably precise, but nothing Tanishi couldn’t catch. Eishirou nodded with satisfaction as a brief rally ended in Tanishi’s ball blasting past Aoi’s foot, hard enough to scuff the court. The next point went almost as quickly.

    “That’s their captain?” Kai drawled, draped over the fence beside him. “Seriously?”

    “He’s not unskilled,” Eishirou pointed out. “And he doesn’t seem concerned, yet.” More importantly, neither Rokkaku’s ancient coach nor Saeki seemed especially worried as the first game went to Tanishi.

    “Is that all you’ve got?” Tanishi demanded, lip curled as he pulled out one of his own balls to serve.

    Aoi was grinning cheerfully. “Oh, I always lose the first few games! I play best when I’m under pressure.”

    “Cocky little bastard,” Chinen muttered through his teeth, hands closing tight around the top of the fence. “His team, too.”

    “Mm.” Eishirou tilted a brow up as he watched Rokkaku. Most of them were rolling their eyes and laughing, obviously expecting this little quirk. But Saeki’s laugh seemed a bit forced, as he watched Tanishi’s face darken. Eishirou smiled. They’d just have to prove his concerns right and rattle the rest of these too-casual types. That would be a good pace-setter indeed.

    “You want pressure?” Tanishi growled. “I’ll show you some pressure, runt!” He leaped for the serve, meeting the ball and holding it on his gut as he whipped the racquet down, whole body contracting, and Eishirou made a soft sound of approval. A few Big Bang serves should give Tanishi a comfortable lead.

    Tanishi took the game in four service aces that left Aoi shaking out his stinging hand, racquet knocked nearly off the court.

    “That’s a pretty good serve, all right,” he agreed, so matter-of-fact that half of Higa glowered at him suspiciously, suspecting mockery. “Okay, then!” Aoi took a deep breath, and declared. “If I don’t win the next game, I’m not allowed to ask any girls out for a month!” He trotted back to his service line and bounced his ball a few times, suddenly much more focused.

    Kai was choking on a swallow of water. “That’s their captain?” he wheezed, pounding his chest. “You’re fucking kidding me!”

    Hirakoba, lounging in a sprawl of long limbs and pale hair under one of the trees behind them, was sniggering. “I guess that one really did get an early start on his growth spurt.”

    Kai’s eyes were turning hard under the edge of his cap, though, and his smile had a cutting edge as he leaned over the fence and yelled, “Show him what kind of game this is, Tanishi!”

    Tanishi was already snarling, driving the ball back at Aoi. Aoi just smiled, cocky and happy, and his next ball hit the top of the net, leaped up and just barely tipped over. “Don’t underestimate me,” he warned.

    And then he started.

    “Back at you,” Tanishi said, already at the net, and batted the ball back over to take the point.

    Eishirou folded his arms, listening with satisfaction to the sudden buzz from the other side of the court, as Rokkaku asked each other what had just happened. He didn’t expect them to figure it out any time soon. Tanishi’s Shukuchihou was smooth and fast, for all his bulk, hard for even his teammates to follow when he was moving forward on the court.

    Higa was cheering as Tanishi took another point, and another before Aoi finally gave up on his cord ball and settled down to fight it out with deeper drives. At least the kid finally looked focused, and Kai and Chinen were both relaxing from their edge of fury at not being taken seriously. Aoi wrestled two points away from Tanishi, but the third game went to Higa, and Tanishi was still playing hot and angry. The fourth game went fast, in a bruising string of Big Bang serves. Eishirou made a thoughtful sound, and Kai cocked an eye up at him.

    “What? It’s almost in the bag, isn’t it?”

    “Perhaps it’s just as well if Tanishi finishes this quickly, yes,” Eishirou allowed, watching closely as Aoi fell back to serve. “Aoi-kun is starting to get used to his strength and range.”

    “Already?” Kai straightened up, startled, and Eishirou shook his head just a little at his vice-captain’s lack of observation whenever he wasn’t the one actually playing.

    “Rokkaku is always a strong contender in their own region, and often at Nationals. Don’t underestimate them just because one of them acts like he’s thinking with the wrong head.”

    “Well, seriously, what am I supposed to think when he’s prancing around the court all grinning and running on about his dates?” Kai grumbled, hanging over the sun-heated fence again with an eloquent slouch.

    “Maybe the kid actually enjoys playing tennis,” Hirakoba needled from under his tree, and Kai gave him a hard look over his shoulder.

    “Don’t enjoy yourself so much you forget what we’re here for,” he ordered, and Hirakoba waved a lazy hand, leaning back in the shade.

    Eishirou listened with half an ear, most of his attention on the court. Aoi clearly still didn’t know how to read Tanishi’s forward movement, but, perhaps on instinct, he was starting to aim for the corners, trying to get the ball past Tanishi’s range. It was working. The fifth game was close, but Aoi took the last two points with deep drives and pumped a fist in the air triumphantly as his first win was called.

    Tanishi’s teeth were bared, and he didn’t even glance at their coach, or at Eishirou. He took his service game with a string of Big Bangs that blew Aoi’s racquet out of his hand with every shot. Eishirou sighed to himself, as Tanishi and Aoi dove straight into the seventh game without pausing. He would never wish to reduce the drive and motivation of his team members, but he did wish, every now and then, that more of them would remember to pace themselves.

    Okinawa had decades of resentment built up, though, and he didn’t pretend he hadn’t known exactly what he was doing when he’d laid his hand on that bitter anger to drive his team to Nationals.

    “Still can’t figure out why this kid is captain,” Kai muttered, folding his arms on the fence and resting his chin on them. “He’s nothing special. No strategy at all.”

    Eishirou pushed his glasses up his nose and looked sidelong at his vice-captain. “And you have what familiarity with strategy, to judge this?”

    “Hey!” Kai was grinning, though. “But, I mean, look at him. He’s figured out to hit to the corners, you’d think he’d know to alternate the corners with that cord ball of his, to make Tanishi run around and wear him out.”

    “He does seem very… straightforward,” Eishirou allowed, a bit dryly. And a good thing, too. Tanishi had spent enough of his endurance, serving with such demanding shots every time, that if Aoi had had the sense to wear him down until those serves lost their full force, the game might have been in doubt. Fortunately that didn’t seem to occur to Aoi.

    Eishirou had to admit, he couldn’t see what might have possessed anyone to make this boy captain, either, or what would make a reasonably strong team follow him. Perhaps the jokes he’d heard here and there, about Rokkaku’s coach getting senile, were actually true.

    Aoi did take the seventh game, but the eighth was another of Tanishi’s service games, and he wasn’t fatally worn down yet. Eishirou smiled as the match was called in Higa’s favor and his club erupted into cheers around him. Chinen slapped hands with Tanishi as he came off the court, passing him a water bottle. “Good work,” Eishirou told him, and Tanishi bobbed his head, breathless but nearly glowing with the victory. Eishirou smiled just a little. This was how it should be. “Aragaki, Shiranui,” he called. “You’re up. Wear them down.”

    His Doubles Two pair grinned like sharks, twirling their racquets. There hadn’t been a single pair who could outlast them in any tournament this year. “Sure thing, Buchou,” Aragaki said.

    “Shudou-Kisarazu pair versus the Shiranui-Aragaki pair,” the referee called, and the Rokkaku pair came to the net to shake hands. It was the lean player with long hair and the compact, muscled one who looked like he should have been a model, all sun-gilded hair and easy smile.

    “Easy meat,” Chinen drawled.

    “We’ll see,” Eishirou murmured, watching as the match started.

    The Rokkaku pair were good. The long-haired player—Ryou his partner called him, must be Kisarazu—he played up front, light on his feet. He took the first point with a subtle, curving shot over the net. His partner held the back with a solid defense that even Aragaki’s drives were having trouble getting through.

    “Bets on how long the Rokkaku pair is going to last?” Kai asked lightly, and Tanishi laughed. Eishirou made a noncommittal sound, which his team only expected of him. This time, though, it was genuine. This match was a risk. Of course, the game itself was always a risk, but as another of Kisarazu’s long-floating slices drifted over Shiranui’s racquet, Eishirou knew this one would be closer than he liked. His pair was more flexible, changing formation quicker and smoother, but they just didn’t have the edge of technique that Kisarazu brought his own pair.

    On the other hand, he smiled to himself as Shiranui reached the net in time to return a tricky drop shot, Higa still had advantages. Shiranui’s Shukuchihou might not be as polished as Tanishi’s or Chinen’s, and Aragaki might not have mastered it at all, but in doubles it was still enough and his team knew how to use even small advantages ruthlessly.

    “What is that movement?” Kisarazu demanded of thin air, shoving back his hair with clear exasperation. A wave of chuckles swept Higa’s club, smug and pleased, and Eishirou allowed himself a small smile.

    “Shukuchihou.”

    Eishirou stiffened, and heads whipped around as the creaky voice of Rokkaku’s coach drifted over the court, and the old man took a sip of his tea, completely unconcerned. “It’s a way of moving, found in Okinawan martial arts,” he added, “to approach an opponent swiftly or unnoticed. Far more efficient than the natural movement of running, it wastes no motion in kicking against the ground. One falls forward with the force of gravity, as it were.”

    Kai hissed, beside him. “That dried up, old…”

    “They can’t counter it, in doubles,” Eishirou cut over him, clear enough to be heard by his team. As they settled, though, he stayed tense; for this to be revealed during a doubles match only meant the singles players would have longer to think about the implications. Saeki, at least, knew it, too; he was up against the fence, watching sharply as the pairs rallied for another point. And there wasn’t a damn thing they could do about it right now. Eishirou cast a cold eye over the Rokkaku team, searching for the weak point, considering how best to exploit whatever he found.

    And then he saw Saotome’s gesture to Shiranui, fingers flicking at Rokkaku’s coach, instructing Shiranui to aim for the old man, and his hands closed on the fence, white-knuckled.

    “What?” Kai asked softly, drawing close against his shoulder, eyes sharp. “We knew we’d probably need it against Rokkaku.”

    “It’s too early,” Eishirou said between his teeth, hanging on to his impassive expression by his fingernails. “It will unsettle this pair, yes, but there’s the other pair and Saeki still to play, and they’re too likely to be focused by their anger instead of distracted. It’s too high a risk just for some idiot notion of revenge; we should save this for the critical match, damn it Shiranui look at me.” If he could catch Shiranui’s eye, he could countermand the order.

    But Shiranui, like the rest of the team, was used to this tactic, knew they’d planned for it, and followed their coach’s directions as Doubles Two started into the second game.

    The old man was thrown straight off his bench by the ball that caught him in the face.

    At almost any other point in the game, Eishirou would have felt some satisfaction in the sudden disorder of Rokkaku’s club as they rushed onto the court, match forgotten, gathering around their coach. When he saw the way Saeki’s head came up to focus like a sighting laser on Higa, though, Eishirou just sighed under his breath. “Well, that’s torn it,” he muttered to Kai. “At least two matches that are going to be far harder than they should have been just because our fool of a coach can’t keep it in his pants.”

    Kai choked, eyes wide under the warm brown frizz of his hair. “Damn. You are pissed off.”

    Eishirou looked down on the court coolly. “Yes. And some day very soon, Saotome will know it.”


    “Ojii!”

    Saeki Koujirou didn’t remember how he got down onto the court, but he was on his knees beside Ojii, hands hovering over their coach’s shoulders, afraid even to touch him.

    “Sae!” Someone had his shoulder, shaking him. “Saeki snap out of it! The first aid crew is coming.” Kurobane, that was it. And now Koujirou could hear the referee on his radio to the first aid station, telling them to call an ambulance and bring a stretcher and braces.

    “He’s breathing. He’s okay,” Itsuki whispered, across from him. “He’s going to be okay, right?”

    Koujirou sucked in a hard breath and made himself lay a hand on Ojii’s arm. “Of course he will,” he managed, only a little husky. “He’ll be fine. They’ll take him to the hospital and he’ll be fine.” He looked around at his team, at Aoi, nearly in tears, at Ryou and Shudou, both shocked and white, racquets abandoned on the court, at Davide, stiff and dangerously still beside his partner, at Kurobane’s furiously clenched jaw.

    And then he looked up at the Higa team. The one who’d hit Ojii had his racquet propped casually on his shoulder, and his partner was smirking a little. Koujirou remembered the signal Higa’s coach had made, and glanced over to find him leaning back on his bench with folded arms and a vicious smile.

    It had been on purpose.

    Rage closed over Koujirou like deep water, like a tsunami wave rushing in, ready to break, dark and vicious. He might have lunged for Higa’s Doubles Two right then and there, if the first aid team hadn’t arrived, gently pushing Rokkaku away from their coach, murmuring quick, incomprehensible reports to each other as they inflated a brace under Ojii’s neck and carefully slid a stretcher under him.

    “We’ll get him right to the hospital,” the shorter of them said to the team, kindly. “I’m sure he’ll be fine. There should be room in the ambulance for one or two of you, if you want to come and see for yourself.”

    “My match is over, let me go!” Aoi held out his hands, entreating. “I’ll call and let you know as soon as they say anything!”

    A very cold part of Koujirou wondered if part of Higa’s plan had been to draw away some of the regulars who hadn’t played yet. Well, they’d find out otherwise. “Yeah, go,” he said. “And let us know where, when you get there; we’ll join you after this round is done. Take Takeuchi with you, and don’t forget your phone,” he called after Aoi as their young captain darted after the stretcher, and scrubbed his hands over his face. “Fuck.”

    “Do you want to continue the match,” the referee asked them, hesitant and sympathetic, “or do you want to…”

    “We’re not forfeiting.” Koujirou’s voice came out cold and hard, and even his own team rocked back a step from him as he looked up.

    “Right.” The referee eyed him like a firework with the fuse sizzling. “Well, if that’s the case, Doubles Two needs to resume play.”

    Koujirou snorted as the man retreated rather hastily to his chair, and looked over at Ryou and Shudou. “Can you keep going?”

    “We have to,” Ryou said, low, hands wringing around each other. “I mean… Ojii wouldn’t want us to just stop. Would he?”

    “Course he wouldn’t.” Kurobane clapped Ryou and Shudou briskly on the shoulders. “Show those Higa bastards that they can’t win this easy.”

    Shudou pulled in a long, shaky breath and nodded, stepping back onto the court to pick up his racquet. “Okay.”

    “I don’t know if they’re going to get this match back,” Kurobane murmured to Koujirou as the club filed off the court and the remaining team moved back against the fence, lined up behind the empty coach’s bench.

    Koujirou watched as Shudou turned the wrong way and missed a drive he would normally have returned easily, and his lips thinned. “You’re right.” He glanced over at Amane, standing on Bane’s far side, absolutely silent, with his arms folded tight. “Are you guys going to be all right?” he asked quietly.

    Bane slung his arm around Amane without looking, hand tight on his partner’s shoulder. After a long, still moment, Amane took his first visible breath since Ojii had been hit, and leaned back against the fence and Bane’s arm. Kurobane nodded to Koujirou, perfectly steady though his eyes were still hot.

    Kurobane’s support settled Koujirou a little, but when he looked at Itsuki, on his other side, standing with his fingers wound into the links of the fence, tense and miserable, rage flared again. Higa had done this to break his team. And it was possible they’d succeeded, at least in the short term.

    He watched the Doubles Two match, jaw tight with silent fury, and when it ended in Rokkaku’s loss, he could only clasp Ryou and Shudou’s shoulders silently as he stalked past them onto the court.

    It was Higa’s captain he met at the net, and Kite gave him a cool nod. “I see we were thinking the same thing.”

    About the importance of Singles Two, he meant, of course, but Koujirou couldn’t stop his lip curling, and didn’t try. “No, I really don’t believe we think alike at all.” He jerked his head at the Higa coach, sprawled genially on his bench with his arms crossed over his beer gut, at the Doubles Two pair laughing with their teammates now. “Is that really the way your team plays?”

    Kite looked back at him levelly. “Higa plays to win.”

    “Then Higa just made a big mistake,” Koujirou snarled, and stalked back to his service line. He served lightly, just across the net, and then drove the return deep into the far corner. Kite didn’t turn a hair at either shot, and he was behind each one with that slick movement so many of Higa seemed to use. Koujirou did it again, a drop shot and then a corner drive in the other direction, pushing himself to place each ball precisely, watching, measuring the play and shift of his opponent’s muscles, gauging what that movement demanded.

    There were jibes from Higa, now, and Tanishi’s voice called, “You won’t catch our captain that way! He can use Shukuchihou to move in any direction!”

    Which meant not all of them could, and Koujirou tucked that thought away before he let himself toss back his head and laugh. The Higa club fell silent, and Koujirou bared his teeth at Kite. “Not a natural movement, hm?” he asked softly, voice carrying in the hush.

    Kite’s eyes narrowed.

    Koujirou threw himself into the game, working the court from every angle possible to drive Kite side to side, front to back, forcing him to use the technique Koujirou could see was straining his muscles. His wrists ached from turning his racquet to such wildly differing angles, and the first game reached deuce five times before Koujirou took the last point. He knew he was playing recklessly, spending his strength into the game without reservation, to drive Kite to the edge along with him, to use up his endurance on that so very effective but so very demanding movement of Shukuchihou. There was no banter or taunts as the serve changed, just Kite’s cold-eyed acknowledgment as he threw the ball up and leaped for it with a form Koujirou recognized. Big Bang. It hit his racquet like a wall falling, and Koujirou winced at the spike of pain in his wrists as his racquet tore out of his hands.

    When he looked across the net this time, Kite was smiling faintly. Koujirou’s lip curled and he set himself to meet the next serve, trying to turn a little with it, take some of the force from the ball. It was still too much, pushed him too far around, but at least he kept his racquet this time. Higa’s club was snickering, obviously not believing anyone could return this serve, but Koujirou had watched the Kantou finals. He couldn’t replicate precisely what Echizen did, but he remembered a little first-year catching Sanada’s Fire. More was possible than anyone had thought, before watching that match, and his focus on the ball narrowed further.

    On the third serve, he turned the other way, putting his right shoulder to the ball, bracing his racquet there. The impact was bruising, and he could feel right away he didn’t have enough flex in his gut to return the ball, and it bounced short of the net. A gust of laughter ran through Higa’s club.

    Kite wasn’t smiling any more, though.

    Koujirou bared his teeth and set his feet again, ready for the last ball. He thought he might just have it, now.

    Kite stared over the net at him for a long moment before he cast the ball up to serve. It was the Big Bang again, and Koujirou laughed as it came. He turned to brace his racquet against his shoulder again, but when the ball struck this time, he stepped forward on the left, turning and lunging, holding the ball on his racquet for a long moment before uncoiling to hurl it back. He could feel the flex of the gut through the grip and knew this one would have the force it needed.

    The ball hit the net, hard enough to jar the weighted bottom.

    The referee called the score, one game all, in dead silence. Fury and satisfaction curled hot through Koujirou, along with the growing strain of such intense play. He would teach Higa just what kind of mistake they’d made, rousing Rokkaku. He whirled and stalked back to his baseline, fishing out a ball, and he felt Kite’s eyes on his back all the way.

    The games were brutal, for a match of technique against technique, of Koujirou’s carefully controlled near and far shots against Kite’s Shukuchihou, of that braced and coiling return against the Big Bang. They hammered at each other mercilessly, across the net, pushing and pushing to find the breaking point of bone and muscle. Koujirou thought, distantly, that he might have fallen already if the cold weight of his rage weren’t holding him together. He could feel the burn in his arms and wrists as he twisted his racquet, the trembling in his calves that told him he’d have cramps the moment he stood still, the numbness of his right shoulder that paid for every serve he returned. He could hear the shocked silence of both clubs, watching.

    Neither of them had dropped a service game, yet.

    By the time the referee called six games all, Koujirou could hear the rough, hoarse edge to his own breathing, and every breath felt like it scraped the insides of his lungs. But his fixed glare didn’t waver from Kite, and the eyes that met his were grim.

    Tiebreak.

    The Rokkaku club was calling out to him again, and shouts of “Seven points!” rose from both sides. Koujirou couldn’t look away from Kite, so he just nodded and cast his ball up to serve.

    His serve was weaker, now, but still as precise as ever, calling Kite up to the net to catch it. Kite never stepped wrong, but his return was shaky, hands less sure than his feet now. Koujirou’s focus narrowed and narrowed again, down to nothing but the ball, nothing but the need to reach it, return it, drive Kite back and take the point. And the point after that. Kite took the third one, and Koujirou’s teeth clenched, as if he could hold on to his last shreds of endurance that way. As if he could feel Kite’s throat between them.

    He couldn’t let go now.

    Five points to four, in his favor, and he could hardly feel the court’s surface under his feet any more. There was only the pressure of the sun, holding him down to the ground, and the movement of the ball over the net, and the hesitation he could see in Kite’s strokes.

    Six to four, in his favor, with a flat, two-handed smash that made his bruised shoulder howl. He couldn’t see anything outside the court, and it didn’t matter.

    Six to five, when Kite made a drop shot that Koujirou just couldn’t get to, not any more. He knew, somewhere in the darkness outside his rigid focus, that he didn’t have the strength to play for much longer. He had to take the next point. He would not let Higa get away with another win after what they’d done.

    The thought made the icy rage in his chest flare again, and he drove himself against the court, against the ball coming back toward him. He drove the ball with all the vicious strength of that ice, into the far corner, back and back, to strike just inside the lines. Kite spun with the lightness that never seemed to leave his steps, dashing back to catch the ball before it came down.

    And finally, finally, stumbled.

    The second thop as the ball landed again and gave the seventh point and Singles Two to Koujirou was swept under a storm of cheering from Rokkaku. Koujirou wanted to join in, wanted to scream his triumph, but he didn’t have the breath. It came out as a thin, raw sound between his teeth as he swayed on his feet.

    And then there was a shoulder under his arm, and Bane was half carrying him off the court, easing him down onto the coach’s bench.

    “You’re a crazy man,” Bane informed him, catching the water bottle Davide threw him. “Here, drink this.”

    Koujirou sipped at the straw in between heaving breaths, and made a disgusted face at the taste of electrolyte solution. Bane thwapped him lightly over the head.

    “Don’t give me that. You’ll thank me when you don’t pass out, ten minutes from now.”

    Koujirou took another sip and made an even worse face. “Had to,” he rasped hoarsely. “Had to break their momentum.”

    Bane snorted. “That and you were pissed off, and you’re a scary bastard when you finally get mad, Sae” he said matter-of-fact, and stood. “So sit there and drink your damn minerals and just watch. Keep an eye on him,” he added to Itsuki, and jerked his head at Davide.

    Davide finished scraping his hair back and took the hairband out of his teeth to wrap it tight. “Let’s go,” he said quietly. The two of them caught up their racquets and strode onto the court.

    “Are you sure you’re going to be all right, Saeki?” Itsuki asked, standing behind his shoulder. Koujirou tipped his head back to smile up at him wearily, and maybe Bane had a point; the world was kind of weirdly bright at the moment. Itt-chan looked a little glowy.

    “I’m fine,” he said, and almost winced at the roughness of his own voice and breathing. “Well, I will be, anyway,” he amended, and took another sip of the disgusting mineral crap, to keep everyone from worrying.

    After all, he thought as he watched Bane and Davide meet the other pair at the net, with his own match over, worrying was his job, now.


    Saotome snarled at Eishirou as he came off the court. “What the hell was that? You’re supposed to be the best on this team, and you threw that game away! Don’t tell me you couldn’t have pushed harder against one of these pansy-ass beach bums.”

    Eishirou looked down his nose at the coach. “Pushed harder and been weakened against Rikkai, tomorrow, yes I suppose I could have.” When Saotome flushed and drew breath, Eishirou made a tight, violent slash with one hand and narrowed his eyes in satisfaction when Saotome started back against the bench. “You were the one who pushed Rokkaku to this, for no strategic gain, just to salve your own pride. Don’t speak to me about the risks I have to run because of that.” He spun on his heel and stalked off the court, meeting Kai and Chinen at the gate. They both looked shaken, to have seen him lose, and he silently cursed their coach yet again, the way he’d been doing ever since he met Saeki Koujirou at the net, and saw the cold, focused fury in his eyes. “Be careful, but don’t worry too much,” he ordered briskly. “We only need one more match. And watch this pair, before you try to provoke them. If it makes them stop thinking, that’s well and good, but if it just makes them focus harder on beating you, then leave them be.”

    Both of them nodded, and Kai at least seemed to pull himself together. “Got it, boss.” He sauntered onto the court with his racquet caught between his back and his elbows, apparently as casual as ever. Eishirou walked through his subdued club with a nod here and a faint smile there until he reached the rest of his team, up against the fence.

    “Buchou.” Tanishi’s voice was low, and his face troubled, and Eishirou laid a hand on his shoulder for a moment in reassurance.

    “That looked like a damn hard match.” Hirakoba sounded wistful about the fact, and Eishirou’s mouth quirked, humor a bit restored.

    “You’ll have someone nice to play with when we face Rikkai,” he soothed, and marked the way the club settled around them, hearing that confidence. He laid his hands on the fence calmly, and watched the Doubles One pairs meet at the net. Both the Rokkaku players were tall, though neither as tall as Chinen, and the one with the rather dramatic auburn hair had a strangely made racquet. It was long, right at the legal limit if Eishirou wasn’t mistaken, but the length was all in the grip, not the face. Eishirou considered the kind of leverage that racquet would give a player, if he could really handle it, and concealed a frown. This might be another tight match.

    “Wow, that’s a long racquet.” Kai bent closer to peer at it, and up at the player with a cocky grin. “You compensating for something?”

    Chokes and snickers and outraged sputters rose all around the court. The dark player caught his partner’s arm to keep him back, face hard. Eishirou pinched the bridge of his nose, lifting his glasses a little as he rubbed at an incipient headache. He valued Kai, he truly did. Kai was a fine vice-captain, a strong player, and he took his responsibilities to the team seriously. Someday he might even learn the value of moderation. Someday was clearly not today, though.


    Bane caught Davide’s shoulder, pulling him back from the net firmly, and hissed in his ear, “Cool down! They’re trying to provoke us, that’s obviously how they play. Kick their asses with your tennis, not your foot!” As Davide relaxed, so did he. His partner might be the quiet type, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have a temper, and Davi-kun couldn’t play hot like that.

    The loudmouth was watching them, eyes sharp under his frizz of brown hair. “One hot, one cold, huh?” he murmured. “Okay, then.” He spun, reaching up to clap his hugely tall partner on the shoulder. “Let’s go!”

    Testing us,” Davide gritted through his teeth. Bane nodded agreement.

    “That’ll be their game-maker, then. Watch him for cues.” He frowned at the long strides of the other one, Chinen, walking away from the net. “Chinen will have a lot of your advantages, just from his natural reach. Think you can hold him?”

    Davide straightened up at that bit of challenge, snorting. “Of course I can.” Bane grinned.

    “Good.”

    It was Chinen who served first, hard and fast and straight at Davide. Trying to get inside the reach of his racquet, maybe. Bane snorted and stayed where he was. Davide’s lip curled as he slid to the side and whipped the ball back over the net with all the fluid leverage of his racquet. The ball blew right past the Higa pair, and Bane nodded a little to himself. He didn’t quite have Sae’s eye for an opponent or strategy, but he thought they were stronger than these jokers.

    Davide powered the next return past Higa, too, but the third ball was out and Kai let it go. “Easy, Davi-kun!” Bane called. “No need to waste anything on them.”

    The whole Higa crowd growled at that, and Bane wondered, not for the first time this round, what was up with that club. Who could use such disgusting tactics, and then expected to be taken for anything but trash?

    The next serve turned into a rally; Bane’d been right about the speed advantage Chinen’s height gave him. It was Kai who directed the ball at Bane, though, and he knew he was being measured. Well, fine; maybe he could measure back. They drove the ball back and forth, slowly harder and faster as they went, until Bane was pretty sure the next shot would be the last. Kai just wasn’t as strong as he was.

    Kai turned his racquet out and bounced the ball lightly away.

    Bane bared his teeth. “Davide!” His partner was already there, though, sinking the ball into the far corner. Kai’s eyes narrowed, and Bane snorted. Didn’t take much observing to tell he and Davide were a tight pair, after all.

    They lost the next point to a fast poach at the net, though Bane was gratified to see that Kai nearly lost control of the ball as he did it. The last point was Bane’s, though, straight down the center line, and the first game went to Rokkaku. He and Davide nodded at each other, satisfied, and Bane fell back to serve.

    Despite their opponents, he could feel the glow of the game spreading through him—the satisfaction of stretching his body to catch and control the ball, the reassurance of Davi-kun’s strength beside him. This was Bane’s game. Not even bastards like Higa were going to take that away from him! He drove the ball over the net, fast and tight, and every serve put a little shiver down his spine. Not just because he got two of them past the Higa pair for service aces, but because the ball went true and that felt fantastic in its own right. Chinen dashed too far forward to meet Davide’s drive, and Bane sent the ball singing past his elbow on the return, and the second game was theirs.

    “That Kai is watching us,” Davide said softly, as they grabbed a drink of water before the next game. Bane glanced over and had to stomp on a shudder. Kai was watching all right, cold and calculating under that jaunty cap. What the hell were these people doing playing tennis, anyway? They belonged in some back alley, with knives in their fists!

    Rokkaku had the momentum, though, heading into the third game, and Bane didn’t feel too pressured. They took one point with a two-forward dash that startled Chinen into a lob. Another when Bane slid aside at the end of a rally to let Davide smash the ball instead. It looked like Kai was going to return the favor on the next ball, and Bane eyed the set of Chinen’s racquet and called “Davide, it’s coming to you!” His partner didn’t bother replying, just slid smoothly into place.

    And then Kai’s racquet flipped around, in his hold, and he drove the ball right into the open side of the court with a bizarre curling swing that left both Bane and Davide staring. Kai had practically hit the ball with his elbow.

    “The hell… ?” Davide sputtered.

    Cheers went up from Higa, and Kai laughed. “That’s the Viking’s Horn,” he told them, grinning. “Didn’t you listen to the old geezer? We all come from martial arts, not tennis.”

    That made a whole lot of sense, actually, Bane thought distantly.

    “He can delay a long time, with that shot,” Davide said quietly. “And it’ll be hard to tell where it’s going.”

    Bane took a long breath. “It matters less with doubles than it would with singles. We’ll just have to be careful to cover the court.” Another thought nudged at him, and he smiled slowly. “And he’s not the only one who can make a shot unpredictable.”

    Davi-kun’s eyes flashed up to meet his, and brightened.

    They found their places on the court again, feeling how near or far they were to each other, whether their ranges overlapped. Even with Davide’s reach, they couldn’t cover the whole doubles court perfectly, and Kai had infuriatingly good timing. Now Bane was feeling pressure, but at least it was the kind of pressure that belonged on a tennis court. His opponents had some moves it would be hard to meet. He flexed his hand around the grip of his racquet, and grinned tightly. Bring it on!

    They were heading into the fourth game, two games to one, and Bane let Davide go forward. He fell back, watching where Higa’s pair was, on the court, waiting for the ball to come to him. When it did, it was like fate, a perfect flat smash, and he leaped and spun, hitting the ball backhand and holding it on his racquet for a long moment as his head snapped around and he saw the other side of the net like a snapshot. There. On the right. He uncoiled with a snap and the ball slammed down feet away from Kai’s racquet before Bane’s foot touched the ground again. The club yelled gleefully, and he saw Sae give him a thumb’s up from where he still sat on the coach’s bench.

    Davide was smiling.

    The match was hot and fast, now, rallies burning across the net, broken by Kai’s and Bane’s unpredictable shots. They took their fourth game when Chinen caught one of Bane’s backhands only to lose his racquet to the force of it. Higa took the next game with a relentless series of Viking’s Horns that left Kai panting for breath and dripping with sweat. Both pairs were signaling broadly for poaches, whenever they had the serve, and only following through on half of them.

    At five games to four, Bane caught the back of Davide’s neck and leaned their foreheads together. “We’ve got to take the next game. I think they’ve got more endurance than we do, in the end, but we’ve got more strength. We’ve got to blow through them. Can we do it?”

    Davi-kun huffed a soft laugh, eyes bright and wild though his face was as still as ever. “Yeah. Let’s do it.” The light in his eyes turned into a glint, and he added, “Maybe we can pull a Momo on them.” Bane threw back his head and laughed, breathless.

    It was a crazy kind of risk to take. If they didn’t take this match, they’d have burned through the last of their endurance, and then they’d lose. But it felt right, to try.

    Grunts of effort turned into shouts, as they met each ball, and Bane could feel the burn in his muscles as he pushed toward his limit, the electric burn that told a detached corner of his mind that he was going to hurt like blazes tomorrow. But they were breaking through. One ball. Another. Kai lost his racquet again to one, but hung on grimly and sent the ball after that back with the Viking’s Horn. Bane thought he saw a red mark along Kai’s arm, though, where the racquet rested. Kai was calling directions to Chinen, teeth bared and set, shouting to avoid Davide. Chinen returned the next ball to Bane’s court, turning the drive into a rally. Just one more point, but Chinen drove the ball right past Bane’s ankle and Higa had two points. The next ball sang straight toward Bane and he set his feet to leap, watched the Higa pair drop back to the middle of the court, ready to catch the ball wherever he sent it. Bane grinned, crazy and fierce, and yelled, “Davide!”

    Davide stretched, reaching with his racquet to intercept the ball, body coiling up, shouting with the effort. The Higa pair fell back further, braced for the wild power of one of Davide’s drives.

    And Davi-kun batted the ball over the net in a drop shot.

    “Match to Kurobane and Amane!” the referee declared into the silence. “Six games to four!”


    Koujirou was laughing as he met Bane and Davide coming off the court, in the bedlam that followed their last point. “And you say I’m a crazy man!” He clasped hands with Bane, and tossed Davide a water bottle.

    “It worked,” Bane defended himself, and buried his face in a towel. “Any word about Ojii yet?” he added, a little muffled.

    “Nothing yet,” Ryou said, low, hand closing a little tighter around his phone, which he hadn’t let go of since he’d come off the court.

    “Do you…” Itsuki wouldn’t look at any of them. “Do you think there’s something wrong?”

    “No news is good news,” Koujirou said firmly, reaching out to catch Itsuki’s shoulder. “The hospital is surely running tests; if they’d found anything wrong, someone would have said at once, and Aoi would have let us know.”

    Itsuki took a deep breath and blew it out. “Yeah. Okay, Sae.”

    “We’re two and two,” Koujirou said softly. “It’s up to you, now. You can do it, Itt-chan.”

    Itsuki settled his shoulders, fingers finding their places on the grip of his racquet, and nodded with determination. Koujirou relaxed a little and clapped his shoulder. “Off you go, then!” He watched Itsuki take the court and folded his arms to keep his hands from clenching on each other.

    Itsuki had been as shaken by what happened to Ojii as Aoi had been, and then had two matches with nothing to do but worry. As soon as everything stopped having over-bright edges, and Koujirou had admitted to himself that Bane had been right to make him drink the mineral crap, he’d realized Itt-chan was the one most likely to have trouble. But Itt-chan was also a powerful player, strong and flexible. He was the one whose natural movement came closest to Higa’s Shukuchihou. His opponent, Higa’s tall, laughing blond, was fierce and eager, and didn’t seem to have as much of that vicious edge as the rest of them did. At first, watching Itsuki’s regular, huffing breaths as he returned each sharp drive, Koujirou thought it would be all right.

    And then Higa’s Hirakoba hit a strange, lingering shot that looked like a normal ball until it landed. The bounce spun off in a jinking curve, and Itsuki grunted as his racquet swished through the air above it.

    “What was that?” Ryou muttered behind him, uneasy. Koujirou frowned, and watched Hirakoba closer. Another two balls, and he hit that shot again, and Koujirou cursed softly as Itsuki missed the odd curve of the bounce again.

    “He spins it in one direction on his racquet and then flicks it along another axis as the ball leaves the face,” he said, standing from the bench to wave to Itsuki. “That’s why it bounces so unpredictably.”

    And now the score was two to one in Higa’s favor, and the only good thing about that was the players changing courts, so he had a chance to talk to Itt-chan.

    “Do you know what that shot is?” Itsuki asked, swiping back his hair and frowning with clear frustration.

    “It’s a trick with spin,” Koujirou explained, quick and low. “So hit as many sinkers back to him as you can. The less spin you put on the ball, the less violent that bounce will be.”

    Itsuki glanced over at the other player, lounging against the retaining wall and ignoring his coach and his vice-captain alike when they tried to talk to him. “I don’t like that ball. It’s too unpredictable.” He stomped a little, on his way to the other court, and Sae winced.

    “Itt-chan getting frustrated?” Bane asked, leaning over the back of the bench.

    “I’m afraid so.” Koujirou watched Itsuki smashing the ball back at Hirakoba, watched the set to his jaw. “That won’t necessarily be a bad thing…”

    Itsuki took the game, and Koujirou was just starting to relax again when Hirakoba served with that wild-bouncing shot.

    “Damn,” he said softly.


    Eishirou didn’t really breathe freely until he saw the Rokkaku player guess wrong twice in a row about which way Hirakoba’s Habu would bounce. The game still wasn’t a sure thing; an opponent who could hit a ball without spin would make Hirakoba work for his win. But that was just making Hirakoba brighten up, as he bounded across the court.

    Beside him, Kai braced his elbows on the fence, less fluidly careless than usual. “That could have been a bad chance, this player matched with Rin,” he murmured.

    “Mm.” Eishirou settled his shoulders and crossed his arms, standing straight and calm for the benefit of his club. “This is the match I would have saved the emotional blow for, given my way.”

    “I’ll pass the word to watch you, and not the coach, for that.” Kai snorted as he straightened and stretched. “Not that Rin is real good at listening to either of you.” He slipped away to bend over Shiranui and Aragaki where they were sitting under the tree line, speaking softly.

    Itsuki missed Habu again, and Eishirou could see the tightness in his body from here, muffling that springy strength of motion all of Rokkaku seemed to share, to one degree or another. He wondered a little what their training regimen was like, to produce that. And then he saw a jersey pattern he recognized, had memorized, on the far side of the court. Not Rokkaku’s red and hexagons. The soft gold and black stripe of Rikkai. Eishirou watched them watching the last match and smiled, small and sharp. He could see Higa’s course, past Rokkaku to this, their real challenge. And if they could pass Rikkai, the champions… well, then he’d have the only psychological weapon he’d need against any other team in this tournament.

    “Rin’s hands are going to get numb if he keeps using Habu so much,” Kai noted, sliding back into place beside him. “Think he’ll be okay to go against Rikkai?”

    “Overnight should be long enough to recover.” Eishirou glanced down at Kai. “What about your arm?”

    Kai’s mouth twisted. “You noticed, huh?” His right hand slid down his left forearm. “It’s going to hurt if I have to play another power-monster like those two, but I’ll be fine.” He hesitated and looked down. “I’m sorry, Kite.”

    Eishirou snorted before he could stop himself. “Don’t be an idiot, Kai. If I made you eat gouya for that loss, I’d have to split it with you.”

    Kai watched Itsuki return a ferocious low shot with another non-spinning ball and a scowl. “You held back a little so you could meet Rikkai at full strength, because you trusted me to win the next match.”

    Eishirou was quiet for a moment, because he couldn’t dispute that. Finally, though, he rested a hand on Kai’s shoulder, briefly, and murmured, “We win or lose as a team. And Higa will win this round. That’s what all my strategy is for.”

    Kai smiled again, at that, and looked up at him, sidelong, under the brim of his cap. “Yeah. That’s our captain.”

    Eishirou nodded, accepting the responsibility, and stood under the eyes of his club with all the quiet confidence he could muster as the score was called five to three in Higa’s favor.

    Whatever it took for his team, his club, his home to win, he’d do it.


    Koujirou chewed on his lip to keep from swearing as the last game drew to a close. Itsuki was putting up a good fight, but he was just too rattled to catch that Habu shot by anything but chance. And chance wasn’t going to be enough. “Itt-chan…”

    “Sae!”

    He whipped around on the bench to see Bane, Davide, and Shudou all hovering over Ryou’s phone. Bane looked up, nearly laughing. “Sae, it’s from Aoi, Ojii’s okay!”

    “Game and match, won by Higa, six games to three!” the referee called. “The winners of this round are Higa!”

    Koujirou barely heard, and he couldn’t manage to care. “All right!” He sprang off the bench and grabbed Itsuki’s arm as he trudged off the court. “Itt-chan, Ojii’s all right! It’s okay!”

    After a blank moment, relief brightened in Itsuki’s face. “He’s okay? They’re sure?”

    Ryou waved his phone like a flag of triumph. “Aoi says they did scans for broken bones and everything, and he’s fine!”

    By now the club members on the other side of the fence had heard and were passing the word, pounding shoulders and laughing with relief. “Come on,” Koujirou ordered, grabbing his bag up from the foot of the fence and slinging it over his shoulder. “We’ll go meet them at the hospital and take Ojii home.”

    “Hey! Rokkaku!” the referee called after them as they jostled toward the gate. “It’s time to line up!”

    Koujirou stopped dead, reminded all over again, in a tingling rush of rage, exactly why they had all been so tense and afraid. He looked over his shoulder, past his teammates, and said coldly. “No. We’re not shaking hands with the likes of them.”

    The referee opened and closed his mouth a few times, clearly not knowing what to do with this. Catcalls picked up among the Higa club, calls of “Sore losers!” and “Kantou jerks!” Koujirou’s vision darkened for a flash, and he threw down his bag, stalked past his team, and yelled so loudly it tore at his throat and echoed off the retaining wall.

    Rokkaku doesn’t shake hands with cowards!

    The Higa team stiffened, standing at the net, and the big one, Tanishi, stepped forward with a snarl. Koujirou slashed his hand through the air as if to knock him aside. “What the hell are you thinking?” he raged, unable to stop, now he’d started. “Deliberately injuring the other coach? Striking an old man? I don’t give a damn what you’ve won, anyone who does that is nothing but a coward! If you thought anyone would respect you after you won because of that, you’d better figure out differently, now!” He glared at them, at Higa’s impassive captain, panting for breath for a long, silent moment, before he spun on his heel and caught up his bag again. “Let’s go,” he ordered flatly, and his team followed him out the gate without another word. The rest of the club closed in around them, and Koujirou saw a few sharp nods, heard a few mutters of support.

    He was just glad the kids hadn’t come to the first day of Nationals, and seen all this.

    The sight of Rikkai jerseys by the walkway pulled him up short, though. “Bane,” he said, low, “take everyone on. I’ll catch up in just a few.”

    Bane glanced over and nodded. “Sure thing. Okay, people,” he raised his voice, “Ojii’s probably dying for some tea by now, so let’s go rescue him, right?” A gust of laughter ran through the club, and he chivvied everyone down the broad walk beside the courts.

    Koujirou stopped by Yukimura, Sanada, and Yanagi, where they’d been watching the last match.

    “They attacked your coach?” Sanada asked, even his iron calm sounding a little shaken.

    “Hit a ball straight at him, got him right in the face, and knocked him unconscious,” Koujirou confirmed, clipped. “It was obviously a psychological tactic to rattle us. And it worked.” He ground out the last words, and had to take a moment to get a grip on himself before he could speak calmly again. “Yukimura. The whole tournament knows, by now, what you mean to your team. And you’re usually bench coach. Be careful.”

    Yukimura looked at him for a long, quiet moment before he smiled, and held out his hand. “You’re a good man, Saeki. Don’t worry about us; we’ll be fine.” His grip was as strong as it had ever been, and Koujirou found himself glad to feel it. Yukimura had always been both completely honorable and completely ruthless. If he was fully recovered…

    Koujirou was smiling, not very nicely, as he trotted to catch up with his club. Higa would be taken care of.

     

    1. For photos and details of where the teams play, see the Appendix. back

    2. This is the only reference I will ever make to the utter weirditude of Niou being the copy-everyone player. That is part of canon that I jettisoned. I left this as an easter egg for those who enjoyed the crack, though. back

    3. Since there is no visible injury to Chitose’s eye, I went for a detached retina as something that would significantly and lastingly impair his vision without being visible. back

    Last Modified: Dec 29, 21
    Posted: Dec 27, 21
    Name (optional):
    sent Plaudits.

    The Fire Shall Never Make Thee Shrink – Day Two Morning

    Quarter-finals. Fudoumine is making progress and gives Shitenhouji a run for their money, Higa is shocked by Rikkai, and Kirihara has an epiphany that he doesn’t particularly enjoy. Atobe, on the other hand, enjoys his quite a lot.Action, Drama, I-3

    Quarter-finals: Fudoumine vs. Shitenhouji

    Tachibana Kippei glanced around at his team, standing in a close group and talking quietly about homework due on Monday and which teachers had complained about letting the tennis club out of school yesterday, swaying a little as the train started and stopped. They were easy and confident, nudging each other and grinning, not worried about taking on the Kansai champions, but discussing a stroke or bit of footwork that might help, now and then. Vast pride in how far they’d come in a single season made Kippei’s throat a little tight as Kokusai-tenjijou station was announced.

    Kippei and his team filed off the train, and he couldn’t help smiling a little as a handful of half-familiar faces slipped out after them. It had taken a whole year, but what he’d hoped for had finally happened. “Going to watch Nationals?” he asked casually, and the knot of Fudoumine students shuffled, a little uncertainly. It looked like he was the only third-year on the platform.

    “Yeah,” one of the second-years finally ventured and Kippei gave him an encouraging nod.

    “It’s just across the road; this way.” He led the whole group up the stairs, though the modest bustle of the tall, airy station, and along the tree-lined walk that skirted the station’s little parking lot and led to the high pedestrian bridge. The other students stayed a few steps away, but they kept sneaking sidelong looks at the team. Finally, as they started up the long stairs to the bridge, it was one of the first-years who sidled up to Ishida, Kippei was a little amused to note, and asked, “So, um. How many teams are playing today?”

    Ishida grinned down at the kid. “Only eight. We made it into the Quarter-finals, and if we get past Shitenhouji we’ll play in the Semi-finals this afternoon!”

    “Is this really the first year you’ve played?” the first-year asked, sounding a little awed. “I heard, but…”

    “Yep.” Ishida straightened his shoulders, proud, and a little old anger glinted in his eyes as he looked up the steps. “First year we’ve been able to, thanks to the old coach.”

    The other students, who had been making impressed sounds, abruptly fell quiet at that, and the first-year looked like he suddenly felt a little trapped. But he cleared his throat and took hold of his nerve and asked, quavering just a tiny bit, “Is… is it true there was a fight with the coach?”

    Kippei nudged Kamio discreetly and tipped his head toward the conversation. Kamio colored a little at the encouragement, but stepped in to answer steadily. “The old club had a lot of problems with bullying. The second- and third-years wouldn’t let the first-years use the courts at all, even after club hours. Not until Tachibana-san transferred in.”

    “A problem like that is hard to undo, once it starts.” Kippei waved a hand as if to dismiss his intervention. “An outside view sees that more easily.” He turned his head to give his team a secret grin as they stirred, clearly wanting to protest that, and nudged Kamio to go on.

    Kamio gave him a faintly exasperated look, but he’d gotten the message. This was his show, with his prospective new club members. “We actually started a new club then, and got permission to draw out a new dirt court on one of the back lots. That was when the coach got involved and, um.” He gave the other students a wry, tilted smile as they all started across the bridge. “I guess things got a little out of hand, yeah. But we just wanted to play.”

    “That’s when the coach left,” Ishida put in, and grinned at Kippei. “Well, what else was he going to do, after being scolded in public by a second-year for being such a bad coach?”

    Kippei nearly laughed. ‘Scolded’ was certainly one way to put it.

    “We were suspended for three months,” Kamio finished, “but we got permission to form as the official club.” He chuckled. “The ‘staff’ chart still looks a little strange, though.”

    “I’m the Physical Trainer.” Ishida laughed. “And Shinji’s the Grounds Manager.”

    Shinji sniffed. “It’s really just being Treasurer and filling in order forms.”

    “After this tournament, I think we’ll have better luck finding a faculty advisor.” Kippei smiled at his team, more gently now.

    One of the second-years half raised his hand, hesitantly. “I heard that Enoki-sensei, the science teacher, used to play tennis.”

    Kippei barely restrained himself from punching the air in triumph, at this contribution. There would be a team next year. “I’ll definitely speak to her, then,” he said, just as if she hadn’t been on his short-list already. The other boy brightened up, and walked a little closer to the team.

    By the time they got all the way down the stairs on the other side of the bridge, the second-year, Matsuda, had admitted to playing a little street-tennis now and then, and Akechi, the first-year who’d first approached Ishida, was asking eager questions about how to do good strength training. They crossed the Ariake parking lot in a group that looked more like the other clubs than they ever had before, and Kippei could feel his team warming to their school-mates, relaxing some of the stiff pride that had covered discomfort all this summer.

    The tournament was using different courts, for the second day, with only four Quarter-final matches to accommodate. The two courts just before the park field had wide, grassy margins inside the fence on either end, and the organizers had set out some temporary bleachers there for the increasing number of players and spectators who gathered to watch those still in the running. His team took the lowest two rows on A court’s north end, behind the coach’s bench, and Kippei beckoned to the other students. “Here. Sit behind us, and the team can tell you what’s going on if you have any questions.”

    “And we can cheer for you,” Akechi offered, shyly, and Tachibana clapped him gently on the shoulder.

    “That too.”

    Shitenhouji was starting to filter into the court, one of their doubles pairs shoving each other playfully as they pretended to get stuck in the gate. Seigaku was setting up on the other side, across from Hikogashima, and Inui appeared to be threatening his teammates with… a thermos? All of them looked focused and intent, for all the laughing and horse-play going on between team members.

    No one who made it to Quarter-finals assumed they’d be having an easy match.

    Players from other teams were climbing into the bleachers, too. Kippei grinned as Senri strolled past, trailed by his vice-captain and his little sister, and pummeled Kippei hard on the shoulder in passing. Three players in Kushimakitou’s red and white jerseys were up in the top row, too, and Yamabuki’s first-year scout was perched in the middle, pencil and pad at the ready. Most of St. Icarus, as well as Echigo Hira Daini was across the way to watch Hikogashima against Seigaku, smaller regions lending each other support against a Tokyo team, maybe. Kippei wasn’t a child of the city, like most of his current team, and couldn’t help approving.

    Finally, Kippei’s phone chimed ten o’clock, from his bag.

    “It’s time,” Kippei said quietly, and a thread of tense anticipation wound through his team and drew them together as he turned to them. “We’re attacking with everything, right from the start, but Shiraishi will almost certainly be doing the same; Shitenhouji lost, last year, by holding their full strength until later matches. Be ready for a hard fight.” His team nodded, eyes bright, and he chuckled at their eagerness as the referee called for the teams on the court. “Let’s go, then.”

    They met Shitenhouji at the net, and Kippei felt a little glow of satisfaction at the calculating look Shiraishi was giving them. He ran a measuring eye of his own over their line-up and nodded to himself. All of Shiraishi’s team were new players, only Shiraishi himself familiar from last year’s Shitenhouji, though Kippei was sure he remembered at least one other second-year.1 Interesting. Shiraishi had built an entirely new team, then, after being defeated so crushingly by Rikkai last year. “Let’s have a good game,” he stated, shaking Shiraishi’s hand firmly.

    “We’ll certainly try,” Shiraishi murmured with a small, sharp smile.

    Yes. He rather thought they both would.

    Kippei retired to the coach’s bench as the Singles Three match was announced. A quick gust of amusement rustled through the bleachers as the names were called, Ishida versus Ishida. “Any relation?” he asked his own Ishida, joking. It was a common enough name that this had already happened once at the Prefectural tournament.

    “Nope.” Ishida grinned and patted the bandana around his head. “Nice hair-style, though.”

    Kippei chuckled, eyeing the tall, broad, and quite bald Ishida from Shitenhouji with a twinge of concern he didn’t show. “Maybe you can trade hair-care tips after you win.”

    Ishida straightened up, hand flexing around his racquet. “Yes, Tachibana-san.”

    Kippei watched them as the two players met at the net. Tetsu was grinning, sharp and challenging. Shitenhouji’s Gin was perfectly serene, in a way that Kippei wasn’t sure he liked.

    He’d gambled, for these matches, putting Ishida’s strength first, hoping to overwhelm whoever Shiraishi sent in for Singles Three. It was looking like Shiraishi might have turned that strategy back on him, though. He folded his arms and leaned back, offering his player as much confidence as he could from the side of the court as Gin served, solid and hard, a little into the right side.

    Before they’d exchanged three balls, he was sure of it. Gin was a power player, exactly like Tetsu. Neither of them were aiming for the lines or the corners, and neither of them were lobbing the ball. They were challenging each other directly, all powerful drives and deep overhead shots. This match would all come down to who was stronger.

    “Wasn’t Ishida playing doubles yesterday?” Matsuda asked, behind him. “Do you guys mix singles and doubles, then?”

    “Some of us,” Kamio answered with confidence that gave Kippei a lot of personal satisfaction, considering Kamio’s prickliness at the start of the season. “Ishida is usually in doubles. Shinji and I are usually in singles. But sometimes, when we know we’re playing a really strong team, Tachibana-san says… well…” the confidence trailed off into diffidence, and Kippei glanced over his shoulder with a little smile.

    “Go on,” he urged, and had to stifle a chuckle as Kamio colored a little at the encouragement and squared up his shoulders.

    “Tachibana-san says that arrogance can lose a match as fast as being timid, and that when we know the opponent is strong there’s no point in leaving the strongest players in Doubles One or Singles One. We beat a lot of schools that tried to do that.”

    “I’ve heard that happens a lot in the pro and semi-pro tournaments, too,” one of the other second-years, Hirata if Kippei recalled correctly, put in. “Everyone wanting to be on first or second court and pitching fits if they don’t get it.”

    “Divas, they’re everywhere,” Mori snorted, and Kippei’s mouth quirked as he watched Tetsu dashing to catch a deep drive. Mori and Uchimura had both been thoroughly unimpressed by Hyoutei, at Prefecturals, and seeing the quality Hyoutei could have played Fudoumine with, in the first round of Regionals, hadn’t made them any less annoyed.

    “And we have no intention of losing that way. So when we know someone’s strong,” Kamio brought the discussion back to the point deftly, “we use the strongest line-up we possibly can. Ishida if it’s singles or Uchimura and Mori if it’s doubles, me and Shinji, and Tachibana-san.”

    “Does that really work?” Matsuda asked, doubtful. “It’s really important to have a stable partner, for doubles. It’s why I never joined the club; so many school tennis clubs mix up doubles partners.”

    “Not the teams who are playing to win,” Shinji said quietly from where he was leaning his elbows on his knees, watching the match. “We’ve seen a lot of that, this summer. Once a pair is settled, you don’t try to shake them up. We only see that from the winning teams when a team doesn’t have two settled pairs to use, or someone is injured.”

    “But then what about this line-up of yours?” Matsuda argued.

    Kamio laughed. “We don’t mix pairs up. Shinji and I aren’t partners with anyone but each other. Ishida can play singles, when we need a power player, but he doesn’t play doubles with anyone but Sakurai. And Sakurai is taking Singles One, for this match.”

    “Oh.” Matsuda sounded struck by that. “So, um. If I maybe had someone I partner with a lot, and we both were thinking about the club…” Tachibana glanced over his shoulder again, curious. Matsuda sounded like he was asking a different question than he’d put words to, and he wasn’t looking at Kamio, or anyone else.

    “It’s okay, Kyou.” One of the second-years who’d been hanging back and not talking much finally spoke, sliding down a row to sit beside Matsuda, smiling a little. “They’re serious. I think we can go for it.”

    Everyone, including Kippei stared at them for a moment, and then Mori and Uchimura were laughing. Kippei smiled slowly. “Very smooth technique,” he complimented them. Even he hadn’t identified those two as a pair. Matsuda’s partner smiled back, thin and sharp, and Matsuda himself just grinned, leaning against his partner’s shoulder a little.

    “We’re good,” his partner said. “I wasn’t about to let us screw around in something like the Fudoumine club used to be, or join this one if you were just going to break us up. Maybe it’s supposed to be educational or good training or something, but we’re already settled.”

    “Yeah, we can see that,” Kamio said dryly, but there was a definite glint of approval as he looked Matsuda’s partner up and down. “Didn’t catch your name, at the station.”

    “Yamura Masao.” He took the hand Kamio offered and shook it briskly.

    “Looks like you and me are playing singles next year,” Kamio told Shinji, and they showed their teeth, grinning at each other. And then they looked over at Kippei, hopeful and eager and a little proud of themselves.

    “Fudoumine will have an excellent team,” he agreed, and gave Yamura and Matsuda a firm nod. “Welcome to the club.” Both of them straightened, at that, sharp edges settled a little by the acknowledgement. But only a little. They’d fit in just fine.

    And if Kippei felt a twinge that he wouldn’t be around to see next year’s team, to encourage them and watch their edge get sharper, he also caught Senri’s eyes on him as he turned back to the match. Senri gave him a crooked smile, tolerant and amused, obviously knowing exactly what Kippei wanted. Which was why he was going back, of course. That was his partner, up there.

    But now wasn’t the time to be thinking about that. The match was heating up. Tetsu had been working for every point, but he’d been making his opponent work, too, and they’d been pushing each other harder, step by step. Gin had taken the last game, putting them at three games all, and Tetsu had thrown himself into the seventh game, playing harder than ever. This time, though, he was having trouble matching Gin’s increase in force. Another heavy ball forced Tetsu’s racquet off angle and the return drive shot into the net, giving Gin the second point. Tetsu stood, hand clenched around his next ball, for a long moment, and finally looked over at Kippei and raised his arm, flexing it tight in their signal for his most powerful shot. Kippei’s mouth tightened, and Tetsu turned back to serve, waiting for his decision.

    It might turn the match. But Kippei doubted that one Hadoukyuu would suffice against a player as composed as Gin, and he was not, by damn, going to let one of his players injure himself, especially for the sake of a junior high match! On the other hand…

    Tetsu powered a shot back over the net with a ferocious yell and Gin’s focus tightened just as fiercely for a moment. The return tore the racquet out of Tetsu’s hands, and that was the seventh game—four games to three, in Shitenhouji’s favor. The referee called for them to change courts, and Kippei beckoned. Tetsu was still swearing under his breath and flexing his wrists carefully as he came to the bench.

    “I have to use it, Tachibana-san,” he said, low and intense. “I can’t let him keep control of the pace!”

    “I know,” Kippei said, raising a quieting hand. “Listen. You can use it three times, today. There’s still semi-finals to go, but it’s true we won’t get there at all if we lose here. I’ll do my best to help you decide if and when to use it, but in the end, you’re the one playing this game.” He clasped Ishida’s shoulder, meeting his eyes steadily. “I trust your judgement.”

    Ishida straightened up, shoulders settling as he calmed under that assurance. “Yes, Tachibana-san.”

    Kippei clapped his shoulder. “Go on, then.” He watched Tetsu take the other side of the court, narrow-eyed and determined, and watched Shitenhouji’s Gin closely too. It was even more obvious, from here, that Gin was powerful and had conditioned his strength carefully.

    Kippei hoped three would be enough.


    Shiraishi Kuranosuke smiled a little as he watched the eighth game get underway. Fudoumine’s player was very strong, but Gin was stronger. Kuranosuke had called this one right, when he’d made the line-up.

    Zaizen stirred restlessly, beside Kuranosuke on the lowest bleacher. “Ishida-senpai is taking his own time about this match,” he criticized, and Kuranosuke sighed as he contemplated the continued weakness of his prospective successor when it came to re-evaluating opponents he had preconceptions about.

    “You could learn a few things from Gin,” their coach drawled from his bench, not looking around.

    “Like what?” Zaizen wanted to know, and Watanabe-sensei snorted.

    “If I told you, you wouldn’t be learning, now, would you?”

    Kuranosuke rolled his eyes a little as Zaizen bristled. It might be true, but he didn’t think the team could actually afford to wait while Zaizen worked it out himself. “Gin has more patience than the rest of the team put together. He never rushes a match, and that,” he eyed Zaizen sternly, “is why he almost never loses one.”

    Watanabe-sensei waved his hands in the air. “Gin builds his games like a temple, every level solid on the one before it. He might or might not reach enlightenment, that way, but he sure reaches victory.”

    Zaizen, who had been looking a little thoughtful, gave their coach an exasperated glance for this bit of fancy.

    “Fudoumine’s Ishida is stronger than even I really expected,” Kuranosuke explained, stifling a laugh. “Gin is right to take his measure and build up a good picture of his opponent. He has the match well in hand, now, though. This game will put him two ahead, and then it’s just one more to a clean win.”

    He wondered, later, whether all the superstitions about not saying such things aloud had some validity after all, because no sooner were the words out of his mouth than Fudoumine’s Ishida crouched into a deep stance, one arm back, and a cheer went up from the Fudoumine team. Ishida caught the heavy ball that had been roaring right down the middle of his court, and every muscle in his body seemed to flex at once, winding tighter, harder, until, all in a moment, he let it go and the ball whipped back so fast it should have torn the air. Gin was in place to catch it, though, this wasn’t a trick ball or anything…

    Gin’s racquet bent back in his grip and the ball slammed against his court like a shot from a gun.

    “Hadoukyuu! Yeah!” someone yelled from Fudoumine’s side, and Ishida smiled like a tiger, all teeth, and jerked his chin at Gin, inviting the next ball.

    Kuranosuke hissed softly as Gin served; it was just a little stiff, and Ishida got a return ace off it, right past Gin’s feet. Konjiki whistled through his teeth.

    “Was that ball actually strong enough to hurt Ishida-senpai,” Zaizen demanded, “or is he just shook up?”

    “There’s no ‘just’ to facing a shot like that,” Koishikawa said firmly from the next row up. “Getting beaten in your own specialty sets anyone off their game; that’s why we put Gin in first, to catch just this player with that tactic.”

    Zaizen glanced over his shoulder to give Koishikawa a cool look. “Didn’t work out all the way.”

    Kuranosuke decided his kouhai’s allotment of back-talk had been used up and cuffed Zaizen across the back of the head. “Quit being so obnoxious. Plans never work all the way, that’s why we still have to work for the victories worth having.” He frowned out at the court. “And, yeah, I think that ball was hard enough to numb even Gin’s grip for a while. Look.”

    Gin’s stance was flawless, as he caught Ishida’s drive, but the angle of his racquet was off. It was a net ball.

    “It’s wearing off, though,” Hitouji observed, chin resting in his cupped hands. “Watch. He’ll have the next one.”

    Sure enough, Gin’s angle was true in the next volley, and he took game point. Five games to three, in their favor. Kuranosuke’s eyes narrowed and he nodded, satisfied. He’d built this team of players who weren’t easily shaken; challenging games were what they’d all come here for.

    “Next game is their Ishida’s service again, though.” Koishikawa leaned forward, eyeing the other team. “How many times does he have the endurance to hit that shot?”

    Tension and a breath of excitement threaded through the team as everyone looked over at the fierce smile Fudoumine’s captain-coach was wearing.


    Kippei kept his arms folded, outwardly calm, though he clenched the hand hidden under his arm. Shitenhouji only needed one more game, but Tetsu might just make it, after all. Tetsu had kept his service game with another Hadoukyuu to blunt Gin’s honed strength; Kippei hadn’t even had to signal the right timing. Tetsu had pulled it off beautifully. If he could take Gin’s own service game, they’d be five all, and Kippei could see that Gin was feeling the effects of that numbing blow longer this time. If they timed it right, then maybe, just maybe, Tetsu could take the last two games he needed. Both of them were wearing down at about the same rate, Kippei thought, both of them breathing hard by now and dripping with sweat from sending back the bruising drives and smashes they’d hammered each other with.

    Gin took another point with a two-handed drive. Tetsu took the next, muscles standing out down his arms and neck as he hurled the ball deep into Gin’s court. They were three points all. Kippei could see Gin’s jaw tighten as he drove his next serve right between Tetsu’s feet. Advantage to Shitenhouji. Tetsu glanced at Kippei and he nodded back; it was still a gamble, but now was the time for the last Hadoukyuu, to take two points from Gin and blunt his control of the next game. The last game would be the hardest, but if they could pressure this player, shake his calm enough to impair his judgement, Tetsu might take the match.

    If only Tetsu could keep Gin from taking this match and ending it all right here.

    Their team cheered, at Kippei’s back, as Tetsu wound up for the shot and smashed Gin’s racquet right out of his hands. Deuce again. Gin eyes were narrow as he picked the racquet up, focused on Tetsu like there was nothing else but the two of them and the court they were on. Tetsu drove his stiff serve back with a flat smash that Gin returned into the net, control shaken again.

    Advantage to Fudoumine. The team was on their feet, calling encouragement against the shouts of “Two more points!” from Shitenhouji. At the next ball, though, Gin charged the net to catch it early and slammed it past Tetsu with a shout. Deuce again. Tetsu dashed to meet Gin at the net, for the next ball, and even he couldn’t hold Gin’s smash at close range. Advantage to Shitenhouji.

    Tetsu looked over at him, eyes burning, and Kippei knew without needing the signal what Tetsu wanted to do. He actually wavered for a moment, because it would end this game in their favor all right, but… Gin was finding ways around the Hadoukyuu’s effects. He shook his head firmly, holding Tetsu’s gaze until he finally nodded.

    The next rally was brutal, neither player backing down, and the sound of those heavy balls against the court and racquets had more than one onlooker wincing. Kippei hoped, until the last moment, that Tetsu’s strength and determination would carry the game, but in the end it was Tetsu’s racquet that was driven off its angle and his ball that went into the net.

    “Game, set, and match!” the referee declared. “Six games to four, won by Shitenhouji!”

    Kippei was on his feet when Tetsu came off the court, tense with frustration, and caught Tetsu’s shoulders as he burst out, “I could have done it!”

    “And then what?” Kippei demanded, holding him still. “Used that shot even more in the next game? And tomorrow? And more after that, because it worked, until you’ve permanently injured your arm?” He shook Tetsu a little, voice dropping low and fierce. “I’m not Tezuka, and I’m not going to let you do something so reckless!”

    Tetsu blinked at him. “Tezuka…?”

    Kippei snorted, secretly pleased that he’d broken Tetsu out of his too-narrow focus, and led his player over to the rest of the team. “You’ve never heard Sanada talk about how Tezuka used to play; what you’ve seen this season isn’t his real strength.” With a meaningful lift of his brow, he finished, “Tezuka was injured, played too hard on it, had to restrict his game for a year, played too hard again against Atobe, and nearly missed Nationals because he was in physical therapy.”

    Everyone was starting. “Tezuka-san?” Kamio asked, disbelieving. “But… I mean, he’s…”

    “Don’t fall for the calm expression,” Kippei told them dryly. “He’s worse than I used to be for playing recklessly.” He eyed Ishida sternly. “And I won’t have my team injuring themselves that way.”

    Ishida bit his lip, looking down at his hands, still flexing around the grip of his racquet, and Kippei knew he wasn’t the only one to catch the faint wince as his right hand tightened and flexed his forearm muscles. Sakurai made a disapproving sound and grabbed for the team’s medical bag, snapping the cold-pack from it.

    “Listen.” Kippei shook Ishida’s shoulder again, gentler, as his partner pressed the cold-pack to his arm with a frown. “This is Nationals, yes. It’s important, yes. But this is also only your second year of junior high school. A loss isn’t the end of anything, or the last word on anything.” He gathered his team in with a glance, willing them to hear him. “It’s just an invitation to even the score next time. So don’t waste time resenting this; train for your rematch, when you catch up to Ishida Gin again.”

    Ishida straightened at the word ‘rematch’, chin lifting. “Yes, Tachibana-san.”

    “Better.” Kippei patted Ishida’s shoulder and beckoned Kamio and Shinji close as Sakurai started quietly scolding his partner and Akechi leaned over his shoulder, bright-eyed, to ask about Hadoukyuu. “All right, obviously Shitenhouji earned their reputation. Keep in mind that they’re strong, but don’t let it slow you down. Just play with all you’ve got.”

    “Yes, Tachibana-san,” they murmured, and glanced at each other in a moment of silent communication. Kippei smiled as he watched them take the court, shaking the other team’s hands and falling back into perfect formation without a word or sign. These two were his best, the most brilliant of Fudoumine’s team, as strong in doubles as they were in singles. One reason he’d prayed for more players, to keep the club going, was to give these two a chance to keep growing.

    Win or lose, he thought they would. They all would.


    “You don’t have to look so suspicious,” Shitenhouji’s cheery blond told them, as Akira and Shinji met the other pair at the net. “Neither of us are as strong as Gin.”

    “Speak for yourself, senpai,” the dark-haired player muttered, testing his gut.

    “And Zaizen-kun doesn’t really have the experience to judge yet,” the blond finished without missing a beat. If that was Zaizen, this must be Oshitari.

    Akira snorted a little. “We’ll keep that in mind.” Not saying that they’d believe it, of course, but they would certainly keep it in mind, along with the note that Zaizen didn’t seem to like his partner all that much. That could be useful. Though it did make him wonder why a team like Shitenhouji would field a pair with such a flaw against them. Unless, of course, it was all an act. He ran a hand through his hair, frowning.

    Shinji elbowed him lightly in passing as he walked back to the baseline to serve. “Don’t overthink it,” he murmured. “Tachibana-san said it. We just have to play.”

    Akira’s lips quirked wryly; there was a reason he and Shinji played as partners. “You’re right. Let’s do it.”

    Shinji gave them a Kick Serve right from the start, and Zaizen ducked aside, swing missing the ball. His eyes narrowed, though, and his feet shifted; he was ready for the next one. Akira sprinted for the net to meet the return and found Oshitari there already. An unpleasant surprise, but Akira just bared his teeth in a grin and faded aside to let Shinji slip out of his shadow and poach the ball.

    The glare Zaizen shot them gave Akira a nice, warm glow of accomplishment.

    “Never mind!” Oshitari told his partner, waving a cheerful hand. “My miss, I was too slow!”

    “Too slow to catch a cross shot to his partner?” Shinji murmured, at Akira’s shoulder. “Not what most people would call slow.”

    “Yeah, I think he’s the one we need to look out for,” Akira answered, soft, watching Oshitari bounce on his toes.

    Oshitari caught the next return, all right, fast and sure and light on his feet. Akira marked him tightly, trusting the mid-court to Shinji. This was his job, right here, to stop the player dashing along the net with dark, intent eyes behind that light smile, and Akira let himself fall into the breathless flow of speed. They rallied at the net, fast and furious, until Akira finally got the angle to send the ball past Oshitari’s off side. They stood for a moment, at the net, and Oshitari smiled slowly.

    “I see why Shiraishi put us in Doubles Two, for this match. I haven’t had a chance to test my speed in a while.” He flexed on his toes just a little. “Let’s see who’s faster, then.”

    Akira felt a growl rising in his chest. Shitenhouji had done it twice, challenged them in their own specialties. He flung around and met Shinji’s eyes with a hot glare. Shinji’s lips quirked and he nodded. They slipped into an I formation, Akira crouched at the net, under the line of Shinji’s serve, focused on Oshitari like a laser. The serve whipped over his head and he…

    …stayed right where he was.

    Oshitari wobbled, his dash for the return checked, attention split between the ball and Akira’s stillness. Shinji caught the return right at Akira’s shoulder and put the last point away with a nasty slice that curved past Zaizen’s racquet.

    The weakness of a speed player, as Akira knew very well, was just how fast the reflexes followed the thought. Make a speed player think twice, and he’d move twice, too, and maybe not finish either one. “Let’s see who’s better,” he finally answered, standing back up, shoulder to shoulder with his partner.

    Oshitari and Zaizen both bared their teeth this time.

    Zaizen’s serve was hard and sharp, and Akira’s breath came faster as he stayed at the net to mark Oshitari, and Zaizen aimed for the back of the court, relentlessly attacking Shinji. Again, it was their own tactic turned back on them, and Akira’s brain spun, turning over how they might make use of this.

    Maybe that was what distracted him when Oshitari started pushing the pace faster.

    Back and forth through the court they chased each other, through the second game and the third, sprinting after each ball that fell between them, volleying back and forth across the net, and it wasn’t until Shinji caught his arm and murmured, “You’re breathing hard for this early in the match,” that Akira realized just how fast they’d been going.

    “Oshitari’s pushing the pace,” he answered, and had to take a breath in the middle of even that short sentence. “Damn it.”

    “He trusts his endurance that much?” Shinji frowned.

    Akira glanced at his opponent and had to laugh, breathless. “Maybe. Maybe he doesn’t care.” Oshitari had the kind of light in his eyes that Akira recognized from the mirror. Shinji gave him a long look and snorted.

    “Two of a kind.”

    “Maybe.” Akira took a deeper breath, deliberately slower. “Maybe he’s doing it to keep us from tripping him up again. The faster we go, the smoother his reflexes seem to get. I think that’s how they got that last two points to take the third game.”

    Shinji made a thoughtful sound, fingers working around the ball he fished out. “Zaizen is good, but he can’t read me very well, yet. A fast match could keep him from learning my game too well.” He met Akira’s gaze, face calm, but there was fire at the back of his eyes—the fury that made him dangerous and brilliant on the court. “You want to do it?”

    Akira grinned, feeling the crazy edge of the challenge catch him. “Yeah.”

    Shinji nodded and they set themselves to receive as the fourth game started. Now they were both going fast, and even Zaizen was swept up in the relentless momentum of the match. No point took more than five shots to decide it. Akira focused on his breath, on the rising burn in his leg muscles, on… not pushing himself, no, that wasn’t now this worked. On releasing himself into the flow of speed, feet flying over the hard surface of the court to match Oshitari, racquet singing through the heavy heat of the air to reach the ball. Shot after shot cut through the courts, spinning wickedly with Shinji’s touch, reaching for the lines and corners with Zaizen’s pinpoint precision, burning with Akira’s and Oshitari’s force and speed. One game to them. One to Shitenhouji. And again.

    “We need to take a service game from them,” Shinji said quietly on his way back to serve again. “They’re one ahead of us.”

    “Target Oshitari. His serve is weaker.” Rather like his own, Akira acknowledged wryly.

    “That will be the twelfth game.” It was a statement, not an objection, but Akira heard the warning in it.

    “I can make it.” He snorted softly. “Might not be good for much after, but I’m in the rhythm right now. I’ll make it.”

    One of the reasons Akira liked Shinji was that Shinji didn’t waste time trying to convince him he was crazy. Shinji knew perfectly well Akira was crazy. It was why they played together.

    They matched.

    Akira slid back into the flow of the game, preparing himself. It was like walking to the crest of a steep hill and looking over it. Leaning over it. Not leaping yet but hovering, feeling the pull of gravity, and letting it build. Through one game. Another. Another.

    And then it was time to let the pull take him, and fly.

    Akira dashed to meet Oshitari’s first serve and drive it right back at him, calling for him to come get it. Sure enough, Oshitari came, volleying the ball sharply down the width of the court, and Akira threw himself after it, caught it, spiked it just over the net. Zaizen growled, and Oshitari, still a few steps away, laughed.

    “About time! I thought you guys were never going to make a counter-attack.” He fell back to serve again, bouncing on his toes. “Don’t worry, Zaizen-kun. I’ve got it.”

    They’d see about that.

    The next rally was a vicious zig-zag back and forth along the net, and Akira gritted his teeth at the growing protest from his ankles. Back and forth, back and forth, he couldn’t break away from Oshitari long enough to get the ball past him, and when he slipped aside to let Shinji lob it behind the other pair, Oshitari sprinted for the base line and caught it. The return was clumsy, but Oshitari was at the net again before Akira could put the ball past Zaizen’s reach, and caught Akira turning the wrong way.

    Thirty all.

    Akira drove his breathing deeper and pushed harder. The next ball, he caught and slammed past Oshitari’s feet as he sprinted to meet the return.

    The next one, Oshitari caught up with him again.

    Akira could feel the tremble in his muscles that told him he was in trouble. He’d gotten to recognize it painfully well during the last month of training, pushing that edge further and further out. But here he was at the edge again. Shinji’s fingers brushed his wrist as they set themselves again, and he nodded just a little, fading back to let Shinji take the next ball and drive it toward Zaizen. They rallied for a long minute before Shinji caught Zaizen with Spot. Even Oshitari was caught by surprise, and they were forty to thirty. Shinji smiled faintly and aimed the next return at Zaizen, too.

    “That won’t work twice on me,” Zaizen gritted out, and his other hand flashed up to take a two-handed grip when his muscles froze up. It was awkward, but it got the ball back over the net. Shinji was waiting for it, and went up for a vicious smash that Zaizen would never be able to recover fast enough to return. Akira wasn’t surprised when Oshitari cut in to take it instead. It was the weakness of using Spot in a doubles game.

    But by then, of course, Akira had steadied himself, and was ready. When Oshitari dashed to catch the scorching return, Akira was there to meet him again, to drive down the net with him, volleying wildly back and forth. Akira saw the turn coming, when they would both have to change direction, saw the chance. If he turned early, he could catch Oshitari the way he’d been caught earlier. If he could just find the strength to make it work…

    A breath before the natural turning point, at the first side line, Akira spun on his toes, pulled every ounce of speed he had out of his muscles, his very bones it felt like. He drove his feet against the court and slammed the ball straight through the gap Oshitari hadn’t quite turned enough to cover and Zaizen hadn’t closed enough to protect. The little weakness in their pair that Akira had seen from the first was finally decisive.

    “Five games all!” the referee announced, and Akira clenched his free hand triumphantly.

    When he took a step, his leg muscles shook.

    “Akira,” Shinji said at his shoulder, soft and sharp.

    “Don’t stop,” Akira said through his teeth. If he stopped, he wasn’t going to be able to start again.

    When Shinji fell back, quickly, to serve, and Akira looked over the net at the other pair, Oshitari was focused on him, eyes dark and calm. The ball sang by Akira’s shoulder and Zaizen slammed it back, straight at Shinji. Akira waited for it, as if to let Shinji poach this one, only to pop up at the last second and drive the ball toward the far corner.

    Oshitari was behind it in less than a breath, and drove the ball back, right on the side line, faster than Akira could catch.

    Furious frustration surged up, tightening Akira’s chest. They were so close. They’d just leveled the score again!

    He pushed harder, as the game ground on, drove himself faster, feeling the rhythm of his breathing break and his legs burn with the slow pain of over-extension. Shinji’s game leaped to meet his, and they hammered at the other pair with slices that spun the ball beyond reach and sprints that screamed from one side of the court to the other in a breath. Every time Akira thought thought they had a decisive advantage, though, Oshitari was there, supporting his partner, catching Akira’s balls. Akira focused tighter and tighter, pulled more speed out of his body than he’d thought he had, and still one game slid through their fingers.

    And then another.

    “Game, set, and match! Seven games to five, won by Shitenhouji!”

    Akira stumbled to a stop at last, wavering on his feet. It was… over. They’d lost. Shitenhouji had defeated him in his own specialty after all. A rush of blinding frustration shook him, and he stumbled again, starting to go down as the trembling in his legs finally overcame his stubbornness.

    “Akira!” Shinji’s hand closed on his arm, and then there was a solid shoulder under him, catching him.

    “Easy, Kamio,” Tachibana-san said, quietly, in his ear.

    “Tachibana-san…” Akira bit his lip hard, hearing the unsteadiness in his own voice.

    “Enough,” his captain said firmly. “Seven to five against someone who’s been training far longer than you have is nothing to be ashamed of. Now, can you stand?”

    Akira, steadied between Tachibana-san and Shinji, managed to wobble his way upright again, though he had to lean on them if he wanted to step anywhere. The other pair was watching them from across the net.

    “What was the point of letting him do that, when he couldn’t beat Oshitari-senpai?” Zaizen asked, arms folded. “You should have stopped him, the way you did your Ishida.”

    “Without letting Kamio go as far as he could, none of us would have known whether or not he could beat Oshitari, yet.” Tachibana-san fixed Zaizen with a steady look that the other player shifted under, uncomfortably. “Kamio has already trained enough not to break himself by doing it. I trusted him, just as I trusted Ishida to restrain himself.”

    Zaizen drew back at that, silent, eyes dark. Akira scraped up the energy to smirk, feeling Shinji’s equal satisfaction at his side. Nobody got away with criticizing their captain.

    Oshitari herded his partner to the net and held out his hand, and Akira leaned on Shinji’s shoulder to go shake it. Oshitari was still breathing hard, himself, which was some comfort. “So, hey,” he gasped. “Tell me something. How long have you been training for?”

    Akira thought about it, how long it had been since Tachibana-san joined the club and they’d been able to do more than mess around on street courts trying to figure things out for themselves. “Nine months, I guess.” He winced a little at the wheeze in his voice. Oshitari’s suddenly wide-eyed stare was gratifying, though.

    “Well.” Oshitari smiled, slow and sharp. “I’ll be looking forward to our rematch, when you catch up, Kamio-kun.”

    Akira lifted his chin. “Good.” And then he had to hang on to both Shinji and Tachibana-san while he hobbled back to his team.


    Zaizen Hikaru was not in a good mood. First he’d effectively lost to Fudoumine’s Ibu, unable to fully counter those alternating shots that froze his muscles up. He’d had to depend on Oshitari-senpai for way too many saves from the sharp, tricky curves of Ibu’s shots, shots he should have been able to catch. It wasn’t like he hadn’t known Ibu’s profile, after all. And then Fudoumine’s captain had talked as if he didn’t already know what his own player could do, which was just ridiculous.

    “Hey, what are you sulking about now?” Oshitari-senpai demanded, elbowing him lightly as they came back to the bleachers. “We won.”

    “You won,” Hikaru corrected, bluntly. He didn’t mince words about these things, not for other people and not for himself either. “I couldn’t catch Ibu.” And he should have been able to!

    Oshitari-senpai collapsed onto the lowest bench with a theatrical huff. “Sometimes, I swear, you don’t know what the word ‘doubles’ actually means.” Zaizen growled at him, but pulled Oshitari-senpai’s bag over and fished out his water bottle. Oshitari-senpai nodded wordless thanks and started taking tiny sips, holding the bottle with both hands.

    That raised Shiraishi-buchou’s eyebrows. “They pushed you that hard?”

    Oshitari-senpai laughed and lifted one leg. It wavered as he held it in the air. “Yep. Said he’d only been training for nine months, too!” He took another sip, looking wistful. “I’d love to be able to play him more often; you know how hard it is to find someone who can really push my speed.”

    Shiraishi-buchou was sitting up straight. “Nine months? I knew they were a new team, but…” He frowned over at Fudoumine, thoughtfully. “They’re all second-years except for Tachibana, aren’t they? Zaizen. Watch out for Fudoumine, next year. They might be even more dangerous than next year’s Rikkai.”

    “I will,” Hikaru answered, clipped. He didn’t need anyone to tell him that, not after what Ibu had pulled on him.

    “Will you be recovered by the afternoon match?” Gin-senpai leaned down to ask Oshitari-senpai quietly as Shiraishi-buchou stretched and rummaged in his bag for racquet and balls.

    Oshitari-senpai flexed his ankles thoughtfully. “Mm. Yeah, I think so. Why, are you seeing some good doubles over there?” He perked up and craned his neck to peer across the court at Seigaku and Hikogashima.

    Gin-senpai nodded at the score board. “Seigaku has two wins, and that first year your cousin was mentioning hasn’t played yet. Nor has Tezuka. I think they’re going to be our opponents for Semi-finals.”

    “Five to three, and Seigaku’s Fuji is playing now? Yeah, they’ve got Doubles Two in the bag. Whoa!” Oshitari-senpai rocked back in his seat, and Hikaru couldn’t entirely blame him. The burly one on Seigaku’s side had just hit what looked a lot like the Hadoukyuu Fudoumine’s Ishida had used.

    Gin-senpai’s constant faint smile was tilted a little ruefully as he rubbed a wrist. “If they put that man into Singles Three, I’m going to have trouble.”

    Shiraishi-buchou straightened up. “Gin! You didn’t say you’d actually gotten injured!”

    “I’m not,” Gin-senpai said calmly. “Yet.”

    Shiraishi-buchou eyed him for a long moment before he smiled slow and sharp. “All right, then. You know your own game best. Judge for yourself what your opponent calls for.” Which was exactly the kind of comment that drove Zaizen nuts; what was research for, after all, if not to let them judge that beforehand?

    Watanabe-sensei pegged a ball at Shiraishi-buchou. “Get out there and deal with your own opponent if you want a good match; don’t hanker after other people’s.”

    Shiraishi-buchou’s smile turned wryly as he rubbed the back of his head. “I’m going, I’m going.”

    Hikaru settled back on the bleachers as both captains went to meet at the net, hoping for a match that might distract him from brooding over the one he’d just played.


    Shiraishi Kuranosuke met Tachibana at the net for a firm handshake. “That’s an impressive team you’ve put together, this year.”

    Tachibana’s rather cool expression eased into a smile. “They’ve worked hard, to get here.”

    “I understand you’ve been a good example to them, too,” Kuranosuke probed; he’d been wondering all season how the wild, laughing player he’d last seen a year and some ago had turned into this stern, contained team captain, and what kind of game Tachibana might give him now.

    These opening pleasantries were abruptly interrupted, though, by Kintarou’s voice. “Shiraishi! Kick his butt! You can do it!”

    Kuranosuke rolled his eyes. Speaking of wild players.

    “Hey!” A young girl’s voice rang out from the other end of the bleachers in answer. “He will not! Kippei-nii! You’d better win this!”

    Tachibana closed his eyes for one second and sighed.

    “Yes he will! With his Super Duper Bible Tennis!”

    “Kin-chan,” Kuranosuke started to call, desperately stifling a laugh. He’d never get Kin-chan down from there if he laughed now.

    “Will not! Kippei-nii’s Wild Tennis beats everything! Except Onii-chan!”

    Tachibana was rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Senri!” he called, without looking up.

    “What?” Kuranosuke glanced up to find Shishigaku’s Chitose lounging at his ease near the top of the bleachers on Fudoumine’s side, smirking. “Miyuki-chan wanted to come cheer for you. She hasn’t gotten to see you play in a while, after all.”

    Tachibana shot his ex-teammate a look that promised dire retribution, and Chitose laughed. By now the two cheering duelists had both climbed up to the top row and were standing side by side, hanging on to the upper rail, yelling, half at the court and half at each other.

    “Super Delicious Extra Amazing Tennis wins!”

    “Kippei-nii wins times a thousand!”

    “Does not!”

    “Does so!”

    Half of Kuranosuke’s own team was crying with laughter, his coach was snickering, and Zaizen was clearly trying to pretend he’d never met any of them before in his life. Fudoumine’s team seemed a little stunned by their new supporter, staring up at her, but he could see a few lips starting to twitch. Including Tachibana’s, though he was obviously trying to keep a straight face.

    Finally, Chitose tipped his head back to regard the mini cheering section. “Okay, Miyuki-chan, I figure Kippei’s pumped up enough. Let’s let them get started, okay?” After a moment of glaring at each other, Miyuki and Kin-chan both gave in and clambered back down the bleachers.

    Tachibana shook his head with a soft snort of amusement. “Shall we play, before they get started again?”

    Kuranosuke finally let himself laugh. “I think we’d better.” He fished out a ball as he walked back to serve, settling himself into the intent calm that his best game came out of. When he turned to set his feet, though, a crinkle ran down his spine; Tachibana had changed. In the space of a few breaths, that composed, responsible team captain had dissolved into the player Kuranosuke remembered from a year and a half ago. Tachibana was forward on his toes, leaning in, eyes bright and hungry over the bared teeth of his smile. It tugged at Kuranosuke, that hunger, and he breathed in deeply, feeling like the air between them was hot with their shared focus and not just the sun beating down on the court. He’d prepared for a stern player, someone a bit like Sanada most likely, based on reports from Kantou Regionals. It looked like he’d be facing something else today, though.

    That was more than all right with him.

    He threw up the ball and served tight into the corner. Tachibana got behind it and returned fast and hard, hard enough to make him grunt a little with the weight of the ball. Kuranosuke rode the edge of his sense of the ball and took one light step back to steal that weight, brushing the ball delicately over the net in a drop shot.

    Excitement tingled down his nerves as Tachibana very nearly caught it.

    He tested Tachibana all through his service game, aiming for the lines and corners, using the service advantage to see just how great Tachibana’s range of motion on the court was. The answer was ‘a little unreal’. It was like playing Oshitari when he was at the top of his game, only Oshitari’s balls never had this bruising weight.

    Of course, Oshitari’s balls weren’t this wild either, he reflected, sliding to the side to open the necessary distance to catch another ferocious drive. Tachibana was hitting so hard he couldn’t control the ball entirely. Kuranosuke smiled just a little, the tiny smile that never showed all the hot, hungry eagerness at the core of him. If this was going to be a game of control against pure force, he’d ride the cutting edge of control and slice it straight through that weakness in Tachibana’s precision.

    One game to him, and it was Tachibana’s serve. The first one jinked and scorched past his shoulder so close its passing tugged at his shirt sleeve. Tachibana’s toothy smile challenged him, across the net, and Kuranosuke smiled coolly back, widening his stance, lowering it until he could feel the perfect triangle of balance, ready to move anywhere. The next ball he caught, though it took his racquet out of his hands. He flexed them, feeling the muscles in his wrists and forearms with new immediacy, and rolled his shoulders as he re-set himself again. He felt it when he slid into the upper triangle that would brace his swing against anything, no margin of error left anywhere in his stance now. The clean, pure edges of his true game were rising out of the inner stillness and silence that was all lesser players could call out of him, and his breath came quick and light as he felt it happening, savoured it.

    This was what he’d brought his team to Nationals for.

    Two games all, and Tachibana’s raw power still wasn’t falling. Kuranosuke sank into his form and drove forward relentlessly from that unshakeable foundation, but Tachibana raged back and forth over his side of the net, snapping up half the balls that should have been out of reach and driving them wildly back. This match was moving as fast as Doubles Two had, even without two speed demons to drive it, and something deep inside Kuranosuke was laughing to hear the cheers of their teams and the spectators, the excitement surrounding them. This was where his own game truly lived, with an opponent who demanded everything from him, and the pace of the ball flashing between them burned away every memory of Tachibana’s steady reserve. Kuranosuke let it, let himself fall into the wildness and live in each moment, each ball as it came to him.


    Zaizen Hikaru felt like he couldn’t breathe.

    And, all right, part of that was his idiot senpai pounding on his back and shoulders as they shouted and laughed, but most of it was his captain’s game. He’d never seen Shiraishi-buchou play like this.

    “What,” he finally choked out, “how… Shiraishi-buchou?”

    Watanabe-sensei leaned back to give him an upside-down grin. “Ah, that’s right. This is your first time seeing him play a high-level game, isn’t it?”

    Hikaru gestured wordlessly at the furious pace of the game on the court, the mad risks Shiraishi-buchou was so obviously running. “What is he doing?” he demanded. The captain he knew was meticulous. Precise. Calculating, for pity’s sake!

    Watanabe-sensei smirked out at the court, arms spread casually along the back of the coach’s bench. “Ah, that’s just our Kura-kun playing his game.” One sharp eye speared back at Hikaru. “You really don’t recognize it at all?”

    “He’s completely out of control!” Hikaru burst out, and then had to stop and glare at all of his senpai when every last one of them laughed so hard they nearly fell off the bleachers.

    “Zaizen-kun, Shiraishi’s never out of control,” Oshitari-senpai finally managed, clapping him on the shoulder.

    “But…!” Hikaru knew this wasn’t the kind of game Shiraishi-buchou had planned to play against Fudoumine’s Tachibana. He’d been there when the captain talked with the coach about it! Shiraishi-buchou had practiced for an endurance game.

    Oshitari-senpai shook him gently, sobering a little. “Listen to me. Shiraishi never loses control. Look at those shots. Quit thinking you know how Shiraishi plays, or for that matter how Tachibana plays, and just look.”

    Hikaru frowned, but slowly turned back to the game and tried to do as his sometime partner said. It was ridiculous to think he didn’t know how Shiraishi-buchou played, he’d been watching all this year, but he’d try and see…

    Shiraishi’s foot came down at an angle that sent a physical shock through him, it was so perfect. The line of the swing from that stance made his breath catch. The ball that sang over the net came down against the sideline without so much as a centimeter to spare and spun outward just ahead of Tachibana’s racquet.

    Meticulous. Precise. Calculated in the thinnest sliver of a second.

    Hikaru rocked back against Oshitari-senpai’s hand, staring as the two players dove into another game without even a pause to breathe, hammering at each other mercilessly. And every time, Shiraishi-buchou’s step, his swing, his stance and angle… every time, it was exactly where it needed to be. “How can he do that?” he whispered. At this speed, how could anyone calculate so fast and so perfectly?

    Oshitari-senpai smiled, the bright, sharp smile he got when he was (rarely) serious. “That’s why Shiraishi’s our captain,” he said, simply. “When people call him the Bible of Shitenhouji, this is what they mean.”

    “Remember this, Zaizen,” Watanabe-sensei added without looking around, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees as the score was called six games all. “Just because you’ve seen someone play a lot, that never means you know everything they can do. Even I don’t know everything Shiraishi can do.” Their coach’s toothpick shifted to a jauntier angle. “What I do know is that he’s been spinning his wheels for a year, and this match should shake out the kinks and let him relax. About time, too.”

    “He has been pretty bored this tournament, so far,” Hitouji-senpai paused in his cheering long enough to put in. “Getting too serious for his own good. He should lighten up a little, now.”

    Hikaru watched the hot glitter in his captain’s eyes as he and Tachibana pushed still harder, working to seize two points in a row, and had to swallow. He wasn’t sure lightening up was the right phrase for it, but whatever it was put a shaky feeling in his stomach, like he’d missed a step and wasn’t sure where he’d come down. The cutting perfection and incredible control of Shiraishi-buchou’s game lit something in his blood. Something that wondered if, maybe, someday, he could play like that, too.


    Their tiebreak game was running so tight, Kuranosuke was starting to wonder if this would be an endurance game after all, if a different sort than he’d first expected. His breath was still light in his chest, but he knew his own body well enough to know that was thanks to the adrenaline. The instant he lost his hold, he’d spin down in complete wreckage.

    That was what made keeping a hold fun, though.

    He couldn’t really hear the cheering any more; nothing really existed but the court and the ball and the brutal pressure of Tachibana’s game grappling with his. They drove each other relentlessly, neither backing down, and Kuranosuke placed one ball after another exactly where he meant to, as if he were reaching out and placing each ball down by hand. Nothing could break his focus, now.

    Which did not mean nothing could break his game.

    His serve again, a corner shot and then a drop shot, the combination that Tachibana still couldn’t catch just a little over half the time. The drop was perfect, timing, angle, force all exactly in place with a precision that only pushed him higher each time he hit it. He had to squint into an abrupt gust of wind just as the ball started to tip over, though. When he tossed his hair back out of his eyes, it took a couple seconds to understand what he was seeing.

    The ball was still on his side of the net.

    He and Tachibana both stared at it, blankly.

    “Ah… twenty-five to twenty-three, Tachibana!” the referee finally called. “Game, set, and match to Fudoumine!”

    He and Tachibana blinked at each other a few times, before Tachibana finally laughed, short and genuinely amused, and came to hold out his hand over the net. Kuranosuke shook himself, slowly surfacing from the tension of playing at such a high pitch, scrubbing his hand over his face and heaving a fresh breath. He came to shake Tachibana’s hand, smile rueful. “I suppose no one ever controls quite everything, in a game.”

    “Something is always a surprise,” Tachibana agreed, eyes still bright, though the wildness was folding itself away again even as Kuranosuke watched, and that made him laugh too.

    “Good game, Tachibana. I’ll look forward to seeing you again next year.”

    Ferocity licked out again with the flash of Tachibana’s teeth. “So will I.”

    Kuranosuke turned back to his team, waving off Watanabe-sensei’s lifted brow; he was fine, if still buzzing a little. He clapped Konjiki on the shoulder as he and Hitouji sprang down off the bleachers with their racquets. “Looks like it’s up to you guys to wrap up.”

    “No worries.” Konjiki’s shoulder nudged his partner’s. “We’ll take care of it.” Hitouji seconded that with a quiet nod and Kuranosuke relaxed. No one was shaken at all; good. He let himself flop down to a seat as his Doubles One pair took the court, stretching hard.

    “Ah! That was good.”

    Oshitari grinned at him. “Zaizen-kun liked it too.”

    Zaizen gave Oshitari a dirty look, and then turned his glare on Kuranosuke. "What was that, at the end?" he demanded.

    Kuranosuke stifled the urge to roll his eyes and answered as paitently as he could, "It’s called ‘chance’, Zaizen-kun. It happens."

    Zaizen’s glare only intensified. "Why were you playing with so little margin for error, then?" He gestured sharply as if to strike aside an objection Kuranosuke hadn’t even made. "Don’t tell me you don’t have the control to do it; not after that!"

    "Stop thinking everything in tennis can be controlled." When Zaizen gave him a flat look of disbelief, Kuranosuke sighed. "Look. Yes, my control is second to none, and matched by only two or three in our age bracket. And I’m the one telling you this." He took Zaizen’s shoulder and shook him a little. "When you play, there’s always someone else involved; that means you can’t control everything, ever. It’s always a fight for control of that ball, and playing against someone of Tachibana’s strength, I didn’t have any margin left. That’s what this game is. You will never know everything; you will never control everything." He looked down at his most stubborn player, eyes dark and steady. "And if you can’t find excitement, and even joy, in that, then you have no business playing at this level."

    Their kouhai huffed and looked the other way. That wasn’t a surprise. It was one when Zaizen said, low, “I… suppose not. And I guess I’d be bored, if no one changed.” He glanced at Kuranosuke out of the corner of his eye and then away again. "Your match wasn’t boring."

    Kuranosuke smiled slowly, and exchanged a pleased nod with Oshitari over Zaizen’s head. Seemed that match had finally started to knock some of the rigidity out of Zaizen’s view of tennis. Kuranosuke believed just as fervently as the next captain in research and being prepared, but Zaizen had always taken it a little too much to heart. He’d be a far better player, and certainly a better leader, if he could learn a little more flexibility.

    Of course, no sooner did he think that than a burst of laughter from the stands blew over them and Zaizen stiffened up in obvious disapproval of Konjiki’s clowning, out on the court. Kuranosuke sighed to himself. One step at a time, he supposed.

    “Hey, looks like Seigaku’s done,” Oshitari pointed out, distracting his partner smoothly with the blue and white jerseys approaching from the other court.

    Kuranosuke really couldn’t help the way his smile showed his teeth this time. “They chose the perfect game to watch.”

    Even Gin smirked at that. Let Seigaku gather whatever conclusions they could, from the most brilliantly duplicitous players in Shitenhouji.


    “What the hell?” Ryouma muttered, lapsing into English just because what he was seeing was so bizarre he didn’t think he knew any Japanese strong enough. The Shitenhouji Doubles One pair was… well it was… but seriously, wigs?

    "I suppose that’s certainly one approach to unsettling an opponent." Fuji-senpai sounded a bit uncertain, though.

    "Are we sure they aren’t holding the Manzai Nationals around here, and maybe these two took a wrong turn?" Momo asked, half laughing. Kaidou-senpai gave him a brief glower before returning the full force of it on the court in front of them. Disapproval nearly dripped off him.

    Inui-senpai nudged his glasses up. "They are known for being… unconventional, though several sources also insist they have remarkable strategic sense." He trailed off, as uncertainly as Fuji-senpai, as the Shitenhouji pair actually tripped over each other. Or… pretend tripped, Ryouma supposed it must be, because they still returned the ball and Uchimura and Mori still missed it. Mori rounded on their opponents with a snarl before Uchimura pulled him back; he seemed as incensed by the clowning around as Kaidou-senpai.

    "They have a really strong sense for each other, that’s for sure," Kikumaru-senpai put in, unexpectedly clinical, eyes never leaving the match, "if they can move around each other like that and not get injured."

    "Or even slow themselves down," Ooishi-senpai agreed, arms crossed as he watched, just as closely as Kikumaru. "Look at the score."

    Ryouma started a little, realizing that the score really did read 3-0 in Shitenhouji’s favor. He’d been so distracted by the sheer weirdness of the game that the changing score hadn’t quite registered. He tugged his cap down, eyes narrowing; Fuji-senpai was right, this really was a psychological tactic. From the intrigued sound Inui-senpai made, Ryouma thought he agreed.

    "This will certainly be interesting to deal with." Ryouma wasn’t the only one who edged back from Inui-senpai just a little at the small smile he wore, which all too often accompanied new and improved recipes to inflict on his teammates in the name of health science. "If they’re in Doubles One again, Ooishi, do you think you’ll be able to handle them?"

    "I think so. They both seem to focus on flexibility, in their actual play, so I don’t think they’ll be able to cover the court the way we can." Kikumaru-senpai nodded silent agreement with this, still tightly focused on the game, and Ryouma cocked his head curiously. Almost as if answering him, Kikumaru-senpai said, "We have to ignore everything they say, all their attempts at misdirection, and watch what they do. Really closely." He finally flashed a bright smile over his shoulder at Ooishi-senpai. "We can do it."

    Inui-senpai made another thoughtful, distracted sound, and Tezuka-buchou lifted a brow at him. "And if they’re in Doubles Two, Inui?" he prompted.

    "Hmmm. It’s possible," Inui-senpai murmured, "that I’ll need you to be a distraction of our own, Kaidou."

    Kaidou-senpai gave him a look of open disbelief. "Senpai?"

    Momo broke down laughing, leaning back on the bleachers to steady himself. "What do you think, Mamushi, ready to break into the world of stand-up comedy?"

    "Not that kind of distraction," Inui-senpai put in, interrupting Kaidou’s furious snatch for the front of Momo’s jersey. "No, I think…" he paused as Mori started yelling at his opponents, out on the court, nearly spitting with anger, "mm, yes, I think that will do nicely. If I need a distraction, Kaidou, can you pretend to be out of control? Act alone, as if you don’t believe in our combination at all. They’re obviously used to riling up the opposing pair; let’s use that expectation, then." His smile was thin and sharp.

    Kaidou-senpai’s was, too. "Yes, Inui-san."

    They made an unexpectedly good pair, Ryouma reflected, grinning under the brim of his cap. He thought the rest of the team agreed; he could feel everyone settling a little bit, even the ones who wouldn’t be playing doubles. He could even, maybe, feel a little of that in himself—an easing, instead of tightening, at the thought that Inui-senpai was sneakier than he’d figured. It was still a new feeling, but… he kind of liked it.

    And maybe that was why he stood, quieter than usual, and watched the last of the game play out, willing this time to wait inside the little warmth of that feeling while the match was called for Shitenhouji and both teams gathered at the net. Maybe that little warmth was why he was glad to see Fudoumine straight and unbowed as they shook hands with their opponents. He couldn’t quite put words around the reason, but he thought he could get a little of the shape of it, and that shape matched with the quiet pride in Tachibana’s smile as he gathered his team up, and the steadiness of their eyes on him in return.

    He was thinking about that shape hard enough that he neglected to duck out from under Momo-senpai’s arm, as they all turned away to find lunch.

    Quarter-finals: Rikkai vs. Higa

    Kite Eishirou could feel the unsettled edge of his club around him, as they walked down Ariake’s shady, crowded paths to their assigned quarter-finals court, and didn’t really think it was helped any by the fact that their coach was still grumbling.

    “Insolent punks… you’d all better win bigger next time, and teach them some respect…”

    Hirakoba clasped his hands behind his head, and told the sky above him, “Somehow, I don’t think winning by a bigger margin would have helped with that Saeki guy.” Saotome turned on Hirakoba, fist clenched, and Eishirou sighed as he stepped neatly between them.

    “I believe this is our court.”

    This one was part of a set of two at the back of a low building, and actually had what looked like permanent bleachers, though extras had been set out for today’s matches. Rikkai was already there, waiting for them, perfectly calm in face of what Eishirou was very sure Saeki had told them about Higa’s violence yesterday. His mouth quirked faintly.

    He appreciated a good psychological tactic, even when it was turned against him.

    “All right,” he cut across the beginning of what was, no doubt, Saotome’s harangue of the team. “Saotome-sensei, why don’t you take your seat and relax? We’ll handle this.” He met their coach’s eyes steadily until Saotome looked away and stumped off to the coach’s bench as if it had been his plan all along. “All right,” Eishirou repeated more quietly, gathering his team in with a glance. “These are last year’s champions. Year before that, too, because Rikkai was never stupid enough to leave their Three Demons on the sidelines. Don’t take them lightly, but don’t panic either. We’ve won every round we’ve played this year. Higa is strong, and we’re going to make them remember Higa and Okinawa. Keep your heads, don’t hold back, and watch for my signals. Got it?”

    “Yes, Buchou!” they answered together, all of them, even Hirakoba. Eishirou took a slow breath to steady his own nerves and nodded.

    “Let’s go.”


    Niou Masaharu balanced his racquet casually in his grip, watching as both clubs spread out to either side of the court. To his eye, Higa was a little uneasy under their excitement. He wondered whether that was just from playing Rikkai, or whether Saeki’s gesture had shaken them. “So?” he asked Yukimura lightly, not taking his gaze off his opponent, a tall blond with a nicely bloodthirsty smile. “No last minute instructions? Admonitions? Reminders?”

    Yukimura’s lips curled just a little, and he waved his fingers, settling back onto the coach’s bench. “No, none. Go entertain yourself.”

    Masaharu bared his teeth. That was an instruction right there, or at least permission. “You didn’t like what they did to Rokkaku, hm?”

    “That either.” Yukimura glanced over at their opponents, at Higa’s coach, sweating on the other bench, and Kite, standing behind him with folded arms. “Kite seems to favor mind games. Go show him how it’s done.”

    Masaharu tucked a wicked smirk away, though he knew some of it was showing from the way Hirakoba smirked back when they met at the net. It was true that the best mind games required a certain ability, to back them up; they could only cover for a lack of strength for a little while. If Yukimura wanted him to emphasize that to Higa, he was happy to do it, even if it was more an aesthetic than moral imperative, for him.

    The first serve was Hirakoba’s, and Masaharu tested the strength of the ball against his racquet. It wasn’t bad. He returned lightly, letting the ball wobble on its way to the corner, and watched Hirakoba’s movement. His lip curled a little. The only reason anyone would ever be taken by surprise by this Shukuchihou was if they let the net get in the way of watching their opponent’s feet. Pathetic. He pushed harder, driving the ball back toward Hirakoba faster. One point to his opponent. Two to him, and he backed off a little to let Hirakoba take another point and decide what to do, before pushing again. Hirakoba had good form for someone recruited from another field. He wasn’t weak. But that was about all Masaharu could say for him, and he had to roll his eyes a little over the fact that these guys had made it all the way to the quarter-finals, apparently on nothing but slight-of-hand and some intimidation. He took the last two points, keeping his drives just a little stronger than Hirakoba’s, hoping to draw him out. Surely there was something more.

    Sure enough, when the first game was called for Masaharu, Hirakoba stuck his hands on his hips and snorted. “Is that really all you’ve got?” he demanded. “You guys are supposed to be the champions! Can’t you make it any more interesting than this?”

    Masaharu kept a slow smile to himself as he bounced a ball on his service line. Hirakoba liked high-pressure games, then. Yes, there had to be something else waiting to show itself. “Let’s see,” he called back, and served low and fast. This rally was a bit more lively, and Masaharu didn’t let it end until Hirakoba uncoiled and hit the ball back with real force, though he did let Hirakoba see him stretching to return the ball. One point to him. Another, and he was starting to get impatient.

    Finally, Hirakoba slid the ball along his racquet and flicked it oddly at the end. The ball curved wildly on the bounce, spinning under Masaharu’s racquet, and Higa burst into cheers. This was Hirakoba’s hidden ace, then. Masaharu swung at the next one without particular effort, missed again, and let himself growl with some genuine annoyance. The spin of the ball was too odd; he couldn’t see it clearly while swinging for it. He served fairly hard on the next ball, and watched this Habu of Hirakoba’s come, as if frozen, tracking the ball tightly.

    This time, he saw it: the two directions of spin given to the ball that sent it off in such unpredictable directions. This ball would take a good deal of control to return, a light touch on making contact, to cancel some of the spin, and then power from a cold start to return it. Either that or catching it at the net before it bounced, and turning that unpredictability back around on Hirakoba. Ideally, a mix of the two, to keep him off balance. Yes, Masaharu could neutralize this shot.

    But it wouldn’t serve his purpose to show all that right now.

    He caught the last ball of the game, to test his hypothesis, and nodded to himself when it careened wildly out of bounds without crossing the net. He let himself glare a bit at Hirakoba and stalked back into his court amid the cheers and jeers from Higa to receive for the next game. He was actually a little impressed when Hirakoba served with Habu; that took a good deal of strength and control right there. Masaharu was careful to catch some, but only some, of them, returning them lightly, as if he didn’t have sufficient control to actually cancel all the spin. Hirakoba was laughing, pleased with the challenge and confident in his ability to win. Masaharu let him take the third game and concentrated his service game on low balls, shots that sang by Hirakoba’s ankles, a hard angle to execute Habu from. Higa’s club was loudly pleased, assured that Hirakoba could keep his own service games and stay ahead, even as the score was called two games all.

    Rikkai was quiet.

    Masaharu ‘fought’ through the next four games, letting Hirakoba see him ‘struggling’ to return Habu. It was actually rather wearing, having to gauge his returns so finely; Hirakoba wasn’t completely unobservant, after all, and to make this work, he had to believe this was the extent of Masaharu’s strength. When the score reached four games all, though, he let himself stop and stretch, shaking the tension out of his muscles.

    It was about time, he thought.

    He glanced at his team, where Marui was smirking into his bubblegum and Jackal was shaking his head; Yanagi was amused in that perfectly deadpan way of his that only showed in his hands clasped behind his back, and Sanada was nearly rolling his eyes, equally deadpan; Kirihara was grinning outright, and Yukimura had his chin propped in one hand, fingers hiding his mouth but not the glint in his eyes. Masaharu finally looked at his partner and nodded just a little bit at Hirakoba. Yagyuu adjusted his glasses, not quite hiding the fast flicker of a smile, and Masaharu laughed. Yes, the real show was about to begin.

    A rustle ran through the club members who had come with them, today, everyone leaning forward expectantly.

    Masaharu bounced on his toes a little, watching Hirakoba stretch into his serve, and this time he dashed to meet it before it landed, smashing it back over the net. Hirakoba was so surprised he didn’t even try to catch the return. First point to Masaharu.

    He dashed for the next ball, too, and this one Hirakoba tried to reach, lips curled in a growl, but the wild bounce eluded him. Delicious irony, Masaharu thought, and showed his teeth in a grin. “You like a challenge, don’t you?” he drawled, turning to stroll back into his court. “Hurry up and serve, then.”

    The next serve wasn’t Habu, and Masaharu sniffed. As if that was going to unsettle him. He smashed it back over the net with the Laser Beam, and enjoyed Higa’s shocked hush. Hirakoba’s eyes were narrow and furious, and Masaharu chuckled. “Did you think you were the only ones who could play these games?” he asked. “Here’s your challenge, then. Try to stop me.”

    Hirakoba didn’t serve with Habu this time, either, and Masaharu let him have a rally just to see what he was planning to do with it. Hirakoba stepped into the last return, spinning the ball violently along his racquet, and Masaharu’s brows rose as it swerved and cut through the air strangely even before the bounce. Hirakoba had saved this, and Masaharu could respect that bit of strategy.

    Though that wouldn’t stop him from breaking it.

    He dashed for the ball, balanced on his toes, focused tight on the path of the ball, and caught it lightly on his racquet. He listened to the feel of the ball on his gut as carefully as he’d ever watched an opponent to analyze what trick might best unsettle them, and stroked his racquet under the ball to quiet its spin. And then he closed both hands on his racquet and drove the ball right between Hirakoba’s feet for game point, savoring his opponent’s stunned stiffness and the shocked exclamations of Higa’s club.

    The last game went quickly. Hirakoba didn’t collapse, Masaharu would credit him with that, but he also didn’t have anything else left to pull out at the last minute. Masaharu met him at the net, as the match was called six to four, racquet slung over his shoulder. “More diversity,” he advised coolly. “If you like challenges, you have to be up for them yourself.”

    “Next time we play will go differently,” Hirakoba snapped, and there was still a glint of eagerness in his eyes, if a little less reckless than it had been. Masaharu’s mouth tugged up at one corner.

    “Come find me, then.”

    He strolled back to his team, collecting a satisfied nod from his captain, and a towel from his partner. “So, first mind games and next they get hammered with pure strength and technique?” he asked, glancing at Marui and Jackal as they stood and stretched. “You really don’t like these guys, Yukimura.”

    “I have little opinion of them, personally, but their tactics are naive. They’ve challenged us arrogantly, and unprepared,” Yukimura answered evenly, not looking away from the court. “If they survive the consequences, they might be worth playing next time.”

    “How severe,” Yagyuu murmured, perfectly pleased, and Masaharu lounged against the sun-heated bleachers beside his partner, smirking.

    Higa really had no idea what they were messing with.


    Eishirou held back a frown as Shiranui and Aragaki took the court to meet Rikkai’s Marui and Jackal. His tightest doubles pair was looking a little grim, and Hirakoba still hadn’t emerged from under his towel, sitting with his elbows on his knees on the lowest bleacher. The club was nervous, he could feel it around him. Part of him wanted to pound Niou Masaharu black and blue for doing this to them. Another part of him was frankly admiring the deft mental game Niou had played.

    Most of him was grimly aware of the strength and control that had made that trick work, that had persuaded them all, even him, that Niou was struggling to stay even with Hirakoba… right up until Niou had unveiled his real strength and blown casually past everything Hirakoba could do. He’d known Rikkai would be their most difficult opponent. He hadn’t, even with all the stories about them, quite expected to be so easily overwhelmed.

    Well, the reputation of Rikkai’s doubles was slightly less legendary than its singles. His team knew to be wary, now. It would have to be enough. He watched Marui serve sharp and fast, sprinting forward to poach the return also with a lightning drive over the net, and his mouth tightened.

    This was going to be difficult.

    He hadn’t chosen Shiranui and Aragaki for this match at random, though. They drew together for a moment before the next serve, whispering, and they weren’t fooled when Marui made as if to poach the next return, too, only to let it through to Jackal. Shiranui was in place to catch the ball, and the rally was on. It went hard and fast, and Kite himself barely caught Shiranui’s signal to Aragaki before Aragaki faked a smash and dropped the ball over the net instead. He breathed out as Higa cheered.

    Beside him, Kai blew out a breath of his own, leaning forward against the short fence. “It’s a good start.”

    “Solid,” Eishirou agreed. He didn’t like the amused look Marui gave Higa, though.

    The next rally was short, and Marui caught Aragaki’s deceptively curving drive on the rise, lobbing it tight and high to come down in the backcourt before Shiranui could get to it. Eishirou could see his pair settling down, though, bracing themselves to force their way through Marui’s flashy shots and Jackal’s powerful drives.

    Shiranui sent the next serve flashing toward Marui’s ankles, and while Marui caught it, Aragaki immediately called “It’ll be out!” Eishirou could see it, too, that ball wasn’t even going to cross the net.

    “What do you know, even Rikkai misses,” Kai laughed, and the club members close enough to hear chuckled along.

    It hit the net pole. And rebounded to drop just on Higa’s side.

    Aragaki snarled, and Shiranui caught his partner’s shoulder. “It was a bad chance, calm down,” he ordered firmly, and their second year took a breath and nodded tightly to his partner. Eishirou smiled a little. Aragaki had a short temper, and he’d have to watch that next year, when his partner had graduated; for now, though, Shiranui watched it for him.

    “Chance, hm?” Marui called, tapping his racquet on his shoulder. “Let’s see about that.”

    Eishirou stiffened, and he saw Shiranui tensing too. Had that actually been on purpose? “It’s a bluff,” Kai murmured. “It’s got to be.”

    Shiranui was forward when the next ball headed for the pole, and he dove to catch it as it bounced. Eishirou swore silently to himself, wondering whether Rikkai really was populated by monsters after all. But Aragaki was in place to catch the return, and even Marui’s kind of precision couldn’t overcome tight teamwork in a doubles match.

    Marui was smirking.

    “Try this one, then!” He hit the ball lightly, and Aragaki dashed forward as it hit the cord and popped just barely over. It would be all right, Eishirou thought, he’d catch it and Shiranui had regained his position to cover against returns. It would be all right.

    The ball, impossibly, rolled along the cord, past the reach of Aragaki’s racquet and dropped into Higa’s court.

    Calls of “Tightrope Walking!” and “Genius!” rose from the Rikkai club who were watching, and Marui twirled his racquet, laughing.

    The whole Higa club stared at that impossible ball as the first game was called, and Shiranui lifted his head to exchange a glance with Eishirou. He flicked his eyes at Jackal, and Eishirou nodded agreement. They would do better to keep the ball away from Marui entirely, it seemed, and target his partner instead.

    Two alarmingly talented players in a row. “It’s no wonder Rikkai has won the championship two years running,” Eishirou observed. It must, he thought dourly, be nice to be such a well-established school that you attracted all the best without having to scrounge and recruit and suffer useless coaches. Next year would be different, though, at least for Higa. The further he could take his team, the more different it would be. Kai glanced up at him from under his cap and bumped Eishirou’s shoulder lightly, despite the raised eyebrow such demonstrativeness in public earned him. Eishirou focused again, though, and settled back to watch the next game.

    It started well. Aragaki served straight toward Jackal, and Shiranui caught the return and aimed the ball back that way again. Jackal’s shots had none of the alarming quirkiness of his partner’s, and Eishirou relaxed a little as Jackal and Shiranui rallied. Shiranui had some nice, flexible strength to call on, and his endurance was second to none. No matter how solid Jackal was, with Aragaki to back him up against surprises, Shiranui had the edge now.

    Three minutes later, the first point hadn’t been called yet, Kai was cursing incredulously under his breath, and Eishirou was wondering, distantly, whether he should try thinking as pessimistically as possible, in hopes that perverse fate would prove that as comprehensively wrong as his cautious optimism had been so far. Jackal wasn’t stopping, wasn’t flagging, didn’t seem to be feeling the heat like a Kantou player should. When the point was finally called, it wasn’t in Higa’s favor.

    Shiranui wasn’t giving up, and he dove into another rally with Jackal, fast and furious, keeping a pace that Eishirou had never seen anyone else match. Not until today. Another point fell to Rikkai. And another. And another. Jackal’s edge in strength got the ball past Shiranui every time, because their endurance seemed to be equal. Shiranui and Aragaki were both scowling as the serve returned to Rikkai, and, after a few words, they set themselves with Aragaki forward to deal with Marui and Shiranui back to support against Jackal’s returns.

    Their coach, Eishirou noted, was starting to fidget, crossing and uncrossing his arms, glaring at both pairs impartially. After Marui put the second point past Aragaki, Saotome growled and waved at Higa’s players with a familiar signal.

    Shiranui looked over his head at Eishirou, questioning.

    Calculations spilled through Eishirou’s mind, forming and reforming. His club was shifting uneasily around him; they all knew what that signal meant, and he suspected they were remembering Saeki’s words from yesterday. Cowards. No respect. Eishirou hadn’t needed Saeki to tell him. He’d always known the cost of going along with Saotome, attacking other coaches. It was a cost he was willing to pay, to establish Higa, and if he took an unsavory reputation to high school with him, well he’d be taking it with him instead of leaving it, wouldn’t he? Most of the team was bitter enough not to mind much, either.

    If it could give them a chance to get past Rikkai, it would be worth it.

    He nodded to Shiranui, and felt the breath of anticipation and maybe alarm that ran through his club. That would be nothing to what was about to run through Rikkai, though.

    Shiranui signaled his partner to fall back, sheltering Aragaki from this, as he had so persistently that Eishirou had to wonder whether Shiranui actually understood the whole plan. At any rate, it was Shiranui who faked a stumble and turned his racquet, driving the ball with all the force of his arm straight at Rikkai’s captain, on the coach’s bench.

    A shout went up from Rikkai’s club, joined by a roar from Higa, and there was the flat smack of a tennis ball against flesh.

    And Yukimura was sitting right there on the bench, still, legs crossed easily. He wasn’t even looking up. One arm was still folded, and the other was stretched out, hand upraised. The tennis ball rested in his palm.

    In the sudden, breathless quiet, Yukimura’s husky voice carried clearly.

    “If you can’t win without this, it only proves your weakness. If you can win without it, there’s no need to even consider it. If you might win without it, but don’t dare to try…” he turned his head to look at the Higa bench, and Eishirou watched Saotome sway back from the razor sharp edge of Yukimura’s gaze, “…then you’ve merely weakened yourself and have no right to be standing on a court at Nationals, yet.” Yukimura turned his hand over and let the ball roll off his fingers to bounce away, and glanced up at the referee. “I believe this ball is out.”

    “Ah… Y… yes, thirty-love!” the man stammered.

    Yukimura smiled graciously and sat back on his bench, folding his arms again.

    “What the hell are they?” Kai hissed, as the game resumed, looking as shaken as the referee. “He caught it! Not even a flinch!”

    “They’re Rikkai,” Eishirou answered, low and tight, tense with the effort of not showing his club how those words had smarted. “Apparently that means almost as much as rumor says it does.”

    He had not betrayed his team! What did Yukimura know about it, leading a team and club that had everything? Eishirou would do what it took to establish his team so they finally had an even chance, and the opportunity to decide for themselves how they would play.

    He would do anything it took.

    Quarter-finals: Hyoutei vs. Nagoya Seitoku

    Atobe Keigo reflected, a little distantly, that he was very glad Higa had encountered Rikkai before there was any possibility of Hyoutei playing them. It wasn’t that he had any doubts about his team’s ability to win, but he honestly wasn’t sure what he might have done, or let his club do, if Higa had tried to injure Sakaki-sensei the way they’d just tried with Yukimura. He doubted it would have been particularly restrained.

    He could feel the matching tension in the players around him ease, as Yukimura finished whatever he was saying to Higa and let the tennis ball he held drop from his fingers at last.

    “I could almost feel sorry for what Rikkai will do to them, now,” Shishido muttered. “But not very.”

    “Really, not at all,” Ohtori added, eyes glinting a bit. Come to think of it, there were times when Ohtori’s quiet ferocity reminded Keigo a bit of the kind of players Rikkai favored.

    And of course, if Higa really had targeted their coach, then the actual outcome would be that they would deeply regret having done so, very soon after, in a back alley somewhere. It wasn’t as though Sakaki-sensei didn’t have the resources to take care of matters, himself.

    Finally, contemplating this fact, Keigo smiled, and leaned back against the bleachers. “That’s Rikkai’s business to take care of; don’t let it distract you.” His smile thinned, as Oshitari slammed match point past Nagoya Seitoku’s Doubles Two pair. The player at the net had had his eyes glued to the next court. “Case in point.”

    A gust of chuckles ran through his club, and he felt calmer as he rose to greet Oshitari and Mukahi as they came off the court. “Good job.”

    “They don’t really seem up to National-class matches,” Oshitari noted as he caught the towel his partner tossed him. “Certainly not against us. They barely took Singles Three against Hiyoshi, and Nanahara is supposed to be one of their strongest players. They really must be relying on their transfer students, this year.”

    “My turn, then,” Keigo answered lightly, more lightly than he really felt as he watched the tall, muscled blond stride out onto the other side of the court, and listened to the referee call Singles Two, Atobe versus Liliadent. This was sooner than he’d thought to test his progress against international players. He’d been aiming for Sanada, in this tournament, for Tezuka, and they were strong players, but he couldn’t quite help flexing his hands with the memory of drives that were always too bruisingly hard, always so infuriatingly impossible to catch…

    “Keigo,” Sakaki-sensei said, not looking around. “Go.”

    Keigo huffed a faint laugh, bending his head to the implicit order to stop panicking. “Yes, Kantoku.” He shrugged the jacket off his shoulders, tossing it over the rail with a flick of his wrist, and stepped onto the court.

    “Another shrimp?” Liliadent muttered, in English, as they shook hands. “Nationals is going to be one long disappointment, at this rate.”

    Keigo suppressed a snarl, because there was no point in letting them know they’d gotten to you, and replied, in the pure English he still spoke with his mother, sometimes, “It’s good that you’re prepared for a disappointment.”

    Liliadent blinked, and then smiled, broad and white. “You speak English! Ha! I’m going to have to watch my mouth during this game, I suppose.”

    Keigo was, at this point, recalling the many things he disliked about English sportsmen, and they were all encapsulated in the word ‘jolly’. His smile showed teeth. “Don’t forget to watch your game, while you’re at it.”

    Liliadent laughed, giving his hand one last pump, and turned away into his court without even bothering with a return shot. Keigo carefully unclenched his jaw and strode back into his own side, setting himself to receive. This could, he reminded himself firmly, be a good trial for several things. He’d only dipped lightly into the World of Ice, so far in the tournament; this was an opportunity to test how it would work against an opponent who brought raw strength to the game, and to prepare himself for the coming match against (he was still sure of it) Sanada.

    So he set aside his thoughts of that coming match, of Sanada possibly watching from the next court this very moment, of the scouting reports on how easily Nagoya Seitoku’s three foreign students had overwhelmed opposition this summer.2 He set aside his own tension and anger, his calculations, everything that was not enclosed in the white lines around them and this moment in time.

    Liliadent tossed the ball up to serve, leaping high to meet it, and the sweep of his racquet drew a line in Keigo’s mind. He slid two steps to the side, swinging hard to meet the rising ball.

    Stroke by stroke, rally by rally, the shape of Liliadent’s game built in Keigo’s mind. It was annoyingly slow going, though; he kept having to hold back his own conclusions and recalculate. That drive couldn’t be Liliadent’s real strength. That slice wasn’t sharp enough to be his limit; Keigo caught it easily. And his observations kept getting tugged sideways, in his head, as they went, snagging on the bunching of muscles in Liliadent’s arm as he swung, on the length of his stride as he bounded forward trying to catch Keigo’s serve, on his irritatingly hearty laugh when he missed.

    And under it all, hot as the sun beating down on the court, was a thread of rage, because Liliadent was still toying with him, not using his full strength, even when he was down a game. It couldn’t be his full strength; Keigo’s hands weren’t even… numb yet… 

    His own conclusion locked into place so hard that Keigo actually stumbled, losing the return he’d been chasing, stopping flat-footed on the court to stare at his opponent.

    Liliadent paused, himself, brows rising. “Heat getting to you?” he called.

    A growing chain of memories spilled through Keigo’s mind, one linking inescapably to the next. The feel in his hands, when he was younger, of balls too heavy to return. The same feel, when he turned up the speed of ball machines higher and still higher, to train. The softness of even the Hyoutei third-years’ balls, when he’d first joined the club, and the glee he’d felt then. The same numbness again, the first time he faced Sanada’s Fire, and the cold, sinking fury in his chest when he’d pulled his game in tight again, returned to the ball machines again and turned them up to brutal speeds.

    The softness in Liliadent’s balls, now.

    Keigo laid a hand over his eyes, laughing, first softly and then full out. When he swiped his hand back over his hair, both clubs were staring at him. 

    “The heat is really getting to you?” Liliadent hazarded, looking nonplused by Keigo’s amusement.

    “Not at all. I just realized I’d… forgotten something.” Keigo smiled, fiercely, lifted his hand, and snapped his fingers, small and clear in the silence. He could hear the intake of breath, from his club, and his smile turned sharper still.

    Victory to Hyoutei! The winner will be Atobe!

    Hyoutei’s chant swept over the court in a wall of sound, and Keigo chuckled at the way Liliadent swayed back a step. There was an edge of excitement in Hyoutei’s voices, and he wanted that, right now; it matched the feeling rising in his chest as he finally settled properly into the World of Ice, believed his own perceptions, and felt Liliadent’s game come clear with a snap he could feel in his bones.

    Foreigner or not, bulky muscles or not, this player was weaker than Keigo.

    Wild glee unfolded in his chest, and this time he let it, rode the rush, didn’t hold it back. For the first time, since he’d lost to Sanada two years ago, he let go of the delicate calculations of leverage and psychology and technique, and played with force.

    It felt like flying, like he’d kicked away the weight of gravity as well as memory. The shape of Liliadent’s game was simple, at the core; it relied on his strength. And Keigo had finally, finally hauled himself up far enough to match that strength. It was the final key-turn that opened a door he’d had slammed on him twice, and he felt the new openness in every leap to serve, every skid of his shoes against the court as he set himself for a drive.

    The end of the match almost caught him by surprise.

    Liliadent was out of breath, when they met at the net. “Good game,” he said, with absent, automatic manners, before busting out, “So what the devil was that about, at the begining?”

    “Ah, that?” Keigo shook Liliadent’s outstretched hand briskly, taking another silent moment’s pleasure in still having his full grip, hands only warm, not even tingling. “The memory of an old injury, I suppose you could say.”

    Liliadent eyed him, possibly suspicious of his light tone, but finally shrugged and said, dryly, “Well, you seem to be past it. Perhaps I’ll be back for another match, sometime, then.” 

    “Any time,” Keigo purred, thinking of the coming years, of a world full of tennis players to defeat, once he’d settled things here. He was smiling, bright and full of teeth, as he strolled back to his team.

    Sakaki-sensei gave him a quelling look. “That took longer than it should have.”

    Keigo ducked his head. “Yes, Kantoku.” He would have to work on that weakness in the World of Ice, he knew, the way his own fears could cripple his use of it.

    “Mm. Are you ready for your next match, then?”

    The one that would be against Sanada, almost certainly; Rikkai hadn’t changed their line-up the entire tournament, except to let Kirihara play now and then. Keigo thought about the power of Sanada’s tennis, about the flash of perception, of knowing, he’d had just before their unofficial match had been interrupted, and let out his breath, slowly. When he spoke, his voice was low and certain. “Yes.”

    Sakaki-sensei nodded once, firmly, and waved Keigo back onto the bleachers. “Doubles One! Go and finish this.”

    Ohtori and Shishido stepped past Keigo, and Shishido muttered as he did, “You are completely crazy, you know that, right?”

    Keigo snorted. “As if you can talk, Mr. Barehanded Tennis.”

    “Yeah, so I know it when I see it.”

    Keigo laughed out loud as Shishido strolled out onto the court. He couldn’t really argue with that. 

    When he emerged from toweling off his hair, though, and glanced across to see how Rikkai’s match was going, he started. Yukimura was looking back at him. After a long moment, Keigo offered him a cool nod. Yukimura smiled and turned back to his own team, speaking, not to Sanada, but to Kirihara, who was about to take the court against Kite.

    So Yukimura wasn’t going to warn Sanada. Keigo snorted softly, and reflected, not for the first time, that Yukimura might just be the most merciless team captain of their generation. And that was something he knew, when he saw it.

    Quarter-finals: Rikkai vs. Higa Again

    Akaya hadn’t been the only one who’d had to pretty much hold himself to the bleachers to keep from lunging toward Yukimura-buchou when that ball had scorched in. He was, however, the only one of Rikkai who flinched at his captain’s words. They were a lot more pointed than anything Yukimura-buchou had said to him, but he knew perfectly well they applied.

    “Calm down, Akaya,” Yanagi-senpai told him quietly, resting a hand on his shoulder as they watched Marui-senpai take another point with a steep-curving drive. “You’ve already found your own game. Now you just need to play it, yes?”

    Akaya ducked his head. “Yes, Yanagi-senpai.”

    “We wouldn’t be letting you play if you couldn’t do it,” Sanada-fukubuchou said, more bluntly, not turning around from where he stood at Yukumura’s shoulder. He’d planted himself there as soon as Yukimura-buchou dropped Higa’s ball, and hadn’t budged since. Akaya thought that Yukimura-buchou was a little amused by it; at least, he hadn’t said anything about it yet.

    Akaya snuck a look along the bleachers at the Higa club, and the team members clustered at the foot, behind their captain. A whole team who played like this, who attacked in ways even he had never considered doing. He wondered whether they were all that afraid of losing. Why?

    Out on the court, the Higa endurance player, Shiranui, pushed a fist into the air, yelling with triumph. He’d finally gotten a ball past Jackal-senpai, and that was three points for Higa.

    That didn’t look like someone who was afraid of fighting head on because he might lose!

    Akaya glanced at Higa’s captain again, frowning a little. He looked… approving. Even though his pair was three games down. He didn’t seem like someone upset over losing, either. So why had he told Shiranui to aim for Yukimura-buchou? Something really didn’t make sense, here.

    Aragaki snuck a drop shot past Marui-senpai, and it was three games to one. Marui-senpai glanced over at Yukimura-buchou, brows lifted. Yukimura-buchou nodded, and Akaya sat back as Marui-senpai and Jackal-senpai fell back onto their court to receive, both of them up on their toes, taut and focused.

    The last three games burned by in a rush of perfectly controlled shots up at the net and unbending defense on the backcourt. Marui-senpai was laughing as they came off the court, exhilarated the way he got after a good game. The other pair looked wrung out like rags, because they hadn’t given up until the last point was called, and the one thing Akaya felt he could say for sure about them was that Higa wasn’t playing violently to cover the same fear of losing he’d felt. But… what had Yukimura-buchou meant, then?

    “Singles Two,” the referee announced. “Rikkai’s Kirihara versus Higa’s Kite!”

    Akaya chewed his lip as he fished out his racquet, and he was slow to duck when Niou-senpai ruffled his hair thoroughly.

    “Get out there and finish it,” Niou-senpai told him with a lazy smile as Akaya finally escaped and glared at him.

    Akaya sniffed and pushed his hair back out of his eyes. “Of course I will.” His team’s smiles followed him over the low fence.

    “Akaya,” Yukimura-buchou said quietly, and Akaya stopped beside him, attentive. “Kite has a very strong mental game, and I expect him to try to shake you. Remember the player you are, now. That’s all you need.” He looked up, eyes bright and intent. “That’s all you’ve ever needed.”

    Akaya took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes, Yukimura-buchou.” This was a vote of confidence, he reminded himself. His captain smiled at him.

    “Get going, then.”

    Akaya stepped firmly onto the court and went to meet Kite at the net.

    “So this is where he put you.” Kite looked down at him, and Akaya swallowed at little at how cold his eyes were. “I expected you in Singles Three, not sent out to face Higa’s ‘Assassin’.” He glanced at Yukimura-buchou and snorted. “He’s a ruthless man, your captain.”

    Akaya lifted his chin. “That’s why Rikkai is strong.”

    “Is it?” Kite smiled, thin and cool. “So is Higa.” He turned and walked back into his court.

    Was he saying Higa was strong because he was ruthless, too? Akaya frowned. Rikkai was more than that, though. It was just… Yukimura-buchou’s strictness brought their strength out. What was Kite bringing out of Higa?

    Akaya shook his head briskly. He could wonder about that later. For now, there was a game to play. He set his feet and balanced himself, ready to move for the ball wherever it went.

    “I apologize in advance, for this, Kirihara-kun,” Kite called, bouncing the ball on his baseline. “What you’re doing to reform your game is admirable. Unfortunately, that kind of attention to fair play and the full development of a player’s personal strength is also,” he threw the ball high, “the luxury of an established team!”

    Akaya’s eyes widened as the ball tore through the air, straight for his head. He spun aside on pure reflex and heard it strike the court behind him. Turning his head slowly, breathing fast and light, he saw a mark on the blue surface behind him. Kite would have knocked him out, if that ball had connected.

    Red hazed Akaya’s vision for a moment as he turned back to glare at his opponent.

    “Akaya.”

    Yukimura-buchou’s voice cut through the haze, cool and even. Akaya drew a long, shaky breath and nodded sharply, not taking his eyes off Kite. Yukimura-buchou had said Kite would push him. And that pissed him off enough to resist giving in, even if he didn’t already know he had stronger cards in his hand now.

    Kite was bouncing another ball already. “Imagine if you weren’t in Rikkai, Kirihara-kun,” he said, as conversational as if he hadn’t just tried to give Akaya a concussion. “Imagine you didn’t have all that support from your illustrious senpai to draw on. How would you be playing now, without that?” He served with that bone-cracking force again, and Akaya bared his teeth, lunging to the side and back, swinging to catch the ball. He hissed when it jarred the racquet hard in his hands, ball going wild. It was like Sanada-fukubuchou’s Fire turned into a serve, and even harder to catch because it angled down so sharply.

    And Kite’s words were jangling in the back of his head, ringing against his old despair, the fear he would never be able to catch the Three Demons. The fear he’d burned into rage and lashed out across the court with, to win however he could manage.

    “A sympathy play from the Assassin?” Niou-senpai drawled from the bleachers, and Akaya looked over to see him leaning back on his elbows, lips curled in a sardonic smirk. “Come on, Akaya-chan, would you believe that if I was doing it?”

    Akaya couldn’t help himself and burst out laughing at the very idea. Snickers wound through the Rikkai club, stifled because no one was entirely sure when Niou would take offense at such things.

    “Yes, Kirihara-kun, that very support,” Kite said from across the net. “Only a team who already has a name and a place can afford it. And if I become a bogey-man,” he bowed a little to Niou, perfectly composed, “that’s fine, as long as Higa gets the notice they need to establish themselves. Imagine your tennis without that!”

    Akaya nearly didn’t get himself set in time to return the next serve, and the ball was a high lob that Kite caught with disdainful ease and hammered back over the net. For an instant, there, Kite’s cool had slipped. Akaya feinted a leap to smash and batted the ball along the net instead. He almost didn’t hear his first point being called, though, staring at Kite while his mind whirled.

    Kite wasn’t afraid of losing on his own behalf; there was no such fear in his shots. But there had been rage Kirihara recognized in his eyes, for that one moment. Rage over his team. Fear for his team? For what it would mean to them to remain an unknown? Kite kept mentioning support. Abruptly, Akaya realized that all of the equipment he’d seen Higa use was good quality… but worn. The ten or so club members with them had kept him from seeing it before, but Higa looked an awful lot like Fudoumine, that way, and who knew if Fudoumine would even exist next year? Higa’s coach hadn’t done a single useful thing all match, either; every time Akaya had seen meaningful directions being given, it was by Kite.

    Directions that sacrificed his own pride, as a player and captain, with iron determination and no hesitation.

    Now that, Akaya could respect a bit.

    He straightened up and nodded to his opponent. “Yeah, it’s my senpai’s support that got me here. So let’s play, and I’ll show you what it’s done for me. And then your team will know the worth of what you’re doing for them.” He set himself in the middle of his court, feeling his focus narrow, his blood tingle. He had a serious game on his hands, here, and he would answer in kind.

    Kite was very still for a long moment before he smiled thinly. “You’re going to be fairly good at the mental game yourself, Kirihara-kun.” That serve of his came screaming in again, just as dangerous as ever, and this time Akaya got the angle right, spun his body to absorb the force, and sent the ball singing back over the net.


    Eishirou had known he was playing with fire, taunting Kirihara. He just hadn’t expected it to be Kirihara who saw through to the core of the words he was using as his weapon. Niou or Yanagi, he’d have expected it from, but Rikkai’s junior ace had a reputation as a hot-head, a player who let his temper drive him and not his intellect. Eishirou had expected to trigger that temper, not such an abrupt insight. Just what kind of training had Kirihara been doing, to spur him to that kind of perception?

    During the third game, he got his answer.

    He’d taken both his service game and Kirihara’s, though the second had been a close thing. Kirihara was fast, and seemed to think nothing of balls that would blow the racquet out of most players’ hands. Eishirou could tell that the Big Bang serve was taking a toll, though. Kirihara’s hands had to have gotten a little numb; Eishirou had taken the last point of the second game when Kirihara’s very tight cross-shot had wobbled just a little and let him catch in it time to lob it directly behind his opponent. So when the serve came to him again, he threw the ball up and sent it tearing over the net, prepared to batter Kirihara’s technique down with brute force, if that was what it took.

    The first serve was returned, but the rally was brief, and Eishirou could tell he was on the right track. He breathed deeply, preparing his body for the wear of maintaining the Big Bang for multiple games, and served again.

    And Kirihara changed.

    It was almost tangible, and it shocked Eishirou still, as he landed. He knew this feeling, the electric shiver over his skin as Kirihara’s eyes widened, turned inward, and he moved. Half the Higa club was shouting; most of them were from the martial arts, and they recognized it too. That blank wall of intention that gave away nothing of Kirihara; the perfect, precise movement, a step to exactly where he needed to be, a weight shift and angle that absorbed the Big Bang’s force; the calm as the return ace sang past Eishirou’s foot and Kirihara just waited for the next serve, balanced on his toes. It was no-self. And Eishirou highly doubted Kirihara had ever seen or had demonstrated to him that counter to the Big Bang, so it had to be close to a complete state of no-self, in which Kirihara could still plan somewhat. Kirihara wasn’t just mirroring. He was perceiving and processing and responding from first principles. This was why Yukimura had given the pivotal match to his youngest player; this was how the hot-tempered Kirihara had started to see so clearly.

    Two more Big Bang serves were returned cleanly, and Kirihara caught his drop shot perfectly, driving it past Eishirou’s shoulder to the far corner before even Eishirou’s Shukuchihou could reach it.

    Two games to one.

    Eishirou’s jaw clenched hard. He’d heard rumors, last year, that Chitose had learned how to apply no-self to his tennis, but Eishirou hadn’t seen it in this year’s Regional tournament. He’d never tried to do it himself; he had to think and calculate matches in ways that had nothing to do with that purity of response and everything to do with the grubby politics of getting noticed. Those were the tactics he’d polished, fanning his team’s bitter resentment into violence and preparing to call all the blame down on himself and Saotome.

    Fine, then. They’d see which was stronger: Kirihara’s no-self or Eishirou’s will to do whatever it took.

    As Kirihara’s serve came whipping in, Eishirou narrowed his eyes and aimed the return directly for Kirihara’s ankle.


    This time, Akaya hadn’t had to reach for no-self. The knowledge had just been there, of what he needed to do to return that bruising serve, and he’d let himself take it. He’d slipped without even thinking into the clarity he’d been training to find, for a month, and everything fell together—Kite’s movement, the angle of his racquet, the path of the ball. One point was his, and then another. And another. It was easy.

    Weirdly easy.

    He could see the swing so clearly, could see the arc of the ball, targeted for his feet, his knees, his head, over and over. When they closed at the net and Kite dragged his racquet to fling grit into Akaya’s eyes, he might as well have drawn the line of his swing in the air, beforehand. Akaya faded aside and slammed the ball past Kite’s shoulder to take the fifth game. Another point. Another.

    This, he thought distantly, as Kite deliberately angled another ball at Yukimura, driving Akaya to that side of the court but leaving his own backcourt completely open for Akaya’s return, this must be what he’d looked like to Yukimura and Sanada.

    The thought slammed him out of no-self, and he stumbled even as the referee called four games to two in his favor, one knee hitting the surface of the court hard.

    “What’s this, Kirihara-kun?” Kite demanded, standing tall and straight still, for all he was breathing hard. “Used up too much of your endurance so soon? What a shame.” There was a predatory light in his eyes, all the brighter for the desperation behind it. Akaya just stared at him, mind blank with shock.

    That was what he’d looked like. All the time he’d been falling back on violence to win, he’d just been making it easier for them to defeat him. He had to swallow hard, and then again, almost sick with the realization.

    “Akaya!” Sanada-fukubuchou’s bark jerked his head around to see Yukimura-buchou watching him with cool sympathy and no mercy. Sanada-fukubuchou was still standing at their captain’s shoulder, arms folded. “Stop daydreaming and play your game,” he directed firmly.

    Akaya’s game. His new game, the one that could win. That didn’t give itself to defeat ahead of time. Akaya took a slow, shaky breath and locked his mental hands tight on that thought. He stood and flexed his fingers around his racquet, eyes closed. The cheers and shouts of the club didn’t matter. His senpai’s eyes on him didn’t matter. Kite’s desperation, so hideously familiar, didn’t, couldn’t matter. All that mattered was the game and the court, the net and the ball, and the two of them moving. Another slow breath and he found his balance again, the weightless poise that action flowed out of.

    When he opened his eyes again, Kite was watching him with a grim set to his mouth, and he spun on his heel and stalked back to serve without a word. Akaya’s calm wavered again, but he held on to it, and he was ready for the ball that scorched in straight toward his head.

    It was so obvious.

    Ball after ball, he knew where Kite was going, what he would aim for next, saw the openings Kite left as that icy focus of Kite’s locked down tighter and tighter. Ignored more and more possibilities.

    The last two games went fast.

    When Akaya finally let himself slide out of the waiting stillness of no-self, though, he realized he was shaking. Kite lifted a brow at him when they shook hands over the net, and Akaya couldn’t find any words at all to answer. He barely made it back to the bleachers before his legs gave out and he had to bend down to rest his head on his knees.

    He’d looked like that. He’d given his games away as obviously as that. He’d wrapped up his own defeat in a bow and handed it to the opponents he most wanted to beat. What right did he have to be standing on the National courts?

    Yukimura-buchou sat down beside him, one hand resting gently on the back of Akaya’s neck. “You understand, now?”

    Akaya nodded, a tiny movement, because he felt like anything more might make him fall into little pieces.

    “Would you have understood, if you hadn’t seen it yourself?”

    Akaya swallowed. “Maybe not.” After another breath, spent remembering his senpai trying to describe the holes in his old technique to him, and him not getting what they were talking about. “Probably not.”

    Yukimura-buchou’s hand tightened a little. “I don’t want you to slide back there, Akaya. You’re stronger than that.”

    “Pull yourself together, Akaya,” Sanada-fukubuchou added, briskly, dropping a towel over his head. “You’re not running away any longer.”

    Akaya looked up from under the towel at that, glancing back and forth between them, stomach fluttering because it was what he wanted to believe. Yukimura-buchou smiled, not gently but the way he smiled at interesting opponents, sharp and delighted. It made the flutter sharper, but that was the way Akaya had always wanted his captain to look at him, and he straightened up with a deep breath to answer it. “It would be pretty pointless to play like that again, considering what I just saw.”

    Sanada-fukubuchou hmph-ed, short and satisfied, and Yukimura-buchou laughed. “Yes. That isn’t a style that makes for very interesting opponents.” He glanced over at the Higa team, and his smile turned cool. “Kite is stronger than that, too. We’ll have to see if he understands, now, also.”

    Akaya glanced over at them, also, nibbling his lip. He didn’t want to play another game like this with Kite, that was for sure. But maybe… maybe Kite would understand sooner than he had. Since Akaya was pretty sure he’d had completely different reasons for playing that way.


    Kai was waiting at the fence as Eishirou came off the court, knuckles white from his grip on the top rail.

    The grip turned out to be just as bruising as it looked, transferred to Eishirou’s shoulders.

    “Was all that really true?” Kai demanded, low. “You had us do this just so we’d be noticed?”

    “Higa won’t get a good coach, or even a less stupidly brutal one, unless we get more than local attention,” Eishirou pointed out reasonably, and brought up his forearms to break Kai’s hold; he really wanted a drink.

    “Damn it, Kite, you’re the captain right now! If you didn’t think this was the way we should be playing—”

    “It satisfied you,” Eishirou cut him off, leaning back against the fence and taking another swallow.

    Kai ran his hands through his hair in utter exasperation, actually knocking his cap off. “That’s not the point! The only way to change things after this would be to disavow you along with Saotome!”

    Eishirou lifted his brows at his vice-captain. “Of course.”

    Kai’s hands fell and he stared at Eishirou, wordless.

    “Kite-buchou,” Tanishi started, and stopped, looking just as much at a loss. Eishirou sighed.

    “This is why I didn’t tell you sooner.” He pulled the towel out of his bag, straightening up with a twinge of strained muscles; Kirihara had been nearly as much of a demon to play as the third-year singles players were rumored to be. “No, I don’t think Saotome’s advice was good. Saeki was perfectly right that few teams will respect anyone who injures bystanders. But it’s been a shattering tactic a few times, it satisfied your resentment, and it certainly made us stand out. Once you have attention in the first place, it isn’t hard for people to recognize your genuine strengths.” He took another long swallow and swept his gaze over his stunned team. “I’ll have to hope that Best Eight is enough leverage to attract someone actually useful to advise the team next year, once I’m gone.”

    “And what,” Kai asked after a long moment, dangerously soft, “do you intend to do next year, if you take this reputation with you?”

    Kite adjusted his glasses and looked down his nose at his vice-captain. “Break the mental game of all my opponents by not doing what they expect.”

    Kai tried to keep glaring, but his lips twitched helplessly, and finally he scrubbed a hand over his face, laughing. “You are such an asshole, Eishirou. I’m coming to Shuri with you, and if you keep something like this from me again, you’ll be the one eating gouya, got it?”

    “Quite,” Eishirou murmured, and noted the easing of his team’s shoulders with some satisfaction. He’d always trusted Kai with the morale and care of the team.

    The moment of relaxation was, of course, broken by their coach stomping by and snarling, “I’m going back to the hotel. You losers can hang around to watch the teams who actually stuck it out, if you want to.”

    Eishirou had a ball in his hand before the thought actually reached the front of his mind, that the tournament and the season were over for him and he had no reason to put up with Saotome’s abuse of his team any more. “Kite!” Hirakoba exclaimed, but the ball was already in the air. It sizzled past Saotome’s head, perfectly aimed, just clipping his ear enough to leave it red as Saotome stumbled and fell flat on his ass on the court, suddenly pale. Shocked silence reigned as Eishirou stood over him.

    “Saotome-sensei, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to speak more moderately,” he chided. “My team has come first in the Prefectural and Regional tournaments, and has demonstrated their worth and ability to stand among the eight strongest junior high teams in Japan. I think ‘losers’ is really a bit uncalled for, don’t you?” He waited until Saotome nodded, jerkily, and inclined his head in return. “Thank you so much, for all your hard work.” He turned on his heel and beckoned his team to follow him up to the net to exchange bows with Rikkai.

    Niou was smirking, and Yagyuu wore a faint smile of the kind Eishirou recognized from the mirror. Men after his own heart, and he’d have to remember that danger next year. Yukimura smiled as they shook hands, polite and impenetrable.

    “I’ll look forward to meeting you next year, when you aren’t weighed down by this year’s agenda.”

    Eishirou paused and studied Yukimura more closely; did he mean to say that Eishirou had been distracted by his purpose, this tournament? That he had somehow been held back by it? “Hmm.”

    The thought niggled at him a little as Higa decamped to the park area to eat lunch. The evidence—Yukimura’s response to the attempt to injure him, that counter mental game he’d played so well—said that Yukimura was a good strategist and analyst, himself. Had he seen something in Eishirou’s game that was off? Eishirou turned over the match with Kirihara, in his mind, as they picked over the bento Akimizu had brought for the club and he listened to Chinen and Aragaki bargain over how many croquettes one fried shrimp was worth. Eishirou had lost, yes, but surely that was simply proof that Kirihara had been stronger, in this match. What had Yukimura seen to make him think otherwise?

    He had the rather annoying feeling that the question was going to stay with him for a while.

     

    1. “Another Story” is also as dead to me; dead, dead, dead. I’m going with manga-only backgrounds, and not even that when it seems too ridiculous. Therefore, Oshitari is the only cousin in here, nothing particular will be made of it, and Ishida is definitely not related to Ishida because that was one of the deeply artificial attempts to add narrative tension, and is not required here. back

    2. I liked the thought of pulling in a foreign player, against Atobe, given his background, but a whole team worth seemed like overkill. So, in this verse, Nagoya Seitoku just has one singles player and a doubles pair, which allows for a little more parity, strategy, and interest. back

    Last Modified: Dec 29, 21
    Posted: Dec 27, 21
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    The Fire Shall Never Make Thee Shrink – Day Two Afternoon

    Semi-finals. Atobe takes Sanada by surprise, Zaizen’s senpai help him start to think more flexibly and Echizen finishes the job, and Shiraishi pushes Fuji all the way. Action, Drama, I-4

    Second Day: Interlude

    It was the afternoon of the second day of Nationals, a bright, lovely afternoon, and all the remaining teams and onlookers were finding a corner of the Ariake park to have lunch in. Kuranosuke had been planning to do the same, but he finally thought he knew what his coach had been plotting about Kintarou. The first hint was Kenya’s exasperated yell, from ahead of them, of "Shiraishi!"

    When Kuranosuke saw Kintarou, trailing his assigned minder, standing in front of the Rikkai team, he understood at once.

    "Kin-chan," he sighed, coming up behind them with the rest of the team trailing after, "you’re supposed to be watching and learning, not harassing the other teams for unofficial matches."

    Kintarou spun around, nearly stamping his foot. "I haven’t gotten to play at all! And you said they were the best! If they’re the best, I want to play him!" He pointed straight at Yukimura, whose mouth was twitching helplessly at the corners as he watched the show.

    "I never thought I’d say it," Kirihara muttered, eying their little monster, "but I think I like Echizen better." Yanagi coughed a few times, very much like someone covering a laugh.

    And now Kuranosuke had a dilemma on his hands. He understood what Watanabe-sensei had been thinking. Maybe someone of Yukimura’s caliber (or Tezuka’s, if Kintarou had chanced across Seigaku instead) really could show Kintarou how important training and experience were, show him on the court, where he might finally get it. Kuranosuke would have to ask for the match himself, though, because Kintarou alone would just get brushed off.

    Which might be a salutary lesson all its own, but wouldn’t affect his tennis much.

    Kuranosuke struggled briefly with his pride, but in the end his responsibility to his team won. He suspected Watanabe-sensei had figured on that, too. He sighed and rested a quieting hand on Kintarou’s shoulder. "If Yukimura agrees, I suppose I will too." He wasn’t watching Kintarou when he said it; he was watching Yukimura, and when their eyes met he flicked his ever so briefly at Kirihara—the one Yukimura was responsible for training.

    Yukimura’s brows rose, and his smile turned thoughtful. "Hm." He glanced at Kirihara, too. "Well, Akaya, since I suspect it’s you who’s going to be dealing with Touyama-kun next year, what do you think? Should I play him?"

    Kirihara actually sputtered, wheeling on Yukimura. "Of course no—" he began, indignant, only to break off sharply, eyes locked with Yukimura’s. Kuranosuke didn’t understand all of what passed between them, but some of it might as well have been written across Kirihara’s forehead in pen. Outrage and then startlement, likely that Yukimura seemed to be serious. Sudden calculation, wondering whether either crushing or encouraging a player from another team would be a benefit to Rikkai next year.

    When Kirihara’s glance flicked over his team, though, and the way they were all watching him with gleaming eyes, the calculation halted. He straightened slowly, chin lifting, and looked back at Yukimura. "Of course you should," he said firmly.

    The entire rest of the team looked approving of that pride and certainty in Kirihara’s and Rikkai’s strength, Marui grinning around a bubble, Niou ruffling Kirihara’s hair. Kuranosuke suddenly wondered just how bad Yukimura’s illness had been. If the tight, unthinking bond among this year’s Rikkai was anything to judge by, it might have been very bad indeed. He frowned, suddenly wondering if Yukimura could play Kintarou right now, and caught Yukimura’s eye again, glancing at Sanada with a raised brow. Yukimura just looked back, perfectly serene.

    "One game," he told Kintarou, eyes not leaving Kuranosuke’s. "We’ll trade the serve after each point."

    It was Kuranosuke who nodded slowly, appreciating Yukimura’s canniness. That much would only be a warm-up for a fully recovered player, and wouldn’t be enough to strain one who was still injured. Not enough to show whether Yukimura had a weakness for Shitenhouji to exploit in the Finals or not. Kuranosuke smiled faintly. He hoped they did meet there; he’d like to play this year’s Rikkai.

    Kintarou was bouncing with glee. "All right, I get to play a game! Come on, hurry up!" He scampered for the nearest court, and Yukimura laughed out loud, and Kenya sighed.

    "Seriously, Shiraishi, why do you hate me?" he asked under his breath as they followed after their youngest member. "Couldn’t you have gotten Watanabe-sensei to watch him, or something?"

    "Next time, think twice about slacking off on your training so much that it costs you a game," Kuranosuke directed calmly. Konjiki and Hitouji made exaggeratedly impressed sounds, behind them, over the severity of their captain and Kenya rolled his eyes. "That was a month ago," he muttered, though not as if he thought that would change his captain’s mind. Kuranosuke smiled calmly as he held the gate open for the rest of his team, satisfied that his point was being taken. They all clustered one one side of the empty court Kin-chan had found, watching as the two players readied themselves.

    "So," Yukimura mused, bouncing a ball against the hardtop of the court, "you want a game against the best, is that it, Touyama-kun?"

    "Of course!" Kintarou was still bouncing himself, over on his side of the court, eager for the first serve. "’Cause then Shiraishi will have to admit I’m good enough to play this year!"

    "I see." Yukimura’s fingers closed around the ball. "Very well, then." When he looked up, his face was perfectly still and the weight of his focus hammered down on the court, hard as a summer rainstorm. Even Kuranosuke rocked back on his heels, and the sound Yukimura’s own team made was something like a growl and something like a purr. Yukimura cast the ball up gracefully and served, hard and fast; it hit deep in Kintarou’s court, near the corner, a clean service ace.

    Kintarou hadn’t moved.

    Koishikawa’s hands were in fists. "That," he said quietly. "That’s what he did to me last year. Took me two games to completely snap out of it, and there went my first service game. I never did catch up."

    "Touyama-kun," Yukimura called, sharp and demanding, and Kintarou started out of his blankness, staring around at the ball he’d missed, shocked. "It’s your serve."

    Kintarou pulled himself together enough to serve, but Kuranosuke could see his hands were unsteady. The serve was a strong one, even so, but Yukimura reacted almost before the ball left the racquet, was precisely in place to catch it when it bounced. He sent it back in a long, deceptive curve that hooked down just as Kintarou was swinging for it. Kuranosuke could just about feel his whole team bracing themselves for for the howls of protest, the hopping up and down with outrage. The dares to do that again so Kin-chan could catch it next time.

    Kintarou just stared at Yukimura, chewing furiously on his lip, and walked back to his baseline.

    "Thirty-love," Yukimura announced coolly, and served again, even sharper than the last one.

    This ball Kintarou caught, some of his usual irrepressible determination showing through again, but however he returned it, Yukimura was there behind the ball, fiercely intent and yet completely untroubled. Even just watching, his control was intimidating, and Kuranosuke understood Kintarou’s bared teeth and the edge of desperation in his shots perfectly well. He actually caught the painfully precise lob that Yukimura took the third point with, diving bodily for the baseline as it came down; he just didn’t get it back across the net.

    "Why are you smiling?" Kenya asked softly, as Kintarou climbed back to his feet and stomped back to serve, growling all the way. "I don’t think I’ve ever seen the kid this frustrated."

    "Because he’s never been this frustrated." Kuranosuke glanced sidelong his friend. "Do you want to bet on whether he’ll work seriously on his training after this?"

    Kenya pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. "Pretty hard way to teach him the lesson."

    "If it stops him being a dilettante, and a drain on the team, what’s the problem?" Zaizen asked coolly, watching as Kintarou served.

    Kenya eyed their kouhai and cocked a brow at Kuranosuke, who sighed and shook his head a little. Zaizen might very well have learned something from the matches against Fudoumine, but if so it wasn’t showing in his everyday attitude, yet. Kenya gave him a look of commiseration and turned back to the court.

    Kintarou was fighting hard for game-point, sweating as he pulled out all his speed and flexibility to chase the ball, all his native feel for how to spin it on the returns. Kuranosuke could see, though, that it wasn’t going to be enough. Yukimura was in control of the rally, running Kintarou back and forth across his court, spinning his own shots to bounce outward so they’d be that much harder to return with any kind of precision. And after long minutes of driving Kintarou back into the corners, Yukimura gentled the last ball just barely over the net. It kissed the cord and dropped easily, and even Kintarou’s last desperate dive wasn’t fast enough to catch it before it struck the clay with a soft thop.

    "Game," Yukimura said quietly into the silence. He hadn’t, Kuranosuke realized, even taken the jacket off his shoulders.

    Slowly, Kintarou levered himself back upright, out of breath and stunned. He and Yukimura looked at each other for a long moment before Yukimura came to the net and held out his hand, more a demand than an offer. Kintarou scowled, but he scuffed up to the net and shook Yukimura’s hand.

    "Be better, next time," Yukimura told him, before letting him go and turning to collect his balls and tuck away his racquet.

    Kintarou whirled and stomped back toward his own team with a thunderous look. "Shiraishi! Hurry up and finish these matches! I want to go home! You said training would make me stronger, so hurry up and get home so we can train some!"

    Konjiki and Hitouji stifled helpless whoops of laughter in each other’s shoulders, and even Ishida was clearly biting back chuckles.

    "We’ll be home tomorrow, Kin-chan," Kenya offered. "In the meantime, I bet the coach has some good ideas." Kintarou brightened a bit at that, and Kenya looked smug at having successfully inflicted Kintarou on someone else for the rest of the day, and possibly for the foreseeable future.

    "Very nostalgic," Kuranosuke heard Niou remark, and glanced over to see Kirihara promptly bristle.

    "I was never that bad!" he protested, indignant.

    "Yes you were," Sanada, Yagyuu, and Yanagi all said, more or less as one. Kirihara hunched up grumpily, only to have his hair ruffled by Yukimura as he joined them, and un-hunch with a sheepish look up at his captain.

    Kuranosuke thought he saw, now, why Yukimura had understood what he’d asked for so promptly; this was a lesson they’d had to teach one of their own, too. He stepped toward them and nodded courteously to Yukimura. "Thank you for agreeing to Kin-chan’s request." Kintarou crossed his arms and huffed at the reminder that he’d asked for this himself, and a corner of Yukimura’s mouth curled up.

    "Not at all," he said smoothly, still resting a hand on Kirihara’s shoulder. "I’ll be very interested to see what comes of it."

    Kuranosuke smiled back, quiet and hard. "I trust you will be, yes." If Yukimura had done this to give his successor a worthy opponent, well that was fine. Kuranosuke had every confidence that Kin-chan would be that and more.

    "Shiraishi!" Watanabe-sensei hollered from a few courts down, breaking their locked gaze. "Koishikawa! Where are you guys, your lunches are getting cold!"

    "Looks like we’d better be going," Kuranosuke murmured, jerking his head at his team before slanting one last glance back at Rikkai. "We’ll see you at Finals."

    Yukimura smiled, sharp as a knife. "I’ll look forward to it."

    They hurried down the walkways, Kintarou trotted along beside Kuranosuke. "So, that was the strongest player around?" he asked.

    "One of the top five, at any rate," Kuranosuke agreed.

    Kintarou nodded with great determination. "Okay. Then I’ll get strong enough to beat him!"

    Kuranosuke laughed softly. "That’s a start."

    "Right!" Kintarou thrust a fist into the air and took off running toward where their coach stood at the entrance to another court. "Let’s go!"

    The rest of Shitenhouji followed after, grinning.

    Semi-finals: Hyoutei vs. Rikkai

    After lunch, Kippei directed Shinji, Ishida, and Sakurai back toward the A-B courts and beckoned Kamio, Mori, and Uchimura to follow him up the walk to the C-D courts. He was pleased that their potential new team members decided to tag along with one group or the other. Akechi still seemed a bit shy of him, and had stayed with Shinji, which hadn’t surprised him. What had was that Matsuda had just grinned at his partner, when Yamura stood to follow after Kamio, and said he wanted to watch the Golden Pair. Kippei had read them as a very tight pair, and most pairs like that spent a great deal of time with each other, but Yamura had just grinned back and promised to report on Rikkai. Kippei couldn’t help approving of that kind of strategizing, and he thought Kamio did as well from the friendly nod he’d given Yamura. Good.

    He was a little amused when they met Kite on the walk, going in the opposite direction with Kai and a Higa player Kippei didn’t recognize. Probably a second-year, then. Kite looked Kippei’s party up and down, and his mouth quirked faintly, obviously as amused as Kippei by their parallel errands.

    “Off to see Rikkai and Hyoutei?” he asked.

    “It seemed wise,” Kippei admitted. “I’ve heard enough rumors, by now, about Kirihara having changed his game that I thought some of next year’s team had better have a look.”

    Kite’s eyes turned distant for a moment. “He has changed. More than I would have thought possible.”

    That wiped away Kippei’s amusement, after the rumors he’d heard about Higa. He’d always known Kite had the potential to go that road, but the kind of things he’d heard suggested something far colder than a simple loss of temper. This was Kite Eishirou; he didn’t let things happen by chance. If he was playing violently, he’d chosen that for a reason. “If anyone would know about that, you would.”

    The vicious temper that Kite always kept under such steely control flashed for a moment in Kite’s eyes. “If anyone would know why, it would be you,” he shot back. Kippei’s jaw tightned. This was all because of a bad coach, then? He started to snap that Kite could have just done what he did and tossed the asshole out, but remembered who he was talking to again and stopped. Kite didn’t work like that, and never had.

    “Sometimes I think your calculation just gets you into trouble,” he finally said.

    Kite adjusted his glasses with delicacy and precision, and Kippei couldn’t help grinning, reminded. That was Kite’s personal version of giving someone the finger. “As much trouble as your passion gets you into, so perhaps we’re even.”

    Kippei inclined his head, giving Kite that point. Kite had always been sharpest with his mental game. “Good luck with high school exams, in any case. I’ll see you at Regionals next year.”

    Kite actually smiled a little at that. “Chitose is dragging you back after all, hm? I’ll look forward to it, I’m sure.” He beckoned his players after him and strode on down the walk. Kai rolled his eyes at Kippei as he passed with a ‘what can you do with him?’ shrug, and Kippei chuckled.

    “You knew them?” Kamio asked, as they started walking again.

    “Higa was Okinawa prefecture’s champions, both our first and second year.” Kippei smiled reminiscently. “Kite and Kai were the only two really strong players they had, at the time, though, so they didn’t make it past Regionals. It was a shame, because both of them are higher-level than that.” He looked down at Kamio, suddenly serious. “Kite is a very calculating player, and I don’t doubt he’s like that as captain too. I don’t know what kind of legacy he’ll leave, but if you meet Higa next year, be careful of them.”

    Kamio nodded, quite serious and attentive, but his eyes were gleaming at the idea of a challenge. “Yes, Tachibana-san.”

    Kippei was quite sure the legacy he left would be up to it, and the knowledge settled warmly in his chest. “Let’s go see if Rikkai’s second-year is playing in this round, then.” He turned down a smaller walk and led them out of the trees into the bright sun falling across two courts flanked by bleachers, and the teams bowing to each other across the net.

    “So,” he continued, as they settled onto the end of the bleachers, “if you had to create a line-up out of Hyoutei’s players, to meet Rikkai, who would you put where?”

    Kamio made a thoughtful sound, frowning at Hyoutei’s team. “They don’t really have anyone else at Atobe’s level, do they?”

    “No. No one else is really a national-level player, though one or two are close.” Kippei smiled, watching Kamio work through his thoughts. He was getting better at judging other teams.

    “Then maybe Atobe in Singles Two,” Kamio said, slowly. “I think, after Prefecturals, they sharpened up a little, so they wouldn’t leave him for One.”

    “After us, you mean.” Mori leaned back, looking satisfied, and Kamio grinned, sharp.

    “That too. So probably not Shishido, either.”

    “Oshitari is supposed to be strong, and he used to play singles on the Elementary circuit,” Yamura offered.

    “If they’re willing to sacrifice one of the doubles matches, they might.” Kamio glanced over at Kippei, questioning. “Would they front-load a match that heavily?”

    “They might, for Nationals.” Kippei nodded at the many different school jerseys around them. “A lot of schools do, knowing that Nationals is a completely different level than Regionals. It would be one good choice of line-up. But remember that Atobe often plays a psychological game. If they want to set Rikkai a little off their stride, there’s another player they might use for the first match.”

    From the Rikkai side, Yanagi Renji stepped out onto the court. And from the Hyoutei side, sure enough, Akutagawa Jirou positively bounced out and seized Yanagi’s hand across the net to pump it, beaming all over his face. Kippei could see Yanagi’s bemused expression from the stands.

    Kamio’s rather matched. “I… guess so, yeah.”

    Kippei laughed, as the match got started. “Something to remember, about Rikkai—they don’t change their line-up much. I’d say it’s a bit of a point of pride, with them, to be strong enough that they don’t need to. So once you see who they put where at Regionals, you’ll know where to find them at Nationals, also.”

    “And Yanagi Renji is a pretty serious type,” Yamura murmured, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, watching Akutagawa start bouncing around the court to catch Yanagi’s balls.

    Kamio paused and cocked his head at Yamura. “You… know Yanagi?” Yamura snorted.

    “I wish. No, Kyou and I never got to play him. But Yanagi and Inui were kind of a legend in doubles, when we were in the Elementary circuit.”

    Uchimura eyed the score, steady racking up in Yanagi’s favor, and whistled through his teeth. “I guess I can see why.”

    Kamio’s bemused expression was back. “Akutagawa… doesn’t seem to mind, much, does he?”

    Kippei turned his hands up in a helpless shrug as Akutagawa caught a ball just about no other player would have the flexibility to catch, nearly behind his back, only to miss the precise drive Yanagi returned and practically sparkle over it. “That’s Akutagawa. He’s the single most ungrudging player I’ve ever met.”

    Kamio paused and suddenly looked more closely at the Rikkai players still on the bench. “And some of them don’t think much of that,” he stated, certain, and Kippei smiled.

    “Exactly.” Sanada, in particular, looked disapproving, even as the match was called 6-2 in Yanagi’s favor. “And I imagine that’s just who Atobe is aiming for.”

    Yamura made an interested sound, straightening up, as the Doubles Two pairs walked out. “Oh, now that’s interesting.”

    Kamio glanced at Niou and Yagyuu, shaking hands apparently quite cordially with Oshitari and Mukahi. “Why?”

    “Oshitari is an analytical player, and from what I saw at the tournaments last year Niou is also. But Mukahi relies on agility, and Yagyuu more on power.” Yamura narrowed his eyes as the two pairs fell back into their courts. “Look. Their formations put Niou at the net against Mukahi and Oshitari in the back of the court to deal with the deep drives. Are Niou and Oshitari really both counting on being able to match the specialist on the other side?”

    “Or are they going to give up those points when they happen and play a game of strategy against each other?” Kamio finished. “I see it.”

    Kippei smiled and kept quiet as they tossed ideas back and forth, watching the match unfold. Sure enough, neither Niou nor Oshitari were straining themselves to catch the tricky angle of Mukahi’s Moon Volley or the raw power of Yagyuu’s Laser Beam, and the points were moving fast and almost evenly. Personally, he thought both Yamura and Kamio were still missing a piece of Niou’s likely planning, but that was due to lack of familiarity more than anything. If Kamio had a chance to attend the invitational training camp this fall, and the Best Eight teams usually got to send at least a few players each, that would go a long way toward improving his analysis next year.

    When the score turned over to four games all, he broke in quietly. “If Rikkai’s pair is planning something, it should be right about now. Watch carefully.” Yamura hesitated a moment longer than Kamio, but finally nodded and turned back to the court.

    And then nearly choked as Niou stepped, quite casually, into precise position to return a Moon Volley. From Mukahi’s stumble on landing, Kippei thought that had probably had exactly the effect Niou was going for.

    “You thought that would be hard to catch?” Niou asked, clear enough for the stands to hear, and showed his teeth when he smiled. “Yagyuu.”

    His partner adjusted his glasses with a faint smile of his own and stepped just up to mid-court. “Enjoy yourself.”

    “Is he actually going to—” Yamura cut himself off with a soft whistle as Yagyuu caught two drives in a row, each aimed at opposite corners.

    “Yagyuu Hiroshi is a very powerful player, and not purely because of the strength of his shots,” Kippei agreed, a bit rueful with the memory of playing Yagyuu in his first year, at the fall training camp. Yagyuu hadn’t won by all that much, but his immovability in face of Kippei’s play style had been a bit of a shock.

    “And in the meantime, Niou is knocking down Mukahi’s mental game,” Kamio added, as Niou caught the third Moon Volley in a row, and made it look easy. As they started into the next game, though, Niou let the first Moon Volley through, and Kamio wasn’t the only onlooker to sit back in surprise at the abrupt change of focus as both Niou and Yagyuu double-teamed Oshitari and slammed four points through his defense in the space of minutes.

    Even the referee sounded a little stunned as he called, “The Niou-Yagyuu pair wins, six games to four!”

    “Well.” Yamura drew the word out. “I guess Kyou and I will have to step up our game if we want to get past those two, at the high school level.”

    Kamio glanced at him and snorted, mouth curling up. “And yet, you’re smiling.”

    The smile in question got a bit toothier, and Kippei stifled a chuckle. Yamura and Matsuda would definitely fit in well with Fudoumine.

    And then Atobe and Sanada stepped out onto the court, and all his attention focused down on his rivals.


    Atobe Keigo shook hands briskly with Sanada, barely hearing his jab, “I hope this game will be better than our last one.”

    Keigo made a noncommittal sound and noted but didn’t take time to savor Sanada’s startlement at the lack of a return barb. He’d spent the first two matches halfway into the World of Ice, and now he was pushing his perception deeper, wider. A corner of his mind observed that he would need to get here faster, in the future, but that thought was set aside for later. Now was only for the white lines of the court enclosing them and the tension of potential movement in Sanada’s body as he fell back to serve. Keigo’s smile stretched over his teeth as the downstroke of Sanada’s arm drew the first line of their game, nearly a tangible weight in his mind, and he dashed forward to return, hungry to see more, to grasp the shape of Sanada’s whole game.

    Admittedly, there was a bit of a snarl in there, by the third serve. The balls came in fast and heavy, but Keigo knew from experience that this wasn’t Sanada’s top speed or strength. He felt potential crystallize with the last serve; this one could be his. He could slice this one to the corner too fast for Sanada to reverse himself and catch. The serve after that would be full strength, and he could catch that too, he knew it now—and knew Sanada wouldn’t believe it, wouldn’t be in position to save it. The first game, Sanada’s service game, could be his.

    But that cool line of calculation drew out further. If he took the first game, the next game broke against Sanada’s fury and focus, broke into a starburst of possibilities he couldn’t track yet. If he let this one go… then the next would be his and still conceal his hand, would draw more of Sanada’s game out for him to see and grasp.

    Yes, that was the way.

    So Keigo pulled the strength of his return, just a little, just enough for Sanada to catch the ball and slam it into Keigo’s far corner. He bared his teeth again at the dismissive glance Sanada gave him before settling into his court to receive. He breathed through the rush of rage and let it power his arm with the force needed for a Tannhäuser serve, and smirked at the exclamations from the stands as the ball scudded along the court without rising. The way Sanada’s eyes narrowed sang to him like the note of struck crystal—exactly the response he’d expected and aimed for.

    Sanada tracked the next serve closely, and straightened with a snort. “Interesting, but certainly not unbreakable,” he called across the net, and Keigo laughed, exhilarated by the solid weight of knowledge in his mind, the knowledge of what Sanada would do with this serve.

    “Let’s see, shall we?”

    Sure enough, Sanada dashed forward into the next serve to catch it before it bounced. That ball spun wild, nearly hitting the top row of the stands. The fourth ball went wild too, but not nearly as far, and new strokes layered themselves into Keigo’s vision of Sanada’s game. Sanada knew extreme topspin was the way to counter; the next time Keigo’s serve came around, he’d be ready.

    Ready to be pulled up to the net, and sacrifice oh so much of his back-court.

    Keigo laughed softly, delight singing through him. This… this was the full realization of the World of Ice, to see and to know and to use what he knew to build his whole game, not just individual shots.

    This was his game.


    Sanada Genichirou growled, mostly at himself to be honest, when the score turned over two games in Atobe’s favor. He’d let himself be lulled by that serve. It was exactly the kind of move he’d expected from Atobe—a high-level technique, but not a game-changer, not against a National level player. It turned out that the serve itself was only a part of the play, though, and that… that told him that he was on the edge of making a mistake.

    Yukimura’s words, after that abortive match with Atobe, a few weeks ago, came back to him.

    “I would not have lost.”

    “Then wait until it’s an official match.” Yukimura stowed his racquet away and held out his hand, frowning critically at the shake of it. “Don’t be so impatient, Sanada.”

    Genichirou snorted. “Why should I waste time on Atobe?”

    Yukimura shook his head, smiling though his eyes still glinted sharp and cool. “Be careful. I know you know your own strength. And unlike nearly every other player in the middle school or high school circuit, your confidence in it is fully justified. But that,” he added, pointedly, “is exactly what slows you down in face of the unexpected.”

    Genichirou took a slow breath and let it out, and made himself look at the thought straight on. Yukimura was right. Six games in was far longer than it should have taken him to realize this. He glanced over at the coach’s bench, and snorted at the serene smile Yukimura gave him back. Normally it was Akaya who got that look, and it stung a little to have it directed at him, but he probably deserved it.

    All right, then, enough fooling around.

    He stood at his baseline and closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the flow of his breath down to the bottom of his belly and back, feeling the absolute solidity of the ground under his feet and the bounds of the court around him. He breathed out all his thoughts and expectations, and opened his eyes.

    Across the court, Atobe threw his head back, laughing out loud, arms spread wide as if in welcome. “About time, Sanada!”

    Beyond casual banter, now, Genichirou only tossed the ball up and served with his full strength.

    Even in locked into the clear perception of no-self, a shock ran through him when Atobe caught the ball and threw it back, one handed. A return with Wind put the ball away behind Atobe before he could catch it, but the focus of Atobe’s eyes on him, intent and gleaming over a fierce smile, tugged at him, drew the force of Fire out of him for the next rally. That one, Atobe caught two-handed, and how close the ball came to going back across the net drove his arm harder.

    He would give everything this game demanded of him.


    Keigo’s arms were starting to ache with the demand of the Tannhäuser serve, and the weight of Sanada’s balls, but he could hardly keep from laughing all the same. Neither of them had broken the other’s service game since Sanada plunged into no-self, but that was all right. It would be fine as long as he could outlast Sanada by even one ball, and while Sanada’s sheer power was still a shade beyond him, those brutally heavy balls were starting to soften as Sanada’s endurance began to wane under the demands of no-self.

    And Keigo could see it. He’d drawn out every one of Sanada’s techniques, and he felt them like a weight in his hands, a powerful shape but still one with gaps. When they reached the tenth game, he felt opportunity open, in the shape of the game, and bared his teeth across the net at Sanada, delight dancing through him even as he had to work his hand around the grip of his racquet to hold it firmly.

    This time he didn’t serve with the Tannhäuser technique, and he was in position when Sanada smashed the ball back with Fire, inevitable as water flowing downhill. In position to brace his whole body against the force of that shot and return it perfectly to Sanada’s blind spot. Sanada’s shock as the point was called, jarring even Sanada out of the calm of his no-self, pulled a shudder down Keigo’s spine, sweet with the knowledge of how this game would end.

    Another point, and Sanada pulled himself together, cutting at Keigo’s control with Wind.

    Another, and he could feel the edge of Sanada’s focus on him, so heavy it stole his breath, and then stole a point before he regathered his vision of the court and the game.

    Another point lost to the Mountain, and Sanada was starting to know what it was Keigo was doing, but that was all right, because he’d seen the blind spot in Mountain during their last game, and that was another point to him.

    He gathered himself for the last serve, and this one was a Tannhäuser serve. Like water flowing, Sanada caught it with the Forest, killed the spin, sliced the ball back to the open side of the court.

    Exactly where Keigo had known he would send it.

    The last ball slammed into the court just past Sanada’s racquet as he spun, almost breaking the World of Ice. Almost, but not yet.

    Not in time, because that was match point, and Keigo released a breath that was half a laugh and half a sob, because he’d done it. He’d won, against Sanada Genichirou.

    He scrubbed a tingling hand over his face and walked to the net, slowly because his muscles felt a bit rubbery after ten games of returning those heavy balls. Sanada didn’t look in much better shape when he came to meet Keigo, and neither of them had much grip worth the name when they shook hands. Keigo had to stifle a helpless snicker over the fact, and Sanada growled.

    “Stop acting like a giggling idiot. I’ll win next time.”

    Keigo smiled back, bright with the knowledge that he’d finally caught up, that they would run neck and neck, now. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

    Sanada glared, but there was focus in it, now, rather than contempt. Focus on Keigo and his game and the threat he offered. Keigo smiled back, bright and wild, if still breathless.

    “Go shut your club up, so we can hear the referee calling the next game,” Sanada told him, turning back toward Rikkai’s bench. Keigo blinked, only then realizing that his club was, in fact, chanting. Well, he didn’t object to doing Sanada a favor, at the moment. He lifted a languid hand and waved them down, as he came in, and they broke up into more regular cheers and chattering. Sakaki-sensei gave him a steady nod, only his eyes warming to show his pleasure that Keigo had succeeded.

    “Sit down before you fall down,” Shishido advised, clapping Keigo on the shoulder as he and his partner stepped out.

    Since the gesture nearly made him fall down, Keigo though that would probably be wise, yes.


    Sanada Genichirou found it harder than usual to keep his shoulders straight as he returned to the Rikkai benches, and not just because that had been an exhausting game. Yukimura watched him come, not moving, hands still folded and resting on his knee, eyes cool and steady. Genichirou stopped in front of him and made himself say clearly, “I was careless. I offer no excuse.”

    Yukimura just nodded. “Very well, then. Marui. Jackal.” As they stepped forward, Yukimura turned to them, leaving Genichirou to sit down with only his own thoughts for company. “It’s Shishido’s sense for the ball, more than his speed, you’ll need to watch for. I leave it to your own judgment whether to try catching Ohtori’s serve or not, but remember we have Finals still to go. Don’t court injury.”

    Genichirou took a seat and scrubbed a towel over his face, mouth tight. He wasn’t surprised Yukimura was leaving him to stew; he couldn’t believe he’d been taken so off guard that he’d lost. He took a quick drink and leaned with his elbows on his knees, watching Marui grinning over the net at Shishido, already up on his toes and poised. Finally, Yukimura looked over his shoulder at him, measuring.

    “You’re still breathing hard; Atobe definitely has the edge in endurance, right now.” As Genichirou grimaced, a corner of Yukimura’s mouth quirked up. “He did the last time you played, also.”

    Genichirou was quiet for a moment, looking down at his hands clenched tight around his towel. “You think he was already at this point, when we played before the National games started.”

    “Yes.”

    At that, Genichirou looked up, annoyed. “Then why didn’t you say so?”

    Yukimura’s brows rose. “Should I have needed to?” When Genichirou didn’t answer, he went on, voice sharpening. “You’ve been focused far too tightly on Tezuka the past two years. You needed to remember he’s not the only one who can challenge us.”

    Genichirou bit back the He has been, because that was an unworthy response and he knew it. There could always be someone better; that was basic mental discipline, to keep in mind. Had he really fallen into such complacency?

    Pathetic!

    “So you put me in Atobe’s way for an official match?” So the loss would have the most impact, presumably.

    “I made the opportunity for it to happen,” Yukimura agreed. “Knowing Hyoutei would be at Nationals after all, there was enough chance of encountering them to wait for it. All the more so once they drew a place on our side of the bracket and I knew we’d meet them before we met Seigaku again.”

    Before Genichirou met Tezuka again, in other words. Before his tunnel vision could be reinforced. Thinking five steps ahead of everyone else was one of the things Yukimura did best, and the biggest reason Sanada had never considered contending to be captain of the team. This had been a useful lesson. Genichirou still had to take a good breath and remind himself sternly of that fact before he could say, low, “Thank you.”

    Seiichi’s true smile, rare to see during competition, blossomed at that, bright and warm. “That’s better. You promised years ago that we’d advance together. I won’t forgive you falling behind now.”

    Genichirou blinked, suddenly feeling the tightness of his shoulders as it eased, feeling like his thoughts had been knocked sideways by the memory of that promise, of the bright excitement that had been in Seiichi’s eyes that day. “We promised each other that,” he pointed out.

    Seiichi’s smile turned satisfied. “So we did.” He turned back to watch Marui steal the force from Shishido’s drive and send it rolling along the cord out of reach. Genichirou snorted softly at his captain’s back. Yes, fine, he took the point; after what Yukimura had done to return to the game, Genichirou had no excuse. He’d do better next time.

    He straightened to watch as Jackal finally caught one of Ohtori’s serves, firmly ignoring the faint smile that tugged at his mouth.


    Kirihara Akaya sat quietly on the far side of Yanagi-senpai and pretended to be watching the game instead of eavesdropping on his captain and vice-captain. Yanagi-senpai’s faint smile said he probably wasn’t fooled, but at least he wasn’t giving Akaya away.

    He really should be paying attention to the game. Ohtori was certainly going to be showing up in next year’s tournament matches, and while Akaya didn’t honestly have many doubts about his ability to deal with a power player after years of chasing Sanada, he should still at least be thinking about how his future team members could deal with Ohtori. That’s what Yukimura-buchou was doing, wasn’t it? Thinking about how his team members could advance. Making sure that they would, even if it meant pushing them into the path of a loss.

    Akaya didn’t know if he could do that. And he would need to know whether or not he could, eight days from now. The realization felt like ice sliding down his spine. He was about to be the one in charge of getting Rikkai to this tournament again.

    Yanagi-senpai’s hand on his back made him start.

    “Easy, Akaya,” Yanagi-senpai said, quietly. “Don’t think of next week, yet.”

    Akaya looked up at him, startled. He was used to Yanagi-senpai knowing what he was about to do on the court, but this seemed a little closer to telepathy than normal. Yanagi-senpai’s mouth quirked up at the corner.

    “You were starting to hyperventilate.”

    Akaya blushed and scrunched down on the bench. Okay, that had probably been a pretty easy guess after all.

    “For now, just think about the tournament,” Yanagi-senpai advised. “But for later on… remember that you don’t need to lead the way Seiichi does. You just need to lead the way you do.” Softer, he added, “I know we probably haven’t made that easy for you. But I also know that you can do it. Remember that, as well.”

    The thought that his team’s very best analyst thought so got Akaya through the end of the match without getting too distracted, and through the final line-up without snickering at Atobe’s smirk or Sanada-fukubuchou’s eye rolling or how obviously Yukimura-buchou was refraining from laughing at them both.

    Tomorrow was plenty to worry about, for now.

    Semi-finals: Seigaku vs. Shitenhouji

    The afternoon matches were not off to a good start for Shitenhouji. Kuranosuke had been afraid it would play out like this.

    He couldn’t quite stifle his wince as Seigaku’s Kawamura sank into a crouch and dashed forward against Gin’s drive. Kawamura’s variant of Hadoukyuu was brutal, and he just hoped Gin wasn’t going to be stubborn about this… He blew out a relieved breath as Gin let his racquet go.

    “That was match point,” Zaizen pointed out, behind him, sounding disapproving. When Kuranosuke glanced back, though, Zaizen’s frown was more thoughtful than anything.

    “Courting a serious injury in a middle-school match, even if this is Nationals, is foolish,” he answered plainly, hoping to encourage that new thoughtful edge. “I told Gin I would trust him to know what he needed to do, and it was true. But it’s also true that it’s easy to get caught up in what’s right in front of you and forget the bigger picture.” He nodded out at the court where, if he wasn’t mistaken, Kawamura was preparing to catch Gin’s serve with another Hadoukyuu. “So what does that tell you about Seigaku’s Kawamura?”

    Zaizen frowned deeper, chewing on his lip as he turned sharp eyes on Kawamura’s stance, the hard bunch of his muscles. “He… is probably going to be injured after this, isn’t he? Is he just bad at the big picture?” Zaizen’s head cocked as his gaze flicked toward Seigaku’s coach, at her tightly folded arms and resigned expression. “Or does he not care?” Zaizen finished, slowly.

    Kuranosuke restrained his urge to get up and do a little dance of triumph right there in the bleachers. Finally, they were getting somewhere! “I would bet he plans to retire from the sport after this year,” he confirmed.

    “And Ishida-senpai doesn’t.” Zaizen sat back as the match was called, a win for Kawamura. For once, he wasn’t stiff with outrage over a loss. “Okay.”

    Kuranosuke watched his kouhai watch the remarkably similar fuss the two teams were making over their players, with ice packs and athletic wrap, and smiled. This tournament season had been good for Zaizen. His smile faded a little, though, as he turned back to the court, where Oshitari and Koishikawa were greeting Seigaku’s Inui and Kaidou at the net. This wasn’t going to be a good combination for Shitenhouji, either, so soon after Oshitari had to play all out, and he had to wonder if Inui had planned for it, had expected Fudoumine to blunt Shitenhouji’s edge. He leaned down between his own strategists, on the bench below his, and murmured, “Predictions?”

    Konjiki and Hitouji exchanged a long look, full of little glances and gestures toward the court. Kuranosuke’s brows rose as the silent exchange went on. These two usually agreed on an answer faster than this, both of them constantly running calculations and bouncing ideas off each other, even when anyone else (and especially Zaizen) would swear they were only clowning for the crowd. Finally Hitouji shook his head firmly and Konjiki gave in with a tiny sigh. “I would have said Kaidou was at least half as worn-down as Oshitari, after his match against Hikogashima’s Hisakawa, but Yuuji’s paid more attention to everyone’s rate of change, this year. If he says Kaidou still has the endurance to outlast Oshitari, then he does.”

    Out on the court, Inui held the center without moving while Kaidou sprinted across the back to catch Koishikawa’s ball as it went deep. The sinuous whiplash of his entire body sliced the ball in a tight, nasty curve to strike behind Oshitari’s feet before he could get himself turned around. And the glint in his eye as the point was called made Kuranosuke sigh. That was definitely the look of someone with a truckload of grit, and maybe a second one coming along after, too. “Likely two down, then. Tezuka, for Singles Two, do you think? Or Fuji?”

    Hitouji made a face. “Imponderables in the calculation. Hate it when that happens.”

    “It depends on how Fuji is responding to his last match from Regionals,” Konjiki expanded at Kuranosuke’s exasperated look. “And no one has drawn him out far enough, yet, to tell.”

    Kuranosuke smiled, slowly. “Well. Either way, then, it sounds like I’ll have an interesting match.”

    Konjiki smirked. “Have fun, then. We’ll be here to back you up, after.”

    Kuranosuke leaned back, keeping his smile in place. None of them mentioned that the best case still left a wild card in play.

    They’d put Zaizen in Singles One, for this line-up.


    Fuji Shuusuke watched his teammates come off the court, Inui with a subtle hand under Kaidou’s arm to keep him upright, watched Momoshiro cheerfully call Kaidou names to distract from how quickly he had a towel and water bottle to hand for his year-mate, watched Tezuka give them a firm, approving nod, and tried to keep his breath even.

    He was next.

    And this was really absolutely ridiculous. He hadn’t had butterflies in his stomach over a match since he’d barely been taller than a racquet.

    But even Tezuka spoke well of Shiraishi’s game, and Shuusuke had gotten a couple tastes, now, of what impressed Tezuka, and…

    And he didn’t know how this match was going to end. Shuusuke took another slow breath, reminding himself that most players dealt with this, and most seemed to do just fine. He still jumped a little when Ryuuzaki-sensei clapped him on the shoulder.

    “Don’t get too far down inside your own head,” she said, quietly. “All you have to do is pay attention, the way you usually do, and don’t make assumptions.” Her grip shifted and she gave him a brisk shove toward the court. “Now get out there and play!”

    Shuusuke was laughing as he stumbled forward, and he took her brisk assurance, Tezuka’s steady eyes on him, Eiji’s victory sign, Echizen’s companionable smirk, with him to meet Shiraishi at the net.

    “Tezuka in Singles One, then?” Shiraishi murmured as they shook hands.

    “I suppose we’ll see,” Shuusuke parried automatically. “I’ll try to keep you from feeling neglected.”

    Shiraishi smiled, slow and sharp. “Excellent.”

    And that was the other interesting thing, Shuusuke reflected, as he fell back to serve. The best players, one and all, genuinely enjoyed a real challenge, enjoyed this uncertainty. That might honestly be the thing he most doubted his ability to reach. He gripped the ball hard and looked down the length of the court, studying Shiraishi’s poised stance, balanced to break in any direction after the ball. He didn’t know whether playing by listening to his instinct for the game would work this time; it wouldn’t have, quite, against Tachibana, and Shiraishi had just won against Tachibana. But he also didn’t quite know how to play another way. Maybe he just had to push harder?

    “Let’s see how this goes, then,” he said, very softly, and threw the ball up to serve.

    And maybe this would be easier than he thought, because the smoothness of Shiraishi’s return locked his attention immediately, drew his eye and thoughts to Shiraishi’s perfect balance, to the pure arc of his racquet and the precise measure of spin it gave to the ball. This was Shiraishi’s strength, laid out for him to see as clearly as he’d ever seen Tezuka’s fierce control of the ball or Echizen’s confident range of techniques. The knowing drew his body along, just as surely as ever, like a spark flashing from his thought to his hand and back again as he caught the ball, felt its weight on his racquet. This was familiar.

    And yet, it wasn’t, because there was no ready knowledge of how to counter, leaping to his hands. Shiraishi’s shots drove him toward the sides, cut one ball and then another into the corners past his reach. His feet felt mired by the heat of the afternoon, not fast enough to keep up, and the lost points nagged at him, because this time he wasn’t sure of making them up, of finding the holes in Shiraishi’s game if only he waited and watched. The tension pulled on him, made him step too hard on the unforgiving court surface, made his hand too tight on the smooth grip of his racquet, and he lost a third point as the angle of his return went too high. He shook himself, mentally, and caught Shiraishi’s smash in Higuma Otoshi, as smooth as ever… only to lose the point when Shiraishi sprinted for the baseline and actually made the return, perfectly balanced to move, where Shuusuke took a fatal moment too long to shift forward and catch the drop shot Shiraishi gentled over the net.

    Shuusuke stopped, flat footed in the middle of the court, and huffed, exasperated. This wasn’t getting him anywhere, and he could feel his endurance starting to fall. He hadn’t trained for the speed to catch those wide-ranging balls or the endurance to constantly dash after them. He’d never had to, and now maybe he understood why that had always made Tezuka frown.

    All right, so he really was going to have to push a lot harder, and hope he lasted long enough. He had the technique to make it work. He had to believe that.

    He closed his eyes and took a long breath in, letting it out slowly. Took the score and set it aside, in his mind, on a shelf for later. Took the nagging knowledge of Tezuka’s eyes on him, watching and waiting and quite probably hoping, and put that on the shelf too. He would act like that packing away was real, until it became real. He took the slick feel of Shiraishi’s tennis, in his thoughts, and held it on mental palms, let the new openness of his thoughts flow out to his body and re-settle his stance. He didn’t need to encompass Shiraishi’s game. All he had to do was meet it, play against it. What happened then—he shoved the surge of nerves relentlessly back onto its shelf—well, that was what they were playing to find out.

    It would be interesting, to see.

    When that thought finally came to the fore, Shuusuke smiled and opened his eyes.

    Both Taka-san and Eiji were grinning, from the sidelines, and on the bench below them Echizen had his chin resting in his hands and a challenging smirk not at all hidden under his cap. Shuusuke snorted and pushed that onto a shelf, too, though not as far back as most of the rest. Echizen had always been a challenge, but never pressure. Shuusuke scuffed a foot against the hardcourt surface, feeling his balance again, and finally looked across the net to where his opponent was preparing to serve. Shiraishi was smiling, too, sharp and fierce, like he thought this was going to be interesting, too, and Shuusuke set that at the front of his thoughts, a bright, new mark to steer by. It made his breath come quicker.

    When Shiraishi served, Shuusuke took the pure line of the ball and sliced it back forehand, slamming the return down past Shiraishi’s knees.

    The quick cheers of his team were distant. It was the glint in Shiraishi’s eyes that drew Shuusuke forward to meet the next serve.

    It still wasn’t easy, not the way tennis usually was for him. Habit tried, again and again, to close his mind’s grip on Shiraishi’s game, and every time, he slipped off the hard perfection of Shiraishi’s form that had no easy counter. Again and again, Shiraishi knew exactly where to be to catch the trickiest of backspins. But there was still another person on the other end of the game, a person making choices from moment to moment, and that Shuusuke could match, could counter. Shots ranged over the whole court, now in the corners, now at the net, now driving for the baseline, and the scuffle of shoes as they chased each other’s balls was loud in Shuusuke’s ears. The score see-sawed back and forth, balanced on Shuusuke’s rapid-fire changes of pace and technique, and on Shiraishi’s relentless precision.

    Shuusuke could still feel himself wearing down, though, even wringing all the advantage he could out of his edge in technique.

    As they switched sides at the end of the seventh game, Shiraishi paused beside him and eyed him up and down. “Hm.”

    Shuusuke’s brows rose. That was nearly Tezuka levels of significant hmph-ing. “Yes?”

    “If that’s all you’ve got, I suppose a part of me is relieved,” Shiraishi answered, lightly enough, and turned toward his mid-court, settling himself to receive.

    The unspoken ending, that a part of him was also disappointed, stung, flicking Shuusuke where he was still raw and uncertain. He set his jaw and stalked back to his baseline to serve. The score pushed itself to the front of his mind again, and he had to take a moment to wrestle it back. The fact of it remained, though; he was down one game. He frowned down at the court as he bounced the ball, feeling the comforting jolt as it returned smartly to his hand. He needed to get one of Shiraishi’s service games from him, and to stop Shiraishi from running him all over the court. He needed…

    The image of Echizen rose in his mind, of those expressive eyes narrowed with ferocious determination, of Echizen throwing himself against someone’s game over and over and over until he found a way over, under, around, or through. Shuusuke’s mouth curled in a helpless smile. Yes. Maybe he needed some of that.

    Needed to attack.

    He worked his fingers around the ball, looking across the net at his opponent, habit drawing his shoulders tense. To attack was to make openings in one’s game; his entire style was based on that simple fact. But against an equal opponent, he reminded himself firmly, to attack was also to hold the initiative. So how could he spin the ball his way, not just as it returned to him, using his opponent’s force, but before it returned to him? Shuusuke’s focus on Shiraishi narrowed, drank in his position, his stance, so perfectly balanced. Shuusuke knew he needed something more than his usual technique to break that. Something more. Something, anything, he wanted this, and the calculation that usually ran so deep he barely felt it started to rise like a river, inside him.

    Something. The breeze, as it brushed his cheek from the direction of the stands. It would push the slower balls ever so slightly. The glare of the sun, sliding further and further down in the same direction. It would be in the eyes of anyone who had to turn too far in that direction, soon.

    Anything. The court surface had grit on it, but in one or two places, dust had settled into a faint dip, and those would be slicker to step on, would absorb the force of any ball that landed there.

    Everything.

    Shuusuke’s breath came quicker as he held it all balanced in his mind, in his muscles, feeling half blind with the rush of detail he was trying to encompass, to really perceive this time instead of just letting it feed his instinct for the ball. Right now, he needed to know and choose among these possibilities. He could feel the weight of Shiraishi’s focus on him, too, as he threw the ball up to serve, feel it turning heavier and hotter, almost heavy enough to be steadying.

    He served with as much backspin as he could give the ball right from the outset, not waiting this time, aiming for the point just past Shiraishi’s feet—not just to break his stance but to hit one of the tiny ripples in the court surface that would bounce the ball to the side as well. Even Shiraishi wavered a moment, shifting toward that unexpected bounce, and this time he didn’t recover fast enough. Shuusuke smiled, sharp. Yes, this was the way.

    He threw himself into the game as it sped up, eyes wide as he let the entirety of the court, the park, the day, come to him, feeling like he was listening with his very skin for the details that would let him turn the ball away from Shiraishi. It was electrifying and exhilarating and a little alarming and… and familiar. As ball after ball cut through the spaces his senses encompassed, as the serve changed and changed again and points piled up faster still, he remembered listening this hard, feeling this much. He remembered it from the end of Regionals. His opponent this time wasn’t enraged, though, or blank with that strange overdrive of no-self.

    Shiraishi was laughing.

    “That’s more like it, Fuji,” Shiraishi called as the serve returned to him again. His smile was a little wild, but his stance was as sleekly perfect as ever. Maybe even more solid, now, than at the start of the match. Shiraishi bounced the ball and bared his teeth at Shuusuke. “You’re a good match. I’ll look forward to doing this again, some time.”

    It seemed a little early to say so, but Shuusuke let the thought slip away as he dashed to catch Shiraishi’s serve, a slow, tricky one that just dropped the ball over the net. He had to return a lob, but caught Shiraishi’s smash, slowing Higuma Otoshi in turn to make it fall shorter than anyone would expect.

    They were even, now, he could feel it in the breathless speeding of the game. He could do this.

    They rallied ferociously, techniques straining against each other for each point. Shiraishi was serving balls that had no spin, which a small part of Shuusuke was both impressed and annoyed by, but he could still work with them, still spin them with the weight of his body and the stroke of the breeze, still place them where the court itself would carry them further. The last point of the game was Shiraishi’s, but Shuusuke could feel his momentum increasing, like running downhill. This was…

    Shiraishi straightened, not stepping back into his court to receive, but toward the net instead.

    “Game and set! Shiraishi!”

    The referee’s words didn’t make sense for a long moment. And then Shiraishi reached the net, racquet down at his side, and stood watching Shuusuke with eyes still bright, but now also calm. Shuusuke turned his head, slowly, to the score board he’d been ignoring so successfully.

    It read 7-5.

    Shuusuke felt like he’d tripped over something and taken a hard fall, all the breath knocked out of him.

    “Fuji,” Shiraishi said, quiet enough that maybe only the two of them heard, under the cheers from Shitenhouji. He held out his hand, and Shuusuke moved forward, automatically, to take it, mind still full of static. Shiraishi caught his hand and shook it firmly. “It was a good game.”

    A harsh breath of a laugh yanked itself out of Shuusuke’s chest. “I suppose it was, from your side.”

    “So start sooner, next time,” Shiraishi returned, coolly. “Now that you know how.”

    The memory, in every sense, of the focus that he’d just been pulled up out of shook Shuusuke for a breath, and he had to swallow before he could speak. “I… suppose so.”

    Shiraishi snorted. “You hyper-focused types, honestly. Go talk to Tezuka about it, Fuji.” He stepped back, still with that bright glint in his eyes. “I meant what I said. I’ll look forward to our next match.”

    Shuusuke hesitated, but finally nodded. It was polite, and he might feel the same. Once he was sure what he was feeling, again. He turned back toward his team, attention catching on the warmth in Tezuka’s eyes, for all his expression was as stern as ever, on the solemn way Echizen, probably the one among them that best understood his disorientation, watched, on the sharp determination behind Eiji’s smile. That last made him wince, a little, as he came in. “Eiji…” He’d never needed a teammate to pick up after him, before.

    Eiji clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t mind it!” He pushed Shuusuke gently toward the benches. “We’ll take care of it.”

    Shuusuke nodded, biting back anything else, and accepted the water bottle Taka-san had gotten out for him. He sat a bit gingerly, feeling like he needed to double check where everything was, like maybe he couldn’t trust just his eyes to tell him, and he couldn’t even tell whether that was the shock of losing or the loss of that incredible focus he’d found in the game. When Tezuka came to stand behind him, he couldn’t help leaning back just a little, enough to let his shirt brush Tezuka’s legs and confirm that solid presence.

    Tezuka rested a hand on his shoulder like he thought Shuusuke’s balance might be in question, too. “That was a good game.”

    Shuusuke twitched at hearing it again, anger starting to stir. “I lost.”

    “Everyone loses sometimes.” When Shuusuke glanced over his shoulder, tight-lipped, Tezuka’s eyes met his, level and uncompromising, and that… that steadied him, somehow. This, at least, hadn’t changed.

    “So, I train harder and do better next time?” he asked, a little challenging. He’d seen the whole team do that, at one time or another, this year. He’d just never really thought that would apply to him the same way.

    “You said you wanted to be stronger than you are.”

    The simple words stopped his burst of irritation short. It was true. He’d said that. He’d tested himself against Tachibana, found a true challenge, and he’d known in that moment that he wanted to get stronger. He looked back down at the water bottle in his hands. “I do,” he answered slowly, “I just…”

    The taste of the next words on his tongue pulled him up short again.

    I just didn’t think I’d lose.

    Shuusuke pressed a hand over his eyes with a short laugh. That was arrogant, wasn’t it? To think he could have the thrill of a real challenge and never face a loss? He rubbed his fingers over his forehead, feeling the cool condensation from his water bottle, focusing on that. Better that than the hot weight of embarrassment in his chest.

    “It’s never easy for natural talent, once you get this far.” When Shuusuke looked up, Ryuuzaki-sensei had half turned on the coach’s bench, one elbow propped on the back. There was sympathy in the crooked line of her smile, but no pity, and Shuusuke thought, not for the first time, that Tezuka and Ryuuzaki-sensei were really just made for each other, as captain and coach. “You haven’t really learned how to try,” she continued, calm and matter-of-fact, “let alone how to be knocked down and get up again. It’s not easy. A lot of naturals stop right where you are now.”

    Shuusuke straightened, stung. “I’m not stopping.”

    Ryuuzaki-sensei’s smile turned wide and sharp, and Shuusuke was ruefully aware of having walked right into that. “Good.” She turned back around to watch the Doubles One match and settled back on the bench, arms crossed.

    Shuusuke laughed helplessly, scrubbing his hands over his face, and took a deeper breath. “All right, then.” Tezuka’s hand on his shoulder tightened for a moment before lifting, and Shuusuke looked up at his friend with a little more of his humor restored. “Tezuka, will you…?” He trailed off, unsure how to put it.

    Help me.

    Make sure I keep moving forward.

    Stay with me until I know the way, know how this even works.

    Shuusuke bit his lip on that tangle of uncertainty and nerves. Maybe it was too selfish to ask.

    Tezuka’s voice broke the tangle, stopped the spin of his thoughts, certain as stone. “Of course.”

    Shuusuke closed his eyes and turned his face up to the sun. He had to swallow before he could finally speak, softly.

    “Thank you.”


    Ryouma watched the match in front of him, not really seeing it, barely hearing the cheers of the two schools. Later on, he might be annoyed by that; it was a good game, fast and high level, as long as you ignored the Shitenhouji pair’s joking between points. Right now, though, the echo of memories in his head was taking up all of his attention.

    Ryuuzaki-sensei, and the knowing look in her eyes when she said, Everyone loses sometimes. If they don’t, that just means they aren’t playing hard enough or long enough.

    The quietness of Tezuka-san’s voice when he said it again, Everyone loses sometimes. Not uncaring, certainly not happy about it, but as if it just wasn’t that big a thing.

    The tightness of Fuji-senpai’s hands on his water bottle when he’d asked, Will you…? The easy certainty of Tezuka-san’s answer. Of course.

    Ryouma had felt that tightness in his own muscles for weeks on end, and he hated it. Could the answer to it really be so simple? If he asked, would Tezuka-san, Ryuuzaki-sensei, his senpai, answer him like that too? So readily, so easily?

    Of course.

    Ryouma swallowed hard and blinked back to the present, to the game in front of him, to the onlookers who were…

    Not cheering?

    He looked around, puzzled, and sure enough, the entire Shitenhouji half of the stands was silent, a breathless quiet so deep that he heard it clearly when the first few words dropped into it.

    “Is that…?”

    “Are they really…?”

    “No wonder everyone calls them the Golden Pair.”

    “Konjiki and Hitouji are getting serious!”

    Looking out at the court, Ryouma could see at once that it was true, though he wasn’t sure why this was so amazing. The Shitenhouji pair had stopped wise-cracking and were watching Ooishi-senpai and Kikumaru-senpai with absolute focus. Ooishi-senpai was watching them right back, with a hard glint in his eyes, and Kikumaru-senpai’s smile was showing a lot of teeth. The intensity of that locked attention between the pairs felt like it might burn up any stray leaf or paper that blew onto the court.

    Okay, maybe Ryouma did get why everyone was impressed.

    When Hitouji served, the match took off, twice as fast as before, each pair hammering down on the other, shot after shot. Shitenhouji focused the game-breaking shots on Kikumaru-senpai, and after a game and a half Ryouma realized they were forcing all the strategic choices onto him. Ooishi-senpai came in for the tricky shots, scorching fast or wickedly curving, the kind of shots that required high athleticism to catch. It was impressive to see a pair who could target their shots so precisely, plan so far in advance and work like one person’s two hands to achieve it. His senpai weren’t going down easily, though, and Ryouma smirked, feeling a little seed of warm satisfaction in his chest every time Kikumaru-senpai broke out of Shitenhouji’s careful targeting to catch one of those tricky balls, every time Ooishi-senpai shattered the game’s momentum with a long, high lob or sudden drive that Kikumaru-senpai slid so easily out of the way of. For once, Ryouma didn’t really mind the way his senpai pounded on his shoulders in their excitement, appreciated why the whole stands were going crazy. This kind of tennis was worth that kind of yelling.

    The score went to tie-break. Nine points, and then fifteen, and then eighteen, drop shot after sizzling drive after precise lob, and the cheers on both sides had a wild, gleeful edge now, answering the intensity of the game. Ryouma realized he was nearly holding his breath.

    The twentieth point was the one that ended it, a sharp, curving slice that Kikumaru-senpai was just a moment too slow to reverse and catch. Ryouma leaned back on his bench, blowing out a slow breath. That had been almost as intense as Tezuka-buchou’s match against Atobe. His senpai clustered around Ooishi and Kikumaru as they came off the court, exclaiming and passing over towels, and even though they’d lost, Ryouma could see confidence and pride still, in the set of Ooishi-senpai’s shoulders, the lift of Kikumaru-senpai’s chin.

    Ryouma hated losing. But he’d like to be able to feel that way, when he did.

    “Singles One! Seigaku’s Echizen versus Shitenhouji’s Zaizen!”

    The announcement jolted Ryouma with the reminder that, this round, it wasn’t Tezuka-buchou in Singles One. It was him again. And it wasn’t that he thought he was going to lose; of course he didn’t. But this round had been full of unsettling matches, and he couldn’t quite help the quick glance he threw at Tezuka-san, just to have something stable to catch his balance against.

    Tezuka-san was looking back.

    Ryouma froze for a moment, uncertain; was there something to be said about this match, this opponent, after all? But all Tezuka-san did was nod to him, firm, eyes perfectly steady, and Ryouma heard the echo of it again.

    Will you…? Of course.

    After a long moment, Ryouma nodded back.

    As he stepped out onto the court he couldn’t help the wry snort that escaped as he noticed that his opponent was also having a quick talk with his captain. Apparently this really was an ‘of course’ sort of thing. Well okay, then.

    He bounced on his toes a little bit, feeling the loosening of his muscles, settling into a familiar readiness to play, feeling the weight of his captain’s gaze against his back.

    It felt good, today.


    Zaizen Hikaru left his seniors to congratulate Honjiki-senpai and Hitouji-senpai, to tease them over having to get completely serious, and tested the gut of his racquet, taking a deep breath to settle himself. This wasn’t going to be an easy match, and it was possible he was about to lose, considering that he was playing—

    “Singles One! Seigaku’s Echizen versus Shitenhouji’s Zaizen!”

    Not Tezuka?

    Hikaru lost his focus on a sputter of indignation. “What kind of team doesn’t even use their best player…” he started, only to break off as Shiraishi-buchou grabbed his shoulder and shook him once, firmly.

    “Maybe one whose captain is still recovering. We knew that was a possibility for Seigaku, as well as Rikkai. Now stop thinking about that and think about your opponent, instead.”

    “He’s a first-year,” Hikaru said, though far more neutrally than he would have as recently as yesterday. This round had shaken his confidence in his ability to gauge an opponent, that was for certain. Still…

    Shiraishi-buchou shook his head, unsmiling. “Seigaku has always been ruthless about their rankings. Not quite as ferocious as Hyoutei, but close. If this kid is in their regular line-up, then he’s good. Pay attention, this match.”

    Hikaru nodded, slowly. If his normally laid-back captain was this serious about it, then yes; he’d pay attention. Shiraishi-buchou’s hand tightened on his shoulder for a moment and let him go with an encouraging pat, and Hikaru stepped out onto the court to go and meet his opponent at the net. He would take the match seriously.

    Even if he was instantly possessed of a deep desire to wipe the smirk off this kid’s face.

    He couldn’t think about that for long, though, because as soon as Echizen went to serve, Hikaru found himself pushed back, scrambling to catch each ball and more than a little dazed by the sheer breadth of Echizen’s repertoire. Not only did the kid seem to know exactly where all of Hikaru’s balls would land, and be right there behind them, his control of his own shots was unbelievable. Again and again, a point slipped past when the ball dropped or curved unexpectedly, and when Echizen hit a version of Kaidou’s crazy around-the-net-pole topspin slice, Hikaru had to stop for a moment and just stare and not even his annoyance at that cocky grin quite stopped him.

    This kid was unreal.

    One thing was sticking in Hikaru’s thoughts, though. Shiraishi-buchou hadn’t needed to warn him about not making assumptions, this time. There was nothing he could assume, here, no history to tell him anything about Echizen’s trajectory as a player. And if that was the case… well, then, he’d have to expect everything. He’d have to watch what Echizen was doing right now, this very match, and judge only from that.

    All right, then.

    Hikaru turned back toward his baseline, pulling out a ball for his serve and bouncing it a few times before holding it cupped in his hand and letting all his breath out. He did his best to breathe out his annoyance with it. He needed calm for this. Calm observation. Calm.

    Slowly he opened his eyes, and the court seemed just a little clearer. Even Echizen’s smile seemed less pointed. Hikaru tossed up the ball and served hard to the corner, and watched the speed of Echizen’s dash to catch it, the degree of control in grip and angle that sent back a drive Hikaru had to dash forward to catch because that one wasn’t going to rise on the bounce. He mentally batted down the flash of incredulity, reaching instead for the speed to match Echizen’s, the technique to kill those unpredictable spins. He held onto his calm with his fingernails, and watched, and made himself keep reaching. It was the seventh game before he couldn’t ignore the his own conclusion any more.

    He wasn’t going to win this.

    Echizen had five games to Hikaru’s two, and he could feel the burn in his muscles that said he’d reached nearly as far as he could and still walk at the end of the match. Hikaru bounced the ball a few times, considering one more time whether he couldn’t take advantage of his service game and push further, but… he’d never been one for flashy, specialized shots. There was no special way he could spin his serve that would save this score. He bounced the ball one more time, hard, and gripped it with all his strength. His game had always been like Echizen’s; a game that relied on breadth of knowledge and evenly balanced strengths.

    Echizen was just better at it.

    Hikaru shook off the surge of disbelief and anger that came with that thought, getting fairly practiced by now. Maybe he couldn’t win this match, and maybe he wasn’t as insane as Fudoumine’s brash speed-player, to drive himself to dropping while he tried. But there was such a thing as going down fighting.

    Even as he thought it, he glanced over at his captain, self-conscious at losing like this after Shiraishi-buchou’s display of steely competence, one round after another. Shiraishi-buchou was watching him, leaning forward with his elbows braced on his knees, but when he saw Hikaru looking, he straightened. Smiled, sharper than usual. And gave Hikaru a slow, steady nod. Hikaru had never thought he’d be one to depend on anyone else’s approval, but that helped ease the coil of tightness out of his shoulders.

    He looked over the net at Echizen, and while that smile was still there it was a bit less annoying, somehow. Bright and knowing, yes, but a friendlier knowing. Even welcoming, maybe. Hikaru narrowed his eyes and nodded back, just a little. And then he cast the ball up and served, hard and precise.


    Ryouma was bouncing on his toes a little, as he came off the court. That had been a good match. Not a particularly challenging one, but still a good one, which he still wasn’t really used to. But even when Zaizen had clearly realized that he wasn’t going to win, he hadn’t lost his temper or been an asshole—and he hadn’t backed down, either. Ryouma could respect that. He’d even restrained himself from needling Zaizen when they shook hands, even though the furious straightness of his opponent’s spine had made it awfully tempting.

    Of course, his good mood was promptly buried under excited team-mates, the moment he set foot over the white line.

    “We made it to Finals!”

    “Great work, Ochibi-chan!”

    “Echizen…!”

    Ryouma finally squirmed free and dodged around the far side of Fuji-senpai to keep anyone from grabbing him again while he re-settled his cap and caught his breath.

    “Everyone line up,” Tezuka-buchou ordered firmly, leading the way back to the net, though Ryouma couldn’t help noticing that he didn’t say anything until after Ryouma had been thoroughly mauled. Tezuka-buchou was not really very subtle about this whole thing with Ryouma knowing he was part of a team.

    Zaizen looked nearly as rumpled as he felt, still trying to re-order his hair as the teams lined up. Possibly his team had been trying to encourage him, or maybe just congratulate him on playing a good game. That seemed to be how this worked. Ryouma was feeling ruffled enough to give him a silent eye-roll at their senpai, and Zaizen unbent enough to make a face in what was obviously agreement.

    “Good to see you getting along so well with other players, Echizen,” Fuji-senpai remarked, as they broke apart again, each to their own sidelines. Ryouma stifled a sigh; the risk of using Fuji-senpai for protection was always that it brought you to his attention, and then you got teased instead of mauled. He usually felt it was worth the price. Sometimes, though, he wondered if the back-pounding was really that much worse than Fuji-senpai’s sense of humor.

    “I wonder who we’ll be playing, tomorrow.” Momo rolled his towel into his bag and tossed Ryouma his water bottle. “Think we should go check on the other match?”

    “I think it’s already decided,” Fuji-senpai murmured. When the rest of the team blinked at him, he jerked his chin toward the far end of the court.

    Rikkai stood there, watching.

    Tezuka-buchou hefted his bag over his shoulder and took one long step to stand at the front of the team. Even from this distance, Ryouma could see how Yukimura smiled before nodding to Tezuka and turning away. His own team fell in at his heels, and Ryouma crossed his arms, feeling sudden and unwelcome butterflies in his stomach as Sanada’s glance raked over him before Sanada turned to follow Yukimura. He could do this, he told himself firmly; he’d been training hard exactly so he wouldn’t wind up losing again.

    Or, at least, would be able to still hold his head up, if he did, like Ooishi-senpai and Kikumaru-senpai. Like Zaizen, even. The thought was still uncomfortable, though, and he tried to shake it off.

    Tezuka-buchou’s hand on his shoulder startled him out of his thoughts, and he looked up, blinking. “You need to think beyond any one game, any one win or loss,” his captain told him, quietly.

    Ryouma frowned. “That isn’t it.” He stopped as soon as the words were out of his mouth, startled, but… it was true, wasn’t it? He knew it was true, all the way down to his gut; those words had been pure reflex.

    Quieter still, Tezuka-buchou asked, “Then why are you afraid of losing?”

    Ryouma looked up at him, remembering how readily Tezuka-san had promised his support, earlier. Of course. Maybe it was time to trust that, a little. “Because I don’t know how to stop losing,” he said, simply.

    Tezuka-san actually looked startled, at that. Before he found words again, though, Ryuuzaki-sensei was beside them, nudging them both a little further away from the chatter of packing up. “Ryouma,” she said, very quietly and so very level that a little crinkle went up his spine, warning him there might be yelling coming soon, “how often do you play tennis against your father?”

    Ryouma tried not to tense up. “Used to be every day. Now he acts all old and lazy, so maybe once or twice a week?”

    “Have you ever won against him?” She sounded like she knew what the answer was already. Ryouma shrugged, quick and tight.

    “No.”

    He heard the breath Tezuka-san took in, and dared a glance up at him. He didn’t look disappointed or surprised. He looked… he looked like he’d just understood something, and he looked kind of ticked off about it, Ryouma realized. A soft smacking sound made him look around to see Ryuuzaki-sensei had a hand over her eyes.

    “That little idiot,” she muttered, and dragged her hand down to plant it on her hip. “It’s good that you’re playing him less often, now,” she said briskly. “I doubt there’s much he can show you, any more. Probably hasn’t been for a few years, frankly, and his example isn’t one I want you following. And believe me, the day will come when you do win against him, especially if he keeps messing around and not keeping his own training up. But Ryouma,” she set a hand on top of his head and shook him back and forth just a little, “you are twelve years old. Of course you can’t beat everyone in the world, yet! And of course that’s more likely with players who are older and bigger!” She flicked dismissive fingers as Ryouma re-settled his cap yet again and glared a bit. “You’re not going to stay this size forever, you know. You don’t have to figure out how to beat the entire world of tennis players from down there.”

    Ryouma was torn right down the middle between indignation (he was so tired of being small and having everyone comment on it) and relief (Oyaji’s own teacher said he would get better, would be good enough). He settled for tugging his cap down over that confused mix. For some reason that made Ryuuzaki-sensei laugh.

    “You got his temper, but I think you must take after your mother for everything else. Good.” She patted his shoulder. “So, now we know.” When he glanced up from under his cap, she was giving Tezuka-buchou a significant look. It must have made sense to him, because Tezuka-buchou just nodded, hand tightening for a moment on Ryouma’s shoulder.

    “You already know how to stop losing, Echizen,” Tezuka-san said, quietly. “You train to become stronger. It may take longer some times than others, but as long as you don’t stop, it will work in the end.” He didn’t smile, but the steadiness of his eyes, meeting Ryouma’s, felt better than all the encouraging smiles in the world. This wasn’t just encouragement. This was something Tezuka-san really believed.

    And something he really believed Ryouma could do, too.

    Ryouma took what felt like the first breath in a while, and nodded. “Okay.” He would try to believe it, too.

    “Better,” Ryuuzaki-sensei declared. “Trust your team to help you, Ryouma. Not just with the training, but with figuring all this out. You’re not on your own any more.” She shoved them both briskly back toward the benches. “Now pack up, and let’s get moving!”

    As soon as Tezuka-san guided him back into the knot of the team, Momo draped an arm around his shoulders and Kikumaru-senpai leaned folded arms on top of his head, grinning at Tezuka-san. “So? Are you letting Ochibi have a rematch yet?”

    Tezuka-buchou beckoned them all after him as he turned toward the Ariake entrance gates. “Not yet.”

    Ryouma ducked out from under his senpai, at that. “But—!” He’d been training for that! Hadn’t they just agreed that was the right thing to do?

    Tezuka gave him a stern look. “Not yet.”

    Ryouma hesitated, scowling, but finally gave in to the echo in his head of as long as you don’t stop, grumbling. “Fine.”

    Momo promptly reeled him in again, laughing. “Quit worrying, so much! You’ll get him sooner or later.” The rest of the team looked amused or exasperated, so apparently this idea of building up and waiting for later was another of those ‘of course’ things. As they made their way down the last tree-shaded path toward the parking lot, Ryouma wondered just how many of those things there were, that he’d never realized.

    Maybe he’d find out, now he had a team to show him.

    The thought still felt odd, a little like his Regular jersey when he’d first gotten it. A little stiff in places. But the jersey had worn in; maybe this would too. Ryouma decided he didn’t dislike the idea.

    “Hurry up, Echizen!” Momo called from the door of the Seigaku bus. “No need to stay the night; they’ll be waiting for us, tomorrow!”

    The thought didn’t feel like boredom, the way most of the season had, or like fear, the way the last weeks kind of had. It felt like anticipation.

    Ryouma grinned and ran the last few strides.

    Last Modified: Dec 29, 21
    Posted: Dec 27, 21
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    sent Plaudits.

    The Fire Shall Never Make Thee Shrink – Day Three

    Finals. Spectators gather and next year’s players start to think about the future, as Rikkai and Seigaku battle it out. Yuuta is gleeful, Kirihara is thoughtful, Zaizen starts getting to grips, and Echizen finally figures out what’s more important than winning. Action, Drama, I-4

    Finals: Seigaku vs. Rikkai

    The Ariake Coliseum filled slowly, the last day of Nationals, magazine writers and photographers and aficionados arriving early to stake out good seats, families and friends filtering in more slowly. Scouts lingered by the doors, watching for opportunities to stroll beside selected players as they arrived, business cards poised. The teams who had played in the tournament arrived in small knots, walking close together, a few laughing among themselves, a few still tight-lipped and angry from their own losses, but all of them there to bear witness to the final match.

    There to see who would take the tournament flag home this year.


    Fuji Yuuta leaned forward as the Singles Three match was announced and his brother stepped onto the court. He’d listened to Mizuki-san’s lecture, on the train over, about the importance of seeing different play styles and the necessity of always keeping his own game open to growth, but this was the match he was really here to see. From Rikkai’s side of the net, Yanagi stepped out, and Mizuki-san made a thoughtful noise, beside him.

    “This could be interesting.”

    Yuuta glanced over at him and thought for a moment. “Because of what Yanagisawa-senpai saw in the Semi-finals match?” While he’d been hauled off with Mizuki-san to watch Rikkai mop up Hyoutei, with the sole exception of Atobe himself, and that had been a great match, but he still wished he’d been able to see Aniki’s, instead.

    Mizuki-san nodded, and cast a brief, approving look at Yanagisawa, where he was leaning on the back of Yuuta’s seat. “I wasn’t sure until I saw it myself, but I think you were right. That wasn’t just an intensification of his existing style; that must have been a genuine breakthrough. Fuji Shuusuke has never been hungry to win, before, but look at him now.”

    Yuuta was already looking, and the change was a little amazing. He’d never seen his brother stand like he was now, as he and Yanagi shook hands, weight already on his toes, ready to move and leaning into the coming match.

    “At one point, I thought that meant he wouldn’t be a true challenge,” Mizuki-san added in a tone that might have sounded neutral to an unsuspecting listener.

    Given his brother, Yuuta hadn’t been unsuspecting since he’d been about seven years old, so instead of mentioning that it seemed like Aniki hadn’t been a real challenge to the top-level National players, he said, “Will the change throw off Yanagi, do you think?”

    Mizuki-san bestowed an approving nod on him, this time, and Yuuta stomped hard on the urge to blush. “At the start, almost certainly. It gives your brother an advantage at the beginning of the match. We shall see whether Fuji Shuusuke can push that advantage far enough to win.” Mizuki-san leaned forward, eyes narrowing as Yanagi fell back to serve, and Yuuta let his own attention snap back to the match.

    Once play started, he couldn’t look away.

    A lot of people talked about how this player or that was on fire, when they had a good game, but Yuuta had never before seen a player give truth to the words the way his brother was right now. Aniki moved over the court like a flame flickering, now here, now there, always in the right place, always with a move that shone out clear and perfect. It seemed like the whole world was cheering Aniki on, from the gust of wind that carried his ball just beyond Yanagi’s racquet to the angle of sunlight that glanced off his racquet and hid the tilt of it at just the right moment.

    And Yanagi was good, obviously, he was playing a National finals match. His game tightened up with every point, closing around Aniki’s like some kind of precision steel instrument. As they started into the fourth game, Yanagi started calling out predictions, more of them and more accurate ones as the points piled up. But Aniki didn’t stop, didn’t flag, never once drew back with that infuriating smile of his that said it was already decided. He drove forward and forward again, and didn’t stop, and by the last game Yuuta was on his feet, yelling with pure glee, because maybe, just maybe, if Aniki could play like this now, maybe Yuuta could play against that fire someday, himself.

    In the end, Yanagi never did make up the first games, and Aniki won 6-4. Yuuta collapsed back into his seat, when the match was called, grinning like a loon and not caring at all.

    “Your brother really annoys me, sometimes.”

    Yuuta blinked and looked around at Mizuki-san, and then he edged back in his seat just a little. Mizuki-san was sitting straight and still, dangerously still, eyes locked on the court. “Mizuki-san?”

    Instead of an explosion of cold temper, though, Mizuki-san settled slowly, slowly back in his seat, crossed his legs, and rested folded hands on his knee. Yuuta wasn’t sure that was actually better. Mizuki-san looked like he was thinking, full speed, and someone always regretted that. “Yuuta-kun.”

    Yanagisawa-senpai gave him a ‘better you than me’ look, and Yuuta scowled at him before answering, still a bit leery. “Yes?”

    “If you injure yourself in an unofficial match against Fuji Shuusuke before you return to me, I shall be exceedingly displeased.”

    Pure reflex prompted an immediate, “I won’t!” And then Yuuta had to pause and blink. Unofficial match?

    “Of course he’ll want to play, now,” Mizuki-san said, impatient as always with anyone who didn’t keep up. “He’ll want to play anyone who’s passionate about the game. He’ll be looking for the edges of his own ability, hoping to push further.” He held up an admonitory finger. “No more than one full match every other month, is that clear? Anything more will court injury, and I won’t be having that. Entertain yourselves, but understand that I will have a plan for your development when you join the Saint Christopher high school team.”

    This time, the look Yuuta exchanged with Yanagisawa was rueful and amused. The broad, sweeping plan that rolled right over any objections was Mizuki-san all over. But Yuuta also couldn’t deny the little glow of pleasure that Mizuki-san had watched this match and still thought Yuuta might someday stand a chance of winning against Aniki. “Yes, Mizuki-san.”

    Mizuki-san nodded firmly and sat back, crossing his arms and finally relaxing from that sharp edge of planning and calculation. Yuuta leaned his elbows on the chair back in front of him, so he could rest his chin in his hands and hide his grin.

    The next couple years were going to be fun.


    When the Doubles Two pairs were announced, Akaya sat up like he’d been jabbed with a pin. “No fair!” The entire team started laughing, and he slumped back down sulkily. “Why does Momoshiro get to play in the finals?” he muttered. And he didn’t!

    “He’s just like a spoiled kitten sometimes, isn’t he?” Niou-senpai asked, sparing Akaya an amused glance. Most of his attention was obviously on the coming match, though. “They’re saving the Golden Pair for Doubles One, and they wanted an analytical player to throw at me, I’m guessing.”

    “And an endurance player to place against me, one presumes.” Yagyuu-senpai adjusted his glasses with a sniff of disdain.

    “Don’t disregard the threat Kaidou may be by now,” Yanagi-senpai scolded mildly. “All of Seigaku have been advancing quite rapidly, this year.”

    “We’ll be fine.” Niou-senpai’s voice had the kind of lilt it got when he was looking forward to destroying someone, and Akaya watched Yagyuu-senpai relax and smile faintly. Well, at least the match should be entertaining for someone. He sighed and jammed his chin in his hands as his senpai walked out to greet Momoshiro and Kaidou.

    Despite Yanagi-senpai’s caution, he couldn’t help but feel this was a sacrifice match, for Seigaku. Two second-years, up against Niou-senpai and Yagyuu-senpai? No matter how fast Momoshiro was growing into his intuition, or how crazy Kaidou’s endurance levels were by now, he doubted they had a real chance of winning Doubles Two. He winced at how quickly Yagyuu-senpai blew through Momoshiro’s defense, as the match started up. Case in point. He knew well just how much of a disadvantage second-years could be at, just because of how much growth third-years usually had on them. He’d been fighting that disadvantage steadily, as he tried to catch up with Sanada-san.

    What he could see this being, though, was a kind of teaching match. Like his match with Kite had been. Like Sanada-san’s match with Atobe had been. Yukimura-buchou had made full use of the Nationals matches to make sure his players progressed; Akaya wasn’t really surprised that other captains might do the same.

    He thought, he thought, now he’d had a night to consider it, that he might be able to do that, too. When he considered who was likely to be a regular two weeks from now, when he thought about the sharp edges of temper that Furuya couldn’t seem to tame without his partner Chiba to do it for him, about Tsunoda’s detachment, about Ueda’s tendency to overconfidence… yes, he could see himself throwing any or all of them in the way of a match with any opponent he thought might get through to them. Come to think of it, Kaidou might actually be a good lesson for Ueda. Or Echizen, if he thought the point really needed to be hammered home.

    A roar from the crowd startled him out of his thoughts, and he checked the score quickly, wincing a little when he saw that Niou-senpai and Yagyuu-senpai were already three games ahead. That had to hurt. Opposing team or not, he couldn’t help sympathizing. He hoped what Momoshiro and Kaidou got out of this match was worth it to them.

    When he looked back down, Yanagi-senpai and Sanada-san were both watching him. “What?” he asked, warily. Sanada-san smiled faintly, and Yanagi-senpai laughed outright, reaching out to ruffle his hair gently.

    “You just can’t help thinking ahead, hm?”

    Akaya flushed hot, remembering Yanagi-senpai’s admonition to focus on the games they had in front of them at Nationals. “I’m not playing in this round,” he defended himself. “I can think about it now, can’t I?”

    “You can,” Sanada-san agreed, more quietly than usual. “Make sure you take what you can from these matches, though. Both what you can use later, and what you can use now.”

    Akaya ducked his head, warmed that his senpai were still looking out for him, even with everyone knowing they were just about to leave. “Yes, Sanada-fukubuchou.”

    He took a breath for calm, and settled himself to watch.

    He couldn’t help frowning, though, watching Kaidou double down on receiving Yagyuu-senpai’s drives, obviously working to return them. Which was an extremely Kaidou sort of play, but Akaya thought it was a short-sighted choice. This was a Finals match; if ever there was a time for strategy, wasn’t it now? He eyed Momoshiro, wondering a little about the way he was leaving Kaidou to it to focus on Niou-senpai. It wasn’t unlike the way they’d played in Regionals against Marui-senpai and Jackal-senpai, but they’d lost that match 6-1. Given the things he’d heard from the scouts and (more importantly) from Yanagi-senpai about Seigaku’s advances, shouldn’t they be showing some of it now?

    What, Akaya mused, would he do about Momoshiro and Kaidou, supposing they were some of the players about to become his?

    Momoshiro… he wasn’t actually sure what he’d do about Momoshiro. He seemed so straightforward, like just another easy-going power player, but Akaya had seen Momoshiro turn his hand to more than just power-heavy shots. Momoshiro was flexible, could play doubles almost as well as he played singles. According to word from the scouts, he could back up a variety of very different kinds of partners, and he was down on the court right now facing off against Niou-senpai’s scary levels of flexibility and precision without flinching. He was volleying topspin shots out of the air just as well as he caught Niou-senpai’s heavy drives—not every time, but often enough to keep Niou-senpai’s attention.

    If Akaya thought about Momoshiro as a kind of proto-Niou-senpai, well the first thing he had to do was suppress a cold shudder, but after that he kind of had to wonder if the best thing to do wouldn’t be to let Momoshiro do as he pleased. He’d never seen Yukimura-buchou trying to rein Niou-senpai in, particularly, or direct him to do anything except… Akaya slowly put the end of that thought together: except to amuse himself. That was how Yukimura-buchou directed Niou-senpai. By assuring him that he’d find something entertaining in the games Yukimura-buchou sent him into. Akaya took a slow breath, eyes fixed on Momoshiro as he slipped easily out of his current partner’s way and fell back to be in the right place to catch the slice Niou-senpai returned Kaidou’s ball with, just as it started to curve up. It was smoothly done, with no hesitation. Almost the way Akaya was used to people in no-self moving, but Momoshiro obviously wasn’t using that technique.

    If Akaya had to guess, not that he was Yanagi-senpai, but if he had to guess himself, then he’d guess that Momoshiro was holding the whole game in his head right now, to see what was coming next. It might only be the fact that he was facing off against Niou-senpai himself that was holding the Seigaku’s pair’s score down.

    Akaya put a mental check-mark by the thought that he was going to need to keep an eye out for more analytical talent to train up in his team, for next year. If he was right about how to manage that type, then Momoshiro himself should provide some good bait.

    Now, Kaidou was easier. The thing to do with him would be to take advantage of his focus, Akaya thought, since that was one of Kaidou’s strengths. Encourage him to train his strength and technique further up. Probably find him a couple good targets to chase, since Kaidou was the driven type.

    A good target…

    Akaya straightened abruptly, eyes wide, staring out at the court. A good target like, say, Yagyuu Hiroshi? As he thought it, he saw Kaidou step into the next return, stance sliding wider into one Akaya knew from watching Yaguu-senpai train. It was the stance for a Laser Beam. Akaya’s breath caught in anticipation, and he leaned forward; would Kaidou be able to do it? The ball Kaidou hit streaked across the net at close to full speed, only to curve just as Yagyuu-senpai stepped to catch it, and Akaya whistled softly. Kaidou might not be able to match the pure force of Yagyuu-senpai’s Laser Beam, but he’d come up with his own version. "In one match?"

    "Kaidou-kun has been watching Yagyuu for a while, now," Yanagi-senpai said calmly, from beside him. "I’m impressed that he found his own variation, though."

    Akaya checked the score: 5-2. "I don’t think he found it soon enough to make a difference to this match."

    "Not a winning difference, no, but look at Yaguu."

    Akaya looked, and had a sudden urge to hide behind Yanagi-senpai. Yagyuu-senpai was watching Kaidou with a gracious little smile, the kind that everyone in Rikkai knew meant trouble. And Niou-senpai was lit up and grinning at his partner, which really meant trouble. "Um."

    Yanagi-senpai chuckled. "Just watch."

    So Akaya watched as Yagyuu-senpai proceeded to pound Kaidou with one Laser Beam after another, while Niou-senpai stayed up at the net, eyes locked with Momoshiro. Ready to keep him from interfering, Akaya guessed.

    Not that he was sure Momoshiro would have, because Kaidou actually seemed to be enjoying himself in a weird way. He wasn’t backing down, at any rate, even when the racquet got blown out of his hands. And he actually managed two extended rallies with Yagyuu-senpai before game-point was slammed past him, ending the match 6-2.

    All right, so a target to chase was exactly the way to handle a player like Kaidou. And a challenge was apparently the way to handle one like Yagyuu-senpai. Noted.

    Niou-senpai was laughing under his breath as they came off the court, and Akaya honestly wasn’t sure whether he should hope to find someone else like Niou-senpai, who could match Momoshiro on what seemed increasingly to be his own ground, or whether he should pray to be spared that kind of trouble. He did notice that Yukimura-buchou seemed wryly amused by it all, and sighed a little, wondering if he’d ever have that kind of easy confidence.

    Honestly, he thought he had a better chance at following in Sanada-san’s steps, so he settled in to pay close attention to the next match.


    Given Tezuka’s choices this year, Genichirou wasn’t entirely surprised when Singles Two was announced. He still wasn’t sure if it was a gamble on Yuikimura’s recovery time—and if anyone could gauge that, this year, it would be Tezuka—or simply trying to give his obstreperous little genius the best match possible to push him forward, but it seemed Echizen would be Yukimura’s to deal with while Genichirou got Tezuka.

    He didn’t object.

    “Sanada,” Yukimura said, as he started to step out, delicate warning in his tone.

    Genichirou sighed and had to push down the momentary urge to sulk as if he were Akaya. “I’m aware.”

    After his Semi-finals match, he was very aware that he needed to pay more attention to where his opponents were right now. But a tiny part of him still felt it was unfair. Tezuka was a powerful opponent, and games against him were never sure, but he’d also always been one of the people Genichirou could relax against. For all his polished technique, Tezuka was a straightforward player. He didn’t hide his capabilities or use sneak-attacks or sudden changes of pace. He simply gave his all to every game and played. And while that did generally leave a trail of crushed opponents behind, there was neither malice nor arrogance, nor much strategy in it.

    But thinking he could relax a bit against anyone was exactly the approach that had resulted in a loss against Atobe Keigo, which still smarted. Genichirou was not going to relax against Tezuka.

    Yukimura settled back. “Good.”

    Genichirou raked a measuring look over Tezuka, when they met at the net to shake hands. Like Yukimura, Tezuka had stayed out of most of the Nationals games. “Are you up for this?” he asked, bluntly.

    Tezuka’s gaze was steady and serious. “I am.”

    Genichirou nodded, satisfied, and turned toward his half of the court. If Tezuka were still injured, he would have said ‘of course’.

    The first game was still a testing one, both of them watchful, both of them scattering pin-point slices and bruising drives through their rallies to see the response. Tezuka certainly seemed to be at full strength, catching even Fire without a flinch.

    Diving into the second game without pausing, he did start to feel the tug of Tezuka’s growing control of the ball, and that made him smile. The Zone had always been a worthy challenge, and he let himself sink into the first stages of no-self, let his distractions ravel away to focus on the now. His awareness of the ball’s spin sharpened, and he breathed deep and let his body answer. Even the Forest couldn’t completely cancel Tezuka’s control of the spin, not during Tezuka’s service game, but the more he pushed against that control, the deeper his awareness of Tezuka’s current game ran. And the deeper his awareness ran, the more something caught at his attention.

    This was the level of no-self that neither Echizen nor Akaya had fully grasped, yet, the state that balanced full awareness of the now with strategic awareness of the past and future. Genichirou rode that edge, balanced the now with the past, and let both speak to him. Out of that balance, he abandoned the Forest and drove Fire against the Zone, again and again, as if to test the sound of a bell by striking it.

    By the fourth game, he was sure. Tezuka could catch Fire, yes. He was playing at full strength, yes. But his returns were not as precise as Genichirou’s experience of Tezuka led him to expect. Certainty settled into Genichirou’s mind.

    Tezuka was rusty, at full strength.

    Matching certainty shivered down his nerves, calling him toward a new stance. Now, while Tezuka’s control of his own strength was still unsteady, was the time to attack. Now, he had a window of opportunity. Now was the time to match his power against Tezuka’s blunted control and race against how quickly Tezuka might sharpen again.

    Now was the time for Wind and Fire.

    Tezuka’s eyes narrowed at him, across the net, and Genichirou realized he was smiling, wide and hungry. This would be the kind of game Genichirou loved best.

    With another breath, Genichirou sank himself fully into no-self, let the balance tilt toward now, and called up all the strength and focus he’d trained into himself. He cut one stroke after another at Tezuka, building on the slight uncertainty of each return to drive the ball out of his reach. Again, and again, he sliced the Wind against the Zone and drove Fire through the cracks to force the ball out of Tezuka’s control. He could feel Tezuka slowly pulling those cracks closed again, felt the pace of it increasing like a hill he was running up; this would be close. He couldn’t let that knowledge slow him, though, so he let the points fade from his awareness, focused on nothing but driving the ball beyond Tezuka’s reach; the points would only matter again at the end, when he found out which of them had won this race.

    The glee of pushing himself to the limit and always finding his opponent there, pushing back, sang through him. Genichirou dashed for the ball again and again to set himself perfectly behind it, willing to spend his strength exactly this freely for the chance he’d seen. Again Wind, and again, cutting against the steadily tightening threads of Tezuka’s Zone—steady but just as ferocious as Fire burned, that control. If he’d had breath to spare, Genichirou would have laughed.

    When the end came, it was a shock, and Genichirou had to take a moment to understand why Tezuka wasn’t serving. When he shook off the absolute focus he’d been locked in and looked around, he was a bit dazed to realize that they’d just finished the tenth game, that the sound he’d just heard was the referee calling the final score.

    Six games to four, in Genichirou’s favor.

    It felt, after the fierce focus and rush of the last few games, like the score should have been tighter. When they met at the net, both of them panting for breath, he observed, “The next match will be closer.”

    “Most likely. I’ll look forward to it.” Tezuka actually smiled, faintly. “Especially after your assistance, this match.”

    Genichirou snorted. He’d known that pushing so hard would help Tezuka regain his full control that much faster, but that was the nature of the game, at their level, even if it had taken Yukimura’s ruthlessness and Atobe’s advances to remind him of the fact. Every match was an opportunity to grow. “I’ll look forward to it as well,” he returned.

    When he got back to his team’s bench, Yukimura had his arms folded, smile crooked with a touch of exasperation. "You never change."

    "I play to my strengths." Genichirou did not add Besides, it’s Tezuka, but he was fairly sure Yukimura heard it from the way he rolled his eyes.

    “So?” Yukimura asked, more seriously. “What do you think?”

    Genichirou’s smile bared his teeth. “One more all-out match against someone on our level, and he’ll be back in full condition.”

    “Given Fuji’s leap in performance, I don’t expect that will be hard to find,” Renji mused as he tossed a water bottle at Genichirou. “Tezuka will probably be back up to speed by the Fall.”

    “Excellent,” Yukimura murmured, eyes gleaming.

    “Yeah, yeah, stop talking about Tezuka.” Marui popped a bubble, swinging his racquet up to his shoulder. “It’s time to be amazed by my genius, thanks.”

    Yukimura chuckled and waved a hand at the court. “Should we? Show us, then.”

    Genichirou took a long swallow and shook his head. He approved of confidence, but sometimes Marui got himself into trouble that way.


    “Ooo, ouch,” Hitouji-senpai murmured, apparently at nothing. Konjiki-senpai was nodding, which didn’t necessarily mean anything given how much both of them liked to mess with people, but Shiraishi-buchou also made a thoughtful little humming sound. Hikaru sighed and resigned himself to asking.

    “What ouch? Nobody did anything in particular just now.”

    Hitouji-senpai nodded wisely. “Exactly.”

    Hikaru tapped his foot and glared. “So?”

    Both Hitouji-senpai and Konjiki-senpai glanced at Shiraishi-buchou, who sighed in turn and reached over to rumple Hikaru’s hair. “Strategy, Zaizen-kun. How has the flow of the match been going, so far?”

    Hikaru really hated being reminded that he was the baby of the team, the one with the least hands-on experience, but his sense of fairness pointed out that the only way to stop being the baby was to learn more. So he took a breath for calm in the face of annoying senpai and considered the match thus far. “It’s been close.” He flicked his fingers at the score-board, which showed four games all. “There have been a lot of long rallies, though.” More slowly, he added, “More than I expected, I guess. It’s Jackal Kuwahara who’s the endurance player, isn’t it? But most of the rallies have been with Marui.”

    Shiraishi-buchou nodded approvingly. “Good. And what about the formations each pair is using?”

    Hikaru frowned out at the court, because he’d noticed that part. “They’re really different. Marui and Kuwahara have a pretty classic formation with their endurance player to the back and their more agile player at the net. But Ooishi and Kikumaru have stayed a lot closer together, almost the whole match.” He wrestled with himself for a moment before admitting, low, “I thought it was just sloppy of them.”

    “It’s a risky strategy,” Hitouji-senpai allowed. “They’re keeping both players up near the net to put pressure on the opponent with the least endurance.”

    “So they’re hoping to divide and conquer,” Hikaru concluded, satisfied by the nods he got back. “They want to wear down Marui. But if he’s flagging, can’t he just—” he broke off, eyes widening as it finally clicked. All three of his senpai grinned at him.

    “By my calculations, this game was the one where Marui should have called Kuwahara to come forward and support him.” Hitouji-senpai leaned forward, stacking his hands on the back of the seat in front of him to rest his chin on, watching as the next game started. “Marui is serving this game, and they’re going to lose it.”

    Hikaru sat back, crossing his arms. “Isn’t that a dangerous strategy, though? Counting on your opponent to make a mistake?”

    “Good boy, that’s how you’ll need to think as captain.” Shiraishi-buchou kindly didn’t tease him for how he flushed at the compliment. “It would be dangerous if it were a strategy they set in stone beforehand, and didn’t have a backup for or a signal to change. But one of the greatest strengths of the Golden Pair is their teamwork, their ability to think together.”

    “So, their flexibility,” Hikaru said, slowly.

    “Exactly. Of course, Marui and Kuwahara are a very tight pair also. The other piece of this is that Marui is the game-maker for his pair.”

    Hikaru sucked in a sharp breath. “Oh. So they’ve been adjusting play as they go to wear down the one who makes the strategic decisions.” And tired people made more mistakes. That was… actually a really elegant strategy, right there.

    He watched the last games of the match with new attention, starting to see the seamless flow of communication that started Kikumaru moving to the side to draw Marui’s attention even as Ooishi dashed for the net to volley Kuwahara’s drive out of the air. Even worn down, he could also see that the Rikkai pair was probably the technically stronger one. The last game was a fierce battle between the Golden Pair’s edge in team play and the Rikkai pair’s more powerful shots, and it went to deuce twelve times before Marui faltered for one fatal second too long in reversing his momentum to catch Kikumaru’s last drop shot.

    “There was still a lot of luck involved in how that worked out,” he said, under the wave of cheers as both pairs went to the net.

    “There always is, unless one player or the other is overwhelmingly better.” Shiraishi-buchou cocked his head, though, as if knowing Hikaru had more to say.

    Hikaru laced his hands together, looking down at them instead of at his captain. “How… how do you know what strategy to go with, then?”

    “Some of it is experience,” Shiraishi-buchou answered quietly, not making anything of the fact that this was the first time Hikaru had asked one of his senpai for advice, like this, and Hikaru’s pride was grateful for that. “The more games you see, the more games you play, the more of a sense you have for what works when. But some of it is always a gamble. You pick your best players, and you make your best guess, and you throw the dice.” He ruffled Hikaru’s hair. “Don’t worry. The Coach will help, and I wouldn’t be throwing you into this if I didn’t think you’d find your way all right.”

    “That was very encouraging, except for the part about the Coach,” Hikaru observed dryly, and was careful to hide his satisfaction when Shiraishi-buchou burst out laughing.


    “Singles One! Yukimura versus Echizen!”

    He’d been trying not to worry so much about losing, trying to think more broadly, really he had, but the nagging of the thought was old enough and the fresh edge on it was new enough that Ryouma still twitched a little with reflex nerves when the referee called the start of the match. He took a breath and told himself (again) to stop worrying and just play. Just like always.

    “Echizen.”

    He looked up at Tezuka-buchou, and a fresh wave of twitchiness hit him at the reminder that his captain had just lost, himself. Lost but not really minded, not the way Ryouma was used to minding it, and could Ryouma really do that too, here and now when the result of Nationals rested on his game…? Tezuka-san’s hand on his shoulder shook him out of the spinning thoughts, and he tried to pay attention.

    “One of your greatest strengths has always been that you take what you can use, of your opponent’s game, and make it your own,” Tezuka-buchou said quietly. “Don’t forget that.”

    Ryouma glanced over at where Yukimura was stepping out onto the court, looking so calm that Ryouma couldn’t help a brief glower. When he looked back up, though, Tezuka-buchou was still watching him, level and serious, and he sighed. “You think I can learn something from him?”

    “I expect you to learn from anyone you play.” Tezuka-buchou’s voice was stern, but there was, maybe, a tiny glint of something lighter in his eyes. “But yes, Yukimura’s game should show you some useful things.”

    Ryouma took another breath to re-settle himself and get his head back approximately where it should be, and nodded. “Okay.”

    Tezuka-buchou nodded back, firm and steady, and squeezed his shoulder once before letting go. “Have a good game, then.”

    As he headed to meet Yukimura at the net, Ryouma heard Ryuuzaki-sensei remark, behind him, “Look at that, you’re actually saying these things out loud, now and then. And it only took me three years to get you to start!” Tezuka-san did not, of course, say anything in response, and Ryouma couldn’t help a tiny snicker. Getting a good look at Yukimura, when they shook hands, stifled any urge to laugh, though. The sharpness of his eyes brought Ryouma up onto his toes, alert and ready, every instinct for the game saying this was a serious opponent.

    Yukimura smiled, cool and calm for all that barely-covered ferocity, shaking hands once, firmly. “I’ve been hoping we might meet here, ever since Akaya and Sanada spoke of their games with you.”

    That was a challenge, and a raw one. Ryouma had won against Kirihara but lost against Sanada. Which way did he think this match against Sanada’s captain would go? that cool smile asked. Ryouma bridled at the silent question and lifted his chin and traded back the smirk he’d given so many opponents who thought they knew what he could do. Nerves and doubts could go screw themselves. He knew what to do with this kind of challenge. “Let’s play, then.”

    They both fell back into their own courts, Yukimura stepping to his baseline to serve. Ryouma settled into his stance, bouncing on his toes, keeping all his muscles warm and ready to move in an instant.

    And suddenly, everything changed.

    It was like being plunged underwater, like the air itself was suddenly thicker, dragging against him, like he couldn’t breathe because to breathe might suddenly be dangerous. For a shocked moment, he froze.

    And heard the sharp thop of the ball striking behind him.

    Ryouma spun on his heel to stare at it. He hadn’t seen it coming. Hadn’t felt it coming. Hadn’t felt the weight of a drive like that burning over the court, the way he normally would have. That overwhelming pressure had drowned it out.

    Okay. Now he got it.

    When they’d settled on this match order, and he’d asked his team about Yukimura’s play style, he hadn’t felt the discussion was particularly useful.

    “Yukimura’s style is very like Tezuka’s, in some ways,” Inui lectured. “He has considerable power available, but his primary focus is technique. He’s an all-around payer, defense isn’t his speciality, but he is exceptionally good at breaking through the techniques of other players and reclaiming control of the ball. You’ll need to watch for that.”

    “Inui!” Kikumaru protested. “You aren’t telling him the good stuff!

    Inui looked like he’d just bitten a lemon, or, well, like a normal person who had just bitten a lemon would look. “What good stuff?” Ryouma asked, warily.

    Kikumaru grinned at him and waggled his fingers. “Yukimura hypnotizes people with his tennis,” he proclaimed in a spooky voice. “Opponents can’t even move, once he has them in his clutches!

    “He does not hypnotize people.” Inui sounded downright exasperated. “It’s simple intimidation, the subliminal cues generated by Yukimura’s confidence.”

    Ryouma backed hastily out of the developing argument, wondering how he was going to get his questions answered now. Beside him, Kawamura pulled off his jersey and smiled down at him sympathetically. “Do you know what ki is, Echizen?”

    Ryouma frowned. How mystical was this explanation going to get? “Kind of. It’s like your focus, right?”

    “Your focus, or your energy, or sometimes your life-force,” Kawamura agreed. “There are a lot of different ways of describing ki, depending on how a school approaches it. I like to think of it as your strength of spirit.”

    “So, kind of like your fighting spirit?” Ryouma essayed, trying to bring this back to things that made sense. Even if it did make Kawamura look kind of dotingly entertained by him.

    “That works, too. So think about it like this: Yukimura’s fighting spirit is so strong that it can stun people. Some players never really recover from it, at least not over the course of their match with him.”

    Ryouma had been pretty skeptical, because he hadn’t seen how that could possibly work. But now he got it. The weight of Yukimura’s ki, spirit, confidence, whatever, the weight of his game actually was kind of stunning. But it wasn’t anything Ryouma couldn’t handle. He re-settled himself, as Yukimura bounced his next ball, and focused, focused tight on Yukimura’s movements, and when Yukimura threw the ball up and that surge of heaviness washed over him again, he drove his attention through it, stayed tight on the ball, and dashed to return it. One ball, another, and he felt like he was getting the hang of this. It was just a matter of tightening up his own focus to cut through that heaviness.

    When the serve switched to him, he rolled his shoulders, fingers working around the ball, and smirked across the net. He’d played two of Yukimura’s team already, so he didn’t think a twist serve would really surprise him, but a lot of people who should have known better still had trouble with Ryouma’s variation. It was worth a try.

    He cast the ball up and leaped, reveling in the familiar sense of lightness, of feeling the racquet and ball like they were extensions of him, and sliced the ball across the net with vicious topspin.

    Sure enough, Yukimura stepped smoothly out of the way, so smoothly it didn’t even seem fast, and drove the ball back. Ryouma could feel, in the ball against his strings, that his ferocious spin had been killed, and that plucked at his nerves again, that Yukimura had done it so easily. There was something else nudging at his intuition for the game, also, but he couldn’t make that come clear yet.

    No matter. He had plenty of other techniques to try, while the back of his head figured things out.

    He used his service game to push, trying to find the edges of Yukimura’s technique. It felt frustratingly like his first game with Tezuka-san—not quite that bad, obviously his training had paid off some, but close enough to that sense of a bottomless pool whose edges he couldn’t reach that he had to grit his teeth against a fresh spike of fear.

    He kept his service game, barely, with a Drive A when Yukimura got just close enough to the net. And the way Yukimura moved when he ducked out of its path tugged at his attention again. There was something about Yukimura’s movements. Ryouma reached for that clear, deep perception that everyone called no-self, but his thoughts were churning and he couldn’t settle far enough into it to find that perfect knowing he’d felt before.

    It was the middle of the third game before he understood.

    When Yukimura dashed forward to volley down a Drive B, he was just a little late. He caught it on the first bounce, but he had to reach for it. He returned the ball, but softer than Ryouma was expecting, and he landed hard. Almost hard enough to fall. Ryouma’s own return went awry when he froze, shocked all over again, because Yukimura stayed in a crouch for just one breath too long, far too still, still as though…

    As though he were hurt.

    When he straightened up, he looked fine, as annoyingly calm as he’d been this whole match. But Ryouma’s intuition was screaming that this was it, this was what had made Yukimura’s movements just a little bit strange. He was protecting an injury. Or maybe playing through the pain of one.

    The nagging fear that Ryouma had spent a lot of this tournament repeatedly kicking into the back of his mind suddenly had company, because he’d never had someone try to play him while injured before. What did you do? What should he do? Indecision dragged at his speed, and he lost the next rally to a drop shot, of all ridiculous things. Alarm and frustration chased themselves around and around, and Ryouma scowled. He had to pull it together.

    It was hard, though. His perception, inside a game, was one of his greatest advantages, and now it was showing him all the tiny hitches in Yukimura’s strokes. Ryouma hated it, hated having to know that Yukimura was hurting for those stunningly precise shots that claimed all the momentum and spin of the ball and made it Yukimura’s. The worst part was that Ryouma was pretty sure he’d be enjoying himself, if he didn’t know. This was a game of technique; it was playing to all of his strengths as well as Yukimura’s. He’d be nervous, but having some fun if he wasn’t freaking out over his opponent, for god’s sake!

    They had changed court without a glance at each other, previously, but this time Yukimura caught his eye as they passed. “You had better stop holding back,” Yukimura said, quiet and hard. “Even now, you won’t stand a chance of winning this unless you play with everything you have.”

    Ryouma stiffened at the cutting edge of Yukimura’s tone, all his frustration surging to the front, though fear that Yukimura was right still wound through it. “Seriously, do you get off on pain or something?” he snapped.

    Yukimura actually stopped walking and turned to stare down at him, startled, and Ryouma tried not to blush. He hadn’t actually meant to put it quite like that. “Why on earth would you…” Yukimura started, only to trail off, examining him more closely. “I know you were there for Tezuka’s match with Atobe,” he finally said, mouth quirking up at one corner. “Do you think that of your captain?”

    Ryouma promptly lost the battle against blushing, feeling his face heat. “Of course not,” he muttered, yanking his cap down. “And that was different!”

    “How so?” Yukimura was definitely getting some amusement from this, and Ryouma glared.

    “That was just…” and then he had to trail off himself, because the word on his tongue was ‘determination’. Which was true, but wasn’t it also true of Yukimura? His gut said immediately that it was.

    So, why hadn’t playing against Tezuka-buchou been this uncomfortable for Atobe?

    Ryouma frowned, remembering that match, suddenly wondering about that difference. Atobe had… he had… well, enjoyed it, yes, but not like he was enjoying his opponent being in pain or trouble. Ryouma did know what that looked like; that was the kind of opponent he’d always taken the most pleasure in crushing, when he met one. No, Atobe hadn’t been like that. He’d been… excited, that was close, but not just that. Fascinated? Delighted? In love? None of this was sounding any less borderline perverted, but it hadn’t been like that, he’d just looked at Tezuka-buchou like…

    He glanced back up at Yukimura and lost his breath all at once. The pressure that had been so crushing at the start of the game was back and Yukimura was smiling, not broad but bright and wild, completely intent on Ryouma. A smile that invited, demanded, dared him to step up and meet it. He actually took a reflex step forward in answer, and Yukimura laughed, softly.

    Atobe had looked at Tezuka-buchou like that.

    “If we don’t play all out, no matter what, then what are we standing on this court for, Echizen?” Yukimura asked, voice low, just between the two of them. “How is there any fun in holding back?”

    This was crazy, completely crazy, he could still see the pained shortness of Yukimura’s breathing, from this close, but something in Ryouma still leaped up in answer, bright and wild and wanting what Yukimura was showing him right now. He thought Yukimura saw it, too, because he laughed again as he stepped past, toward his court. “Now. Come and show me what you’ve got, Echizen. All of it.”

    Because there wasn’t any fun in holding back. Not for sanity or for pity. Not for either of them. The thought shook Ryouma as he stepped up to his baseline to serve. It felt like something was shaking open, deep in his chest or stomach, and when the force of Yukimura’s focus landed on him, twice as heavy as before, drowning deep this time, it was so very easy to reach out and meet it, easy as breathing. His senses went crystal clear, perception and action running into one thing with the perfect transparency he hadn’t been able to find earlier, and the weight of Yukimura’s game against his felt right, now. Right and inevitable and good, and it wasn’t a struggle with himself at all to serve with all his strength and precision to exactly the point that Yukimura would have to stretch himself to return.

    It would have felt like cheating to do anything else.

    Yukimura slid behind the ball with the same perfect timing Ryouma could feel waiting in his own muscles, and the game took off, fast and hard. One ball after another, Yukimura caught drives and curving slices against his racquet, spinning them back into his control, and firing them back with relentless precision. Ryouma forgot frustration and fear and alarm, all of them pushed back by the absolute clarity of now. He could nearly feel the ball moving between them, feel Yukimura’s control of the pace, and the places he was pushing that control back. Feel the blaze of Yukimura’s determination and, yes, delight, because it matched his own.

    He wanted it to never stop.


    Seiichi pushed again and again past the hot stab of pain that came with every stretch to catch the ball, every hard clench of his core muscles to drive it back. By now it barely registered as pain, but he could feel the steady drain on his endurance, the catching-short in the power of his shots. Beyond all of that, though, there was the joy of stretching full out, of using every bit of his technical skill to steal the force from Echizen’s shots, make the ball his own again, and turn points his way. Not all of them, just possibly not even enough of them, but that was what put a bright edge on the game. He pushed away the knowledge of more pain in his near future to answer every moment of pure knowing with the equally pure response that Echizen’s movements absolutely required of him, in this state.

    His own experience of no-self had never been a thing without thought, though. He held the future as well as the now in his perceptions, like feeling an incline that a ball would roll down. So it settled into his mind that Echizen had clearly not achieved a completed state of no-self, as some of Rikkai’s scouts had suggested. Rather his apparently ability to think beyond the consuming moment of instantaneous response had been fear holding him back. A well entrenched fear, if Seiichi was any judge. The moment he’d reached past that fear, today, any sign of thought or strategy had burned up like paper in the fiery, brilliant rush of his all-out game. Instead of strategy, it was the incredible range of Echizen’s technical ability that was pushing against Seiichi’s own game, ferocious drives and unpredictable spins exactly when each would be most effective. It was delicious to match his own technique against that, and feel the weight of Echizen’s potential—not a true match for him, yet, but close enough to make this almost as challenging as a game against Tezuka would have been. If the wearing jab of pain weren’t clenching his teeth so hard, Seiichi would be smiling.

    And when they reached a six game tie, there was pure delight to match his own in the look Echizen gave him, and an eagerness that pulled a smile past the grinding pain anyway. Seiichi had always loved opponents with the strength to stand against him.

    Seiichi’s own strategies were narrowing fast, as his endurance drained, but he could also see the weariness in the harder scuff of Echizen’s feet against the court, the lower height of his balls as he served. Seiichi worked the ball toward the corners, spinning the ball hard against Echizen’s control. A point to Echizen. Two to him. Another to Echizen, and one more when Seiichi couldn’t quite reach that steep, double-bouncing drive this time. Seiichi killed the force of Fire against his racquet and gentled the ball into a drop shot just over the net, and he could see that Echizen’s dash wouldn’t be in time to catch this one. The ball kissed the cord, and he hadn’t meant it to be quite that short—his estimation of his own declining endurance steepened in his mind. Echizen caught it after all, but had to bat it up into a lob, and the angle for a drive into the back corner drew itself so perfectly in Seiichi’s perception that he couldn’t possibly have stopped himself from going up for the ball.

    A sharper stab of pain then he’d felt this whole game speared through his chest just on the downstroke, and he folded up, as he landed, gasping, hands on his knees barely bracing him mostly upright. Even past the pounding of his own blood in his ears, though, he should have heard the ball land, and he hadn’t. When he forced himself to straighten, he wasn’t entirely surprised to see the ball at the foot of the net, on his own side.

    As a roar went up from the spectators, Seiichi sighed. That wasn’t how he’d have preferred to end this match. From the glare Echizen was giving the ball, it wasn’t what he’d wanted, either. Seiichi couldn’t help smiling at his opponent’s disgruntled scowl, as they met at the net, even through the ominous ache spreading out from what might no longer be a healed incision on the right side of his chest.

    “I want another match,” Echizen practically ordered as they shook hands. “Later.”

    “I’d like that also.” Seiichi’s voice came out more breathless than he was expecting, and Echizen’s eyes narrowed, so reminiscent of Sanada’s disapproving expression whenever Seiichi had pushed his recovery too hard that Seiichi had to bite back a laugh. Laughing hurt again. “Later,” he promised.

    “Good.” Echizen tugged down the brim of his cap and stepped back, adding more quietly, “Good game.”

    “Mm, eventually, yes.” Seiichi, and caught back another laugh at the indignant look Echizen gave him before turning on his heel and stalking back toward his waiting team, weaving just a little side to side. Seiichi had to move considerably more slowly, and Sanada came out to meet him halfway.

    “How bad is it?” Sanada asked, setting a hand under his arm and frowning at how heavily Seiichi leaned on it.

    “I think I regret just a little that I didn’t bring something stronger than aspirin,” Seiichi admitted. He couldn’t hold back a wince as he sat, grip tightening hard on Sanada’s shoulder to keep from falling.

    “Fortunately, I entirely expected this,” Renji told him, briskly, and pressed a water bottle into one hand and a small, peach-colored pill into the other. Seiichi blinked at it; he hadn’t been taking those for a month, now.

    “Renji…?”

    “I talked with your physical therapist about what was likely to happen during this match, especially if either Tezuka or Echizen met you here. She was unsurprised.” Renji folded his arms and frowned at him until Yukimura swallowed the pill, which he was not actually reluctant to do at this point.

    “Thank you,” he said, quietly.

    Renji snorted and held out both hands as the referee called for the teams to line up. “I knew from the start what you were like, Seiichi. Come on, then.”

    With both Renji’s and Genichirou’s help, he got upright again without another stab of pain, and managed to walk fairly steadily to the net. He smiled serenely back at Tezuka’s raised eyebrow. “As if you have any room to talk.” The faint flicker of Tezuka’s gaze was almost certainly agreement, and Seiichi rationed himself one soft huff of laughter.

    They shook hands, and the roar of the crowd surged again.


    Ryouma scowled down at his bag as he packed up to go. He didn’t like this. He’d won, and it had been a win for his team also, and that felt good. He liked that part, the part where it felt almost like his game and all his teammates’ games were one thing, like they linked together. That part was kind of nice, but…

    “You aren’t satisfied?” Tezuka-buchou asked from behind him.

    Ryouma jammed his towel into the bag and crossed his arms, glowering at the air in front of him. “No.” Tezuka-buchou was silent, but it was the preparatory sort of silence, so Ryouma huffed and waited.

    “You saw enough of what you need, in Yukimura’s game; I’m not surprised. Winning alone isn’t the end we play for, at this level.” Ryouma turned at that, startled, to find Tezuka-san looking less stern than usual. “When the two of you play again, it will be a good game from the start.”

    Ryouma stared up at him, hearing the words repeat in his head. Winning alone… not the end… That was it. He’d won, but that wasn’t enough, wasn’t all he’d wanted. His match with Yukimura hadn’t gotten a proper end. It had just stopped. He’d wanted to play to a real end, and they hadn’t been able to.

    The thought after that crept up on him slowly, an unfamiliar shape in his head: just like his matches with his dad didn’t have a real end. And maybe it wasn’t the losing he’d always hated most, though he was still pretty sure he hated that with a passion. It was the stopping, the not going all the way. That didn’t make a good game.

    The next breath Ryouma took was shaky. He could almost feel the last remainder of something heavy melting off his shoulders, letting him stand really straight without having to strain for it or defend it. “Oh.” It felt so light, like maybe he could play forever if he played like this, and he wondered if this was how Tezuka-san had felt when he played against Atobe at Regionals, if that was how he’d kept going to the game’s true end.

    Tezuka-san rested a hand on his shoulder, and Ryouma had to swallow hard, reaching up to yank his cap down over his stinging eyes. “Yeah,” he said, low, hoping Tezuka-san heard the promise he was making. “It will be.” Tezuka-san’s hand tightened on his shoulder, so Ryouma thought he probably did.

    He felt a lot calmer by the time they all lined up for the closing ceremonies, though he still frowned at the way Sanada was keeping a hand under Yukimura’s arm. “Hey.” He poked Momo in the back. “How long do you think, until Yukimura is really better?”

    “You’re a maniac,” Momo told him, grinning over his shoulder. “Hard to know for sure, but it’s two months until the Fall invitational camp. Winner and runner-up from Nationals always get their full teams there. Maybe by then?”

    Ryouma settled at that, smiling. “Good.” He wanted to play Yukimura for real, all the way through to the end, even though the thought made his stomach flutter a little with the knowledge that he might not win. This time, he was pretty sure that flutter was excitement.

    He tipped his face up to the sun, smiling as the officials declared Seishun Gakuen the National champions for this year. Yeah, he was almost sure the flutter was excitement, especially when he thought about the matches that might be in his future now.

    It felt so light.

    End

    Last Modified: Dec 29, 21
    Posted: Dec 27, 21
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    Every Night and All Appendix

    Some notes on titles, translations, venues, and full details of the Nationals bracket for this ‘verse.

    The Titles

    The title of this arc, and the stories in it, is taken from the Lyke-Wake Dirge which might seem like an odd choice for an arc centered around triumph. But one of the major threads that kept coming up, as I thought about what makes Nationals significant to the players and their growth, is the question of what they can give to each other: what opportunities the captains can give their players, what support teammates can give to each other, what push to grow opponents can give to each other. And that’s the heart of the Wake, after all, what you’ve given. "Fire and fleet and candle-light" are the shelters of the dead soul before it sets out on its journey, named over again in each refrain, so that was the title of the first story in the arc, when everyone is pulling together and readying to launch into the oddesy of Nationals. The body of the Wake makes it clear that progress in the soul’s journey is contingent on having supported one’s fellows in life: "If ever thou gavest meat or drink / The fire shall never make thee shrink." The Nationals story proper is about courage, yes, but courage rooted in connection and the sustenance any given player has been able to give to others, whether as leader, teammate, or opponent. Tezuka’s attitude, which is consistently held up as a correct one by the narrative through Regionals, suggests that only connection, having something greater than oneself to fight for, makes for good tennis. And the end of the Nationals story is the beginning of a new one, a new year, with new teams (partially or wholly) and new leaders who have to find their own way now. Death and rebirth, in a way.

    I doubt I’ll ever actually get back around to it, but the Invitational arc would most definitely have been named "If Ever Thou Gavest," because that story, to my mind, has to come back around to the high-school captains, and what they gave or maybe did not yet succeed in giving to these alarmingly brilliant but certainly not perfect kouhai of theirs, who are coming back to them in the spring. Tezuka’s recklessness, Yukimura’s trauma, Tachibana and Chitose finding their way back, what path forward Kite will choose, all of those are going to be major challenges for the people who are about to be their captains (again, in some cases). Alas that we didn’t get many characters who seem even vaguely up to the challenge in the U-17 arc. By that point, canon was going for the gold in the multi-shark vaulting event.

    Headcanons and Characterization

    One of the things that this arc absolutely required was a re-consideration of Echizen’s character, based only on what we see up through Regionals. How would that character handle losing? Up to that point, we see exactly two examples of Echizen losing. One is against his father, and this is clearly an established state of affairs; he always loses against his father, and always has. Winning against his father, though, is just as clearly his personal measuring stick for his own progress. To date, it’s one that has yet to move at all. So I posit that, first of all, Echizen doesn’t actually have any real sense of how to measure his own progress, or even figure out whether he’s progressing at all.

    He also has an extremely skewed relationship with winning and losing. The single other time we see him lose is against Tezuka, and it would be easy to dismiss that as a fluke. Every other match, no matter how stacked, no matter how daunting, he always wins. Echizen has only had those two unmoving absolutes in his game, so far. Winning is a given. At the same time, losing is an unpassable wall. So I further posit that Echizen doesn’t know how to deal with losing, doesn’t have any real concept of a loss as something less than absolute, something that can be worked past or overcome.

    So Echizen expects to win against everyone who isn’t his father, but underneath it must run a constant, tiny thread of fear that he won’t, that he’ll fail, and to him, failure is an absolute. And to fail against someone his own age? That had to be a huge shock, something he couldn’t really process at all, and at that point I doubt he had even a little bit of the collectivist, team-play context to understand the anchor that Tezuka was trying to give him by giving him the responsibility of playing in support of the team (collective wins, collective losses, less individual pressure). So he had to be pretty at sea already, when they get to the Regional Finals.

    And then it happens again.

    At that point, I posit that the underlying thread of uncertainty and anxiety would come roaring to the surface. Echizen would be actively afraid that two loses to his own age bracket mean he’s hit another immovable wall, and that he has no idea when it might happen again (the latter, at least, is probably true). It would have unsettled his entire view of his own game, knocked out one of the two things he’d thought were absolutes. On the bright side, this is exactly what should happen, at this point in this kind of story; it’s Echizen’s opportunity for true growth. On the not-so-bright side, the story has not yet provided him with enough time to really understand any examples but his father’s. This is where the tennis season really constrains things. He’s only had a few months with Seigaku! In another season or two, he would have time to process, to struggle, to come to understand what happened and to rebuild his idea of what tennis is and how it should be played. In another half year, even, his teammates would have time to understand what his struggle really is. The story doesn’t give us that kind of time, though. This was actually quite a difficult issue to find a way past, narratively.

    Fortunately, we do have a character with enough experience and perspective to bridge the gap, to understand where Echizen must be at and speak to him there: Ryuuzaki Sumire, the woman who trained Echizen Nanjirou and then saw him back down from the game, the woman who has trained Tezuka Kunimitsu and kept him from completely destroying himself. She clearly knows how to talk reckless geniuses down from the ledge. Ryuuzaki is the character who has the potential to understand why Echizen is afraid, and the integrity to support him while she urges him on past that fear.

    So we’ll get Echizen where he needs to go. He’s just going to spend a lot of Nationals trying not to freak out.

    Vocabulary

    A few notes, because I made some unusual-for-me choices with translation this time.

    For one thing, I have translated 無我 の 境地 (muga no kyouchi) as "no-self" throughout. That is both the most literal available translation of 無我, and one of the English phrases most commonly used for it. I do normally stick to fandom-consensus translations and author-glosses, if there are any, not least so most of my readers know at once what I’m talking about. But this one has grated on my soul from the first.

    I’ve also rendered 寿中学 (chuugaku) as "junior high school." Normally I use "middle school" for this one, given the age ranges in question, but this is Tenipuri. Konomi declared that these characters are in middle school and then proceeded to draw and write them as if they were high-schoolers at the least. Junior high feels like it matches that feel just a bit better.

    Nationals Venue

    FET translated the name of the Nationals venue as Tokyo Municipal Arena (possibly this was the Metropolitan Gymnasium, since 育館 does indicate a competition site or arena), so I presume that’s what Konomi wrote down. If you look at the manga visuals, however, the venue is clearly the Ariake Tennis Forest and Coliseum. The center court is pretty unmistakeable. It looks as though Konomi clustered the first day on the courts nearest the coliseum parking lot, but I picked a little differently to allow for at least a little more mystery between different blocks. On the photo below I’ve designated courts A-H (lower set) to be used on the first day, for Rounds One and Two. Courts A-D (upper set), which have some nice margins or bleachers for onlookers, are used on the second day, for Quarter- and Semi-finals, which seems to match Konomi’s choice for QF at least. Finals are held on the stadium court, in the Coliseum. Courts are lettered rather than numbered, as is more common in professional tournaments, to discourage any inclination to assume that number equates to skill or talent (as is also quite common in professional tournaments).

     

    aerial view of Ariake tennis park marking four pairs of courts all in a line, and two other pairs separated by trees

     

    Note that Ariake has gotten a major renovation for the 2021 Olympics, and the latest pictures will no longer look quite like this.

     

    Nationals Bracket, Every Night and All Universe

    This whole section is for people who have a deep need to know crazy levels of detail. You don’t need any of this information to tell who’s playing whom, or to get the flow of the National games in this story. But the canon bracket drove me, personally, absolutely nuts, and I put a fair amount of time into re-working it, so here you go.

    Picture version:

    Prince of Tennis National tournament schedule

    HTML version, with further revisions:

    A Shitenhouji (Osaka), seed | |
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    —Champion
    BYE  
    Nashikari Gakuen (Kanagawa) |
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    Kushimakitou (Kagawa)
    B Shishigaku (Kumamoto) |
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    Saint Icarus (Yamagawa)
    BYE   |
    Fudoumine (Tokyo), seed
    C Seishun Gakuen (Tokyo), seed | |
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    BYE  
    Maikozaka (Kyoto) |
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    Joushuuin Dai Fuzoku Shimizu (Shizuoka)
    D Takashiro Gakuin (Fukuoka) |
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    Hikogashima (Yamaguchi)
    BYE   |
    Echigo Hira Daini (Niigata), seed
    E Nagoya Seitoku (Aichi), seed | |
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    BYE  
    Maki no Fuji Gakuin (Hyogo) |
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    Yamabuki (Tokyo)
    F Tsubakikawa Gakuen (Hokkaido) |
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    Hyoutei Gakuen (Tokyo)
    BYE   |
    Okakura (Osaka), seed
    G Higa (Okinawa), seed | |
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    BYE  
    Midoriyama (Saitama) |
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    Rokkaku (Chiba)
    H Kyouyou (Tochigi) |
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    Murigaoka (Aichi)
    BYE   |
    Rikkai Dai Fuzoku (Kanagawa), seed

    Alterations

    Most of my alterations have to do with better reflecting the populations of the regions and prefectures. I have redistributed the seeds, swapped a few teams around, and reassigning them to other locations. Konomi gave Kansai six teams to Kantou’s seven (six not counting Hyoutei). Kantou has just shy of twice the population of Kansai. Chuubu, which has roughly Kansai’s population, gets a much more reasonable four teams, so I swapped out Kabuto (from Nara, which is one of the smaller prefectures of Kansai) and Kuroshio (from Wakayama, which is tiny) with the last two teams from the Kantou Regional best eight to give them a more proportional eight (nine counting Hyoutei). This leaves another problem, though, because Konomi decided that both those schools would be from the Tochigi prefecture, which is one of the thinly populated inland prefectures. It’s less than a quarter the population of Kanagawa, who have, without further tinkering, only one team representing them. While statistics and averages are surely not the be all, end all of who has more strong teams, I have a hard time seeing this one. Given that, I reassigned Nashikari to the Kanagawa prefecture. For similar considerations of population density I reassigned Okakura to Osaka.

    The results look like this (population given in millions, as of 2010 census):

    Kantou: 42.6 (8 teams, plus host slot)
    Tokyo: 13.1 (4 teams)
    Kanagawa: 9 (2 teams)
    Saitama: 7.1 (1 team)
    Chiba: 6.2 (1 team)
    Ibaraki: 2.9
    Gunma: 2
    Tochigi: 2 (1 team)
    Kansai: 22.7 (4 teams)
    Osaka: 8.8 (2 teams)
    Hyougo: 5.5 (1 team)
    Kyoto: 2.6 (1 team)
    Mie: 1.8
    Shiga: 1.4
    Nara: 1.3
    Wakayama: .9
    Chuubu: 21.7 (4 teams)
    Aichi: 7.4 (2 teams)
    Shizuoka: 3.7 (1 team)
    Niigata: 2.3 (1 team)
    Nagano: 2.1
    Gifu: 2
    Ishikawa: 1.1
    Toyama: 1.1
    Yamanashi: .8
    Fukui: .8
    Kyuushuu: 13.2 (3 teams)
    Fukuoka: 5 (1 team)
    Kumamoto: 1.8 (1 team)
    Kagoshima: 1.7
    Nagasaki: 1.4
    Okinawa: 1.3(1 team)
    Ooita: 1.2
    Miyazaki: 1.1
    Saga: .8
    Touhoku: 9.3 (1 team)
    Miyagi: 2.3
    Fukushima: 2
    Iwate: 1.3
    Aomori: 1.3
    Yamagata: 1.1(1 team)
    Akita: 1.1
    Chuugoku: 7.5 (1 team)
    Hiroshima: 2.8 (1 team)
    Okayama: 1.9
    Yamaguchi: 1.4
    Shimane: .7
    Tottori: .5
    Hokkaidou: 5.5 (1 team)
    Hokkaidou is a prefecture, but tends to get counted as a region as well, because of its area
    Shikoku: 4.1 (1 team)
    Kagawa: 1.8 (1 team)
    Ehime: 1.4
    Tokushima: .8
    Kouchi: .7

    Even more inexplicably, Kansai had four seeds to Kantou’s two, so I assigned one of those to Kantou (thus making Fudoumine seeded, as they deserve for being third at Kantou Regionals) and assigned another to Chuubu to level it with Kansai. For those who are curious about such things, in this ‘verse Shitenhouji was first in Kansai and Okakura was second. Nagoya Seitoku was the Chuubu champion and Echigo Hira Daini was second place.

    Last Modified: Dec 27, 21
    Posted: Dec 27, 21
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