Stranger in a Strange Land [PoT; Kabaji, Atobe]
Title: Stranger in a Strange Land
Fandom:Tenipuri
Characters: Kabaji, Atobe, Oshitari, Jiroh
Word count: ~3000
Summary: Kabaji seems to have followed Atobe to Hyoutei, but with a year separating them, the gap seems wider than ever
Notes: this has been half-finished on my machine for a while - it was originally for the last round of subrosa (that would have necessitated finishing on time). Kabaji is actually rather interesting, I think.
King's Wimbledon is a private school in Wimbledon, London (website here). The prep goes up to 13 and there's a senior department after that. Character guides specify King's School, I believe, and this was my pick.
Kabaji had been at school in Tokyo for two weeks when he got an email from Keigo.
‘Father said it’s polite not to rush and that you’ll still be settling down,’ it said, ‘but I’m having a couple of friends over to play tennis on Sunday afternoon and thought you might like to join us. I can send someone to pick you up, since you won’t know where you’re going.’
Kabaji accepted without a second thought, only pausing to check with his mum.
He was eleven when he came to Tokyo; eleven and thrown into a completely new world, where street signs were in a different alphabet, where a different language was spoken on the streets and where he had to stop and work out the things that even the smallest children knew, like how to buy a ticket on the bus or how to read the tube map.
He hadn’t known that buses could be any colour but red.
Tokyo buses were white, green and orange. The first time he saw one, he stopped and stared, despite the disapproving looks he was getting from the hurrying commuters. It was like the yellow school buses he saw in cartoons - something that only happened on the television.
They probably thought he was like James’s younger brother and ‘a bit slow’. That was ok. If they thought he was like Keigo - no, like Atobe - then they might have paused to talk to him. He’d really rather they didn’t: he got enough talking at school. Enough strange looks, too.
Keigo didn’t make the best correspondent - he never seemed to have much time - but Kabaji had had a couple of emails and a single letter that he had taken into King’s at the end of term to share with their friends. He’d been told enough to know that it was worth putting in as many hours of tennis as possible this year. Atobe planned to be the number one singles player at Hyoutei by the time Kabaji started and he wanted Kabaji to coming right up behind him when he moved to the middle school division in two terms’ time.
The emails had made it all sound so easy, as though Keigo had walked into school on the first day of the year and had been running the tennis club and been leading most of the first years students by that evening. Maybe Keigo had a better Japanese accent than he did and people didn’t stop and stare at him, being careful to talk slowly as if he were having problems understanding.
Kabaji’s Japanese was perfectly fluent. So was his English and his French - with a dad who travelled around for his job, he’d had to pick the language as he moved from speaking Japanese at home to a school in France to a school in England. Maybe he didn’t speak German or read Greek, like Keigo did, but he could just about follow a maths lesson in the languages he spoke. It was hard to be different, particularly when he’d joined the class partway through the year.
His mum had smiled when he haltingly mentioned the problem he was having and told him that it took time, that it would be easier when he joined the middle school and there were other children coming into the school. Then, she said, he’d be one of the ones who already knew people.
That didn’t help him much now. He missed his friends from King’s College, the ones he’d grown up with. Here, he only had Keigo and he was at the middle school division and Kabaji wouldn’t see him at school at all.
He missed a lot, actually. He missed the school dinners in the hall - the ones that they always complained about but secretly liked, particularly on Fridays, when they were dished up fish and chips. He missed the DT club that Mr Johnson had held after school on Wednesdays. Mr Johnson’s gift had been with making the little ships in bottles, with their perfect, tiny rigs. He’d spent week after week teaching them how to do the basics. Kabaji had a line of them on top of his bookshelf - one for each year at King’s and one masterpiece he’d been given as a present when he left.
Did they have clubs like that at Hyoutei? He hadn’t heard of them, hadn’t heard of anyone making that sort of thing.
They’d been due to start Latin in classes at King’s this term. Kabaji wondered if Keigo was missing that. Probably not - he already had a private tutor for Greek, they’d probably just add the Latin in as an extra. It was all Classics, after all. He’d miss the trip to the Roman palace at Fishbourne next year, though, the one, it was said, where there was a real skeleton to look at. Well, they’d seen mummies at the British Museum last October but that was different. They didn’t look like bodies.
It was weird having a uniformed driver come to the door that Sunday. A uniformed driver - who had those? Back in Wimbledon, Keigo’s nanny had done the driving when necessary. It hadn’t been often - apart from school and the tennis club, there hadn’t been much reason to stray far. Even Atobe’s father had taken the train in to work. He’d laughed once, when they asked him about it, and said that it took him twice as long to drive and he had to pay the congestion charge besides.
Not that they lacked the money to do it but it was the principle of the thing. There was nothing like that in Tokyo, he supposed.
The driver standing on the doorstep bowed politely and Kabaji hurriedly bowed back, only just remembering to pick up his racket bag as he was ushered into the back seat of the car. Was he supposed to bow to servants? There hadn’t been any at the Atobe’s house in Wimbledon, other than the cleaner who came in once a week while they were at school.
The driver didn’t talk to Kabaji while he drove, the way Keigo’s nanny had, either, or tease him into discussion, and there was no Keigo to fill up the silences, so it was a quiet journey.
As he stared out of the window, Kabaji wondered what Keigo’s new friends were like.
Kabaji himself sat with a boy called Hiyoshi at lunchtimes, looking at the packed lunch his mum had made him with a sigh. It was very nice but a little strange, a far cry from the sandwiches he used be given as a packed lunch in England. Hiyoshi didn’t seem to have any more friends than Kabaji. He didn’t talk much either. The two of them sat in a companiable silence each day during the break. Did that make them friends? Kabaji thought it probably did. The few halting questions they asked each other told him that Hiyoshi’s family ran a martial arts dojo of some kind - he didn’t understand what Hiyoshi had said about the style - and that he played tennis a little.
He was always very careful to call Hiyoshi ‘Hiyoshi-kun’. He was working hard at that - and he had to remember that it would be Atobe-kun and not Keigo when he saw him again. No, it would probably have to be Atobe-senpai. It seemed to matter more here, which year you were in.
Keigo’s friends probably weren’t comfortable to be around like that. They - like most of Keigo’s friends in Wimbledon - were probably loud, gregarious types like Keigo himself was, people who argued with him and insulted him and laughed when the insults came back at them. Kabaji wasn’t so good at that, and Keigo knew it, but these new friends wouldn’t.
The house the car stopped at was huge. Kabaji had thought some of the houses by Wimbledon Common were huge, with their high walls and automatic gates, but there had been nothing on this scale. Nor had any of those had a butler to open the front door and relieve him of the jacket he had picked up as he left by force of habit. He probably wouldn’t need it - it didn’t seem to rain so often here - but it was best to be safe.
‘Keigo-bocchama’ and his friends were apparently in the smaller sitting room. Kabaji followed the butler obediently through the corridors, looking around at the paintings hanging from the walls. Keigo might have said once or twice that his family home in Japan was grand but Kabaji hadn’t quite believed him. After all, Keigo said a lot of things he didn’t really mean.
When he stepped into the room, the conversation stopped. Kabaji paused in the doorway, not quite sure whether to go in or wait to be greeted.
Keigo was enthroned in an armchair and for a moment, Kabaji allowed himself to focus just on him, to relax in the familiarity of the smile. Keigo had grown in the past six months, he thought, though he was probably still a little shorter than Kabaji himself. Three racket bags were piled at the side of the chair. That was good: they really were intending to play tennis.
“That’s the four then,” someone said from sofa next to the door. Kabaji turned to look. There were two boys sitting there. Well, one - presumably the one who had spoken - was sitting and looking at him curiously. The other was sprawled along the sofa, his feet dangling over one arm.
“Yes,” Keigo said, standing up and gesturing at them. “Hiro, this is Oshitari Yuushi. Jiroh is sleeping again. Oshitari, this is Kabaji Munehiro. That’s Jiroh - Akutagawa Jiroh - but I’m not sure he’s awake yet.”
“You’re the friend from England?” Oshitari asked, then switched to English more credible than any of Kabaji’s classmates could manage. “Pleased to meet you.”
Oshitari’s voice had broken already and he seemed a lot older than Kabaji, even though he was only one year ahead. It wouldn’t be hard to call him ‘senpai’.
Kabaji held out a hand automatically, a little relieved - Oshitari’s accent was a little hard to make out. When Oshitari hesitated for a moment, he realised that he should have bowed instead but then Oshitari had taken his hand in a firm grip.
“Wake Jiroh up, will you Oshitari? We may as well move out to the courts,” Keigo said, then turned to Kabaji with a smile that drew him into the group, even as Keigo stepped up to take charge. “I hope you’ve been practicing, Kabaji, even though I wasn’t there. Hyoutei’s tennis club is the best in Tokyo and we have to keep it that way.”
Kabaji picked up a bag and found his accustomed position at Keigo’s side. Oshitari laughed. “Too important to carry your own bag now, Atobe?”
Kabaji stopped and realised he had a bag over each shoulder. It was habit, really, from the time Keigo had been on crutches and couldn’t carry his own bags, back when they were eight. Kabaji opened his mouth to explain, then shut it again. It wasn't the sort of story his Japanese was quite up to.
“None of your business,” Keigo snapped into the silence, glancing at Kabaji. “Right, Hiro?”
“Yes,” Kabaji said, in English. Keigo held his gaze for a long moment, head tilted to one side in thought as Oshitari bent over to shake the other boy awake. Then he spun and led them out of the door. Kabaji paused, looking back to where Oshitari was half carrying the boy he hadn’t yet been introduced to. Was he really still asleep? And did Keigo really mean to have him play tennis with them?
Kabaji walked through the house - mansion? - with his eyes fixed firmly on Keigo’s back. Was this sort of environment something he was uncomfortable with? Well, Keigo’s new friends didn’t seem to be so he couldn’t be either. His face stayed calm; his stomach churned.
Keigo, as it turned out, had a proper set of four courts in his back garden. Not rough and ready grass courts either, these were hard courts better than the ones at school, with proper fencing around them and even an umpire’s chair.
“My grandfather had them put in when we moved back here,” Keigo said, turning back to see why he’d stopped. “He doesn’t do anything by halves.”
Yes, Kabaji had known that the Atobes had moved back to Japan so that Keigo’s father could take over the family company but he hadn’t expected there to be such a material change in status. He nodded. Right, tennis.
And then they were warming up, knocking a ball between the four of them. He watched Keigo’s form with admiration - as perfect as ever. Oshitari was good too, technically maybe even as good as Keigo. The other boy, Jiroh, was starting to move now, and while his form couldn’t be said to be good, his shots were accurate and the spins perfect, whatever position he played them from.
“Would you like a match, Kabaji-kun?” Oshitari asked a few minutes later, catching the ball in his left hand. A match against one of Keigo’s teammates... He had to start sometime.
“Yes,” Kabaji said.
“You can serve first,” Oshitari said with a smile, shifting forwards. Kabaji caught the balls Kegio tossed in his direction and paused: Keigo was smirking. Kabaji tilted his head slightly. Should he? A nod.
He tossed the ball up, served. Maybe Kabaji was an elementary school student. That didn’t mean Oshitari should underestimate him.
The ball came back dangerously close to the tram lines. Interesting, maybe Oshitari had the skill to back up his attitude. Kabaji watched the ball pass calmly. Even if they only played one set, there was time for him to find out what Oshitari’s game was like and then respond.
His next serve was a body serve that knocked off Oshitari’s glasses. Keigo’s laugh was loud and delighted; Kabaji smiled.
“You show him, Kabaji-kun!” Jiroh called, feet jiggling up and down where he sat on the bench. Kabaji looked at him - was Jiroh really older than him? “Atobe, we should have brought Shishido to watch this.”
“Kabaji’s joining us next year - Shishido and Taki and the rest can meet him then, if they haven’t already.”
Oshitari picked up his glasses and frowned, looking them over carefully. Then he put them back on and turned back into a crouch. The superior smile had vanished, leaving just sharp-eyed concentration. Kabaji glanced at Keigo. He was beaming just like he had the day the plaster had come off his leg. It looked like maybe this wasn't just a friendly match, though really he should have expected that from Keigo.
Kabaji ran his fingers around the shallow white groove on the ball. He smiled a little. The ball was just the same as the ones they'd used back in Wimbledon - the Slazenger panther leaping across the green fuzz. Keigo had kept them all in tubes tossed haphazardly in two boxes under his bed - one for the good ones, one for those which were too worn out.
He could feel Keigo and Jiroh watching them. Hear them too, Jiroh was so loud, though he couldn't quite make out the words. He could almost imagine a crowd of other boys in Hyoutei uniforms surrounding them, Keigo at the centre like a prince holding court. Maybe that's what he did, now that he was in junior high and not a child any more.
Hyoutei was that kind of school.
Oshitari was better than Kabaji had imagined. Surely Hyoutei couldn't be full of players at Keigo's level? The elementary division didn't seem to be, though Hiyoshi was very competent. He scuffed his trainer on the tarmac and attempted to raise his slightly rusty game to match the new standards.
Why did he feel outclassed in every way?
“Game and set, Oshitari,” Keigo said in English and wandered onto the court as they shook hands.
“I always forget that you have such a strange accent in English,” Oshitari said, seeming to forget his opponent as fast as he forgot the game. He wasn't even sweating, and had his racquet tucked under his arm like a girl with a handbag. No one should look that collected post-match.
Keigo's eyebrows shot up and Kabaji could see his jaw tightening. A few years ago, that would have been a full-blown screaming fit. Keigo always had been slightly touchy about making sure he spoke Japanese with a Japanese accent, English with an English one and so on through his whole collection.
Kabaji stepped up beside Oshitari and caught Keigo's eye, pulling a face. He was rewarded when Keigo's face melted into a wry smile.
“I don't think I want to know what they're teaching you at school,” Keigo said instead and sniffed, sticking his nose in the air. “Come on Hiro, they've put out some water for us.”
“Yes,” Kabaji said and smiled, falling into step at his shoulder. Maybe he'd get a game against Keigo later, when he'd got his breath back.
“You're really good, Kabaji-kun,” Jiroh said, attaching himself to Kabaji's arm. Kabaji blinked at him, and smiled.
“Thank you.”
“We should play sometime. Would be fun. You're joining the team next year, right?”
Keigo laughed and swept them all towards the picnic table where refreshments were waiting. Kabaji wasn't quite sure what he thought about the iced tea, but it wouldn't hurt to try.
Fandom:Tenipuri
Characters: Kabaji, Atobe, Oshitari, Jiroh
Word count: ~3000
Summary: Kabaji seems to have followed Atobe to Hyoutei, but with a year separating them, the gap seems wider than ever
Notes: this has been half-finished on my machine for a while - it was originally for the last round of subrosa (that would have necessitated finishing on time). Kabaji is actually rather interesting, I think.
King's Wimbledon is a private school in Wimbledon, London (website here). The prep goes up to 13 and there's a senior department after that. Character guides specify King's School, I believe, and this was my pick.
Kabaji had been at school in Tokyo for two weeks when he got an email from Keigo.
‘Father said it’s polite not to rush and that you’ll still be settling down,’ it said, ‘but I’m having a couple of friends over to play tennis on Sunday afternoon and thought you might like to join us. I can send someone to pick you up, since you won’t know where you’re going.’
Kabaji accepted without a second thought, only pausing to check with his mum.
He was eleven when he came to Tokyo; eleven and thrown into a completely new world, where street signs were in a different alphabet, where a different language was spoken on the streets and where he had to stop and work out the things that even the smallest children knew, like how to buy a ticket on the bus or how to read the tube map.
He hadn’t known that buses could be any colour but red.
Tokyo buses were white, green and orange. The first time he saw one, he stopped and stared, despite the disapproving looks he was getting from the hurrying commuters. It was like the yellow school buses he saw in cartoons - something that only happened on the television.
They probably thought he was like James’s younger brother and ‘a bit slow’. That was ok. If they thought he was like Keigo - no, like Atobe - then they might have paused to talk to him. He’d really rather they didn’t: he got enough talking at school. Enough strange looks, too.
Keigo didn’t make the best correspondent - he never seemed to have much time - but Kabaji had had a couple of emails and a single letter that he had taken into King’s at the end of term to share with their friends. He’d been told enough to know that it was worth putting in as many hours of tennis as possible this year. Atobe planned to be the number one singles player at Hyoutei by the time Kabaji started and he wanted Kabaji to coming right up behind him when he moved to the middle school division in two terms’ time.
The emails had made it all sound so easy, as though Keigo had walked into school on the first day of the year and had been running the tennis club and been leading most of the first years students by that evening. Maybe Keigo had a better Japanese accent than he did and people didn’t stop and stare at him, being careful to talk slowly as if he were having problems understanding.
Kabaji’s Japanese was perfectly fluent. So was his English and his French - with a dad who travelled around for his job, he’d had to pick the language as he moved from speaking Japanese at home to a school in France to a school in England. Maybe he didn’t speak German or read Greek, like Keigo did, but he could just about follow a maths lesson in the languages he spoke. It was hard to be different, particularly when he’d joined the class partway through the year.
His mum had smiled when he haltingly mentioned the problem he was having and told him that it took time, that it would be easier when he joined the middle school and there were other children coming into the school. Then, she said, he’d be one of the ones who already knew people.
That didn’t help him much now. He missed his friends from King’s College, the ones he’d grown up with. Here, he only had Keigo and he was at the middle school division and Kabaji wouldn’t see him at school at all.
He missed a lot, actually. He missed the school dinners in the hall - the ones that they always complained about but secretly liked, particularly on Fridays, when they were dished up fish and chips. He missed the DT club that Mr Johnson had held after school on Wednesdays. Mr Johnson’s gift had been with making the little ships in bottles, with their perfect, tiny rigs. He’d spent week after week teaching them how to do the basics. Kabaji had a line of them on top of his bookshelf - one for each year at King’s and one masterpiece he’d been given as a present when he left.
Did they have clubs like that at Hyoutei? He hadn’t heard of them, hadn’t heard of anyone making that sort of thing.
They’d been due to start Latin in classes at King’s this term. Kabaji wondered if Keigo was missing that. Probably not - he already had a private tutor for Greek, they’d probably just add the Latin in as an extra. It was all Classics, after all. He’d miss the trip to the Roman palace at Fishbourne next year, though, the one, it was said, where there was a real skeleton to look at. Well, they’d seen mummies at the British Museum last October but that was different. They didn’t look like bodies.
It was weird having a uniformed driver come to the door that Sunday. A uniformed driver - who had those? Back in Wimbledon, Keigo’s nanny had done the driving when necessary. It hadn’t been often - apart from school and the tennis club, there hadn’t been much reason to stray far. Even Atobe’s father had taken the train in to work. He’d laughed once, when they asked him about it, and said that it took him twice as long to drive and he had to pay the congestion charge besides.
Not that they lacked the money to do it but it was the principle of the thing. There was nothing like that in Tokyo, he supposed.
The driver standing on the doorstep bowed politely and Kabaji hurriedly bowed back, only just remembering to pick up his racket bag as he was ushered into the back seat of the car. Was he supposed to bow to servants? There hadn’t been any at the Atobe’s house in Wimbledon, other than the cleaner who came in once a week while they were at school.
The driver didn’t talk to Kabaji while he drove, the way Keigo’s nanny had, either, or tease him into discussion, and there was no Keigo to fill up the silences, so it was a quiet journey.
As he stared out of the window, Kabaji wondered what Keigo’s new friends were like.
Kabaji himself sat with a boy called Hiyoshi at lunchtimes, looking at the packed lunch his mum had made him with a sigh. It was very nice but a little strange, a far cry from the sandwiches he used be given as a packed lunch in England. Hiyoshi didn’t seem to have any more friends than Kabaji. He didn’t talk much either. The two of them sat in a companiable silence each day during the break. Did that make them friends? Kabaji thought it probably did. The few halting questions they asked each other told him that Hiyoshi’s family ran a martial arts dojo of some kind - he didn’t understand what Hiyoshi had said about the style - and that he played tennis a little.
He was always very careful to call Hiyoshi ‘Hiyoshi-kun’. He was working hard at that - and he had to remember that it would be Atobe-kun and not Keigo when he saw him again. No, it would probably have to be Atobe-senpai. It seemed to matter more here, which year you were in.
Keigo’s friends probably weren’t comfortable to be around like that. They - like most of Keigo’s friends in Wimbledon - were probably loud, gregarious types like Keigo himself was, people who argued with him and insulted him and laughed when the insults came back at them. Kabaji wasn’t so good at that, and Keigo knew it, but these new friends wouldn’t.
The house the car stopped at was huge. Kabaji had thought some of the houses by Wimbledon Common were huge, with their high walls and automatic gates, but there had been nothing on this scale. Nor had any of those had a butler to open the front door and relieve him of the jacket he had picked up as he left by force of habit. He probably wouldn’t need it - it didn’t seem to rain so often here - but it was best to be safe.
‘Keigo-bocchama’ and his friends were apparently in the smaller sitting room. Kabaji followed the butler obediently through the corridors, looking around at the paintings hanging from the walls. Keigo might have said once or twice that his family home in Japan was grand but Kabaji hadn’t quite believed him. After all, Keigo said a lot of things he didn’t really mean.
When he stepped into the room, the conversation stopped. Kabaji paused in the doorway, not quite sure whether to go in or wait to be greeted.
Keigo was enthroned in an armchair and for a moment, Kabaji allowed himself to focus just on him, to relax in the familiarity of the smile. Keigo had grown in the past six months, he thought, though he was probably still a little shorter than Kabaji himself. Three racket bags were piled at the side of the chair. That was good: they really were intending to play tennis.
“That’s the four then,” someone said from sofa next to the door. Kabaji turned to look. There were two boys sitting there. Well, one - presumably the one who had spoken - was sitting and looking at him curiously. The other was sprawled along the sofa, his feet dangling over one arm.
“Yes,” Keigo said, standing up and gesturing at them. “Hiro, this is Oshitari Yuushi. Jiroh is sleeping again. Oshitari, this is Kabaji Munehiro. That’s Jiroh - Akutagawa Jiroh - but I’m not sure he’s awake yet.”
“You’re the friend from England?” Oshitari asked, then switched to English more credible than any of Kabaji’s classmates could manage. “Pleased to meet you.”
Oshitari’s voice had broken already and he seemed a lot older than Kabaji, even though he was only one year ahead. It wouldn’t be hard to call him ‘senpai’.
Kabaji held out a hand automatically, a little relieved - Oshitari’s accent was a little hard to make out. When Oshitari hesitated for a moment, he realised that he should have bowed instead but then Oshitari had taken his hand in a firm grip.
“Wake Jiroh up, will you Oshitari? We may as well move out to the courts,” Keigo said, then turned to Kabaji with a smile that drew him into the group, even as Keigo stepped up to take charge. “I hope you’ve been practicing, Kabaji, even though I wasn’t there. Hyoutei’s tennis club is the best in Tokyo and we have to keep it that way.”
Kabaji picked up a bag and found his accustomed position at Keigo’s side. Oshitari laughed. “Too important to carry your own bag now, Atobe?”
Kabaji stopped and realised he had a bag over each shoulder. It was habit, really, from the time Keigo had been on crutches and couldn’t carry his own bags, back when they were eight. Kabaji opened his mouth to explain, then shut it again. It wasn't the sort of story his Japanese was quite up to.
“None of your business,” Keigo snapped into the silence, glancing at Kabaji. “Right, Hiro?”
“Yes,” Kabaji said, in English. Keigo held his gaze for a long moment, head tilted to one side in thought as Oshitari bent over to shake the other boy awake. Then he spun and led them out of the door. Kabaji paused, looking back to where Oshitari was half carrying the boy he hadn’t yet been introduced to. Was he really still asleep? And did Keigo really mean to have him play tennis with them?
Kabaji walked through the house - mansion? - with his eyes fixed firmly on Keigo’s back. Was this sort of environment something he was uncomfortable with? Well, Keigo’s new friends didn’t seem to be so he couldn’t be either. His face stayed calm; his stomach churned.
Keigo, as it turned out, had a proper set of four courts in his back garden. Not rough and ready grass courts either, these were hard courts better than the ones at school, with proper fencing around them and even an umpire’s chair.
“My grandfather had them put in when we moved back here,” Keigo said, turning back to see why he’d stopped. “He doesn’t do anything by halves.”
Yes, Kabaji had known that the Atobes had moved back to Japan so that Keigo’s father could take over the family company but he hadn’t expected there to be such a material change in status. He nodded. Right, tennis.
And then they were warming up, knocking a ball between the four of them. He watched Keigo’s form with admiration - as perfect as ever. Oshitari was good too, technically maybe even as good as Keigo. The other boy, Jiroh, was starting to move now, and while his form couldn’t be said to be good, his shots were accurate and the spins perfect, whatever position he played them from.
“Would you like a match, Kabaji-kun?” Oshitari asked a few minutes later, catching the ball in his left hand. A match against one of Keigo’s teammates... He had to start sometime.
“Yes,” Kabaji said.
“You can serve first,” Oshitari said with a smile, shifting forwards. Kabaji caught the balls Kegio tossed in his direction and paused: Keigo was smirking. Kabaji tilted his head slightly. Should he? A nod.
He tossed the ball up, served. Maybe Kabaji was an elementary school student. That didn’t mean Oshitari should underestimate him.
The ball came back dangerously close to the tram lines. Interesting, maybe Oshitari had the skill to back up his attitude. Kabaji watched the ball pass calmly. Even if they only played one set, there was time for him to find out what Oshitari’s game was like and then respond.
His next serve was a body serve that knocked off Oshitari’s glasses. Keigo’s laugh was loud and delighted; Kabaji smiled.
“You show him, Kabaji-kun!” Jiroh called, feet jiggling up and down where he sat on the bench. Kabaji looked at him - was Jiroh really older than him? “Atobe, we should have brought Shishido to watch this.”
“Kabaji’s joining us next year - Shishido and Taki and the rest can meet him then, if they haven’t already.”
Oshitari picked up his glasses and frowned, looking them over carefully. Then he put them back on and turned back into a crouch. The superior smile had vanished, leaving just sharp-eyed concentration. Kabaji glanced at Keigo. He was beaming just like he had the day the plaster had come off his leg. It looked like maybe this wasn't just a friendly match, though really he should have expected that from Keigo.
Kabaji ran his fingers around the shallow white groove on the ball. He smiled a little. The ball was just the same as the ones they'd used back in Wimbledon - the Slazenger panther leaping across the green fuzz. Keigo had kept them all in tubes tossed haphazardly in two boxes under his bed - one for the good ones, one for those which were too worn out.
He could feel Keigo and Jiroh watching them. Hear them too, Jiroh was so loud, though he couldn't quite make out the words. He could almost imagine a crowd of other boys in Hyoutei uniforms surrounding them, Keigo at the centre like a prince holding court. Maybe that's what he did, now that he was in junior high and not a child any more.
Hyoutei was that kind of school.
Oshitari was better than Kabaji had imagined. Surely Hyoutei couldn't be full of players at Keigo's level? The elementary division didn't seem to be, though Hiyoshi was very competent. He scuffed his trainer on the tarmac and attempted to raise his slightly rusty game to match the new standards.
Why did he feel outclassed in every way?
“Game and set, Oshitari,” Keigo said in English and wandered onto the court as they shook hands.
“I always forget that you have such a strange accent in English,” Oshitari said, seeming to forget his opponent as fast as he forgot the game. He wasn't even sweating, and had his racquet tucked under his arm like a girl with a handbag. No one should look that collected post-match.
Keigo's eyebrows shot up and Kabaji could see his jaw tightening. A few years ago, that would have been a full-blown screaming fit. Keigo always had been slightly touchy about making sure he spoke Japanese with a Japanese accent, English with an English one and so on through his whole collection.
Kabaji stepped up beside Oshitari and caught Keigo's eye, pulling a face. He was rewarded when Keigo's face melted into a wry smile.
“I don't think I want to know what they're teaching you at school,” Keigo said instead and sniffed, sticking his nose in the air. “Come on Hiro, they've put out some water for us.”
“Yes,” Kabaji said and smiled, falling into step at his shoulder. Maybe he'd get a game against Keigo later, when he'd got his breath back.
“You're really good, Kabaji-kun,” Jiroh said, attaching himself to Kabaji's arm. Kabaji blinked at him, and smiled.
“Thank you.”
“We should play sometime. Would be fun. You're joining the team next year, right?”
Keigo laughed and swept them all towards the picnic table where refreshments were waiting. Kabaji wasn't quite sure what he thought about the iced tea, but it wouldn't hurt to try.