[fic] Aftermath
So, I had a moment of epic fail and didn't finish my Subrosa fic on time. Procrastination strikes again. I do, however, still have a finished fic, which I might as well post. There's some scenes that still feel awkward, and there's one that honestly doesn't feel right according to what we see in canon, but...whatever.
To those who knew I was also fiddling with the idea of a Fuji at Rikkai fic - that fic is very, very unfinished. I hit the required 3500 words and realized that it was going to take a whole lot more to finish that story.
Title: Aftermath
Characters: Rikkai team
Rating: PG
Summary: Post-Nationals Rikkai
The bus is hot, having grown over-warm from being parked in a lot with no trees for an entire day with every single window up. Niou walks on, almost faint from the stagnant humidity and the quickly overpowering scents of teen sweat and junk food and defeat. He avoids the temptation to fan himself, walking past seats littered with discarded jackets and cheese puffs. He finally passes one that looks remotely clean and drops into it. Immediately his bare skin sticks to the cheap vinyl of the seat, clinging and hot in the sun-baked bus. He stands, fidgets with his shorts so that there is a barrier between himself and the adherent material, and drops again, sliding his legs forward so that his feet are under the seat in front of him.
“Oi, Niou! Get your crap out of the aisle!” Marui yells, testily kicking Niou’s tennis bag. His foot hits something hard: a tin of balls or a water bottle or some kind of home-made explosive, for all he knows. “Dammit, what do you keep in there? Get it out of my way. Sanada’ll be pissed if you leave it there.”
“He could use the distraction,” Niou drawls, not bothering to move his bag. He opens his eyes widely enough to watch Marui clumsily step over the bag and trip into a cheese puff littered seat not too far behind him. He leans his head over the back of the seat, blinking. “Yo. Open your window. This place is like a sauna.”
“Or an oven,” Yagyuu announces, walking steadily down the aisle. He stops in front of Niou’s bag for a moment, apparently debating whether to do anything about it or not. Eventually he simply side-steps around it, taking the seat across from Niou. He gestures to the bag. “I trust that’s there for a reason?”
“To piss off Sanada,” Marui shouts from his own seat, where he’s slumped down so far that Niou can no longer see him when he tips back his head again.
“That’s not very nice,” Yagyuu comments, but he doesn’t make any sort of move to relocate Niou’s bag. Instead he hoists his own bag next to himself on the seat, searching through the contents. Niou watches lazily as Yagyuu wets a handkerchief with his water bottle, using it to blot his face. He digs out a covered paperback next, crossing one leg over the other and settling into his seat to read.
“Welcome to hell!” Niou greets, stretching out his arms when Jackal and Yanagi board the bus.
“No gnashing of teeth,” Jackal comments, attempting a smile. As if on cue, a large amount of plastic crinkling comes from Marui’s seat, followed by the unmistakable sound of potato chips being crushed between Marui’s back molars. Repeatedly. Jackal inhales sharply, making his way to the back of the bus. “Or, well…hmm.”
“Those who choose to believe in a hell tend to assume it is a great deal hotter,” Yanagi points out, sliding into the seat behind Yagyuu’s. Niou is ready to announce that it is plenty hot for him, but Yanagi beats him to it. “Of course, that doesn’t matter to you, does it? The heat in here is probably sufficient to be deemed hell-like according to you, isn’t it?”
“That’s our data master,” Niou responds, trying to position himself so that his skin doesn’t have to touch any of the sticky vinyl. As Kirihara stomps onto the bus, he leans forward. “Yes, we’re on the hell bus. And here is our own personal devil!”
“Shut up,” Kirihara retorts half-heartedly, obviously in a funk. He seems to consider taking the empty spot next to Yanagi, then spins on his heel and takes the seat in front of Niou instead. He’s already testily digging for his DS and shoving headphones into his ears by the time Niou leans over the seat to poke at him.
“Get this out of the aisle,” Sanada mutters as he walks towards their clump of seats, using the side of his foot to shove Niou’s bag under a seat. “Fire hazard.”
“We’re on a bus,” Niou points out, dragging his bag into a better spot. He sifts through it, retrieving his jacket and chucking it onto his seat to serve as a barrier between himself and the disgusting vinyl.
“Do you think that matters?” Sanada asks, staring at Niou and waiting for an answer.
Niou has a variety of clever answers, but he settles for dropping back into his seat because Yukimura is finally boarding the bus. Their captain is all too quiet, silent as he passes their seats. He smiles, but Niou thinks to himself that he’s really never seen Yukimura look more unhappy.
--
Yukimura steps past Sanada and into the empty place next to the window. Somehow a sigh escapes him as he hoists his bag onto his lap, laying his arms over it. He doesn’t say anything, instead choosing to close his eyes and rest his head against the back of the seat.
Next to him, Sanada taps his fingers against the box containing their runner-up plaque. He doesn’t have much time to consider Sanada’s actions though, because a mass of non-regulars are flooding onto the bus. They jostle and shove one another into the remaining empty seats, arguing over who had which place and scrambling to lower the sticky windows. Sanada stands and yells out instructions to share seats: Yukimura smiles thinly and watches Niou almost shove Yagyuu over with his tennis bag in an effort to make a place for himself. A freshman plunks into the seat next to Kirihara, who grumbles and curls closer to the window. Only Yanagi is still sitting by himself when the boarding ordeal is over, calmly reading a Tokyo newspaper.
“I should’ve ridden back with my parents,” Sanada says under his breath when he sits down again. Without warning, he drops the plaque in its box onto Yukimura’s lap and reaches over him to lower their window. Yukimura presses back into the seat, all too aware that Sanada smells like old sweat and what might be muscle salve. The plaque threatens to slide off his knees and he grabs it reluctantly with one hand.
“I could have done that myself if you’d asked,” Yukimura comments, trying not to breathe through his nose, despite the fact that he probably doesn’t smell much better himself.
Sanada drops back into the seat. He shrugs, not bothering to give an answer. When Yukimura passes him the plaque, Sanada takes it, holding the heavy box in both hands. “Where are we going to put this?” he asks.
“How about behind the bookshelf?” Yukimura asks, raising his eyebrows. “Somewhere out of sight and easily forgettable.”
--
In the very back of the bus, Marui rips open another bag of chips and the fake barbeque flavor smell explodes into the air. “I liked last year better,” he announces, pulling a handful of chips out of the bag. “It was more fun when, you know, everyone was celebrating.”
“I know,” Jackal answers, reaching into the bag for a few chips. He eats them one at a time, unsure of whether he likes this flavor or not. “Everyone is pretty down.”
“Well, we lost,” Marui points out, shoving the bag of chips at Jackal in order to retrieve a bottle of tea from his bag. The bottle is sweaty and the tea lukewarm, but the sweet taste is still welcome as the liquid fills his mouth. “It’s not like we expected that.” He swallows again, capping off the tea and taking back the chips. “We were supposed to win and then have the yay, woo, trophy party on the bus. Instead we get a plaque and…and this.” Marui gestures towards the rest of the bus. “One and a half hours of angst.”
“And heatstroke,” Jackal puts in with a smile. He shifts in the seat, stretching. “I think we played a decent game.”
Marui raps him on the forehead with his chip encrusted knuckles. “Hello? We lost.”
“7-5, to the Golden Pair,” Jackal answers, patiently wiping chip crumbs off of his forehead. “I don’t think that’s bad. They were really good opponents. We just…” he pauses, searching for the right words. “We’re just not used to losing.”
“Because we’re not supposed to lose. Losing will not be tolerated, that is the law!” Marui replies with emphasis. He crumples part of the chip bag in his hand. “You know, I might not feel that way if I didn’t have to worry about the back of Sanada’s hand coming into contact with my face.”
--
“How many explosives are in your bag, Niou-kun?” Yagyuu asks, not looking up from his book.
Niou leans over his shoulder to look at the words, but they’re all in English, so he doesn’t bother to figure out what Yagyuu is reading. “Just some sparklers,” he answers lazily, resting his feet on top of said bag. “And some of those little spinners. And a pipe bomb. I thought we could put it in the koi pond.”
“I highly doubt Sanada’s family would appreciate that,” Yagyuu responds, not debating the existence of a pipe bomb. Best just to play along rather than argue with Niou. “I’m sure his family owns some reasonably valuable koi. Besides,” Yagyuu pauses, looking up from his book. “I rather doubt we’ll still be spending the evening at Sanada’s. Our plans have gone rather awry.”
“It’s been such a crap day,” Niou breathes, suddenly sullen. He kicks the seat in front of them, slumping down and wrinkling up his jacket under him.
“Niou-kun,” Yagyuu says, taking a deep breath and sliding a ribbon marker between the pages of his book. “I’d say it’s been something of a crap year.”
--
Beside Kirihara, the stupid freshman will not shut up. Kirihara can hear him over the music pouring into his ears and the rattle of the air conditioner as the bus starts up. The freshman prattles on about blah, blah next year and blah, blah going to be a regular and blah, blah going to beat Echizen. Kirihara pushes back the temptation to crack the kid over the head with his DS and yanks his earbuds out.
“Just shut up, okay?” he explodes, turning to face the wiry little kid.
The freshman stares at him with wide eyes and pink, pink cheeks. He almost looks like he’s going to start sucking on his thumb or something. “Echizen is really good,” he says. “But I bet you could beat him when you’re captain.”
“Yukimura couldn’t even beat him!” Kirihara responds, shoving his things into his bag. He glances towards the back of the bus. Yukimura-buchou looks like he’s taking a nap next to Sanada; Sanada just looks pissed.
“But I bet you could,” the freshman says, even as Kirihara is pushing past him to get out of the seat. He licks his lips, stumbling out of the way of Kirihara and his bag and plopping back down onto the seat. “I bet you could beat anybody, Kirihara-sempai!”
“Shut up,” Kirihara mumbles again. The kid’s words should make him feel better, but instead they just hit him sourly. Yukimura should have won. Rikkai Dai should have won. This year, not next year. He shuffles down the aisle and stops in front of Marui and Jackal’s seat. “Can I sit with you guys?” he asks.
There’s hardly room enough for Marui, Jackal, and Marui’s pile of snacks, but Jackal shifts over and Marui, after some protest, shoves his butt over as well. Kirihara perches on the tiny scrap of empty seat, awkwardly smiling his thanks and helping himself to Marui’s chips.
“I didn’t say you could have any!” Marui says, snatching the bag away and probably crushing the remaining chips.
“Aww, come on sempai!” Kirihara retorts, kneeling on his insufficient bit of the seat in order to try to grab the battered bag. “You’re gonna get fat if you eat them all!”
Marui whacks him over the head with the bag, Jackal tries to get them both to settle down, and Sanada yells at them to quit. It feels good, for that little while - like maybe everything is back to normal and just the way it should be, even if it really isn’t.
--
Yanagi watches Kirihara exit his seat, leaving behind a rather stupefied first year. He stays in his own seat a moment longer, then stands and slips into the aisle, leaving his bag and newspaper behind. The bus bumps along the highway and he places his hands on the seats on either side of him for balance, making his way to the back. The seat across from Sanada and Yukimura’s is piled high with equipment bags and a cooler, but he shoves enough things out of the way to slide onto an empty portion. Across from him, Yukimura rests with his eyes closed while Sanada stares ahead, ready to pounce on anyone who creates any sort of ruckus.
“Can I see it?” Yanagi asks, holding out his hands for the box on Sanada’s lap.
“Here,” Sanada answers, passing it to him.
Yanagi slides the plaque out of the box, staring at it for a long while. The metallic eagle and torches are glistening, not yet smudged with fingerprints or time. It’s a lovely plaque, but not the sort of thing that you parade through the stadium and onto the bus and through your school. He remembers the past two years and the thrill of flags and trophies. The plaque seems appropriately unexciting.
“Yukimura wants to stash it behind the bookshelf,” Sanada comments.
Yukimura cracks open an eye and frowns, but doesn’t say anything. Yanagi smiles thinly and slides the plaque back into its box. The air between them is thick with too many things left unsaid and conversations that might never take place. He avoids the talk regarding what to do with the runner-up plaque, instead handing it back to Sanada. “Are we still meeting at your house, Genichirou?” Yanagi asks, waiting. That was the arrangement, but arrangements fall through. There was no cheering in the stadium, no mess of streamers on the bus, no calls for yakiniku or sushi before leaving Tokyo. Instead there is only heat and the stench of sweat, palpable defeat hanging in the thick air.
“Why?” Sanada asks. There is nothing to celebrate, nothing to talk about late into the night, no reason to dismiss concerns about not getting enough sleep or disturbing his family. Even his victory over Tezuka feels small in light of the greater loss of the day.
“It might not be a bad idea,” Yanagi responds, folding his hands together. He thinks about spewing the quote about shared joy being double joy and shared sorrow being half sorrow, but the bus is all too full of shared sorrow and it only seems to multiply.
It is Yukimura who actually decides. He sighs, reaching over to take the boxed plaque from Sanada. “I still have to talk to the team about this,” he says, his tone of voice both reluctant and yet resigned. “I might as well do it there.”
--
Sanada’s house is a cool retreat after the sweaty bus ride from Tokyo and then another bus trip from school. Fresh air drifts through the trees and the house itself is welcomingly fresh and even drafty. It is a good place, Yanagi thinks, to rest. To let go. To move on.
“Didn’t you boys shower?” Sanada’s mother asks when she welcomes them into the house. She shoves Sanada towards the hallway. “Genichirou, show your friends where to go. You’ll have to get the extra futons out of the storage room.” She steps away from the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. “I thought there were showers at the stadium.”
“Our bus was leaving,” Yanagi offers apologetically.
Sanada mother waves him off, heading towards the kitchen. “Genichirou!” she shouts. “Put some more towels in the upstairs shower room!”
--
Yukimura pads into the room where everyone else is gathered, rubbing at one ear with a faded towel from Sanada’s bathroom. His feet are still wet inside his slippers, but he doubts Sanada’s mother would be thrilled with finding clammy footprints on her hardwood floors.
The team is clustered around the low table in Sanada’s dining room, adding things to the kettle simmering on the brazier in the middle. Yanagi slices a block of tofu while Kirihara attempts to grate a radish.
“Hot pot?” he asks, grinning. “After that bus ride?”
“Ow!” Kirihara exclaims, shoving two of his fingers into his mouth. “Cut myself!”
Yagyuu shoves aside the beef he’s finished slicing, reaching for the grater and remaining radish. Marui leans over the kettle, wafting the steam towards his face and damp hair. “It’s a good group food,” he announces. “Any food is good group food right now.”
Together they cluster around the table, taking turns dumping things into the pot and retrieving them. Sanada’s mother brings out sauces and passes them around. The atmosphere remains quiet and rather subdued, but the food is good and something about being busy and focused on something that is not tennis is comforting. It is only a temporary distraction though, Yukimura knows. At some point, he is going to have to say something about the day. They must acknowledge this and…what? Move on? Resolve to do better? Renew their vows to win once more? He ladles broth into his dish, watching steam swirl upwards and fragments of vegetables stick to the edges of the bowl. The dish is warm in his hands as he gazes at his team, busy with their meal. They must move on, he knows - but in which direction?
--
Kirihara pulls one of the futons close to the wall, far out of the way of Niou’s pointy elbows and hopefully to a place where he won’t be deafened by Jackal’s snoring. It’s a lumpy futon and the cover Sanada finds for him has girly pink flowers on it.
“How come I have to have this one?” he asks, even as he’s bunching up the cover and dumping it onto the futon. It smells like moth balls.
“Because it was the only one left,” Sanada responds, making up his own place. Kirihara frowns. Some host, making a guest use the lumpy girl futon and taking a nice one for himself. Kirihara tries to pat and then whack out the lumps, then eventually flops down, kicking the pink cover away from himself. Maybe it will be too warm to use it. Or maybe, he thinks, he can secretly swap with Marui after everyone is asleep. Kirihara almost snickers to himself, wondering who would be best to switch with - it would be hilarious if Yagyuu or Sanada woke up snuggled in the pink cover.
“We need to talk,” Yukimura-buchou announces, sitting on his own futon in the middle of the room. Kirihara notices that he’s idly tipping the box with their plaque in it back and forth against his fingers. He thinks about excusing himself to use the bathroom or retrieve something from the kitchen. This is not a talk he wants to hear.
Everyone else seems to feel the same way, but they reluctantly settle into an awkward circle of bedding and bodies. The room is too quiet for Kirihara’s liking: not even Niou or Marui try to hold side conversations and Yukimura waits too long before he starts to speak. Words tumble out of their captain, but they are not the words Kirihara is used to hearing. None of them strike hot on his mind; no message is burned both fresh and eternal in his brain. He fidgets with the edge of his futon cover and wiggles his toes inside his socks. Next to him, Niou sighs and shifts, leaning back on his hands. On his other side, Jackal leans forward, resting his chin on one hand and listening attentively. Kirihara wonders to himself who is going to get slapped by Sanada first, because that is probably what all of this is leading up to.
“…considering that I also lost, I don’t feel I have the right to choose a consequence,” Yukimura eventually says. He frowns and glances sidelong at Sanada and Yanagi-sempai. Kirihara looks up, mind suddenly attentive.
“We’ll decide tomorrow,” Sanada cuts in, voice decisive. Yanagi-sempai stands up. “It’s late,” he says. “Let’s put this behind us for now.”
It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to Kirihara, but he wanders off to his stupid futon and wiggles under the moth bally cover. Wouldn’t it be easier if they just smacked the losers and called it done? None of this talking and deciding crap. He shoves his headphones into his ears, just in case Jackal-sempai snores extra loud, and tries to settle in for sleep.
--
Yagyuu is reading by the glow of his book light when Niou’s shadow crosses him. Niou pulls his bedding closer to Yagyuu’s secluded corner of the room, flopping down onto it when he’s satisfied with its new location. Around them everyone else is asleep, or pretending to be.
“…I should have learned that zero shiki serve,” Niou says suddenly, kicking at the clumps of blanket near his feet. Even in the dim light of the book light, Yagyuu can see Niou’s frustrated frown and the downward drop of his mouth. “I could have cinched it with that, dammit,” Niou continues. Yagyuu looks at him with raised eyebrows as he continues to ramble on in a hushed whisper about what he should and shouldn’t have done and the irritation of losing to Fuji Syuusuke.
“Look,” Yagyuu finally interrupts, more than ready to return to the placating pages of his Agatha Christie mystery. “Fuji-kun beat Kirihara while he was blinded. If being hit in the head with a tennis ball and rendered sightless couldn’t deter him from a win, I highly doubt a zero shiki serve would.”
“Are you saying I could never beat him?” Niou asks accusingly, hands on his bony hips.
“Perhaps,” Yagyuu says blandly. He flips open his novel again, not bothering to look at Niou as he adjusts the clip-on book light.
“I’d like to see you play the irritating bastard!” Niou retorts, shoving Yagyuu for good measure.
“Niou-kun!” Yagyuu exclaims testily, aggravated with Niou’s choice of language and being shoved. He tries to keep his voice down. “I’ll remind you that I didn’t lose in this round.”
Niou shoves him again, throwing in a half-hearted kick as well. “Because you didn’t play, Mr. Gentleman.”
“That was not by choice,” Yagyuu says firmly, trying to squirm away from Niou’s pointy elbows and digging sock feet. Agatha Christie gets slammed against the wall and the book light skitters further into the corner. Yagyuu lifts up the book, waving it near Niou’s face. “Look, you’ve bent the cover! This is a library book!”
They squabble in the corner until heavy, impatient footsteps cross the room. Sanada looks irritable, even with his bed hair and wrinkled pajamas. “Quiet!” he says in a harsh whisper. “People are trying to sleep!” He stomps away before either of them can offer a retort or excuse.
Yagyuu makes an annoyed little sound and testily gets up to retrieve his sputtering book light. His footsteps are rushed and touchy, but not nearly as heavy as Sanada’s. Niou stays quiet as Yagyuu crawls back under the covers and searches for his place, nudging up his glasses.
After a long moment of silence, save the flipping of dry book pages, Niou’s voice cuts into the darkness. “If we had played doubles again, we would have won,” he says.
“I’m quite sure of it,” Yagyuu answers, not looking up.
“We beat that Golden Pair before,” Niou shares. “We could have done it again. We wouldn’t even have had to beam that annoying Kikumaru.”
“Although it was a nice touch,” Yagyuu says, only half sarcastic. In the dark Niou lets out a breathy laugh and Yagyuu hears him settle into bed.
Silence envelopes them again and eventually Yagyuu switches the book light off, setting his book and glasses aside. Everything is still until Niou’s voice splits the quiet yet again.
“I’m still going to learn that zero shiki serve,” he says.
“If we’re going to play doubles again, then I suppose I’ll have to learn it as well,” Yagyuu mutters, voice half muffled by his pillow.
--
Sanada makes his way back to his futon, entirely fed up. It’s been a horrible day: they’ve lost to Seigaku, the entire team is in a funk, Yukimura is moody and indecisive, and he can’t even sleep in his bed in his own house because Yanagi thinks it’s a good idea to gather together. He nearly trips over Kirihara, who is flopped out on the floor, faint music spewing out of a headphone that’s fallen out of one of his ears.
“Sorry,” Sanada mutters, adding this to the list of stupid things that have happened today.
“Fukubuchou,” Kirihara whines, still half asleep. He grabs for his blanket and sits up, more awake. “Hey fukubuchou.”
“What?” Sanada asks, just about ready to drag his futon out into the hallway for an hour or two of proper sleep.
“How come you didn’t just smack everybody?” Kirihara wonders. He pulls the other earbud out and shoves his music player near the wall, waiting for Sanada to answer.
“Yukimura decides what’s going to happen,” Sanada responds, glancing to where Yukimura is curled up. “He’s the captain.”
Kirihara sighs irritably, lying back down. “Yeah, but he said he wasn’t going to.” He kicks at his crummy moth ball blanket and props himself up on his elbows in order to see his vice captain better. “Today sucked.”
Sanada doesn’t reprimand Kirihara for his language or yell at him to go to sleep. Instead he just pauses, glancing over his shoulder. “Yeah, it did,” he replies, then continues on his way. “But it’s over.”
It’s not what Kirihara expects to hear, but it’s somehow satisfying. He settles back, staring at the wooden ceiling beams and the shadowy light coming through the wall screens. He wants the day to be done, and it is.
Come morning, he thinks as he focuses on falling asleep, smack down!
--
Yukimura is missing when Sanada reaches the other side of the room. So is his blanket, which is a sure sign that he intends to stay gone for awhile and hasn’t just wandered off in search of the toilet or a glass of water. Sanada resolves to leave him alone, but before he can lie down Yanagi sits up.
“Seiichi probably wants to talk,” Yanagi says, standing and lifting his own blanket from the ground. He begins to fold it, pressing the bundled fabric to his chest when he’s finished. “He’s probably outside.”
Sanada doesn’t say anything, but he leads Yanagi to the backyard. Yukimura is easy enough to find, sitting on the back steps with his blanket pulled around himself. The air outside is chilly, a sharp contrast to the heat and humidity of the day. Yanagi unfurls his own blanket, taking the empty spot next to Yukimura while Sanada makes his way down the steps. He pulls over a lawn chair, dropping into it and waiting.
“You’re thinking about today, hmm?” Yanagi asks, leaning forward to see Yukimura better.
“I needed that win,” Yukimura says, not bothering with greetings or a more placid answer. He glances at Sanada and Yanagi. “I don’t have any record for this year otherwise. I’m screwed.”
“You were sick,” Sanada answers, supplying the expected answer. He leans back in his lawn chair and slides his feet forward on the grass. “You had surgery.”
“Do you honestly think that matters?” Yukimura responds, staring at him with raised brows. “I got aced, Sanada. By a twelve year old kid.” He sighs, shifting on the back steps and threading a hand through his hair. “Now I know why everyone hated me so much when I was younger.” Another irritated breath escapes him. “I was too overconfident. I shouldn’t have risked so much on such an important match.”
Yanagi is quiet, and even when he speaks his voice is only a rational whisper. “It would have made a nice comeback story though, yes? I mean, that’s what you were hoping for. The sick captain makes a miraculous recovery and triumphs over the unbeatable super rookie in the final match of Nationals, right?” He doesn’t wait for Yukimura to answer, instead continuing to speak. “That’s what we all wanted, Seiichi.”
Yukimura only shrugs, and nearby Sanada stays silent, letting Yanagi lead the conversation.
“It’s not the end of the world,” Yanagi announces, gesturing vaguely to Sanada’s backyard. The stars shine clearly in the night sky and the branches of pines are reflected faintly in the koi pond. “The sky isn’t falling. Life goes on.” He nudges Yukimura with his shoulder. “And you’re not entirely screwed. You’re just going to have to work hard to continue playing. And that’s nothing new, is it?”
“I suppose not,” Yukimura answers with a bitter laugh. He pulls in a deep breath, leaning back. “I still let everyone down though. Some captain, hmm?”
“They’ll forgive you if you want them to,” Yanagi responds, patting his knee. He gets ready to stand up and looks down at Yukimura with a smile. “Genichirou could slap you if it would make you feel better, though.”
This earns a genuine laugh from Yukimura. It’s an infectious sound, and Sanada stands up from his lawn chair, flexing his hand. “Right or left, Yukimura? Do you have a preference?”
“I’ll decline,” Yukimura answers, still smiling as he scoots further back on the wooden step.
“Declination isn’t allowed,” Yanagi announces, dropping down to grasp his captain by the shoulders. Yukimura wiggles away, almost tripping down the steps in his slippers.
“I’m going to assign myself laps!” he announces, hurrying halfway across the lawn. The wet grass slides upper his slippers and he hops out of them to avoid falling. “And push-ups! And then I’ll make myself play every half-awful high school OB and Akaya.”
“Akaya thinks you ought to get smacked!” Sanada shouts, but Yanagi can see him grinning.
Yanagi gathers up the discarded blankets. “You forgot all the cleaning duty you’re going to do, Seiichi.”
“With a toothbrush,” Yukimura answers back, deciding it’s safe to rejoin the other two. He raises his eyebrows at Sanada as they walk back into the house together. “Akaya can decide if I need to be slapped after I have another match with him.”
--
Jackal blinks awake, finding himself on a futon instead of in bed and in a room he doesn’t recognize at first. It comes flooding back in a moment though: the loss at Nationals yesterday, the agonizing bus trip, then supper and the sleepover at Sanada’s. He waits for himself to become a bit more awake and then sits up.
“Sanada’s mom made breakfast,” Marui announces, walking over in rumpled pajamas. “Better get some soon; Yagyuu’s hogging all the orange slices.”
There’s no coffee and sure enough, Yagyuu has polished off the last orange slice by the time Jackal arrives. He settles down at the table with his rice and soup and half an omelet split with Yanagi.
“When are the smacks?” Kirihara suddenly asks, sucking the flesh from his own hoarded orange slice.
“Is that all you can think about?” Marui asks, sighing and pausing in his ardent shoveling of breakfast from plate to mouth. “Why do you even care? You didn’t lose your match, stupid.”
“It kind of didn’t go the way it was supposed to though,” Kirihara answers, a bit sheepish. He nibbles a dangling bit of orange from the peel. “I just want to get them over with.”
“No one is getting slapped,” Yukimura announces from the other side of the table. He sounds rather firm on the issue, Jackal thinks, which is a change from his unsure speech the night before. Yukimura takes a moment to push away his plate, glancing steadily around the table. “There’s a better way to deal with this.”
--
Not more than an hour later, they are gathered in their clubroom, standing and waiting around the trophy shelf. Morning light filters in through the window, glinting off the various cups and statues. Silently, Yukimura slides their runner-up plaque out of its box, propping it up between the National’s trophies from the last two years.
“I thought you were going to put it behind the bookshelf, Yukimura-kun,” Yagyuu comments, arms folded over his chest.
“It belongs right here,” Yukimura says, turning so that he can face all of them. He looks between them and the plaque. “We earned it.”
“It’s kind of ugly,” Niou remarks, leaning close in order to examine the plaque. “That is one weird looking bird.”
“It’s an eagle,” Sanada says grumpily, consciously keeping his fist away from Niou’s face. “It’s noble.”
“As I was saying,” Yukimura cuts in with a frown. “We earned a less than attractive plaque this year instead of a trophy. There’s nothing we can do to change that. But we can work towards doing infinitely better next year.” He pauses, looking once more around the group of Regulars, a tiny smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Can’t we?”
Murmuring goes through the clubroom until Sanada sighs and announces, “Yukimura asked you a question!”
“Yes!” everyone chimes in, although they’ve become more restless. Kirihara glances up at Jackal. “There’s not something worse than smacks, is there?” he whispers urgently.
“Good then,” Yukimura says, smiling more widely. He tilts his head to the window, where the track waits quietly, morning dew glistening on the grassy field in the middle. “We can all do laps together.”
“I didn’t lose,” Yagyuu comments under his breath, frowning.
Yukimura overhears the comment and only lets a grin pull at the corner of his mouth. “Let’s make this fun,” he says, “Since that’s apparently what we’re lacking around here.”
--
Kirihara doesn’t get it. Getting smacked because you lost makes sense. Cleaning the clubroom because you lost makes sense. Running stupid laps because you lost makes sense. But running laps carrying your loser plaque over your head does not make sense.
That’s what they’re doing though, all eight of them. Yukimura-buchou shoves the plaque at Kirihara and he does what he’s supposed to, hoisting the thing over his head and continuing to run until Niou takes the thing from him. Non-regulars and a few members of the cheerleading squad begin to look over, curious. Kirihara wants to grab the plaque back from Niou and throw it at them. Instead he drops off the track in order to dart to where his water bottle is lying in the grass.
“What are they doing?” someone asks, and Kirihara glances up to see the dumb little freshman who tried to sit next to him on the bus the day before.
“I don’t know,” Kirihara replies, guzzling water from the bottle. “It’s our punishment or something.”
“Oh,” the freshman says, looking curiously at the rest of the team, still running. “It doesn’t look so bad. I’ll do that if I lose next year, when I’m a regular.”
“You’re not going to lose next year!” Kirihara snaps, not bothering to mention that maybe he won’t even let the kid be a regular. “And if you do, I’ll smack you like Sanada-fukubuchou!”
“I’m not gonna lose!” the freshman squeaks.
“You better not!” Kirihara hollers, heading back to the track. Apparently, it’s his turn to take the plaque again, because Yanagi-sempai tries to hand it off to him.
“I’m going to win another real trophy next year!” Kirihara shouts, trying to keep the plaque from sliding out of his hands. The hard edges dig into his palms and he renews his grip, lifting the stupid plaque higher. “Not some dumb plaque like this!”
“That’s the spirit!” Jackal-sempai says, continuing to run.
Yukimura-buchou darts in front of him, turning to run backwards and holding out his hands for the plaque. “That’s enough!” he yells, panting a little. He grabs the plaque when Kirihara extends it, shoving it under one arm. “Let’s go play some tennis!”
That, Kirihara thinks, makes the best sense in the world.
To those who knew I was also fiddling with the idea of a Fuji at Rikkai fic - that fic is very, very unfinished. I hit the required 3500 words and realized that it was going to take a whole lot more to finish that story.
Title: Aftermath
Characters: Rikkai team
Rating: PG
Summary: Post-Nationals Rikkai
The bus is hot, having grown over-warm from being parked in a lot with no trees for an entire day with every single window up. Niou walks on, almost faint from the stagnant humidity and the quickly overpowering scents of teen sweat and junk food and defeat. He avoids the temptation to fan himself, walking past seats littered with discarded jackets and cheese puffs. He finally passes one that looks remotely clean and drops into it. Immediately his bare skin sticks to the cheap vinyl of the seat, clinging and hot in the sun-baked bus. He stands, fidgets with his shorts so that there is a barrier between himself and the adherent material, and drops again, sliding his legs forward so that his feet are under the seat in front of him.
“Oi, Niou! Get your crap out of the aisle!” Marui yells, testily kicking Niou’s tennis bag. His foot hits something hard: a tin of balls or a water bottle or some kind of home-made explosive, for all he knows. “Dammit, what do you keep in there? Get it out of my way. Sanada’ll be pissed if you leave it there.”
“He could use the distraction,” Niou drawls, not bothering to move his bag. He opens his eyes widely enough to watch Marui clumsily step over the bag and trip into a cheese puff littered seat not too far behind him. He leans his head over the back of the seat, blinking. “Yo. Open your window. This place is like a sauna.”
“Or an oven,” Yagyuu announces, walking steadily down the aisle. He stops in front of Niou’s bag for a moment, apparently debating whether to do anything about it or not. Eventually he simply side-steps around it, taking the seat across from Niou. He gestures to the bag. “I trust that’s there for a reason?”
“To piss off Sanada,” Marui shouts from his own seat, where he’s slumped down so far that Niou can no longer see him when he tips back his head again.
“That’s not very nice,” Yagyuu comments, but he doesn’t make any sort of move to relocate Niou’s bag. Instead he hoists his own bag next to himself on the seat, searching through the contents. Niou watches lazily as Yagyuu wets a handkerchief with his water bottle, using it to blot his face. He digs out a covered paperback next, crossing one leg over the other and settling into his seat to read.
“Welcome to hell!” Niou greets, stretching out his arms when Jackal and Yanagi board the bus.
“No gnashing of teeth,” Jackal comments, attempting a smile. As if on cue, a large amount of plastic crinkling comes from Marui’s seat, followed by the unmistakable sound of potato chips being crushed between Marui’s back molars. Repeatedly. Jackal inhales sharply, making his way to the back of the bus. “Or, well…hmm.”
“Those who choose to believe in a hell tend to assume it is a great deal hotter,” Yanagi points out, sliding into the seat behind Yagyuu’s. Niou is ready to announce that it is plenty hot for him, but Yanagi beats him to it. “Of course, that doesn’t matter to you, does it? The heat in here is probably sufficient to be deemed hell-like according to you, isn’t it?”
“That’s our data master,” Niou responds, trying to position himself so that his skin doesn’t have to touch any of the sticky vinyl. As Kirihara stomps onto the bus, he leans forward. “Yes, we’re on the hell bus. And here is our own personal devil!”
“Shut up,” Kirihara retorts half-heartedly, obviously in a funk. He seems to consider taking the empty spot next to Yanagi, then spins on his heel and takes the seat in front of Niou instead. He’s already testily digging for his DS and shoving headphones into his ears by the time Niou leans over the seat to poke at him.
“Get this out of the aisle,” Sanada mutters as he walks towards their clump of seats, using the side of his foot to shove Niou’s bag under a seat. “Fire hazard.”
“We’re on a bus,” Niou points out, dragging his bag into a better spot. He sifts through it, retrieving his jacket and chucking it onto his seat to serve as a barrier between himself and the disgusting vinyl.
“Do you think that matters?” Sanada asks, staring at Niou and waiting for an answer.
Niou has a variety of clever answers, but he settles for dropping back into his seat because Yukimura is finally boarding the bus. Their captain is all too quiet, silent as he passes their seats. He smiles, but Niou thinks to himself that he’s really never seen Yukimura look more unhappy.
--
Yukimura steps past Sanada and into the empty place next to the window. Somehow a sigh escapes him as he hoists his bag onto his lap, laying his arms over it. He doesn’t say anything, instead choosing to close his eyes and rest his head against the back of the seat.
Next to him, Sanada taps his fingers against the box containing their runner-up plaque. He doesn’t have much time to consider Sanada’s actions though, because a mass of non-regulars are flooding onto the bus. They jostle and shove one another into the remaining empty seats, arguing over who had which place and scrambling to lower the sticky windows. Sanada stands and yells out instructions to share seats: Yukimura smiles thinly and watches Niou almost shove Yagyuu over with his tennis bag in an effort to make a place for himself. A freshman plunks into the seat next to Kirihara, who grumbles and curls closer to the window. Only Yanagi is still sitting by himself when the boarding ordeal is over, calmly reading a Tokyo newspaper.
“I should’ve ridden back with my parents,” Sanada says under his breath when he sits down again. Without warning, he drops the plaque in its box onto Yukimura’s lap and reaches over him to lower their window. Yukimura presses back into the seat, all too aware that Sanada smells like old sweat and what might be muscle salve. The plaque threatens to slide off his knees and he grabs it reluctantly with one hand.
“I could have done that myself if you’d asked,” Yukimura comments, trying not to breathe through his nose, despite the fact that he probably doesn’t smell much better himself.
Sanada drops back into the seat. He shrugs, not bothering to give an answer. When Yukimura passes him the plaque, Sanada takes it, holding the heavy box in both hands. “Where are we going to put this?” he asks.
“How about behind the bookshelf?” Yukimura asks, raising his eyebrows. “Somewhere out of sight and easily forgettable.”
--
In the very back of the bus, Marui rips open another bag of chips and the fake barbeque flavor smell explodes into the air. “I liked last year better,” he announces, pulling a handful of chips out of the bag. “It was more fun when, you know, everyone was celebrating.”
“I know,” Jackal answers, reaching into the bag for a few chips. He eats them one at a time, unsure of whether he likes this flavor or not. “Everyone is pretty down.”
“Well, we lost,” Marui points out, shoving the bag of chips at Jackal in order to retrieve a bottle of tea from his bag. The bottle is sweaty and the tea lukewarm, but the sweet taste is still welcome as the liquid fills his mouth. “It’s not like we expected that.” He swallows again, capping off the tea and taking back the chips. “We were supposed to win and then have the yay, woo, trophy party on the bus. Instead we get a plaque and…and this.” Marui gestures towards the rest of the bus. “One and a half hours of angst.”
“And heatstroke,” Jackal puts in with a smile. He shifts in the seat, stretching. “I think we played a decent game.”
Marui raps him on the forehead with his chip encrusted knuckles. “Hello? We lost.”
“7-5, to the Golden Pair,” Jackal answers, patiently wiping chip crumbs off of his forehead. “I don’t think that’s bad. They were really good opponents. We just…” he pauses, searching for the right words. “We’re just not used to losing.”
“Because we’re not supposed to lose. Losing will not be tolerated, that is the law!” Marui replies with emphasis. He crumples part of the chip bag in his hand. “You know, I might not feel that way if I didn’t have to worry about the back of Sanada’s hand coming into contact with my face.”
--
“How many explosives are in your bag, Niou-kun?” Yagyuu asks, not looking up from his book.
Niou leans over his shoulder to look at the words, but they’re all in English, so he doesn’t bother to figure out what Yagyuu is reading. “Just some sparklers,” he answers lazily, resting his feet on top of said bag. “And some of those little spinners. And a pipe bomb. I thought we could put it in the koi pond.”
“I highly doubt Sanada’s family would appreciate that,” Yagyuu responds, not debating the existence of a pipe bomb. Best just to play along rather than argue with Niou. “I’m sure his family owns some reasonably valuable koi. Besides,” Yagyuu pauses, looking up from his book. “I rather doubt we’ll still be spending the evening at Sanada’s. Our plans have gone rather awry.”
“It’s been such a crap day,” Niou breathes, suddenly sullen. He kicks the seat in front of them, slumping down and wrinkling up his jacket under him.
“Niou-kun,” Yagyuu says, taking a deep breath and sliding a ribbon marker between the pages of his book. “I’d say it’s been something of a crap year.”
--
Beside Kirihara, the stupid freshman will not shut up. Kirihara can hear him over the music pouring into his ears and the rattle of the air conditioner as the bus starts up. The freshman prattles on about blah, blah next year and blah, blah going to be a regular and blah, blah going to beat Echizen. Kirihara pushes back the temptation to crack the kid over the head with his DS and yanks his earbuds out.
“Just shut up, okay?” he explodes, turning to face the wiry little kid.
The freshman stares at him with wide eyes and pink, pink cheeks. He almost looks like he’s going to start sucking on his thumb or something. “Echizen is really good,” he says. “But I bet you could beat him when you’re captain.”
“Yukimura couldn’t even beat him!” Kirihara responds, shoving his things into his bag. He glances towards the back of the bus. Yukimura-buchou looks like he’s taking a nap next to Sanada; Sanada just looks pissed.
“But I bet you could,” the freshman says, even as Kirihara is pushing past him to get out of the seat. He licks his lips, stumbling out of the way of Kirihara and his bag and plopping back down onto the seat. “I bet you could beat anybody, Kirihara-sempai!”
“Shut up,” Kirihara mumbles again. The kid’s words should make him feel better, but instead they just hit him sourly. Yukimura should have won. Rikkai Dai should have won. This year, not next year. He shuffles down the aisle and stops in front of Marui and Jackal’s seat. “Can I sit with you guys?” he asks.
There’s hardly room enough for Marui, Jackal, and Marui’s pile of snacks, but Jackal shifts over and Marui, after some protest, shoves his butt over as well. Kirihara perches on the tiny scrap of empty seat, awkwardly smiling his thanks and helping himself to Marui’s chips.
“I didn’t say you could have any!” Marui says, snatching the bag away and probably crushing the remaining chips.
“Aww, come on sempai!” Kirihara retorts, kneeling on his insufficient bit of the seat in order to try to grab the battered bag. “You’re gonna get fat if you eat them all!”
Marui whacks him over the head with the bag, Jackal tries to get them both to settle down, and Sanada yells at them to quit. It feels good, for that little while - like maybe everything is back to normal and just the way it should be, even if it really isn’t.
--
Yanagi watches Kirihara exit his seat, leaving behind a rather stupefied first year. He stays in his own seat a moment longer, then stands and slips into the aisle, leaving his bag and newspaper behind. The bus bumps along the highway and he places his hands on the seats on either side of him for balance, making his way to the back. The seat across from Sanada and Yukimura’s is piled high with equipment bags and a cooler, but he shoves enough things out of the way to slide onto an empty portion. Across from him, Yukimura rests with his eyes closed while Sanada stares ahead, ready to pounce on anyone who creates any sort of ruckus.
“Can I see it?” Yanagi asks, holding out his hands for the box on Sanada’s lap.
“Here,” Sanada answers, passing it to him.
Yanagi slides the plaque out of the box, staring at it for a long while. The metallic eagle and torches are glistening, not yet smudged with fingerprints or time. It’s a lovely plaque, but not the sort of thing that you parade through the stadium and onto the bus and through your school. He remembers the past two years and the thrill of flags and trophies. The plaque seems appropriately unexciting.
“Yukimura wants to stash it behind the bookshelf,” Sanada comments.
Yukimura cracks open an eye and frowns, but doesn’t say anything. Yanagi smiles thinly and slides the plaque back into its box. The air between them is thick with too many things left unsaid and conversations that might never take place. He avoids the talk regarding what to do with the runner-up plaque, instead handing it back to Sanada. “Are we still meeting at your house, Genichirou?” Yanagi asks, waiting. That was the arrangement, but arrangements fall through. There was no cheering in the stadium, no mess of streamers on the bus, no calls for yakiniku or sushi before leaving Tokyo. Instead there is only heat and the stench of sweat, palpable defeat hanging in the thick air.
“Why?” Sanada asks. There is nothing to celebrate, nothing to talk about late into the night, no reason to dismiss concerns about not getting enough sleep or disturbing his family. Even his victory over Tezuka feels small in light of the greater loss of the day.
“It might not be a bad idea,” Yanagi responds, folding his hands together. He thinks about spewing the quote about shared joy being double joy and shared sorrow being half sorrow, but the bus is all too full of shared sorrow and it only seems to multiply.
It is Yukimura who actually decides. He sighs, reaching over to take the boxed plaque from Sanada. “I still have to talk to the team about this,” he says, his tone of voice both reluctant and yet resigned. “I might as well do it there.”
--
Sanada’s house is a cool retreat after the sweaty bus ride from Tokyo and then another bus trip from school. Fresh air drifts through the trees and the house itself is welcomingly fresh and even drafty. It is a good place, Yanagi thinks, to rest. To let go. To move on.
“Didn’t you boys shower?” Sanada’s mother asks when she welcomes them into the house. She shoves Sanada towards the hallway. “Genichirou, show your friends where to go. You’ll have to get the extra futons out of the storage room.” She steps away from the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. “I thought there were showers at the stadium.”
“Our bus was leaving,” Yanagi offers apologetically.
Sanada mother waves him off, heading towards the kitchen. “Genichirou!” she shouts. “Put some more towels in the upstairs shower room!”
--
Yukimura pads into the room where everyone else is gathered, rubbing at one ear with a faded towel from Sanada’s bathroom. His feet are still wet inside his slippers, but he doubts Sanada’s mother would be thrilled with finding clammy footprints on her hardwood floors.
The team is clustered around the low table in Sanada’s dining room, adding things to the kettle simmering on the brazier in the middle. Yanagi slices a block of tofu while Kirihara attempts to grate a radish.
“Hot pot?” he asks, grinning. “After that bus ride?”
“Ow!” Kirihara exclaims, shoving two of his fingers into his mouth. “Cut myself!”
Yagyuu shoves aside the beef he’s finished slicing, reaching for the grater and remaining radish. Marui leans over the kettle, wafting the steam towards his face and damp hair. “It’s a good group food,” he announces. “Any food is good group food right now.”
Together they cluster around the table, taking turns dumping things into the pot and retrieving them. Sanada’s mother brings out sauces and passes them around. The atmosphere remains quiet and rather subdued, but the food is good and something about being busy and focused on something that is not tennis is comforting. It is only a temporary distraction though, Yukimura knows. At some point, he is going to have to say something about the day. They must acknowledge this and…what? Move on? Resolve to do better? Renew their vows to win once more? He ladles broth into his dish, watching steam swirl upwards and fragments of vegetables stick to the edges of the bowl. The dish is warm in his hands as he gazes at his team, busy with their meal. They must move on, he knows - but in which direction?
--
Kirihara pulls one of the futons close to the wall, far out of the way of Niou’s pointy elbows and hopefully to a place where he won’t be deafened by Jackal’s snoring. It’s a lumpy futon and the cover Sanada finds for him has girly pink flowers on it.
“How come I have to have this one?” he asks, even as he’s bunching up the cover and dumping it onto the futon. It smells like moth balls.
“Because it was the only one left,” Sanada responds, making up his own place. Kirihara frowns. Some host, making a guest use the lumpy girl futon and taking a nice one for himself. Kirihara tries to pat and then whack out the lumps, then eventually flops down, kicking the pink cover away from himself. Maybe it will be too warm to use it. Or maybe, he thinks, he can secretly swap with Marui after everyone is asleep. Kirihara almost snickers to himself, wondering who would be best to switch with - it would be hilarious if Yagyuu or Sanada woke up snuggled in the pink cover.
“We need to talk,” Yukimura-buchou announces, sitting on his own futon in the middle of the room. Kirihara notices that he’s idly tipping the box with their plaque in it back and forth against his fingers. He thinks about excusing himself to use the bathroom or retrieve something from the kitchen. This is not a talk he wants to hear.
Everyone else seems to feel the same way, but they reluctantly settle into an awkward circle of bedding and bodies. The room is too quiet for Kirihara’s liking: not even Niou or Marui try to hold side conversations and Yukimura waits too long before he starts to speak. Words tumble out of their captain, but they are not the words Kirihara is used to hearing. None of them strike hot on his mind; no message is burned both fresh and eternal in his brain. He fidgets with the edge of his futon cover and wiggles his toes inside his socks. Next to him, Niou sighs and shifts, leaning back on his hands. On his other side, Jackal leans forward, resting his chin on one hand and listening attentively. Kirihara wonders to himself who is going to get slapped by Sanada first, because that is probably what all of this is leading up to.
“…considering that I also lost, I don’t feel I have the right to choose a consequence,” Yukimura eventually says. He frowns and glances sidelong at Sanada and Yanagi-sempai. Kirihara looks up, mind suddenly attentive.
“We’ll decide tomorrow,” Sanada cuts in, voice decisive. Yanagi-sempai stands up. “It’s late,” he says. “Let’s put this behind us for now.”
It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to Kirihara, but he wanders off to his stupid futon and wiggles under the moth bally cover. Wouldn’t it be easier if they just smacked the losers and called it done? None of this talking and deciding crap. He shoves his headphones into his ears, just in case Jackal-sempai snores extra loud, and tries to settle in for sleep.
--
Yagyuu is reading by the glow of his book light when Niou’s shadow crosses him. Niou pulls his bedding closer to Yagyuu’s secluded corner of the room, flopping down onto it when he’s satisfied with its new location. Around them everyone else is asleep, or pretending to be.
“…I should have learned that zero shiki serve,” Niou says suddenly, kicking at the clumps of blanket near his feet. Even in the dim light of the book light, Yagyuu can see Niou’s frustrated frown and the downward drop of his mouth. “I could have cinched it with that, dammit,” Niou continues. Yagyuu looks at him with raised eyebrows as he continues to ramble on in a hushed whisper about what he should and shouldn’t have done and the irritation of losing to Fuji Syuusuke.
“Look,” Yagyuu finally interrupts, more than ready to return to the placating pages of his Agatha Christie mystery. “Fuji-kun beat Kirihara while he was blinded. If being hit in the head with a tennis ball and rendered sightless couldn’t deter him from a win, I highly doubt a zero shiki serve would.”
“Are you saying I could never beat him?” Niou asks accusingly, hands on his bony hips.
“Perhaps,” Yagyuu says blandly. He flips open his novel again, not bothering to look at Niou as he adjusts the clip-on book light.
“I’d like to see you play the irritating bastard!” Niou retorts, shoving Yagyuu for good measure.
“Niou-kun!” Yagyuu exclaims testily, aggravated with Niou’s choice of language and being shoved. He tries to keep his voice down. “I’ll remind you that I didn’t lose in this round.”
Niou shoves him again, throwing in a half-hearted kick as well. “Because you didn’t play, Mr. Gentleman.”
“That was not by choice,” Yagyuu says firmly, trying to squirm away from Niou’s pointy elbows and digging sock feet. Agatha Christie gets slammed against the wall and the book light skitters further into the corner. Yagyuu lifts up the book, waving it near Niou’s face. “Look, you’ve bent the cover! This is a library book!”
They squabble in the corner until heavy, impatient footsteps cross the room. Sanada looks irritable, even with his bed hair and wrinkled pajamas. “Quiet!” he says in a harsh whisper. “People are trying to sleep!” He stomps away before either of them can offer a retort or excuse.
Yagyuu makes an annoyed little sound and testily gets up to retrieve his sputtering book light. His footsteps are rushed and touchy, but not nearly as heavy as Sanada’s. Niou stays quiet as Yagyuu crawls back under the covers and searches for his place, nudging up his glasses.
After a long moment of silence, save the flipping of dry book pages, Niou’s voice cuts into the darkness. “If we had played doubles again, we would have won,” he says.
“I’m quite sure of it,” Yagyuu answers, not looking up.
“We beat that Golden Pair before,” Niou shares. “We could have done it again. We wouldn’t even have had to beam that annoying Kikumaru.”
“Although it was a nice touch,” Yagyuu says, only half sarcastic. In the dark Niou lets out a breathy laugh and Yagyuu hears him settle into bed.
Silence envelopes them again and eventually Yagyuu switches the book light off, setting his book and glasses aside. Everything is still until Niou’s voice splits the quiet yet again.
“I’m still going to learn that zero shiki serve,” he says.
“If we’re going to play doubles again, then I suppose I’ll have to learn it as well,” Yagyuu mutters, voice half muffled by his pillow.
--
Sanada makes his way back to his futon, entirely fed up. It’s been a horrible day: they’ve lost to Seigaku, the entire team is in a funk, Yukimura is moody and indecisive, and he can’t even sleep in his bed in his own house because Yanagi thinks it’s a good idea to gather together. He nearly trips over Kirihara, who is flopped out on the floor, faint music spewing out of a headphone that’s fallen out of one of his ears.
“Sorry,” Sanada mutters, adding this to the list of stupid things that have happened today.
“Fukubuchou,” Kirihara whines, still half asleep. He grabs for his blanket and sits up, more awake. “Hey fukubuchou.”
“What?” Sanada asks, just about ready to drag his futon out into the hallway for an hour or two of proper sleep.
“How come you didn’t just smack everybody?” Kirihara wonders. He pulls the other earbud out and shoves his music player near the wall, waiting for Sanada to answer.
“Yukimura decides what’s going to happen,” Sanada responds, glancing to where Yukimura is curled up. “He’s the captain.”
Kirihara sighs irritably, lying back down. “Yeah, but he said he wasn’t going to.” He kicks at his crummy moth ball blanket and props himself up on his elbows in order to see his vice captain better. “Today sucked.”
Sanada doesn’t reprimand Kirihara for his language or yell at him to go to sleep. Instead he just pauses, glancing over his shoulder. “Yeah, it did,” he replies, then continues on his way. “But it’s over.”
It’s not what Kirihara expects to hear, but it’s somehow satisfying. He settles back, staring at the wooden ceiling beams and the shadowy light coming through the wall screens. He wants the day to be done, and it is.
Come morning, he thinks as he focuses on falling asleep, smack down!
--
Yukimura is missing when Sanada reaches the other side of the room. So is his blanket, which is a sure sign that he intends to stay gone for awhile and hasn’t just wandered off in search of the toilet or a glass of water. Sanada resolves to leave him alone, but before he can lie down Yanagi sits up.
“Seiichi probably wants to talk,” Yanagi says, standing and lifting his own blanket from the ground. He begins to fold it, pressing the bundled fabric to his chest when he’s finished. “He’s probably outside.”
Sanada doesn’t say anything, but he leads Yanagi to the backyard. Yukimura is easy enough to find, sitting on the back steps with his blanket pulled around himself. The air outside is chilly, a sharp contrast to the heat and humidity of the day. Yanagi unfurls his own blanket, taking the empty spot next to Yukimura while Sanada makes his way down the steps. He pulls over a lawn chair, dropping into it and waiting.
“You’re thinking about today, hmm?” Yanagi asks, leaning forward to see Yukimura better.
“I needed that win,” Yukimura says, not bothering with greetings or a more placid answer. He glances at Sanada and Yanagi. “I don’t have any record for this year otherwise. I’m screwed.”
“You were sick,” Sanada answers, supplying the expected answer. He leans back in his lawn chair and slides his feet forward on the grass. “You had surgery.”
“Do you honestly think that matters?” Yukimura responds, staring at him with raised brows. “I got aced, Sanada. By a twelve year old kid.” He sighs, shifting on the back steps and threading a hand through his hair. “Now I know why everyone hated me so much when I was younger.” Another irritated breath escapes him. “I was too overconfident. I shouldn’t have risked so much on such an important match.”
Yanagi is quiet, and even when he speaks his voice is only a rational whisper. “It would have made a nice comeback story though, yes? I mean, that’s what you were hoping for. The sick captain makes a miraculous recovery and triumphs over the unbeatable super rookie in the final match of Nationals, right?” He doesn’t wait for Yukimura to answer, instead continuing to speak. “That’s what we all wanted, Seiichi.”
Yukimura only shrugs, and nearby Sanada stays silent, letting Yanagi lead the conversation.
“It’s not the end of the world,” Yanagi announces, gesturing vaguely to Sanada’s backyard. The stars shine clearly in the night sky and the branches of pines are reflected faintly in the koi pond. “The sky isn’t falling. Life goes on.” He nudges Yukimura with his shoulder. “And you’re not entirely screwed. You’re just going to have to work hard to continue playing. And that’s nothing new, is it?”
“I suppose not,” Yukimura answers with a bitter laugh. He pulls in a deep breath, leaning back. “I still let everyone down though. Some captain, hmm?”
“They’ll forgive you if you want them to,” Yanagi responds, patting his knee. He gets ready to stand up and looks down at Yukimura with a smile. “Genichirou could slap you if it would make you feel better, though.”
This earns a genuine laugh from Yukimura. It’s an infectious sound, and Sanada stands up from his lawn chair, flexing his hand. “Right or left, Yukimura? Do you have a preference?”
“I’ll decline,” Yukimura answers, still smiling as he scoots further back on the wooden step.
“Declination isn’t allowed,” Yanagi announces, dropping down to grasp his captain by the shoulders. Yukimura wiggles away, almost tripping down the steps in his slippers.
“I’m going to assign myself laps!” he announces, hurrying halfway across the lawn. The wet grass slides upper his slippers and he hops out of them to avoid falling. “And push-ups! And then I’ll make myself play every half-awful high school OB and Akaya.”
“Akaya thinks you ought to get smacked!” Sanada shouts, but Yanagi can see him grinning.
Yanagi gathers up the discarded blankets. “You forgot all the cleaning duty you’re going to do, Seiichi.”
“With a toothbrush,” Yukimura answers back, deciding it’s safe to rejoin the other two. He raises his eyebrows at Sanada as they walk back into the house together. “Akaya can decide if I need to be slapped after I have another match with him.”
--
Jackal blinks awake, finding himself on a futon instead of in bed and in a room he doesn’t recognize at first. It comes flooding back in a moment though: the loss at Nationals yesterday, the agonizing bus trip, then supper and the sleepover at Sanada’s. He waits for himself to become a bit more awake and then sits up.
“Sanada’s mom made breakfast,” Marui announces, walking over in rumpled pajamas. “Better get some soon; Yagyuu’s hogging all the orange slices.”
There’s no coffee and sure enough, Yagyuu has polished off the last orange slice by the time Jackal arrives. He settles down at the table with his rice and soup and half an omelet split with Yanagi.
“When are the smacks?” Kirihara suddenly asks, sucking the flesh from his own hoarded orange slice.
“Is that all you can think about?” Marui asks, sighing and pausing in his ardent shoveling of breakfast from plate to mouth. “Why do you even care? You didn’t lose your match, stupid.”
“It kind of didn’t go the way it was supposed to though,” Kirihara answers, a bit sheepish. He nibbles a dangling bit of orange from the peel. “I just want to get them over with.”
“No one is getting slapped,” Yukimura announces from the other side of the table. He sounds rather firm on the issue, Jackal thinks, which is a change from his unsure speech the night before. Yukimura takes a moment to push away his plate, glancing steadily around the table. “There’s a better way to deal with this.”
--
Not more than an hour later, they are gathered in their clubroom, standing and waiting around the trophy shelf. Morning light filters in through the window, glinting off the various cups and statues. Silently, Yukimura slides their runner-up plaque out of its box, propping it up between the National’s trophies from the last two years.
“I thought you were going to put it behind the bookshelf, Yukimura-kun,” Yagyuu comments, arms folded over his chest.
“It belongs right here,” Yukimura says, turning so that he can face all of them. He looks between them and the plaque. “We earned it.”
“It’s kind of ugly,” Niou remarks, leaning close in order to examine the plaque. “That is one weird looking bird.”
“It’s an eagle,” Sanada says grumpily, consciously keeping his fist away from Niou’s face. “It’s noble.”
“As I was saying,” Yukimura cuts in with a frown. “We earned a less than attractive plaque this year instead of a trophy. There’s nothing we can do to change that. But we can work towards doing infinitely better next year.” He pauses, looking once more around the group of Regulars, a tiny smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Can’t we?”
Murmuring goes through the clubroom until Sanada sighs and announces, “Yukimura asked you a question!”
“Yes!” everyone chimes in, although they’ve become more restless. Kirihara glances up at Jackal. “There’s not something worse than smacks, is there?” he whispers urgently.
“Good then,” Yukimura says, smiling more widely. He tilts his head to the window, where the track waits quietly, morning dew glistening on the grassy field in the middle. “We can all do laps together.”
“I didn’t lose,” Yagyuu comments under his breath, frowning.
Yukimura overhears the comment and only lets a grin pull at the corner of his mouth. “Let’s make this fun,” he says, “Since that’s apparently what we’re lacking around here.”
--
Kirihara doesn’t get it. Getting smacked because you lost makes sense. Cleaning the clubroom because you lost makes sense. Running stupid laps because you lost makes sense. But running laps carrying your loser plaque over your head does not make sense.
That’s what they’re doing though, all eight of them. Yukimura-buchou shoves the plaque at Kirihara and he does what he’s supposed to, hoisting the thing over his head and continuing to run until Niou takes the thing from him. Non-regulars and a few members of the cheerleading squad begin to look over, curious. Kirihara wants to grab the plaque back from Niou and throw it at them. Instead he drops off the track in order to dart to where his water bottle is lying in the grass.
“What are they doing?” someone asks, and Kirihara glances up to see the dumb little freshman who tried to sit next to him on the bus the day before.
“I don’t know,” Kirihara replies, guzzling water from the bottle. “It’s our punishment or something.”
“Oh,” the freshman says, looking curiously at the rest of the team, still running. “It doesn’t look so bad. I’ll do that if I lose next year, when I’m a regular.”
“You’re not going to lose next year!” Kirihara snaps, not bothering to mention that maybe he won’t even let the kid be a regular. “And if you do, I’ll smack you like Sanada-fukubuchou!”
“I’m not gonna lose!” the freshman squeaks.
“You better not!” Kirihara hollers, heading back to the track. Apparently, it’s his turn to take the plaque again, because Yanagi-sempai tries to hand it off to him.
“I’m going to win another real trophy next year!” Kirihara shouts, trying to keep the plaque from sliding out of his hands. The hard edges dig into his palms and he renews his grip, lifting the stupid plaque higher. “Not some dumb plaque like this!”
“That’s the spirit!” Jackal-sempai says, continuing to run.
Yukimura-buchou darts in front of him, turning to run backwards and holding out his hands for the plaque. “That’s enough!” he yells, panting a little. He grabs the plaque when Kirihara extends it, shoving it under one arm. “Let’s go play some tennis!”
That, Kirihara thinks, makes the best sense in the world.