Fanfic - The Winding Path [The Prince of Tennis: Gen/Pre-slash (Tezuka/Ryoma)]
Fandom: The Prince of Tennis
Pairing: Gen (Ryoma-centric)/Pre-slash (Tezuka/Ryoma)
Rating: PG
Notes: Merrily ignores canon ending. Ryoma stays on in Seigaku and doesn't go pro yet.
Warnings: OC alert! I'm sorry; generally I hate using OCs, but I really had no choice here. We just don't know enough non-regulars, and I needed a full team. You'll see what I mean when you get to those parts.
Cross-posted to zuka_ryo, tezukaryouma and tenipuri_yaoi.
Shoutout to atleastintheory for tolerating me while this fic was gestating, mutating, and eating my brain. It's not easy talking to me when I've been taken over by rabid plotbunnies, but somehow she manages to put up with me. ♥
The Winding Path
He doesn’t know why he’s still here now, when it’s so dark that he can barely see where he’s stepping and the only reason he isn’t walking into anything is because he’s travelled this path hundreds of times. The graduation ceremony is long over, he still has school tomorrow and he knows he should go home and get some rest, but for reasons he isn’t thinking too hard about, he doesn’t feel like leaving. Only the school auditorium is still lit, and the faint sounds of the third-years’ party (someone’s been reading too much about American proms, he thinks) drifts to him on the wind. He wonders what things will be like from now on, with five of the regulars gone.
There’s someone on the courts, he realises as he draws nearer. He watches the tall, solitary figure swinging the racquet, the tennis ball bouncing off the wall and being returned, the way the person never takes a single step away from where he’s standing. He stands outside the fences and watches in silence. There’s something hypnotic about the rhythm of the swings. He picks the right hand to focus on, watching how it flexes even when the racquet’s being swung with the left, like it’s remembering what it’s like to catch the ball, to feel its solid weight and perfectly control its movements.
“Tezuka-buchou,” he says. His voice is intrusive in the still air and he glances at the ground momentarily. “Not attending the party?”
“I’m not interested in dancing,” Tezuka replies calmly, never faltering in his rhythm. “Why haven’t you gone home yet, Echizen?”
Ryoma doesn’t answer. Instead, he watches the movement of the ball, absently noting that it’s being deliberately hit to completely different places on the wall. The ball keeps curving back towards Tezuka, the way everything ends up coming back to him eventually. He thinks of all the girls he’s heard today talking about how they were going to ask Tezuka or Fuji or Kikumaru to dance with them at the party that night. He thinks of the girl who’d been planning with her friends the best way to confess to Tezuka. He remembers thinking that Tezuka’s not the kind of person who would cheat on someone, and he already has tennis so it’s not like she would have had a chance, no matter how she asked. He thinks about the speech Tezuka had given as the school council president. He remembers how Tezuka had looked like up there on the stage; aloof, impenetrable, adult, distant. Lonely.
“Echizen,” Tezuka says, and fields the ball. “Get my spare racquet and come here.” He turns without checking to see if Ryoma’s following his instructions. He doesn’t need to. Ryoma removes Tezuka’s racquet from his bag and carefully tests its tension as he steps onto the courts and takes his position.
They’re both still in their school uniforms, even if they’ve taken off the outer jackets. There’s no net because everything’s been packed away and there’s something oddly urgent in Tezuka’s movements, something that won’t let him stop to get the nets out from the clubroom. The only lighting is what strays their way from the school auditorium, so there are strange shadows leaping everywhere and sometimes they can barely see the ball. They play hard and fast like they always do, estimating as best they can whether their shots are making it over where the net should be, throwing themselves into the movements because neither of them have ever known how to hold back. It’s the most exhilarating game Ryoma has ever played, even if it ends with him flat on his face after an unsuccessful dive for a zero-shiki drop shot. Tezuka’s panting heavily as he stands before Ryoma, right hand braced on his knee as he tries to catch his breath.
“Somehow,” Ryoma says as he pulls himself to his knees. “This seems really familiar.”
Tezuka hesitates for the barest moment; then he exhales slowly and straightens, stepping forward and offering a hand to Ryoma. “It should,” he replies in a neutral tone. “Don’t forget what I told you.”
“What you told me that day?” Ryoma asks, letting Tezuka pull him to his feet. “Or what you just told me?”
“Both,” Tezuka says, his hand lingering in Ryoma’s a second too long. Ryoma nods and passes him his racquet, watching in silence as Tezuka packs up. Tezuka’s shirt has come un-tucked and is pink in places where it’s plastered to his skin with sweat. His shoes are scuffed and his hair’s even messier than usual. There are beads of sweat still trickling down his neck, and Ryoma tracks one until it rolls beneath cloth and disappears. Despite everything, Tezuka somehow manages to look entirely composed and in control. This is what buchou is, Ryoma thinks absently, and tucks the memory away as one of his favourite yet.
“I want to play you,” Ryoma says as Tezuka zips up his bag and hoists it onto his shoulder. Again, he adds in his head. Tezuka turns around to face him, staring at him for a moment before nodding.
“Let me sort out my schedule,” Tezuka replies. “I’ll let you know.”
Ryoma shrugs and nods. “Whenever works,” he says. Tezuka rests his hand on Ryoma’s shoulder briefly.
“Don’t let your guard down,” he says. “There’s still a long way to go.”
Ryoma smirks. “I know,” he says. Tezuka nods and starts to walk away. Ryoma stays where he is and watches until he can’t see even the vaguest outline in the darkness. It’s only then that he leaves. He’ll need to be up early tomorrow, and he’s been out too long as it is.
A week after the school year starts, Tezuka calls him. He’s been expecting the call, but something like a thrill still shoots through him when he sees the unfamiliar number on his phone, answers, and hears Tezuka’s voice on the other end. Finally, he thinks, someone strong to play against. Someone to measure himself against. There are only so many times he can demand Momo-senpai and Kaidoh-senpai play against him during club practice.
“The class workload is quite heavy,” Tezuka says. “But practice isn’t as rigorous as it used to be. I will be at the courts at Haruno every Sunday at nine to work more intensively.”
“I’ll come down whenever I’m free then,” Ryoma says. “Don’t slack off, buchou.”
“You know you should be calling Kaidoh that now,” Tezuka admonishes gently.
“Kaidoh-senpai doesn’t mind,” Ryoma retorts. “He still needs Momo-senpai to remind him that when someone says ‘buchou,’ they mean him.”
There’s something like a laugh lurking in Tezuka’s voice when he replies. “He’ll get used to it,” he says. “It took me a while, too.”
“Can’t see it,” Ryoma responds immediately, and it’s true. Sometimes he thinks that Tezuka was born the way he is now.
“How is the team doing?” Tezuka asks.
“Weak,” Ryoma replies. “You know, you took some really strong players with you. I don’t know if we’ll make Nationals this year. And next year will be even worse.”
“Step up the training,” Tezuka says. “I’m sure Inui will be glad to concoct some motivational drinks if you ask.”
“We’re trying to train the members, not kill them,” Ryoma retorts instantly.
“They’re good for the body,” Tezuka says blandly. “And perhaps you should look to the incoming first-years for talent?”
“I doubt we’ll get seven talented first-years coming in next year, buchou,” Ryoma replies equally blandly. “And if they’re that good for the body, you can drink them.”
“I’ll pass,” Tezuka replies. “Sunday, then.”
“See you at nine,” Ryoma agrees. “Later, buchou.”
It’s funny, Ryoma thinks, how he’s barely ever spoken to Tezuka, and yet the low-key bantering had come so naturally to him. He finds Tezuka’s number logged in his phone memory and saves it under “Buchou.” Then he circles Sunday on his wall calendar with a red marker, scribbling 9!! next to it. As an afterthought, he draws a tennis ball over it and then heads out to coerce his father into a game.
Nanjirou refuses to play seriously and still beats him six to love. He tunes out his father’s victory song and practices his swings even though he’s exhausted. Still not good enough, he thinks, but then it’s not like you’ll ever be good enough. There’s always someone out there who’s better, isn’t there?
His father trips over Karupin, who promptly claws him where no man ever wants to be clawed. Ryoma stares for a moment, then turns to hide his laughter as Nanjirou shrieks piercingly. That’s one way to beat his old man. Karupin indignantly trots over to Ryoma, who obliges him with a few pets. He wonders if he can train Karupin to repeat his little feat. Karupin meows at him with a mischievous look in his eyes that exactly matches Ryoma’s.
Ryoma smirks at his father, who’s only now getting to his feet, holding himself gingerly.
“What?” Nanjirou asks warily.
It really is weird hearing people call Kaidoh-senpai “buchou.” The club’s reactions on finding out who their new captain would be had been amusing, to say the least. Half of them had been shocked into silence and the other half had been whimpering about how they were doomed. Momo-senpai had burst out laughing at Kaidoh’s shocked look, and then choked on his own laughter when he’d been given the vice-captain’s spot.
“I have to work with him?!” they’d demanded in synchronised outrage.
“You’re already speaking in unison,” Ryoma had deadpanned. “I’m sure you’ll work together wonderfully.”
He’d been trapped in a headlock by Momo for that remark. It’s true, Ryoma thinks, that Momo and Kaidoh still fight at every opportunity, but they both still have the club’s welfare at heart. As he enters the courts for practice on Monday afternoon, Ryoma smirks at the unusual sight of Momo and Kaidoh with their heads bent together and not arguing. The problem of working out the blocks for the ranking matches has evidently forced them to put aside their differences.
“You’re leaving it to them?” Ryoma asks Ryuuzaki-sensei as he stretches lightly. She grins in response.
“They’re working together better than I expected,” she says. “It should be ready soon. While they’re working, round up the rest of the club. You know what we’re doing today, right?”
Ryoma stares blankly at her. She waves impatiently at him. “Go on,” she says. “I think I’ll have to help them a little - the numbers we have this year are a little hard to handle. You might as well start to learn how to work with the club.”
Ryoma sulks all the way to the other side of the court. “Oi, everyone! Get over here!” he yells, thankful his voice doesn’t crack. It had just begun to do so over the holidays, and his father still teases him every time it goes a little squeaky. Ryoma’s holding out hope that this means he’ll hit his growth spurt soon as well. At a hundred and fifty-six centimetres, he’s still one of the shortest people in his class.
“The three of them,” he says, jerking a thumb in the direction of the three people who were supposed to be in charge. “Are occupied, so I’m taking you through training for now.” He pauses, but no one challenges him. “We’re focusing on endurance training for today. First-years, divide into five equal groups and wait for your instructions. Everyone else - ten laps, and then do your stretches.”
The second and third-years are halfway through their first lap by the time the first-years have organised themselves. Ryoma waits impatiently, and then assigns them to set up and man different stations. The training they’re doing today is based off the conditioning training that the regulars had undergone the previous year, prior to playing Rikkaidai. He’d been there when Ryuuzaki-sensei and Kaidoh-senpai had been working out the logistics of making the entire club undergo similar training, which is the only reason he now knows what to do.
They’re training him, Ryoma realises as he takes off for his own laps, for the role of captain next year. He doesn’t want it. It’s a spot that’s always reserved for Tezuka in his mind. He’d rather be free to just play his own tennis without having to concern himself with the club… and that, he thinks half-resentfully, is exactly why they’re exposing him to what it takes to be captain now. Kaidoh-senpai might terrify most of the club, but his indefatigable spirit is a good influence and there’s no denying that he provides the necessary discipline. Besides, he has Momo-senpai to play big brother to those members who need it. It’s a little like how Tezuka-buchou and Oishi-senpai had worked, now that he thinks about it. But there’s no telling who’ll get the spot of vice-captain next year. Unfortunately, he’ll probably be captain, but there’s no guarantee he’ll have the kind of support Oishi or Momo are capable of. It’s probably why Ryuuzaki-sensei’s making him work with the club now, so that they’re a little more comfortable with him.
He laps the stragglers and pushes himself a little more, trying to diminish the two-lap head-start the fastest runners have on him. He doesn’t quite manage. By the time he finishes, he’s behind at least five others. He consoles himself with the knowledge that he’s at least lapped everyone twice and wanders over to where Ryuuzaki-sensei is still sitting with Kaidoh-senpai and Momo-senpai.
“Sensei, you done?” he asks, stretching lightly and watching as the last few members turn the corner.
“Not quite,” she says, lips twitching slightly. “Why don’t you go ahead and conduct the training yourself?”
Momo looks up and outright grins at him. “We’ll leave it to you, Echizen!” he declares cheerfully. Kaidoh doesn’t even look up from the paper he’s currently attempting to burn with the force of his glare.
Momo-senpai, Ryoma decides as he heads back to the rest of the club, is buying him burgers for a week.
He tortures the club members for the rest of practice and feels marginally more cheerful. At the end of practice, Kaidoh yells for everyone to gather again. It takes them considerably more effort this time to drag themselves into some semblance of order. Ryoma smirks at their horrified looks when they’re informed that they can expect similar conditioning and endurance training regularly.
“Ranking matches start next week,” Kaidoh tells the club, and they perk up slightly in interest. “The block divisions will be up tomorrow. Check to see when you’re playing and make sure you’re on time. Dismissed!”
“What are the blocks like?” Ryoma asks curiously as he heads back to the clubroom with Momo. In response, Momo waves a sheaf of papers at him.
“We’re all in different blocks,” he says. “I’m in C, you’re in B, and Mamushi’s in A.”
“Don’t call me that,” Kaidoh growls from behind them.
“You have a problem?” Momo snarls right back.
“You’re both treating me to burgers for a week,” Ryoma announces. That stops them both in their tracks.
“What?” Kaidoh splutters.
“At first I thought I’d make only Momo-senpai pay,” Ryoma explains. “But that’s not fair since I was also doing Kaidoh-senpai’s work today… so you can split the cost.”
“I don’t have enough money to feed you for a week!” Momo wails.
“Not my problem, senpai,” Ryoma replies archly and walks off, tapping his racquet on his shoulder idly. He’s expecting it when Momo and Kaidoh both follow, both trying to haggle over how much food they’ll need to pay for. He’ll never admit it, but it’s really fun stringing them both along and then refusing to lower his demands. All he agrees to is to spread the seven days out over a few months to ease the crunch. And as a bonus, he’s completely distracted Momo and Kaidoh from their budding fight.
It’s a slightly bewildered Kaidoh he leaves behind to lock up. At least Momo’s used to Ryoma mooching meals off him, but it’s probably the first time anyone’s done something like that to Kaidoh. Ryoma declines a lift home from a slightly disgruntled Momo and walks back instead. He’s still a little wound up from having to run practice, and hopes the cool evening air will soothe him. It doesn’t.
It’s Karupin who greets him at the door with an insistent meow. He checks the clock; he’s a little late getting back and it’s past Karupin’s dinner-time. That explains his cat’s annoyance.
“Give me a minute,” Ryoma tells Karupin, who ignores him and raises his voice to ear-splitting levels. Ryoma drops his bag and runs for the food before Karupin brings the entire house down.
“You’re so spoiled,” he scolds as he pours the dry cat food into Karupin’s bowl. Karupin flicks an ear at him in response as he settles down happily with his dinner. Ryoma pets him for a while as he eats, letting the familiar, repetitive action calm him a little. Living, purring stress ball, he thinks. Eventually he gets up and retrieves his bag from the hallway, deposits it in his room, and then moves determinedly towards the bath.
Something’s nagging at him about how he’d had to run the practice today. He spends at least an hour in the bath trying to figure it out. All that is accomplished is that the water eventually turns cold, his skin’s completely wrinkled and he’s still feeling out of sorts when he finally, reluctantly steps out. He’s just in time, as it turns out, because that’s when Nanako calls out that dinner’s ready. After eating, he goes back to his room and breezes through his science and English homework, puzzles over math for a bit, and half-heartedly scratches his way through Japanese. He really doesn’t like the subject. It’s true that he’s been speaking Japanese and English interchangeably through most of his life, but until he came to Japan, he’d rarely had cause to write in Japanese. He can read it all right, but his written Japanese always looks to him like a little kid’s handwriting, especially when he’s learning new kanji. It grates on him.
Somehow, he manages to finish the homework. The clock on his desk informs him that it’s too late to play a game against his father, so he wanders downstairs to find Karupin instead. Karupin immediately abandons the rattle he’d been playing with and purrs as he winds around Ryoma’s ankles.
“Stupid cat,” Nanjirou grumbles from in front of the television. It’s some stupid drama he’s watching, and Ryoma immediately dismisses it. “Even though I was the one who bought him.”
“He has good taste,” Ryoma retorts, scooping Karupin into a hug.
“He’s a traitor!” Nanjirou exclaims. Karupin yowls directly into Ryoma’s ear. Rinko comes into the living room in time to catch the tail-end of their conversation and blithely agrees with Ryoma. Nanjirou wails about how he’s been betrayed by his wife as well. The sheer stupidity of the conversation is oddly soothing, and as Ryoma starts arguing with his father about Karupin’s taste in people, he barely notices the tension draining away.
The next afternoon, Momo-senpai takes it on himself to list out some of the things that the captain has to do to keep the club running. Ryoma comes away from the impromptu lecture wondering how on earth Tezuka had managed to balance all that work with his student council activities, and still do so well in his studies that he topped the cohort.
“You don’t have to worry about it now,” Ryuuzaki-sensei tells him with some amusement when she sees his slightly traumatised expression. He scowls and tugs at the brim of his cap. Funny, he thinks, that they all feel the need to prep him for next year and then tell him not to worry. By the time practice ends, he’s forgotten Ryuuzaki-sensei’s comment. As he walks home, he tries to recall who the current club members are and is dismayed to find that he barely remembers any of them. He’s really quite isolated from the rest of the club, now that he thinks about it. Last year, most of the new members had had time to mingle amongst their own year-mates and make friends. Ryoma, on the other hand, had immediately been thrust amongst the regulars. He’d grown close to them, but that was at the expense of not getting to know anyone else. The fan-club, he thinks uncharitably, doesn’t count.
He really doesn’t want to be captain if it means he’ll have to actually pay attention to the rest of the club. He sighs as he reaches his house. One year to learn their names and faces, he thinks, and wonders if it’s enough time. He won’t have to know everyone, surely?
They play practice matches over the next few days in preparation for the ranking matches the next week. Ryoma’s astonished to discover midway through the week that Kachirou and Katsuo make a decent doubles pair. They’ve never been put together during practice before, but they admit that they’ve been working together during the holidays at the club where Kachirou’s father works. It explains why they’re suddenly more in tune with each other than they used to be. Ryoma surprises himself and everyone else within earshot by volunteering advice on how they could increase their power by adjusting their grip slightly.
Half an hour later, when he glances over, he sees that they’re conscientiously working on their swings. A few others who’d heard Ryoma’s advice are doing the same. He stares for a moment in bewilderment, then tugs his cap down firmly and steps onto a free court for his own practice match.
He plays a quick and brutal game against Momo, taking it six to two. “Can’t relax against you, huh?” Momo asks afterwards, tackling him in a headlock and messing up his hair. “Can’t relax at all!”
Ryoma squirms loose. “Did you expect me to go easy?” he asks. Momo grins and heads off to give the first-years their next set of exercises. Ryoma scoops up a couple of balls and pockets them, wandering off to find a wall to batter. He whacks the back of Horio’s knees with his racquet as he passes.
“Too stiff,” he says casually, and ignores the splutters of outrage.
He focuses most of his attention on his own practice, but keeps an ear on the sounds coming from the courts. He chooses two people whose names he’d found out earlier and sets about trying to commit them to memory. Their play style is decent, though nothing spectacular. As he repeatedly slams the ball back against the concrete, he repeats their names to himself and tries to remember which name goes with which face. Halfway through, he realises that he’s forgotten if they were Sakurada and Yamamoto or Yamada and Sakamoto, and gives it up as a bad job. He’s still annoyed by the time he hears Ryuuzaki-sensei rounding everyone up and goes back to the courts.
When he gets home, he puts himself through as much training as his body can take until he literally collapses in exhaustion. He goes to bed early and is immediately dead to the world. The next morning, his muscles ache in ways he’d forgotten they were capable of. He feels like an amateur. It takes twice as much stretching that morning than it usually does to get him feeling somewhat limber. The stiffness and pain only serve to increase his aggravation at the world in general. He’s in a somewhat sullen mood the whole day, and even beating Kaidoh six-three that afternoon doesn’t improve his spirits.
That evening, he repeats the training regiment that he’d tried yesterday and manages to complete it though all his muscles are screaming in protest at the end. He falls asleep in the bath and wakes up to Karupin’s deafening yowl outside the door. He shuffles out tiredly, tries to bend to pet Karupin, decides his back isn’t up to complicated movements, and heads instead for bed. Once he’s safely horizontal, he beckons for Karupin to join him on the bed and pets his cat gently. He’s asleep in less than a minute. Karupin blinks inquisitively at him.
He has more free time on Saturday, so he coaxes a game out of his father on top of the training he’d set up for himself. He’s so tired that evening that he sleeps until noon the next day. It takes him ten minutes and a look at his calendar to work out why that’s significant. He spends the next ten minutes mentally flaying himself and texts a quick apology to Tezuka. Even if he couldn’t play Tezuka, he trains through most of the afternoon; the evening, he decides, will be a break. He wants to be in good condition for the ranking matches. At ten, he abruptly remembers an essay that’s due the next day and hastily writes it, thankful it’s an easy English paper. He’ll have to be careful to finish his homework before training from now on. He knows his mother won’t be happy if his grades slip because of tennis.
The ranking matches start on Monday afternoon, but he only has one match that day. He beats the third year easily, six to love, then wanders over to the adjacent court to watch Kaidoh-senpai’s match. Kaidoh-senpai’s not playing to his usual standards and a quick evaluation reveals the reason - he’s wearing more weights than he usually does. Ryoma briefly ponders the merits of such training and wonders where he can get similar weights. He’ll have to ask Kaidoh-senpai later.
Over the course of the week, he wins all the matches in his block. So do Momo and Kaidoh, which is entirely unsurprising. What really surprises Ryoma is that Horio puts up a passable performance, though it still isn’t enough to merit a regular’s spot. Kachirou and Katsuo have just barely managed to scrape through, and appear to still be in shock. Arai ends up beating everyone he plays other than Momo and takes another regular’s spot. The last two, according to the list, are second-years called Yamaguchi and Hirose, who’d been playing in Block D. Ryoma tries to remember who they are and thinks that maybe he’s got a vague recollection of Hirose. Of course, he could be mixing people up again, so he decides not to speculate till the first regulars’ meeting. He’s a little curious as to what this new team will be like, and if they’re good enough to remain intact after the next ranking matches.
Saturday sees the rest of the club dismissed early, while the new regulars are held back for a meeting. Momo takes charge while Kaidoh and Ryoma fix identical critical gazes on the new team. Ryuuzaki-sensei smirks at them, but neither notice.
“Other than Kaidoh, Echizen and me, none of us have played together before,” Momo says. “We’re going to have to work really hard to pull together properly.”
“Seigaku’s weak point has always been its doubles,” Ryuuzaki-sensei adds. “That’s even more applicable now that we don’t have the Golden Pair. We’ll be focusing a lot on doubles training, so you’ll have to learn to work well with each other.”
“We’ll start with a few random match-ups,” Momo declares. “Keep it simple - all we want to see is how well you work together, not your own special moves. You’ve got five minutes each. First up are Kachirou-Katsuo and Arai-Hirose teams!”
The five-minute matches are over quickly. Ryoma’s initial impression is that he still sucks at doubles, Momo-senpai and Kaidoh-senpai make a good team, Kachirou and Katsuo worked well together, Arai’s awkward but has potential as a doubles player, and Hirose seems able to adapt to anyone’s play style. Kaidoh’s analysis, when he asks, turns out to be similar to his, though Kaidoh leaves out the part about his working well with Momo.
The entire team goes out for burgers afterwards. Arai, Yamaguchi and Hirose watch in unconcealed surprise at the counter when Ryoma looks expectantly at Momo and Kaidoh, who sigh in unison and dig for their wallets. Kaidoh appears to have gone into shock on realising exactly how much food Ryoma’s able to put away at a sitting.
“Six more days,” Momo says morosely, counting how much money he has left. Kaidoh hisses in disgruntled agreement. Ryoma chews on his burger thoughtfully and wonders what their line-up will be.
He sets his alarm clock for half an hour earlier than he really needs to get up. The result of that action is that he’s alighting from the bus at half past eight, bleary-eyed and wondering why on earth he’s early. It’s probably a first for him, he thinks as he tries to rub the sleep from his eyes.
It’s an unpleasant surprise to find that the courts are occupied. He doesn’t remember this place being very popular, but after the refurbishment, he supposes it’s finally starting to get a little traffic. He drops his bag on an unoccupied bench and goes for a quick jog around the courts to warm up, watching the players as he does so. They all look like they’re amateurs.
Tezuka arrives at a quarter to nine and joins him in his run. “We’ll have to wait a while,” Ryoma says. “I don’t think they’ll be done any time soon.”
“It was the same last week,” Tezuka replies. “I waited half an hour before the ball machine was free.”
Ryoma frowns. “That’s not too long, I guess,” he reluctantly concedes. He gestures lightly at one of the players on the middle court. “Ever seen such a sloppy backhand?”
“His grip is weak,” Tezuka comments neutrally.
“He needs to work on building up his strength,” Ryoma snorts. “Speaking of which - buchou, know where I could get some weights for training?”
Tezuka runs an appraising eye over Ryoma’s body. “Yes. But make sure you don’t do too much at a go. You don’t want to end up stunting your growth.”
“I’m already stunted,” Ryoma snorts. “I’m still waiting on that mythical growth spurt.”
The corner of Tezuka’s lips twitches. “Don’t be so impatient,” he says mildly. “What else do you think that person could work on?”
Ryoma shrugs as he slows to a walk and stretches his arms over his head. “His main problem is that he’s over-controlling and over-analysing. See - there, you can tell he was trying to slice the ball to the left, but he screwed it up because he reacted too slowly. It’s like he knows the theory but can’t put it into practice quickly enough.” He reaches the bench where he’d left his bag and eyes the new one next to it, bouncing on his toes in frustration and impatience. He’d come here to play, not to stand around and watch people flub simple moves.
Tezuka nods, bending and unzipping the other bag. “Well put,” he said, and Ryoma finds himself inexplicably flushing. He looks away and tugs at the brim of his cap uncomfortably.
“The far court’s opened up,” Tezuka says, sliding his racquet out of his bag and striding off. Ryoma grabs his own racquet, using the momentary respite to compose himself, and then follows.
Ryoma calls smooth and the racquet lands rough. The first game takes them twenty minutes and Ryoma’s wondering how many times they’re going to push into deuce when, more by luck than anything else, he manages to hit a court ball that Tezuka doesn’t reach in time. They’re both slightly out of breath as they stare at each other across the net.
“Ever played Go?” Tezuka asks. Ryoma blinks at the complete non sequitur.
“No?” he hazards tentatively. Tezuka rolls his shoulders lightly, watching him intently.
“There’s something called a training game,” he says. “A game where you’re not playing to win, but to teach the other player. To help them sharpen their skills.”
It takes Ryoma two seconds to get it. “Oh,” he says eloquently. Tezuka arches an eyebrow.
“Use your Twist Serve,” he says, and turns to return to his position. There’s a small bounce to Ryoma’s step as he takes his own position and leads off with a service ace. What follows isn’t like any other training session Ryoma has ever known. Tezuka doesn’t say anything out loud, but Ryoma notices him shifting his grip or altering the angle of his racquet every so often. When he mimics the changes, he finds his accuracy and power increasing slightly. It’s a minute difference, but that’s because he’s not used to it yet. He’ll have to practice to make the changes second nature.
Fifteen-love into the third game and Tezuka begins to use the Zone. Every time he returns the ball, Ryoma attempts to put as much spin on it as he can, and by the end of the game, he’s managed to ruin Tezuka’s perfect control. He smirks at Tezuka and shifts the position of his hands on his racquet slightly, remembering all those times watching his father use the Zone on him. The smirk turns into an outright grin when Tezuka copies his movements and settles back into the Zone. This time, it takes Ryoma until the last point of the last game to break the Zone, and even then his return goes wildly out of control, giving Tezuka the point and the match.
At least this time, Ryoma thinks ruefully as he collapses on the bench, he made Tezuka work for it. Tezuka drops a towel on his head and sits down next to him.
“That was fun,” Ryoma ventures after a few moments of silence. Tezuka makes a noncommittal sound. Ryoma tries not to sulk.
“I’ll see you next week,” Tezuka finally says. He picks up Ryoma’s water-bottle and taps it against his shoulder. “Don’t get dehydrated.”
Ryoma takes the bottle in silence and watches as Tezuka packs up and leaves. Why, he wonders, his chest tightening slightly, why is he always watching Tezuka walking away?
Tezuka’s forgotten to tell him where he can get the weights he wants, so Ryoma sends him a message on his phone asking. When he gets the reply, he hunts down Kaidoh-senpai and asks him what his training schedule is like. Kaidoh-senpai in turn hunts down Inui-senpai, who meets up with both of them after practice on Tuesday to discuss training regiments. Inui-senpai draws up a tentative plan for Ryoma and tells him to keep track of his performance levels to evaluate when the training menu needs to be reworked.
He tries Inui-senpai’s plan for a few days, but it isn’t giving him the kind of workout he wants. He steps up everything by half again, and that does the trick. He’s back to falling asleep in the bath and collapsing into bed and he misses his Sunday game again because he’s overslept, but he knows he’s improving, and that’s the important thing. He’s played a few matches, and he’s seeing the improvement already. His mother’s been frowning at him a lot lately and once he overhears her arguing with his father about something. He ignores it all in favour of his training. The next day, his father’s frowning at him too. Ryoma twitches uneasily under the dual assault, but neither parent is saying anything yet. He eventually dismisses the way they’re acting; he’s more concerned with the scratchiness of his throat and how lethargic he’s been feeling the past couple of days after his workout.
It’s Thursday. It’s ten o’clock. He processes these two facts with a brain that’s fuzzy with sleep, then nearly falls out of bed in his hurry to get to school. It’s only when he’s dressed that he realises there’s a note next to his alarm clock. It’s from his mother, who says that he’s to stay home from school that day, and that he’s strictly forbidden from doing any tennis practice.
“Mom!” he calls out indignantly, or tries to. The word comes out as a croak and he abruptly realises that he feels simultaneously flushed and clammy. He groans and falls back into bed. He hates being sick.
After a while, he reluctantly gets up, changes back into casual clothes and goes downstairs to find something to drink. His throat’s bothering him a lot more today than it has been for the past few days. Thinking back, he supposes the symptoms had been there for a while, but it’s today that they’ve chosen to come to the fore with a vengeance. He’s lethargic, even if he’s just woken up.
No one’s home, he discovers, but there’s breakfast cooling on the table. He eats maybe half of it but can’t stomach the rest. He downs two glasses of water and feels a little better. Maybe, he thinks, he’ll just go hit a ball for a little while. Nothing too hard, but he might be able to fine-tune his control a little. That’s when he discovers that his racquets are missing.
Evidently, his mother knows him better than he’d thought. There isn’t anything else to do, so he fishes out a tennis magazine he’d bought a few weeks back and still hasn’t read. Karupin curls up next to him on the bed and snoozes in that contented way only a recently-fed, spoiled cat can manage. He pets Karupin as he reads, and falls asleep before he’s finished half the magazine.
His mother’s at his side when he wakes up again, carding her fingers gently through his hair. “Silly boy,” she murmurs affectionately. “You didn’t notice the strain you were putting on yourself, did you?”
Ryoma blinks fuzzily at her. “Wanted to practice,” he mutters, and she says something that he doesn’t hear because he’s fallen asleep again.
He’s feeling a lot better the next day, but his mother insists that he stay home again. He sulks the entire day when he finds out that he’s still not allowed to practice. Even his father refuses to be goaded into a match for once. It’s a relief when he finally gets his racquets back the day after, even if he’s still not allowed to go to club practice. He demands a game from his father, who obliges him with one set that Ryoma loses spectacularly. He suspects his father was playing better than he usually did so that the game would finish quickly. It’s galling to realise exactly how much further he has to go.
He practices his swings and serves until lunch. After the food settles, he goes for a run which his mother agrees to under the condition that he return in an hour. It’s not really long enough so he runs faster than he usually does to maximise the time he’s been allowed. He’s dripping with sweat by the time he returns, and his legs are trembling. He does more conditioning, has a shower, bolts his dinner, and attempts to go out to practice his serves again. His mother flatly refuses to let him, so he reluctantly goes up to his room and studies for a while before going to sleep early. His body doesn’t like the workout he’s put it through today, especially when he’s still recovering from his illness.
His mother won’t let him out the next day, so he sends a brief message to Tezuka: Flu; mum won’t let me out. A few minutes later, he gets a reply that reads Take care. The succinct response is exactly like Tezuka, he thinks, but then he doesn’t really have room to talk.
He tries to repeat his training schedule from the day before, but this time his mother refuses to let him go for his run. “Sit,” she says with unusual firmness, pointing at a chair. He sits. When his mother starts speaking in that tone of voice, there’s no use arguing with her.
“It wasn’t just some bug you caught,” she says in English. Her choice of language is a bad sign; she’s even more serious about this than Ryoma had initially thought. “You’re working yourself into the ground, Ryoma. Training is fine, but you have to remember you’re still growing. You have to make allowances for your body.”
Ryoma stares at her uncomprehendingly. Then he remembers Inui-senpai’s training schedule, and what he’d said about its impact on Ryoma’s body, and how Inui-senpai had also drawn up a diet plan to ensure that Ryoma wasn’t ruining his physical development with his training. He remembers Tezuka telling him not to be impatient. It’s like everything clicks, and he suddenly feels like a bit of an idiot.
“Oh,” he says in a small voice, and doesn’t protest when his mother shoos him upstairs to get some rest.
Part Two
Pairing: Gen (Ryoma-centric)/Pre-slash (Tezuka/Ryoma)
Rating: PG
Notes: Merrily ignores canon ending. Ryoma stays on in Seigaku and doesn't go pro yet.
Warnings: OC alert! I'm sorry; generally I hate using OCs, but I really had no choice here. We just don't know enough non-regulars, and I needed a full team. You'll see what I mean when you get to those parts.
Cross-posted to zuka_ryo, tezukaryouma and tenipuri_yaoi.
Shoutout to atleastintheory for tolerating me while this fic was gestating, mutating, and eating my brain. It's not easy talking to me when I've been taken over by rabid plotbunnies, but somehow she manages to put up with me. ♥
The Winding Path
He doesn’t know why he’s still here now, when it’s so dark that he can barely see where he’s stepping and the only reason he isn’t walking into anything is because he’s travelled this path hundreds of times. The graduation ceremony is long over, he still has school tomorrow and he knows he should go home and get some rest, but for reasons he isn’t thinking too hard about, he doesn’t feel like leaving. Only the school auditorium is still lit, and the faint sounds of the third-years’ party (someone’s been reading too much about American proms, he thinks) drifts to him on the wind. He wonders what things will be like from now on, with five of the regulars gone.
There’s someone on the courts, he realises as he draws nearer. He watches the tall, solitary figure swinging the racquet, the tennis ball bouncing off the wall and being returned, the way the person never takes a single step away from where he’s standing. He stands outside the fences and watches in silence. There’s something hypnotic about the rhythm of the swings. He picks the right hand to focus on, watching how it flexes even when the racquet’s being swung with the left, like it’s remembering what it’s like to catch the ball, to feel its solid weight and perfectly control its movements.
“Tezuka-buchou,” he says. His voice is intrusive in the still air and he glances at the ground momentarily. “Not attending the party?”
“I’m not interested in dancing,” Tezuka replies calmly, never faltering in his rhythm. “Why haven’t you gone home yet, Echizen?”
Ryoma doesn’t answer. Instead, he watches the movement of the ball, absently noting that it’s being deliberately hit to completely different places on the wall. The ball keeps curving back towards Tezuka, the way everything ends up coming back to him eventually. He thinks of all the girls he’s heard today talking about how they were going to ask Tezuka or Fuji or Kikumaru to dance with them at the party that night. He thinks of the girl who’d been planning with her friends the best way to confess to Tezuka. He remembers thinking that Tezuka’s not the kind of person who would cheat on someone, and he already has tennis so it’s not like she would have had a chance, no matter how she asked. He thinks about the speech Tezuka had given as the school council president. He remembers how Tezuka had looked like up there on the stage; aloof, impenetrable, adult, distant. Lonely.
“Echizen,” Tezuka says, and fields the ball. “Get my spare racquet and come here.” He turns without checking to see if Ryoma’s following his instructions. He doesn’t need to. Ryoma removes Tezuka’s racquet from his bag and carefully tests its tension as he steps onto the courts and takes his position.
They’re both still in their school uniforms, even if they’ve taken off the outer jackets. There’s no net because everything’s been packed away and there’s something oddly urgent in Tezuka’s movements, something that won’t let him stop to get the nets out from the clubroom. The only lighting is what strays their way from the school auditorium, so there are strange shadows leaping everywhere and sometimes they can barely see the ball. They play hard and fast like they always do, estimating as best they can whether their shots are making it over where the net should be, throwing themselves into the movements because neither of them have ever known how to hold back. It’s the most exhilarating game Ryoma has ever played, even if it ends with him flat on his face after an unsuccessful dive for a zero-shiki drop shot. Tezuka’s panting heavily as he stands before Ryoma, right hand braced on his knee as he tries to catch his breath.
“Somehow,” Ryoma says as he pulls himself to his knees. “This seems really familiar.”
Tezuka hesitates for the barest moment; then he exhales slowly and straightens, stepping forward and offering a hand to Ryoma. “It should,” he replies in a neutral tone. “Don’t forget what I told you.”
“What you told me that day?” Ryoma asks, letting Tezuka pull him to his feet. “Or what you just told me?”
“Both,” Tezuka says, his hand lingering in Ryoma’s a second too long. Ryoma nods and passes him his racquet, watching in silence as Tezuka packs up. Tezuka’s shirt has come un-tucked and is pink in places where it’s plastered to his skin with sweat. His shoes are scuffed and his hair’s even messier than usual. There are beads of sweat still trickling down his neck, and Ryoma tracks one until it rolls beneath cloth and disappears. Despite everything, Tezuka somehow manages to look entirely composed and in control. This is what buchou is, Ryoma thinks absently, and tucks the memory away as one of his favourite yet.
“I want to play you,” Ryoma says as Tezuka zips up his bag and hoists it onto his shoulder. Again, he adds in his head. Tezuka turns around to face him, staring at him for a moment before nodding.
“Let me sort out my schedule,” Tezuka replies. “I’ll let you know.”
Ryoma shrugs and nods. “Whenever works,” he says. Tezuka rests his hand on Ryoma’s shoulder briefly.
“Don’t let your guard down,” he says. “There’s still a long way to go.”
Ryoma smirks. “I know,” he says. Tezuka nods and starts to walk away. Ryoma stays where he is and watches until he can’t see even the vaguest outline in the darkness. It’s only then that he leaves. He’ll need to be up early tomorrow, and he’s been out too long as it is.
A week after the school year starts, Tezuka calls him. He’s been expecting the call, but something like a thrill still shoots through him when he sees the unfamiliar number on his phone, answers, and hears Tezuka’s voice on the other end. Finally, he thinks, someone strong to play against. Someone to measure himself against. There are only so many times he can demand Momo-senpai and Kaidoh-senpai play against him during club practice.
“The class workload is quite heavy,” Tezuka says. “But practice isn’t as rigorous as it used to be. I will be at the courts at Haruno every Sunday at nine to work more intensively.”
“I’ll come down whenever I’m free then,” Ryoma says. “Don’t slack off, buchou.”
“You know you should be calling Kaidoh that now,” Tezuka admonishes gently.
“Kaidoh-senpai doesn’t mind,” Ryoma retorts. “He still needs Momo-senpai to remind him that when someone says ‘buchou,’ they mean him.”
There’s something like a laugh lurking in Tezuka’s voice when he replies. “He’ll get used to it,” he says. “It took me a while, too.”
“Can’t see it,” Ryoma responds immediately, and it’s true. Sometimes he thinks that Tezuka was born the way he is now.
“How is the team doing?” Tezuka asks.
“Weak,” Ryoma replies. “You know, you took some really strong players with you. I don’t know if we’ll make Nationals this year. And next year will be even worse.”
“Step up the training,” Tezuka says. “I’m sure Inui will be glad to concoct some motivational drinks if you ask.”
“We’re trying to train the members, not kill them,” Ryoma retorts instantly.
“They’re good for the body,” Tezuka says blandly. “And perhaps you should look to the incoming first-years for talent?”
“I doubt we’ll get seven talented first-years coming in next year, buchou,” Ryoma replies equally blandly. “And if they’re that good for the body, you can drink them.”
“I’ll pass,” Tezuka replies. “Sunday, then.”
“See you at nine,” Ryoma agrees. “Later, buchou.”
It’s funny, Ryoma thinks, how he’s barely ever spoken to Tezuka, and yet the low-key bantering had come so naturally to him. He finds Tezuka’s number logged in his phone memory and saves it under “Buchou.” Then he circles Sunday on his wall calendar with a red marker, scribbling 9!! next to it. As an afterthought, he draws a tennis ball over it and then heads out to coerce his father into a game.
Nanjirou refuses to play seriously and still beats him six to love. He tunes out his father’s victory song and practices his swings even though he’s exhausted. Still not good enough, he thinks, but then it’s not like you’ll ever be good enough. There’s always someone out there who’s better, isn’t there?
His father trips over Karupin, who promptly claws him where no man ever wants to be clawed. Ryoma stares for a moment, then turns to hide his laughter as Nanjirou shrieks piercingly. That’s one way to beat his old man. Karupin indignantly trots over to Ryoma, who obliges him with a few pets. He wonders if he can train Karupin to repeat his little feat. Karupin meows at him with a mischievous look in his eyes that exactly matches Ryoma’s.
Ryoma smirks at his father, who’s only now getting to his feet, holding himself gingerly.
“What?” Nanjirou asks warily.
It really is weird hearing people call Kaidoh-senpai “buchou.” The club’s reactions on finding out who their new captain would be had been amusing, to say the least. Half of them had been shocked into silence and the other half had been whimpering about how they were doomed. Momo-senpai had burst out laughing at Kaidoh’s shocked look, and then choked on his own laughter when he’d been given the vice-captain’s spot.
“I have to work with him?!” they’d demanded in synchronised outrage.
“You’re already speaking in unison,” Ryoma had deadpanned. “I’m sure you’ll work together wonderfully.”
He’d been trapped in a headlock by Momo for that remark. It’s true, Ryoma thinks, that Momo and Kaidoh still fight at every opportunity, but they both still have the club’s welfare at heart. As he enters the courts for practice on Monday afternoon, Ryoma smirks at the unusual sight of Momo and Kaidoh with their heads bent together and not arguing. The problem of working out the blocks for the ranking matches has evidently forced them to put aside their differences.
“You’re leaving it to them?” Ryoma asks Ryuuzaki-sensei as he stretches lightly. She grins in response.
“They’re working together better than I expected,” she says. “It should be ready soon. While they’re working, round up the rest of the club. You know what we’re doing today, right?”
Ryoma stares blankly at her. She waves impatiently at him. “Go on,” she says. “I think I’ll have to help them a little - the numbers we have this year are a little hard to handle. You might as well start to learn how to work with the club.”
Ryoma sulks all the way to the other side of the court. “Oi, everyone! Get over here!” he yells, thankful his voice doesn’t crack. It had just begun to do so over the holidays, and his father still teases him every time it goes a little squeaky. Ryoma’s holding out hope that this means he’ll hit his growth spurt soon as well. At a hundred and fifty-six centimetres, he’s still one of the shortest people in his class.
“The three of them,” he says, jerking a thumb in the direction of the three people who were supposed to be in charge. “Are occupied, so I’m taking you through training for now.” He pauses, but no one challenges him. “We’re focusing on endurance training for today. First-years, divide into five equal groups and wait for your instructions. Everyone else - ten laps, and then do your stretches.”
The second and third-years are halfway through their first lap by the time the first-years have organised themselves. Ryoma waits impatiently, and then assigns them to set up and man different stations. The training they’re doing today is based off the conditioning training that the regulars had undergone the previous year, prior to playing Rikkaidai. He’d been there when Ryuuzaki-sensei and Kaidoh-senpai had been working out the logistics of making the entire club undergo similar training, which is the only reason he now knows what to do.
They’re training him, Ryoma realises as he takes off for his own laps, for the role of captain next year. He doesn’t want it. It’s a spot that’s always reserved for Tezuka in his mind. He’d rather be free to just play his own tennis without having to concern himself with the club… and that, he thinks half-resentfully, is exactly why they’re exposing him to what it takes to be captain now. Kaidoh-senpai might terrify most of the club, but his indefatigable spirit is a good influence and there’s no denying that he provides the necessary discipline. Besides, he has Momo-senpai to play big brother to those members who need it. It’s a little like how Tezuka-buchou and Oishi-senpai had worked, now that he thinks about it. But there’s no telling who’ll get the spot of vice-captain next year. Unfortunately, he’ll probably be captain, but there’s no guarantee he’ll have the kind of support Oishi or Momo are capable of. It’s probably why Ryuuzaki-sensei’s making him work with the club now, so that they’re a little more comfortable with him.
He laps the stragglers and pushes himself a little more, trying to diminish the two-lap head-start the fastest runners have on him. He doesn’t quite manage. By the time he finishes, he’s behind at least five others. He consoles himself with the knowledge that he’s at least lapped everyone twice and wanders over to where Ryuuzaki-sensei is still sitting with Kaidoh-senpai and Momo-senpai.
“Sensei, you done?” he asks, stretching lightly and watching as the last few members turn the corner.
“Not quite,” she says, lips twitching slightly. “Why don’t you go ahead and conduct the training yourself?”
Momo looks up and outright grins at him. “We’ll leave it to you, Echizen!” he declares cheerfully. Kaidoh doesn’t even look up from the paper he’s currently attempting to burn with the force of his glare.
Momo-senpai, Ryoma decides as he heads back to the rest of the club, is buying him burgers for a week.
He tortures the club members for the rest of practice and feels marginally more cheerful. At the end of practice, Kaidoh yells for everyone to gather again. It takes them considerably more effort this time to drag themselves into some semblance of order. Ryoma smirks at their horrified looks when they’re informed that they can expect similar conditioning and endurance training regularly.
“Ranking matches start next week,” Kaidoh tells the club, and they perk up slightly in interest. “The block divisions will be up tomorrow. Check to see when you’re playing and make sure you’re on time. Dismissed!”
“What are the blocks like?” Ryoma asks curiously as he heads back to the clubroom with Momo. In response, Momo waves a sheaf of papers at him.
“We’re all in different blocks,” he says. “I’m in C, you’re in B, and Mamushi’s in A.”
“Don’t call me that,” Kaidoh growls from behind them.
“You have a problem?” Momo snarls right back.
“You’re both treating me to burgers for a week,” Ryoma announces. That stops them both in their tracks.
“What?” Kaidoh splutters.
“At first I thought I’d make only Momo-senpai pay,” Ryoma explains. “But that’s not fair since I was also doing Kaidoh-senpai’s work today… so you can split the cost.”
“I don’t have enough money to feed you for a week!” Momo wails.
“Not my problem, senpai,” Ryoma replies archly and walks off, tapping his racquet on his shoulder idly. He’s expecting it when Momo and Kaidoh both follow, both trying to haggle over how much food they’ll need to pay for. He’ll never admit it, but it’s really fun stringing them both along and then refusing to lower his demands. All he agrees to is to spread the seven days out over a few months to ease the crunch. And as a bonus, he’s completely distracted Momo and Kaidoh from their budding fight.
It’s a slightly bewildered Kaidoh he leaves behind to lock up. At least Momo’s used to Ryoma mooching meals off him, but it’s probably the first time anyone’s done something like that to Kaidoh. Ryoma declines a lift home from a slightly disgruntled Momo and walks back instead. He’s still a little wound up from having to run practice, and hopes the cool evening air will soothe him. It doesn’t.
It’s Karupin who greets him at the door with an insistent meow. He checks the clock; he’s a little late getting back and it’s past Karupin’s dinner-time. That explains his cat’s annoyance.
“Give me a minute,” Ryoma tells Karupin, who ignores him and raises his voice to ear-splitting levels. Ryoma drops his bag and runs for the food before Karupin brings the entire house down.
“You’re so spoiled,” he scolds as he pours the dry cat food into Karupin’s bowl. Karupin flicks an ear at him in response as he settles down happily with his dinner. Ryoma pets him for a while as he eats, letting the familiar, repetitive action calm him a little. Living, purring stress ball, he thinks. Eventually he gets up and retrieves his bag from the hallway, deposits it in his room, and then moves determinedly towards the bath.
Something’s nagging at him about how he’d had to run the practice today. He spends at least an hour in the bath trying to figure it out. All that is accomplished is that the water eventually turns cold, his skin’s completely wrinkled and he’s still feeling out of sorts when he finally, reluctantly steps out. He’s just in time, as it turns out, because that’s when Nanako calls out that dinner’s ready. After eating, he goes back to his room and breezes through his science and English homework, puzzles over math for a bit, and half-heartedly scratches his way through Japanese. He really doesn’t like the subject. It’s true that he’s been speaking Japanese and English interchangeably through most of his life, but until he came to Japan, he’d rarely had cause to write in Japanese. He can read it all right, but his written Japanese always looks to him like a little kid’s handwriting, especially when he’s learning new kanji. It grates on him.
Somehow, he manages to finish the homework. The clock on his desk informs him that it’s too late to play a game against his father, so he wanders downstairs to find Karupin instead. Karupin immediately abandons the rattle he’d been playing with and purrs as he winds around Ryoma’s ankles.
“Stupid cat,” Nanjirou grumbles from in front of the television. It’s some stupid drama he’s watching, and Ryoma immediately dismisses it. “Even though I was the one who bought him.”
“He has good taste,” Ryoma retorts, scooping Karupin into a hug.
“He’s a traitor!” Nanjirou exclaims. Karupin yowls directly into Ryoma’s ear. Rinko comes into the living room in time to catch the tail-end of their conversation and blithely agrees with Ryoma. Nanjirou wails about how he’s been betrayed by his wife as well. The sheer stupidity of the conversation is oddly soothing, and as Ryoma starts arguing with his father about Karupin’s taste in people, he barely notices the tension draining away.
The next afternoon, Momo-senpai takes it on himself to list out some of the things that the captain has to do to keep the club running. Ryoma comes away from the impromptu lecture wondering how on earth Tezuka had managed to balance all that work with his student council activities, and still do so well in his studies that he topped the cohort.
“You don’t have to worry about it now,” Ryuuzaki-sensei tells him with some amusement when she sees his slightly traumatised expression. He scowls and tugs at the brim of his cap. Funny, he thinks, that they all feel the need to prep him for next year and then tell him not to worry. By the time practice ends, he’s forgotten Ryuuzaki-sensei’s comment. As he walks home, he tries to recall who the current club members are and is dismayed to find that he barely remembers any of them. He’s really quite isolated from the rest of the club, now that he thinks about it. Last year, most of the new members had had time to mingle amongst their own year-mates and make friends. Ryoma, on the other hand, had immediately been thrust amongst the regulars. He’d grown close to them, but that was at the expense of not getting to know anyone else. The fan-club, he thinks uncharitably, doesn’t count.
He really doesn’t want to be captain if it means he’ll have to actually pay attention to the rest of the club. He sighs as he reaches his house. One year to learn their names and faces, he thinks, and wonders if it’s enough time. He won’t have to know everyone, surely?
They play practice matches over the next few days in preparation for the ranking matches the next week. Ryoma’s astonished to discover midway through the week that Kachirou and Katsuo make a decent doubles pair. They’ve never been put together during practice before, but they admit that they’ve been working together during the holidays at the club where Kachirou’s father works. It explains why they’re suddenly more in tune with each other than they used to be. Ryoma surprises himself and everyone else within earshot by volunteering advice on how they could increase their power by adjusting their grip slightly.
Half an hour later, when he glances over, he sees that they’re conscientiously working on their swings. A few others who’d heard Ryoma’s advice are doing the same. He stares for a moment in bewilderment, then tugs his cap down firmly and steps onto a free court for his own practice match.
He plays a quick and brutal game against Momo, taking it six to two. “Can’t relax against you, huh?” Momo asks afterwards, tackling him in a headlock and messing up his hair. “Can’t relax at all!”
Ryoma squirms loose. “Did you expect me to go easy?” he asks. Momo grins and heads off to give the first-years their next set of exercises. Ryoma scoops up a couple of balls and pockets them, wandering off to find a wall to batter. He whacks the back of Horio’s knees with his racquet as he passes.
“Too stiff,” he says casually, and ignores the splutters of outrage.
He focuses most of his attention on his own practice, but keeps an ear on the sounds coming from the courts. He chooses two people whose names he’d found out earlier and sets about trying to commit them to memory. Their play style is decent, though nothing spectacular. As he repeatedly slams the ball back against the concrete, he repeats their names to himself and tries to remember which name goes with which face. Halfway through, he realises that he’s forgotten if they were Sakurada and Yamamoto or Yamada and Sakamoto, and gives it up as a bad job. He’s still annoyed by the time he hears Ryuuzaki-sensei rounding everyone up and goes back to the courts.
When he gets home, he puts himself through as much training as his body can take until he literally collapses in exhaustion. He goes to bed early and is immediately dead to the world. The next morning, his muscles ache in ways he’d forgotten they were capable of. He feels like an amateur. It takes twice as much stretching that morning than it usually does to get him feeling somewhat limber. The stiffness and pain only serve to increase his aggravation at the world in general. He’s in a somewhat sullen mood the whole day, and even beating Kaidoh six-three that afternoon doesn’t improve his spirits.
That evening, he repeats the training regiment that he’d tried yesterday and manages to complete it though all his muscles are screaming in protest at the end. He falls asleep in the bath and wakes up to Karupin’s deafening yowl outside the door. He shuffles out tiredly, tries to bend to pet Karupin, decides his back isn’t up to complicated movements, and heads instead for bed. Once he’s safely horizontal, he beckons for Karupin to join him on the bed and pets his cat gently. He’s asleep in less than a minute. Karupin blinks inquisitively at him.
He has more free time on Saturday, so he coaxes a game out of his father on top of the training he’d set up for himself. He’s so tired that evening that he sleeps until noon the next day. It takes him ten minutes and a look at his calendar to work out why that’s significant. He spends the next ten minutes mentally flaying himself and texts a quick apology to Tezuka. Even if he couldn’t play Tezuka, he trains through most of the afternoon; the evening, he decides, will be a break. He wants to be in good condition for the ranking matches. At ten, he abruptly remembers an essay that’s due the next day and hastily writes it, thankful it’s an easy English paper. He’ll have to be careful to finish his homework before training from now on. He knows his mother won’t be happy if his grades slip because of tennis.
The ranking matches start on Monday afternoon, but he only has one match that day. He beats the third year easily, six to love, then wanders over to the adjacent court to watch Kaidoh-senpai’s match. Kaidoh-senpai’s not playing to his usual standards and a quick evaluation reveals the reason - he’s wearing more weights than he usually does. Ryoma briefly ponders the merits of such training and wonders where he can get similar weights. He’ll have to ask Kaidoh-senpai later.
Over the course of the week, he wins all the matches in his block. So do Momo and Kaidoh, which is entirely unsurprising. What really surprises Ryoma is that Horio puts up a passable performance, though it still isn’t enough to merit a regular’s spot. Kachirou and Katsuo have just barely managed to scrape through, and appear to still be in shock. Arai ends up beating everyone he plays other than Momo and takes another regular’s spot. The last two, according to the list, are second-years called Yamaguchi and Hirose, who’d been playing in Block D. Ryoma tries to remember who they are and thinks that maybe he’s got a vague recollection of Hirose. Of course, he could be mixing people up again, so he decides not to speculate till the first regulars’ meeting. He’s a little curious as to what this new team will be like, and if they’re good enough to remain intact after the next ranking matches.
Saturday sees the rest of the club dismissed early, while the new regulars are held back for a meeting. Momo takes charge while Kaidoh and Ryoma fix identical critical gazes on the new team. Ryuuzaki-sensei smirks at them, but neither notice.
“Other than Kaidoh, Echizen and me, none of us have played together before,” Momo says. “We’re going to have to work really hard to pull together properly.”
“Seigaku’s weak point has always been its doubles,” Ryuuzaki-sensei adds. “That’s even more applicable now that we don’t have the Golden Pair. We’ll be focusing a lot on doubles training, so you’ll have to learn to work well with each other.”
“We’ll start with a few random match-ups,” Momo declares. “Keep it simple - all we want to see is how well you work together, not your own special moves. You’ve got five minutes each. First up are Kachirou-Katsuo and Arai-Hirose teams!”
The five-minute matches are over quickly. Ryoma’s initial impression is that he still sucks at doubles, Momo-senpai and Kaidoh-senpai make a good team, Kachirou and Katsuo worked well together, Arai’s awkward but has potential as a doubles player, and Hirose seems able to adapt to anyone’s play style. Kaidoh’s analysis, when he asks, turns out to be similar to his, though Kaidoh leaves out the part about his working well with Momo.
The entire team goes out for burgers afterwards. Arai, Yamaguchi and Hirose watch in unconcealed surprise at the counter when Ryoma looks expectantly at Momo and Kaidoh, who sigh in unison and dig for their wallets. Kaidoh appears to have gone into shock on realising exactly how much food Ryoma’s able to put away at a sitting.
“Six more days,” Momo says morosely, counting how much money he has left. Kaidoh hisses in disgruntled agreement. Ryoma chews on his burger thoughtfully and wonders what their line-up will be.
He sets his alarm clock for half an hour earlier than he really needs to get up. The result of that action is that he’s alighting from the bus at half past eight, bleary-eyed and wondering why on earth he’s early. It’s probably a first for him, he thinks as he tries to rub the sleep from his eyes.
It’s an unpleasant surprise to find that the courts are occupied. He doesn’t remember this place being very popular, but after the refurbishment, he supposes it’s finally starting to get a little traffic. He drops his bag on an unoccupied bench and goes for a quick jog around the courts to warm up, watching the players as he does so. They all look like they’re amateurs.
Tezuka arrives at a quarter to nine and joins him in his run. “We’ll have to wait a while,” Ryoma says. “I don’t think they’ll be done any time soon.”
“It was the same last week,” Tezuka replies. “I waited half an hour before the ball machine was free.”
Ryoma frowns. “That’s not too long, I guess,” he reluctantly concedes. He gestures lightly at one of the players on the middle court. “Ever seen such a sloppy backhand?”
“His grip is weak,” Tezuka comments neutrally.
“He needs to work on building up his strength,” Ryoma snorts. “Speaking of which - buchou, know where I could get some weights for training?”
Tezuka runs an appraising eye over Ryoma’s body. “Yes. But make sure you don’t do too much at a go. You don’t want to end up stunting your growth.”
“I’m already stunted,” Ryoma snorts. “I’m still waiting on that mythical growth spurt.”
The corner of Tezuka’s lips twitches. “Don’t be so impatient,” he says mildly. “What else do you think that person could work on?”
Ryoma shrugs as he slows to a walk and stretches his arms over his head. “His main problem is that he’s over-controlling and over-analysing. See - there, you can tell he was trying to slice the ball to the left, but he screwed it up because he reacted too slowly. It’s like he knows the theory but can’t put it into practice quickly enough.” He reaches the bench where he’d left his bag and eyes the new one next to it, bouncing on his toes in frustration and impatience. He’d come here to play, not to stand around and watch people flub simple moves.
Tezuka nods, bending and unzipping the other bag. “Well put,” he said, and Ryoma finds himself inexplicably flushing. He looks away and tugs at the brim of his cap uncomfortably.
“The far court’s opened up,” Tezuka says, sliding his racquet out of his bag and striding off. Ryoma grabs his own racquet, using the momentary respite to compose himself, and then follows.
Ryoma calls smooth and the racquet lands rough. The first game takes them twenty minutes and Ryoma’s wondering how many times they’re going to push into deuce when, more by luck than anything else, he manages to hit a court ball that Tezuka doesn’t reach in time. They’re both slightly out of breath as they stare at each other across the net.
“Ever played Go?” Tezuka asks. Ryoma blinks at the complete non sequitur.
“No?” he hazards tentatively. Tezuka rolls his shoulders lightly, watching him intently.
“There’s something called a training game,” he says. “A game where you’re not playing to win, but to teach the other player. To help them sharpen their skills.”
It takes Ryoma two seconds to get it. “Oh,” he says eloquently. Tezuka arches an eyebrow.
“Use your Twist Serve,” he says, and turns to return to his position. There’s a small bounce to Ryoma’s step as he takes his own position and leads off with a service ace. What follows isn’t like any other training session Ryoma has ever known. Tezuka doesn’t say anything out loud, but Ryoma notices him shifting his grip or altering the angle of his racquet every so often. When he mimics the changes, he finds his accuracy and power increasing slightly. It’s a minute difference, but that’s because he’s not used to it yet. He’ll have to practice to make the changes second nature.
Fifteen-love into the third game and Tezuka begins to use the Zone. Every time he returns the ball, Ryoma attempts to put as much spin on it as he can, and by the end of the game, he’s managed to ruin Tezuka’s perfect control. He smirks at Tezuka and shifts the position of his hands on his racquet slightly, remembering all those times watching his father use the Zone on him. The smirk turns into an outright grin when Tezuka copies his movements and settles back into the Zone. This time, it takes Ryoma until the last point of the last game to break the Zone, and even then his return goes wildly out of control, giving Tezuka the point and the match.
At least this time, Ryoma thinks ruefully as he collapses on the bench, he made Tezuka work for it. Tezuka drops a towel on his head and sits down next to him.
“That was fun,” Ryoma ventures after a few moments of silence. Tezuka makes a noncommittal sound. Ryoma tries not to sulk.
“I’ll see you next week,” Tezuka finally says. He picks up Ryoma’s water-bottle and taps it against his shoulder. “Don’t get dehydrated.”
Ryoma takes the bottle in silence and watches as Tezuka packs up and leaves. Why, he wonders, his chest tightening slightly, why is he always watching Tezuka walking away?
Tezuka’s forgotten to tell him where he can get the weights he wants, so Ryoma sends him a message on his phone asking. When he gets the reply, he hunts down Kaidoh-senpai and asks him what his training schedule is like. Kaidoh-senpai in turn hunts down Inui-senpai, who meets up with both of them after practice on Tuesday to discuss training regiments. Inui-senpai draws up a tentative plan for Ryoma and tells him to keep track of his performance levels to evaluate when the training menu needs to be reworked.
He tries Inui-senpai’s plan for a few days, but it isn’t giving him the kind of workout he wants. He steps up everything by half again, and that does the trick. He’s back to falling asleep in the bath and collapsing into bed and he misses his Sunday game again because he’s overslept, but he knows he’s improving, and that’s the important thing. He’s played a few matches, and he’s seeing the improvement already. His mother’s been frowning at him a lot lately and once he overhears her arguing with his father about something. He ignores it all in favour of his training. The next day, his father’s frowning at him too. Ryoma twitches uneasily under the dual assault, but neither parent is saying anything yet. He eventually dismisses the way they’re acting; he’s more concerned with the scratchiness of his throat and how lethargic he’s been feeling the past couple of days after his workout.
It’s Thursday. It’s ten o’clock. He processes these two facts with a brain that’s fuzzy with sleep, then nearly falls out of bed in his hurry to get to school. It’s only when he’s dressed that he realises there’s a note next to his alarm clock. It’s from his mother, who says that he’s to stay home from school that day, and that he’s strictly forbidden from doing any tennis practice.
“Mom!” he calls out indignantly, or tries to. The word comes out as a croak and he abruptly realises that he feels simultaneously flushed and clammy. He groans and falls back into bed. He hates being sick.
After a while, he reluctantly gets up, changes back into casual clothes and goes downstairs to find something to drink. His throat’s bothering him a lot more today than it has been for the past few days. Thinking back, he supposes the symptoms had been there for a while, but it’s today that they’ve chosen to come to the fore with a vengeance. He’s lethargic, even if he’s just woken up.
No one’s home, he discovers, but there’s breakfast cooling on the table. He eats maybe half of it but can’t stomach the rest. He downs two glasses of water and feels a little better. Maybe, he thinks, he’ll just go hit a ball for a little while. Nothing too hard, but he might be able to fine-tune his control a little. That’s when he discovers that his racquets are missing.
Evidently, his mother knows him better than he’d thought. There isn’t anything else to do, so he fishes out a tennis magazine he’d bought a few weeks back and still hasn’t read. Karupin curls up next to him on the bed and snoozes in that contented way only a recently-fed, spoiled cat can manage. He pets Karupin as he reads, and falls asleep before he’s finished half the magazine.
His mother’s at his side when he wakes up again, carding her fingers gently through his hair. “Silly boy,” she murmurs affectionately. “You didn’t notice the strain you were putting on yourself, did you?”
Ryoma blinks fuzzily at her. “Wanted to practice,” he mutters, and she says something that he doesn’t hear because he’s fallen asleep again.
He’s feeling a lot better the next day, but his mother insists that he stay home again. He sulks the entire day when he finds out that he’s still not allowed to practice. Even his father refuses to be goaded into a match for once. It’s a relief when he finally gets his racquets back the day after, even if he’s still not allowed to go to club practice. He demands a game from his father, who obliges him with one set that Ryoma loses spectacularly. He suspects his father was playing better than he usually did so that the game would finish quickly. It’s galling to realise exactly how much further he has to go.
He practices his swings and serves until lunch. After the food settles, he goes for a run which his mother agrees to under the condition that he return in an hour. It’s not really long enough so he runs faster than he usually does to maximise the time he’s been allowed. He’s dripping with sweat by the time he returns, and his legs are trembling. He does more conditioning, has a shower, bolts his dinner, and attempts to go out to practice his serves again. His mother flatly refuses to let him, so he reluctantly goes up to his room and studies for a while before going to sleep early. His body doesn’t like the workout he’s put it through today, especially when he’s still recovering from his illness.
His mother won’t let him out the next day, so he sends a brief message to Tezuka: Flu; mum won’t let me out. A few minutes later, he gets a reply that reads Take care. The succinct response is exactly like Tezuka, he thinks, but then he doesn’t really have room to talk.
He tries to repeat his training schedule from the day before, but this time his mother refuses to let him go for his run. “Sit,” she says with unusual firmness, pointing at a chair. He sits. When his mother starts speaking in that tone of voice, there’s no use arguing with her.
“It wasn’t just some bug you caught,” she says in English. Her choice of language is a bad sign; she’s even more serious about this than Ryoma had initially thought. “You’re working yourself into the ground, Ryoma. Training is fine, but you have to remember you’re still growing. You have to make allowances for your body.”
Ryoma stares at her uncomprehendingly. Then he remembers Inui-senpai’s training schedule, and what he’d said about its impact on Ryoma’s body, and how Inui-senpai had also drawn up a diet plan to ensure that Ryoma wasn’t ruining his physical development with his training. He remembers Tezuka telling him not to be impatient. It’s like everything clicks, and he suddenly feels like a bit of an idiot.
“Oh,” he says in a small voice, and doesn’t protest when his mother shoos him upstairs to get some rest.
Part Two