Fanfic - The Winding Path [The Prince of Tennis: Gen/Pre-slash (Tezuka/Ryoma)]

[soera]

Part One

The new team’s decent, but like Ryoma had expected, they’re not going to the Nationals that year. In fact, they only make it to the Kanto semi-finals this time before they come up against Fudomine. Kachirou and Katsuo lose in second doubles; Momo and Kaidoh win first doubles, and then they lose the next two singles matches before Ryoma even gets to play. If the match teaches them anything, it’s that they can’t afford to put Momo and Kaidoh anywhere other than singles. But it’s too late for regrets, and they bow across the net to each other and Shinji mumbles something about wanting to play Ryoma and Kamio hits him in the shoulder and somehow losing isn’t as painful or difficult as Ryoma had thought it would be.

The difficult part comes later, when he discovers that the team’s taking it worse than he is. They’re all disheartened, especially Arai, who feels like he’s let everyone down by losing second singles. Even Momo-senpai’s too exhausted and discouraged to cheer anyone up.

“You know, there’s still next year,” Ryoma offers quietly. “It’s true we’ll lose Momo-senpai, Kaidoh-senpai and Arai, but there’s still five of us… assuming you four work to stay in the regulars, of course. It’s less of a turnover.”

It’s not much as far as inspirational speeches go, but for whatever reason, it makes Kachirou perk up, and he then takes on the job of cheering everyone else up. Ryoma taps Momo and Kaidoh on their shoulders with his racquet as he passes them, prompting a tired grin from Momo and an equally tired hiss from Kaidoh. There’s something like a smile on Ryoma’s face when he leaves.

It’s the next week that he notices something distinctly strange. He doesn’t have to look up quite so far any more to meet Kaidoh-senpai’s eyes. He goes home and gets his mother to measure his height and sure enough, he’s grown a little. He downs a glass of milk and keeps his fingers crossed. Neither of his parents are very tall individuals, so he’ll probably never get to be as tall as Inui-senpai, for instance, but it would be nice not to be even shorter than the girls in his class.

He goes to the courts at Haruno that Sunday and plays one of the hardest matches of his life against Tezuka. It isn’t a training game they play that day - it’s fast and competitive and he has to work for every single point and Tezuka’s going all out, Tezuka’s playing him with everything he’s got, and the knowledge burns in his chest as he strains to catch impossibly sharp and accurate balls. He loses the match, but somehow he doesn’t feel like he’s lost at all. This time, Tezuka walks him back as far as the bus stop, and waits with him for his bus to come. Ryoma complains about Japanese homework and Tezuka gives him a typically Tezuka response about doing his best. Ryoma’s just starting to protest that he much prefers reading English when his bus arrives, and he tips his cap to Tezuka and boards it without finishing his defence. He watches Tezuka’s figure receding in the distance until he can’t see him anymore, then slumps against the window and half-dozes all the way home.

Over the next few months, he discovers conclusively that he’s finally hit the growth spurt he’s been waiting for. His body seems to want to get all the growing over and done with as quickly as possible. He’s glad not to be so short anymore, but the downside is that he can’t seem to get used to his new body. He doesn’t feel like he belongs in his own skin, and the feeling’s compounded when he starts missing easy shots and messing up movements that were once second nature to him. He practices vigorously to get used to his new reach and capabilities, but it takes a long time for him to settle back into his game. His Sunday games are a god-send; Tezuka resumes the training matches and tailors them such that Ryoma can stretch himself fully and get used to his new frame. Ryoma uses Tezuka’s birthday as an excuse to sneak a small thank-you gift into his bag. Tezuka doesn’t comment, but the next time they meet, he’s replaced his old, frayed wristband with the new one.

It’s probably a blessing in disguise that Seigaku’s already been knocked out of the running for the Nationals; it takes Ryoma nearly until the end of the year to reach his former prowess again. At least the ranking matches don’t provide much of a challenge for him. Even with his handicap, he easily maintains his position. Surprisingly, so do the other regulars. It makes him feel like they might stand a chance the next year, if only the current second-years manage to maintain their rate of improvement. He wonders how far they’ll get next year.

His birthday falls on a Saturday that year. He’s ambushed by his team-members at practice and then the entire club gets in on things to wish him a happy birthday. He wishes he knew who’d told them; he has several interesting things in mind to do to the snitch, things involving knives and hot oil. The regulars have all gotten him various small presents, and he’s surprised to find a few other club members also giving him presents. Ryuuzaki-sensei’s granddaughter and her friend are there too, which annoys him a little. The former is tolerable except for her inexplicable tendency to blush and run off when talking to him. The latter, on the other hand, sometimes makes him wish he was deaf.

It’s cold and the balls aren’t bouncing quite right, but it’s not enough for Ryuuzaki-sensei to call off practice altogether. This winter’s much warmer than he expected, Ryoma thinks, and he wishes momentarily for snow. Then again, it’s the relatively mild weather that allows him to continue to play, so he immediately takes back the wish. If it wants to snow, it had better not be tomorrow.

Inui and Kawamura are waiting at the gates when practice ends. They immediately shepherd Ryoma, Momo and Kaidoh off to Kawamura Sushi, where Ryoma gets his pick of food as a birthday treat. Inui tries to get Ryoma to drink his newest concoction. Ryoma sneaks it into Momo’s glass instead. Momo spends ten minutes throwing up in the bathroom and later gets his revenge by stealing half of Ryoma’s food. Half the old team’s missing, but they’ve sent along presents with Inui and Kawamura - practical things, like new grip tape and a subscription to a tennis magazine. He refuses to admit it, but he’s touched that they still remember his birthday. It’s true that he’d gotten all of them presents on their birthdays, and that they’d brought Momo and Kaidoh out to eat on their birthdays, but somehow, Ryoma still hadn’t been expecting anything from them. It’s oddly nice to just sit and listen to the gossip.

As it turns out, Kawamura-senpai has quit tennis. Ryoma had been half-expecting that, but he hadn’t expected to hear that Fuji-senpai had also quit. It’s a surprise, and he’s in a thoughtful mood when he gets home.

He gets a few new PlayStation games from his mother and a full, no-holds-barred six sets from his father. He pounces on the chance for the latter, and after being thoroughly trounced, relaxes with the former. He gets his mother to measure his height again that evening; he’s reached a hundred and sixty-six centimetres. He’s noticed that he hasn’t grown much over the past couple of months, and thinks that maybe he’s hit a plateau already. He’s still a little on the short side, but he’s got plenty of years to go yet, so he decides to just keep his fingers crossed and keep drinking milk. In the meantime, he makes a note to place an order for a new regular’s jersey. The old one’s uncomfortably tight across the shoulders and ridiculously small in the arms now. He hasn’t been wearing it for a while, but it’s time he stopped procrastinating and just got a new jersey. It’s weird though - this is the jersey he’d worn through the whole of last year, and that year had been so important to him. Getting a new jersey feels like growing up. He goes to sleep that night clutching the soft blue-and-white material to his chest.

He meets Tezuka for their usual game the next morning. Tezuka wishes him a belated happy birthday in his usual quiet manner and doesn’t refer to it again. They play a few relaxed games, and then Tezuka comes over onto Ryoma’s side of the court and demonstrates what he’s doing wrong when he tries to use the Zone. Ryoma’s command of the Zone still isn’t anywhere near as perfect as Tezuka’s and so he listens intently, wondering if he can use this against his father. He watches Tezuka’s fingers flexing around his and thinks that his hand isn’t that much smaller than Tezuka’s now.

When he gets home that evening, he finds a packet of gourmet cat treats and an envelope in his bag. Karupin sniffs inquisitively at the packet, so he opens it and feeds his suddenly ecstatic cat one of the small treats. While Karupin rolls around in catly rapture, Ryoma investigates the envelope. It contains some money and a letter.

Echizen, the letter reads. It’s written in English, and Ryoma stares at the neat lettering for a while before continuing. I was unsure what you would like for your birthday. I believe you probably have received tennis gear from others, and did not want to repeat a present. Please use the money to buy something you like. Tezuka.

The phrasing’s a little awkward in places, but the fact that the letter’s written in English does funny things to Ryoma’s insides. He counts the money and discovers that it’s far more than he’d initially thought. Tezuka evidently gets more of an allowance than he does. He makes a mental note to thank Tezuka properly and stashes the money away, lying back in bed and reading the letter again. Karupin sprawls across Ryoma’s stomach and purrs contentedly.

“I know,” Ryoma tells his cat, and smiles.

Ryoma’s there at the graduation ceremony that year, and makes it a point afterwards to find the three graduating regulars. The other second-year regulars eventually find their way over as well. There are a few suspiciously moist-eyed slaps to the back and promises extracted to bring Seigaku further in the coming year than they’d managed the past year. No one mentions the Nationals. Momo grabs Ryoma in a headlock and refuses to let go until Ryoma unsubtly jabs an elbow into his stomach and wriggles loose. Arai slaps Ryoma on the shoulder lightly when greeted, and complains that Ryoma never calls him “senpai” unless it’s mockingly.

“Sorry, senpai,” Ryoma says with utmost sincerity. Arai trips over nothing. Kaidoh glances over, hisses, and looks away. Ryoma tactfully doesn’t point out that Kaidoh’s eyes are a little wet, but Momo takes great glee in doing so. They end the school year with a blazing fight between Momo and Kaidoh. Ryoma watches in amusement.

He’s not expecting the sudden lurch his heart and stomach perform in unison when he’s told that he’ll be the captain. He’s somehow managed to push the knowledge into the back of his mind for most of the year. The impending captainship had been another reason for him to constantly work to improve himself, and he can now put names to the faces of at least half the club members, which is a personal best as far as he’s concerned. The reality of the situation doesn’t quite hit him though, until the formal passing of the baton. Kachirou gets the vice-captainship and goes into complete shock.

Sunday’s only two days away, but it seems like it takes forever. Ryoma plays almost desperately against his father and for once, wins a single game from him. All that means, of course, is that his father just steps up his game and beats him six to one. Even so, the tiny victory puts Ryoma in a slightly better mood, and by the time he wakes up on Sunday he’s slightly less panicked.

It still helps to see Tezuka stretching by the courts when he arrives. They finish their respective warm-ups and meet at the bench to wait for a court to free up. Ryoma can’t stop his legs from bouncing. He’s just keeping his muscles warm, he tells himself, and pretends that he isn’t nervous.

“Echizen?” Tezuka asks. So much for hoping that Tezuka hadn’t noticed, Ryoma thinks.

“I’m the new captain,” he blurts out awkwardly, and immediately wishes he could take the words back. They sound idiotic.

Tezuka makes a vague sound of agreement, but he’s studying Ryoma like he knows there’s something Ryoma isn’t telling him. Ryoma bites his lower lip and refuses to look at Tezuka. For once, the silence between them is uncomfortable.

“About being captain,” Tezuka finally says. Ryoma stops moving and slumps slightly.

“There’s something I learned during that time,” Tezuka says. “Do you want to know it?”

A small pause, and then Ryoma nods.

“There’s only as much pressure on you as you put there,” Tezuka says, and picks up his racquet. “Training game?”

Ryoma shakes out his arms and grabs his own racquet, pretending to test the tension of the strings while he tries to collect his thoughts. When’s he somewhat in control of himself, he stands up. “Let’s try the zero-shiki serve,” he says impishly, and walks onto the court with a slight spring in his step.

I don’t have to be him, Ryoma thinks as he gets into position. He doesn’t expect me to be him.

Tezuka’s more or less perfected the serve, but he can’t quite hide his surprise when Ryoma uses the same serve on him in the second game. Then Tezuka uses a Snake shot to catch Ryoma out of position and after that the game degenerates into an attempt to use everyone’s signature moves. Between them, they run through most of the characteristic moves of not only the old Seigaku members, but also the various opponents that they’d encountered. The shots aren’t polished or clean, but they’re decent enough to require a good deal of effort to beat them. It’s simultaneously the most ridiculous and most fun game Ryoma’s ever played. He wonders if his eyes are playing tricks on him when, for a moment, Tezuka smiles as Ryoma uses an Invisible Swing to take match point.

“You’d never be content trailing me,” Tezuka says afterwards as they rest on the bench. “Not just in tennis.”

Ryoma smirks but doesn’t respond verbally. He bumps his knee against Tezuka’s and tosses his towel and water-bottle into his bag.

“See you next week, buchou,” he says, and leaves with a casual wave before Tezuka can tell him yet again to stop calling him that.

Tezuka texts him a line of advice: See how they perform when you’re not there. He takes Tezuka at his word and enlists Ryuuzaki-sensei’s help in staking out an empty classroom that overlooks the courts. Kachirou’s handled the sign-ups and two days into practice, people seem to be settling back into their rhythm. There are more new players than he remembers there being when he was a first-year himself. More people he’ll need to keep track of, he thinks despondently, and then refocuses on the practice happening below.

A few hours of spying on everyone reveals that Hirose and Yamaguchi have improved from last year. Hirose in particular had seemed to take his loss to Fudomine’s Ishida rather badly, and had been working hard the whole of last year. He evidently hasn’t slacked off on his training at all, because his accuracy and power have increased from the last time Ryoma saw him play. Unfortunately, some other people have definitely not been training during the holidays, and he has to fight not to wince at the sloppy form some of the third-years are displaying.

He goes through the list of those members he does recognise and sorts them into three mental categories. The “useless” category is thankfully not too big. The largest by far is the “maybe-but-probably-not” category. The “possible” category is discouragingly short. Of those he doesn’t recognise, there are only two that he’d feel comfortable putting into the last category. He scribbles a note on the margin of his notebook, reminding himself to find out who they are later, and spends the rest of practice attempting to spread the stronger players out over four blocks.

Kachirou catches him at the gate after practice ends. “Did you get a good look?” he asks eagerly.

“I guess,” Ryoma replies with a shrug. “I’ll try and get the block divisions sorted out soon. I want to start early this year.”

“So that we have a little more time?” Kachirou guesses out loud. Ryoma nods.

“Even just a week will help,” he says, and then adds something that he hasn’t said to anyone else. “I want to take Seigaku to the Nationals again this year.”

Kachirou stares uncertainly at him for a moment, then takes a deep breath and smiles. “Okay,” he replies. “I’ll support you in any way I can.”

Ryoma gives him a sidelong look as they reach the corner. “Thanks,” he says. Kachirou waves as they separate. Ryoma remembers when Kachirou had been pretty much nothing more than an enthusiastic fan-boy. Now he’s talented in his own right, and he seems to have been taking lessons from Oishi-senpai.

This coming year is going to be interesting.

“Buchou! Good afternoon!”

Ryoma twitches slightly at the enthusiastic greeting from the club members. “Everyone gather,” he says, and even though he doesn’t yell, they all jump to it immediately. As they assemble, Ryoma runs a critical eye over them, wondering who the seven are that he’ll end up playing with that year.

“We’re having the ranking matches early this year,” he announces bluntly, once they’re all organised. “The divisions are up, so go check them and make sure you’re on time for your matches. The matches will start next week.”

There are a few murmurs of surprise. A few well-placed glares cow the few people who were speaking into submission. “You’ve got the rest of the week to prepare,” Ryoma says coolly. “For today, we’re focusing on endurance training. Everyone, ten laps. First-years, after you finish, see Kachirou about the rest of the exercises. Second and third years, gather here again when you’re done; I’ll be overseeing your exercises.” Everyone’s still looking at him, so he adds a somewhat harsh, “Move!”

They do, with gratifying promptness. Ryoma and Kachirou had earlier sorted out what exercises they’d be doing that day, and Ryoma’s only problem with them is that as one of the overseers, he can’t do them himself. He’ll make it up with training later, he thinks, as he sets up a series of markers for the sprints.

Kachirou takes the first-years and Ryoma takes everyone else. Between them, they work the entire club into a state of exhaustion. It’s gone well, Ryoma thinks as he surveys the collapsed bodies all around the court. There’d been a brief shower earlier, but it hadn’t been bad enough to stop practice altogether; he’d just paused it for fifteen minutes till the sky cleared, and pretended he couldn’t hear the groans of relief at the temporary respite. Ryoma still feels like a charlatan when he gives orders, but at least no one’s called him on it yet. The other club members don’t give him any trouble after the first time he sends someone to run twenty laps for goofing off instead of practicing. He’s not Tezuka, he thinks, but he can certainly borrow aspects of Tezuka’s disciplinary preferences.

As he’s walking home, he sends a brief message to Tezuka. They keep calling me buchou, buchou! he writes, and imagines what Tezuka’s reaction will be. He gets his answer a minute later. They’ll still do it when you’ve graduated. I speak from experience, Tezuka’s written, and he smirks at his phone.

He’s still in a good mood when he gets home, and manages to coerce his father into playing a game with him. The court’s damp and slick from the rain earlier in the day, but it isn’t too bad. Besides, it’s not like he’s never played in the rain before. His mother and Nanako sit and watch, which is unusual for them. Their presence curbs Nanjirou’s usual tendency to insult his son at every opportunity though, so Ryoma isn’t protesting. He plays to his limits, taking three consecutive points from Nanjirou for the first time in his life, and is on the brink of winning the first game when Nanjirou steps up the level of play. His father tries to take the point with a drop shot, but Ryoma’s used to diving for Tezuka’s drop shots, and so he throws himself forward in a desperate, yet familiar attempt to reach the ball.

It’s a move he’s performed plenty of times. He knows how to launch himself perfectly so that he can reach the ball and yet still roll to his feet in time, should the opponent manage to return the shot. He doesn’t, however, count on the ground slipping out from underneath him, water kicking up in a spray as his feet slide in the wrong directions and his knee turns awkwardly outward. It doesn’t quite register what’s happened until he hits the ground, landing with all his weight on his left knee, which slams into the earth at an angle and snaps violently to the side. There’s a sound like paper tearing, and then he’s biting through his lip in an attempt not to scream. He doesn’t hear his mother shriek.

The painkillers are all Ryoma cares about. It’s only after the agonising pain has subsided a little that he’s able to pay attention to what the doctor’s saying. Unfortunately, he doesn’t understand half the terminology the doctor’s using, and eventually tunes him out. His lip’s still bleeding slightly, and his mother’s pale and shaky. His father doesn’t look too great either, really. He lets them deal with the technical aspects and wonders what he’s going to do about the ranking matches.

Ryoma finds himself bundled into a hospital bed, his leg secured in an immobiliser. They’ll do more tests tomorrow, the doctor says, probably a scan for confirmation depending on when they can schedule it in, but everything so far is indicative of a fracture so for now all they can do is keep it in place. It’s his dominant leg too, Ryoma thinks mournfully as he falls asleep.

He’d made his parents go home instead of staying with him. His mother had been reluctant to leave, so it’s no surprise when she’s there the next morning as soon as visiting hours start, bringing with her a bag containing some clothes, books, and his cell phone. Ryoma doesn’t have the chance to go through anything because it’s then that he’s whisked off for an MRI scan.

He’s definitely fractured the knee, the doctor informs them. And torn his anterior cruciate ligament on top of that. Ryoma mentally files away the term to look up later. The combined injuries ensure that he won’t be playing tennis any time soon.

“How long?” he demands. The doctor hesitates, looking at Nanjirou and Rinko as if wondering whether he should be telling Ryoma this.

“Well?” Nanjirou presses.

“It really depends on the extent of the injury to the ACL,” the doctor explains. “That will require physiotherapy, but before we can start on that, the fracture will have to heal. I’d expect a month or two for him to start walking again, but vigorous physical activity will take considerably longer. Perhaps up to a year.” He glances at Ryoma. “I’d suggest you don’t push yourself too far too soon. It’s very easy to re-injure yourself if you do too much while still recovering.”

Ryoma closes his eyes and lies back. The doctor invites his parents to his office so that they can discuss what needs to be done. At any other time, he might have protested being left out of the loop, but right now he’s busy trying to process the fact that it’ll be months before he can play tennis again. Months before he can walk again.

He calls Ryuuzaki-sensei when he’s composed himself. She’s shocked, but assures him that the ranking matches will go off as planned. Even without him playing, there’s no real need to shuffle the players around. She wishes him a speedy recovery and he rings off. After a moment’s consideration, he calls Kachirou as well, thankful that he’d saved his vice-captain’s number in his phone a few days ago.

Kachirou doesn’t take the news as well as Ryuuzaki-sensei did. Ryoma lets him freak out for a few minutes before telling him sharply to shut up and listen. He does. Ryoma explains that he’s not sure when he’ll be back at school again, so Kachirou will have to ensure that the ranking matches go off smoothly. He adds that he’ll be back to at least coach as soon as possible, which seems to pacify Kachirou somewhat. He extracts a promise from Kachirou not to tell anyone until Ryuuzaki-sensei gives him the go-ahead. Since Ryoma’s already convinced Ryuuzaki-sensei not to tell anyone until he’s ready and Kachirou isn’t the type to gossip, he’s pretty sure the news won’t get out until he wants it to.

The next day or so convinces him that all doctors are closet sadists. They keep poking and prodding at his injury under the pretence of checking where it hurts the most. The doctors keep warning him not to push himself too hard during rehabilitation, lest he re-injure himself and permanently ruin his chances of playing competitively again.

Ryoma thinks of Tezuka, and the match Tezuka had played against Atobe back when Ryoma had been a first-year. “Okay,” he agrees equably. His father eyes him suspiciously, but doesn’t say anything.

If the fracture had been a millimetre wider, he would have had to undergo surgery. As it is, he just escapes being sliced open. They keep him at the hospital for a few more days to monitor the injury and make sure the fracture doesn’t widen. While he’s stuck in bed being abused by doctors, he’s also taught how to operate a machine that the hospital will loan out to him when he leaves. It’ll be a week or so before he’s allowed to use it, but the machine will help work his leg muscles without hurting the knee. They say something about passive motion - apparently it will prevent muscle atrophy by moving his leg for him, at the same time preventing any strain on his bones. It’s a strange contraption, but easy enough to figure out.

On Sunday, he’s still stuck in hospital, though freedom seems imminent. Not free today, he texts to Tezuka. And probably not next week. Don’t slack off without me. Tezuka replies nearly an hour later, and his response makes Ryoma laugh. The walls here don’t like it when you can’t come. I’ll see you in two weeks. Ryoma thinks that certain people would probably have collective heart attacks at the knowledge that Tezuka has a sense of humour. He re-reads the message on and off throughout the day.

He’s released a few days later with strict instructions to come back if he experiences any swelling or severe pain. He’s also got a list of instructions a mile long about how to care for his injury. The doctor warns him to keep his weight completely off his left leg at all times. Ryoma wonders how long the dull, constant throbbing is going to last.

The crutches are awkward at best, and for the first time, he regrets the fact that his room’s on the second floor. His mother offers to clean out the spare room on the first floor for him to use temporarily, but he refuses. It’s pathetic, he thinks, if he can’t even manage the stairs.

He keeps thinking that right up until he tries to actually tackle the stairs. It’s nearly impossible when he’s not allowed to put any weight on his left leg. He keeps overbalancing and feeling like he’s going to fall, which wouldn’t be a good idea anywhere, but least of all on the steps. He’s just wondering if he dares to drop the crutches and simply crawl up when his mother puts her foot down. She’s evidently sick of watching her son suffer, and ushers him off to the spare room on the first floor. He finds that even sitting down with a stiff, uncooperative leg is an ordeal, but finally manages it. He sprawls on the floor sulking while his mother packs up some clothes and books in a duffel bag and brings it down for him. She finds a futon and tidies up the room quickly as Ryoma looks through the things she’s brought him and tries not to feel sorry for himself.

It’s eleven by the time he finally goes to bed. He lies awake the whole night.

His mother makes him stay home for a few days, practicing so that he gets used to the crutches. School will pose a problem for him, since his classroom is on the second floor. His mother wants him to stay home until he’s healed enough to use the crutches up and down the stairs, but he balks at the idea. The enforced lassitude is aggravating enough, but he thinks he might go insane if he has to be stuck at home that long. Finally, his mother relents and calls up his principal to explain the situation to him. That conversation ends with the principal and Ryoma’s form teacher coming over to Ryoma’s house to take in the full extent of his injury and sort out the changes that will have to be made to his timetable.

Ryoma’s class is surprised when they find their lessons suddenly and inexplicably shifted to a first-floor classroom. The mystery’s cleared up when Ryoma comes hobbling in on his crutches, his face already pale and sweaty from the simple exertion of walking to his classroom from the school gates. He’s grateful that his father insisted on dropping him off and picking him up every day until he’s at least slightly better.

His classmates are all supremely concerned, of course, and Ryoma might have been touched had he not known the majority of them to be inveterate gossips. He’s never been more thankful that there are no tennis club members in his class this year. He can imagine the club’s reaction, especially since they haven’t been given a reason for his missing the ranking matches the previous week. No doubt the rumours are already rife, and with the ammunition his classmates now have, everyone will know by lunch that Echizen Ryoma’s on crutches, or broken a leg, or lost a leg altogether, or is at death’s door. He isn’t looking forward to practice that afternoon, especially since he still has no idea what to say.

During recess, Ryoma sends a message to Tezuka. I think I know what it’s like to be you now, he writes. Just a little. He waits, but Tezuka hasn’t replied by the time class starts again.

Practice is interesting. He totters onto the courts, and after a few heartbeats of silence, mass panic breaks out. Ryuuzaki-sensei knew, of course, but she’s still obviously surprised at the strain clearly written across Ryoma’s features. The day’s taken more of a toll on him than he’d suspected, and he isn’t helping matters by insisting on staying to watch the practice. Ryuuzaki-sensei’s surprise turns into annoyance a few moments later. Ryoma guesses that it’s because of how the club is reacting. He can sympathise with her; he isn’t too happy with them either.

“Shut up already,” he says impatiently. He’s too tired to yell, but those nearest him obediently fall quiet, and then elbow anyone who hadn’t heard him into silence. Ryoma glares at anyone who seems like they want to say something.

“I won’t be playing for a while,” he says. “Obviously. But I’ll be around to coach. I’m still the captain, so remember that if you think this is an excuse to slack off.”

They appear to have been scared into agreeable pliability, so Ryoma lets himself relax slightly. “Everyone start warming up. When you’re done, second and third years can start playing against each other. First-years, be ready to pick up the balls. Regulars, get over here.”

He waits just long enough to ensure that everyone’s dispersing to begin their warm-ups, and then sits down thankfully, stretching out his leg and angling it slightly to keep it safe from any stray balls. He keeps an eye out anyway, just to be on the safe side. Kachirou and Katsuo come over with identical worried looks on their faces, followed closely by Yamaguchi and Hirose. Kachirou had called him last week to tell him who’d made it, so it isn’t a surprise, but he’s still oddly relieved at knowing that at least half the old team is still intact. He scrutinises the four new regulars trailing in the wake of the old ones, and recognises two of them as the promising players he’d picked out at the beginning of the school term.

“I don’t know your names,” he says bluntly. “Introduce yourselves. I need to know the strengths and weaknesses in your play. If you have any particular tennis style, tell me that too.”

They’re all second-years. The two that he’d noticed are Shima and Morikawa. He belatedly remembers having seen Morikawa a few times the previous year, but the then-first-year had always been too shy and timid to speak freely around any of his seniors. Now Morikawa looks even more withdrawn than he remembers, as he explains that he’s a power player, and that his main problem is with his accuracy. In contrast, Shima’s a precision player who relies on accurately-placed shots and a knack for catching people going the wrong way, but his endurance isn’t very good. His play style’s almost like Inui-senpai’s, Ryoma thinks absently, except that Shima works by reading people during the game itself instead of getting data on them before-hand. Maybe more like that Aku-something guy, without the sadism or violence.

Next is Takaku, who freely admits that his play style is generally nothing special. He has determination and good stamina in his favour, and he explains that he’s been working on a fast serve. Katsuo chimes in to say that he’d gotten seven service aces off him in their match, which makes Ryoma revise his low opinion of Takaku slightly. Yoshinaga says that his speciality is as a defensive baseliner. Hirose dryly adds that he’s as determined as Kaidoh-senpai ever was to get to every single ball that came his way. Yamaguchi tells him not to be a hypocrite.

Ryoma absorbs the information quietly and mulls it over for a few seconds while the regulars look at him expectantly. “Okay,” he finally says. “Half and half this time around.” He looks at the old regulars. “I expect you four to be showing them the ropes. You’ll have to do a lot of extra training, so for most practices, I’m going to have you do completely separate exercises from everyone else. For now, though, I want to see you play - especially you four,” he says, nodding towards the four newcomers. “Any questions?”

Katsuo clears his throat hesitantly. Ryoma frowns.

“Fractured knee,” he says shortly. “And I don’t know how long it’ll take to heal. Anything else?”

There aren’t any other questions, so Ryoma takes a moment to review the play styles of all the regulars before sending Shima and Yoshinaga up against each other. After that, he makes Takaku and Morikawa play each other. Morikawa’s timidity vanishes the moment Takaku scores the first point, and from then on he plays aggressively, not giving Takaku a single moment’s respite. Ryoma calls an end to the match after five minutes and ignores the petulant scowl on Morikawa’s face. A few rounds of doubles matches reveal they’re all generally capable of playing doubles well, which is a good sign for the team.

With two more hours till practice ends, he gives them a set of exercises and sticks around just long enough to make sure they have it down properly. “I trust you’ll finish them all,” he says dryly, and carefully pulls himself upright. “Keep it down!” he adds hastily when he realises that they’re about to chorus a goodbye to him. He manages to slip out without anyone other than Ryuuzaki-sensei noticing. She nods at him in acknowledgement as he shuffles out carefully.

His dad’s waiting impatiently at the school gates in the car. “You’re late,” he says brusquely when Ryoma finally comes into view. “Don’t push it at this stage.”

“I was sitting down most of the time,” Ryoma replies. The throbbing is a constant companion now, and he’s more or less gotten used to it. It’s not bad enough to merit taking a painkiller.

His father mumbles something under his breath. Probably an insult to his higher mental functions, Ryoma thinks, and stares out the window at the scenery rolling by. He’s got his first date with that weird passive-motion machine coming up.

He hadn’t thought that having his leg moved for him would take that much out of him, but two hours later he’s ready to call it quits. He manages to stick it out for half an hour more before un-strapping his leg and collapsing in relief. After a while, he drags himself up and hobbles to the bath.

After dinner he checks his phone and realises there’s a message waiting on it. He’d almost forgotten about the message he’d sent Tezuka earlier in the day. Do tell, the reply reads. He thinks for a moment, then sends: Fractured my knee and tore a ligament. Rehab in a couple of months. He tosses the phone on his bed and settles down with his history homework. A few seconds later, he’s fumbling for his phone again. It’s buzzing insistently at him.

“Explain,” Tezuka says curtly, without bothering to greet Ryoma. Somehow, he isn’t surprised. He slowly writes his name across the top of his worksheet.

“I was playing my old man,” he says, staring at the paper. “Slipped and fell badly - all my weight on my knee, and it just… went.”

There are a few heartbeats of silence. “How bad is it?” Tezuka asks eventually.

“Not bad enough to need surgery,” Ryoma says. “But I’m not allowed to put any weight on it for now. Once the fracture heals I can start rehab for the ligament injury.”

“Be careful,” Tezuka says quietly. “Don’t ruin yourself.”

“You’re not one to talk, buchou,” Ryoma retorts. “But I’ll be careful.”

“How much longer until you’re allowed to put weight on your leg?” Tezuka asks, without responding to Ryoma’s comment.

“Couple more weeks, I guess,” Ryoma says. “The doctor needs to okay it first.”

There’s even longer silence this time. Ryoma wonders what Tezuka’s thinking. “I’ll be fine,” he says as confidently as he can manage. “Hey, when did the second world war end?”

“September of nineteen forty-five,” Tezuka replies automatically. “Wait. Am I doing your homework for you?”

“What makes you say that?” Ryoma asks innocently. He spends the next half hour trying to wheedle more answers out of Tezuka, listening in satisfaction as the tension in Tezuka’s voice gradually disappears. He barely notices the ache in his knee.

He’s used to his body being in peak physical condition. He rarely even falls sick, so it’s distinctly odd to feel so lopsided and weak all the time. Still, sheer stubbornness keeps him going, even when the doctors are advising rest and the teachers are offering to give him work to do at home. He flat-out refuses to stay home. There’s practice to attend.

It hurts to watch them play while he sits on the sidelines watching and calling out advice occasionally. It’s even worse listening to the histrionics of his fan-club, which mysteriously seems to have expanded from its initial membership. It takes a few weeks before the supposedly heart-broken girls stop coming to the courts to offer their condolences and ask if there’s anything they can do for him. He turns them down flat and tries to ignore them thereafter. At least Ryuuzaki-sensei’s grand-daughter - Sakuno, he thinks, try and use her name - at least she’d given him the somewhat useful present of an organiser to help him keep track of the regulars’ training schedules. The other girls just seem to be trying to take the opportunity to touch him. In sympathy, they claim. He feels violated. Kachirou doesn’t say anything, but Ryoma can see the laughter in his vice-captain’s eyes, and so Ryoma vindictively makes him run laps.

At least the regulars are coming together decently well. Shima’s perpetually cheerful and good-natured, and he’s always got a kind word for everyone. His attitude’s gone a long way in relaxing everyone and bringing the team together. The only problem, Ryoma thinks, is Morikawa. It’s funny; he remembers the second-year as having been almost painfully shy the previous year. There are still times when Morikawa acts that way, but then there are also times when he gets sullen, and then he says such petty, mean-minded things that Ryoma can’t believe it’s the same person. It’s a puzzle, one that Ryoma hopes won’t drag the team down.

He finishes explaining the new training exercise to the regulars and sends them off. A few minutes later, as he watches them weaving between a series of cones, someone sits down beside him. He catches a brief trace of rose-scented soap and shampoo and an underlying touch of musk that blend together to create a unique, familiar smell.

“Came to see what I’m doing to the team, buchou?” he asks without looking over.

“To?” Tezuka asks. “Or with?”

“To,” Ryoma confirms with a smirk.

Tezuka’s hand hovers over Ryoma’s knee for a minute, before coming to a rest on his thigh, just above the immobiliser. “I suppose your doctor told you to rest,” he says, slowly tapping a finger against the rough cloth.

“Of course,” Ryoma admits. Tezuka shakes his head slightly but doesn’t offer any further comment. He pats Ryoma’s leg in commiseration and then turns his eyes back to the ongoing practice.

“I can’t believe they haven’t noticed you yet,” Ryoma says, an undercurrent of glee to his voice. Tezuka raises an eyebrow at him. Ryoma smirks. “Wait for it,” he instructs. Two minutes later, he gets what he was waiting for.

“Tezuka-buchou!” Horio shrieks, and all the third-years spin in unison, mouths agape. Half of them are hit by balls in the next instant, and Ryoma grins widely.

“He’s not the captain any more, Horio!” Ryoma yells out. Tezuka makes a small, choked sound next to him. “What are you lot standing around for? Get back to practice!”

“Echizen,” Tezuka says accusingly. Ryoma blinks wide, tawny eyes at him innocently. Tezuka bites off whatever he was going to say and returns his attention to the regulars with the tiniest of sighs.

Horio is painfully unable to concentrate with Tezuka there, and so Ryoma sends him to run twenty laps. He doesn’t miss Tezuka’s slight twitch when he gives the order. It takes a lot to hide the smirk. A little later, he’s sent two more people to run laps, getting another twitch each time. Finally, the club settles down a little. Ryoma bumps his hand against Tezuka’s playfully: they’re still so stuck on you, buchou, the touch says. Tezuka doesn’t outwardly react, but Ryoma can see amusement in his eyes.

The regulars, Ryoma notes with satisfaction, haven’t let Tezuka’s presence distract them, beyond that initial surprise. Of course, the second and first-years don’t really get the mystique associated with Tezuka; they’ve only gotten second-hand accounts, and have never actually seen Tezuka play. Ryoma shifts on the bench, leaning slightly into the warmth Tezuka’s exuding. He abruptly realises that sitting down, he’s up to Tezuka’s neck. He wonders what the difference will be if he’s standing. Then he notices that the regulars are almost done with their exercises.

“Regulars!” he calls out. They’re used to the routine and continue what they’re doing, but he knows they’re paying attention now. “When you’re done, switch immediately to the rallies you were doing yesterday. Takaku-Shima and Kachirou-Katsuo on Court A. Morikawa-Hirose and Yamaguchi-Yoshinaga on Court B. Half court each.” He pauses and glances at the organiser lying on the bench next to him. “For today… Takaku, you’re not allowed to use forehand at all. Shima, hit only power balls. Kachirou, you’re not allowed to go up to the net. Katsuo, practice hitting deep. The rest of you need to work on your precision, so hit as close to the lines as you can.”

“Yes, buchou,” they chorus, if a tad breathlessly. A few more sprints and they’ve finally completed the set of exercises. Ryoma’s pleased to see them obediently trot off to get their racquets without complaining about not getting a break.

Tezuka reaches around Ryoma and snags his organiser. Ryoma ignores him, choosing instead to watch the non-regulars’ practice. It takes Tezuka a few minutes to go through the notes. Finally, he snaps it shut and returns it to the bench.

“Have you been talking to Inui?” he asks in all seriousness.

Ryoma turns to face Tezuka squarely just so he can roll his eyes.

“I usually left explication to Inui,” Tezuka says, and his eyes are soft as he looks at Ryoma. “He knew our weaknesses best, and was therefore the best person to help us overcome them.”

“With his evil juices of doom,” Ryoma interjects.

“With his evil juices of doom,” Tezuka agrees blandly. Ryoma’s lips twitch.

“And Oishi took care of the team’s emotional concerns,” Tezuka continues. “If you look at it that way, I had less work to do as a captain than you do.” He pauses. “You’re doing a good job.”

Ryoma stares at Tezuka blankly for a minute, then smiles slightly. “Well, Kachirou’s doing a good job being Oishi-senpai,” he says. “And besides, you took care of my ‘emotional concerns’ pretty well.” He makes quotation marks in the air. “Give yourself a little credit.” But he’s pleased, and it’s obvious he’s pleased, and so Tezuka doesn’t deign to respond verbally. Instead, he shifts a little closer in silent support, and they sit side by side for the rest of practice.

Part Three