PoT: Breaking Orbit
Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Pairings: Tezuka/Ryoma; implied/background Golden Pair and Momo/Kaidoh; very small hints of Taka/Fuji and even smaller ones of Fujicest. There were supposed to be hints of Data Pair as well, but they're so small that they don't in fact exist.
Rating: PG13/R
Continuity: Manga, specific spoilers for Genius 145-155/episodes 65-68.
Notes: This is long. So long that it barely fits into two LJ posts; there's a link to the second half at the end of the first. This fic would be a lot suckier (and possibly nonexistent) without Aja's help, beta services, encouragement, and fangirling. Thank you so much.
Breaking Orbit
Ryoma knows something's going on when his father tries to drag him out to the tennis court after lunch, despite the freezing temperatures and lingering snow. "No way," he mutters, turning his back on the idiot and trudging up the stairs to his room with the fuzzy warmth of Karupin heavy in his arms. He's halfway into beating his new tennis game, thinking vague thoughts about heading out to the indoor courts later, when the muffled chime of the doorbell crystallises suspicion into certainty.
"Hey, young man!" his father yells loudly from the bottom of the stairs. "You have guests!" Ryoma grinds his teeth, imagining the look on the old man's face when he finds out that his magazine subscriptions have been cancelled. Nanjiroh sounds just a little too enthusiastic, which means that Ryoma is probably about to be subjected to the squeals and clutching hands of pigtailed, pink-ribboned girls. Reluctantly, he abandons his game controller and scoops up Karupin; no one can try to hold his hands if they're full, and maybe if they all start squealing over the cat he'll be able to make a run for it.
Halfway down the stairs he halts in confusion. It's not girls at all, it's Oishi-senpai bowing apologetically to Ryoma's mother while Kikumaru-senpai peers around as if Ryoma is about to spring from a corner. With Nanjiroh lounging sulkily against the wall it's easy to see who has done the inviting here; Ryoma breathes a sigh of relief and lets the struggling Karupin free, shoving his hands into his pockets as he wanders down into the hall.
"Senpai."
"Ah, Echizen!" Oishi-senpai beams at him. "Happy birthday - I think the others should arrive soon…"
"Thanks," Ryoma mutters, unsuccessfully trying to fend off Kikumaru-senpai's gleeful attempts to squash him. Just then the bell chimes again, and his mother hurries to open the door.
"Ah! Everyone at once!" Kikumaru-senpai exclaims, hanging over Ryoma's shoulders and waving furiously at the crowd in the genkan. "Taka-san, it's been ages! Hiiii! Come say happy birthday to Ochibi!"
"Eiji, I think you're smothering him…" Oishi begins; Fuji-senpai smiles behind his hand as Ryoma finally manages to escape from Kikumaru's clutches, only to be waylaid by a furiously grinning Momoshiro.
"Happy birthday Echizen!"
"Owowow! Momo-senpai!" Ryoma complains, struggling against the headlock Momo has him in. A flash momentarily blinds him, and he looks up to see Fuji-senpai smiling over the top of his camera.
"Happy birthday, Echizen."
"Not if you're taking pictures," Ryoma mutters, kicking Momo-senpai's leg until he lets go. At least Kawamura-senpai and Kaidoh-senpai are talking to his mother instead of trying to flatten or embarrass him.
"Aa, but I always take pictures." Fuji-senpai smiles as Kikumaru bounces up and grabs onto him.
"Fuji! Our little Ochibi's all grown up!" Ryoma sets his teeth and wishes for a cap to tug down; he's only a couple of centimetres shorter than Fuji-senpai these days, and with luck he'll grow some more in the next year or two.
"Ah! You brought sushi!" Ryoma hears his mother exclaim, clapping her hands sharply and making Kawamura-senpai blush and rub the back of his head as everyone turns to look. "Boys, please come through to the living room…" She slides open the door and bows, and Ryoma makes a face at the fussily-decorated Christmas tree that is already dropping leaves in the corner. Someone's actually pinned up paper decorations as well - probably Nanjiroh, since it's a pretty half-hearted job.
The bell rings again when Ryoma is following his senpai into the front room. He jumps as his father pokes him in the back; he's forgotten the idiot is still there.
"Oi, answer that."
"Why can't you?" Ryoma demands reflexively, but he's already heading to the door. "Che. Lazy old man."
"Respect your betters, brat," Nanjiroh grumbles, but thankfully he's shambling out towards the kitchen. Ryoma feels a moment of pure relief that the old man isn't trying to join the party - it's bad enough that his senpai have met the idiot and know what an embarrassment he is. Ryoma shudders, pulling open the door and blinking up at the final two guests; however much he's grown in the past few years, he still has to look up to Tezuka-buchou.
"Happy birthday, Echizen." Inui-senpai has that unsettling grin on his face that means he's anticipating good data. That or he's brought juice; Ryoma eyes him warily and resolves to keep a careful eye on his drink.
"Inui-senpai, buchou. Come in." He backs away from the door, watching the way Tezuka's mouth flattens at the title and wondering why he isn't used to it by now. It's not as though Ryoma has ever called him anything else.
"Everyone else is here?" Tezuka asks, and Ryoma nods, ignoring Inui-senpai's muttering about percentages.
"Unless my mother invited someone else." The thought of Horio gobbling sushi in his living room and squawking about his five years of tennis experience is vaguely horrifying. Ryoma averts his eyes from his senpai as they remove their shoes, and shudders. Even with just the team here, he'd still rather have a match than a party.
"Through here," he mutters, feeling suddenly clumsy and ungracious as Tezuka's eyes fall on him, and not quite knowing what to do about it.
"Tezuka! Inui!" Oishi-senpai beams up from the table in the middle of the room. Ryoma's mother is hovering with a tray of cups as Kawamura-senpai lifts platters of sushi from his baskets. Ryoma notices with resignation that there is already a pile of wrapped gifts under the tree. Despite his distaste for social occasions in general, this is already one of the better birthdays he can remember; usually the twenty-fourth is entirely swallowed by Christmas. Sighing, he wanders over and finds a spare cushion as Kikumaru-senpai begins telling the story of the time Kawamura mixed up the vinegar and sake; they've all heard it before, but no one seems to care much.
Kawamura-senpai makes good sushi, Ryoma thinks absently, eyes wandering around the table. This is the image that comes to mind when he thinks about the team: his senpai from first year. There have been teams since, of course, but it seems like the Regulars have changed every five minutes. And all of them, with the exception of Momo-senpai and Kaidoh-senpai in second year, have held him in a certain amount of awe. There hasn't been any of the camaraderie and friendship he'd come to expect after his first year in the club, and surprisingly Ryoma has actually found himself missing it. He'd rather eat a tennis ball than admit it, but in a way he's grown to enjoy being the baby of the Seigaku team.
"Ah, no - cat, you don't want to eat that -" Kawamura-senpai exclaims, distracting him, and Ryoma looks up hurriedly to see Fuji-senpai fending Karupin away from the table.
"Karupin!" Jumping to his feet, Ryoma snatches up his protesting cat and carries him across to the kitchen door. "You know you can't eat rice - Mom, can he have some fish or something?"
His mother looks up from the table, where she sits surrounded by folders and file boxes. His father seems to have vanished, and good riddance. "Is he trying to eat sushi again? There's some leftover sardine in the fridge."
"Thanks." Balancing the cat on his shoulder one-handed, Ryoma peers into the bright interior of the fridge, poking through packages and bottles until he finds the dish and manages to tear off the foil. Smelling the cooked fish, Karupin meows eagerly and struggles in his arms, paws wildly batting air. "All right!" Ryoma exclaims, crouching to set the dish down. Karupin leaps immediately to the floor, burying his nose in the bowl. Ryoma sighs and scratches his ears; Karupin turns his fuzzy head into the caress but doesn't otherwise acknowledge him.
When he wanders back into the front room the others are all crowded around the table, cheering on Momo-senpai and Kikumaru-senpai, who seem to be engaged in some sort of wasabi-eating competition. Both their faces are very red, but neither of them are reaching for their cups. Ryoma shakes his head and is about to take his seat when someone touches his arm. Startled, he looks around into Tezuka-buchou's serious face.
"Buchou?"
"Here." Tezuka holds out a flattish, lidded blue box, something in his eyes that Ryoma can't read. Feeling his cheekbones heat, he drops down to sit on the tatami, examining the box. It's unexpectedly heavy, and there's writing on the lid. His name, and a word he doesn't recognise.
"What's this?" Ryoma asks quietly, tracing the unfamiliar kanji combination with his fingers.
"Genpuku." Tezuka-buchou looks past him at the convivial chaos around the table. "Traditionally, samurai came of age at fifteen. The occasion was called genpuku."
"Oh." Ryoma blinks at him for a moment, wondering what he's supposed to say to that, then looks away, lifting the lid from the box. He recognises the carefully folded blue fabric immediately, and feels his eyes going wide. "Buchou," he murmurs, strangely breathless as he traces the familiar design with a shaking finger. There are still faint dark spots in the fabric from the sudden rain that hit during the quarter-finals, and half of Kikumaru-senpai's signature scrawls across one corner. Ryoma knows that his own name is painted on there too, a few layers down - after their National win, they'd all signed the Seigaku flag that Momo-senpai and Kawamura-senpai had carried through the tournament. It had been their gift to Tezuka-buchou, an acknowledgement of just how far he'd brought them.
"I can't…" Ryoma looks up helplessly at Tezuka, words sticking in his throat. The flag is supposed to be a reminder of Tezuka-buchou's victory, so why…?
Tezuka's face is as calm as ever, his eyes dark with memory and understanding. "It belongs to you as much as any of us. Take it with you, for the future."
Ryoma swallows, ducking his head. "Yes, buchou." He understands that at least; both of them know that he's going to go beyond Seigaku, beyond the Nationals. He concentrates on fitting the lid back onto the box, fingers steady only through habit, and doesn't quite dare to look up at Tezuka.
"Enough, nya! Time for presents!" Kikumaru-senpai's gleeful shout breaks the tautness of the moment; Ryoma looks across the table and finds all eyes focused on him again.
"What?" His fingers automatically reach to tug down the brim of a cap he isn't wearing, which brings grins to Momo-senpai and Fuji-senpai's faces.
"Presents!" Momoshiro shoves a package into his face, which seems to be a cue for the rest of his senpai to shower him with wrapped parcels and boxes, most of which thankfully turn out to be useful things like grip tape and new gut and sweatbands. Fuji-senpai, mystifyingly, gives him a book that turns out to be a photo album; there are enough embarrassing pictures mixed in with the records of his games (how had Fuji-senpai managed to get a picture of the time he'd tripped over the fangirls, anyway?) that Ryoma slams it hastily shut, glaring. Inui-senpai mutters something that makes Kaidoh-senpai hiss and flush, and Fuji just smiles.
"It's not just you in there - but you can look at it later," he amends as the kitchen door slides open and Ryoma's mother peers in.
"Are you boys ready for cake?" That's enough to change the subject; Ryoma breathes a sigh of relief and stows the album under the table with the flag box as Oishi-senpai and Kawamura-senpai jump up to help clear the table. Even the loud and rather tuneless singing as his mother brings in a large chocolate cake with a ridiculous number of candles doesn't seem so bad right then.
"Mom?" The benefit of celebrating an American-style Christmas, as far as Ryoma is concerned, is that his father invariably drinks too much with lunch and sleeps through most of the afternoon. Currently he's snoring in the front room, underneath the tree.
"Hmm?" His mother looks up from her new book, smiling fondly at him. "What is it, Ryoma?"
"Why didn't you invite anyone but senpai yesterday?"
"Would you have wanted me to?" His mother pats the floor; Ryoma shrugs and shoves his hands into his pockets, dropping down onto the tatami beside her.
"Not really."
"Mm, you're all very much a team, aren't you?" Ryoma doesn't like the knowing way she's looking at him, but he supposes that it's just a mother thing.
"That was years ago," he objects half-heartedly, turning his head away. "I've been on other teams."
"True, but you never really bonded with any of them." Ryoma opens his mouth to object to that, because it sounds stupid and overly-analytical, but she speaks over the top of his words. "Such a lot happened that year, and your team-mates were really the first friends you had. I used to worry about you, you know, back in the States."
"Mom," Ryoma complains, ducking his head; he hates to be fussed over. His mother laughs.
"You enjoyed it, didn't you - that year."
Ryoma blinks at that, realising for the first time in a while that it was fun, more fun than he's really had since. Smiling, his mother reaches out to tousle his hair and he ducks automatically, protesting.
"Mom!" She just smiles at him, composed and a little sad around the edges, as though she misses the child he used to be. It's uncomfortable, and Ryoma escapes back to his room as soon as he can.
Ryoma takes advantage of a Sunday free of his father's annoyances, bringing his textbooks down to the kotatsu. Exams are far too close for comfort; usually the third-year students have months to prepare after they quit their clubs, but even Ryuuzaki-sensei has acknowledged that it would be a waste of time to expect such a thing from Ryoma. Tennis, after all, is vastly superior to schoolwork. All the same, Ryoma refuses to graduate with bad marks, partly out of a desire to confound his father but mostly because he hates being beaten at anything.
He's trying to blink himself awake long enough to finish reading the chapter on radioactive elements when the front door bangs loudly open, signalling the end of peace and quiet.
"Tadaima!" his stupid father yells, in the particularly cheerful tone that means he's been in a bar but isn't actually drunk.
"Che," Ryoma mutters to himself, already gathering up his books to return to his room. It's colder up at the top of the house, but he's less likely to be bothered by stupidity.
"Oi, young man." Too late, Ryoma realises; his dad is already lounging in the doorway and smirking at him. "You owe me a favour."
Ryoma stares - what the hell is the idiot on about now? "You wish. Stop bothering me, old man."
"Heh." Nanjiroh grins smugly. "While you've been wasting your time with books, I've found you an opponent for next week." When Ryoma just looks at him, he puffs his chest out proudly and continues. "He's not on my level, of course, but he's been on the pro circuit long enough to kick your ass, brat."
"No way." Ryoma settles back, opening his History textbook and trying to find the right page. "I refuse."
"Eh? But you can't!" His father straightens up and stares at him as though trying to bore holes in the top of his head.
"I just said so, didn't I? Too busy." Ryoma tries to tune the idiot out, without much success. "Graduation."
"To hell with that rubbish - the seeding committee's meeting in eight weeks, you need to keep your record up!"
"I'm not going pro this year," Ryoma mutters, skimming a passage about trade laws under the Tokugawa Shogunate. Half his mind is counting down to the inevitable explosion. The old man is silent so long that Ryoma looks up, vaguely wondering whether he's having a heart attack or something. Nanjiroh is blinking at him, wiggling his finger in his ear as though he thinks he's going deaf.
"I said I'm not going pro this year." Ryoma sighs as his father's jaw visibly drops.
"Ehh?! But - you - we already arranged…" Nanjiroh trails off, staring at him.
"You mean you arranged stuff," Ryoma mutters to himself, then jumps and almost tears a page out of his textbook as his father leaps across the room and slams his fists down onto the kotatsu.
"What the hell are you thinking, brat?" he demands loudly, leaning forward over the table and maybe has been drinking after all because his breath stinks of beer. "How long are you going to wait - you'll lose your edge! I thought you wanted to go pro - think of all the strong guys you can fight!"
Ryoma wrinkles his nose and smoothes down the creased paper, not bothering to look up at him. "Not right now."
"What the fuck are you planning to do instead?" His father pounds the table with a fist. "Every minute you wait is wasted, young man!"
"I'm going to school, of course." The next chapter is on family inheritance; Ryoma vaguely recalls reading it last week. Pity it doesn't work that way in tennis; he has to put up with his father's presence in order to learn anything from him. Not that there's much to learn. "High school."
Nanjiroh makes a noise that sounds like choking. "I - you - Rinko!"
Ryoma winces. "Don't yell in people's ears," he mutters, but his father is in full ranting mode and doesn't seem to hear him at all.
"Yes, dear?" His mother pokes her head around the kitchen door, glancing between the two of them with an expression of polite enquiry. "What's wrong?"
"This - this ungrateful brat!" Nanjiroh shakes a finger in Ryoma's direction accusingly. "He says he's going to High School, Rinko! What stupid ideas have you been putting in his head?"
"Oh?" She looks at Ryoma for a long moment, then nods as though she understands something and turns to his father. "Now, dear, there's no need to get upset…"
"No need?!" Nanjiroh howls, waving an arm in the air as though it might emphasise something other than his foolishness. "He's supposed to become a pro! He doesn't need to waste his time in school when he could be playing tournaments!"
"Education is never wasted," his mother remonstrates gently; Ryoma wonders whether she's actually as calm about this as she sounds, or if she's just had too much practice at dealing with his father.
"Rinko! Three years - he could be winning Grand Slams in three years! Why the hell does he need to sit around in school?"
"It's not the end of the world, dear."
"How would you know?!"
"Idiot," Ryoma mutters. "I never said I was graduating High School. I'll turn pro next year."
"See - huh?" His father, cut off mid-rant, deflates and stares at him. "Why the hell do you want to bother, then?"
Ryoma sighs again, wondering why he's cursed with such an idiot for a parent. "Fifteen isn't old enough for the major tournaments, old man. Did you forget that?"
From the expression on Nanjiroh's face, he plainly has. "You should be out on the courts, training! Not -" he waves a hand irritably, subsiding into a grumpy slouch that means he'll be complaining about this for weeks, even though Ryoma has already won the argument - "lazing around in school. Who the hell are you going to play against on a school timetable?"
Yukimura. Sanada. Tezuka-buchou. Fuji-senpai. Tachibana. The Monkey King. That tie-dyed Kyuushuu guy. Tezuka-buchou. "Che," Ryoma mutters. "Tokyo Tournament, Kantou Regionals, Nationals, and then the All-Japan Under-Eighteen Singles."
His mother cocks her head at him while his father gapes like a fish. "You're sure this is what you want, Ryoma?" Her face is kind, but her eyes are knowing.
"Yes." Ryoma nods, absently lining up the books his father's banging had dislodged.
"All right then." She smiles at him and ducks back out of the room, into the kitchen.
"Hmph." His father folds his arms, sulking ostentatiously. Ryoma rolls his eyes and closes his books.
"Go bother someone else, old man."
"I don't see why I should cater to ungrateful brats - oh, do what you want," Nanjiroh grumbles as Ryoma steps carelessly over him on his way to the stairs. "You will anyway."
It's cold enough in the gym that Ryoma can't indulge his first impulse and doze off through the interminable ceremony. The speeches made by the headmaster and the chairman of the school board are repetitive and seem to drag on forever, and Ryoma distracts himself by taking a mental inventory of all the matches he is going to play over the six-week break. High school matches are three-set, and since his stupid father is still refusing to practice with him it will be easier to hit up his senpai for games.
He's so busy thinking about it that he almost misses his name being called; it's habit and reflex that lets him answer, and his voice comes out bored enough that he can see Ryuuzaki-sensei glaring from the back of the platform. The name-calling seems to go on forever after that; it's even duller than the opening ceremonies at Nationals. At least then Ryoma has matches to look forward to.
They play some horrible sentimental music while the student representatives make their speeches. Kachiro is sniffling by the time he's done, and Ryoma has shoved his hands in his pockets for warmth as he stares into space. Much more of this and he might even find himself starting to agree with his father for once.
The last person to speak is the representative of the high school division; once he's done congratulating and welcoming his prospective students the doors are thrown open to six weeks of freedom - tennis and sleeping in and avoiding his father's sulks. Ryoma shrugs off his classmates' enthusiasm and the girls who are clamouring for his attention and trudges out into the thin spring sunshine as just another part of the crowd.
Blinded by the sun in his eyes, it takes Ryoma a moment to realise why this suddenly feels so much like walking off court after a match. His senpai are clustered in a rowdy bunch by the gates, cheering as though he has won the Nationals instead of just graduating from middle school.
"Too noisy," Ryoma mutters, tugging his cap down and fully intent on walking right on past them. He's had enough of being embarrassed by his elders for one lifetime. Momo-senpai throws an expansive arm around his shoulders, though, and as Ryoma turns to shrug him off he catches Tezuka-buchou's eyes and then somehow he's standing there and suffering his former team-mates' congratulations.
"You're going to make all of us proud, Echizen-kun." Oishi-senpai beams at him and Ryoma abruptly realises what's wrong with this picture. They are all behaving as though they will never see him again.
Tezuka-buchou looks down at him as calmly as ever. "Fight hard, and keep moving forward," is all he says. His face is entirely opaque; Ryoma can't even guess at what he's thinking. He's vaguely surprised, because he knows that his old man has been complaining at length to Ryuuzaki-sensei over what he still insists on calling 'this school idiocy' - it's hardly a secret.
"Buchou," he murmurs because he has to say something, an acknowledgement and acceptance. He doesn't have the words to wrap around what he wants to say; will staying on at Seigaku count as moving forward to Tezuka-buchou? Ryoma wants the Nationals again, the thrill of facing players who will surely have grown in the years since he has seen them, but there are more important things. He remembers the rattle of passing trains overhead, commanding eyes that refused to let him back down, and swallows. It's been a long time since he made that choice.
Walking onto the courts is familiar in an unfamiliar way; Ryoma feels curiously disconnected, as though time has rewound and brought him back to his first year in Seigaku. He has spent enough time here in the past two years, begging for practice matches when demanding hadn't worked, that he isn't lost like the other first years with their worried faces and clasped hands. He shouldn't be nervous at all, and the fact that he is, tendrils of uncertainty twisting in his stomach, is enough to irritate him into a scowl.
The looks on the second and third year club members' faces are vaguely amusing, gape-jawed and wide-eyed with recognition. Ryoma peers around under the brim of his cap as ripples of murmur spread out and practice effectively ceases. He counts only seven Regular jackets, and one of those on a half-familiar guy who is already looking more worried than mutinous. He's wondering uncomfortably where buchou is when a whirlwind appears from nowhere and knocks him flat.
"Ochibi!"
Ryoma stares up at the hazy blue of the sky and wonders wryly whether this isn't a bad idea after all. The stupid uncertainty has been replaced by butterflies that flutter invisible wings beneath his sternum and make the backs of his eyes ache. "Senpai, you're heavy."
"Echizen!" Oishi-senpai's worried-yet-pleased face appears above him as he peels his partner away so that Ryoma can breathe. "Are you all right?"
"Fine," Ryoma mutters, shoving himself to his feet and retrieving his cap. Kikumaru-senpai has bounced over to babble happily at Fuji; Ryoma catches snatches of "after all" and "Nationals" but he's too busy edging away from Momo-senpai, who looks ready to rub all the hair off Ryoma's head, to pay much attention.
"Echizen." Inui-senpai is already scribbling in what looks unsettlingly like a new notebook. "All data suggested that you were going pro this year; why are you here?"
"I thought so too." Fuji-senpai twists free, coming forward and looking at Ryoma as though he's done something particularly interesting. His eyes are blue and sharp and uncomfortably knowing; Ryoma tugs his cap down and shrugs, shouldering his racquet bag.
"All the good tournaments have age limits anyway."
"Ah." Fuji-senpai tilts his head thoughtfully, and Oishi looks worried.
"Echizen, you don't need to be here if you'd rather not…"
The assumption that he might not want to play tennis with his senpai blindsides him a little. Ryoma blinks up at the vice-captain, and Kaidoh-senpai hisses. "Where else should he be?"
"Oi Viper, what do you know about it?" Momo-senpai demands on what seems like a reflexive level - he looks vaguely surprised by the words coming out of his mouth right up until Kaidoh growls and glares at him. It's all so very familiar that two years dwindles to nothing.
"Why is everyone standing around?" Tezuka-buchou's voice comes as a surprise, and Ryoma only realises that he's at the centre of a ring of Regulars when it cracks, Oishi-senpai and Kaidoh-senpai backing hastily out of the way. Ryoma looks at the ground.
"Buchou."
The silence stretches like a thread between them, tight and uncomfortable. Ryoma can feel Tezuka's eyes on him, demanding; his hands curl into fists by his sides, itching to tug on his cap or adjust his sweatbands.
"Echizen," Tezuka-buchou says at last, and his voice is so toneless that Ryoma has to look up, into eyes that are as bland and distant as if the past three years are nothing at all. His stomach clenches.
"Everyone, ten laps!" Tezuka barks, folding his arms as grumbling club members start streaming reluctantly past him. Ryoma is grateful for the distraction; he stretches his legs into the run, keeping up with the Regulars almost effortlessly. Tezuka-buchou is watching from the side of the courts; he turns to follow their progress and Ryoma feels as though he is in orbit, tied into a centre. There is more to this than Tezuka not expecting him back, but Ryoma doesn't know what it is; he feels Tezuka's eyes on him like an itch in the back of his mind. It's uncomfortable and unnatural, and after practice Ryoma begs off Momo-senpai's offer of fast food in favour of wandering slowly home by himself, so tangled up in thought that he almost walks past his gate.
Second day's practice is just as awkward. Buchou ignores him completely and orders double drills for everyone before disappearing with Oishi and Amano-sensei. Ryoma runs through the first-year practices without thinking much, finding Horio's strident complaints far more troublesome. He can hear the senpai on the courts echoing them; even the Regulars are grumbling as they go through their pinpoint drills. Ryoma watches balls impact lines as he swings his racquet, absently twisting his arm to vary the spin he puts on the imaginary ball. Arcs intersect in his mind, building into complex patterns that elude his grasp.
After they are finally dismissed it seems like the entire club stampedes over to the notice board where Oishi-senpai has taped up the ranking schedules. Ryoma eyes the crowd, shakes his head, and wanders off to the locker room to change instead. He almost walks right into Tezuka-buchou in the doorway, and expects a lecture on paying more attention, but Tezuka just looks down at him for a moment before walking away. Ryoma stares after him, feeling as though he's missing something and not liking it at all.
He rushes through the shower, climbing back into his uncomfortable school uniform with skin still damp, and by the time clumps of senpai start trickling in, faces alternately smug and panicked, Ryoma is shouldering his bag to leave and there's enough room in front of the board that he can squeeze forward and see. D-block is Momo-senpai and Oishi-senpai, C-block Kaidoh-senpai and Kikumaru-senpai. He frowns and tilts his head up; Fuji-senpai will be facing Inui-senpai in B, and probably confounding him again. Ryoma swallows sudden tension, realising that he has been taking certain things for granted; the rules against first-years participating in ranking tournaments float uncomfortably to the surface of his mind before his name jumps out at him.
A-block. Echizen Ryoma, right at the bottom underneath a mishmash of second and third year names that conjure only vague faces in his mind, and Ishikawa Gensuke who Ryoma remembers is the other Regular, the new one. And there at the top, kanji drawn almost into a signature, Tezuka Kunimitsu. They will be playing each other within days, and something in Ryoma seems to come alive at the thought. He grins, ducking under the brim of his cap, and turns to leave, only to halt in confusion as Momo-senpai plants himself in the way.
"Che." Ryoma slants one look up at Momoshiro's grinning face and decides it isn't worth it. He steps to the side, fully intent on continuing on his way, but finds himself caught from behind as Kikumaru-senpai grabs hold of his collar.
"Hoi, Ochibi! Where are you going?"
Ryoma turns, eyeing him distrustfully. He has the exact same grin as Momo, which can't be good. "Home," Ryoma points out tonelessly, as if it isn't obvious.
"Nuh-uh!" Kikumaru-senpai shakes his head vigorously, bouncing in place. "We're going for burgers, and you're coming with us, Ochibi."
Momo grins wickedly. "Senpai's treating."
"Yeah - hoi! Momo!" Kikumaru folds his arms, sulking, and Ryoma eyes the pair of them, wondering whether it's worth trying to make a break for it. But then his stomach reminds him that it's been a long time since lunch, and burgers on senpai's tab suddenly seems like quite a good idea, even coupled with probable embarrassment.
Kikumaru-senpai pays for Ryoma's food without complaint, but kicks up such a fuss when Momo orders half the menu that the second year's forced to pay his own way. Ryoma grins, watching Momo-senpai pout and Kikumaru shake his head so hard that his hair flares out despite all the wax he must use.
"Are you done yet?" he asks when they look prepared to stand and bicker at the counter forever. "I'm hungry."
"Ah, yeah…" Momo-senpai carries his overloaded tray over to a table by the window, already talking around a mouthful of fries. Ryoma doesn't know how he manages to eat so much, and doesn't want to; it's kind of disgusting to watch him cramming food down his throat, so he turns his head to stare out of the window. The sports shop across the road has a sale on racquet bags, but Ryoma's is new enough that there's no point bothering, and they never have any Fila stuff in there anyway.
"Hey, what happened to Tezuka-buchou today?" Momo-senpai asks between helpings, attracting Ryoma's attention. He twists in his seat, absently screwing his cheeseburger wrapper into a ball and throwing it from hand to hand.
"Eh?" Kikumaru-senpai peers at Momo. "What do you mean?"
"He was in such a bad mood, giving us double drill. Did someone spit in his lunch or something?"
"Don't think so." Kikumaru-senpai shrugs fluidly and tosses a fry into the air, catching it in his mouth. "Maybe it's the district preliminaries; Oishi's worrying already."
Ryoma snorts, giving his opinion of that, and slides down into his seat in an attempt to get comfortable. "Buchou's just buchou."
"Heh, and you get to fight him on Saturday!" Momo-senpai grins and reaches across to ruffle Ryoma's hair with a salty hand; Ryoma scowls and moves hastily out of the way.
"Senpai!"
"That'll be one to watch, nya," Kikumaru-senpai comments, eyeing the last of Ryoma's fries speculatively. Ryoma glares at him, pulling his tray closer and jamming a couple into his mouth decisively.
"It's nothing."
"Nothing!" Momo-senpai splutters a laugh as Kikumaru-senpai grins at him.
"Ochibi's nervous…"
"Am not," Ryoma mutters, rolling his eyes. It will hardly be the first time he's played Tezuka-buchou, and the anticipation that is already coiling in his stomach has nothing to do with nerves. Saturday seems far too far away.
"Hey, you have to get past Ishikawa first," Momoshiro reminds him, stabbing a fry in his direction. "He beat Viper last year."
"Oi Momo, you know Kaidoh was sick that time!" Kikumaru pokes Momo-senpai in the arm.
"Heh. Stupid snake should have known better." The gleam in Momo's eyes is evil and familiar. "At least I don't have to play him this time round."
"Eh?" Ryoma swipes a fry out from under Kikumaru-senpai's nose while he's distracted, and grins complacently as he chews on it.
"Hoi! Ochibi! - they were in C-block together last year," Kikumaru grudgingly explains when Momo-senpai just glares at his rapidly emptying tray.
"Aa." Ryoma eyes his senpai and decides that it's worth the possible explosion. "Who won?"
"Hehh..." Kikumaru-senpai's grin is almost wider than his face. "Kaidoh was fifteen to fourteen in tie-break when Tezuka made them stop."
"Hmph." Momo-senpai bites into a hamburger viciously. "I wasn't going to lose to that bastard."
"Mada mada dane, Momo-senpai." Ryoma smirks and ducks Momoshiro's swipe at his head. This is all so familiar that the formality of ranking matches seems almost irrelevant. Ryoma already knows that Saturday, when it comes, is not going to be about the Regulars at all.
The week passes slowly enough that the knowledge of what is to come chafes beneath his skin, tight and itching. Ryoma floats through matches against the non-Regulars without needing to show much skill at all, and still doesn't drop a point. Sixes and noughts rack up along the board beside his name, mirroring Tezuka's statistics exactly.
Friday afternoon, after yet another easy win that leaves him barely sweating and vaguely bored, Ryoma wanders over to report to Oishi-senpai, who's keeping the scores. "Same again?" the vice-captain asks, smiling at him.
"Aa." Ryoma nods, scanning the board even though he already knows what the order is.
"Well, it's Ochibi, nya." Kikumaru-senpai is draped over the back of Oishi's chair; he flashes a quick victory sign then peers over his partner's shoulder at the sheets he's filling in.
"Eiji, you're playing Kaidoh in ten minutes," Oishi-senpai reminds him without looking up. "Echizen, I think Ishikawa-kun is already waiting for you on the court." Ryoma shrugs, shouldering his racquet and sauntering off. The Ishikawa guy has a bunch of sixes as well, most of them attached to ones and twos. Tezuka, of course, is the only exception; six-love to the captain.
Ishikawa has a nondescript sort of face, which might explain why Ryoma doesn't remember him from middle school. He looks solid enough to have some strength, though, and he glares at Ryoma as he walks up to the net, tense enough that his feet hit the ground with harsh, distinct sounds. Ryoma grins; plainly the guy doesn’t want to give up his place on the team.
"I don't care who you are," Ishikawa announces harshly as they shake hands over the net. His palms are sweaty, though, which makes it obvious that he's been watching Ryoma's progress through the block. "I'm not going to let some kid defeat me."
Ryoma tips back his cap, looking up into tight eyes, and grins. "Pleased to meet you, senpai. When did you transfer here?"
Ishikawa's face hardens, and he whirls, stalking to the baseline. "Get on with the game."
"Yes senpai." Ryoma smirks and glances up at the umpire, a vaguely familiar second year who's trying to keep a straight face.
"The best of one set match! Ishikawa to serve!"
The guy has an interesting serve, and he's fast enough on his feet to make Ryoma work for his points, but it quickly becomes apparent that there's no substantial challenge here. At four games to love, after Ryoma returns a heavy smash with pinpoint precision, Ishikawa's face loses its stubborn veneer. Ryoma takes the final two games straight, and Ishikawa still looks stunned when they shake hands again as the umpire calls the score. Ryoma's on the team now in all but name, and strangely enough that comes as a relief; Seigaku has accustomed him to being in the centre of things.
Everyone else is still in the middle of their games when he walks off the court. Ryoma considers wandering up to watch the matches, but going home early and badgering his father into playing seems more attractive, and getting some kind of workout today is preferable to standing around. "Six to love," he reports to Fuji-senpai, who has taken over the desk. A movement on the edge of his vision distracts him and Ryoma looks up, right into Tezuka-buchou's eyes. Words dry on his tongue; buchou looks cold, as distant and remote as though he is on the moon. Ryoma can't do anything but watch as Tezuka nods to Fuji-senpai and picks up his racquet, walking towards the court where his next opponent is waiting.
Momo-senpai is right; buchou is annoyed about something, and Ryoma has an uncomfortable feeling that it might be him. Except that he can't quite work out why buchou isn't happy to have him back in the club… and Fuji-senpai is coughing behind his hand, eyes bright and fixed on him. Ryoma glares at him and tugs his cap down as he turns away, knowing that there's no point asking why he's funny. He wanders up to the fence, watching the way Tezuka-buchou turns his racquet into the ball and momentarily wishing to be on the other side of the net.
There's something off, though; something horribly restrained in every line of Tezuka's posture. Ryoma sets his jaw, deliberately relaxing his shoulders to stop them from hunching. This isn't Tezuka-buchou at all; it shows in the careful way he moves and the closed expression he wears. He remembers Fuji's words, three years ago: there are only a few people who can make Tezuka show his true skills. Tomorrow cannot come too soon.
"One set match!" Oishi-senpai calls from the chair. "Echizen to serve!"
Ryoma bounces the ball thoughtfully, watching Tezuka-buchou's form across the net, then nods. He serves cleanly, and the stretch through his muscles is achingly welcome after the dull week. Buchou catches the ball easily, returning to the corner, and Ryoma dashes to reach it, slicing it back neatly. His point; he frowns as Oishi calls the score.
His serve again, and he pulls out the Twist Serve left-handed, knowing that it is stronger than the last time Tezuka played him just as he knows that Tezuka will return it all the same. There is something off here, though, something different; Ryoma stretches for the return, confused by the way Tezuka is hitting shots to the edges of his range. It's not his usual play at all, and that means that Ryoma can't give his best. The idea that Tezuka-buchou might not be taking him seriously knots into a burning lump under his breastbone, and Ryoma narrows his eyes, taking out his frustration on the ball in a vicious twist smash. It's an utter surprise to find it spinning back past his right hand; he stares across the net at Tezuka's implacable face and wonders what he's trying to say. His next serve hits right on the line, and as far as Ryoma is concerned Tezuka never even tries to reach it.
"Game Echizen," Oishi announces; Ryoma clenches his fist and takes his position, staring at Tezuka as he serves. This isn't his buchou at all, and he doesn't understand why until another shot hits the corner, making him race to return it. There is a question in every ball Tezuka-buchou hits, repeated until it becomes a hypnotic, irresistible demand. Show me why you are here is written in every line of Tezuka's body as he hits shot after corner shot. Ryoma feels his eyes go wide with realisation; he turns a volley into a high lob, body moving without thought in an answer that comes straight from his soul.
It takes the zero-shiki, arcing gently over the net, for Kunimitsu to understand what Echizen is trying to tell him. He tastes words on his tongue, familiar and bittersweet: become the pillar of Seigaku. It's a strange kind of ache to realise that Echizen might have taken his words so much to heart, even now when he could be flying free. Kunimitsu will not be the one to hold Echizen back from his potential, but then Echizen has always been stubborn. He inclines his head in acknowledgement and takes a deep breath, letting go of his restraint with something close to relief.
Ryoma has time to think that this is what he has been waiting for as he reaches for the ball, and then he is lost in it. Drive and volley and return, backspin and slice and Tezuka-buchou's face over the net; his world narrows to the boundaries of the court. He flows through the game like falling, flying, burning; every shot that Tezuka-buchou gives him pushes him higher and farther, and Ryoma exults in knowing that he can do the same. This is why playing against other opponents will never be enough; there are so few people for whom either of them need to go this far. Ryoma throws himself into the match body and soul, and as Tezuka-buchou's final shot slides past his racquet by scant millimetres he feels a sharp moment of disappointment that has nothing to do with winning or losing.
Ryoma tilts his head back and stares up at the purpling sky, breathing hard. The court is so silent that he can hear rush hour traffic streets away; his heart is thumping in his ears and Tezuka's breath on the other side of the net is as loud as his own. At last Oishi-senpai clears his throat and states the obvious: "Game set Tezuka, seven games to five."
The club members clustered outside the fence are eerily silent. Glimpses of stunned faces and familiar grins stick in Ryoma's mind as he heads to the net, but they are very much eclipsed by the fact that buchou is smiling at him.
"Good game," Tezuka says quietly as they shake hands, both their fingers slick with sweat. It feels like victory, and right then the score doesn't matter at all.
"Thanks, buchou." Ryoma grins up at him, tired and satisfied as they walk off court, the ragged applause of the Regulars echoing around them.
"…and then that bastard called my Dunk Smash pathetic!" Momoshiro glares at nothing and clenches his fist around his juice can. It crumples with a metallic sound that makes Ryoma wince, but Momo-senpai doesn't seem to notice. He isn't paying any attention to his food either, which is definitely weird; Ryoma would put it down to lovesickness if Momo-senpai hadn't long since abandoned the topic of his rejection by Tachibana An in favour of grumbling about Kaidoh-senpai.
"Aa," Ryoma mutters when Momo-senpai pauses for breath between outrage and invective, and props his head on his hand, staring out of the window. As far as he's concerned, girls are boring and Momo-senpai and Kaidoh-senpai's fights are repetitive. They'd played doubles in the finals of the district preliminaries last week, and there's been outright warfare in the locker room ever since.
Having spent most of the prelims sitting on the bench watching doubles matches, Ryoma is more than ready for the Tokyo Tournament to begin. He doesn't like playing Singles One outside of Nationals, because all too often the match is over by the time his turn comes around.
"Oi Echizen, are you listening?" Momo-senpai demands, taking a huge bite out of a hamburger. Ryoma shrugs.
"Not really. You hate Kaidoh-senpai; what else is new?" A flash of familiar colours across the street catches his eye; Ryoma turns and watches Tezuka-buchou disappearing into the sports shop across the street. He's on his feet before Momoshiro has finished sputtering, heading out the door without much thought.
"Oi! Echizen!" Momo-senpai calls, but Ryoma ignores him.
The sports shop is bigger than Mitsumaru; he's not been in for a while and it takes him a while to find Tezuka-buchou at the back register, talking to an assistant. Ryoma hangs back and watches as buchou hands over a paper and the assistant bows, then disappears into the back room. When he takes a step forward, his footstep seems so loud that it feels as though everyone in the store is watching him.
"Buchou." Ryoma fists his hands in his pockets and tries to look as if he's in here to shop for new gut or something - anything that doesn't involve having followed his captain in off the street.
"Echizen?" Tezuka looks down at him with mild surprise.
"…can I play Singles Two next week?" It's the first thing that comes to mind; Ryoma ducks his head under the brim of his cap, feeling his cheekbones heat.
Tezuka-buchou doesn't answer; it feels like he's weighing Ryoma with his eyes, measuring him against some unspoken standard. The idea that he might be found wanting is not to be borne; Ryoma stares at the ground stubbornly, and is relieved when the assistant comes back and distracts Tezuka with boxes. He pokes at a display of balls while Tezuka buys whatever he has come in for, and follows him out onto the street out of pure habit.
"Buchou, will you play a match with me?" His bag is still in the restaurant with Momo-senpai, but Ryoma remembers that there was a lot of food left on Momo's tray.
Tezuka halts in the middle of the pavement for a moment before turning back to him. There is enough distance between them that Ryoma doesn't have to crane his head back to meet Tezuka-buchou's eyes. "Concentrate on the opponent in front of you," is all Tezuka says. Ryoma watches him walk away, wondering why that sounds so familiar and trying to find words to explain that buchou is still the best opponent he has ever had.
"Oi! Echizen!" Momo-senpai dashes to a halt beside him, Ryoma's bag clutched in one fist. "Why the hell did you run off like that - eh, isn't that buchou?"
Ryoma just shrugs, settling his bag onto his shoulder and turning for home.
Tezuka-buchou is enjoying himself. It's painted in every line of his body as he flows across the court; Ryoma props one foot on the bench and rests his chin on his knee, watching avidly. At the level of this game, the true skill is in the subtle things, in the precise angle of wrist and forearm, the delicacy of ball control and spin.
Tachibana is good enough that Ryoma can't decide which side of the court he'd prefer to be on. His own match had been fun, but ultimately the opponent, some Higashikouen guy who hadn't been on the Fudoumine team in middle school, hadn't been much of a challenge. Ryoma had taken Singles Two in straight sets, and not even the opponent had looked surprised.
Tezuka-buchou's racquet face changes angle, the head dipping a barely perceptible fraction; Ryoma grins as the familiar arc of the zero-shiki hangs in the air before rolling gently back into the net. The umpire calls the score - fifth game of the third set, thirty to love - and the spectators break out into cheers and exhortations. Tezuka walks to the baseline, takes a deep breath that seems to run all the way down the line of his back, then pivots and serves in a single fluid motion that makes Ryoma's fingers twitch for his racquet grip. Watching Tezuka-buchou play a real match, a match he has to work for, always knots a strange kind of jealousy in Ryoma's stomach.
Tachibana returns with a vicious smash to the corner, bringing the score to thirty-fifteen. Ryoma catches a glimpse of Tezuka's eyes as he turns to serve again, and smirks into his hands as the ace hits the line with a smack, raising a puff of white dust. Across the court one of the Higashikouen players rubs his eyes; Ibu is muttering again and Ryoma sees Kamio poke him.
Tezuka-buchou takes the game point after a fast rally, and Ryoma reaches for the water bottle without taking his eyes from the tall figure of his captain. Tezuka and Tachibana exchange nods as they pass at the net, and there is a satisfied smile in the back of Tezuka's eyes as he takes the bottle from Ryoma's outstretched hand.
"Nice game." Ryoma shifts to one side of the bench, absently handing over a towel.
"Aa." The break is short, and Tezuka-buchou keeps his eyes on the court. Three more games, Ryoma thinks, and then next week they will be playing Hyoutei in the finals. The idea that buchou might lose here isn't worth contemplating.
Tezuka's breathing is steady as he stands, handing the water bottle back to Ryoma. The plastic is hot where his fingers have been; Ryoma turns it in his hands, watching the deadly grace of Tachibana's serve, and the controlled power of Tezuka's return. This is the kind of tennis that drew him back to Seigaku; watching buchou play is almost as good as facing him over the net. Almost; Ryoma turns a shiver into a smirk, already anticipating a rematch.
Kunimitsu feels the cheers of the spectators running like water through his bones, dispelling the ache of exhaustion and stretched muscles. Tachibana grins ruefully as they shake hands over the net, strength undisputed even in defeat. When he turns to walk off the court, Echizen is watching him from the bench, eyes wide and unblinking as if there is nothing else in the world. Kunimitsu swallows inevitability and deliberately turns his attention to the rest of the team, feeling the weight of those eyes on his back like a physical touch.
Buchou is sitting on the bench with his arms folded, looking as calm as ever. Ryoma throws a resentful glare in his direction and tugs his cap down before taking his place at the baseline. He indulges himself in a vicious Twist Serve, knowing that it will be returned but still satisfied with the snapping ache of muscle and tendon as he slides through the practised motion. Kabaji returns with a powerful Rising Shot; Ryoma sets his teeth and slams a double-handed smash into the back-court. He's three games up to love, but he knows it won't be long before he has his own style turned back on him. He's already proved that size and power can't make an impression here.
Kabaji is getting faster. Ryoma can see hints of his own Split Step in the boy-mountain's jerky movement, and mutters something highly uncomplimentary as he flings himself forward and up for a Drive B. Four games to love, and he knows he can't lose this match but the utter stillness of Kabaji's eyes on him makes his skin itch. Ryoma scowls as they change courts; he doesn't understand Tezuka-buchou's insistence that he play this match.
It's not at all a surprise when Kabaji returns his topspin with a perfect Drive B. Ryoma grinds his teeth as the Hyoutei supporters go crazy and leaps to catch the arc of the ball, turning it into a twist smash. The way Kabaji bounces the ball for his serve is familiar and irritating; Ryoma moves without thought into the Super Rising, already knowing that he is digging his own grave. Every time he returns one of his own shots he gives the opponent more ammunition, but he has no alternative. Ryoma sets his jaw and attacks the next two games as though qualifying for Wimbledon, losing them anyway. Tezuka-buchou's face, when they change courts, is intent and inscrutable; Momo-senpai and Kikumaru-senpai shout loud encouragement and advice from the fence.
Ryoma hates losing more than anything. Playing against his own tennis is losing by definition; no matter how he refines he skills, how high he pushes himself, Kabaji is there passively matching everything. At three to four in tie-break Ryoma abandons restraint and throws himself into the air for a Cool Drive. Kabaji stands like a rock as the ball spins past him, and something finally comes clear in Ryoma's mind.
He claims the next three points in quick succession, borrowing the zero-shiki and Fuji-senpai's Tsubame Gaeshi to take the set, and feels his shoulders hunching as he trudges over to stand in front of Tezuka. Ryoma stares at the ground, far too aware of buchou's calm eyes on him. He understands now; the way to beat Kabaji is to keep moving and evolving, to keep hitting him with skills that he doesn't recognise without giving him time to copy them.
"You're doing well," is all Tezuka says as he hands Ryoma a water bottle. "Don't lose the momentum now."
"Aa." Ryoma gulps water and concentrates on slowing his breathing. Tezuka-buchou's insistence on this match makes more sense now, and Ryoma is uncomfortably aware that he has been far from gracious about it. "Sorry, buchou," he mutters, slumping onto the bench and burying his face in a towel to hide the flush that heats his cheekbones. If Tezuka hears him, he gives no sign, and Ryoma is grateful.
The Monkey King's cheering squad is as annoying as ever. Ryoma leans back on the bench, stretching his legs out and shoving his hands in his pockets as Hyoutei's captain conducts his crowd with imperious flicks of his fingers. He can't see why Atobe bothers; Tezuka-buchou is standing by the bench checking the gut of his racquet as though he can't hear anything at all. Ryoma has never seen Tezuka nervous; under intense pressure he just seems to become more focused and determined.
Atobe poses at the net, looking put out that Tezuka isn't already there. Ryoma tips his cap back and smirks across the court at him, amused as Atobe's haughty expression darkens into a scowl. Then Tezuka-buchou steps onto the court and it's as if Ryoma no longer exists; Atobe has eyes for no one but his opponent. Ryoma bites his tongue and slouches into the bench as the umpire begins the formalities; Atobe smirks and says something as they shake hands, but Tezuka doesn't reply and Ryoma can't see his face.
It's immediately apparent that the Monkey King has lost none of his annoying skills over the years. Ryoma vaguely recalls hearing that he missed the last tournament season over some injury or other that required a long rehab stay overseas. Atobe goes into this game as if he is trying to break Tezuka with the force of his will alone; Ryoma remembers the look on his face three years ago after Seigaku faced Higa in the second round of the Nationals.
Tezuka's face is intent as he matches Atobe shot for shot, power for power; the crowd at the fence are silent as the opening rally stretches on. Ryoma watches the ball arc back and forth over the net, flashing gold in the afternoon sun, and wonders whether Atobe can live up to the pace he is setting. Three sets of this would be exhausting for anyone.
Atobe shears topspin off the ball Tezuka aims into the backcourt, returning it as a flat smash that hits the corner with a dull thud before bouncing out. Ryoma feels his eyes flare blindingly wide as the umpire calls "Fifteen-love" and the Hyoutei supporters cheer their captain. He barely hears Momo-senpai and Horio start shouting for Tezuka, too caught up in the memory of another match.
Atobe had scored the first point then too. Ryoma watches Tezuka-buchou return a vicious slice, remembering the way he had seemed to collapse in slow motion, face contorting and grace shattered as he clutched at his shoulder. It has been almost three years, and this is the first time that Tezuka has played Atobe since that day. Ryoma wonders whether Tezuka-buchou is thinking about that as Atobe pushes him back with a relentless series of centre smashes.
This game is reminding Ryoma uncomfortably of the last time. There's something in Tezuka-buchou's posture that speaks too eloquently of defeat remembered; Ryoma breathes slowly and watches as Atobe takes the first game, Hyoutei's cheers ringing unnoticed in his ears. He doesn't look at Tezuka during court change, handing over the water bottle silently. All he can seem to remember is the way I won't lose had felt so much like a broken promise.
There is a barely-there hesitation in the way Tezuka moves that keeps Ryoma's mind inextricably mired in the past. Every shot seems to echo with the memory of pain and helplessness. Ryoma watches three openings pass and doesn't think to wonder why Tezuka doesn't hit the zero-shiki; the muscles of his forearm flex unconsciously as though he can take the burden on himself again, and the first set tiebreak feels like inevitability.
second half
Pairings: Tezuka/Ryoma; implied/background Golden Pair and Momo/Kaidoh; very small hints of Taka/Fuji and even smaller ones of Fujicest. There were supposed to be hints of Data Pair as well, but they're so small that they don't in fact exist.
Rating: PG13/R
Continuity: Manga, specific spoilers for Genius 145-155/episodes 65-68.
Notes: This is long. So long that it barely fits into two LJ posts; there's a link to the second half at the end of the first. This fic would be a lot suckier (and possibly nonexistent) without Aja's help, beta services, encouragement, and fangirling. Thank you so much.
Breaking Orbit
Ryoma knows something's going on when his father tries to drag him out to the tennis court after lunch, despite the freezing temperatures and lingering snow. "No way," he mutters, turning his back on the idiot and trudging up the stairs to his room with the fuzzy warmth of Karupin heavy in his arms. He's halfway into beating his new tennis game, thinking vague thoughts about heading out to the indoor courts later, when the muffled chime of the doorbell crystallises suspicion into certainty.
"Hey, young man!" his father yells loudly from the bottom of the stairs. "You have guests!" Ryoma grinds his teeth, imagining the look on the old man's face when he finds out that his magazine subscriptions have been cancelled. Nanjiroh sounds just a little too enthusiastic, which means that Ryoma is probably about to be subjected to the squeals and clutching hands of pigtailed, pink-ribboned girls. Reluctantly, he abandons his game controller and scoops up Karupin; no one can try to hold his hands if they're full, and maybe if they all start squealing over the cat he'll be able to make a run for it.
Halfway down the stairs he halts in confusion. It's not girls at all, it's Oishi-senpai bowing apologetically to Ryoma's mother while Kikumaru-senpai peers around as if Ryoma is about to spring from a corner. With Nanjiroh lounging sulkily against the wall it's easy to see who has done the inviting here; Ryoma breathes a sigh of relief and lets the struggling Karupin free, shoving his hands into his pockets as he wanders down into the hall.
"Senpai."
"Ah, Echizen!" Oishi-senpai beams at him. "Happy birthday - I think the others should arrive soon…"
"Thanks," Ryoma mutters, unsuccessfully trying to fend off Kikumaru-senpai's gleeful attempts to squash him. Just then the bell chimes again, and his mother hurries to open the door.
"Ah! Everyone at once!" Kikumaru-senpai exclaims, hanging over Ryoma's shoulders and waving furiously at the crowd in the genkan. "Taka-san, it's been ages! Hiiii! Come say happy birthday to Ochibi!"
"Eiji, I think you're smothering him…" Oishi begins; Fuji-senpai smiles behind his hand as Ryoma finally manages to escape from Kikumaru's clutches, only to be waylaid by a furiously grinning Momoshiro.
"Happy birthday Echizen!"
"Owowow! Momo-senpai!" Ryoma complains, struggling against the headlock Momo has him in. A flash momentarily blinds him, and he looks up to see Fuji-senpai smiling over the top of his camera.
"Happy birthday, Echizen."
"Not if you're taking pictures," Ryoma mutters, kicking Momo-senpai's leg until he lets go. At least Kawamura-senpai and Kaidoh-senpai are talking to his mother instead of trying to flatten or embarrass him.
"Aa, but I always take pictures." Fuji-senpai smiles as Kikumaru bounces up and grabs onto him.
"Fuji! Our little Ochibi's all grown up!" Ryoma sets his teeth and wishes for a cap to tug down; he's only a couple of centimetres shorter than Fuji-senpai these days, and with luck he'll grow some more in the next year or two.
"Ah! You brought sushi!" Ryoma hears his mother exclaim, clapping her hands sharply and making Kawamura-senpai blush and rub the back of his head as everyone turns to look. "Boys, please come through to the living room…" She slides open the door and bows, and Ryoma makes a face at the fussily-decorated Christmas tree that is already dropping leaves in the corner. Someone's actually pinned up paper decorations as well - probably Nanjiroh, since it's a pretty half-hearted job.
The bell rings again when Ryoma is following his senpai into the front room. He jumps as his father pokes him in the back; he's forgotten the idiot is still there.
"Oi, answer that."
"Why can't you?" Ryoma demands reflexively, but he's already heading to the door. "Che. Lazy old man."
"Respect your betters, brat," Nanjiroh grumbles, but thankfully he's shambling out towards the kitchen. Ryoma feels a moment of pure relief that the old man isn't trying to join the party - it's bad enough that his senpai have met the idiot and know what an embarrassment he is. Ryoma shudders, pulling open the door and blinking up at the final two guests; however much he's grown in the past few years, he still has to look up to Tezuka-buchou.
"Happy birthday, Echizen." Inui-senpai has that unsettling grin on his face that means he's anticipating good data. That or he's brought juice; Ryoma eyes him warily and resolves to keep a careful eye on his drink.
"Inui-senpai, buchou. Come in." He backs away from the door, watching the way Tezuka's mouth flattens at the title and wondering why he isn't used to it by now. It's not as though Ryoma has ever called him anything else.
"Everyone else is here?" Tezuka asks, and Ryoma nods, ignoring Inui-senpai's muttering about percentages.
"Unless my mother invited someone else." The thought of Horio gobbling sushi in his living room and squawking about his five years of tennis experience is vaguely horrifying. Ryoma averts his eyes from his senpai as they remove their shoes, and shudders. Even with just the team here, he'd still rather have a match than a party.
"Through here," he mutters, feeling suddenly clumsy and ungracious as Tezuka's eyes fall on him, and not quite knowing what to do about it.
"Tezuka! Inui!" Oishi-senpai beams up from the table in the middle of the room. Ryoma's mother is hovering with a tray of cups as Kawamura-senpai lifts platters of sushi from his baskets. Ryoma notices with resignation that there is already a pile of wrapped gifts under the tree. Despite his distaste for social occasions in general, this is already one of the better birthdays he can remember; usually the twenty-fourth is entirely swallowed by Christmas. Sighing, he wanders over and finds a spare cushion as Kikumaru-senpai begins telling the story of the time Kawamura mixed up the vinegar and sake; they've all heard it before, but no one seems to care much.
Kawamura-senpai makes good sushi, Ryoma thinks absently, eyes wandering around the table. This is the image that comes to mind when he thinks about the team: his senpai from first year. There have been teams since, of course, but it seems like the Regulars have changed every five minutes. And all of them, with the exception of Momo-senpai and Kaidoh-senpai in second year, have held him in a certain amount of awe. There hasn't been any of the camaraderie and friendship he'd come to expect after his first year in the club, and surprisingly Ryoma has actually found himself missing it. He'd rather eat a tennis ball than admit it, but in a way he's grown to enjoy being the baby of the Seigaku team.
"Ah, no - cat, you don't want to eat that -" Kawamura-senpai exclaims, distracting him, and Ryoma looks up hurriedly to see Fuji-senpai fending Karupin away from the table.
"Karupin!" Jumping to his feet, Ryoma snatches up his protesting cat and carries him across to the kitchen door. "You know you can't eat rice - Mom, can he have some fish or something?"
His mother looks up from the table, where she sits surrounded by folders and file boxes. His father seems to have vanished, and good riddance. "Is he trying to eat sushi again? There's some leftover sardine in the fridge."
"Thanks." Balancing the cat on his shoulder one-handed, Ryoma peers into the bright interior of the fridge, poking through packages and bottles until he finds the dish and manages to tear off the foil. Smelling the cooked fish, Karupin meows eagerly and struggles in his arms, paws wildly batting air. "All right!" Ryoma exclaims, crouching to set the dish down. Karupin leaps immediately to the floor, burying his nose in the bowl. Ryoma sighs and scratches his ears; Karupin turns his fuzzy head into the caress but doesn't otherwise acknowledge him.
When he wanders back into the front room the others are all crowded around the table, cheering on Momo-senpai and Kikumaru-senpai, who seem to be engaged in some sort of wasabi-eating competition. Both their faces are very red, but neither of them are reaching for their cups. Ryoma shakes his head and is about to take his seat when someone touches his arm. Startled, he looks around into Tezuka-buchou's serious face.
"Buchou?"
"Here." Tezuka holds out a flattish, lidded blue box, something in his eyes that Ryoma can't read. Feeling his cheekbones heat, he drops down to sit on the tatami, examining the box. It's unexpectedly heavy, and there's writing on the lid. His name, and a word he doesn't recognise.
"What's this?" Ryoma asks quietly, tracing the unfamiliar kanji combination with his fingers.
"Genpuku." Tezuka-buchou looks past him at the convivial chaos around the table. "Traditionally, samurai came of age at fifteen. The occasion was called genpuku."
"Oh." Ryoma blinks at him for a moment, wondering what he's supposed to say to that, then looks away, lifting the lid from the box. He recognises the carefully folded blue fabric immediately, and feels his eyes going wide. "Buchou," he murmurs, strangely breathless as he traces the familiar design with a shaking finger. There are still faint dark spots in the fabric from the sudden rain that hit during the quarter-finals, and half of Kikumaru-senpai's signature scrawls across one corner. Ryoma knows that his own name is painted on there too, a few layers down - after their National win, they'd all signed the Seigaku flag that Momo-senpai and Kawamura-senpai had carried through the tournament. It had been their gift to Tezuka-buchou, an acknowledgement of just how far he'd brought them.
"I can't…" Ryoma looks up helplessly at Tezuka, words sticking in his throat. The flag is supposed to be a reminder of Tezuka-buchou's victory, so why…?
Tezuka's face is as calm as ever, his eyes dark with memory and understanding. "It belongs to you as much as any of us. Take it with you, for the future."
Ryoma swallows, ducking his head. "Yes, buchou." He understands that at least; both of them know that he's going to go beyond Seigaku, beyond the Nationals. He concentrates on fitting the lid back onto the box, fingers steady only through habit, and doesn't quite dare to look up at Tezuka.
"Enough, nya! Time for presents!" Kikumaru-senpai's gleeful shout breaks the tautness of the moment; Ryoma looks across the table and finds all eyes focused on him again.
"What?" His fingers automatically reach to tug down the brim of a cap he isn't wearing, which brings grins to Momo-senpai and Fuji-senpai's faces.
"Presents!" Momoshiro shoves a package into his face, which seems to be a cue for the rest of his senpai to shower him with wrapped parcels and boxes, most of which thankfully turn out to be useful things like grip tape and new gut and sweatbands. Fuji-senpai, mystifyingly, gives him a book that turns out to be a photo album; there are enough embarrassing pictures mixed in with the records of his games (how had Fuji-senpai managed to get a picture of the time he'd tripped over the fangirls, anyway?) that Ryoma slams it hastily shut, glaring. Inui-senpai mutters something that makes Kaidoh-senpai hiss and flush, and Fuji just smiles.
"It's not just you in there - but you can look at it later," he amends as the kitchen door slides open and Ryoma's mother peers in.
"Are you boys ready for cake?" That's enough to change the subject; Ryoma breathes a sigh of relief and stows the album under the table with the flag box as Oishi-senpai and Kawamura-senpai jump up to help clear the table. Even the loud and rather tuneless singing as his mother brings in a large chocolate cake with a ridiculous number of candles doesn't seem so bad right then.
"Mom?" The benefit of celebrating an American-style Christmas, as far as Ryoma is concerned, is that his father invariably drinks too much with lunch and sleeps through most of the afternoon. Currently he's snoring in the front room, underneath the tree.
"Hmm?" His mother looks up from her new book, smiling fondly at him. "What is it, Ryoma?"
"Why didn't you invite anyone but senpai yesterday?"
"Would you have wanted me to?" His mother pats the floor; Ryoma shrugs and shoves his hands into his pockets, dropping down onto the tatami beside her.
"Not really."
"Mm, you're all very much a team, aren't you?" Ryoma doesn't like the knowing way she's looking at him, but he supposes that it's just a mother thing.
"That was years ago," he objects half-heartedly, turning his head away. "I've been on other teams."
"True, but you never really bonded with any of them." Ryoma opens his mouth to object to that, because it sounds stupid and overly-analytical, but she speaks over the top of his words. "Such a lot happened that year, and your team-mates were really the first friends you had. I used to worry about you, you know, back in the States."
"Mom," Ryoma complains, ducking his head; he hates to be fussed over. His mother laughs.
"You enjoyed it, didn't you - that year."
Ryoma blinks at that, realising for the first time in a while that it was fun, more fun than he's really had since. Smiling, his mother reaches out to tousle his hair and he ducks automatically, protesting.
"Mom!" She just smiles at him, composed and a little sad around the edges, as though she misses the child he used to be. It's uncomfortable, and Ryoma escapes back to his room as soon as he can.
Ryoma takes advantage of a Sunday free of his father's annoyances, bringing his textbooks down to the kotatsu. Exams are far too close for comfort; usually the third-year students have months to prepare after they quit their clubs, but even Ryuuzaki-sensei has acknowledged that it would be a waste of time to expect such a thing from Ryoma. Tennis, after all, is vastly superior to schoolwork. All the same, Ryoma refuses to graduate with bad marks, partly out of a desire to confound his father but mostly because he hates being beaten at anything.
He's trying to blink himself awake long enough to finish reading the chapter on radioactive elements when the front door bangs loudly open, signalling the end of peace and quiet.
"Tadaima!" his stupid father yells, in the particularly cheerful tone that means he's been in a bar but isn't actually drunk.
"Che," Ryoma mutters to himself, already gathering up his books to return to his room. It's colder up at the top of the house, but he's less likely to be bothered by stupidity.
"Oi, young man." Too late, Ryoma realises; his dad is already lounging in the doorway and smirking at him. "You owe me a favour."
Ryoma stares - what the hell is the idiot on about now? "You wish. Stop bothering me, old man."
"Heh." Nanjiroh grins smugly. "While you've been wasting your time with books, I've found you an opponent for next week." When Ryoma just looks at him, he puffs his chest out proudly and continues. "He's not on my level, of course, but he's been on the pro circuit long enough to kick your ass, brat."
"No way." Ryoma settles back, opening his History textbook and trying to find the right page. "I refuse."
"Eh? But you can't!" His father straightens up and stares at him as though trying to bore holes in the top of his head.
"I just said so, didn't I? Too busy." Ryoma tries to tune the idiot out, without much success. "Graduation."
"To hell with that rubbish - the seeding committee's meeting in eight weeks, you need to keep your record up!"
"I'm not going pro this year," Ryoma mutters, skimming a passage about trade laws under the Tokugawa Shogunate. Half his mind is counting down to the inevitable explosion. The old man is silent so long that Ryoma looks up, vaguely wondering whether he's having a heart attack or something. Nanjiroh is blinking at him, wiggling his finger in his ear as though he thinks he's going deaf.
"I said I'm not going pro this year." Ryoma sighs as his father's jaw visibly drops.
"Ehh?! But - you - we already arranged…" Nanjiroh trails off, staring at him.
"You mean you arranged stuff," Ryoma mutters to himself, then jumps and almost tears a page out of his textbook as his father leaps across the room and slams his fists down onto the kotatsu.
"What the hell are you thinking, brat?" he demands loudly, leaning forward over the table and maybe has been drinking after all because his breath stinks of beer. "How long are you going to wait - you'll lose your edge! I thought you wanted to go pro - think of all the strong guys you can fight!"
Ryoma wrinkles his nose and smoothes down the creased paper, not bothering to look up at him. "Not right now."
"What the fuck are you planning to do instead?" His father pounds the table with a fist. "Every minute you wait is wasted, young man!"
"I'm going to school, of course." The next chapter is on family inheritance; Ryoma vaguely recalls reading it last week. Pity it doesn't work that way in tennis; he has to put up with his father's presence in order to learn anything from him. Not that there's much to learn. "High school."
Nanjiroh makes a noise that sounds like choking. "I - you - Rinko!"
Ryoma winces. "Don't yell in people's ears," he mutters, but his father is in full ranting mode and doesn't seem to hear him at all.
"Yes, dear?" His mother pokes her head around the kitchen door, glancing between the two of them with an expression of polite enquiry. "What's wrong?"
"This - this ungrateful brat!" Nanjiroh shakes a finger in Ryoma's direction accusingly. "He says he's going to High School, Rinko! What stupid ideas have you been putting in his head?"
"Oh?" She looks at Ryoma for a long moment, then nods as though she understands something and turns to his father. "Now, dear, there's no need to get upset…"
"No need?!" Nanjiroh howls, waving an arm in the air as though it might emphasise something other than his foolishness. "He's supposed to become a pro! He doesn't need to waste his time in school when he could be playing tournaments!"
"Education is never wasted," his mother remonstrates gently; Ryoma wonders whether she's actually as calm about this as she sounds, or if she's just had too much practice at dealing with his father.
"Rinko! Three years - he could be winning Grand Slams in three years! Why the hell does he need to sit around in school?"
"It's not the end of the world, dear."
"How would you know?!"
"Idiot," Ryoma mutters. "I never said I was graduating High School. I'll turn pro next year."
"See - huh?" His father, cut off mid-rant, deflates and stares at him. "Why the hell do you want to bother, then?"
Ryoma sighs again, wondering why he's cursed with such an idiot for a parent. "Fifteen isn't old enough for the major tournaments, old man. Did you forget that?"
From the expression on Nanjiroh's face, he plainly has. "You should be out on the courts, training! Not -" he waves a hand irritably, subsiding into a grumpy slouch that means he'll be complaining about this for weeks, even though Ryoma has already won the argument - "lazing around in school. Who the hell are you going to play against on a school timetable?"
Yukimura. Sanada. Tezuka-buchou. Fuji-senpai. Tachibana. The Monkey King. That tie-dyed Kyuushuu guy. Tezuka-buchou. "Che," Ryoma mutters. "Tokyo Tournament, Kantou Regionals, Nationals, and then the All-Japan Under-Eighteen Singles."
His mother cocks her head at him while his father gapes like a fish. "You're sure this is what you want, Ryoma?" Her face is kind, but her eyes are knowing.
"Yes." Ryoma nods, absently lining up the books his father's banging had dislodged.
"All right then." She smiles at him and ducks back out of the room, into the kitchen.
"Hmph." His father folds his arms, sulking ostentatiously. Ryoma rolls his eyes and closes his books.
"Go bother someone else, old man."
"I don't see why I should cater to ungrateful brats - oh, do what you want," Nanjiroh grumbles as Ryoma steps carelessly over him on his way to the stairs. "You will anyway."
It's cold enough in the gym that Ryoma can't indulge his first impulse and doze off through the interminable ceremony. The speeches made by the headmaster and the chairman of the school board are repetitive and seem to drag on forever, and Ryoma distracts himself by taking a mental inventory of all the matches he is going to play over the six-week break. High school matches are three-set, and since his stupid father is still refusing to practice with him it will be easier to hit up his senpai for games.
He's so busy thinking about it that he almost misses his name being called; it's habit and reflex that lets him answer, and his voice comes out bored enough that he can see Ryuuzaki-sensei glaring from the back of the platform. The name-calling seems to go on forever after that; it's even duller than the opening ceremonies at Nationals. At least then Ryoma has matches to look forward to.
They play some horrible sentimental music while the student representatives make their speeches. Kachiro is sniffling by the time he's done, and Ryoma has shoved his hands in his pockets for warmth as he stares into space. Much more of this and he might even find himself starting to agree with his father for once.
The last person to speak is the representative of the high school division; once he's done congratulating and welcoming his prospective students the doors are thrown open to six weeks of freedom - tennis and sleeping in and avoiding his father's sulks. Ryoma shrugs off his classmates' enthusiasm and the girls who are clamouring for his attention and trudges out into the thin spring sunshine as just another part of the crowd.
Blinded by the sun in his eyes, it takes Ryoma a moment to realise why this suddenly feels so much like walking off court after a match. His senpai are clustered in a rowdy bunch by the gates, cheering as though he has won the Nationals instead of just graduating from middle school.
"Too noisy," Ryoma mutters, tugging his cap down and fully intent on walking right on past them. He's had enough of being embarrassed by his elders for one lifetime. Momo-senpai throws an expansive arm around his shoulders, though, and as Ryoma turns to shrug him off he catches Tezuka-buchou's eyes and then somehow he's standing there and suffering his former team-mates' congratulations.
"You're going to make all of us proud, Echizen-kun." Oishi-senpai beams at him and Ryoma abruptly realises what's wrong with this picture. They are all behaving as though they will never see him again.
Tezuka-buchou looks down at him as calmly as ever. "Fight hard, and keep moving forward," is all he says. His face is entirely opaque; Ryoma can't even guess at what he's thinking. He's vaguely surprised, because he knows that his old man has been complaining at length to Ryuuzaki-sensei over what he still insists on calling 'this school idiocy' - it's hardly a secret.
"Buchou," he murmurs because he has to say something, an acknowledgement and acceptance. He doesn't have the words to wrap around what he wants to say; will staying on at Seigaku count as moving forward to Tezuka-buchou? Ryoma wants the Nationals again, the thrill of facing players who will surely have grown in the years since he has seen them, but there are more important things. He remembers the rattle of passing trains overhead, commanding eyes that refused to let him back down, and swallows. It's been a long time since he made that choice.
Walking onto the courts is familiar in an unfamiliar way; Ryoma feels curiously disconnected, as though time has rewound and brought him back to his first year in Seigaku. He has spent enough time here in the past two years, begging for practice matches when demanding hadn't worked, that he isn't lost like the other first years with their worried faces and clasped hands. He shouldn't be nervous at all, and the fact that he is, tendrils of uncertainty twisting in his stomach, is enough to irritate him into a scowl.
The looks on the second and third year club members' faces are vaguely amusing, gape-jawed and wide-eyed with recognition. Ryoma peers around under the brim of his cap as ripples of murmur spread out and practice effectively ceases. He counts only seven Regular jackets, and one of those on a half-familiar guy who is already looking more worried than mutinous. He's wondering uncomfortably where buchou is when a whirlwind appears from nowhere and knocks him flat.
"Ochibi!"
Ryoma stares up at the hazy blue of the sky and wonders wryly whether this isn't a bad idea after all. The stupid uncertainty has been replaced by butterflies that flutter invisible wings beneath his sternum and make the backs of his eyes ache. "Senpai, you're heavy."
"Echizen!" Oishi-senpai's worried-yet-pleased face appears above him as he peels his partner away so that Ryoma can breathe. "Are you all right?"
"Fine," Ryoma mutters, shoving himself to his feet and retrieving his cap. Kikumaru-senpai has bounced over to babble happily at Fuji; Ryoma catches snatches of "after all" and "Nationals" but he's too busy edging away from Momo-senpai, who looks ready to rub all the hair off Ryoma's head, to pay much attention.
"Echizen." Inui-senpai is already scribbling in what looks unsettlingly like a new notebook. "All data suggested that you were going pro this year; why are you here?"
"I thought so too." Fuji-senpai twists free, coming forward and looking at Ryoma as though he's done something particularly interesting. His eyes are blue and sharp and uncomfortably knowing; Ryoma tugs his cap down and shrugs, shouldering his racquet bag.
"All the good tournaments have age limits anyway."
"Ah." Fuji-senpai tilts his head thoughtfully, and Oishi looks worried.
"Echizen, you don't need to be here if you'd rather not…"
The assumption that he might not want to play tennis with his senpai blindsides him a little. Ryoma blinks up at the vice-captain, and Kaidoh-senpai hisses. "Where else should he be?"
"Oi Viper, what do you know about it?" Momo-senpai demands on what seems like a reflexive level - he looks vaguely surprised by the words coming out of his mouth right up until Kaidoh growls and glares at him. It's all so very familiar that two years dwindles to nothing.
"Why is everyone standing around?" Tezuka-buchou's voice comes as a surprise, and Ryoma only realises that he's at the centre of a ring of Regulars when it cracks, Oishi-senpai and Kaidoh-senpai backing hastily out of the way. Ryoma looks at the ground.
"Buchou."
The silence stretches like a thread between them, tight and uncomfortable. Ryoma can feel Tezuka's eyes on him, demanding; his hands curl into fists by his sides, itching to tug on his cap or adjust his sweatbands.
"Echizen," Tezuka-buchou says at last, and his voice is so toneless that Ryoma has to look up, into eyes that are as bland and distant as if the past three years are nothing at all. His stomach clenches.
"Everyone, ten laps!" Tezuka barks, folding his arms as grumbling club members start streaming reluctantly past him. Ryoma is grateful for the distraction; he stretches his legs into the run, keeping up with the Regulars almost effortlessly. Tezuka-buchou is watching from the side of the courts; he turns to follow their progress and Ryoma feels as though he is in orbit, tied into a centre. There is more to this than Tezuka not expecting him back, but Ryoma doesn't know what it is; he feels Tezuka's eyes on him like an itch in the back of his mind. It's uncomfortable and unnatural, and after practice Ryoma begs off Momo-senpai's offer of fast food in favour of wandering slowly home by himself, so tangled up in thought that he almost walks past his gate.
Second day's practice is just as awkward. Buchou ignores him completely and orders double drills for everyone before disappearing with Oishi and Amano-sensei. Ryoma runs through the first-year practices without thinking much, finding Horio's strident complaints far more troublesome. He can hear the senpai on the courts echoing them; even the Regulars are grumbling as they go through their pinpoint drills. Ryoma watches balls impact lines as he swings his racquet, absently twisting his arm to vary the spin he puts on the imaginary ball. Arcs intersect in his mind, building into complex patterns that elude his grasp.
After they are finally dismissed it seems like the entire club stampedes over to the notice board where Oishi-senpai has taped up the ranking schedules. Ryoma eyes the crowd, shakes his head, and wanders off to the locker room to change instead. He almost walks right into Tezuka-buchou in the doorway, and expects a lecture on paying more attention, but Tezuka just looks down at him for a moment before walking away. Ryoma stares after him, feeling as though he's missing something and not liking it at all.
He rushes through the shower, climbing back into his uncomfortable school uniform with skin still damp, and by the time clumps of senpai start trickling in, faces alternately smug and panicked, Ryoma is shouldering his bag to leave and there's enough room in front of the board that he can squeeze forward and see. D-block is Momo-senpai and Oishi-senpai, C-block Kaidoh-senpai and Kikumaru-senpai. He frowns and tilts his head up; Fuji-senpai will be facing Inui-senpai in B, and probably confounding him again. Ryoma swallows sudden tension, realising that he has been taking certain things for granted; the rules against first-years participating in ranking tournaments float uncomfortably to the surface of his mind before his name jumps out at him.
A-block. Echizen Ryoma, right at the bottom underneath a mishmash of second and third year names that conjure only vague faces in his mind, and Ishikawa Gensuke who Ryoma remembers is the other Regular, the new one. And there at the top, kanji drawn almost into a signature, Tezuka Kunimitsu. They will be playing each other within days, and something in Ryoma seems to come alive at the thought. He grins, ducking under the brim of his cap, and turns to leave, only to halt in confusion as Momo-senpai plants himself in the way.
"Che." Ryoma slants one look up at Momoshiro's grinning face and decides it isn't worth it. He steps to the side, fully intent on continuing on his way, but finds himself caught from behind as Kikumaru-senpai grabs hold of his collar.
"Hoi, Ochibi! Where are you going?"
Ryoma turns, eyeing him distrustfully. He has the exact same grin as Momo, which can't be good. "Home," Ryoma points out tonelessly, as if it isn't obvious.
"Nuh-uh!" Kikumaru-senpai shakes his head vigorously, bouncing in place. "We're going for burgers, and you're coming with us, Ochibi."
Momo grins wickedly. "Senpai's treating."
"Yeah - hoi! Momo!" Kikumaru folds his arms, sulking, and Ryoma eyes the pair of them, wondering whether it's worth trying to make a break for it. But then his stomach reminds him that it's been a long time since lunch, and burgers on senpai's tab suddenly seems like quite a good idea, even coupled with probable embarrassment.
Kikumaru-senpai pays for Ryoma's food without complaint, but kicks up such a fuss when Momo orders half the menu that the second year's forced to pay his own way. Ryoma grins, watching Momo-senpai pout and Kikumaru shake his head so hard that his hair flares out despite all the wax he must use.
"Are you done yet?" he asks when they look prepared to stand and bicker at the counter forever. "I'm hungry."
"Ah, yeah…" Momo-senpai carries his overloaded tray over to a table by the window, already talking around a mouthful of fries. Ryoma doesn't know how he manages to eat so much, and doesn't want to; it's kind of disgusting to watch him cramming food down his throat, so he turns his head to stare out of the window. The sports shop across the road has a sale on racquet bags, but Ryoma's is new enough that there's no point bothering, and they never have any Fila stuff in there anyway.
"Hey, what happened to Tezuka-buchou today?" Momo-senpai asks between helpings, attracting Ryoma's attention. He twists in his seat, absently screwing his cheeseburger wrapper into a ball and throwing it from hand to hand.
"Eh?" Kikumaru-senpai peers at Momo. "What do you mean?"
"He was in such a bad mood, giving us double drill. Did someone spit in his lunch or something?"
"Don't think so." Kikumaru-senpai shrugs fluidly and tosses a fry into the air, catching it in his mouth. "Maybe it's the district preliminaries; Oishi's worrying already."
Ryoma snorts, giving his opinion of that, and slides down into his seat in an attempt to get comfortable. "Buchou's just buchou."
"Heh, and you get to fight him on Saturday!" Momo-senpai grins and reaches across to ruffle Ryoma's hair with a salty hand; Ryoma scowls and moves hastily out of the way.
"Senpai!"
"That'll be one to watch, nya," Kikumaru-senpai comments, eyeing the last of Ryoma's fries speculatively. Ryoma glares at him, pulling his tray closer and jamming a couple into his mouth decisively.
"It's nothing."
"Nothing!" Momo-senpai splutters a laugh as Kikumaru-senpai grins at him.
"Ochibi's nervous…"
"Am not," Ryoma mutters, rolling his eyes. It will hardly be the first time he's played Tezuka-buchou, and the anticipation that is already coiling in his stomach has nothing to do with nerves. Saturday seems far too far away.
"Hey, you have to get past Ishikawa first," Momoshiro reminds him, stabbing a fry in his direction. "He beat Viper last year."
"Oi Momo, you know Kaidoh was sick that time!" Kikumaru pokes Momo-senpai in the arm.
"Heh. Stupid snake should have known better." The gleam in Momo's eyes is evil and familiar. "At least I don't have to play him this time round."
"Eh?" Ryoma swipes a fry out from under Kikumaru-senpai's nose while he's distracted, and grins complacently as he chews on it.
"Hoi! Ochibi! - they were in C-block together last year," Kikumaru grudgingly explains when Momo-senpai just glares at his rapidly emptying tray.
"Aa." Ryoma eyes his senpai and decides that it's worth the possible explosion. "Who won?"
"Hehh..." Kikumaru-senpai's grin is almost wider than his face. "Kaidoh was fifteen to fourteen in tie-break when Tezuka made them stop."
"Hmph." Momo-senpai bites into a hamburger viciously. "I wasn't going to lose to that bastard."
"Mada mada dane, Momo-senpai." Ryoma smirks and ducks Momoshiro's swipe at his head. This is all so familiar that the formality of ranking matches seems almost irrelevant. Ryoma already knows that Saturday, when it comes, is not going to be about the Regulars at all.
The week passes slowly enough that the knowledge of what is to come chafes beneath his skin, tight and itching. Ryoma floats through matches against the non-Regulars without needing to show much skill at all, and still doesn't drop a point. Sixes and noughts rack up along the board beside his name, mirroring Tezuka's statistics exactly.
Friday afternoon, after yet another easy win that leaves him barely sweating and vaguely bored, Ryoma wanders over to report to Oishi-senpai, who's keeping the scores. "Same again?" the vice-captain asks, smiling at him.
"Aa." Ryoma nods, scanning the board even though he already knows what the order is.
"Well, it's Ochibi, nya." Kikumaru-senpai is draped over the back of Oishi's chair; he flashes a quick victory sign then peers over his partner's shoulder at the sheets he's filling in.
"Eiji, you're playing Kaidoh in ten minutes," Oishi-senpai reminds him without looking up. "Echizen, I think Ishikawa-kun is already waiting for you on the court." Ryoma shrugs, shouldering his racquet and sauntering off. The Ishikawa guy has a bunch of sixes as well, most of them attached to ones and twos. Tezuka, of course, is the only exception; six-love to the captain.
Ishikawa has a nondescript sort of face, which might explain why Ryoma doesn't remember him from middle school. He looks solid enough to have some strength, though, and he glares at Ryoma as he walks up to the net, tense enough that his feet hit the ground with harsh, distinct sounds. Ryoma grins; plainly the guy doesn’t want to give up his place on the team.
"I don't care who you are," Ishikawa announces harshly as they shake hands over the net. His palms are sweaty, though, which makes it obvious that he's been watching Ryoma's progress through the block. "I'm not going to let some kid defeat me."
Ryoma tips back his cap, looking up into tight eyes, and grins. "Pleased to meet you, senpai. When did you transfer here?"
Ishikawa's face hardens, and he whirls, stalking to the baseline. "Get on with the game."
"Yes senpai." Ryoma smirks and glances up at the umpire, a vaguely familiar second year who's trying to keep a straight face.
"The best of one set match! Ishikawa to serve!"
The guy has an interesting serve, and he's fast enough on his feet to make Ryoma work for his points, but it quickly becomes apparent that there's no substantial challenge here. At four games to love, after Ryoma returns a heavy smash with pinpoint precision, Ishikawa's face loses its stubborn veneer. Ryoma takes the final two games straight, and Ishikawa still looks stunned when they shake hands again as the umpire calls the score. Ryoma's on the team now in all but name, and strangely enough that comes as a relief; Seigaku has accustomed him to being in the centre of things.
Everyone else is still in the middle of their games when he walks off the court. Ryoma considers wandering up to watch the matches, but going home early and badgering his father into playing seems more attractive, and getting some kind of workout today is preferable to standing around. "Six to love," he reports to Fuji-senpai, who has taken over the desk. A movement on the edge of his vision distracts him and Ryoma looks up, right into Tezuka-buchou's eyes. Words dry on his tongue; buchou looks cold, as distant and remote as though he is on the moon. Ryoma can't do anything but watch as Tezuka nods to Fuji-senpai and picks up his racquet, walking towards the court where his next opponent is waiting.
Momo-senpai is right; buchou is annoyed about something, and Ryoma has an uncomfortable feeling that it might be him. Except that he can't quite work out why buchou isn't happy to have him back in the club… and Fuji-senpai is coughing behind his hand, eyes bright and fixed on him. Ryoma glares at him and tugs his cap down as he turns away, knowing that there's no point asking why he's funny. He wanders up to the fence, watching the way Tezuka-buchou turns his racquet into the ball and momentarily wishing to be on the other side of the net.
There's something off, though; something horribly restrained in every line of Tezuka's posture. Ryoma sets his jaw, deliberately relaxing his shoulders to stop them from hunching. This isn't Tezuka-buchou at all; it shows in the careful way he moves and the closed expression he wears. He remembers Fuji's words, three years ago: there are only a few people who can make Tezuka show his true skills. Tomorrow cannot come too soon.
"One set match!" Oishi-senpai calls from the chair. "Echizen to serve!"
Ryoma bounces the ball thoughtfully, watching Tezuka-buchou's form across the net, then nods. He serves cleanly, and the stretch through his muscles is achingly welcome after the dull week. Buchou catches the ball easily, returning to the corner, and Ryoma dashes to reach it, slicing it back neatly. His point; he frowns as Oishi calls the score.
His serve again, and he pulls out the Twist Serve left-handed, knowing that it is stronger than the last time Tezuka played him just as he knows that Tezuka will return it all the same. There is something off here, though, something different; Ryoma stretches for the return, confused by the way Tezuka is hitting shots to the edges of his range. It's not his usual play at all, and that means that Ryoma can't give his best. The idea that Tezuka-buchou might not be taking him seriously knots into a burning lump under his breastbone, and Ryoma narrows his eyes, taking out his frustration on the ball in a vicious twist smash. It's an utter surprise to find it spinning back past his right hand; he stares across the net at Tezuka's implacable face and wonders what he's trying to say. His next serve hits right on the line, and as far as Ryoma is concerned Tezuka never even tries to reach it.
"Game Echizen," Oishi announces; Ryoma clenches his fist and takes his position, staring at Tezuka as he serves. This isn't his buchou at all, and he doesn't understand why until another shot hits the corner, making him race to return it. There is a question in every ball Tezuka-buchou hits, repeated until it becomes a hypnotic, irresistible demand. Show me why you are here is written in every line of Tezuka's body as he hits shot after corner shot. Ryoma feels his eyes go wide with realisation; he turns a volley into a high lob, body moving without thought in an answer that comes straight from his soul.
It takes the zero-shiki, arcing gently over the net, for Kunimitsu to understand what Echizen is trying to tell him. He tastes words on his tongue, familiar and bittersweet: become the pillar of Seigaku. It's a strange kind of ache to realise that Echizen might have taken his words so much to heart, even now when he could be flying free. Kunimitsu will not be the one to hold Echizen back from his potential, but then Echizen has always been stubborn. He inclines his head in acknowledgement and takes a deep breath, letting go of his restraint with something close to relief.
Ryoma has time to think that this is what he has been waiting for as he reaches for the ball, and then he is lost in it. Drive and volley and return, backspin and slice and Tezuka-buchou's face over the net; his world narrows to the boundaries of the court. He flows through the game like falling, flying, burning; every shot that Tezuka-buchou gives him pushes him higher and farther, and Ryoma exults in knowing that he can do the same. This is why playing against other opponents will never be enough; there are so few people for whom either of them need to go this far. Ryoma throws himself into the match body and soul, and as Tezuka-buchou's final shot slides past his racquet by scant millimetres he feels a sharp moment of disappointment that has nothing to do with winning or losing.
Ryoma tilts his head back and stares up at the purpling sky, breathing hard. The court is so silent that he can hear rush hour traffic streets away; his heart is thumping in his ears and Tezuka's breath on the other side of the net is as loud as his own. At last Oishi-senpai clears his throat and states the obvious: "Game set Tezuka, seven games to five."
The club members clustered outside the fence are eerily silent. Glimpses of stunned faces and familiar grins stick in Ryoma's mind as he heads to the net, but they are very much eclipsed by the fact that buchou is smiling at him.
"Good game," Tezuka says quietly as they shake hands, both their fingers slick with sweat. It feels like victory, and right then the score doesn't matter at all.
"Thanks, buchou." Ryoma grins up at him, tired and satisfied as they walk off court, the ragged applause of the Regulars echoing around them.
"…and then that bastard called my Dunk Smash pathetic!" Momoshiro glares at nothing and clenches his fist around his juice can. It crumples with a metallic sound that makes Ryoma wince, but Momo-senpai doesn't seem to notice. He isn't paying any attention to his food either, which is definitely weird; Ryoma would put it down to lovesickness if Momo-senpai hadn't long since abandoned the topic of his rejection by Tachibana An in favour of grumbling about Kaidoh-senpai.
"Aa," Ryoma mutters when Momo-senpai pauses for breath between outrage and invective, and props his head on his hand, staring out of the window. As far as he's concerned, girls are boring and Momo-senpai and Kaidoh-senpai's fights are repetitive. They'd played doubles in the finals of the district preliminaries last week, and there's been outright warfare in the locker room ever since.
Having spent most of the prelims sitting on the bench watching doubles matches, Ryoma is more than ready for the Tokyo Tournament to begin. He doesn't like playing Singles One outside of Nationals, because all too often the match is over by the time his turn comes around.
"Oi Echizen, are you listening?" Momo-senpai demands, taking a huge bite out of a hamburger. Ryoma shrugs.
"Not really. You hate Kaidoh-senpai; what else is new?" A flash of familiar colours across the street catches his eye; Ryoma turns and watches Tezuka-buchou disappearing into the sports shop across the street. He's on his feet before Momoshiro has finished sputtering, heading out the door without much thought.
"Oi! Echizen!" Momo-senpai calls, but Ryoma ignores him.
The sports shop is bigger than Mitsumaru; he's not been in for a while and it takes him a while to find Tezuka-buchou at the back register, talking to an assistant. Ryoma hangs back and watches as buchou hands over a paper and the assistant bows, then disappears into the back room. When he takes a step forward, his footstep seems so loud that it feels as though everyone in the store is watching him.
"Buchou." Ryoma fists his hands in his pockets and tries to look as if he's in here to shop for new gut or something - anything that doesn't involve having followed his captain in off the street.
"Echizen?" Tezuka looks down at him with mild surprise.
"…can I play Singles Two next week?" It's the first thing that comes to mind; Ryoma ducks his head under the brim of his cap, feeling his cheekbones heat.
Tezuka-buchou doesn't answer; it feels like he's weighing Ryoma with his eyes, measuring him against some unspoken standard. The idea that he might be found wanting is not to be borne; Ryoma stares at the ground stubbornly, and is relieved when the assistant comes back and distracts Tezuka with boxes. He pokes at a display of balls while Tezuka buys whatever he has come in for, and follows him out onto the street out of pure habit.
"Buchou, will you play a match with me?" His bag is still in the restaurant with Momo-senpai, but Ryoma remembers that there was a lot of food left on Momo's tray.
Tezuka halts in the middle of the pavement for a moment before turning back to him. There is enough distance between them that Ryoma doesn't have to crane his head back to meet Tezuka-buchou's eyes. "Concentrate on the opponent in front of you," is all Tezuka says. Ryoma watches him walk away, wondering why that sounds so familiar and trying to find words to explain that buchou is still the best opponent he has ever had.
"Oi! Echizen!" Momo-senpai dashes to a halt beside him, Ryoma's bag clutched in one fist. "Why the hell did you run off like that - eh, isn't that buchou?"
Ryoma just shrugs, settling his bag onto his shoulder and turning for home.
Tezuka-buchou is enjoying himself. It's painted in every line of his body as he flows across the court; Ryoma props one foot on the bench and rests his chin on his knee, watching avidly. At the level of this game, the true skill is in the subtle things, in the precise angle of wrist and forearm, the delicacy of ball control and spin.
Tachibana is good enough that Ryoma can't decide which side of the court he'd prefer to be on. His own match had been fun, but ultimately the opponent, some Higashikouen guy who hadn't been on the Fudoumine team in middle school, hadn't been much of a challenge. Ryoma had taken Singles Two in straight sets, and not even the opponent had looked surprised.
Tezuka-buchou's racquet face changes angle, the head dipping a barely perceptible fraction; Ryoma grins as the familiar arc of the zero-shiki hangs in the air before rolling gently back into the net. The umpire calls the score - fifth game of the third set, thirty to love - and the spectators break out into cheers and exhortations. Tezuka walks to the baseline, takes a deep breath that seems to run all the way down the line of his back, then pivots and serves in a single fluid motion that makes Ryoma's fingers twitch for his racquet grip. Watching Tezuka-buchou play a real match, a match he has to work for, always knots a strange kind of jealousy in Ryoma's stomach.
Tachibana returns with a vicious smash to the corner, bringing the score to thirty-fifteen. Ryoma catches a glimpse of Tezuka's eyes as he turns to serve again, and smirks into his hands as the ace hits the line with a smack, raising a puff of white dust. Across the court one of the Higashikouen players rubs his eyes; Ibu is muttering again and Ryoma sees Kamio poke him.
Tezuka-buchou takes the game point after a fast rally, and Ryoma reaches for the water bottle without taking his eyes from the tall figure of his captain. Tezuka and Tachibana exchange nods as they pass at the net, and there is a satisfied smile in the back of Tezuka's eyes as he takes the bottle from Ryoma's outstretched hand.
"Nice game." Ryoma shifts to one side of the bench, absently handing over a towel.
"Aa." The break is short, and Tezuka-buchou keeps his eyes on the court. Three more games, Ryoma thinks, and then next week they will be playing Hyoutei in the finals. The idea that buchou might lose here isn't worth contemplating.
Tezuka's breathing is steady as he stands, handing the water bottle back to Ryoma. The plastic is hot where his fingers have been; Ryoma turns it in his hands, watching the deadly grace of Tachibana's serve, and the controlled power of Tezuka's return. This is the kind of tennis that drew him back to Seigaku; watching buchou play is almost as good as facing him over the net. Almost; Ryoma turns a shiver into a smirk, already anticipating a rematch.
Kunimitsu feels the cheers of the spectators running like water through his bones, dispelling the ache of exhaustion and stretched muscles. Tachibana grins ruefully as they shake hands over the net, strength undisputed even in defeat. When he turns to walk off the court, Echizen is watching him from the bench, eyes wide and unblinking as if there is nothing else in the world. Kunimitsu swallows inevitability and deliberately turns his attention to the rest of the team, feeling the weight of those eyes on his back like a physical touch.
Buchou is sitting on the bench with his arms folded, looking as calm as ever. Ryoma throws a resentful glare in his direction and tugs his cap down before taking his place at the baseline. He indulges himself in a vicious Twist Serve, knowing that it will be returned but still satisfied with the snapping ache of muscle and tendon as he slides through the practised motion. Kabaji returns with a powerful Rising Shot; Ryoma sets his teeth and slams a double-handed smash into the back-court. He's three games up to love, but he knows it won't be long before he has his own style turned back on him. He's already proved that size and power can't make an impression here.
Kabaji is getting faster. Ryoma can see hints of his own Split Step in the boy-mountain's jerky movement, and mutters something highly uncomplimentary as he flings himself forward and up for a Drive B. Four games to love, and he knows he can't lose this match but the utter stillness of Kabaji's eyes on him makes his skin itch. Ryoma scowls as they change courts; he doesn't understand Tezuka-buchou's insistence that he play this match.
It's not at all a surprise when Kabaji returns his topspin with a perfect Drive B. Ryoma grinds his teeth as the Hyoutei supporters go crazy and leaps to catch the arc of the ball, turning it into a twist smash. The way Kabaji bounces the ball for his serve is familiar and irritating; Ryoma moves without thought into the Super Rising, already knowing that he is digging his own grave. Every time he returns one of his own shots he gives the opponent more ammunition, but he has no alternative. Ryoma sets his jaw and attacks the next two games as though qualifying for Wimbledon, losing them anyway. Tezuka-buchou's face, when they change courts, is intent and inscrutable; Momo-senpai and Kikumaru-senpai shout loud encouragement and advice from the fence.
Ryoma hates losing more than anything. Playing against his own tennis is losing by definition; no matter how he refines he skills, how high he pushes himself, Kabaji is there passively matching everything. At three to four in tie-break Ryoma abandons restraint and throws himself into the air for a Cool Drive. Kabaji stands like a rock as the ball spins past him, and something finally comes clear in Ryoma's mind.
He claims the next three points in quick succession, borrowing the zero-shiki and Fuji-senpai's Tsubame Gaeshi to take the set, and feels his shoulders hunching as he trudges over to stand in front of Tezuka. Ryoma stares at the ground, far too aware of buchou's calm eyes on him. He understands now; the way to beat Kabaji is to keep moving and evolving, to keep hitting him with skills that he doesn't recognise without giving him time to copy them.
"You're doing well," is all Tezuka says as he hands Ryoma a water bottle. "Don't lose the momentum now."
"Aa." Ryoma gulps water and concentrates on slowing his breathing. Tezuka-buchou's insistence on this match makes more sense now, and Ryoma is uncomfortably aware that he has been far from gracious about it. "Sorry, buchou," he mutters, slumping onto the bench and burying his face in a towel to hide the flush that heats his cheekbones. If Tezuka hears him, he gives no sign, and Ryoma is grateful.
The Monkey King's cheering squad is as annoying as ever. Ryoma leans back on the bench, stretching his legs out and shoving his hands in his pockets as Hyoutei's captain conducts his crowd with imperious flicks of his fingers. He can't see why Atobe bothers; Tezuka-buchou is standing by the bench checking the gut of his racquet as though he can't hear anything at all. Ryoma has never seen Tezuka nervous; under intense pressure he just seems to become more focused and determined.
Atobe poses at the net, looking put out that Tezuka isn't already there. Ryoma tips his cap back and smirks across the court at him, amused as Atobe's haughty expression darkens into a scowl. Then Tezuka-buchou steps onto the court and it's as if Ryoma no longer exists; Atobe has eyes for no one but his opponent. Ryoma bites his tongue and slouches into the bench as the umpire begins the formalities; Atobe smirks and says something as they shake hands, but Tezuka doesn't reply and Ryoma can't see his face.
It's immediately apparent that the Monkey King has lost none of his annoying skills over the years. Ryoma vaguely recalls hearing that he missed the last tournament season over some injury or other that required a long rehab stay overseas. Atobe goes into this game as if he is trying to break Tezuka with the force of his will alone; Ryoma remembers the look on his face three years ago after Seigaku faced Higa in the second round of the Nationals.
Tezuka's face is intent as he matches Atobe shot for shot, power for power; the crowd at the fence are silent as the opening rally stretches on. Ryoma watches the ball arc back and forth over the net, flashing gold in the afternoon sun, and wonders whether Atobe can live up to the pace he is setting. Three sets of this would be exhausting for anyone.
Atobe shears topspin off the ball Tezuka aims into the backcourt, returning it as a flat smash that hits the corner with a dull thud before bouncing out. Ryoma feels his eyes flare blindingly wide as the umpire calls "Fifteen-love" and the Hyoutei supporters cheer their captain. He barely hears Momo-senpai and Horio start shouting for Tezuka, too caught up in the memory of another match.
Atobe had scored the first point then too. Ryoma watches Tezuka-buchou return a vicious slice, remembering the way he had seemed to collapse in slow motion, face contorting and grace shattered as he clutched at his shoulder. It has been almost three years, and this is the first time that Tezuka has played Atobe since that day. Ryoma wonders whether Tezuka-buchou is thinking about that as Atobe pushes him back with a relentless series of centre smashes.
This game is reminding Ryoma uncomfortably of the last time. There's something in Tezuka-buchou's posture that speaks too eloquently of defeat remembered; Ryoma breathes slowly and watches as Atobe takes the first game, Hyoutei's cheers ringing unnoticed in his ears. He doesn't look at Tezuka during court change, handing over the water bottle silently. All he can seem to remember is the way I won't lose had felt so much like a broken promise.
There is a barely-there hesitation in the way Tezuka moves that keeps Ryoma's mind inextricably mired in the past. Every shot seems to echo with the memory of pain and helplessness. Ryoma watches three openings pass and doesn't think to wonder why Tezuka doesn't hit the zero-shiki; the muscles of his forearm flex unconsciously as though he can take the burden on himself again, and the first set tiebreak feels like inevitability.
second half