[Prince of Tennis] fic: He Never Knew part 3
Oh man, March is ending so soon. I'll be writing furiously for the next three days, but I doubt I'll be able to finish all 31 pieces for 31days_exchange, but hey, I managed to write 20 something drabbles all in one day last time (though my mind seems to be thinking in longfics this time... what am I thinking??). March. I can't believe I started three WIPs. Here I was, trying to stop myself from doing that... but it actually feels good to start longer pieces once more instead of trying to fit my plunnies into a oneshot. But even with three parts added together, at the moment, this piece is actually still shorter than some of my oneshots. XD;
Title: He Never Knew part 3
Day/Theme: 30. Position of mysterious authority and of feared nebulosity
Series: Prince of Tennis
Character/Pairing: Echizen Ryoma, Yukimura Seiichi
Rating: PG
Words: 1,159
Notes: for 31days_exchange, 31_days masterlist. I shall now deem this part as the part that refused to get written (I spoke way too soon when I said the writing for this was easy)! I kept wanting to write from Yukimura's POV, but I always do that... switching POVs like crazy, so I tried to curb myself this time. Maybe I should have given in to Yukimura's demands.
Previous Part
Part 3: This was Tennis
When he opened his door and came face-to-face with Rikkai's captain, the owner of that deceptively soft voice that taunted him during his darkest moments, the person who had completely destroyed any chance of him coming to love tennis in his current state, he froze.
And stared.
The pleasant greeting he had prepared for whoever his visitor might be died at his lips.
He would have been prepared for anyone but the owner of that voice. His former teammates. His friends. His teachers. Or even other random people he had known. Was supposed to know. He'd gotten used to strangers who were not strangers coming up to him, acting appalled over his refusal to play tennis as if they knew better. Amnesia? they would exclaim, only for their surprise to turn into outright disbelief when they discovered he no longer played tennis. He'd learned how to deal with those kinds of reactions, how to turn away his teammates' invitations, how not to be affected when people cared more about him not playing tennis than him losing his memories...
Anyone. He'd have been prepared for anyone but him.
He couldn't think.
He tried to force his jaw to move, to say something, anything so that he could stop staring like a deer caught in the headlights, soon to be run over, completely at the mercy of the oncoming traffic, but he couldn't. He couldn't move. He could only stare at the looming figure before him, memories trickling in of his world becoming submerged in darkness, engulfed by silence with only that deceptively soft voice lingering within his barren mind, mocking him, berating him, telling him that tennis was life.
Tennis was life, so how dare he turn his back on tennis?
He couldn't see. He couldn't hear. He could only drown in the hopelessness that had seeped into his bones at the time, that he so clearly remembered with every fiber in his body, that he thought he would be able to put away, but no, that was a false assumption, misplaced confidence where there was none to be had. He wanted to forget, but his body wouldn't let him. The trickle of memories of that impossible match, the feeling of utter despair that he had felt, slammed at his walls, breaking down his laughable dam. This was no trickle.
It was a deafening roar.
Where...was he?
He gripped the frame of his door, hard enough for his knuckles to turn white, for the wood to dig into his skin. Even then, he could not stop himself from shaking. Shivering. And staring.
It was cold.
For a moment, he had no longer known where he was.
The flowers didn't make sense.
The roaring wouldn't stop.
He slammed the door shut.
Thump.
Thump thump.
His heart beat crazily against his rib cage. He slid down against the door, burying his face in his arms, that one motion of closing the door sapping all of his energy.
He didn't want to remember that match. He should be searching for his memories or trying to make new ones, but that match, that match didn't help. He didn't want to...he didn't want to...
"Won't you let me in?" that soft but never gentle voice called out from beyond the door, loud in his ears despite the door between them. Or was that his imagination playing tricks on him once again?
Now will you give up?
He covered his ears.
Stop.
He wanted the load roaring to stop plaguing him.
"No...yes…" he whispered before he even realized he had spoken, the words like a betrayal coming from himself.
What was he answering? Who was he answering?
"Ryoma, who's at the door?"
No one. No one was at the door.
If he thought that hard enough, repeating it over and over again, maybe it would come true. He needed it to come true.
Go away.
Stop bothering me.
Leave me be.
-----
There were flowers on the kitchen table. Supported by a slim and dainty vase. Daisies. They were daisies. He would have completely overlooked the white daisies if he hadn't seen them in the hands of the owner of that voice only a few hours ago.
So that part hadn't been his imagination.
Numbly, he fingered one velvety petal, the scent almost reminding him of one particular bag of his bath salts, but that was misleading. A false sense of peacefulness. There was nothing soothing about these flowers, nothing gentle, nothing merciful, just like the one who had brought them. He appeared soft and effeminate, but he was nothing like how he appeared.
"Oh that?" his mother asked from behind. "This boy handed them to me when I came home. He looked like he was deep in thought. He almost didn't notice my approach. Nanako helped find a vase."
When she came home?
It was dark outside now.
It had been hours.
Was he still waiting outside?
Don't...don't look...
But he couldn't help himself.
-----
He didn't know what he had been expecting - a forlorn figure huddling in the dark, or a tall and straight back despite the cold, jacket fluttering in the chilly night air - but it was not this.
"Leave Ryoma alone. You've done enough."
Wham.
He won't even play with me anymore.
"What happened in Karuizawa?"
Slam.
I know, but I'm not the only one to blame. His memories were gone even before we crossed paths.
"Don't take that kind of tone with me, kid."
Thwack.
You think I don't know?
"Was it worth it?"
Was it worth it?
"I would do it all over again."
Were they fighting? No, no they weren't, not in that sense.
Tennis.
They were speaking through tennis, through the only thing they knew and shared. Fast. Furious. It took his breath away, leaving him shaking, wondering if this was fear or something else. He was so enthralled that he could no longer tell who was hitting what, nor could he figure out who had spoken in the end. Perhaps it was his father. Perhaps it was that one person he hadn't been prepared to confront. Perhaps it was no one. Perhaps it was both. He couldn't tell, not even with his father's gruff voice, not even with that deceptively soft voice colored by velvety tones like the petals of the daisies between his fingers.
Watch, the ball seemed to say to him.
Watch.
This was tennis.
This was what would have happened if you had been able to answer his shots.
He covered his eyes but could not stop himself from seeing through the cracks of his fingers.
It was a beautiful and deadly dance, one that was luring him in from turbulent waters, beckoning him, tricking him. This was no safe harbor. This was not his destination. This was not what he wanted. This was what had left him cowering, useless, and unwelcome.
He watched.
And wondered.
Why wasn't he on the courts?
-----
to be continued
Next Part
Title: He Never Knew part 3
Day/Theme: 30. Position of mysterious authority and of feared nebulosity
Series: Prince of Tennis
Character/Pairing: Echizen Ryoma, Yukimura Seiichi
Rating: PG
Words: 1,159
Notes: for 31days_exchange, 31_days masterlist. I shall now deem this part as the part that refused to get written (I spoke way too soon when I said the writing for this was easy)! I kept wanting to write from Yukimura's POV, but I always do that... switching POVs like crazy, so I tried to curb myself this time. Maybe I should have given in to Yukimura's demands.
Previous Part
Part 3: This was Tennis
When he opened his door and came face-to-face with Rikkai's captain, the owner of that deceptively soft voice that taunted him during his darkest moments, the person who had completely destroyed any chance of him coming to love tennis in his current state, he froze.
And stared.
The pleasant greeting he had prepared for whoever his visitor might be died at his lips.
He would have been prepared for anyone but the owner of that voice. His former teammates. His friends. His teachers. Or even other random people he had known. Was supposed to know. He'd gotten used to strangers who were not strangers coming up to him, acting appalled over his refusal to play tennis as if they knew better. Amnesia? they would exclaim, only for their surprise to turn into outright disbelief when they discovered he no longer played tennis. He'd learned how to deal with those kinds of reactions, how to turn away his teammates' invitations, how not to be affected when people cared more about him not playing tennis than him losing his memories...
Anyone. He'd have been prepared for anyone but him.
He couldn't think.
He tried to force his jaw to move, to say something, anything so that he could stop staring like a deer caught in the headlights, soon to be run over, completely at the mercy of the oncoming traffic, but he couldn't. He couldn't move. He could only stare at the looming figure before him, memories trickling in of his world becoming submerged in darkness, engulfed by silence with only that deceptively soft voice lingering within his barren mind, mocking him, berating him, telling him that tennis was life.
Tennis was life, so how dare he turn his back on tennis?
He couldn't see. He couldn't hear. He could only drown in the hopelessness that had seeped into his bones at the time, that he so clearly remembered with every fiber in his body, that he thought he would be able to put away, but no, that was a false assumption, misplaced confidence where there was none to be had. He wanted to forget, but his body wouldn't let him. The trickle of memories of that impossible match, the feeling of utter despair that he had felt, slammed at his walls, breaking down his laughable dam. This was no trickle.
It was a deafening roar.
Where...was he?
He gripped the frame of his door, hard enough for his knuckles to turn white, for the wood to dig into his skin. Even then, he could not stop himself from shaking. Shivering. And staring.
It was cold.
For a moment, he had no longer known where he was.
The flowers didn't make sense.
The roaring wouldn't stop.
He slammed the door shut.
Thump.
Thump thump.
His heart beat crazily against his rib cage. He slid down against the door, burying his face in his arms, that one motion of closing the door sapping all of his energy.
He didn't want to remember that match. He should be searching for his memories or trying to make new ones, but that match, that match didn't help. He didn't want to...he didn't want to...
"Won't you let me in?" that soft but never gentle voice called out from beyond the door, loud in his ears despite the door between them. Or was that his imagination playing tricks on him once again?
Now will you give up?
He covered his ears.
Stop.
He wanted the load roaring to stop plaguing him.
"No...yes…" he whispered before he even realized he had spoken, the words like a betrayal coming from himself.
What was he answering? Who was he answering?
"Ryoma, who's at the door?"
No one. No one was at the door.
If he thought that hard enough, repeating it over and over again, maybe it would come true. He needed it to come true.
Go away.
Stop bothering me.
Leave me be.
-----
There were flowers on the kitchen table. Supported by a slim and dainty vase. Daisies. They were daisies. He would have completely overlooked the white daisies if he hadn't seen them in the hands of the owner of that voice only a few hours ago.
So that part hadn't been his imagination.
Numbly, he fingered one velvety petal, the scent almost reminding him of one particular bag of his bath salts, but that was misleading. A false sense of peacefulness. There was nothing soothing about these flowers, nothing gentle, nothing merciful, just like the one who had brought them. He appeared soft and effeminate, but he was nothing like how he appeared.
"Oh that?" his mother asked from behind. "This boy handed them to me when I came home. He looked like he was deep in thought. He almost didn't notice my approach. Nanako helped find a vase."
When she came home?
It was dark outside now.
It had been hours.
Was he still waiting outside?
Don't...don't look...
But he couldn't help himself.
-----
He didn't know what he had been expecting - a forlorn figure huddling in the dark, or a tall and straight back despite the cold, jacket fluttering in the chilly night air - but it was not this.
"Leave Ryoma alone. You've done enough."
Wham.
He won't even play with me anymore.
"What happened in Karuizawa?"
Slam.
I know, but I'm not the only one to blame. His memories were gone even before we crossed paths.
"Don't take that kind of tone with me, kid."
Thwack.
You think I don't know?
"Was it worth it?"
Was it worth it?
"I would do it all over again."
Were they fighting? No, no they weren't, not in that sense.
Tennis.
They were speaking through tennis, through the only thing they knew and shared. Fast. Furious. It took his breath away, leaving him shaking, wondering if this was fear or something else. He was so enthralled that he could no longer tell who was hitting what, nor could he figure out who had spoken in the end. Perhaps it was his father. Perhaps it was that one person he hadn't been prepared to confront. Perhaps it was no one. Perhaps it was both. He couldn't tell, not even with his father's gruff voice, not even with that deceptively soft voice colored by velvety tones like the petals of the daisies between his fingers.
Watch, the ball seemed to say to him.
Watch.
This was tennis.
This was what would have happened if you had been able to answer his shots.
He covered his eyes but could not stop himself from seeing through the cracks of his fingers.
It was a beautiful and deadly dance, one that was luring him in from turbulent waters, beckoning him, tricking him. This was no safe harbor. This was not his destination. This was not what he wanted. This was what had left him cowering, useless, and unwelcome.
He watched.
And wondered.
Why wasn't he on the courts?
-----
to be continued
Next Part