Fic: Spiritual Insinuation [chapter ten] (PoT, AU fantasy)
Title: Spiritual Insinuation [festival]
Category: Prince of Tennis
Rating: PG13
Rough Word Count: 6000
Summary: In an unforgiving world of myth and magic, Ryoma loses his family only to be adopted by another.
Past Chapters: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven a, seven b, eight, nine ...
Lovely fanart by kasugai_gummie ♥~ I think I will never stop showing it off.
Ryoma did learn how to swim while on vacation - and it was a lesson he would not soon forget. He’d been alone for some time on the beach, having gone there again right after the midday meal, and suddenly felt the prickling sensation of being watched. It was accompanied by a distinct foreboding in which case he spared no time wondering, and took off at a sprint. Sand kicked up beneath his feet and he heard shouts.
“Damn, he’s getting away!”
“Ochibi! There’s no escape!”
He was fast and he had endurance, but Momoshiro and Kikumaru possessed the same skills, had gone through the same training. The beach was too open for Ryoma to employ the assistance of his smaller, agile build, abilities nurtured from a life on dingy streets and crooked alleys. He was unused to the hindrance of loose sand, too, and at a criminal disadvantage considering his teammates’ longer legs and sheer persistence. They caught up to him slowly but surely, grabbing both his arms and weathering his vicious kicks and struggles, until they waded into the ocean and dropped him into still-shallow water.
Ryoma’s undignified curse was swallowed by a breaking wave over his head. After he tumbled for a short distance he found his feet again, standing up and spitting salt water. Momoshiro’s vigorous slap on the back was less-than-helpful, and with a throaty growl Ryoma launched himself, trapping Momo’s arms at his sides and sending them both under the waves. The taller boy rose up, sputtering, and Ryoma backpedaled hastily…into Kikumaru. The acrobat hooked Ryoma under the arms from behind, uttered a sinister, “Heh!” and dragged the unfortunate boy into deeper water. He floated, unable to do much more than squirm in the other’s grasp. Kikumaru halted at a depth in which he could still stand, but Ryoma would be at a loss.
“Relax, breathe in. Just stay still. I’m going to let go and you’ll float. Okay?”
It wasn’t so hard - he wasn’t afraid, after all. At least, not of drowning. Lying flat on his back with Kikumaru and Momoshiro somewhere beyond his vision was something else entirely. If not for that niggling worry, the experience might have actually been relaxing.
“Not bad, Ochibi! Now for the next step.”
Once upright and struggling to keep his head above water (Kikumaru was rattling off instructions) he gave Momo a suspicious glare, which was returned with a smirk. A large hand was planted on top of his head and Ryoma was briefly submerged up to his nose until the weight was removed.
“Don’t worry, Echizen. I’m not going to try to tie you to a rock out here or anything.”
Ryoma continued to glare, silently promising bad things in the older boy’s future.
The wide, warm streets of Seika had not changed since he’d been away, Kawamura was delighted to note as he passed through the avenues of his hometown. Though born on the island, he’d spent most of his life on the mainland within Seishun. It was fortunate that they kept a correspondence with Yamabuki, allowing him to visit his birthplace. He rounded a corner where a shop swarmed with eager children, the candied scent of sugary confections wafting from the open door and windows. He distantly recalled being one of those kids, excited to spend his treasured allowance for a treat, usually in the form of a cool ice candy in the tradition of summer.
Following the well-worn path of memory, Kawamura came to a stop before a building unlike the others lining the road. This one was lifeless and empty, tightly shut and dark within, preserved in its dormant state. It wasn’t broken-down or mistreated, though it had cobwebs and dust aplenty, a quietly abandoned place that was merely sleeping until it was lit up again. It was a small family restaurant that had been temporarily put to rest with the passing of his father, a somber but natural affair that had saddened many, as the shop was closed. It would belong to the son, whenever he opted to claim it - and he would, he was sure, someday in the future once Seigaku’s youthful fire had run its course through his veins.
Until then, it would be waiting. He checked on it when he was in town, as he did now, unlocking the front door with the key only he possessed. It creaked in opening, a small, welcoming sound. The room was coated in a fine layer of dust, dulling the tables and countertop, clouds of it rising up as he treaded over the floor. He would make certain to clean up before he left, keeping the small restaurant in fair condition so it would not fall to shambles during his absence.
The back stairs led to an upper floor where his family normally slept. He went to his favorite room, second door on the left, which had a view of the beach where it curved around a lighthouse. The first thing he was aware of was the breeze, its salt-scent of the ocean beckoning softly from the open window. The view was blocked by the folded, lanky form of one Akutsu Jin, seated indolently on the wooden frame and blowing smoke from thin lips that curled into a tooth-bearing sneer. A rolled cylinder dangled between his fingers, ashes flicked to the side. That was as far as Akutsu went by way of welcome.
Kawamura’s gaze lingered on the open window, a small but heartfelt smile lifting his features. He didn’t ask how Akutsu had gotten in when they were on the second floor, he knew better, but he couldn’t help saying, “It’s a nice view, isn’t it?”
The tall, menacing man sent an unimpressed glance over his shoulder at the scenery. “Same shit as always. Sand and rock and miles of fucking water.” His tone was rife with loathing but he did not bristle, maintaining his slack, lazy posture. Other people often wondered why Akutsu remained on the island when he hated it so. It was true that he was a fierce and valued warrior of the Yamabuki clan, they would be significantly weaker without him, but it was not for them or anyone else that he stayed.
Kawamura understood and thus was not offended. He never was. “The matches will be interesting this year.”
“Formality bullshit.” Despite the comment, Akutsu could not hide the edge in his voice. Eager and more than a little bloodthirsty, it was never just a formality to him. The same could be said for many warriors, those who truly enjoyed the fight and the clash, the ensuing rush of adrenaline that pushed them to their limits and beyond. Some reveled in it more than others.
“You met Echizen back in Kairo, didn’t you? He’s our youngest regular warrior.”
Akutsu’s look was so derisive that at first it didn’t seem that he would reply. When he did, it was bitten off with a curse. “A shitty little punk like that? What the hell were you thinking? I could beat him bloody with my eyes closed.”
He could have, back in Kairo, but he hadn’t. Kawamura thought about pointing that out, knowing it would only incite something violent, because it was interesting none the less. It wasn’t particularly surprising though. Echizen’s potential was off the charts and the child was about as subtle about it as a volcanic eruption. He ended up laughing instead of his intended comment, earning him a disgusted look from Akutsu. That only made him laugh harder. “Well, you know,” he said once the fit had mostly passed, polite and downright fearless in the company of his snarling friend, “We would greatly appreciate it if you didn’t kill him later. And I really am looking forward to the games.”
Akutsu muttered darkly around a new cigarette. “Don’t tell me who I can’t kill. Fuck, I get enough of that from the midget.”
The smoke he exhaled stung at Kawamura’s nose, but the sea breeze soon captured it and whisked the harsh scent away.
The flat stone beneath Ryoma’s feet was cool where it was shaded by trees, warm where it baked beneath the sun, and altogether it served for a rather ceremonial arena. The paved section was circular and surrounded by tall columns beginning to crumble from age. The outer edge of the ring was wreathed in foliage, moss and grass prying in between the rock, flowered vines clinging to the pillars. The structure was not an elemental site, but the forest around it was blessed with life all the same. Regardless, it was here that the matches would be held.
Not everyone had arrived yet and he was early, for once. A few locals ambled about, spectators for this sport, and he knew some of the warriors were also nearby. Perhaps he should just take a nap - the moss around that tree looked particularly comfortable and inviting, though the green coils of the snake hanging off a branch not so much.
Instead he settled his back against the smooth curve of stone jutting up from the earth, facing outward and away from the ring. It didn’t seem right to lounge about on the official game grounds. In this position Ryoma met the flat, impassive gaze of the snake that had claimed the peaceful-looking tree. Its tongue flickered out to taste the air, and slowly, steadily, it drew itself back up to disappear among the leaves. Ryoma stayed where he was.
He must have dozed for a bit, because the rasp of metal came too suddenly to his ears. Keeping still, eyes closed, he listened. Whatever it was, it wasn’t a threat. The occasional ring of steel was accompanied by a rhythm of footwork, close to the center of the circle and never straying. Besides that, and the usual sounds of the jungle, it was quiet. Others were observing with rapt attention, and with his interest caught, Ryoma peered over his shoulder.
The person wore Yamabuki’s colors and held a curved sword in his hand, its decorated hilt pretty to look at while the sun caught on its sharp blade that wasn’t just for show. He went through a series of forms, flowing from one to the next without so much as a ripple. Ryoma expected him to be fully concentrated and oblivious to his audience, but the youth’s gaze swept over everything, grinning widely. He even struck up a lively conversation with a nearby girl, making her giggle and then gasp as the sword arched overhead with a flourish.
At last he noticed Ryoma’s stare, finishing his performance with graceful ease and a playful salute. “Forgive my rudeness! Greetings, Seigaku.” He actually bowed, over-indulgently, and that’s when Ryoma concluded that he was dealing with an idiot. An entirely too laid-back, flashy idiot, with the brightest flame-red hair he’d ever seen. Somewhere, he recalled from a long-forgotten source that hair in such a color was good luck.
“Nice moves,” he replied blandly, dancing on the edge of sarcasm. His eyes followed the sword once more. It was handled flippantly, but the nimbleness was controlled instead of careless, always firm in the youth’s grip.
“Why, thank you!” The speaker beamed, eyes twinkling as he added merrily, “But that was just a warm-up. You’ll get the full performance later, and I promise it won’t disappoint. Look forward to it, brave young warrior.”
Ryoma developed a theory at that moment, about why the People were famous for warring amongst each other. Ever since he’d been adopted by Seigaku, there was at least one irritating character in each clan that he’d wanted to violently harm.
When others said that the games for festivals were different than normal matches, they weren’t kidding. Each round was meticulously surveyed and judged by an arbiter, and the fights were carefully ended before severe damage was dealt. There was so much ceremony involved before the matches even started that Ryoma took another catnap. He was awakened by Kikumaru shaking his shoulder for Momo’s match. His teammate was facing off against the annoying fellow from earlier, and according to the Yamabuki shouts his name was Sengoku.
“Wow! He’s new, isn’t he? I don’t remember anyone like that from last year.” Kikumaru tugged at his partner’s arm in excitement, but his gaze was fully trained on the center of the ring. Despite having just finished his own match (which was a soaring win, for all the curious), the boy was still bouncing on his feet.
“Aa, I wonder where they found him.” Oishi’s presence was, as always, a calming contrast to Kikumaru’s energy. “That fighting style…”
“He is a sword dancer,” Inui spoke up, momentarily ceasing his note-taking. “They are rather uncommon these days, with so few masters alive to pass on the teachings. Their history is more legend than fact - isn’t that right, Kaidoh?”
The warrior’s lip curled back in a guarded hiss. “Why are you asking me?”
“I simply thought you would be familiar with the subject.” Inui shrugged and soon he was absorbed once more into his private collection of data.
When no one appeared to be inclined to explain, an impatient Kikumaru exploded. “So? So? What’s a sword dancer? It looks fun! Think I could learn? I’m a lot more flexible than that orange-head is!” Oishi laughed softly, reaching out to pat his partner’s more moderately-shaded hair. In turn, Kikumaru grinned up at him and gave a conspirator’s wink.
“You don’t have the patience to be a sword dancer,” Kaidoh was forced into saying. He knew that even his scariest ‘shut up, you’re annoying’ glare had no effect on his teammate. “When training, you must dedicate yourself to nothing else and it takes decades to become a master. Currently, there are only four masters alive. That guy must be learning the fire dance from one of them.”
“Ohh, so it’s an elemental thing. Fire, huh? That would make sense. I still think I would make a good water dancer then!”
“But Eiji… If you did that, we couldn’t be a doubles team anymore.”
“What?!” Horrified, he shook his head from side to side. “No, no, no! I take it back! I absolutely will not be a sword dancer!”
There was laughter all around, and the match went on. Kikumaru had every right to be impressed though; the fluidity of the dance was even more beautiful in actual combat. The practice routine was nothing in comparison. Sengoku was never passive - either he was furiously driving Momoshiro back, or he was gliding through an opening, like a volatile flame to a teasing one. Flashy and fiery was his style, but eventually, inevitably, that was stamped out.
Too single-minded, Ryoma thought as Momo was declared the victor and the rest of Seigaku erupted in cheers. When you study one thing alone, it’s far too easy to forget about everything else. Dedication had weaknesses. It was just a matter of working around them.
“Well, I’m not finished with my training yet,” Sengoku admitted as he clasped hands with the winner. “Come back and fight me again when I’ve become the next fire master!”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Momoshiro replied with his fiercest grin.
Ryoma was almost done warming up when Kawamura approached him, waiting politely until he was finished and the staff in his hands rested at his side. The youngest of the team still had no preference of weapon, and some thought it was too early to choose one anyway, so he switched between the basics, able to use them all with enough skill. The smooth, lacquered wood was capped with iron on the ends and bore signs of repeated use. Ryoma decided he liked that indication of experience, battle-weary but not broken. This one would serve best for the fight.
“Even though it’s just a ceremonial match, please be careful,” Kawamura cautioned reasonably. “Akutsu is prideful and he’ll probably insist on fighting you bare-handed. That’s actually where his strength lies. Try to keep your distance.” It was fairly pointless as far as advice went. Even the newest of students could figure out any weapon was an advantage over none, but experience and proficiency added the most weight to the scale.
He met his opponent in the center of the sun-dappled ring and the crowd grew hushed save for the announcement of the third decisive round. Ryoma tilted his head up at a certain speculative angle, eyes half-lidded as they took in the imposing figure standing before him. Akutsu, for his part, met Ryoma’s gaze with a twisting curl of his lip and a feral growl. In the background, a countdown was called. The speaker hadn’t quite finished the word “one” when the first strike was made.
Ryoma darted away after his preemptive attack had been blocked, putting about two meters of distance between him and Akutsu. The other warrior lowered his arm which had taken the blow, flesh scuffed and reddened. The tall man hunched down, arms dangling so his knuckles almost brushed the floor, and held that position. Watching, Ryoma recognized the pose of a predator readying an assault. He circled slowly, keen eyes noticing the way muscle flexed and shifted to best respond to an attack from any direction. Adjusting his grip on the staff, Ryoma went in low from behind. Akutsu spun around faster than he could blink, knocking the thrust off-target and delivering a punch to the solar plexus.
Grimacing after his initial grunt of pain, Ryoma leaned on the stave for a moment. This time it was Akutsu who circled him, features alight in a dark, satisfied glee. Unable to bear that smug look, Ryoma straightened and dove in head-first, sliding gracefully to the side as the foremost move was blocked. His follow-up connected with his enemy’s unprotected back. Akutsu hardly flinched, swinging around and glancing off of smooth wood. Ryoma didn’t wait and slid into the next pattern he’d been drilled on, a high thrust that was just barely evaded, then a blow that caught Akutsu across the side, and finally a low sweeping arc to shake his balance.
It seemed like the man fell in slow motion. The crowd had been yelling and cheering but when he hit the ground they went silent. Akutsu raised his head just enough to glare up at Ryoma with enraged eyes. The tooth-bearing grin on his face didn’t fit. He was tensed and coiled, ready to snap, and soon blurred into action.
Ryoma was backed into a defensive stance, blocking, countering, and all of a sudden thrown. He tucked and rolled across the ring, slamming into one of the columns. Before he could gather his senses to stand, a hand fisted in his shirt and lifted him, dangling, into the air. He clutched at Akutsu’s arm, nails digging fiercely into the skin until bloody rivulets were dripping onto the stone beneath. His staff was snatched away and promptly shattered against the rock, then Akutsu flung him to the opposite side of the grounds.
There was roaring in his ears, sounding vaguely like people calling for an end to the match. It was annoying. Ryoma wanted to tell them to shut up and let him fight, but he was unsure if anything was broken or not. Everything just felt battered. He felt more than saw Akutsu’s shadow looming over him, could hear just the faintest of derisive scoffs, and automatically slapped away the hand that reached for him again. He rolled, braced his hands on the ground, and kicked outward so his toes just brushed against Akutsu’s retreating form. Ryoma sprang to his feet, wavered for a moment, and stumbled back from a punch that nicked his jaw. Reflex made him grab the arm before it retracted, using the rest of Akutsu’s momentum to slide under the tall man and throw him head over heels.
Ryoma didn’t have enough time to collect himself. With an insane rate of recovery, Akutsu knocked his feet out from under him. The boy was quick to rise, but was only halfway up when he saw the warrior’s leg snap back for another kick. He brought his arms up to guard, the force of the blow pushing him back and bloodying a knee on the stone ground. Ignoring the sting of it, he dodged aside and put some distance between himself and the enemy. There was little advantage gained by doing so, and Akutsu would be on him again in a second. Ryoma felt a vertical column at his back, triggering the semblance of a plan. He didn’t waste time thinking about it, his body moving on instinct while his mind gave up on following.
Ryoma ducked under the incoming fist, swiveled and drove his elbow into Akutsu’s gut, then moved out from underneath the opponent. This time he anticipated the fast reaction, body sliding into a sideways kick which slammed Akutsu into the unyielding pillar. That was enough to phase him, if only for a moment. Ryoma attempted to get out of range before he was up again, but their height difference proved to be fatal. Taking a blow to the side of his head, the smaller boy staggered, then grunted when his arm was wrenched back painfully. He bit his lip, determined not to cry out as the pressure increased.
“End match! Winner, Yamabuki.”
The only thing that surprised Ryoma was that Akutsu actually obeyed and released him, though not without a disconcerting hesitation. They faced each other with a mutual blank stare. Then, just to be cheeky, Ryoma offered his hand - the sore one.
Akutsu’s eyes narrowed to yellow slits as he gazed down at the boy. “Hn,” was all he said, though the syllable conveyed a sense of ‘do you want me to break it for you, punk?’
“Next time,” Ryoma promised, quiet and intent. Next time without the spectators and ceremony, a real battle with no dressing up or watering down.
Kazantou was famous for many things; the beaches, the scenery, the quaint towns and balmy weather, but above these it was known for its natural hot springs. They could be found in many places on the island, varying it size, temperature, and mineral content. Ryoma was looking forward to a quiet, relaxing soak, and that meant avoiding the rest of his teammates. He’d located one of the smaller, more secluded springs on a map and set off to find it. The ensuing hike got his borrowed yukata dusty, but otherwise undamaged, and he managed to reach his destination without getting lost along the dubious path. Ryoma found himself at the bottom of a crevasse with a twisting river on one side and the hot spring nestled into the cliff wall. The pool was empty save for (of course) Fuji, who smiled serenely back at him.
“Fancy meeting you here,” Ryoma muttered with a hint of bite, but no real intent. He wasn’t surprised, nor was he completely opposed to the kitsune’s presence - not even as the thin cotton robe slipped off his shoulders and was folded on top of dry rock. Seishun had large bathhouses after all, and he’d never been shy to begin with.
“Careful,” Fuji cautioned lightly. “The water is rather hot.”
“Obviously.” Ryoma bent his head down to avoid looking at the other. Shy or not, Fuji’s open-eyed gaze would be unsettling to anyone. His warning hadn’t been exaggerated though, the temperature was hotter than Ryoma expected and getting in proved to be slow but ultimately satisfying. Once he was submerged up to his shoulders he leaned back, closed his eyes, and couldn’t help but give a little sigh of blissful contentment. The aches and bruises from his match were forgotten. If he never moved again for a century, that would be just great.
“You did well during the games,” he heard Fuji’s voice float through the indefinable space between them.
The only response he could muster was an inarticulate one.
Clearly amused, the kitsune teased, “Don’t fall asleep in here.”
“As if you’d let me cook,” Ryoma finally replied drowsily, and with a lethargic realization he knew it to be true. Fuji might toss him in a pond or manipulate him into who knows what, and it would certainly be dangerous, but… Fuji would look out for him too. Instead of feeling secure in this knowledge, Ryoma only felt a wave of uneasiness. Not suspicion, exactly, but more like the sensation of being caged. “And I lost the match, in case you didn’t notice.”
“You’re taking it quite well, too.”
He cracked an eye open, wondering what that implied. He wasn’t- Okay, he was a little bitter. But he’d also be less disgruntled if Fuji hadn’t brought it up. Ryoma hadn’t planned on sulking about it while he soaked. “It’s not like I wanted a broken arm.” Though it wouldn’t have mattered either, he’d have still fought until the very end. The fact that the end had been cut short was the sorest point of all.
Fuji understood that, but remarked anyway, “I rather prefer you as able-bodied as possible, myself.”
Ryoma sunk lower until the water lapped at his chin, pinning the kitsune with an accusing stare. “Do I even want to know what you’re thinking?”
“Not much to do about it, is there?” Ryoma knew better than to be fazed by the disarming smile. “The onsen are for cleansing and purity. Tradition, you know.”
“I doubt one hundred years of soaking would be enough to cleanse you.”
“What an awful thing to say. I’m perfectly comfortable, actually.”
“Oh, yeah?” He didn’t know what exactly, but something made him move. Eyes locked, he lifted himself out of the water to sit on the ledge, one leg drawn up and his head cocked to the side. It wasn’t a passive pose, his body tensed as if ready to fight.
“Tempting,” Fuji commented softly with a rare smirk. “Would you lead me down such a path, Ryoma?”
His mind was catching up with his actions fast and not liking things one bit, but there was just something instinctive about dealing with Fuji. “You’re a dirty fox already,” he shrugged a shoulder, seemingly bored in the way his gaze wandered elsewhere. He heard the splash of water, and Fuji coaxed his attention back with the lightest of touches to his cheek.
The kitsune hummed, leaning in as if he knew how that made Ryoma’s blood pound. “What does that make you?”
“Insane,” he answered curtly. He didn’t think he could get a full sentence out without an embarrassing shortness of breath.
A full, unrestrained grin broke out on Fuji’s features. It caught Ryoma off-guard more than anything else. “I suppose that’s true.”
Not knowing what else to do, impatient and scrambling to keep a hold on the situation (he was supposed to be in control here, leading, challenging, not reeling from a good dose of honesty from a kitsune), Ryoma cupped the back of Fuji’s neck and pulled him down.
The crack and boom of fire in the sky was subdued indoors, though the lights still flickered from the windows. The darkened room would occasionally be lit with a muted glow, alternating purple, green, blue and more. Ryoma was disinterested in the concept of fireworks; they were loud, bright, and annoying. A particularly jarring bang made him grumble and burrow deeper into his blankets, not caring whether he jostled the warm body at his side. The bed wasn’t meant for two in the first place.
Fuji didn’t mind the squirming, though he did help rearrange a few limbs so they were both relatively comfortable. He had no use for fireworks either, noting the way an artificial pink luminance washed over Ryoma’s skin. It didn’t hold a candle to a natural red-blooded flush. Nor were glittering lights as impressive as emblazed golden eyes, their color sharp against dilated pupils. The explosions outside were nothing compared to the form that had arched up against him, passionate and raw, the aftertaste of sex harsher and more tangible than mere smoke. He breathed in, finding the boy’s mingled scent that was human and kitsune. That was unique enough, but it was difficult to detect that other, subtle trace of magic that should not belong, yet it did. He’d called it a barrier and had not be wrong, but it wasn’t quite right either.
“Ne, Ryoma.” The kit feigned sleep. Cute, but futile. “Tell me about your mother.”
This close, he could feel the hitch in his breath. “Why?”
“Why not?”
Fuji wondered how he should push the topic, and it would be pursued, when Ryoma answered with an uncharacteristic hesitance. “I...loved her.” He sounded surprised at his own admission, not because of its meaning but as if he’d never even considered the words before. He repeated them, affirming their existence. “I loved her. She was all I had.”
“What about your father?”
This time he went rigid and his tone froze over. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“Maybe you got your bad personality from him,” Fuji tossed out, waiting.
“I wouldn’t know.” With that, Ryoma turned his back and damn it all if only he could kick the nosy kitsune out of his bed, he’d do it in a heartbeat. He couldn’t picture Fuji in such an undignified position though, and so it wasn’t going to happen even if he tried.
“I see…” Ryoma didn’t like the way those words were spoken. As far as he knew, there was nothing for Fuji to be pleased about. A vaguely apologetic kiss was planted on his temple but he was hardly mollified, demonstrating so by wriggling out of the loose embrace. He was debating whether suffering through the fireworks would be better or worse when Fuji inquired softly next to his ear, “Your mother then. What was her name?”
Predictably, Ryoma took his time with a response, and it was peppered with suspicion. “Rinko. Don’t tell me you knew her.”
“Not in the least, more’s the pity.” Fuji’s tone was laughing, hardly a comfort but Ryoma allowed himself to be caught in his arms again. It was simply more convenient with the way they were crowded on the bed. “I regret having never met such a mysterious woman.”
His mother, mysterious? Ryoma wasn’t aware of his curling in on himself, but he did take note of Fuji securing his hold. He chose not to fight it, but that twinge of feeling trapped was back again. The urge to fidget was clamped down on, not out of consideration for the other, but because discomfort was preferable to visible nervousness. “It’s in the past, anyway.”
Fuji didn’t respond or move, not for a long while until after Ryoma had fallen into an exhausted sleep. Only then did his fingers drift up, sliding into tousled dark hair. His touch was tender, shifting through every wayward strand over and over, the motion itself lulling him. He doubted Ryoma would have let him get away with it had he been awake, and that’s what made it sweet. Fuji was not averse to gentleness, and possessiveness… Well, that was on a whole different level. It might have been a bit early, or even a bad decision entirely, to claim the boy so soon, but there had been no immediate ill-effects - for either of them. The long-term consequences could be dealt with later.
He still doesn’t know he’s part kitsune, from his father, surely. His mother though, this Rinko… Ah, now she’s intriguing.
“The past may yet catch up with you, kit.”
As it turned out, the consequences caught up to Fuji before Ryoma’s past ever had a chance.
The trip back to the mainland started out well enough, with fair weather and a cheerful atmosphere shared among the passengers. They carried with them many goods from Kazantou, rare spices, dye, and cloth. Yamabuki had been eager to trade. No one had gotten the chance to settle down before word of an ill wind swept through and put out the merriment in a breath.
“What do you mean, there might be a storm?” Ryoma turned a baleful eye on the bearer of bad news.
“Hey, what’s that look for?” Momoshiro mock-growled in disgruntlement. He took it easy on the kid though, seeing how Ryoma still hadn’t acquired his sea legs and was trying not to show it. “It could miss us. And the sailors are saying it’s not even that big a storm, so don’t worry.”
Ryoma’s flat expression told him exactly what he thought about that prediction. He muttered something low and unintelligible in Nihongo that Momo was fairly sure wasn’t polite, but he shrugged it off like usual.
“Come on, think positive! Even if it does hit us-” he clapped a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder, voice sincere, “-at least you’ll know how to swim.”
Ryoma moved sharply, intending to toss his teammate overboard or smack him a good one, but Momo was unfairly solid and steadfast. Since he was disinclined to jostle the unreliable contents of his stomach further, Ryoma settled for postponing his revenge. Mentally, he kept track that this was the second mark against his friend, after that barely-successful swimming lesson. Just you wait until I’m off this boat, promised his eyes. The older youth smirked, getting the message and clearly telling him to bring it on.
The storm did hit them later, in the form of blustery winds, dark skies, and rain that came from every direction. Reportedly, it was a mild squall, but it made for a downright miserable time for Ryoma, especially below deck. The air was stale and stuffy, the ship rocked and creaked worse than normal, and he decided to take his chances with drowning instead. One hand steadiest himself as he found the stairs, catching a whiff of sharp, sea breeze from above. Slim fingers encircled his wrist and he glared over his shoulder at Fuji.
“It would be wise for you to stay out of the weather,” the kistune said, seeming to choose his words with care. They sounded delicate, like his loose grip on Ryoma’s arm.
“Nothing could be worse than being down here,” he retorted, feeling the wind beckon him, fresh and exciting.
Fuji’s hold tightened, though his tone remained light. “Then come with me into a realm.”
The unexpected offer caused his blood to rush and his breath to stutter. That was absurd. Ryoma knew the stories of people entering a kitsune’s illusionary realm for moments and finding years to have passed outside. Moreover, he didn’t like the way Fuji insisted, or… But there was no use in thinking about it. He’d deal with it later, after he’d gotten off this wretched ship.
“I’m going outside.”
He slipped out of the grasp and was a little surprised that Fuji let go so easily. He dared to look back and wasn’t sure what he saw on the kitsune’s face, mask-like as it was. His feet were taking him up the stairs though, pounding into a sudden dash that brought him onto the rain and sea-swept deck. He wasn’t alone, there were the sailors managing the ship as if the storm wasn’t even there, and he even recognized some of his fellow warriors about.
Ryoma tasted salt on his lips, breathed it in with the air as waves sprayed over the railing. He was soaked through within seconds and the floor gave a sudden lurch. He slipped until his back pressed against the wall of a cabin where he found his balance. The ocean was roaring, thundering- No, that was thunder, booming like a herald in the sky. Lightning forked through dark, heavy clouds and the rain came down in lashes. There was a shout, he wasn’t sure from whom, but his gaze fixed on the horizon where a wave swelled and climbed hungrily. He braced himself against the wall as it smashed against them and the fierce rocking didn’t stop after that. Ryoma knew little of weather patterns and forecasts, but he did know that the storm wasn’t minor anymore.
Another crack lit and sounded from above. He could sense the electricity of it, was acutely aware of the rain and sea streaming over him, behind closed eyes he still saw the natural lights bursting through the sky. It was overwhelming. All he could do was feel. Sensations closed over his head in an exhilarating rush. It was like drowning, but his lungs were clear. Every nerve was on fire, but water was like ice on skin. He couldn’t be dying because he felt so very alive.
That was his last thought before dizziness overcame him and the world went black and silent.
to be continued
POINTS OF INTEREST:
I still hate writing action scenes. >( That was one of the reasons this chapter took so long (the main one being that I am laaaazy). So you can just pretend that the fight isn't there and all you really need to know is that yes, Ryoma lost. I feel more than justified. But look, he's still special! That will probably be explained next chapter. :D The mystery shall be...less of a mystery, not really solved yet but er, right, moving on.
I'm sorry to say that no, there really isn't a hidden/private/uncut porn scene anywhere but my head. I almost wrote it, but smut is tedious to write and would have added 2000 more words to the fic, and probably would have delayed the chapter further. So! Use your imaginations. I'm sure whatever you come up with will be better than whatever I write anyway. ...That said, I might write an add-in sex scene later. Maybe. If enough people bribed me.
I know updates are deathly slow and I apologize, because they're never going to be snapped out every few weeks like they used to. But because SI has gained years in age, and because it is definitely my proudest accomplishment, all grumblings aside, it will not be left unfinished. Even if I eventually decide I can't go through with the full outline, there will be some sort of ending to wrap the story up. Currently though, I plan to go the whole mile. I mean, come on, I haven't even introduced Hyotei yet! Then again, I'm writing an entire side-story for Hyotei anyway.
So thank you, all of you, new readers and old. ♥ Happy holidays!
PS. Chapter four now has ficart~ Much thanks to FFN reviewer Hoikei! That's what really got me to finish that friggin' match scene.
Category: Prince of Tennis
Rating: PG13
Rough Word Count: 6000
Summary: In an unforgiving world of myth and magic, Ryoma loses his family only to be adopted by another.
Past Chapters: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven a, seven b, eight, nine ...
Lovely fanart by kasugai_gummie ♥~ I think I will never stop showing it off.
Ryoma did learn how to swim while on vacation - and it was a lesson he would not soon forget. He’d been alone for some time on the beach, having gone there again right after the midday meal, and suddenly felt the prickling sensation of being watched. It was accompanied by a distinct foreboding in which case he spared no time wondering, and took off at a sprint. Sand kicked up beneath his feet and he heard shouts.
“Damn, he’s getting away!”
“Ochibi! There’s no escape!”
He was fast and he had endurance, but Momoshiro and Kikumaru possessed the same skills, had gone through the same training. The beach was too open for Ryoma to employ the assistance of his smaller, agile build, abilities nurtured from a life on dingy streets and crooked alleys. He was unused to the hindrance of loose sand, too, and at a criminal disadvantage considering his teammates’ longer legs and sheer persistence. They caught up to him slowly but surely, grabbing both his arms and weathering his vicious kicks and struggles, until they waded into the ocean and dropped him into still-shallow water.
Ryoma’s undignified curse was swallowed by a breaking wave over his head. After he tumbled for a short distance he found his feet again, standing up and spitting salt water. Momoshiro’s vigorous slap on the back was less-than-helpful, and with a throaty growl Ryoma launched himself, trapping Momo’s arms at his sides and sending them both under the waves. The taller boy rose up, sputtering, and Ryoma backpedaled hastily…into Kikumaru. The acrobat hooked Ryoma under the arms from behind, uttered a sinister, “Heh!” and dragged the unfortunate boy into deeper water. He floated, unable to do much more than squirm in the other’s grasp. Kikumaru halted at a depth in which he could still stand, but Ryoma would be at a loss.
“Relax, breathe in. Just stay still. I’m going to let go and you’ll float. Okay?”
It wasn’t so hard - he wasn’t afraid, after all. At least, not of drowning. Lying flat on his back with Kikumaru and Momoshiro somewhere beyond his vision was something else entirely. If not for that niggling worry, the experience might have actually been relaxing.
“Not bad, Ochibi! Now for the next step.”
Once upright and struggling to keep his head above water (Kikumaru was rattling off instructions) he gave Momo a suspicious glare, which was returned with a smirk. A large hand was planted on top of his head and Ryoma was briefly submerged up to his nose until the weight was removed.
“Don’t worry, Echizen. I’m not going to try to tie you to a rock out here or anything.”
Ryoma continued to glare, silently promising bad things in the older boy’s future.
The wide, warm streets of Seika had not changed since he’d been away, Kawamura was delighted to note as he passed through the avenues of his hometown. Though born on the island, he’d spent most of his life on the mainland within Seishun. It was fortunate that they kept a correspondence with Yamabuki, allowing him to visit his birthplace. He rounded a corner where a shop swarmed with eager children, the candied scent of sugary confections wafting from the open door and windows. He distantly recalled being one of those kids, excited to spend his treasured allowance for a treat, usually in the form of a cool ice candy in the tradition of summer.
Following the well-worn path of memory, Kawamura came to a stop before a building unlike the others lining the road. This one was lifeless and empty, tightly shut and dark within, preserved in its dormant state. It wasn’t broken-down or mistreated, though it had cobwebs and dust aplenty, a quietly abandoned place that was merely sleeping until it was lit up again. It was a small family restaurant that had been temporarily put to rest with the passing of his father, a somber but natural affair that had saddened many, as the shop was closed. It would belong to the son, whenever he opted to claim it - and he would, he was sure, someday in the future once Seigaku’s youthful fire had run its course through his veins.
Until then, it would be waiting. He checked on it when he was in town, as he did now, unlocking the front door with the key only he possessed. It creaked in opening, a small, welcoming sound. The room was coated in a fine layer of dust, dulling the tables and countertop, clouds of it rising up as he treaded over the floor. He would make certain to clean up before he left, keeping the small restaurant in fair condition so it would not fall to shambles during his absence.
The back stairs led to an upper floor where his family normally slept. He went to his favorite room, second door on the left, which had a view of the beach where it curved around a lighthouse. The first thing he was aware of was the breeze, its salt-scent of the ocean beckoning softly from the open window. The view was blocked by the folded, lanky form of one Akutsu Jin, seated indolently on the wooden frame and blowing smoke from thin lips that curled into a tooth-bearing sneer. A rolled cylinder dangled between his fingers, ashes flicked to the side. That was as far as Akutsu went by way of welcome.
Kawamura’s gaze lingered on the open window, a small but heartfelt smile lifting his features. He didn’t ask how Akutsu had gotten in when they were on the second floor, he knew better, but he couldn’t help saying, “It’s a nice view, isn’t it?”
The tall, menacing man sent an unimpressed glance over his shoulder at the scenery. “Same shit as always. Sand and rock and miles of fucking water.” His tone was rife with loathing but he did not bristle, maintaining his slack, lazy posture. Other people often wondered why Akutsu remained on the island when he hated it so. It was true that he was a fierce and valued warrior of the Yamabuki clan, they would be significantly weaker without him, but it was not for them or anyone else that he stayed.
Kawamura understood and thus was not offended. He never was. “The matches will be interesting this year.”
“Formality bullshit.” Despite the comment, Akutsu could not hide the edge in his voice. Eager and more than a little bloodthirsty, it was never just a formality to him. The same could be said for many warriors, those who truly enjoyed the fight and the clash, the ensuing rush of adrenaline that pushed them to their limits and beyond. Some reveled in it more than others.
“You met Echizen back in Kairo, didn’t you? He’s our youngest regular warrior.”
Akutsu’s look was so derisive that at first it didn’t seem that he would reply. When he did, it was bitten off with a curse. “A shitty little punk like that? What the hell were you thinking? I could beat him bloody with my eyes closed.”
He could have, back in Kairo, but he hadn’t. Kawamura thought about pointing that out, knowing it would only incite something violent, because it was interesting none the less. It wasn’t particularly surprising though. Echizen’s potential was off the charts and the child was about as subtle about it as a volcanic eruption. He ended up laughing instead of his intended comment, earning him a disgusted look from Akutsu. That only made him laugh harder. “Well, you know,” he said once the fit had mostly passed, polite and downright fearless in the company of his snarling friend, “We would greatly appreciate it if you didn’t kill him later. And I really am looking forward to the games.”
Akutsu muttered darkly around a new cigarette. “Don’t tell me who I can’t kill. Fuck, I get enough of that from the midget.”
The smoke he exhaled stung at Kawamura’s nose, but the sea breeze soon captured it and whisked the harsh scent away.
The flat stone beneath Ryoma’s feet was cool where it was shaded by trees, warm where it baked beneath the sun, and altogether it served for a rather ceremonial arena. The paved section was circular and surrounded by tall columns beginning to crumble from age. The outer edge of the ring was wreathed in foliage, moss and grass prying in between the rock, flowered vines clinging to the pillars. The structure was not an elemental site, but the forest around it was blessed with life all the same. Regardless, it was here that the matches would be held.
Not everyone had arrived yet and he was early, for once. A few locals ambled about, spectators for this sport, and he knew some of the warriors were also nearby. Perhaps he should just take a nap - the moss around that tree looked particularly comfortable and inviting, though the green coils of the snake hanging off a branch not so much.
Instead he settled his back against the smooth curve of stone jutting up from the earth, facing outward and away from the ring. It didn’t seem right to lounge about on the official game grounds. In this position Ryoma met the flat, impassive gaze of the snake that had claimed the peaceful-looking tree. Its tongue flickered out to taste the air, and slowly, steadily, it drew itself back up to disappear among the leaves. Ryoma stayed where he was.
He must have dozed for a bit, because the rasp of metal came too suddenly to his ears. Keeping still, eyes closed, he listened. Whatever it was, it wasn’t a threat. The occasional ring of steel was accompanied by a rhythm of footwork, close to the center of the circle and never straying. Besides that, and the usual sounds of the jungle, it was quiet. Others were observing with rapt attention, and with his interest caught, Ryoma peered over his shoulder.
The person wore Yamabuki’s colors and held a curved sword in his hand, its decorated hilt pretty to look at while the sun caught on its sharp blade that wasn’t just for show. He went through a series of forms, flowing from one to the next without so much as a ripple. Ryoma expected him to be fully concentrated and oblivious to his audience, but the youth’s gaze swept over everything, grinning widely. He even struck up a lively conversation with a nearby girl, making her giggle and then gasp as the sword arched overhead with a flourish.
At last he noticed Ryoma’s stare, finishing his performance with graceful ease and a playful salute. “Forgive my rudeness! Greetings, Seigaku.” He actually bowed, over-indulgently, and that’s when Ryoma concluded that he was dealing with an idiot. An entirely too laid-back, flashy idiot, with the brightest flame-red hair he’d ever seen. Somewhere, he recalled from a long-forgotten source that hair in such a color was good luck.
“Nice moves,” he replied blandly, dancing on the edge of sarcasm. His eyes followed the sword once more. It was handled flippantly, but the nimbleness was controlled instead of careless, always firm in the youth’s grip.
“Why, thank you!” The speaker beamed, eyes twinkling as he added merrily, “But that was just a warm-up. You’ll get the full performance later, and I promise it won’t disappoint. Look forward to it, brave young warrior.”
Ryoma developed a theory at that moment, about why the People were famous for warring amongst each other. Ever since he’d been adopted by Seigaku, there was at least one irritating character in each clan that he’d wanted to violently harm.
When others said that the games for festivals were different than normal matches, they weren’t kidding. Each round was meticulously surveyed and judged by an arbiter, and the fights were carefully ended before severe damage was dealt. There was so much ceremony involved before the matches even started that Ryoma took another catnap. He was awakened by Kikumaru shaking his shoulder for Momo’s match. His teammate was facing off against the annoying fellow from earlier, and according to the Yamabuki shouts his name was Sengoku.
“Wow! He’s new, isn’t he? I don’t remember anyone like that from last year.” Kikumaru tugged at his partner’s arm in excitement, but his gaze was fully trained on the center of the ring. Despite having just finished his own match (which was a soaring win, for all the curious), the boy was still bouncing on his feet.
“Aa, I wonder where they found him.” Oishi’s presence was, as always, a calming contrast to Kikumaru’s energy. “That fighting style…”
“He is a sword dancer,” Inui spoke up, momentarily ceasing his note-taking. “They are rather uncommon these days, with so few masters alive to pass on the teachings. Their history is more legend than fact - isn’t that right, Kaidoh?”
The warrior’s lip curled back in a guarded hiss. “Why are you asking me?”
“I simply thought you would be familiar with the subject.” Inui shrugged and soon he was absorbed once more into his private collection of data.
When no one appeared to be inclined to explain, an impatient Kikumaru exploded. “So? So? What’s a sword dancer? It looks fun! Think I could learn? I’m a lot more flexible than that orange-head is!” Oishi laughed softly, reaching out to pat his partner’s more moderately-shaded hair. In turn, Kikumaru grinned up at him and gave a conspirator’s wink.
“You don’t have the patience to be a sword dancer,” Kaidoh was forced into saying. He knew that even his scariest ‘shut up, you’re annoying’ glare had no effect on his teammate. “When training, you must dedicate yourself to nothing else and it takes decades to become a master. Currently, there are only four masters alive. That guy must be learning the fire dance from one of them.”
“Ohh, so it’s an elemental thing. Fire, huh? That would make sense. I still think I would make a good water dancer then!”
“But Eiji… If you did that, we couldn’t be a doubles team anymore.”
“What?!” Horrified, he shook his head from side to side. “No, no, no! I take it back! I absolutely will not be a sword dancer!”
There was laughter all around, and the match went on. Kikumaru had every right to be impressed though; the fluidity of the dance was even more beautiful in actual combat. The practice routine was nothing in comparison. Sengoku was never passive - either he was furiously driving Momoshiro back, or he was gliding through an opening, like a volatile flame to a teasing one. Flashy and fiery was his style, but eventually, inevitably, that was stamped out.
Too single-minded, Ryoma thought as Momo was declared the victor and the rest of Seigaku erupted in cheers. When you study one thing alone, it’s far too easy to forget about everything else. Dedication had weaknesses. It was just a matter of working around them.
“Well, I’m not finished with my training yet,” Sengoku admitted as he clasped hands with the winner. “Come back and fight me again when I’ve become the next fire master!”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Momoshiro replied with his fiercest grin.
Ryoma was almost done warming up when Kawamura approached him, waiting politely until he was finished and the staff in his hands rested at his side. The youngest of the team still had no preference of weapon, and some thought it was too early to choose one anyway, so he switched between the basics, able to use them all with enough skill. The smooth, lacquered wood was capped with iron on the ends and bore signs of repeated use. Ryoma decided he liked that indication of experience, battle-weary but not broken. This one would serve best for the fight.
“Even though it’s just a ceremonial match, please be careful,” Kawamura cautioned reasonably. “Akutsu is prideful and he’ll probably insist on fighting you bare-handed. That’s actually where his strength lies. Try to keep your distance.” It was fairly pointless as far as advice went. Even the newest of students could figure out any weapon was an advantage over none, but experience and proficiency added the most weight to the scale.
He met his opponent in the center of the sun-dappled ring and the crowd grew hushed save for the announcement of the third decisive round. Ryoma tilted his head up at a certain speculative angle, eyes half-lidded as they took in the imposing figure standing before him. Akutsu, for his part, met Ryoma’s gaze with a twisting curl of his lip and a feral growl. In the background, a countdown was called. The speaker hadn’t quite finished the word “one” when the first strike was made.
Ryoma darted away after his preemptive attack had been blocked, putting about two meters of distance between him and Akutsu. The other warrior lowered his arm which had taken the blow, flesh scuffed and reddened. The tall man hunched down, arms dangling so his knuckles almost brushed the floor, and held that position. Watching, Ryoma recognized the pose of a predator readying an assault. He circled slowly, keen eyes noticing the way muscle flexed and shifted to best respond to an attack from any direction. Adjusting his grip on the staff, Ryoma went in low from behind. Akutsu spun around faster than he could blink, knocking the thrust off-target and delivering a punch to the solar plexus.
Grimacing after his initial grunt of pain, Ryoma leaned on the stave for a moment. This time it was Akutsu who circled him, features alight in a dark, satisfied glee. Unable to bear that smug look, Ryoma straightened and dove in head-first, sliding gracefully to the side as the foremost move was blocked. His follow-up connected with his enemy’s unprotected back. Akutsu hardly flinched, swinging around and glancing off of smooth wood. Ryoma didn’t wait and slid into the next pattern he’d been drilled on, a high thrust that was just barely evaded, then a blow that caught Akutsu across the side, and finally a low sweeping arc to shake his balance.
It seemed like the man fell in slow motion. The crowd had been yelling and cheering but when he hit the ground they went silent. Akutsu raised his head just enough to glare up at Ryoma with enraged eyes. The tooth-bearing grin on his face didn’t fit. He was tensed and coiled, ready to snap, and soon blurred into action.
Ryoma was backed into a defensive stance, blocking, countering, and all of a sudden thrown. He tucked and rolled across the ring, slamming into one of the columns. Before he could gather his senses to stand, a hand fisted in his shirt and lifted him, dangling, into the air. He clutched at Akutsu’s arm, nails digging fiercely into the skin until bloody rivulets were dripping onto the stone beneath. His staff was snatched away and promptly shattered against the rock, then Akutsu flung him to the opposite side of the grounds.
There was roaring in his ears, sounding vaguely like people calling for an end to the match. It was annoying. Ryoma wanted to tell them to shut up and let him fight, but he was unsure if anything was broken or not. Everything just felt battered. He felt more than saw Akutsu’s shadow looming over him, could hear just the faintest of derisive scoffs, and automatically slapped away the hand that reached for him again. He rolled, braced his hands on the ground, and kicked outward so his toes just brushed against Akutsu’s retreating form. Ryoma sprang to his feet, wavered for a moment, and stumbled back from a punch that nicked his jaw. Reflex made him grab the arm before it retracted, using the rest of Akutsu’s momentum to slide under the tall man and throw him head over heels.
Ryoma didn’t have enough time to collect himself. With an insane rate of recovery, Akutsu knocked his feet out from under him. The boy was quick to rise, but was only halfway up when he saw the warrior’s leg snap back for another kick. He brought his arms up to guard, the force of the blow pushing him back and bloodying a knee on the stone ground. Ignoring the sting of it, he dodged aside and put some distance between himself and the enemy. There was little advantage gained by doing so, and Akutsu would be on him again in a second. Ryoma felt a vertical column at his back, triggering the semblance of a plan. He didn’t waste time thinking about it, his body moving on instinct while his mind gave up on following.
Ryoma ducked under the incoming fist, swiveled and drove his elbow into Akutsu’s gut, then moved out from underneath the opponent. This time he anticipated the fast reaction, body sliding into a sideways kick which slammed Akutsu into the unyielding pillar. That was enough to phase him, if only for a moment. Ryoma attempted to get out of range before he was up again, but their height difference proved to be fatal. Taking a blow to the side of his head, the smaller boy staggered, then grunted when his arm was wrenched back painfully. He bit his lip, determined not to cry out as the pressure increased.
“End match! Winner, Yamabuki.”
The only thing that surprised Ryoma was that Akutsu actually obeyed and released him, though not without a disconcerting hesitation. They faced each other with a mutual blank stare. Then, just to be cheeky, Ryoma offered his hand - the sore one.
Akutsu’s eyes narrowed to yellow slits as he gazed down at the boy. “Hn,” was all he said, though the syllable conveyed a sense of ‘do you want me to break it for you, punk?’
“Next time,” Ryoma promised, quiet and intent. Next time without the spectators and ceremony, a real battle with no dressing up or watering down.
Kazantou was famous for many things; the beaches, the scenery, the quaint towns and balmy weather, but above these it was known for its natural hot springs. They could be found in many places on the island, varying it size, temperature, and mineral content. Ryoma was looking forward to a quiet, relaxing soak, and that meant avoiding the rest of his teammates. He’d located one of the smaller, more secluded springs on a map and set off to find it. The ensuing hike got his borrowed yukata dusty, but otherwise undamaged, and he managed to reach his destination without getting lost along the dubious path. Ryoma found himself at the bottom of a crevasse with a twisting river on one side and the hot spring nestled into the cliff wall. The pool was empty save for (of course) Fuji, who smiled serenely back at him.
“Fancy meeting you here,” Ryoma muttered with a hint of bite, but no real intent. He wasn’t surprised, nor was he completely opposed to the kitsune’s presence - not even as the thin cotton robe slipped off his shoulders and was folded on top of dry rock. Seishun had large bathhouses after all, and he’d never been shy to begin with.
“Careful,” Fuji cautioned lightly. “The water is rather hot.”
“Obviously.” Ryoma bent his head down to avoid looking at the other. Shy or not, Fuji’s open-eyed gaze would be unsettling to anyone. His warning hadn’t been exaggerated though, the temperature was hotter than Ryoma expected and getting in proved to be slow but ultimately satisfying. Once he was submerged up to his shoulders he leaned back, closed his eyes, and couldn’t help but give a little sigh of blissful contentment. The aches and bruises from his match were forgotten. If he never moved again for a century, that would be just great.
“You did well during the games,” he heard Fuji’s voice float through the indefinable space between them.
The only response he could muster was an inarticulate one.
Clearly amused, the kitsune teased, “Don’t fall asleep in here.”
“As if you’d let me cook,” Ryoma finally replied drowsily, and with a lethargic realization he knew it to be true. Fuji might toss him in a pond or manipulate him into who knows what, and it would certainly be dangerous, but… Fuji would look out for him too. Instead of feeling secure in this knowledge, Ryoma only felt a wave of uneasiness. Not suspicion, exactly, but more like the sensation of being caged. “And I lost the match, in case you didn’t notice.”
“You’re taking it quite well, too.”
He cracked an eye open, wondering what that implied. He wasn’t- Okay, he was a little bitter. But he’d also be less disgruntled if Fuji hadn’t brought it up. Ryoma hadn’t planned on sulking about it while he soaked. “It’s not like I wanted a broken arm.” Though it wouldn’t have mattered either, he’d have still fought until the very end. The fact that the end had been cut short was the sorest point of all.
Fuji understood that, but remarked anyway, “I rather prefer you as able-bodied as possible, myself.”
Ryoma sunk lower until the water lapped at his chin, pinning the kitsune with an accusing stare. “Do I even want to know what you’re thinking?”
“Not much to do about it, is there?” Ryoma knew better than to be fazed by the disarming smile. “The onsen are for cleansing and purity. Tradition, you know.”
“I doubt one hundred years of soaking would be enough to cleanse you.”
“What an awful thing to say. I’m perfectly comfortable, actually.”
“Oh, yeah?” He didn’t know what exactly, but something made him move. Eyes locked, he lifted himself out of the water to sit on the ledge, one leg drawn up and his head cocked to the side. It wasn’t a passive pose, his body tensed as if ready to fight.
“Tempting,” Fuji commented softly with a rare smirk. “Would you lead me down such a path, Ryoma?”
His mind was catching up with his actions fast and not liking things one bit, but there was just something instinctive about dealing with Fuji. “You’re a dirty fox already,” he shrugged a shoulder, seemingly bored in the way his gaze wandered elsewhere. He heard the splash of water, and Fuji coaxed his attention back with the lightest of touches to his cheek.
The kitsune hummed, leaning in as if he knew how that made Ryoma’s blood pound. “What does that make you?”
“Insane,” he answered curtly. He didn’t think he could get a full sentence out without an embarrassing shortness of breath.
A full, unrestrained grin broke out on Fuji’s features. It caught Ryoma off-guard more than anything else. “I suppose that’s true.”
Not knowing what else to do, impatient and scrambling to keep a hold on the situation (he was supposed to be in control here, leading, challenging, not reeling from a good dose of honesty from a kitsune), Ryoma cupped the back of Fuji’s neck and pulled him down.
The crack and boom of fire in the sky was subdued indoors, though the lights still flickered from the windows. The darkened room would occasionally be lit with a muted glow, alternating purple, green, blue and more. Ryoma was disinterested in the concept of fireworks; they were loud, bright, and annoying. A particularly jarring bang made him grumble and burrow deeper into his blankets, not caring whether he jostled the warm body at his side. The bed wasn’t meant for two in the first place.
Fuji didn’t mind the squirming, though he did help rearrange a few limbs so they were both relatively comfortable. He had no use for fireworks either, noting the way an artificial pink luminance washed over Ryoma’s skin. It didn’t hold a candle to a natural red-blooded flush. Nor were glittering lights as impressive as emblazed golden eyes, their color sharp against dilated pupils. The explosions outside were nothing compared to the form that had arched up against him, passionate and raw, the aftertaste of sex harsher and more tangible than mere smoke. He breathed in, finding the boy’s mingled scent that was human and kitsune. That was unique enough, but it was difficult to detect that other, subtle trace of magic that should not belong, yet it did. He’d called it a barrier and had not be wrong, but it wasn’t quite right either.
“Ne, Ryoma.” The kit feigned sleep. Cute, but futile. “Tell me about your mother.”
This close, he could feel the hitch in his breath. “Why?”
“Why not?”
Fuji wondered how he should push the topic, and it would be pursued, when Ryoma answered with an uncharacteristic hesitance. “I...loved her.” He sounded surprised at his own admission, not because of its meaning but as if he’d never even considered the words before. He repeated them, affirming their existence. “I loved her. She was all I had.”
“What about your father?”
This time he went rigid and his tone froze over. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“Maybe you got your bad personality from him,” Fuji tossed out, waiting.
“I wouldn’t know.” With that, Ryoma turned his back and damn it all if only he could kick the nosy kitsune out of his bed, he’d do it in a heartbeat. He couldn’t picture Fuji in such an undignified position though, and so it wasn’t going to happen even if he tried.
“I see…” Ryoma didn’t like the way those words were spoken. As far as he knew, there was nothing for Fuji to be pleased about. A vaguely apologetic kiss was planted on his temple but he was hardly mollified, demonstrating so by wriggling out of the loose embrace. He was debating whether suffering through the fireworks would be better or worse when Fuji inquired softly next to his ear, “Your mother then. What was her name?”
Predictably, Ryoma took his time with a response, and it was peppered with suspicion. “Rinko. Don’t tell me you knew her.”
“Not in the least, more’s the pity.” Fuji’s tone was laughing, hardly a comfort but Ryoma allowed himself to be caught in his arms again. It was simply more convenient with the way they were crowded on the bed. “I regret having never met such a mysterious woman.”
His mother, mysterious? Ryoma wasn’t aware of his curling in on himself, but he did take note of Fuji securing his hold. He chose not to fight it, but that twinge of feeling trapped was back again. The urge to fidget was clamped down on, not out of consideration for the other, but because discomfort was preferable to visible nervousness. “It’s in the past, anyway.”
Fuji didn’t respond or move, not for a long while until after Ryoma had fallen into an exhausted sleep. Only then did his fingers drift up, sliding into tousled dark hair. His touch was tender, shifting through every wayward strand over and over, the motion itself lulling him. He doubted Ryoma would have let him get away with it had he been awake, and that’s what made it sweet. Fuji was not averse to gentleness, and possessiveness… Well, that was on a whole different level. It might have been a bit early, or even a bad decision entirely, to claim the boy so soon, but there had been no immediate ill-effects - for either of them. The long-term consequences could be dealt with later.
He still doesn’t know he’s part kitsune, from his father, surely. His mother though, this Rinko… Ah, now she’s intriguing.
“The past may yet catch up with you, kit.”
As it turned out, the consequences caught up to Fuji before Ryoma’s past ever had a chance.
The trip back to the mainland started out well enough, with fair weather and a cheerful atmosphere shared among the passengers. They carried with them many goods from Kazantou, rare spices, dye, and cloth. Yamabuki had been eager to trade. No one had gotten the chance to settle down before word of an ill wind swept through and put out the merriment in a breath.
“What do you mean, there might be a storm?” Ryoma turned a baleful eye on the bearer of bad news.
“Hey, what’s that look for?” Momoshiro mock-growled in disgruntlement. He took it easy on the kid though, seeing how Ryoma still hadn’t acquired his sea legs and was trying not to show it. “It could miss us. And the sailors are saying it’s not even that big a storm, so don’t worry.”
Ryoma’s flat expression told him exactly what he thought about that prediction. He muttered something low and unintelligible in Nihongo that Momo was fairly sure wasn’t polite, but he shrugged it off like usual.
“Come on, think positive! Even if it does hit us-” he clapped a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder, voice sincere, “-at least you’ll know how to swim.”
Ryoma moved sharply, intending to toss his teammate overboard or smack him a good one, but Momo was unfairly solid and steadfast. Since he was disinclined to jostle the unreliable contents of his stomach further, Ryoma settled for postponing his revenge. Mentally, he kept track that this was the second mark against his friend, after that barely-successful swimming lesson. Just you wait until I’m off this boat, promised his eyes. The older youth smirked, getting the message and clearly telling him to bring it on.
The storm did hit them later, in the form of blustery winds, dark skies, and rain that came from every direction. Reportedly, it was a mild squall, but it made for a downright miserable time for Ryoma, especially below deck. The air was stale and stuffy, the ship rocked and creaked worse than normal, and he decided to take his chances with drowning instead. One hand steadiest himself as he found the stairs, catching a whiff of sharp, sea breeze from above. Slim fingers encircled his wrist and he glared over his shoulder at Fuji.
“It would be wise for you to stay out of the weather,” the kistune said, seeming to choose his words with care. They sounded delicate, like his loose grip on Ryoma’s arm.
“Nothing could be worse than being down here,” he retorted, feeling the wind beckon him, fresh and exciting.
Fuji’s hold tightened, though his tone remained light. “Then come with me into a realm.”
The unexpected offer caused his blood to rush and his breath to stutter. That was absurd. Ryoma knew the stories of people entering a kitsune’s illusionary realm for moments and finding years to have passed outside. Moreover, he didn’t like the way Fuji insisted, or… But there was no use in thinking about it. He’d deal with it later, after he’d gotten off this wretched ship.
“I’m going outside.”
He slipped out of the grasp and was a little surprised that Fuji let go so easily. He dared to look back and wasn’t sure what he saw on the kitsune’s face, mask-like as it was. His feet were taking him up the stairs though, pounding into a sudden dash that brought him onto the rain and sea-swept deck. He wasn’t alone, there were the sailors managing the ship as if the storm wasn’t even there, and he even recognized some of his fellow warriors about.
Ryoma tasted salt on his lips, breathed it in with the air as waves sprayed over the railing. He was soaked through within seconds and the floor gave a sudden lurch. He slipped until his back pressed against the wall of a cabin where he found his balance. The ocean was roaring, thundering- No, that was thunder, booming like a herald in the sky. Lightning forked through dark, heavy clouds and the rain came down in lashes. There was a shout, he wasn’t sure from whom, but his gaze fixed on the horizon where a wave swelled and climbed hungrily. He braced himself against the wall as it smashed against them and the fierce rocking didn’t stop after that. Ryoma knew little of weather patterns and forecasts, but he did know that the storm wasn’t minor anymore.
Another crack lit and sounded from above. He could sense the electricity of it, was acutely aware of the rain and sea streaming over him, behind closed eyes he still saw the natural lights bursting through the sky. It was overwhelming. All he could do was feel. Sensations closed over his head in an exhilarating rush. It was like drowning, but his lungs were clear. Every nerve was on fire, but water was like ice on skin. He couldn’t be dying because he felt so very alive.
That was his last thought before dizziness overcame him and the world went black and silent.
to be continued
POINTS OF INTEREST:
I still hate writing action scenes. >( That was one of the reasons this chapter took so long (the main one being that I am laaaazy). So you can just pretend that the fight isn't there and all you really need to know is that yes, Ryoma lost. I feel more than justified. But look, he's still special! That will probably be explained next chapter. :D The mystery shall be...less of a mystery, not really solved yet but er, right, moving on.
I'm sorry to say that no, there really isn't a hidden/private/uncut porn scene anywhere but my head. I almost wrote it, but smut is tedious to write and would have added 2000 more words to the fic, and probably would have delayed the chapter further. So! Use your imaginations. I'm sure whatever you come up with will be better than whatever I write anyway. ...That said, I might write an add-in sex scene later. Maybe. If enough people bribed me.
I know updates are deathly slow and I apologize, because they're never going to be snapped out every few weeks like they used to. But because SI has gained years in age, and because it is definitely my proudest accomplishment, all grumblings aside, it will not be left unfinished. Even if I eventually decide I can't go through with the full outline, there will be some sort of ending to wrap the story up. Currently though, I plan to go the whole mile. I mean, come on, I haven't even introduced Hyotei yet! Then again, I'm writing an entire side-story for Hyotei anyway.
So thank you, all of you, new readers and old. ♥ Happy holidays!
PS. Chapter four now has ficart~ Much thanks to FFN reviewer Hoikei! That's what really got me to finish that friggin' match scene.
