Atobe/Ryoma - drabble
Untitled
PG.
Royal Pair with unrequited TezuRyo & AtoTez because Tezuka has since moved to Okinawa to be with the man of my dreams.
947 wordages
This is dumb and I'm in a mood. But Kayla will appreciate my efforts, if nothing else. :D
Not in the habit of paying attention to trivial matters, Echizen Ryoma had become - in his fifteen years of living - accustomed to being misunderstood and completely underestimated. Not when it came to tennis - certainly not that; not anymore - but in the ways that he’d once imagined to be inconsequential.
He didn’t care if people thought he wasn’t listening. He didn’t care if those around him found him untouchable and aloof and apathetic. What mattered, truly, was that regardless of everyone else’s perceptions, a man had to know his own mind and his own heart. Tezuka had taught him that and Ryoma knew that he would never forget so hard-learned a lesson.
He played with all the ability he possessed, sometimes going that extra mile even when it was unnecessary - all because he knew that a real champion would do no less. Tezuka had taught him that, as well. Had shown him with character and self-appreciation and a hundred other ways when not a single word passed his lips. After two years of tight, solid friendship, Ryoma didn’t need Tezuka’s words. By now, he learned from example and could think of no better way than to show proper respect to Tezuka than to follow in his footsteps and lead as he had led.
Tezuka was proud of him, he knew, even if he never said so.
“Something of a waste of a Saturday, ahn?”
Ryoma tugged the brim of his hat down to further shade his eyes and shrugged lightly. He would not turn around, would not allow Atobe Keigo to shake his foundation today. Like a bad penny - or an incredibly well-dressed stroke of misfortune - he had a way of turning up at precisely the wrong moments to deliver the most well-placed barb he was capable of. Unlike Tezuka, Atobe’s lessons seemed to have no shelf-life. Ryoma knew - already - that as long as he was captain of anything, Atobe would feel obligated to impart some sage, condescending advice.
“No. Not really,” he responded, wiping the back of his neck. “We won when it counted.”
“It’s not like you to settle, Echizen,” Atobe said, slipping his hands into the pockets of his summer whites. “Didn’t your Buchou teach you anything?”
Ryoma snorted. “Yeah, actually, he did.”
Closer now, Atobe rocked lightly on his heels and smiled easily. He didn’t lean against the fence, though he might have if he’d been wearing anything other than white. “Oh?”
Turning to look over his shoulder, sweeping Atobe with a cursory glance, Ryoma frowned. “I don’t pay any attention to you. Best lesson I ever learned.”
Attention focused on his players, again, Ryoma pretended that Atobe was not present, which had become second nature to him since Atobe had begun to make regular appearances at nearly all of Ryoma’s matches.
“He taught you well, I see,” Atobe finally said, voice irritatingly light. “You’re as good at running and hiding as he was.”
While Ryoma took no issue with accepting the truth when it was handed to him, he took sore offense at the insinuation that he - of all people - was a coward. He glared at Atobe. “Che. Don’t flatter yourself, Monkey-King.”
Atobe snickered, brushing strands of hair away from his forehead and stepping closer until he was just at Ryoma’s back. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Ryoma plucked his hat off, wiped his brow with the back of his hand and barked orders at the second-year with the atrocious backhand. Then he turned to Atobe with an embarrassing lack of Tezuka-like implacability and scowled. “Stop baiting me, Keigo. Find someone else to offer advice to - I’m not interested.”
“He’s not coming back, you know.”
Ryoma glared, only barely resisting the urge to ball up his fist and sock Atobe one right in his fine, straight nose. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, jaw clenched.
Unperturbed, Atobe glanced over Ryoma’s shoulder, taking in the court, the boys holding rackets and bouncing tennis balls and high-fiving without ever having to think of Tezuka Kunimitsu and experience so keen an absence. “Don’t be stupid, Echizen. I know even better than you do.”
Not at all interested in visiting that particular track, Ryoma looked away. “Why can’t you just leave it alone?” he asked, scuffing his shoe on the concrete. “Let it go. Get over it.”
Folding his arms over his chest, Atobe considered Ryoma briefly. He liked that he still had a few inches on the little brat. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”
It took him a moment to get it - Atobe could see it in his eyes - but that he did was evident in the faint blush under the shadow of his hat. “I’m not some kind of stand-in.”
“Nor am I,” was Atobe’s immediate reply. There was nothing in Atobe’s tone to suggest that he was anything but completely sincere. Ryoma knew him well enough to know that if he weren’t, the pomp and circumstance that would accompany such a statement would be unbearable. He found that - for once - he had no suitably biting reply to offer.
Atobe nodded. “Excellent. I’ll call you,” he said, turning away. “We’ll have a friendly game or two, ahn?”
Ryoma frowned. Friendly game, his ass. “Won’t you need my number for that, genius?”
Atobe laughed - it was incredibly self-serving and infuriating - and lifted his hand in casual dismissal. “Not necessary. I’ve had it for months.”
Ryoma pushed his hat up only to tug it down again before turning back to the courts. The first three times Atobe called, Ryoma decided that he would be unavailable to come to the phone. If he made a fourth call, perhaps he would agree to a game. Or two.
Arrogant ass.
Goodnight.
PG.
Royal Pair with unrequited TezuRyo & AtoTez because Tezuka has since moved to Okinawa to be with the man of my dreams.
947 wordages
This is dumb and I'm in a mood. But Kayla will appreciate my efforts, if nothing else. :D
Not in the habit of paying attention to trivial matters, Echizen Ryoma had become - in his fifteen years of living - accustomed to being misunderstood and completely underestimated. Not when it came to tennis - certainly not that; not anymore - but in the ways that he’d once imagined to be inconsequential.
He didn’t care if people thought he wasn’t listening. He didn’t care if those around him found him untouchable and aloof and apathetic. What mattered, truly, was that regardless of everyone else’s perceptions, a man had to know his own mind and his own heart. Tezuka had taught him that and Ryoma knew that he would never forget so hard-learned a lesson.
He played with all the ability he possessed, sometimes going that extra mile even when it was unnecessary - all because he knew that a real champion would do no less. Tezuka had taught him that, as well. Had shown him with character and self-appreciation and a hundred other ways when not a single word passed his lips. After two years of tight, solid friendship, Ryoma didn’t need Tezuka’s words. By now, he learned from example and could think of no better way than to show proper respect to Tezuka than to follow in his footsteps and lead as he had led.
Tezuka was proud of him, he knew, even if he never said so.
“Something of a waste of a Saturday, ahn?”
Ryoma tugged the brim of his hat down to further shade his eyes and shrugged lightly. He would not turn around, would not allow Atobe Keigo to shake his foundation today. Like a bad penny - or an incredibly well-dressed stroke of misfortune - he had a way of turning up at precisely the wrong moments to deliver the most well-placed barb he was capable of. Unlike Tezuka, Atobe’s lessons seemed to have no shelf-life. Ryoma knew - already - that as long as he was captain of anything, Atobe would feel obligated to impart some sage, condescending advice.
“No. Not really,” he responded, wiping the back of his neck. “We won when it counted.”
“It’s not like you to settle, Echizen,” Atobe said, slipping his hands into the pockets of his summer whites. “Didn’t your Buchou teach you anything?”
Ryoma snorted. “Yeah, actually, he did.”
Closer now, Atobe rocked lightly on his heels and smiled easily. He didn’t lean against the fence, though he might have if he’d been wearing anything other than white. “Oh?”
Turning to look over his shoulder, sweeping Atobe with a cursory glance, Ryoma frowned. “I don’t pay any attention to you. Best lesson I ever learned.”
Attention focused on his players, again, Ryoma pretended that Atobe was not present, which had become second nature to him since Atobe had begun to make regular appearances at nearly all of Ryoma’s matches.
“He taught you well, I see,” Atobe finally said, voice irritatingly light. “You’re as good at running and hiding as he was.”
While Ryoma took no issue with accepting the truth when it was handed to him, he took sore offense at the insinuation that he - of all people - was a coward. He glared at Atobe. “Che. Don’t flatter yourself, Monkey-King.”
Atobe snickered, brushing strands of hair away from his forehead and stepping closer until he was just at Ryoma’s back. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Ryoma plucked his hat off, wiped his brow with the back of his hand and barked orders at the second-year with the atrocious backhand. Then he turned to Atobe with an embarrassing lack of Tezuka-like implacability and scowled. “Stop baiting me, Keigo. Find someone else to offer advice to - I’m not interested.”
“He’s not coming back, you know.”
Ryoma glared, only barely resisting the urge to ball up his fist and sock Atobe one right in his fine, straight nose. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, jaw clenched.
Unperturbed, Atobe glanced over Ryoma’s shoulder, taking in the court, the boys holding rackets and bouncing tennis balls and high-fiving without ever having to think of Tezuka Kunimitsu and experience so keen an absence. “Don’t be stupid, Echizen. I know even better than you do.”
Not at all interested in visiting that particular track, Ryoma looked away. “Why can’t you just leave it alone?” he asked, scuffing his shoe on the concrete. “Let it go. Get over it.”
Folding his arms over his chest, Atobe considered Ryoma briefly. He liked that he still had a few inches on the little brat. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”
It took him a moment to get it - Atobe could see it in his eyes - but that he did was evident in the faint blush under the shadow of his hat. “I’m not some kind of stand-in.”
“Nor am I,” was Atobe’s immediate reply. There was nothing in Atobe’s tone to suggest that he was anything but completely sincere. Ryoma knew him well enough to know that if he weren’t, the pomp and circumstance that would accompany such a statement would be unbearable. He found that - for once - he had no suitably biting reply to offer.
Atobe nodded. “Excellent. I’ll call you,” he said, turning away. “We’ll have a friendly game or two, ahn?”
Ryoma frowned. Friendly game, his ass. “Won’t you need my number for that, genius?”
Atobe laughed - it was incredibly self-serving and infuriating - and lifted his hand in casual dismissal. “Not necessary. I’ve had it for months.”
Ryoma pushed his hat up only to tug it down again before turning back to the courts. The first three times Atobe called, Ryoma decided that he would be unavailable to come to the phone. If he made a fourth call, perhaps he would agree to a game. Or two.
Arrogant ass.
Goodnight.