FIC: Quicken to Silver, Ohtori/Shishido, NC17 (7/41)
Title: Quicken to Silver (7/41)
Author: Ociwen
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: Konomi owns all.
Summary: In which time passes and people change and drift, but there is always tennis. Ohtori/Shishido
Atobe-san used to turn his nose up at most street tennis courts. “It’s for the plebeians,” he would say. “I have my own private courts at home, and we have courts at my family’s gym, too.” However, he would drag the regulars to the street tennis courts sometimes to bother Seigaku or to watch and see if any other teams would show up and play a friendly game. It was a good way to gather data, Ohtori agreed, but it was even more fun to simply play a game instead.
One look from Shishido and Ohtori starts to pull his racket out from his tennis bag. It hums in his hand. His body hums with anticipation of playing Shishido-san again, of seeing Shishido-san again. It’s been nearly two months of angsting and waiting and Ohtori can’t stop smiling.
Shishido says, “Stop grinning. Those people over there will think you’re mad,” but he smiles too as he spins his racket on the tip of his finger. “I haven’t played a decent game in a while,” he adds.
“Why not?” Ohtori asks. Shishido spins his racket on the ground and Ohtori calls, “Rough- I thought the high school tennis team was brilliant!”
“The juniors and seniors, maybe,” Shishido grumbles. “Atobe was the only freshman who made the regulars. And Oshitari, but he’s an alternate.”
Ohtori blinks. “You’re a…ball boy?”
Shishido narrows his eyes, but his cheeks look pinker. “Shut up,” he says, but his tone isn’t very rough and the smile twitching Ohtori’s lips catches Shishido. They both start to laugh.
The day is cloudy, but the birds chirp and the wind blows warm against Ohtori’s face as he rushes across the court, straining to reach each serve, each volley, each smash Shishido sends across the net towards him. It’s friendly game, moreso even than the last just after his birthday. Ohtori finally gets what Kikumaru-san told him last summer, that it really is the most fun playing against his partner. Shishido knows where Ohtori will drive his serves, where Ohtori will volley, the direction of the ball, the speed. Shishido knows him better than Ohtori knows his own tennis.
And he knows Shishido’s, too. It hasn’t changed much in the last couple months. Shishido’s faster, maybe. His net dashes are more sudden, his serve is stronger and higher.
They have both improved, if only by a bit.
Ohtori collapses on a bench after and guzzles his water bottle. Shishido-san sits down next to him, a towel covering his head. Ohtori can hear Shishido’s panting in perfect tune with his own.
“I haven’t played that hard this season,” Shishido says. Ohtori hands Shishido his water bottle and he gulps it down with a satisfied sigh.
“Don’t the high school juniors ever play?” Ohtori asks.
Shishido shrugs. “Sometimes, but not really.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah.”
Other players fill the courts. Ohtori sits, watching them, as his breathing evens out and the sweat dribbling down his face starts to dry. He has nothing else planned this afternoon, no tennis practice, no homework, nothing. He wants to sit in this moment and just bask in the late afternoon sun with Shishido-san until he’s forced to go home.
Tennis with Shishido feels more like home in the moment.
Shishido-san doesn’t move either. He leans back on the bench and stretches his legs out, making circles with his ankles. His socks have slipped low around his ankles. Ohtori likes to watch Shishido’s legs move. One day, one day, he’ll do more than just watch them, but for now it’s enough.
“Look, isn’t that Seigaku’s Momoshiro?” Shishido asks, pointing to a boy on a tennis court with a girl. Ohtori recognizes the girl from matches with Fudomine, and the boy has Momoshiro-kun’s loud, lilting voice.
“Yeah,” Ohtori agrees.
“I’m too tired to challenge him to a game,” Shishido says.
“Is the high school buchou not making you practice hard enough?” Ohtori asks. He grins when Shishido punches him in the arm, a sloppy, light-handed punch that speaks more of affection than irritation. Ohtori’s chest swells with hope.
“Ugh, that’s not cool,” Shishido nods to Momoshiro and the girl from Fudomine, who aren’t playing tennis on the court so much as groping each other across the net. Ohtori flushes and looks away. Shishido-san just curls his lip and snorts.
“Did you know,” Shishido-san says quietly, “that Oshitari had sex over the break?”
Ohtori’s mouth hangs open. He stares at Shishido-san. “He did?”
Shishido nods. “It’s been driving Atobe insane because Oshitari won’t say with who. Atobe even called Oshitari’s cousin- the one who played for Shitenhoji in Kansai.”
“I remember. He was at the Nationals.”
“Atobe called him to ask if he knew anything but his cousin didn’t.”
“Why does Atobe-san need to know so badly?” Ohtori asks. “Isn’t it rather…” his eyes trail over to Momoshiro. He can hardly seen the girl anymore, she’s so wrapped up against him, “…ah, private?”
“Atobe likes to know everything. That, and he’s jealous,” Shishido says. He laughs. “I guess it’s just desserts for Atobe making the regular spot and Oshitari only making the alternate.”
“I guess so,” Ohtori repeats.
He thinks that maybe the feeling inside, the feeling that gnaws at his stomach as his eyes glance again and again over to Momoshiro and his girlfriend, that feels like jealousy too. Momoshiro is here with a girl he likes and he is kissing her on the courts, but Ohtori can only sit beside the person he likes.
He inches closer, subtly shifting the weight in his leg so it brushes Shishido’s thigh.
Shishido stands up and the movement is lost. He swings a racket over his shoulder. “One more game, Choutarou?”
Ohtori could never say no, even if he wanted to.
***
Hyoutei always saves their best members for the Kantou regionals and Hiyoshi continues the tradition. They play Houjou in round one, advancing 3-0. They play Yamabuki in round two, advancing 3-1.
The semifinals are against Rikkai Dai.
Ohtori is listed as singles 3. Hiyoshi says, “At least you get to play Rikkai’s Sasaki. He wasn’t a regular last year.” Ohtori glances over Hiyoshi’s shoulder to see the roster. Hiyoshi plays singles 1-
-against Kirihara.
“Che,” he whispers.
Nakamura mutters, “That’s what Hiyoshi-buchou gets for always wanting to play singles 1.” Ohtori doesn’t disagree, but when he glances across to Rikkai’s bench and sees Kirihara sitting there, a glimmer in his eyes as he licks his lips, his insides go cold at the thought of having to play him.
If they manage to make it that far.
Doubles 2, Sakai and Uehara, loses 6-0 in sixteen minutes.
Doubles 1 is a different story. Satou and Nakamura dance on the court against Rikkai’s Doubles 1 team, a junior and a senior with a killer serve and even better volley. Still, Satou manages to hit the balls deep to the baseline and shake up Rikkai’s play when it counts, each time the points tip to favour Rikkai. Nakamura backs Satou with calculated, sharp serves and rising shots. Rikkai controls the pace of the game, but it’s nowhere near as fast as doubles 2 was.
Ohtori watches the game, knowing he’ll play regardless of win or loss. Satou and Nakamura don’t have the mutual dependence he and Shishido-san had, but they’re pretty good. His eyes follow the game like a ping-pong match, back and forth, back and forth across the court. It’s dizzying and exhilarating because it’s the best tennis they’ve played yet this season.
“Game, Rikkai- 2 games 0. Switch courts!” the referee yells across the court. Ohtori takes the brief break to glance over his shoulder towards the chain link fences behind the bleachers. He’d emailed Shishido-san last week. We’re playing the Regionals next week. I’m playing singles 3. There was no reply. Shishido-san must be too busy with high school, but Ohtori wishes that maybe, maybe Shishido would have liked to have seen him play. He knows that if Shishido- when Shishido makes the high school regulars- he’ll go to each and every match he plays and cheer him on.
A sea of grey and white Hyoutei jerseys, but no sign of a blue cap.
“Damn,” he says to himself.
“Are you looking for someone, Ohtori-senpai?” Yamamoto asks him.
Ohtori shakes his head and mutters “It’s nothing.”
“Game, Hyoutei- 5 games 4. Switch courts!”
A group of Fudomine’s players, including that girl who was kissing Momoshiro at the street tennis courts, has weedled their way into the Hyoutei bleachers to watch the game. Ohtori watches them for a long while, especially when the one listening to an MP3 player, this year’s captain, spends more time watching Kirihara benchcoach than he does to the doubles game.
Ohtori recognizes him as Kamio from the Senbatsu camp. If Fudomine wins their semifinals against Seigaku tomorrow, maybe he and Kirihara will get to play that match they want so badly. And maybe then Hiyoshi won’t need to play singles 1 today at all.
But there is still no blue cap.
Three reporters have gathered at the end of the court and camera flash as bright as the sun. Scouts patrol the bleachers, watching impassively. Hiyoshi sits up straight and barks orders during the breaks in the games. Ohtori knows that Hiyoshi desperately wants to be noticed by them, but so far it doesn’t look like any of them have paid him the attention he craves.
Rikkai manages to win, 7-5. At least the margin for this game isn’t as wide. Ohtori can’t see Kantoku’s face from where he sits, but he doubts Sakaki-sensei is pleased.
Ohtori walks down the steep stairs of the bleachers. His palms are sweaty and the sun beats down hot on his back. The grip tape of his racket handle feels slippery as he pulls his racket out from his tennis bag.
The cheers of “Hyoutei! Hyoutei!” behind him don’t help.
On the court, he is completely alone.
The spaces between the lines have never looked so wide before. The net has never loomed so large. Rikkai has the first serve. He crouches low and sways softly, side to side, the anticipation of the whizzing blur of the tennis ball swelling inside.
Rikkai’s Sasaki is tall and long-limbed like him and he returns every volley, every smash, every ball Ohtori hits. It’s frustrating and the feeling wells up inside, threatening to burst because Rikkai is so infuriatingly brilliant. He hits to the baseline, he smashes to the net, he serves mid-court, back, front, it doesn’t matter- Sasaki returns them.
And gains 15, 30, 40- game.
Two games down, then three. Nothing works. His scud serve nets him a couple points, but Sasaki picks it up after, jumping up front to meet the serve with a fast rising shot that whizzes by Ohtori’s ear and hits the baseline, in by just a few centimeters.
I can’t lose, he thinks. They can’t take the set three games to none.
They switch courts. Ohtori stands, waiting for Sasaki to take his place on the court for Hyoutei’s serve. He closes his eyes briefly, willing himself to concentrate, to relax, to win.
The ball is heavy in his left hand. Ohtori leans forward and opens his eyes. He glances towards the crowd, a mass of empty faces-
And then his eyes widen when he sees a blue cap. He shakes his head, thinking, No, I’m imagining things, but he isn’t because Shishido-san is standing behind the chain link fence, a smile crooked on his lips and a nod to his head. Their eyes meet and Ohtori feels a shiver run down his spine.
I will take this game, Shishido-san, he vows and throws the ball up above his head.
Hyoutei erupts in cheers when the referee calls, “Fifteen-love.” Ohtori stands, as shocked as his opponent. Something courses through his body, through his arms as he throws the ball up again to serve. It’s the same sort of raw power he’s only felt in a handful of other matches, including the Nationals. He wants this win now. He wants to show Shishido he can do it.
“Ik- kyu- nyu-” he pushes his racket through the air and finishes, “Kon!”
The ball hits the court, again, with the same low popping noise. Sasaki scrambles, but he’s too slow.
“Thirty-love.”
Ohtori takes his service game, growing more confident in himself with each hit, with each rise of his eyes to see that Shishido-san is there, watching him with a faint smile, appraising, cheering. The Hyoutei cheers are nothing; they are silent in his ears compared with Shishido just being here to see.
Rikkai bounces back during their service game for a 4-1 lead, but Ohtori takes the match. After, he walks off the court, his body humming with victory. Sakaki-sensei has cold words, asking Ohtori is he was pleased with his play. Ohtori knows it could have been better in the first three sets, he says as much to satisfy Kantoku, but the words are hollow. He is distracted by the hope of finding Shishido now. He drops his racket in his bag and runs up the bleachers, two steps at a time. He rushes by Kabaji, by Hiyoshi, by the whole team.
Ohtori pants, his heart still pounding from the game. A couple of Hyoutei pre-regulars come up and congratulate him, slapping him on the shoulder. “Good game!” Ohtori knows it’s rude to push them away, but he really doesn’t care.
Shishido ought to be here, here at the end of the courts in this crowd. Ohtori squeezes through Rikkai cheerleaders and a few student reporters, diligently scribbling notes for their school newspapers. Each voice, each movement and he turns to check to see if Shishido is there.
He can’t find him.
A girl giggles beside him, walking by. A couple freshmen, wide-eyed and short look up and whisper, “What a serve!” A reporter from a tennis magazine taps his shoulder, “Could I ask a couple questions, Ohtori-kun?”
“No,” he snaps. Shishido-san, why did you disappear again?
Students gather under the trees in the small park, cans of cold tea and Ponta, water and cider in their hands. Ohtori steps over a sleeping player in a Seigaku jersey, careful not to trip.
And then he hears a familiar voice close-by.
He starts to smile. “Shi…” his words falter as he sees Shishido walking past. There is a girl beside him, smiling and laughing and saying “Ryou” as though she knows him all too well. Shishido smiles and speaks and Ohtori can’t hear a word either Shishido or the girl are saying to each other because something inside has shattered and the grating echo plays time and again in his ears.
Ohtori sinks to his knees, curling up in the dark shade of a tree. He stays there until the last players have left the courts and the matches finish for the day. Someone toes his back. Hiyoshi’s voice says, “Get up, Ohtori. We have to catch the van back to school.”
Ohtori doesn’t remember how he gets home, all he remembers is how his pillow clings to his face, damp with tears, that name on his lips and that betrayal burned into his mind.
Author: Ociwen
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: Konomi owns all.
Summary: In which time passes and people change and drift, but there is always tennis. Ohtori/Shishido
Atobe-san used to turn his nose up at most street tennis courts. “It’s for the plebeians,” he would say. “I have my own private courts at home, and we have courts at my family’s gym, too.” However, he would drag the regulars to the street tennis courts sometimes to bother Seigaku or to watch and see if any other teams would show up and play a friendly game. It was a good way to gather data, Ohtori agreed, but it was even more fun to simply play a game instead.
One look from Shishido and Ohtori starts to pull his racket out from his tennis bag. It hums in his hand. His body hums with anticipation of playing Shishido-san again, of seeing Shishido-san again. It’s been nearly two months of angsting and waiting and Ohtori can’t stop smiling.
Shishido says, “Stop grinning. Those people over there will think you’re mad,” but he smiles too as he spins his racket on the tip of his finger. “I haven’t played a decent game in a while,” he adds.
“Why not?” Ohtori asks. Shishido spins his racket on the ground and Ohtori calls, “Rough- I thought the high school tennis team was brilliant!”
“The juniors and seniors, maybe,” Shishido grumbles. “Atobe was the only freshman who made the regulars. And Oshitari, but he’s an alternate.”
Ohtori blinks. “You’re a…ball boy?”
Shishido narrows his eyes, but his cheeks look pinker. “Shut up,” he says, but his tone isn’t very rough and the smile twitching Ohtori’s lips catches Shishido. They both start to laugh.
The day is cloudy, but the birds chirp and the wind blows warm against Ohtori’s face as he rushes across the court, straining to reach each serve, each volley, each smash Shishido sends across the net towards him. It’s friendly game, moreso even than the last just after his birthday. Ohtori finally gets what Kikumaru-san told him last summer, that it really is the most fun playing against his partner. Shishido knows where Ohtori will drive his serves, where Ohtori will volley, the direction of the ball, the speed. Shishido knows him better than Ohtori knows his own tennis.
And he knows Shishido’s, too. It hasn’t changed much in the last couple months. Shishido’s faster, maybe. His net dashes are more sudden, his serve is stronger and higher.
They have both improved, if only by a bit.
Ohtori collapses on a bench after and guzzles his water bottle. Shishido-san sits down next to him, a towel covering his head. Ohtori can hear Shishido’s panting in perfect tune with his own.
“I haven’t played that hard this season,” Shishido says. Ohtori hands Shishido his water bottle and he gulps it down with a satisfied sigh.
“Don’t the high school juniors ever play?” Ohtori asks.
Shishido shrugs. “Sometimes, but not really.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah.”
Other players fill the courts. Ohtori sits, watching them, as his breathing evens out and the sweat dribbling down his face starts to dry. He has nothing else planned this afternoon, no tennis practice, no homework, nothing. He wants to sit in this moment and just bask in the late afternoon sun with Shishido-san until he’s forced to go home.
Tennis with Shishido feels more like home in the moment.
Shishido-san doesn’t move either. He leans back on the bench and stretches his legs out, making circles with his ankles. His socks have slipped low around his ankles. Ohtori likes to watch Shishido’s legs move. One day, one day, he’ll do more than just watch them, but for now it’s enough.
“Look, isn’t that Seigaku’s Momoshiro?” Shishido asks, pointing to a boy on a tennis court with a girl. Ohtori recognizes the girl from matches with Fudomine, and the boy has Momoshiro-kun’s loud, lilting voice.
“Yeah,” Ohtori agrees.
“I’m too tired to challenge him to a game,” Shishido says.
“Is the high school buchou not making you practice hard enough?” Ohtori asks. He grins when Shishido punches him in the arm, a sloppy, light-handed punch that speaks more of affection than irritation. Ohtori’s chest swells with hope.
“Ugh, that’s not cool,” Shishido nods to Momoshiro and the girl from Fudomine, who aren’t playing tennis on the court so much as groping each other across the net. Ohtori flushes and looks away. Shishido-san just curls his lip and snorts.
“Did you know,” Shishido-san says quietly, “that Oshitari had sex over the break?”
Ohtori’s mouth hangs open. He stares at Shishido-san. “He did?”
Shishido nods. “It’s been driving Atobe insane because Oshitari won’t say with who. Atobe even called Oshitari’s cousin- the one who played for Shitenhoji in Kansai.”
“I remember. He was at the Nationals.”
“Atobe called him to ask if he knew anything but his cousin didn’t.”
“Why does Atobe-san need to know so badly?” Ohtori asks. “Isn’t it rather…” his eyes trail over to Momoshiro. He can hardly seen the girl anymore, she’s so wrapped up against him, “…ah, private?”
“Atobe likes to know everything. That, and he’s jealous,” Shishido says. He laughs. “I guess it’s just desserts for Atobe making the regular spot and Oshitari only making the alternate.”
“I guess so,” Ohtori repeats.
He thinks that maybe the feeling inside, the feeling that gnaws at his stomach as his eyes glance again and again over to Momoshiro and his girlfriend, that feels like jealousy too. Momoshiro is here with a girl he likes and he is kissing her on the courts, but Ohtori can only sit beside the person he likes.
He inches closer, subtly shifting the weight in his leg so it brushes Shishido’s thigh.
Shishido stands up and the movement is lost. He swings a racket over his shoulder. “One more game, Choutarou?”
Ohtori could never say no, even if he wanted to.
***
Hyoutei always saves their best members for the Kantou regionals and Hiyoshi continues the tradition. They play Houjou in round one, advancing 3-0. They play Yamabuki in round two, advancing 3-1.
The semifinals are against Rikkai Dai.
Ohtori is listed as singles 3. Hiyoshi says, “At least you get to play Rikkai’s Sasaki. He wasn’t a regular last year.” Ohtori glances over Hiyoshi’s shoulder to see the roster. Hiyoshi plays singles 1-
-against Kirihara.
“Che,” he whispers.
Nakamura mutters, “That’s what Hiyoshi-buchou gets for always wanting to play singles 1.” Ohtori doesn’t disagree, but when he glances across to Rikkai’s bench and sees Kirihara sitting there, a glimmer in his eyes as he licks his lips, his insides go cold at the thought of having to play him.
If they manage to make it that far.
Doubles 2, Sakai and Uehara, loses 6-0 in sixteen minutes.
Doubles 1 is a different story. Satou and Nakamura dance on the court against Rikkai’s Doubles 1 team, a junior and a senior with a killer serve and even better volley. Still, Satou manages to hit the balls deep to the baseline and shake up Rikkai’s play when it counts, each time the points tip to favour Rikkai. Nakamura backs Satou with calculated, sharp serves and rising shots. Rikkai controls the pace of the game, but it’s nowhere near as fast as doubles 2 was.
Ohtori watches the game, knowing he’ll play regardless of win or loss. Satou and Nakamura don’t have the mutual dependence he and Shishido-san had, but they’re pretty good. His eyes follow the game like a ping-pong match, back and forth, back and forth across the court. It’s dizzying and exhilarating because it’s the best tennis they’ve played yet this season.
“Game, Rikkai- 2 games 0. Switch courts!” the referee yells across the court. Ohtori takes the brief break to glance over his shoulder towards the chain link fences behind the bleachers. He’d emailed Shishido-san last week. We’re playing the Regionals next week. I’m playing singles 3. There was no reply. Shishido-san must be too busy with high school, but Ohtori wishes that maybe, maybe Shishido would have liked to have seen him play. He knows that if Shishido- when Shishido makes the high school regulars- he’ll go to each and every match he plays and cheer him on.
A sea of grey and white Hyoutei jerseys, but no sign of a blue cap.
“Damn,” he says to himself.
“Are you looking for someone, Ohtori-senpai?” Yamamoto asks him.
Ohtori shakes his head and mutters “It’s nothing.”
“Game, Hyoutei- 5 games 4. Switch courts!”
A group of Fudomine’s players, including that girl who was kissing Momoshiro at the street tennis courts, has weedled their way into the Hyoutei bleachers to watch the game. Ohtori watches them for a long while, especially when the one listening to an MP3 player, this year’s captain, spends more time watching Kirihara benchcoach than he does to the doubles game.
Ohtori recognizes him as Kamio from the Senbatsu camp. If Fudomine wins their semifinals against Seigaku tomorrow, maybe he and Kirihara will get to play that match they want so badly. And maybe then Hiyoshi won’t need to play singles 1 today at all.
But there is still no blue cap.
Three reporters have gathered at the end of the court and camera flash as bright as the sun. Scouts patrol the bleachers, watching impassively. Hiyoshi sits up straight and barks orders during the breaks in the games. Ohtori knows that Hiyoshi desperately wants to be noticed by them, but so far it doesn’t look like any of them have paid him the attention he craves.
Rikkai manages to win, 7-5. At least the margin for this game isn’t as wide. Ohtori can’t see Kantoku’s face from where he sits, but he doubts Sakaki-sensei is pleased.
Ohtori walks down the steep stairs of the bleachers. His palms are sweaty and the sun beats down hot on his back. The grip tape of his racket handle feels slippery as he pulls his racket out from his tennis bag.
The cheers of “Hyoutei! Hyoutei!” behind him don’t help.
On the court, he is completely alone.
The spaces between the lines have never looked so wide before. The net has never loomed so large. Rikkai has the first serve. He crouches low and sways softly, side to side, the anticipation of the whizzing blur of the tennis ball swelling inside.
Rikkai’s Sasaki is tall and long-limbed like him and he returns every volley, every smash, every ball Ohtori hits. It’s frustrating and the feeling wells up inside, threatening to burst because Rikkai is so infuriatingly brilliant. He hits to the baseline, he smashes to the net, he serves mid-court, back, front, it doesn’t matter- Sasaki returns them.
And gains 15, 30, 40- game.
Two games down, then three. Nothing works. His scud serve nets him a couple points, but Sasaki picks it up after, jumping up front to meet the serve with a fast rising shot that whizzes by Ohtori’s ear and hits the baseline, in by just a few centimeters.
I can’t lose, he thinks. They can’t take the set three games to none.
They switch courts. Ohtori stands, waiting for Sasaki to take his place on the court for Hyoutei’s serve. He closes his eyes briefly, willing himself to concentrate, to relax, to win.
The ball is heavy in his left hand. Ohtori leans forward and opens his eyes. He glances towards the crowd, a mass of empty faces-
And then his eyes widen when he sees a blue cap. He shakes his head, thinking, No, I’m imagining things, but he isn’t because Shishido-san is standing behind the chain link fence, a smile crooked on his lips and a nod to his head. Their eyes meet and Ohtori feels a shiver run down his spine.
I will take this game, Shishido-san, he vows and throws the ball up above his head.
Hyoutei erupts in cheers when the referee calls, “Fifteen-love.” Ohtori stands, as shocked as his opponent. Something courses through his body, through his arms as he throws the ball up again to serve. It’s the same sort of raw power he’s only felt in a handful of other matches, including the Nationals. He wants this win now. He wants to show Shishido he can do it.
“Ik- kyu- nyu-” he pushes his racket through the air and finishes, “Kon!”
The ball hits the court, again, with the same low popping noise. Sasaki scrambles, but he’s too slow.
“Thirty-love.”
Ohtori takes his service game, growing more confident in himself with each hit, with each rise of his eyes to see that Shishido-san is there, watching him with a faint smile, appraising, cheering. The Hyoutei cheers are nothing; they are silent in his ears compared with Shishido just being here to see.
Rikkai bounces back during their service game for a 4-1 lead, but Ohtori takes the match. After, he walks off the court, his body humming with victory. Sakaki-sensei has cold words, asking Ohtori is he was pleased with his play. Ohtori knows it could have been better in the first three sets, he says as much to satisfy Kantoku, but the words are hollow. He is distracted by the hope of finding Shishido now. He drops his racket in his bag and runs up the bleachers, two steps at a time. He rushes by Kabaji, by Hiyoshi, by the whole team.
Ohtori pants, his heart still pounding from the game. A couple of Hyoutei pre-regulars come up and congratulate him, slapping him on the shoulder. “Good game!” Ohtori knows it’s rude to push them away, but he really doesn’t care.
Shishido ought to be here, here at the end of the courts in this crowd. Ohtori squeezes through Rikkai cheerleaders and a few student reporters, diligently scribbling notes for their school newspapers. Each voice, each movement and he turns to check to see if Shishido is there.
He can’t find him.
A girl giggles beside him, walking by. A couple freshmen, wide-eyed and short look up and whisper, “What a serve!” A reporter from a tennis magazine taps his shoulder, “Could I ask a couple questions, Ohtori-kun?”
“No,” he snaps. Shishido-san, why did you disappear again?
Students gather under the trees in the small park, cans of cold tea and Ponta, water and cider in their hands. Ohtori steps over a sleeping player in a Seigaku jersey, careful not to trip.
And then he hears a familiar voice close-by.
He starts to smile. “Shi…” his words falter as he sees Shishido walking past. There is a girl beside him, smiling and laughing and saying “Ryou” as though she knows him all too well. Shishido smiles and speaks and Ohtori can’t hear a word either Shishido or the girl are saying to each other because something inside has shattered and the grating echo plays time and again in his ears.
Ohtori sinks to his knees, curling up in the dark shade of a tree. He stays there until the last players have left the courts and the matches finish for the day. Someone toes his back. Hiyoshi’s voice says, “Get up, Ohtori. We have to catch the van back to school.”
Ohtori doesn’t remember how he gets home, all he remembers is how his pillow clings to his face, damp with tears, that name on his lips and that betrayal burned into his mind.