FIC: Quicken to Silver, Ohtori/Shishido, NC17 (37/41)
Title: Quicken to Silver (37/41)
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
Even though Kenya and Zaizen seem to know something about what they’ve just seen, the happy settle in Ohtori’s belly diverts most of his worried thoughts away. Sure, Zaizen keeps looking over his shoulder at Ohtori as if he has two heads, but with Shishido-san at his side, fingers accidentally brushing as they walk back out to the courts, Ohtori just sighs with contentment.
His limbs are getting sluggish from all the matches of the day. Luckily, only one remains. The mid-afternoon sun is hotter than ever and a blast of heat sears his skin as Kenya pushes open the door to outside. The cicadas hum so loudly that Ohtori can barely hear what Shishido says to him.
“What?” he asks.
Shishido nods his head to the courts on their right. Their own group, along with Atobe’s, are gathering by the fence gates. Ohtori’s insides twist a bit: Atobe stands apart from the rest of his group, near the back, even past Tezuka, who listens to something that Higa’s Kite is telling him. At the front of the group is Marui, racket slung over his shoulder and gum bubble hanging off his mouth.
“This tensai,” he announces, “will win his games straight.”
For once, though, Jiroh isn’t bouncing off Marui’s arm. Ohtori’s head hangs a little lower when he thinks of how he argued with Marui at lunch, and how last night, his lip curled up, almost in a sneer when Ohtori confessed the truth about Atobe.
It’s my fault, Ohtori thinks. His head hangs lower and he balls his fist, wishing that he’d kept his mouth shut last night. Everyone would have been better off if Jiroh never found out. Idiot!
Something elbows him in the side. Shishido squints up at Ohtori and adjusts the cap on his head lower down. “Don’t look so glum,” Shishido says. “It’s just one last game.” Shishido fans his neck with the collar of his jersey, giving Ohtori a lop-sided smile.
Ohtori tries to return his smile, but his own comes off more as a grimace. Focus on me, not Atobe, he tells himself. Focus on the game and the Senbatsu right now.
The group three coach tacks up the last game schedule to the chain link fence. Like always, Ohtori hangs back until some of the players start to warm up on the courts inside and chose net sides. The glare of the sun is everywhere; it’s hard to see with the light so bright, so hot, causing a mirage of heat waves over the clay surfaces. The air is still and heavy with smog.
Faint beginnings of black clouds sit over the Tokyo skyline on the horizon though. They’re far enough away that Ohtori isn’t worried about a storm interrupting his game, unless he plays someone like Kaidoh.
Thankfully, Kaidoh’s on his team. Ohtori doesn’t mind drawn-out matches, just not today. He pulls at his jersey, sticking to his back with sweat again, and starts to walk up to the list.
A boy steps in front of him. He’s about Shishido’s height, but his hair is shorter and he holds his racket in his left hand. Ohtori recognizes him as Seigaku’s Fuji’s brother.
“Are you Ohtori?” he asks.
Ohtori nods. Shishido has wandered off to the courts already with Seigaku’s Momoshiro, who says in a loud voice, “Let’s have a good game, but I’m gonna win. I’m gonna win!”
“Are you…playing me?” Ohtori asks. He can’t remember the boy’s name, and judging from the scowl on his face, asking if he’s Fuji’s brother is probably not a good idea. Ohtori leans to the side, hoping the boy will turn around so he can either see the boy’s jersey, or the list behind him.
“Yuuta-kun,” a voice called out. The boy- Yuuta sounds right, Ohtori thinks- turns as Mizuki walks up to him and strokes his shoulder. Ohtori blinks, but Mizuki doesn’t seem to notice anyone but Yuuta, not even Inui, who stands nearby and must be playing Mizuki this round.
“Yuuta-kun,” Mizuki says, “where did you put my bag?” He makes an odd noise, almost like a giggle, only a lot stranger. Up close, Ohtori can see the fat zinc stripes painted under Mizuki’s eyes and just how pale his is in comparison to Yuuta’s tanned arms.
“Your purse?” Yuuta asks. He scratches his head.
Mizuki nfus again and twists a strand of hair around his finger. “Yes, my bag,” he says, his voice hardening a bit. “I need my data books.” Mizuki half-glances over his shoulder and narrows his eyes at Inui. Inui scribbles something down in his own notebook.
“Its right here, Mizuki-san,” Yuuta says as he hands Mizuki the bag he was carrying in his right hand. Mizuki snatches it away, then his lips curl at Yuuta. “Good luck,” Yuuta tells him.
“Data doesn’t need luck.” Mizuki walks away, clutching his bag to his chest.
Yuuta frowns and he must remember that Ohtori has been standing here the whole time. A scout walks between the two of them, then out towards the one court where Atobe is about to play, tall and proud and standing across the net from a crouched Marui.
“He…uh, has a purse,” Yuuta says.
Ohtori nods. He isn’t exactly sure what else to do, but he’s glad he never attended a Catholic school if guys attending it carry white leather bags from Coach around. Ohtori’s sister has the same purse.
“The only free court is that one,” Yuuta says. He points to the very far court. There, he holds up his racket to pick sides.
“It doesn’t matter,” Ohtori says. Of course, the last court available is the one that has no shade whatsoever. The sun shines straight down onto them, not a tree nearby. Despite the humidity, Ohtori’s mouth feels dry as dust. He’ll play first, then break for a drink. They’ve wasted enough time already with Mizuki and his purse. Ohtori can hear the shouts of scores announced between the other players, although he can’t tell if any are in Shishido’s favour. Ohtori shields his eyes with his hand to see, but he can only see a field of rippling green ground.
“I’ll serve,” Yuuta says.
Ohtori has played enough lefties this tournament that he’s comfortable enough returning the serves with good accuracy. Niou, Saeki, even having practiced with Mukahi back at Hyoutei…Ohtori can easy run to the ball and start a volley. But Yuuta…
He’s good. Better than Saeki, definitely. His serve is strong, and angled. Ohtori dashes for it, then stumbles when he realizes the ball isn’t straight, it’s going further left. He lunges and catches it with the tip of his racket. A weak return and a weak start to his own game.
In the back of his mind, he can almost hear the scratching of pens on the scouts’ notebooks louder than the buzzing insects around them and the pong of balls over the courts.
Ohtori has never played Fuji Shuusuuke, but he’s seen Fuji play and he’s a genius. Or, his moves are genius. He’s brilliant at technique, but his brother…Yuuta isn’t natural at tennis like that. His motions are forced, sometimes, and deliberate the rest. He strains to make Ohtori’s volleys, but he has a strong backhand and sends balls flying to Ohtori’s blind spot, again and again.
Ohtori runs. He dives, he ducks down and lobs when he has to, volleys when he can. Yuuta plays at the baseline, aggressively attacking Ohtori’s mid-court when he steps back, thinking Oh, Yuuta won’t hit to the middle of the court because he’s setting up a rally with that forehand.
No. It’s different. Yuuta isn’t tricky, but he isn’t letting up on his defense. Ohtori lobs again, hoping to set up a smash, but Yuuta bends down and uses a drop shot instead, ruining his chances.
Yuuta takes the first game. It feels like forever has passed in this heat, but the clock says differently. Cicadas murmur around the perimeter of the court, singing into the glaring heat of summer.
Sweat drips down Ohtori’s face and pools in his eyes. He wipes his face with the hem of his jersey. His shorts stick to his thighs. The heat is uncomfortable to play in and he’s desperate for a drink as they change courts. He holds his hand up and Yuuta nods, taking a drink from a water bottle himself.
Ohtori guzzles half his Gatorade. He shoves it back in his hot tennisbag, the lesser evil than leaving it out in the steaming sun.
He can pick up the game and change the pace entirely with just his serve. But his serve alone won’t be enough to impress the judges, not when they have Atobe’s Tannhauser and Kirihara’s Knuckle Serve both on the same courts at once. Ohtori sighs as he bounces the ball. Still, he can give it his all, for the game, for fun…
Across and over three courts, Shishido plays Momoshiro. Ohtori can see Shishido’s mouth moving, his teeth clenched and his calves straining as he returns a jack knife with a rising shot. Shishido is dripping with sweat and grunting so loud he can be heard across the court.
Shishido made the same noises last night, writhing under Ohtori’s body, legs tight around Ohtori’s waist. He’d moaned, “Choutarou…” and grunted when Ohtori kissed his chest, his navel, curled his tongue around Shishido’s hot, hard cock, too…
A tiny shudder runs through Ohtori’s body, sending warm and pleasant tingles to his toes, the tips of his fingers and his cock. He nods sharply. He can do this. Tennis right now. He tosses the ball up in the air, leans back and down and slams his body and soul into the serve.
The ball flashes across the court, so fast that Yuuta is left bent at the knees at the baseline, his hair fluttering up. The ball bounces on the ground softly, once, twice, then he reacts.
Yuuta stands up straight and raises an eyebrow. He looks down at the ball, toeing it with his sneaker. “Nice shot.”
It’s the middle of a game. Ohtori doesn’t need to be polite. He bites back a thanks to instead focus on his next shot. He could take the game with no-touch aces.
But, second serve, Yuuta knows what to do. Ohtori hasn’t even had time to adjust his stance after smashing his arm down to serve when Yuuta’s running to the net. He can’t hit the ball yet, there’s no way because it’s too high above his head and only someone Ohtori’s height could reach it before mid-court, but no, Yuuta jumps up, swings his racket back and-
Ohtori’s feet move before his mind. He rushes for the ball, to return Yuuta’s backhand. His lungs burn and his calves pulse, one throb of pain as he pushes himself into a shot. Ohtori can only manage to get a bit of spin on the ball and hope for the best.
Yuuta’s one step ahead. Before Ohtori can recover, the ball slams into his blind spot, right at his side.
15-15.
Ohtori clenches his fist. Damn.
Third serve will be his point, Ohtori vows it. His eyes shift to Shishido’s court, finding that blue cap, then he glances down at the tennis ball in his hand. He needs the support of Shishido to back his game up, he knows it. Ohtori plays like a doubles player. He lurks on the baseline, happy to volley and let Shishido do the network. It’s hard on his own. The court feels endless, stretching out forever in the melting heat.
He wipes his brow. I’ll give it my all.
Ik-kyu-
Ohtori throws the ball.
Nyu…
He leans back.
KON!
He clenches his teeth and plows the shot to the opposite baseline. Yuuta’s there, already, of course, but with only one hand, his backhand side, it’s weak. His racket flies out of his hand and the ball the other direction.
Ohtori manages to take the game, bringing them to a tie of 1-1. It feels like it will be a long fight. A doubles game switches courts further down. Grunts from another match sound in the air, which hums with insects and the rush of traffic, just over the grassy knoll behind the track. Ohtori’s hair crawls with sweat and he pauses for a moment to grab another drink.
He digs his feet into the court; he’s ready for Yuuta’s next serve.
Yuuta serves. Ohtori sprints. Yuuta dashes and Ohtori makes a shot. Back and forth, back and forth until Yuuta attacks and as much as he tries, Ohtori is never quite prepared. He’s at the baseline when he should be at the net. He’s running around centre-court, flapping his long arms and legs, which never seem to quite move fast enough to catch all the shots he should. The heat makes him sluggish. The heat makes his sneakers grind too hard into the clay. The heat makes the ball reflect off the ground, the distortion making things worse.
Yuuta reveals in it. He has his brother’s sharp eyes and when Ohtori fumbles, he swoops in, taking the next two games.
3-1.
Switch courts.
One doubles match has finished on the other side of the courts. Kite and Tachibana vs Tezuka and the Rikkai senior. A strange match-up, but it looks like Kite-Tachibana team won, judging from the smirk on Kite’s face. One of the kitchen helpers- Tachibana’s sister, sits with them, wedged between her brother and Tezuka. Ohtori looks further on. Momoshiro must have noticed her too because he messes up what should have been a point against Shishido-san.
Ohtori can’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction when Shishido slams a ball into Momoshiro’s baseline and takes a game. He’s biased for his senpai, his…boyfriend, whatever Shishido is to him and he doesn’t care.
Do your best, Shishido-san!
A ball rolls by Ohtori’s feet. He leans down to pick it up, looking over to the game beside him, where Atobe slams a ball across the net, eyes blazing and alive. The ball didn’t come from that court…
Ohtori looks up.
Yuuta smirks at him from his own baseline, where he shrugs his shoulders down and joggles his racket in his hand. “You just missed that ball,” he says.
Ohtori could kick himself. Stupid! Head out of the clouds, idiot, and focus!
He was distracted for a moment and now he can’t catch up. Ohtori tries to set up a volley, goading Yuuta into stepping back in his court, but then Yuuta will twist his arm and hit a lob at the net, so close Ohtori will think it’ll foul, only it will barely graze the net and go in and he’s diving for the balls, he is, but even with his height and long legs, he misses shots. Or the ball will seem to twist its spin around and bounce too high when Ohtori is low and it’s a mess.
His knees are skinned. Blood and sweat ooze everywhere. The air is so muggy and thick that Ohtori can never seem to get a lungful when he’s playing. He pants hard, and his chest pounds and he’s hot and sticky and losing, 4-1 now.
His game, his serve, Yuuta brings it out.
Ohtori has the game in his bag, 40-15 now because Yuuta’s movements are slowing too. Only two games are left on the courts, theirs and the one adjacent. All the scouts have crowded closer to the other, but Ohtori’s nerves are drawn tight. He is hyper-aware of the extra eyes they could have on them, and Yuuta is too. He follows-through more, he tries to smash and punt as if to show off his skills. All Ohtori has is his serve. He tries to give his all, really, but his arm won’t swing back as far and his body…it just gets harder and harder to force the coordination into his limbs.
He’s at the net, he doesn’t like it, but Yuuta poached and damned if Ohtori will let the game go. He has no choice but to smash, so he launches himself off one foot, hoping he can get enough power into the shot and enough of an arc that Yuuta can’t return in.
This has never been his forte.
But he tries anyway, especially when he hears the shout of “Go Choutarou!” from Shishido-san.
Heart lighter, Ohtori smashes.
Yuuta twists. He jerks his head, he jerks his arm and he spins. It’s a strange shot, one that makes Ohtori gape as Yuuta flourishes, his arm twisted at the shoulder and his racket up in the air, but the ball arcing behind Ohtori’s head, to drop in the back of his court.
“What- what was that?” he sputters.
Yuuta stands up straight and rolls his shoulder around a bit. “My new Twist Spin Shot.”
Mizuki, sitting on a fold-away chair beside Yuuta’s tennisbag, purse tucked behind his feet, starts to chuckle to himself. Yuuta looks back at Mizuki, his eyes big and seeking acknowledgment when he says, “Did you see that, Mizuki-san? I did it!”
Ohtori would have probably lost the game regardless. Two more Twist Spin Shots and a lob and Yuuta takes another game. Score, 5-1.
As they change courts, Yuuta shouts, “Too bad you weren’t a southpaw! My shot would have worked even better.” He grins.
Ohtori frowns. It could be worse, the scouts could be paying more attention to him right now, instead of focusing their scribbling and hushed whispers to each other on Atobe’s game. Ohtori grips his racket and nods to himself. One more game, then he’s done for the camp.
He thinks about what Yukimura had asked him earlier: would he play after high school? Ohtori never thought that far ahead before, but now, he’s fairly certain of the answer. He loves playing the game, but…
“Here.”
Ohtori blinks. He’s on the sideline and Shishido-san is right in front of him, holding a blue towel. Shishido cocks his head to the side and pushes the towel into Ohtori’s hands. “You know these games don’t count for what really matters,” Shishido mutters. Then, louder, he says “I know you’re playing a good game, Choutarou. Keep up the hard work.”
By the time Ohtori has finished wiping the sweat from his face and neck and tossed the towel aside, Shishido leans against the fence, off to the side of his baseline, flashing Ohtori a cheeky grin and a thumbs up. Shishido looks sexy, with his messed up hair sticking out from his cap, his legs in front of himself and his neck sporting a fading bruise barely above his collar. His uniform is sweaty, clinging to his body and riding up on his stomach when he stretches. In that moment, and Ohtori drinks in the sight for a second longer, then he’s revived and ready to play.
Ohtori thinks, Thank you, Shishido-san.
It’s Yuuta’s serve. It could be the last game. Ohtori takes a deep breath and turns away from Shishido to focus only on the game. His skin is damp, his lungs ache and his calves, too. He’s hot, he’s extremely uncomfortable and sweat seeps into every crevice of his body, making his skin slick and slimy and hotter than ever.
The scouts don’t watch his game, but Shishido does.
Yuuta serves. Ohtori dashes, two steps forward, then swings back and launches a volley to the baseline. Yuuta runs for it, grunting through his stroke. Ohtori can see the spin gather on the ball before Yuuta whips it back, almost like a snake, but it goes deeper into his court.
His sort of balls. His sort of playing area. Yuuta will expect him to start a rally, Ohtori isn’t stupid, he can see the slight twist of a smile on Yuuta’s face. Yuuta thinks he has this game in the bag, too.
Ohtori pushes his body to move. He pushes himself to react quicker than Yuuta and change the pace.
He drags his arm back, forcing his muscles to work, then he stops.
The ball falls nicely on the other side of the net. Drop shot, completely unexpected.
15-0 Ohtori.
He isn’t a tricky player, but he’s not a push-over either. The sound of Shishido-san saying “Nice play” behind his back makes Ohtori pump his fist, just a little.
The second serve Yuuta anticipates something will happen. Ohtori starts another rally and Yuuta lets him, volleying a couple shots back and forth between them. The bright sun flickers for a moment or two, clouds passing over them and the air stilling even more, if possible. The cicadas are on fire, droning louder than the smashes and grunts and occasional frustrated screams from Atobe’s game, next net over, or the swoosh of the volleys on Ohtori’s own court. But Ohtori doesn’t drop shot, not when Yuuta keeps close to the middle of his court, leaning onto the balls of his sneakers and ready to rush for net play.
Instead, Ohtori slugs the ball back to the baseline. Yuuta runs, but he doesn’t have Ohtori’s height and legs. Only Kabaji could have returned a shot like that. Maybe Oshitari-senpai, if he was trying.
30-0 Ohtori.
Two points might be his, but when Yuuta grinds his teeth and slams his next serve deep into Ohtori’s court, Ohtori knows he’s not going to fall for a third miss. Ohtori uses a backhand, thinking that he can lob something and keep his momentum, but the ball is so strong from the kick serve, that his wrist gives way. Ohtori clenches his jaw. No!
His wrist wavers. The ball pushes back, and his body jerks with it. His left hand moves to steady his racket, two-handed return, but then the ball seems to increase its strength, flies backward, tips his racket and that launches off, too.
The ball hits the fence.
Ohtori’s racket hits the ground.
Yuuta smiles as Mizuki says something to him. A nfu echoes over the court and grates Ohtori’s ears. He thinks he might hear Shishido saying, “Don’t mind”, but he isn’t sure. The heat makes his head foggy, like the heavy haze over the city.
Yuuta’s next serve is a fluke. He tosses the ball and kicks himself into another leftie kick serve. It should be a piece of cake, with the stagnant air, but as soon as the ball hits his racket, a gush of wind rushes over them. Ohtori’s wet hair ripples and it feels lovely, even as hot as the wind is, just to feel the air pick up.
The ball loses trajectory and spin.
Ohtori volleys, Yuuta returns, but the tone he set up slackens. It shows in the slump of his shoulders, so Ohtori hits to the far baseline, sending the ball straight past Yuuta’s right side blind spot.
40-15 Ohtori.
He can take this game.
The next ball Yuuta gives him isn’t a kick serve at all, just an easy shot. He’s tired, Ohtori’s tired. When will the game be finished? Yuuta runs to mid-court, like always, leaning low to return the ball. Ohtori lobs, but the wind changes direction, and this time, his ball loses momentum as it barrels through the air and catches the wind. Ohtori can only watch his ball arc down towards his side of the net. His hand loosens its sweaty grip on his racket. It’s a lost cause.
His ball hits the net post with a shrill ping. Ohtori closes his eyes, waiting to hear the ref call his foul, when instead he hears:
“Game, Ohtori. 2-5.”
He blinks.
Sure enough, the ball has rolled onto Yuuta’s side. Yuuta picks it up and tosses it over to Ohtori, who catches it with his hand against his stomach. “That was a cool move,” he says.
“What- what do you mean?” Ohtori asks. He looks at the ball in his hand. It’s warm from play and the rubber scent strong.
“Doesn’t Rikkai’s Marui use that move?” Yuuta asks.
Ohtori looks up at him. He hadn’t meant to hit the net post at all. It was pure chance. Still, the win settles in his mind, giving him the confidence and motivation to drag his feet to change to the other court and start his serve.
The wind is stronger now, and not in the direction of Ohtori’s balls. The cicadas break up their humming, until finally they stop. The smell of approaching rain is stronger than ever now, too. Ohtori wipes sweat from his brow with the ball, the only thing he has on him that isn’t already drenched with sweat. His eyes sting. Shishido watches from the other court.
Mizuki is behind him. Ohtori can hear the sound of a pen clicking, irritating in its regularity. Mizuki must be a data player too. Ohtori shrugs it off as best he can, and throws his soul into the serve.
But the wind slows it down. Turns his scud serve into nothing special. Ohtori groans: of all the times for it to be windy, why does it have to be this game?
Yuuta uses his twist spin shot. No matter how quick Ohtori is, or how much he tries to use two-handed shots to try to counter the force, Yuuta’s balls slam into the ground in front of him and fly up over his head.
Ohtori reaches- he does, he does, again and again and he’s tall and his arms and legs are long, but the weight of his muscles and the thickness of the air, the heat and the length of time they’ve been playing, it all adds up.
Ohtori stumbles. His arms feel eternally heavy. He just can’t keep it up.
It’s not a surprise when he hears the final score.
He’s not spoil-sport. He shuffles to the net and shakes Yuuta’s sweaty hand, right as the first drops of rain wash over his skin.
“Good game,” he says.
“You weren’t bad,” Yuuta tells him. His eyes flick over Ohtori’s shoulder, then back to Ohtori. “I wanted to see what your serve was like for a while. Not indestructible like Mizuki-san thought.” Yuuta rubs his shoulder and rolls his head a bit.
Ohtori says nothing. There are more important things. Like Shishido-san, who cups his hand over his eyes to shield the sprinkling rain off his face instead of turning his cap around. Ohtori nods to Yuuta before running back to Shishido.
“You lasted a while,” Shishido says. He smiles at Ohtori and Ohtori can feel his bones melting and puddling with the water at his feet.
“Really?”
Shishido nods. “You must’ve played at least an hour, Choutarou.”
Ohtori grins. He looks at Shishido for the longest while, his heart in his throat and unable to say anything because there’s nothing to say, not so long as Shishido is proud of him. And he must be, smiling and glancing away, eyes grazing up to Ohtori’s mouth, then down to his hands again, which toss his racket into his tennisbag.
Ohtori wishes they weren’t on the tennis courts right now. It doesn’t matter that he just lost his game, not with Shishido here. He could kiss Shishido on that mouth, glistening with the first drops of rain, still a bit puffy from their earlier interlude.
Instead of being sorta lame and maybe suggesting, Oh, Shishido-san, I’m kinda hungry, wanna go back inside? Ohtori’s thoughts are interrupted when a random ball flashes between him and Shishido and slams into the fence. The ball spins to a stop, then sits wedged in the chain link.
Ohtori whips his head around. Sweat and rain fly off the ends of his hair.
He didn’t pay attention before, but now he can see what exactly the scouts are watching. If Ohtori had known before, he might have joined them, but with a cringe and inward shame.
On the court beside where he just played, Atobe and Rikkai’s Marui are duking it out.
Quickly, Ohtori shoves his racket and water bottle and sopping-wet sweat towel in his tennisbag and then goes over to join the crowds around the court. Shishido stands on his toes, constantly craning his head this way and that to try to get the best view, but Ohtori can see over most of his teammates’ and the scouts’ heads. Atobe is on the court closest to this side and Marui at the far baseline.
As umbrellas are popped out, seemingly from nowhere, and hands and hats cover eyes, the rain comes down harder, hard enough that Atobe sends ricocheting pellets back from his sneakers as he runs and dives for a net ball of Marui’s, screaming frustration and determination into the rush of rain.
Ohtori doesn’t have an umbrella to hide under. He doesn’t even remember packing one, but he can’t take his eyes off the game anyway. The warm rain cools the air a little, but even just standing and taking a break after playing himself helps. His insides shrivel when he hears the score announced.
“Game, Marui, 6-6.”
It’s all my fault, he thinks. When Atobe picks himself up off the ground, his legs covered in clay mud that sluices down his legs, Ohtori winces. Atobe’s eyes are huge and white and on fire. He holds his racket so tight, but Ohtori isn’t sure whether it’s to keep the rain from making it slip, or because he’s clenching his jaw, too.
“You’ll lose, Bubbleboy,” Atobe announces as they switch courts.
Marui laughs and pops a bubble. He gives Atobe a waggle of his eyebrows and says, “Oh really?”
The Rikkai side has its numbers, although it’s not a battle between the schools. Ohtori can see Sanada and Yukimura behind the fence, Sanada rolling his eyes and Yukimura smirking before he leans over to say something to Yanagi, who walks up to join them. Kirihara flings his hands up in the air and gives Marui a double high-five on the court.
“Kick his Hyoutei ass, senpai!” he yells.
Marui gives him a thumbs up. “Will do,” he says. He pops another bubble. “Dry ball!” he shouts and someone rushes out from the crowd to pass him one. Ohtori thinks it looks like Kamio, but the boy is so speedy, he can’t tell for sure, not with the water falling harder and harder, obscuring features and faces. The net wavers in the wind.
And the first flash if lightning cracks through the sky overhead.
How Atobe hasn’t won already stumps Ohtori. Atobe-senpai is one of thebest players and even if he lost to Hiyoshi, he should be able to win against someone like Marui. Marui serves and volleys, like Ohtori, only he uses trick play. But Atobe has his insight. He should be winning. He should have won ages ago. Ohtori shakes his head.
Atobe-senpai, what’s going on?
It’s Ohtori’s fault and he knows it. Atobe messed up all his Senbatsu rounds because Ohtori told Jiroh and because Ohtori found the palm pilot and because it’s just all his fault.
Ohtori crosses his fingers. “Go, Atobe-senpai!” he whispers. “You have to win!”
Shishido pokes him. Ohtori looks down, right as Marui warms the ball up by bouncing it over and over and over. “What did you say?” Shishido asks. Rain runs down his face, his chin and covers his words up.
Ohtori shakes his head. He’s told Shishido-san enough already.
When Ohtori looks back at the game, he can see a few guys leaving, running back into the sports complex buildings under their tennisbags. One of them, Ohtori sees, is Sengoku, who runs in the direction of one of the kitchen girls waving out at them.
Back towards the court, though, Jiroh stands. He’s so tall now that even behind rows of people, he has to be able to see what’s going on. He has to be able to see Atobe pacing and glaring and shouting at Marui to hurry the hell up and serve the ball! He has to be able to see Marui hesitating and panting and bouncing the ball way too long, way too high.
The heat and the rain melt everything, but not the steely look in Jiroh’s face. The same look that Atobe has right now, too.
Ohtori crosses his left hand fingers too.
“How did Atobe-senpai not win by now?” he asks. Only when Shishido starts to talk, does Ohtori realize he’s spoken out loud.
“Saa,” Shishido says, “he slammed balls into that Marui’s court, but they were fouls. I think.”
Beside Shishido, Hiyoshi narrows his eyes. “He was supposed to play doubles against Marui and Oshitari-senpai’s cousin.” Marui’s serve arcs high in Hiyoshi’s dark eyes before it falls back down towards Atobe. Atobe runs, growling louder than the fresh rumbles of thunder and swings his racket back. Water flies everywhere and he screams into his shot, his feet sliding through the mud.
But Atobe doesn’t stumble. It’s Marui who messes up a return, the rain growing so heavy and so hard that he holds his hand up. After catching his breath for a moment, he gasps, “This tensai requests a break.”
“No!” Atobe snaps. “We finish it now unless you want to concede!”
The referee looks between the two of them, mouth open and fingers on his whistle before he shakes his head and motions for Atobe to serve.
Marui spits out his gum. He’s at the net, his eyes narrowed into slits: against the rain, against Atobe.
Atobe doesn’t hesitate at all. His Tannhauser serve, Ohtori thinks, looks top form. Gone is his fumbling and stupid mistakes that caused him to lose against Hiyoshi. Gone are his glazed, drunken eyes and slurred words from last night. Gone is anything but his self-confidence. He’s standing tall and proud in the pouring rain. His once-pristine designer sneakers are stained dark with mud. His hair is plastered to his head. Atobe looks a bit like a drowned rat, but he has poise and power practically radiating from his core when he looks Marui straight in the eye and says
“Be awed by this.”
If Ohtori thought that he put his heart and soul into every serve, then nothing he’s ever done compares to how Atobe shouts something into the pouring rain and reams the ball with his body. It’s faster than a laser beam and deadly accurate at the baseline, despite the rain. Not even so much as a splash flies up when the ball creams into the court, then rolls away gently.
2-0.
Marui has barely moved from the net. He stumbles forward onto his toes. Then, he motions for another ball and Kenya is the one to hand one over. Kenya holds his umbrella high, but his sigh is heard across the court and the roll of his eyes looks a lot like Oshitari-senpai’s. It must be a family trait.
Atobe wipes the rain from his mouth and flings his hair back. He’s breathing hard, but nowhere near the gasping and panting that Marui makes. He serves, his motions sluggish and impaired by the rain. The scouts have stopped taking notes entirely and several leave the court when it becomes clear this game is about a lot more than showing off tennis skills. Atobe uses a jack knife to counter Marui’s serve, even though Ohtori knows he doesn’t need to. The ball is slow and weak and wet, although it has a bit of spin left on it. Rikkai has started to cheer for Marui, clapping and shouting that he’s a lazyass, that he can do better.
Ohtori stays quiet. He cheers for Atobe inside. Shishido, though, just snorts and raises an eyebrow as Atobe smashes the ball down, right between Marui’s legs.
3-0.
Atobe serves. He pours himself into his shots. He glowers at Marui and shouts, “Is that all you have?” He takes three more points and his eyes burn when Marui stumbles and slides on the wet court. He almost smiles when Marui messes up another serve and asks for another break.
“My tensai skills require a rest,” Marui moans. “It’s pouring rain, you idiot! The ball isn’t even bouncing properly.”
Atobe gives Marui a long, hard look. Then his nostrils flare and he puffs himself up, standing at the net and waves his hand for a ball. This time, it’s Hiyoshi who steps through the ever-diminishing crowd.
Hiyoshi looks at Atobe, who looks at Marui, who rubs his stomach and groans that only morons care about playing this hard. For a long time, Hiyoshi is silent. Another student says “Fuck it” and dashes off to the building.
“Good luck,” Hiyoshi finally says. He places the ball in Atobe’s palm and walks off.
“I don’t need luck,” Atobe says. His hand closes around the ball. Ohtori sucks in a breath. He can’t breathe, watching Atobe stride back to the baseline. And then, when Atobe looks up, right before his racket makes contact with the ball, and he looks at Jiroh and something completely unreadable flashes across his dark eyes, as if he’s looking to Jiroh for something, Ohtori’s heart twists and the air is gone from his lungs completely.
You can’t lose this, he thinks.
The serve flashes through the air like lightning- there one moment and gone the next. Nothing sounds over the rush of rain and the rumbles of thunder, nothing except the dead silence on the court before the ball drops, right at Marui’s feet.
Atobe doesn’t need to say anything witty. He looks back over his shoulder, smirking as he cocks his head up, and he walks off the court a winner.
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
Even though Kenya and Zaizen seem to know something about what they’ve just seen, the happy settle in Ohtori’s belly diverts most of his worried thoughts away. Sure, Zaizen keeps looking over his shoulder at Ohtori as if he has two heads, but with Shishido-san at his side, fingers accidentally brushing as they walk back out to the courts, Ohtori just sighs with contentment.
His limbs are getting sluggish from all the matches of the day. Luckily, only one remains. The mid-afternoon sun is hotter than ever and a blast of heat sears his skin as Kenya pushes open the door to outside. The cicadas hum so loudly that Ohtori can barely hear what Shishido says to him.
“What?” he asks.
Shishido nods his head to the courts on their right. Their own group, along with Atobe’s, are gathering by the fence gates. Ohtori’s insides twist a bit: Atobe stands apart from the rest of his group, near the back, even past Tezuka, who listens to something that Higa’s Kite is telling him. At the front of the group is Marui, racket slung over his shoulder and gum bubble hanging off his mouth.
“This tensai,” he announces, “will win his games straight.”
For once, though, Jiroh isn’t bouncing off Marui’s arm. Ohtori’s head hangs a little lower when he thinks of how he argued with Marui at lunch, and how last night, his lip curled up, almost in a sneer when Ohtori confessed the truth about Atobe.
It’s my fault, Ohtori thinks. His head hangs lower and he balls his fist, wishing that he’d kept his mouth shut last night. Everyone would have been better off if Jiroh never found out. Idiot!
Something elbows him in the side. Shishido squints up at Ohtori and adjusts the cap on his head lower down. “Don’t look so glum,” Shishido says. “It’s just one last game.” Shishido fans his neck with the collar of his jersey, giving Ohtori a lop-sided smile.
Ohtori tries to return his smile, but his own comes off more as a grimace. Focus on me, not Atobe, he tells himself. Focus on the game and the Senbatsu right now.
The group three coach tacks up the last game schedule to the chain link fence. Like always, Ohtori hangs back until some of the players start to warm up on the courts inside and chose net sides. The glare of the sun is everywhere; it’s hard to see with the light so bright, so hot, causing a mirage of heat waves over the clay surfaces. The air is still and heavy with smog.
Faint beginnings of black clouds sit over the Tokyo skyline on the horizon though. They’re far enough away that Ohtori isn’t worried about a storm interrupting his game, unless he plays someone like Kaidoh.
Thankfully, Kaidoh’s on his team. Ohtori doesn’t mind drawn-out matches, just not today. He pulls at his jersey, sticking to his back with sweat again, and starts to walk up to the list.
A boy steps in front of him. He’s about Shishido’s height, but his hair is shorter and he holds his racket in his left hand. Ohtori recognizes him as Seigaku’s Fuji’s brother.
“Are you Ohtori?” he asks.
Ohtori nods. Shishido has wandered off to the courts already with Seigaku’s Momoshiro, who says in a loud voice, “Let’s have a good game, but I’m gonna win. I’m gonna win!”
“Are you…playing me?” Ohtori asks. He can’t remember the boy’s name, and judging from the scowl on his face, asking if he’s Fuji’s brother is probably not a good idea. Ohtori leans to the side, hoping the boy will turn around so he can either see the boy’s jersey, or the list behind him.
“Yuuta-kun,” a voice called out. The boy- Yuuta sounds right, Ohtori thinks- turns as Mizuki walks up to him and strokes his shoulder. Ohtori blinks, but Mizuki doesn’t seem to notice anyone but Yuuta, not even Inui, who stands nearby and must be playing Mizuki this round.
“Yuuta-kun,” Mizuki says, “where did you put my bag?” He makes an odd noise, almost like a giggle, only a lot stranger. Up close, Ohtori can see the fat zinc stripes painted under Mizuki’s eyes and just how pale his is in comparison to Yuuta’s tanned arms.
“Your purse?” Yuuta asks. He scratches his head.
Mizuki nfus again and twists a strand of hair around his finger. “Yes, my bag,” he says, his voice hardening a bit. “I need my data books.” Mizuki half-glances over his shoulder and narrows his eyes at Inui. Inui scribbles something down in his own notebook.
“Its right here, Mizuki-san,” Yuuta says as he hands Mizuki the bag he was carrying in his right hand. Mizuki snatches it away, then his lips curl at Yuuta. “Good luck,” Yuuta tells him.
“Data doesn’t need luck.” Mizuki walks away, clutching his bag to his chest.
Yuuta frowns and he must remember that Ohtori has been standing here the whole time. A scout walks between the two of them, then out towards the one court where Atobe is about to play, tall and proud and standing across the net from a crouched Marui.
“He…uh, has a purse,” Yuuta says.
Ohtori nods. He isn’t exactly sure what else to do, but he’s glad he never attended a Catholic school if guys attending it carry white leather bags from Coach around. Ohtori’s sister has the same purse.
“The only free court is that one,” Yuuta says. He points to the very far court. There, he holds up his racket to pick sides.
“It doesn’t matter,” Ohtori says. Of course, the last court available is the one that has no shade whatsoever. The sun shines straight down onto them, not a tree nearby. Despite the humidity, Ohtori’s mouth feels dry as dust. He’ll play first, then break for a drink. They’ve wasted enough time already with Mizuki and his purse. Ohtori can hear the shouts of scores announced between the other players, although he can’t tell if any are in Shishido’s favour. Ohtori shields his eyes with his hand to see, but he can only see a field of rippling green ground.
“I’ll serve,” Yuuta says.
Ohtori has played enough lefties this tournament that he’s comfortable enough returning the serves with good accuracy. Niou, Saeki, even having practiced with Mukahi back at Hyoutei…Ohtori can easy run to the ball and start a volley. But Yuuta…
He’s good. Better than Saeki, definitely. His serve is strong, and angled. Ohtori dashes for it, then stumbles when he realizes the ball isn’t straight, it’s going further left. He lunges and catches it with the tip of his racket. A weak return and a weak start to his own game.
In the back of his mind, he can almost hear the scratching of pens on the scouts’ notebooks louder than the buzzing insects around them and the pong of balls over the courts.
Ohtori has never played Fuji Shuusuuke, but he’s seen Fuji play and he’s a genius. Or, his moves are genius. He’s brilliant at technique, but his brother…Yuuta isn’t natural at tennis like that. His motions are forced, sometimes, and deliberate the rest. He strains to make Ohtori’s volleys, but he has a strong backhand and sends balls flying to Ohtori’s blind spot, again and again.
Ohtori runs. He dives, he ducks down and lobs when he has to, volleys when he can. Yuuta plays at the baseline, aggressively attacking Ohtori’s mid-court when he steps back, thinking Oh, Yuuta won’t hit to the middle of the court because he’s setting up a rally with that forehand.
No. It’s different. Yuuta isn’t tricky, but he isn’t letting up on his defense. Ohtori lobs again, hoping to set up a smash, but Yuuta bends down and uses a drop shot instead, ruining his chances.
Yuuta takes the first game. It feels like forever has passed in this heat, but the clock says differently. Cicadas murmur around the perimeter of the court, singing into the glaring heat of summer.
Sweat drips down Ohtori’s face and pools in his eyes. He wipes his face with the hem of his jersey. His shorts stick to his thighs. The heat is uncomfortable to play in and he’s desperate for a drink as they change courts. He holds his hand up and Yuuta nods, taking a drink from a water bottle himself.
Ohtori guzzles half his Gatorade. He shoves it back in his hot tennisbag, the lesser evil than leaving it out in the steaming sun.
He can pick up the game and change the pace entirely with just his serve. But his serve alone won’t be enough to impress the judges, not when they have Atobe’s Tannhauser and Kirihara’s Knuckle Serve both on the same courts at once. Ohtori sighs as he bounces the ball. Still, he can give it his all, for the game, for fun…
Across and over three courts, Shishido plays Momoshiro. Ohtori can see Shishido’s mouth moving, his teeth clenched and his calves straining as he returns a jack knife with a rising shot. Shishido is dripping with sweat and grunting so loud he can be heard across the court.
Shishido made the same noises last night, writhing under Ohtori’s body, legs tight around Ohtori’s waist. He’d moaned, “Choutarou…” and grunted when Ohtori kissed his chest, his navel, curled his tongue around Shishido’s hot, hard cock, too…
A tiny shudder runs through Ohtori’s body, sending warm and pleasant tingles to his toes, the tips of his fingers and his cock. He nods sharply. He can do this. Tennis right now. He tosses the ball up in the air, leans back and down and slams his body and soul into the serve.
The ball flashes across the court, so fast that Yuuta is left bent at the knees at the baseline, his hair fluttering up. The ball bounces on the ground softly, once, twice, then he reacts.
Yuuta stands up straight and raises an eyebrow. He looks down at the ball, toeing it with his sneaker. “Nice shot.”
It’s the middle of a game. Ohtori doesn’t need to be polite. He bites back a thanks to instead focus on his next shot. He could take the game with no-touch aces.
But, second serve, Yuuta knows what to do. Ohtori hasn’t even had time to adjust his stance after smashing his arm down to serve when Yuuta’s running to the net. He can’t hit the ball yet, there’s no way because it’s too high above his head and only someone Ohtori’s height could reach it before mid-court, but no, Yuuta jumps up, swings his racket back and-
Ohtori’s feet move before his mind. He rushes for the ball, to return Yuuta’s backhand. His lungs burn and his calves pulse, one throb of pain as he pushes himself into a shot. Ohtori can only manage to get a bit of spin on the ball and hope for the best.
Yuuta’s one step ahead. Before Ohtori can recover, the ball slams into his blind spot, right at his side.
15-15.
Ohtori clenches his fist. Damn.
Third serve will be his point, Ohtori vows it. His eyes shift to Shishido’s court, finding that blue cap, then he glances down at the tennis ball in his hand. He needs the support of Shishido to back his game up, he knows it. Ohtori plays like a doubles player. He lurks on the baseline, happy to volley and let Shishido do the network. It’s hard on his own. The court feels endless, stretching out forever in the melting heat.
He wipes his brow. I’ll give it my all.
Ik-kyu-
Ohtori throws the ball.
Nyu…
He leans back.
KON!
He clenches his teeth and plows the shot to the opposite baseline. Yuuta’s there, already, of course, but with only one hand, his backhand side, it’s weak. His racket flies out of his hand and the ball the other direction.
Ohtori manages to take the game, bringing them to a tie of 1-1. It feels like it will be a long fight. A doubles game switches courts further down. Grunts from another match sound in the air, which hums with insects and the rush of traffic, just over the grassy knoll behind the track. Ohtori’s hair crawls with sweat and he pauses for a moment to grab another drink.
He digs his feet into the court; he’s ready for Yuuta’s next serve.
Yuuta serves. Ohtori sprints. Yuuta dashes and Ohtori makes a shot. Back and forth, back and forth until Yuuta attacks and as much as he tries, Ohtori is never quite prepared. He’s at the baseline when he should be at the net. He’s running around centre-court, flapping his long arms and legs, which never seem to quite move fast enough to catch all the shots he should. The heat makes him sluggish. The heat makes his sneakers grind too hard into the clay. The heat makes the ball reflect off the ground, the distortion making things worse.
Yuuta reveals in it. He has his brother’s sharp eyes and when Ohtori fumbles, he swoops in, taking the next two games.
3-1.
Switch courts.
One doubles match has finished on the other side of the courts. Kite and Tachibana vs Tezuka and the Rikkai senior. A strange match-up, but it looks like Kite-Tachibana team won, judging from the smirk on Kite’s face. One of the kitchen helpers- Tachibana’s sister, sits with them, wedged between her brother and Tezuka. Ohtori looks further on. Momoshiro must have noticed her too because he messes up what should have been a point against Shishido-san.
Ohtori can’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction when Shishido slams a ball into Momoshiro’s baseline and takes a game. He’s biased for his senpai, his…boyfriend, whatever Shishido is to him and he doesn’t care.
Do your best, Shishido-san!
A ball rolls by Ohtori’s feet. He leans down to pick it up, looking over to the game beside him, where Atobe slams a ball across the net, eyes blazing and alive. The ball didn’t come from that court…
Ohtori looks up.
Yuuta smirks at him from his own baseline, where he shrugs his shoulders down and joggles his racket in his hand. “You just missed that ball,” he says.
Ohtori could kick himself. Stupid! Head out of the clouds, idiot, and focus!
He was distracted for a moment and now he can’t catch up. Ohtori tries to set up a volley, goading Yuuta into stepping back in his court, but then Yuuta will twist his arm and hit a lob at the net, so close Ohtori will think it’ll foul, only it will barely graze the net and go in and he’s diving for the balls, he is, but even with his height and long legs, he misses shots. Or the ball will seem to twist its spin around and bounce too high when Ohtori is low and it’s a mess.
His knees are skinned. Blood and sweat ooze everywhere. The air is so muggy and thick that Ohtori can never seem to get a lungful when he’s playing. He pants hard, and his chest pounds and he’s hot and sticky and losing, 4-1 now.
His game, his serve, Yuuta brings it out.
Ohtori has the game in his bag, 40-15 now because Yuuta’s movements are slowing too. Only two games are left on the courts, theirs and the one adjacent. All the scouts have crowded closer to the other, but Ohtori’s nerves are drawn tight. He is hyper-aware of the extra eyes they could have on them, and Yuuta is too. He follows-through more, he tries to smash and punt as if to show off his skills. All Ohtori has is his serve. He tries to give his all, really, but his arm won’t swing back as far and his body…it just gets harder and harder to force the coordination into his limbs.
He’s at the net, he doesn’t like it, but Yuuta poached and damned if Ohtori will let the game go. He has no choice but to smash, so he launches himself off one foot, hoping he can get enough power into the shot and enough of an arc that Yuuta can’t return in.
This has never been his forte.
But he tries anyway, especially when he hears the shout of “Go Choutarou!” from Shishido-san.
Heart lighter, Ohtori smashes.
Yuuta twists. He jerks his head, he jerks his arm and he spins. It’s a strange shot, one that makes Ohtori gape as Yuuta flourishes, his arm twisted at the shoulder and his racket up in the air, but the ball arcing behind Ohtori’s head, to drop in the back of his court.
“What- what was that?” he sputters.
Yuuta stands up straight and rolls his shoulder around a bit. “My new Twist Spin Shot.”
Mizuki, sitting on a fold-away chair beside Yuuta’s tennisbag, purse tucked behind his feet, starts to chuckle to himself. Yuuta looks back at Mizuki, his eyes big and seeking acknowledgment when he says, “Did you see that, Mizuki-san? I did it!”
Ohtori would have probably lost the game regardless. Two more Twist Spin Shots and a lob and Yuuta takes another game. Score, 5-1.
As they change courts, Yuuta shouts, “Too bad you weren’t a southpaw! My shot would have worked even better.” He grins.
Ohtori frowns. It could be worse, the scouts could be paying more attention to him right now, instead of focusing their scribbling and hushed whispers to each other on Atobe’s game. Ohtori grips his racket and nods to himself. One more game, then he’s done for the camp.
He thinks about what Yukimura had asked him earlier: would he play after high school? Ohtori never thought that far ahead before, but now, he’s fairly certain of the answer. He loves playing the game, but…
“Here.”
Ohtori blinks. He’s on the sideline and Shishido-san is right in front of him, holding a blue towel. Shishido cocks his head to the side and pushes the towel into Ohtori’s hands. “You know these games don’t count for what really matters,” Shishido mutters. Then, louder, he says “I know you’re playing a good game, Choutarou. Keep up the hard work.”
By the time Ohtori has finished wiping the sweat from his face and neck and tossed the towel aside, Shishido leans against the fence, off to the side of his baseline, flashing Ohtori a cheeky grin and a thumbs up. Shishido looks sexy, with his messed up hair sticking out from his cap, his legs in front of himself and his neck sporting a fading bruise barely above his collar. His uniform is sweaty, clinging to his body and riding up on his stomach when he stretches. In that moment, and Ohtori drinks in the sight for a second longer, then he’s revived and ready to play.
Ohtori thinks, Thank you, Shishido-san.
It’s Yuuta’s serve. It could be the last game. Ohtori takes a deep breath and turns away from Shishido to focus only on the game. His skin is damp, his lungs ache and his calves, too. He’s hot, he’s extremely uncomfortable and sweat seeps into every crevice of his body, making his skin slick and slimy and hotter than ever.
The scouts don’t watch his game, but Shishido does.
Yuuta serves. Ohtori dashes, two steps forward, then swings back and launches a volley to the baseline. Yuuta runs for it, grunting through his stroke. Ohtori can see the spin gather on the ball before Yuuta whips it back, almost like a snake, but it goes deeper into his court.
His sort of balls. His sort of playing area. Yuuta will expect him to start a rally, Ohtori isn’t stupid, he can see the slight twist of a smile on Yuuta’s face. Yuuta thinks he has this game in the bag, too.
Ohtori pushes his body to move. He pushes himself to react quicker than Yuuta and change the pace.
He drags his arm back, forcing his muscles to work, then he stops.
The ball falls nicely on the other side of the net. Drop shot, completely unexpected.
15-0 Ohtori.
He isn’t a tricky player, but he’s not a push-over either. The sound of Shishido-san saying “Nice play” behind his back makes Ohtori pump his fist, just a little.
The second serve Yuuta anticipates something will happen. Ohtori starts another rally and Yuuta lets him, volleying a couple shots back and forth between them. The bright sun flickers for a moment or two, clouds passing over them and the air stilling even more, if possible. The cicadas are on fire, droning louder than the smashes and grunts and occasional frustrated screams from Atobe’s game, next net over, or the swoosh of the volleys on Ohtori’s own court. But Ohtori doesn’t drop shot, not when Yuuta keeps close to the middle of his court, leaning onto the balls of his sneakers and ready to rush for net play.
Instead, Ohtori slugs the ball back to the baseline. Yuuta runs, but he doesn’t have Ohtori’s height and legs. Only Kabaji could have returned a shot like that. Maybe Oshitari-senpai, if he was trying.
30-0 Ohtori.
Two points might be his, but when Yuuta grinds his teeth and slams his next serve deep into Ohtori’s court, Ohtori knows he’s not going to fall for a third miss. Ohtori uses a backhand, thinking that he can lob something and keep his momentum, but the ball is so strong from the kick serve, that his wrist gives way. Ohtori clenches his jaw. No!
His wrist wavers. The ball pushes back, and his body jerks with it. His left hand moves to steady his racket, two-handed return, but then the ball seems to increase its strength, flies backward, tips his racket and that launches off, too.
The ball hits the fence.
Ohtori’s racket hits the ground.
Yuuta smiles as Mizuki says something to him. A nfu echoes over the court and grates Ohtori’s ears. He thinks he might hear Shishido saying, “Don’t mind”, but he isn’t sure. The heat makes his head foggy, like the heavy haze over the city.
Yuuta’s next serve is a fluke. He tosses the ball and kicks himself into another leftie kick serve. It should be a piece of cake, with the stagnant air, but as soon as the ball hits his racket, a gush of wind rushes over them. Ohtori’s wet hair ripples and it feels lovely, even as hot as the wind is, just to feel the air pick up.
The ball loses trajectory and spin.
Ohtori volleys, Yuuta returns, but the tone he set up slackens. It shows in the slump of his shoulders, so Ohtori hits to the far baseline, sending the ball straight past Yuuta’s right side blind spot.
40-15 Ohtori.
He can take this game.
The next ball Yuuta gives him isn’t a kick serve at all, just an easy shot. He’s tired, Ohtori’s tired. When will the game be finished? Yuuta runs to mid-court, like always, leaning low to return the ball. Ohtori lobs, but the wind changes direction, and this time, his ball loses momentum as it barrels through the air and catches the wind. Ohtori can only watch his ball arc down towards his side of the net. His hand loosens its sweaty grip on his racket. It’s a lost cause.
His ball hits the net post with a shrill ping. Ohtori closes his eyes, waiting to hear the ref call his foul, when instead he hears:
“Game, Ohtori. 2-5.”
He blinks.
Sure enough, the ball has rolled onto Yuuta’s side. Yuuta picks it up and tosses it over to Ohtori, who catches it with his hand against his stomach. “That was a cool move,” he says.
“What- what do you mean?” Ohtori asks. He looks at the ball in his hand. It’s warm from play and the rubber scent strong.
“Doesn’t Rikkai’s Marui use that move?” Yuuta asks.
Ohtori looks up at him. He hadn’t meant to hit the net post at all. It was pure chance. Still, the win settles in his mind, giving him the confidence and motivation to drag his feet to change to the other court and start his serve.
The wind is stronger now, and not in the direction of Ohtori’s balls. The cicadas break up their humming, until finally they stop. The smell of approaching rain is stronger than ever now, too. Ohtori wipes sweat from his brow with the ball, the only thing he has on him that isn’t already drenched with sweat. His eyes sting. Shishido watches from the other court.
Mizuki is behind him. Ohtori can hear the sound of a pen clicking, irritating in its regularity. Mizuki must be a data player too. Ohtori shrugs it off as best he can, and throws his soul into the serve.
But the wind slows it down. Turns his scud serve into nothing special. Ohtori groans: of all the times for it to be windy, why does it have to be this game?
Yuuta uses his twist spin shot. No matter how quick Ohtori is, or how much he tries to use two-handed shots to try to counter the force, Yuuta’s balls slam into the ground in front of him and fly up over his head.
Ohtori reaches- he does, he does, again and again and he’s tall and his arms and legs are long, but the weight of his muscles and the thickness of the air, the heat and the length of time they’ve been playing, it all adds up.
Ohtori stumbles. His arms feel eternally heavy. He just can’t keep it up.
It’s not a surprise when he hears the final score.
He’s not spoil-sport. He shuffles to the net and shakes Yuuta’s sweaty hand, right as the first drops of rain wash over his skin.
“Good game,” he says.
“You weren’t bad,” Yuuta tells him. His eyes flick over Ohtori’s shoulder, then back to Ohtori. “I wanted to see what your serve was like for a while. Not indestructible like Mizuki-san thought.” Yuuta rubs his shoulder and rolls his head a bit.
Ohtori says nothing. There are more important things. Like Shishido-san, who cups his hand over his eyes to shield the sprinkling rain off his face instead of turning his cap around. Ohtori nods to Yuuta before running back to Shishido.
“You lasted a while,” Shishido says. He smiles at Ohtori and Ohtori can feel his bones melting and puddling with the water at his feet.
“Really?”
Shishido nods. “You must’ve played at least an hour, Choutarou.”
Ohtori grins. He looks at Shishido for the longest while, his heart in his throat and unable to say anything because there’s nothing to say, not so long as Shishido is proud of him. And he must be, smiling and glancing away, eyes grazing up to Ohtori’s mouth, then down to his hands again, which toss his racket into his tennisbag.
Ohtori wishes they weren’t on the tennis courts right now. It doesn’t matter that he just lost his game, not with Shishido here. He could kiss Shishido on that mouth, glistening with the first drops of rain, still a bit puffy from their earlier interlude.
Instead of being sorta lame and maybe suggesting, Oh, Shishido-san, I’m kinda hungry, wanna go back inside? Ohtori’s thoughts are interrupted when a random ball flashes between him and Shishido and slams into the fence. The ball spins to a stop, then sits wedged in the chain link.
Ohtori whips his head around. Sweat and rain fly off the ends of his hair.
He didn’t pay attention before, but now he can see what exactly the scouts are watching. If Ohtori had known before, he might have joined them, but with a cringe and inward shame.
On the court beside where he just played, Atobe and Rikkai’s Marui are duking it out.
Quickly, Ohtori shoves his racket and water bottle and sopping-wet sweat towel in his tennisbag and then goes over to join the crowds around the court. Shishido stands on his toes, constantly craning his head this way and that to try to get the best view, but Ohtori can see over most of his teammates’ and the scouts’ heads. Atobe is on the court closest to this side and Marui at the far baseline.
As umbrellas are popped out, seemingly from nowhere, and hands and hats cover eyes, the rain comes down harder, hard enough that Atobe sends ricocheting pellets back from his sneakers as he runs and dives for a net ball of Marui’s, screaming frustration and determination into the rush of rain.
Ohtori doesn’t have an umbrella to hide under. He doesn’t even remember packing one, but he can’t take his eyes off the game anyway. The warm rain cools the air a little, but even just standing and taking a break after playing himself helps. His insides shrivel when he hears the score announced.
“Game, Marui, 6-6.”
It’s all my fault, he thinks. When Atobe picks himself up off the ground, his legs covered in clay mud that sluices down his legs, Ohtori winces. Atobe’s eyes are huge and white and on fire. He holds his racket so tight, but Ohtori isn’t sure whether it’s to keep the rain from making it slip, or because he’s clenching his jaw, too.
“You’ll lose, Bubbleboy,” Atobe announces as they switch courts.
Marui laughs and pops a bubble. He gives Atobe a waggle of his eyebrows and says, “Oh really?”
The Rikkai side has its numbers, although it’s not a battle between the schools. Ohtori can see Sanada and Yukimura behind the fence, Sanada rolling his eyes and Yukimura smirking before he leans over to say something to Yanagi, who walks up to join them. Kirihara flings his hands up in the air and gives Marui a double high-five on the court.
“Kick his Hyoutei ass, senpai!” he yells.
Marui gives him a thumbs up. “Will do,” he says. He pops another bubble. “Dry ball!” he shouts and someone rushes out from the crowd to pass him one. Ohtori thinks it looks like Kamio, but the boy is so speedy, he can’t tell for sure, not with the water falling harder and harder, obscuring features and faces. The net wavers in the wind.
And the first flash if lightning cracks through the sky overhead.
How Atobe hasn’t won already stumps Ohtori. Atobe-senpai is one of thebest players and even if he lost to Hiyoshi, he should be able to win against someone like Marui. Marui serves and volleys, like Ohtori, only he uses trick play. But Atobe has his insight. He should be winning. He should have won ages ago. Ohtori shakes his head.
Atobe-senpai, what’s going on?
It’s Ohtori’s fault and he knows it. Atobe messed up all his Senbatsu rounds because Ohtori told Jiroh and because Ohtori found the palm pilot and because it’s just all his fault.
Ohtori crosses his fingers. “Go, Atobe-senpai!” he whispers. “You have to win!”
Shishido pokes him. Ohtori looks down, right as Marui warms the ball up by bouncing it over and over and over. “What did you say?” Shishido asks. Rain runs down his face, his chin and covers his words up.
Ohtori shakes his head. He’s told Shishido-san enough already.
When Ohtori looks back at the game, he can see a few guys leaving, running back into the sports complex buildings under their tennisbags. One of them, Ohtori sees, is Sengoku, who runs in the direction of one of the kitchen girls waving out at them.
Back towards the court, though, Jiroh stands. He’s so tall now that even behind rows of people, he has to be able to see what’s going on. He has to be able to see Atobe pacing and glaring and shouting at Marui to hurry the hell up and serve the ball! He has to be able to see Marui hesitating and panting and bouncing the ball way too long, way too high.
The heat and the rain melt everything, but not the steely look in Jiroh’s face. The same look that Atobe has right now, too.
Ohtori crosses his left hand fingers too.
“How did Atobe-senpai not win by now?” he asks. Only when Shishido starts to talk, does Ohtori realize he’s spoken out loud.
“Saa,” Shishido says, “he slammed balls into that Marui’s court, but they were fouls. I think.”
Beside Shishido, Hiyoshi narrows his eyes. “He was supposed to play doubles against Marui and Oshitari-senpai’s cousin.” Marui’s serve arcs high in Hiyoshi’s dark eyes before it falls back down towards Atobe. Atobe runs, growling louder than the fresh rumbles of thunder and swings his racket back. Water flies everywhere and he screams into his shot, his feet sliding through the mud.
But Atobe doesn’t stumble. It’s Marui who messes up a return, the rain growing so heavy and so hard that he holds his hand up. After catching his breath for a moment, he gasps, “This tensai requests a break.”
“No!” Atobe snaps. “We finish it now unless you want to concede!”
The referee looks between the two of them, mouth open and fingers on his whistle before he shakes his head and motions for Atobe to serve.
Marui spits out his gum. He’s at the net, his eyes narrowed into slits: against the rain, against Atobe.
Atobe doesn’t hesitate at all. His Tannhauser serve, Ohtori thinks, looks top form. Gone is his fumbling and stupid mistakes that caused him to lose against Hiyoshi. Gone are his glazed, drunken eyes and slurred words from last night. Gone is anything but his self-confidence. He’s standing tall and proud in the pouring rain. His once-pristine designer sneakers are stained dark with mud. His hair is plastered to his head. Atobe looks a bit like a drowned rat, but he has poise and power practically radiating from his core when he looks Marui straight in the eye and says
“Be awed by this.”
If Ohtori thought that he put his heart and soul into every serve, then nothing he’s ever done compares to how Atobe shouts something into the pouring rain and reams the ball with his body. It’s faster than a laser beam and deadly accurate at the baseline, despite the rain. Not even so much as a splash flies up when the ball creams into the court, then rolls away gently.
2-0.
Marui has barely moved from the net. He stumbles forward onto his toes. Then, he motions for another ball and Kenya is the one to hand one over. Kenya holds his umbrella high, but his sigh is heard across the court and the roll of his eyes looks a lot like Oshitari-senpai’s. It must be a family trait.
Atobe wipes the rain from his mouth and flings his hair back. He’s breathing hard, but nowhere near the gasping and panting that Marui makes. He serves, his motions sluggish and impaired by the rain. The scouts have stopped taking notes entirely and several leave the court when it becomes clear this game is about a lot more than showing off tennis skills. Atobe uses a jack knife to counter Marui’s serve, even though Ohtori knows he doesn’t need to. The ball is slow and weak and wet, although it has a bit of spin left on it. Rikkai has started to cheer for Marui, clapping and shouting that he’s a lazyass, that he can do better.
Ohtori stays quiet. He cheers for Atobe inside. Shishido, though, just snorts and raises an eyebrow as Atobe smashes the ball down, right between Marui’s legs.
3-0.
Atobe serves. He pours himself into his shots. He glowers at Marui and shouts, “Is that all you have?” He takes three more points and his eyes burn when Marui stumbles and slides on the wet court. He almost smiles when Marui messes up another serve and asks for another break.
“My tensai skills require a rest,” Marui moans. “It’s pouring rain, you idiot! The ball isn’t even bouncing properly.”
Atobe gives Marui a long, hard look. Then his nostrils flare and he puffs himself up, standing at the net and waves his hand for a ball. This time, it’s Hiyoshi who steps through the ever-diminishing crowd.
Hiyoshi looks at Atobe, who looks at Marui, who rubs his stomach and groans that only morons care about playing this hard. For a long time, Hiyoshi is silent. Another student says “Fuck it” and dashes off to the building.
“Good luck,” Hiyoshi finally says. He places the ball in Atobe’s palm and walks off.
“I don’t need luck,” Atobe says. His hand closes around the ball. Ohtori sucks in a breath. He can’t breathe, watching Atobe stride back to the baseline. And then, when Atobe looks up, right before his racket makes contact with the ball, and he looks at Jiroh and something completely unreadable flashes across his dark eyes, as if he’s looking to Jiroh for something, Ohtori’s heart twists and the air is gone from his lungs completely.
You can’t lose this, he thinks.
The serve flashes through the air like lightning- there one moment and gone the next. Nothing sounds over the rush of rain and the rumbles of thunder, nothing except the dead silence on the court before the ball drops, right at Marui’s feet.
Atobe doesn’t need to say anything witty. He looks back over his shoulder, smirking as he cocks his head up, and he walks off the court a winner.