FIC: Rewind Forward (D1) 9/63
Title: Rewind Forward (9/63)
Author: Ociwen
Rating: NC17 (eventual)
Disclaimer: Konomi owns all.
Summary: Niou, meet Yagyuu.
Author's Notes: Spoilers for everything.
Being on the court playing tennis and being in the stands at the Nationals are two different experiences entirely. Niou thrives on the cheers from the Rikkai crowd, on the grins of the female cheerleaders and the sea of yellow jerseys, all clapping and calling his name when he steps onto the court to start. He doesn’t play round one, Thursday. They play five games and Niou is slated in as alternate- it is, after all, his turn on the players’ rotation. Only Yukimura is ever slotted in to play every round at every game.
Tennis beats going to school. It beats everything else he’s ever done with himself before, even his best and funniest pranks. The swell of pride in his chest, the grin plastered to his face before Yukimura starts complaining about everyone’s form again, it’s brilliant.
The Nationals feel like one continuous day of games. Niou doesn’t remember taking the bus back home at night. He doesn’t remember sleeping in his bed at all. He just knows the feel of his racket and the sun on his back, the hot damp in the air of Tokyo, pollution thick in this part of the city that makes him sneeze sometimes.
The second round challenger is a joke. Not even the level of Hyoutei. Niou plays Doubles Two with Kawasaki, winning 6-1. The games are all won like that, 6-1, 6-0. Niou can hardly believe it. Are the other teams in the nation that awful?
Or is Rikkai so good he just didn’t know it, playing day in and day out with these demons, Kirihara whose eyes are red after finishing a fast, fierce singles three. Sanada, who plays doubles with Yanagi, slicing through the opponent’s formations like a steel katana blade. Yukimura, who is rumoured to be the best on the circuit, who flies across the court like Satan himself, all smiles and dark glitter to his eyes as he smashes balls again and again between his opponent’s legs, more like an enemy than a rival. More like a monster who takes pleasure in seeing his prey fall to their knees.
And then on Saturday, there is Shitenhoji.
And Yagyuu, too.
Niou notices Yagyuu first, stepping off the morning bus in the stadium parking lot. Both the regulars’ bus and the other buses from the remainder of the team showed up at the same time, a hundred yellow t-shirts and jackets streaming across the asphalt.
Yagyuu is unmistakable among them, a pale brown head of hair trailing behind a shining bald brown Brazilian and a pink monstrosity that bobs along, shorter than the other two.
Niou stops in his tracks.
Yagyuu falls out of step from Marui and Jackal, disappearing into a crowd for a moment, before his form reappears, all shining megane lenses in the light, right beside Niou. Yagyuu nods once. A faint smile plays at his lips. “Good luck today, Niou-kun,” he says.
Niou doesn’t know what to think, but before he can grunt a nonchalant response and shrug it off, Yagyuu is gone completely, a dozen bouncing freshmen having come and passed in between Niou’s view.
He thinks about what Yagyuu said as he walks along behind Sanada. Niou kicks up tiny stones and bits of garbage, seeing if he can hit Sanada’s knees with them- Niou can, three times. They’ve almost never spoken and now Yagyuu has told him “Good luck”.
I don’t need luck, he thinks. I have skills and practice and tricks.
And Yagyuu said his name, too. The sound reverberates inside Niou’s head, the tone of Yagyuu’s voice, the slight lilt on some of the syllables, the upturned quirk to his lips, as though there was something amusing to Yagyuu but a something that Niou can’t figure out for himself.
It feels a bit like Yagyuu is messing with him.
Niou tries to shake the words from his mind, but they remain, lodged in his brain, eating away at his cerebral cortex or his lobes, or in whatever part of his brain they are.
Shitenhoji is something else. At first they seem like every other team Rikkai has faced at the Nationals so far, sure of themselves, confident with their play, and smug. But to top it all off, they have their accents.
“Let’s play a good match,” the captain drawls, as though he’s got too much rice stuck in his mouth and he can’t be bothered to speak properly. Nishiki shakes his hand and mutters the same thing.
Their uniforms scream of Osaka too, all flashy yellow and green patterns. Niou makes a noise of disgust that Kirihara echoes, rolling his eyes, too.
Nishiki gives them a pep-talk at the bench. He reads off a sheet of paper, then glances up at the regulars. Around them, the stands are thumping with the cheers of the crowd, Rikkai Dai club members all stomping their feet in tune with the cheerleaders’ latest chant.
“Their captain is supposed to be good,” he says. “Really good, but no one can confirm this either way, so Yukimura, you’re in singles one just in case we have to deal with him.”
“Isn’t he just a junior?” Yanagi asks.
Nishiki scrunches his brow. “How would I know?”
Yanagi smiles. “I heard he was. The only second year captain on the circuit.”
“Good that Yukimura’s in singles one then,” Nishiki says, his voice louder. “Anyway, their doubles two team is supposed to be really annoying, so Niou, it’s you and Kawasaki against them.”
Kawasaki nods. Niou cocks his head to the side, trying to peer around Nishiki to see who this annoying doubles two pair is, but he can’t tell. Shitenhoji looks like everyone else. Tall, athletic, albeit with awful accents that carry across the court like Tokyo smog, all heavy and gross. Their captain smiles when he notices Niou. Niou keeps staring.
There is a really tall and beefy player, with a shaved head. Another kid with a buzzed head, but he’s a megane dork instead. It almost looks, the way the light is shining, that the megane is holding the hand of the player beside him. Niou blinks, but he can’t tell for sure, because another player with light hair has stepped in the middle of Niou’s line of vision. The three other players on their team are non-entities, one wears a cap, one wears wrist weights, and the last swings his racket with his left hand.
It would be interesting to play another southpaw. Niou has only played a handful, including that jumpy shrimp from Hyoutei. No one else on the Rikkai regulars is left-handed.
“Singles three, Kirihara,” Kirihara looks up, grinning from ear to ear with a dark glimmer in his dark eyes. Niou can practically hear him licking his lips. “They have a strong powerplayer in singles three, but you can knock him off quickly.”
“Yes, buchou!” Kirihara says, mocking a salute. Nishiki’s eyes twitches.
“Doubles one, Sanada and Yanagi-” Sanada and Yanagi both nod, though Niou can see Sanada’s face fall a little. He was hoping for a singles spot. Instead, Nishiki takes it for himself and has Yamada on the bench.
“Singles three, Rikkai Dai vs Shitenhoji, please report to the court. Singles three please report to the court.” The overhead booms and Kirihara hops to his feet from the bleachers. “Good luck,” Yanagi says.
Good luck, Niou-kun.
A shiver runs down Niou’s spine. He glances over his shoulder, but he can’t see if there is a megane in the crowd behind him. The sun blinds from this angle, making everything except the court invisible and blurred and a bit like myopia, even.
“I’ll beat this Osaka kid in fifteen minutes,” Kirihara announces. And then as he turns to see his opponent, his cocky grin flops off his face. A hulk stands on the court, staring at Kirihara as though he were nothing but a fly.
Twenty minutes later and Niou can barely keep watching the game. Kirihara struggles to return the shots of Shitenhoji’s Ishida, this bulk of a fourteen year old who has a hadokyou shot like nothing else. Even with one hand, Ishida has the power of an ox, and the stamina to match. Kirihara might have muscles, but he looks like a shrimp on the court, one who is sent running futilely after shots that blow his racket out of his hands.
And then one shot blows a hole through Kirihara’s strings when he tries to return it. He stares at his shattered racket wordlessly, with wide red eyes, before he opens his mouth and tells the ref he needs to change rackets.
“What do I do?” Niou can hear him whine to the coach, who sits on the bench with his arms crossed.
“Just try your best-” the coach starts, when Yukimura’s shout interrupts him.
“Bullshit! Akaya, bend low on your returns and use the power in your legs and hips,” Yukimura lectures from the sideline. Niou closes his eyes. When will Yukimura ever shut up about our form? he thinks.
“Yes, Yukimura-senpai!” Kirihara says, but confidence is not in his voice. He’s trailing three games to five right now. Sweat soaks his t-shirt and he drags his legs back onto the court, already with an air of defeat. But, true to his word to Yukimura, he bends low and starts to return the shots from his lower body, with varying degrees of success.
In the end, Kirihara scrapes by with a 7-5 win. It takes forty-five minutes. As soon as he reaches the bleachers, he flops back down. Yanagi shuffles down the bench and drops a wet towel draped over Kirihara’s face.
“Doubles two will now start. Doubles two Rikkai Dai vs Shitenhoji, please report to the court. Doubles two, please report to the court.”
Niou stands up, stretching his arms above his head, then he grabs his tennis racket from his tennisbag. Kawasaki says one last word to Nishiki, then follows suit. Niou looks straight ahead, refusing to turn around and check the crowds for any signs of a megane watching him. No, he’s watching the court.
He is.
Out of the side of his eye, he takes a peak. The slight twist inside knots up and tightens a bit when he sees Yagyuu sitting besides Jackal and Marui. He drinks from a waterbottle, with his adam’s apple bobbing up and down his skinny throat.
Niou swallows. He looks back at the court, shielding his eyes with a cupped hand. The other side is completely empty. He looks at Kawasaki.
Kawasaki shrugs. “Maybe one of them needed a bathroom break?”
Niou checks his watch. The faceplate is hard to make out with the sunlight, so bright and so hot it’s as white as his hair.
“Doubles two Shitenhoji, please report to the court,” the ref calls again.
The Shitenhoji side titters. Niou scratches his head. None of the Shitenhoji regulars, all sitting in a line on their bench, seems to notice that two of their players are not on the court right now. Instead, their captain seems to be biting his lip and a couple other players are outright laughing.
Kawasaki bounces a ball. Niou swings his racket, a pendulum, back and forth, back and forth, waiting for some sign of the other doubles team.
Shitenhoji is all shifting eyes and suppressed grins.
What the hell?
Niou stops swinging his racket. He stands, and waits. Kawasaki scowls. The ref calls a third time for Shitenhoji doubles two to report to the court now.
And then, amidst the Shitenhoji players on the benches, two heads pop up with a flourish of poses and laughter.
Niou doesn’t get it.
He rolls his eyes as the Shitenhoji crowds start to make noise, soft at first, smiles and points of fingers, but then the whistles start as a megane with a buzzed head and a kid with shaggy hair behind a low-slung banana amble onto the court with their arms around each other. They trip over each other’s feet. They sway and swagger, almost as though they have had too much too drink. Or too much time in the sun.
And then they squeeze each other, dropping their rackets and hugging so tight that the slight noises from the Shitenhoji sidelines burst out into broad grins, a hundred brown Kansai students in yellow and green uniforms.
“I don’t get it,” Kawasaki mutters.
Niou shrugs.
The Rikkai sidelines are silent, waiting for the game to start in earnest and not this display of utter gay that the Shitenhoji team puts. They hold hands as they stand at the centre of their court, giggling and sticking their tongues out at Kawasaki as he starts the serve.
Ignore them, Niou reminds himself. He runs up to the net, staring down the bandana kid, who stares back at him. Niou turns his head, tipping it left, looking for anything that might give away a habit of the other player. A nervous tick. A scratch. Weight shifted onto a stronger foot.
The bandana kid is still. Then he does the same, tipping his head to the left. Or, Niou’s left. Niou steps right. The bandana steps right.
Niou takes a step backwards.
The bandana takes a step backwards, too. Always mimicking Niou’s movements to a tee as his friend runs around returning Kawasaki’s lobs.
Then Niou uses the spilt step, a quick hop right, lean forward, pull back for a smash… and he poaches.
The bandana-kun completely misses the ball, too busy watching Niou.
Checkmate.
Niou doesn’t see how this other doubles team is anything special. They bat their lashes at each other and make kissy faces as one or the other will make a lob, as though they can’t be bothered to care about anything except each other.
It is even more disgusting and pathetic than Sanada’s quiet devotion and unquestioning following of Yukimura. Except Sanada would never make faces at Yukimura like that and Yukimura would never put up with it.
“Nice serve,” the one calls out to Kawasaki.
Niou scratches his temple. Ignore them. They are only egging us on. He motions behind his back to Kawasaki. Serve to the left.
Kawasaki serves left. The bandana kid makes a half-assed run for it, but shrugs when the ball is out of reach. The megane smiles, as though it is funny to be losing point this way.
Rikkai takes the first game. Easily.
Niou slings his racket over his shoulder as they change courts. “Shitenhoji is nothing more than shit,” he tells Kawasaki. “Easy to step on and throw out.”
Kawasaki snickers.
The megane snickers too. “That pun wasn’t bad, hedgehog-kun.”
Niou stops moving. He narrows his eyes. The megane grins and pushes his glasses up his nose. His partner grabs his arm and tugs. “It wasn’t very punny,” he says.
They both laugh.
The entire Shitenhoji team laughs.
Niou blows a strand of hair from his eyes. “Puri,” he mutters. Idiots from Osaka.
“I don’t get it,” Kawasaki says again.
The first serve of the Shitenhoji doubles, Niou just watches. Something odd seems to be happening with the buzzcut megane twit’s hair. An odd line forms around his forehead. Not quite a wrinkle, but when he bends back far enough at the correct angle, it’s just visible. As though he’s stretching himself too far, putting too much effort into the ball.
Niou grips his racket with two hands, just in case he needs more power himself.
Instead, Kawasaki runs for the shot, plowing into Niou’s left side to hit the ball. “Why didn’t you get that?” he shouts.
Niou says nothing. He adjusts his feet, tightens his grip and watches. The next shot is his; he slides it across his racket face to give the ball a decent spin, then he slugs it back towards the baseline. The bandana kid lunges with a dramatic pose and misses the ball.
The ball lands with a dull thwop, bouncing three times towards the bench. The coach doesn’t move. A little ballboy from the Shitenhoji side with more metal in his ears than skin runs out and retrieves the ball.
“Don’t mind, Yuu-kun!” the megane says. His glasses glimmer. He winks at the ballboy, whose bland face falls into a disgusted grimace.
The Shitenhoji crowd whoops and pumps their arms. “You go, you idiots!” one of their teammates yells, his hands cupped around his big, slurring Kansai-ben mouth. “Show them how to laugh!”
“Kenya-kun is so cute when he’s like that,” the megane says. He flashes his teeth in a grin.
“Are you cheating on me?” the bandana accuses, his voice rising to a squeak. He clears his throat. “Koharu?”
“You two make them laugh!” the Shitenhoji coach yells from the bench. That is the first Niou has heard him speak, and if it weren’t for that, Niou would have assumed that slouching, lanky, unshaven man was asleep under his wide-brimmed hippy hat. Then, as quick as he was to sit up and speak, the coach flops back down, sticks out his long legs, and tips his hat over his eyes.
The Rikkai coach sits as straight as Sanada, silent and scowling. He doesn’t shout anything at Niou or Kawasaki. Yukimura, however, continues to watch the match with religious devotion. He shakes his head slightly. Niou can see the words on Yukimura’s mouth. “Poor form. Poor concentration. Shitty play.”
Niou snorts. Yukimura should be scheduled for doubles more often if all he does is bitch and criticize everyone else’s play, as though he’s that much better than everyone else. Except for the fact that Niou knows he is. Still, it grates his nerves and makes him clench his jaw just as much as the Osaka idiots on the other side of the court.
Whatever the Shitenhoji doubles do, it makes their teammates laugh. The Rikkai bleachers are awash with frowns and puzzled looks, furrowed brows and muttering.
“Maybe they all smoke pot down in Osaka?” Kawasaki offers.
“Maybe,” Niou says.
The opponents huddle together (while groping their hands dangerously close to each other’s asses) for a moment. Niou taps his foot, irritated and wanting to finish the game faster than Kirihara’s pitiful forty-five minutes, but the Shitenhoji side keeps dragging it out with their flourishes and displays. One pulls away first, the bandana kid, who squints across the court and fixes his bandana. The megane fixes his glasses. “Rock on, Rikkai Dai!” he shouts.
Niou glares at the ref. The ref scratches his head. “Re-resume play, please!” he calls.
Finally.
But the bandana kid only takes forever with his serve, rolling a ball across his hand, then his palm, then he flicks his wrist and throws it to the megane, who throws it back, then a second. Then a third.
The bandana starts to juggle the balls.
“Can we fucking play?” Kawasaki shouts.
The bandana drops his balls, one by one they fall to the ground, bouncing behind his feet. “You only had to ask politely,” he says, throwing up a forth ball above his head, and slamming it across the net.
It whizzes by Niou’s ear, and the rush of the game returns. The pace is Rikkai’s, when they can manage to get the Shitenhoji doubles to play properly, at least.
Two rallies, one lab and five attempted smashes from Kawasaki later, Niou catches the Shitenhoji doubles. The megane makes a dive for a smash, straining and groaning and scraping his knees on the clay, sweat dribbling down his forehead, but only from that browline down. Niou squints to get a better look, and then his eyes go wide.
The megane’s wrinkles are like wax, and then his skin below is red and sweating, flesh-coloured and real.
It’s a wig, Niou thinks.
Niou snorts. He walks up to the net, looking down on the megane as he stands up and brushes off his uniform. “Take it off,” Niou says.
“Take what off, hedgehog-kun?” the megane asks sweetly, puckering his lips and gripping the hem of his t-shirt. “You want me here? Can’t you wait until we finish the game?”
“Stop that!” Niou snaps.
“We’ve been discovered, Yuu-kun,” the one who Niou knew as Yuu-kun says. And then, with a whooshing flourish of his arms, he whips off his bandana and his hair, and leans forward, grabbing the glasses from his partner. His partner peels back his short hair to reveal longer hair underneath.
Niou stares.
Kawasaki’s jaw drops.
“Y-you were each other?” he asks. “What the hell?”
“Ta da!” They shout, jumping out and up. The megane lifts the bandana kid into the arm, twirling him around like a dancer would. Kawasaki makes gagging noises behind Niou. Niou closes his eyes, rubbing his temples and wiping the sweat away.
To top it off, the idiots land in an elaborate pose of outstretched arms and bent knees.
Their coach claps.
Their teammates cheer. “Well played,” the captain says, then he whistles with his long fingers.
Their entire club explodes with laughter and clapping and cheering and whistling and cat calling. The Shitenhoji doubles blow kisses and bow to them all, then they turn and bow twice to the Rikkai crowds, who are stunned and silent.
Yukimura gives them a deathglare.
Sanada stands stonier-faced than ever.
Yanagi, however, looks bemused. Niou can only wonder what, if any, data he is absorbing on this team. That they are a bunch of moronic idiots with drawling, thick as yogurt kansai-ben accents?
Kawasaki’s play is shaken up. He can’t concentrate after the opponents’ stunt and Niou can’t blame him. He’s torn between amusement, amazement and sheer irritation that two players came onto the court disguised as each other to make their team laugh and to screw with their- Rikkai’s- heads. Kawasaki’s serve shakes, he can barely bounce the ball and he can barely bring his racket down to hit it.
Shitenhoji’s plan has worked brilliantly.
Shitenhoji takes the next three games. Niou struggles to win another two, before Shitenhoji takes two more.
They lead, 5-3.
Niou kicks himself as they change courts yet again. Pull yourself together. Stop thinking about their damned switch and play the game.
Even the voice in his head sounds like Yukimura’s soft, girlish tones. He squeezes his fist, digging his nails into his palms. He looks up into the Rikkai crowds. The cheerleaders have been pumping their pompoms, but their faces show it all, forced smiles and hollow cheers.
The game feels lost.
Shitenhoji is giving them a run for their money.
But one person in the crowds stands out. Niou doesn’t look for him this time, he finds Niou. All he has to do is stand up and stare down out across the court, almost like a soundless gong, ringing in Niou’s head, calling out to him to look and see. Yagyuu stands there. Niou strides across past the Rikkai bench, his gaze following Yagyuu.
And then Yagyuu’s face flickers, a hint of a smile, and a slight movement of his hand. A thumbs up.
Blink, and it’s gone.
Niou shakes his head. He’s losing his mind in this sun. But Yagyuu’s words are still carved into his skull. Good luck, Niou-kun.
He feels something surge through his body. His fingertips tingle, like they’ve fallen asleep. And it doesn’t feel like heatstroke.
His collar is wet with sweat. His hair hangs limp over his eyes, covering his vision and dividing it into two. But Niou pulls out that move, that imitation of Yagyuu’s laser shot. His pose with a rim-rod straight back and a curved karate flair, his racket pointing at the Shitenhoji pair.
The ball is too fast for them, a lightning flash of neon yellow electric between their stunned faces.
Niou wins the game in the end, 7-5.
His chest feels tight and he can’t breathe right. He exhales, then sucks in a breath, elation making him want to jump up himself and wave his racket around in the air because they’ve finally won against these Osaka idiots!
It feels like he’s won something else, too, because as he walks off the court towards his tennisbag and his waterbottle, Yagyuu gives him a second laser-fast thumbs up.
A megane dork would never be that sneaky.
Niou doesn’t know what to make of it. But he thinks he might like it.
***
Nishiki in singles two plays a senior from Shitenhoji. A senior who doesn’t play any tricks, who doesn’t have a powerplay style, who doesn’t do anything stupid or irritating.
Except get Nishiki worked up into a rally that lasts an hour.
Or, in this heat, it feels like an hour.
Niou waves his hand like a fan. Sweat pools in his lower back, which aches from sitting on a hard and uncomfortable bench for so long. He can smell himself and a hundred other teenage boys around and it’s almost too much, body odour and spilled soft drinks and ground hotdogs under their seats. Niou guzzles his sportsade, then a second bottle, but they have both gone lukewarm sitting in his tennisbag all morning.
Yagyuu sits nearby. Niou can tell, from the prickling on the back of his neck. He wants to turn around and make sure, but he hesitates, feeling dumb over something as silly and insignificant as a megane wishing him good luck before his game and giving him a thumbs up afterwards.
He’s not Sanada. He doesn’t obsess over things, unless it’s how best to bother one of the three monsters with a present in the sneaker or a spitball to the back of the neck.
It’s almost depressing to watch Nishiki on the court. He’s red-faced and worked up, grunting out with every swing he makes. The Shitenhoji senior plays with him, clapping between plays before another long rally will start again. Nishiki tries slices and topspins to shake the play up and start something that will end the game decisively, but the Shitenhoji player somehow always manages to return the shots as though they are nothing more than child’s play.
Niou bakes in the sun. His scalp feels like bugs are crawling through it, and then the sweat starts and it seeps into his scratches, burning up the raw skin under his hair. Niou writhes in his seat, but he can’t stop itching his head. Or sweating.
Nishiki takes a game.
Shitenhoji takes the next.
Niou closes his eyes, lolling his head against his chest, but it is too hot even to sleep. His legs stick to the wooden bench. His arms stick to his knees. Even his lips stick together, the skin cracking and fusing, melting together as Niou melts into the bleachers.
Just win, Nishiki-buchou. Fucking win and end this match.
At two seventeen in the afternoon, Nishiki swings his racket for the last time.
The tiebreaker ends, 50-48.
Niou cracks an eye open. The blinking screen at the far end of the courts isn’t a mirage, but the winner is there, announced in orange digital characters. Rikkai Dai, 7-5.
Niou closes his eyes again, and shuffles out onto the court with the rest of the regulars. Victory is sweet, but the prospect of an air-conditioned bus back to Kanagawa is even sweeter.
Author: Ociwen
Rating: NC17 (eventual)
Disclaimer: Konomi owns all.
Summary: Niou, meet Yagyuu.
Author's Notes: Spoilers for everything.
Being on the court playing tennis and being in the stands at the Nationals are two different experiences entirely. Niou thrives on the cheers from the Rikkai crowd, on the grins of the female cheerleaders and the sea of yellow jerseys, all clapping and calling his name when he steps onto the court to start. He doesn’t play round one, Thursday. They play five games and Niou is slated in as alternate- it is, after all, his turn on the players’ rotation. Only Yukimura is ever slotted in to play every round at every game.
Tennis beats going to school. It beats everything else he’s ever done with himself before, even his best and funniest pranks. The swell of pride in his chest, the grin plastered to his face before Yukimura starts complaining about everyone’s form again, it’s brilliant.
The Nationals feel like one continuous day of games. Niou doesn’t remember taking the bus back home at night. He doesn’t remember sleeping in his bed at all. He just knows the feel of his racket and the sun on his back, the hot damp in the air of Tokyo, pollution thick in this part of the city that makes him sneeze sometimes.
The second round challenger is a joke. Not even the level of Hyoutei. Niou plays Doubles Two with Kawasaki, winning 6-1. The games are all won like that, 6-1, 6-0. Niou can hardly believe it. Are the other teams in the nation that awful?
Or is Rikkai so good he just didn’t know it, playing day in and day out with these demons, Kirihara whose eyes are red after finishing a fast, fierce singles three. Sanada, who plays doubles with Yanagi, slicing through the opponent’s formations like a steel katana blade. Yukimura, who is rumoured to be the best on the circuit, who flies across the court like Satan himself, all smiles and dark glitter to his eyes as he smashes balls again and again between his opponent’s legs, more like an enemy than a rival. More like a monster who takes pleasure in seeing his prey fall to their knees.
And then on Saturday, there is Shitenhoji.
And Yagyuu, too.
Niou notices Yagyuu first, stepping off the morning bus in the stadium parking lot. Both the regulars’ bus and the other buses from the remainder of the team showed up at the same time, a hundred yellow t-shirts and jackets streaming across the asphalt.
Yagyuu is unmistakable among them, a pale brown head of hair trailing behind a shining bald brown Brazilian and a pink monstrosity that bobs along, shorter than the other two.
Niou stops in his tracks.
Yagyuu falls out of step from Marui and Jackal, disappearing into a crowd for a moment, before his form reappears, all shining megane lenses in the light, right beside Niou. Yagyuu nods once. A faint smile plays at his lips. “Good luck today, Niou-kun,” he says.
Niou doesn’t know what to think, but before he can grunt a nonchalant response and shrug it off, Yagyuu is gone completely, a dozen bouncing freshmen having come and passed in between Niou’s view.
He thinks about what Yagyuu said as he walks along behind Sanada. Niou kicks up tiny stones and bits of garbage, seeing if he can hit Sanada’s knees with them- Niou can, three times. They’ve almost never spoken and now Yagyuu has told him “Good luck”.
I don’t need luck, he thinks. I have skills and practice and tricks.
And Yagyuu said his name, too. The sound reverberates inside Niou’s head, the tone of Yagyuu’s voice, the slight lilt on some of the syllables, the upturned quirk to his lips, as though there was something amusing to Yagyuu but a something that Niou can’t figure out for himself.
It feels a bit like Yagyuu is messing with him.
Niou tries to shake the words from his mind, but they remain, lodged in his brain, eating away at his cerebral cortex or his lobes, or in whatever part of his brain they are.
Shitenhoji is something else. At first they seem like every other team Rikkai has faced at the Nationals so far, sure of themselves, confident with their play, and smug. But to top it all off, they have their accents.
“Let’s play a good match,” the captain drawls, as though he’s got too much rice stuck in his mouth and he can’t be bothered to speak properly. Nishiki shakes his hand and mutters the same thing.
Their uniforms scream of Osaka too, all flashy yellow and green patterns. Niou makes a noise of disgust that Kirihara echoes, rolling his eyes, too.
Nishiki gives them a pep-talk at the bench. He reads off a sheet of paper, then glances up at the regulars. Around them, the stands are thumping with the cheers of the crowd, Rikkai Dai club members all stomping their feet in tune with the cheerleaders’ latest chant.
“Their captain is supposed to be good,” he says. “Really good, but no one can confirm this either way, so Yukimura, you’re in singles one just in case we have to deal with him.”
“Isn’t he just a junior?” Yanagi asks.
Nishiki scrunches his brow. “How would I know?”
Yanagi smiles. “I heard he was. The only second year captain on the circuit.”
“Good that Yukimura’s in singles one then,” Nishiki says, his voice louder. “Anyway, their doubles two team is supposed to be really annoying, so Niou, it’s you and Kawasaki against them.”
Kawasaki nods. Niou cocks his head to the side, trying to peer around Nishiki to see who this annoying doubles two pair is, but he can’t tell. Shitenhoji looks like everyone else. Tall, athletic, albeit with awful accents that carry across the court like Tokyo smog, all heavy and gross. Their captain smiles when he notices Niou. Niou keeps staring.
There is a really tall and beefy player, with a shaved head. Another kid with a buzzed head, but he’s a megane dork instead. It almost looks, the way the light is shining, that the megane is holding the hand of the player beside him. Niou blinks, but he can’t tell for sure, because another player with light hair has stepped in the middle of Niou’s line of vision. The three other players on their team are non-entities, one wears a cap, one wears wrist weights, and the last swings his racket with his left hand.
It would be interesting to play another southpaw. Niou has only played a handful, including that jumpy shrimp from Hyoutei. No one else on the Rikkai regulars is left-handed.
“Singles three, Kirihara,” Kirihara looks up, grinning from ear to ear with a dark glimmer in his dark eyes. Niou can practically hear him licking his lips. “They have a strong powerplayer in singles three, but you can knock him off quickly.”
“Yes, buchou!” Kirihara says, mocking a salute. Nishiki’s eyes twitches.
“Doubles one, Sanada and Yanagi-” Sanada and Yanagi both nod, though Niou can see Sanada’s face fall a little. He was hoping for a singles spot. Instead, Nishiki takes it for himself and has Yamada on the bench.
“Singles three, Rikkai Dai vs Shitenhoji, please report to the court. Singles three please report to the court.” The overhead booms and Kirihara hops to his feet from the bleachers. “Good luck,” Yanagi says.
Good luck, Niou-kun.
A shiver runs down Niou’s spine. He glances over his shoulder, but he can’t see if there is a megane in the crowd behind him. The sun blinds from this angle, making everything except the court invisible and blurred and a bit like myopia, even.
“I’ll beat this Osaka kid in fifteen minutes,” Kirihara announces. And then as he turns to see his opponent, his cocky grin flops off his face. A hulk stands on the court, staring at Kirihara as though he were nothing but a fly.
Twenty minutes later and Niou can barely keep watching the game. Kirihara struggles to return the shots of Shitenhoji’s Ishida, this bulk of a fourteen year old who has a hadokyou shot like nothing else. Even with one hand, Ishida has the power of an ox, and the stamina to match. Kirihara might have muscles, but he looks like a shrimp on the court, one who is sent running futilely after shots that blow his racket out of his hands.
And then one shot blows a hole through Kirihara’s strings when he tries to return it. He stares at his shattered racket wordlessly, with wide red eyes, before he opens his mouth and tells the ref he needs to change rackets.
“What do I do?” Niou can hear him whine to the coach, who sits on the bench with his arms crossed.
“Just try your best-” the coach starts, when Yukimura’s shout interrupts him.
“Bullshit! Akaya, bend low on your returns and use the power in your legs and hips,” Yukimura lectures from the sideline. Niou closes his eyes. When will Yukimura ever shut up about our form? he thinks.
“Yes, Yukimura-senpai!” Kirihara says, but confidence is not in his voice. He’s trailing three games to five right now. Sweat soaks his t-shirt and he drags his legs back onto the court, already with an air of defeat. But, true to his word to Yukimura, he bends low and starts to return the shots from his lower body, with varying degrees of success.
In the end, Kirihara scrapes by with a 7-5 win. It takes forty-five minutes. As soon as he reaches the bleachers, he flops back down. Yanagi shuffles down the bench and drops a wet towel draped over Kirihara’s face.
“Doubles two will now start. Doubles two Rikkai Dai vs Shitenhoji, please report to the court. Doubles two, please report to the court.”
Niou stands up, stretching his arms above his head, then he grabs his tennis racket from his tennisbag. Kawasaki says one last word to Nishiki, then follows suit. Niou looks straight ahead, refusing to turn around and check the crowds for any signs of a megane watching him. No, he’s watching the court.
He is.
Out of the side of his eye, he takes a peak. The slight twist inside knots up and tightens a bit when he sees Yagyuu sitting besides Jackal and Marui. He drinks from a waterbottle, with his adam’s apple bobbing up and down his skinny throat.
Niou swallows. He looks back at the court, shielding his eyes with a cupped hand. The other side is completely empty. He looks at Kawasaki.
Kawasaki shrugs. “Maybe one of them needed a bathroom break?”
Niou checks his watch. The faceplate is hard to make out with the sunlight, so bright and so hot it’s as white as his hair.
“Doubles two Shitenhoji, please report to the court,” the ref calls again.
The Shitenhoji side titters. Niou scratches his head. None of the Shitenhoji regulars, all sitting in a line on their bench, seems to notice that two of their players are not on the court right now. Instead, their captain seems to be biting his lip and a couple other players are outright laughing.
Kawasaki bounces a ball. Niou swings his racket, a pendulum, back and forth, back and forth, waiting for some sign of the other doubles team.
Shitenhoji is all shifting eyes and suppressed grins.
What the hell?
Niou stops swinging his racket. He stands, and waits. Kawasaki scowls. The ref calls a third time for Shitenhoji doubles two to report to the court now.
And then, amidst the Shitenhoji players on the benches, two heads pop up with a flourish of poses and laughter.
Niou doesn’t get it.
He rolls his eyes as the Shitenhoji crowds start to make noise, soft at first, smiles and points of fingers, but then the whistles start as a megane with a buzzed head and a kid with shaggy hair behind a low-slung banana amble onto the court with their arms around each other. They trip over each other’s feet. They sway and swagger, almost as though they have had too much too drink. Or too much time in the sun.
And then they squeeze each other, dropping their rackets and hugging so tight that the slight noises from the Shitenhoji sidelines burst out into broad grins, a hundred brown Kansai students in yellow and green uniforms.
“I don’t get it,” Kawasaki mutters.
Niou shrugs.
The Rikkai sidelines are silent, waiting for the game to start in earnest and not this display of utter gay that the Shitenhoji team puts. They hold hands as they stand at the centre of their court, giggling and sticking their tongues out at Kawasaki as he starts the serve.
Ignore them, Niou reminds himself. He runs up to the net, staring down the bandana kid, who stares back at him. Niou turns his head, tipping it left, looking for anything that might give away a habit of the other player. A nervous tick. A scratch. Weight shifted onto a stronger foot.
The bandana kid is still. Then he does the same, tipping his head to the left. Or, Niou’s left. Niou steps right. The bandana steps right.
Niou takes a step backwards.
The bandana takes a step backwards, too. Always mimicking Niou’s movements to a tee as his friend runs around returning Kawasaki’s lobs.
Then Niou uses the spilt step, a quick hop right, lean forward, pull back for a smash… and he poaches.
The bandana-kun completely misses the ball, too busy watching Niou.
Checkmate.
Niou doesn’t see how this other doubles team is anything special. They bat their lashes at each other and make kissy faces as one or the other will make a lob, as though they can’t be bothered to care about anything except each other.
It is even more disgusting and pathetic than Sanada’s quiet devotion and unquestioning following of Yukimura. Except Sanada would never make faces at Yukimura like that and Yukimura would never put up with it.
“Nice serve,” the one calls out to Kawasaki.
Niou scratches his temple. Ignore them. They are only egging us on. He motions behind his back to Kawasaki. Serve to the left.
Kawasaki serves left. The bandana kid makes a half-assed run for it, but shrugs when the ball is out of reach. The megane smiles, as though it is funny to be losing point this way.
Rikkai takes the first game. Easily.
Niou slings his racket over his shoulder as they change courts. “Shitenhoji is nothing more than shit,” he tells Kawasaki. “Easy to step on and throw out.”
Kawasaki snickers.
The megane snickers too. “That pun wasn’t bad, hedgehog-kun.”
Niou stops moving. He narrows his eyes. The megane grins and pushes his glasses up his nose. His partner grabs his arm and tugs. “It wasn’t very punny,” he says.
They both laugh.
The entire Shitenhoji team laughs.
Niou blows a strand of hair from his eyes. “Puri,” he mutters. Idiots from Osaka.
“I don’t get it,” Kawasaki says again.
The first serve of the Shitenhoji doubles, Niou just watches. Something odd seems to be happening with the buzzcut megane twit’s hair. An odd line forms around his forehead. Not quite a wrinkle, but when he bends back far enough at the correct angle, it’s just visible. As though he’s stretching himself too far, putting too much effort into the ball.
Niou grips his racket with two hands, just in case he needs more power himself.
Instead, Kawasaki runs for the shot, plowing into Niou’s left side to hit the ball. “Why didn’t you get that?” he shouts.
Niou says nothing. He adjusts his feet, tightens his grip and watches. The next shot is his; he slides it across his racket face to give the ball a decent spin, then he slugs it back towards the baseline. The bandana kid lunges with a dramatic pose and misses the ball.
The ball lands with a dull thwop, bouncing three times towards the bench. The coach doesn’t move. A little ballboy from the Shitenhoji side with more metal in his ears than skin runs out and retrieves the ball.
“Don’t mind, Yuu-kun!” the megane says. His glasses glimmer. He winks at the ballboy, whose bland face falls into a disgusted grimace.
The Shitenhoji crowd whoops and pumps their arms. “You go, you idiots!” one of their teammates yells, his hands cupped around his big, slurring Kansai-ben mouth. “Show them how to laugh!”
“Kenya-kun is so cute when he’s like that,” the megane says. He flashes his teeth in a grin.
“Are you cheating on me?” the bandana accuses, his voice rising to a squeak. He clears his throat. “Koharu?”
“You two make them laugh!” the Shitenhoji coach yells from the bench. That is the first Niou has heard him speak, and if it weren’t for that, Niou would have assumed that slouching, lanky, unshaven man was asleep under his wide-brimmed hippy hat. Then, as quick as he was to sit up and speak, the coach flops back down, sticks out his long legs, and tips his hat over his eyes.
The Rikkai coach sits as straight as Sanada, silent and scowling. He doesn’t shout anything at Niou or Kawasaki. Yukimura, however, continues to watch the match with religious devotion. He shakes his head slightly. Niou can see the words on Yukimura’s mouth. “Poor form. Poor concentration. Shitty play.”
Niou snorts. Yukimura should be scheduled for doubles more often if all he does is bitch and criticize everyone else’s play, as though he’s that much better than everyone else. Except for the fact that Niou knows he is. Still, it grates his nerves and makes him clench his jaw just as much as the Osaka idiots on the other side of the court.
Whatever the Shitenhoji doubles do, it makes their teammates laugh. The Rikkai bleachers are awash with frowns and puzzled looks, furrowed brows and muttering.
“Maybe they all smoke pot down in Osaka?” Kawasaki offers.
“Maybe,” Niou says.
The opponents huddle together (while groping their hands dangerously close to each other’s asses) for a moment. Niou taps his foot, irritated and wanting to finish the game faster than Kirihara’s pitiful forty-five minutes, but the Shitenhoji side keeps dragging it out with their flourishes and displays. One pulls away first, the bandana kid, who squints across the court and fixes his bandana. The megane fixes his glasses. “Rock on, Rikkai Dai!” he shouts.
Niou glares at the ref. The ref scratches his head. “Re-resume play, please!” he calls.
Finally.
But the bandana kid only takes forever with his serve, rolling a ball across his hand, then his palm, then he flicks his wrist and throws it to the megane, who throws it back, then a second. Then a third.
The bandana starts to juggle the balls.
“Can we fucking play?” Kawasaki shouts.
The bandana drops his balls, one by one they fall to the ground, bouncing behind his feet. “You only had to ask politely,” he says, throwing up a forth ball above his head, and slamming it across the net.
It whizzes by Niou’s ear, and the rush of the game returns. The pace is Rikkai’s, when they can manage to get the Shitenhoji doubles to play properly, at least.
Two rallies, one lab and five attempted smashes from Kawasaki later, Niou catches the Shitenhoji doubles. The megane makes a dive for a smash, straining and groaning and scraping his knees on the clay, sweat dribbling down his forehead, but only from that browline down. Niou squints to get a better look, and then his eyes go wide.
The megane’s wrinkles are like wax, and then his skin below is red and sweating, flesh-coloured and real.
It’s a wig, Niou thinks.
Niou snorts. He walks up to the net, looking down on the megane as he stands up and brushes off his uniform. “Take it off,” Niou says.
“Take what off, hedgehog-kun?” the megane asks sweetly, puckering his lips and gripping the hem of his t-shirt. “You want me here? Can’t you wait until we finish the game?”
“Stop that!” Niou snaps.
“We’ve been discovered, Yuu-kun,” the one who Niou knew as Yuu-kun says. And then, with a whooshing flourish of his arms, he whips off his bandana and his hair, and leans forward, grabbing the glasses from his partner. His partner peels back his short hair to reveal longer hair underneath.
Niou stares.
Kawasaki’s jaw drops.
“Y-you were each other?” he asks. “What the hell?”
“Ta da!” They shout, jumping out and up. The megane lifts the bandana kid into the arm, twirling him around like a dancer would. Kawasaki makes gagging noises behind Niou. Niou closes his eyes, rubbing his temples and wiping the sweat away.
To top it off, the idiots land in an elaborate pose of outstretched arms and bent knees.
Their coach claps.
Their teammates cheer. “Well played,” the captain says, then he whistles with his long fingers.
Their entire club explodes with laughter and clapping and cheering and whistling and cat calling. The Shitenhoji doubles blow kisses and bow to them all, then they turn and bow twice to the Rikkai crowds, who are stunned and silent.
Yukimura gives them a deathglare.
Sanada stands stonier-faced than ever.
Yanagi, however, looks bemused. Niou can only wonder what, if any, data he is absorbing on this team. That they are a bunch of moronic idiots with drawling, thick as yogurt kansai-ben accents?
Kawasaki’s play is shaken up. He can’t concentrate after the opponents’ stunt and Niou can’t blame him. He’s torn between amusement, amazement and sheer irritation that two players came onto the court disguised as each other to make their team laugh and to screw with their- Rikkai’s- heads. Kawasaki’s serve shakes, he can barely bounce the ball and he can barely bring his racket down to hit it.
Shitenhoji’s plan has worked brilliantly.
Shitenhoji takes the next three games. Niou struggles to win another two, before Shitenhoji takes two more.
They lead, 5-3.
Niou kicks himself as they change courts yet again. Pull yourself together. Stop thinking about their damned switch and play the game.
Even the voice in his head sounds like Yukimura’s soft, girlish tones. He squeezes his fist, digging his nails into his palms. He looks up into the Rikkai crowds. The cheerleaders have been pumping their pompoms, but their faces show it all, forced smiles and hollow cheers.
The game feels lost.
Shitenhoji is giving them a run for their money.
But one person in the crowds stands out. Niou doesn’t look for him this time, he finds Niou. All he has to do is stand up and stare down out across the court, almost like a soundless gong, ringing in Niou’s head, calling out to him to look and see. Yagyuu stands there. Niou strides across past the Rikkai bench, his gaze following Yagyuu.
And then Yagyuu’s face flickers, a hint of a smile, and a slight movement of his hand. A thumbs up.
Blink, and it’s gone.
Niou shakes his head. He’s losing his mind in this sun. But Yagyuu’s words are still carved into his skull. Good luck, Niou-kun.
He feels something surge through his body. His fingertips tingle, like they’ve fallen asleep. And it doesn’t feel like heatstroke.
His collar is wet with sweat. His hair hangs limp over his eyes, covering his vision and dividing it into two. But Niou pulls out that move, that imitation of Yagyuu’s laser shot. His pose with a rim-rod straight back and a curved karate flair, his racket pointing at the Shitenhoji pair.
The ball is too fast for them, a lightning flash of neon yellow electric between their stunned faces.
Niou wins the game in the end, 7-5.
His chest feels tight and he can’t breathe right. He exhales, then sucks in a breath, elation making him want to jump up himself and wave his racket around in the air because they’ve finally won against these Osaka idiots!
It feels like he’s won something else, too, because as he walks off the court towards his tennisbag and his waterbottle, Yagyuu gives him a second laser-fast thumbs up.
A megane dork would never be that sneaky.
Niou doesn’t know what to make of it. But he thinks he might like it.
***
Nishiki in singles two plays a senior from Shitenhoji. A senior who doesn’t play any tricks, who doesn’t have a powerplay style, who doesn’t do anything stupid or irritating.
Except get Nishiki worked up into a rally that lasts an hour.
Or, in this heat, it feels like an hour.
Niou waves his hand like a fan. Sweat pools in his lower back, which aches from sitting on a hard and uncomfortable bench for so long. He can smell himself and a hundred other teenage boys around and it’s almost too much, body odour and spilled soft drinks and ground hotdogs under their seats. Niou guzzles his sportsade, then a second bottle, but they have both gone lukewarm sitting in his tennisbag all morning.
Yagyuu sits nearby. Niou can tell, from the prickling on the back of his neck. He wants to turn around and make sure, but he hesitates, feeling dumb over something as silly and insignificant as a megane wishing him good luck before his game and giving him a thumbs up afterwards.
He’s not Sanada. He doesn’t obsess over things, unless it’s how best to bother one of the three monsters with a present in the sneaker or a spitball to the back of the neck.
It’s almost depressing to watch Nishiki on the court. He’s red-faced and worked up, grunting out with every swing he makes. The Shitenhoji senior plays with him, clapping between plays before another long rally will start again. Nishiki tries slices and topspins to shake the play up and start something that will end the game decisively, but the Shitenhoji player somehow always manages to return the shots as though they are nothing more than child’s play.
Niou bakes in the sun. His scalp feels like bugs are crawling through it, and then the sweat starts and it seeps into his scratches, burning up the raw skin under his hair. Niou writhes in his seat, but he can’t stop itching his head. Or sweating.
Nishiki takes a game.
Shitenhoji takes the next.
Niou closes his eyes, lolling his head against his chest, but it is too hot even to sleep. His legs stick to the wooden bench. His arms stick to his knees. Even his lips stick together, the skin cracking and fusing, melting together as Niou melts into the bleachers.
Just win, Nishiki-buchou. Fucking win and end this match.
At two seventeen in the afternoon, Nishiki swings his racket for the last time.
The tiebreaker ends, 50-48.
Niou cracks an eye open. The blinking screen at the far end of the courts isn’t a mirage, but the winner is there, announced in orange digital characters. Rikkai Dai, 7-5.
Niou closes his eyes again, and shuffles out onto the court with the rest of the regulars. Victory is sweet, but the prospect of an air-conditioned bus back to Kanagawa is even sweeter.