Hi, everyone whose reading this! I'm writing this because I felt like writing something about PoT, while listening to the song Riot by Three Day's Grace, and Wha-la! This songfic was born! Ryoma's pretty angsty in this, just so you know. I took his relationship with someone and made it angstified!
Disclaimer: I do not own PoT, no matter how many times I wish it was true.
Tennis.
It was the only thing he could think about, yet everything he could care less about. He didn't even like the sport. So why did he continue playing? Why did he devote every second of his time to hit a ball back and forth, watching as it would whiz past him, watching the man on the other side of the net smirk in pleasure? It made every single of his nerves grind, made his tongue tingle with distaste, made him want to throw the racquet on the ground and storm off. Every time he stepped near that stupid fucking (A/N: I don't think Ryoma swears, but I'm making him) court he wanted to turn around and go back the other way. He felt so angry, so used up. It was all for him, his father, but he never acknowledged him, never praised him, never even had a proper conversation with him. He was too engrossed in those 'adult' magazines. He had wanted him to play tennis in the first place. So why did he feel so ripped off, so stepped on, yet never back down? Why did he feel so empty?
If you feel so empty,
So used up, so let down
If you feel so angry
So ripped off, so stepped on
You're not the only one
Refusing to back down
So get up
He felt like just snapping, like letting all his frustration and neglect out on the man who had caused him to be like this. He was just an empty vessel, every emotion sucked out by tennis. He didn't smile. People said he was good at hardly showing his emotions, but that was because he just didn't feel them. Sometimes he wanted to start a freakin riot. He wanted to just let everything out and, for once, be the one inflicting the sense of loss, pain and grief, the feeling of defeat, the thought that one is completely useless and not worth paying attention to. The feeling that eventually brews to hate. A bitter hate filled with longing, neglect and utter hurt. And that was going to happen one day. One day soon, with how things were going. His mind was going to snap, and all the emotions he had been bottling up in the deepest crevice of his frozen heart were going to come flooding out in a big tidal wave of rage. And he wouldn't care if his father felt hurt or confused, for he wanted to let him feel what it was like to be yelled at when he didn't hit the frickin ball in the right direction, and be ignored when he actually made an accomplishment. He just wanted to start a riot.
Let's start a riot, a riot
Let's start a riot
Let's start a riot, a riot
Let's start a riot
He felt filthy whenever he was playing –or had just finished playing- a match of tennis. It was like just stepping on the ashen court, a racquet and ball in each hand, made dirt and muck writhe all over his body, making him inwardly shudder with revulsion. Whenever he hit that small green ball with that firm racquet, feeling his hand tingle with the force of the ball slamming against those strings, he gagged slightly, wanting to run and throw up in the toilet. Yet his body forced him to stay on the court, playing against complete idiots who didn't even know how to play properly. He hated hearing all those people cheer whenever he won a match, whenever he won them the District Tournament or whatever. He just wanted his frickin Dad to notice him for once. That was the only reason he played tennis, yet he felt so fucked off, so pissed off, so walked on, so painful whenever he only gave a slight nod of the head to acknowledge him. But he refused to back down, for he was determined to make his father notice him. Even for just a second, he didn't care. All he wanted was for his father to become aware of him and how hurt he felt.
If you feel so filthy
So dirty, so fucked off
If you feel so walked on
So painful so pissed off
You're not the only one
Refusing to back down
So get up
He had won the Seigaku Tennis team the fucking Nationals of the whole of Japan, and opened the pinnacle of perfection, and what had his father done? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not even a 'Congratulations, son'. When had he last been called by his name? It was always 'Seshounen', 'kid' or 'boy', never 'Ryoma'. It was like he didn't even think of him as his son. Just some kid that he'd picked up off the street and taught to play tennis. He found Playboy (A/N: I'm not sure if they have that in Japan, but I'm just making it) more interesting than spending time with his child. Why didn't his mother throw all the magazines out, or throw a fit? Why was she fine with her husband staring at nude woman while her son was feeling painful, filled with despair? He felt like just throwing everything in the dust, having a massive tantrum, and telling his Father what he felt. Everything he had done was for nothing anyway. He just wanted to start a riot.
Let's start a riot, a riot
Let's start a riot
Let's start a riot, a riot
Let's start a riot
Sometimes he just wanted to run away from everything, just give up and get away from it all. Deep down in the darkest part of his heart, he knew that the only possible way to get his Dad to notice him would be to either be put in hospital for serious injury, fall into a coma or die. And he had contemplated many times to end it, to make all the pain and misery stop. But whenever the glinting, tantalizing knife came close to his wrist, he couldn't do it. Images of all the people that would be affected by his death flashed through his mind, and he would put it down before he could draw a line of blood. When he was little, when his Dad played horsie with him and bought him blocks and toys to play with, he felt happy, full of life and emotions. But then he dropped those childish games and picked up the racquet and tennis ball. And the moment his little hands had grasped the hard, ugly racquet for the first time was when all the happiness had been drained out of his life.
If you feel so empty
So used up, so let down
If you feel so angry
Just get up
He knelt in his room, ugly feel of the racquet in his hand, wondering what he had become. In all the photos he had of himself, there was none with him smiling. No matter how close you looked, you wouldn't even see the faintest curving of his lips. The closest thing that came to a smile would be a cocky, mocking smirk gracing him. Now here he was, the only 12-year-old regular in Seigaku (or anywhere, except for that other kid whose name I forgot), on his knees in his tennis-covered room with tears streaming down his cheeks for the first time in seven years. He couldn't stop the flow of salty tears leaking from his eyes. Even though he had people surrounding him every minute of his life, he had never felt so alone, as if his shadow was the closest thing to a companion he had. It was times like then that he wanted to break the racquet into a million splinters and never touch one again. He wanted to start a riot, throwing tennis out of his life and never let it back in. But he knew that he wouldn't be able to, for it would mean his Dad would never notice him, and if he did it would be in disappointment and scorn. Why don't you talk to me, Dad? Why can't you see all I want is a father who spends time with me, one who acts like he has a son…?
"Ryoma, can we talk…?"
Let's start a riot, a riot
Let's start a riot
Let's start a riot, a riot
Let's start a riot
Well, it's pretty short, but did you like it? I hope Ryoma wasn't too foul-mouthed or angsty for you…Just so you know, that was Nanjiroh speaking at the end. Please tell me what you think by leaving a review or PM!