Disclaimer: Tennis no Oujisama doesn't belong to me.
#1 Reconcile
They stood across the court from each other, breathing heavily, sweat beading on their foreheads and then sliding down, slowly. A ball had rolled to the leg of a bench, abandoned; the two players could not be bothered to pick it up. A hand came up, brushed away the sheen of perspiration, and thrust into a pocket -- it drew out another ball.
He served.
He returned.
If the return was less focused than usual,
the server said nothing.
The two rallied back and forth, the ball manipulated across the clay with sheer talent, adrenaline, youth, and maybe something a bit like apology. It was late; the stars battled the light from the city, and evening rush hour had since passed into the occasional drunk businessman stumbling through the sidewalks.
He served.
He returned.
If the return was sharper than usual,
the server said nothing.
Eventually they stopped at the same minute, same second. One passed around the side of the net, walked briskly, passed by his partner in a slide of skin on skin, and in the small contact was a word,
"Sorry,"
and the ball by the bench's leg was picked up, not abandoned after all. They left together, leaving the court glowing in the nightlights, and went home.
AN: Who do you think it is?