Title: SHOUT OUT
Summary: There's just something about the way his name rolls off people's tongue. Probably.
His opponents, Tezuka realizes suddenly during a match with a seeded player in the ranks of the US Open, have a thing with yelling out his name, loudly, whenever they play him. Almost every player he's gone up against will be screaming "TEZUKA!" (with various intonations on the differing syllables of his name: Atobe's somewhat melodramatic "Tezuka!"; or Sanada's "TEZUKAAA," that makes him wonder if Sanada actually gets any enjoyment out of playing tennis; though it's not as bad as, say: "TeZOOOOKA!" by that American who just wouldn't leave him alone) after he's activated the zone or pulled a zero-shiki or done something that turns the tide to his favor. It makes him feel as if he shouldn't be aware of what his own name is.
He wonders if this is a normal thing, and watches other matches with other players where he's not involved. There's never any passionate name-screaming—though there is the occasional "COME ON!", swearing, or anger-induced tantrums.
It's somewhat irritating, it makes him extremely uncomfortable, it baffles him entirely. Usually he wouldn't hesitate to ask Inui or Fuji to clarify what it means—if it means anything, and why—until he remembers that they do the same thing.
It's only when he's playing against Echizen again, in an abandoned court in the city after a tiring day of preliminary matches, that he notices he unconsciously does it as well. Not scream out his own name, no: Echizen's.
He understands then (kind of) why someone would feel the need to scream out their opponent's name. The comprehension jolts through him, and he remembers every other time he's played Echizen with sudden clarity; how the urge to call out bubbles from the tip of his tongue and refuses to quell even after he's bitten down hard on the impulse.
He's the one that starts it all the time with Echizen, calling out to him as he slams back a particularly heavy ball. The only difference to a match with anyone else is that Echizen replies in turn (though with the title he no longer holds instead of his name) when Tezuka drags the ball into his circle.
This understanding brings elation to him as much as it irks him; because this only explains himself and Echizen and no one else.
He suddenly doesn't feel like playing tennis with anyone but Echizen. He pulls out his phone and presses a single button.
When the monotonous ringing is silenced by a small grunt, Tezuka says, "Echizen?"
"What is it?" Echizen's voice sounds hazy and thick. He's perhaps woken the boy up from his afternoon nap.
He doesn't say anything for a while.
There's a long pause before Echizen speaks up again. "Buchou?"
When Tezuka fails to answer, Echizen scoffs. The faint static cuts off to the duller-sounding ringtone as Echizen hangs up on him.
Tezuka smiles.