[A/N] This is one of the few stories where our protagonists lost each other with distance, almost forgetting each other's existence. So we're practically starting from scratch.
Disclaimer: I don't own PoT though. Just this plot, if you shall, and the OC's.
o o o
Chapter 1 |Portrait
For years and years of roaming the globe, achieving and winning titles he so deserved and worked hard for, he decided he needed a break. . . he, the Prince of Tennis, Ryoma Echizen.
A pair of Stan Smith sneakers hopped off the car, and set themselves steadily on the ground in front of the wooden gate of the modern residence he knows quite well as well as he knows his own from childhood. With a smile gracing his handsome features, he was filled with pleasant memories as he caught glance of the graceful figure of a woman shuffling to the gates, to welcome him. "Indeed, it was nice to be back home," he thought. Well, especially to the sight of a beautiful fine lady looking warmly at you.
She mirrored the smile of the prince, and gave away more. Her 23 years doesn't look like her, for most people would have mistaken her 18 or 20 at most. Her golden shoulder-length wavy hair fluttering with the wind and her emerald, expressive eyes smiling as well.
While his gorgeous smile never leaving, pink plump lips landed to his cheek and her arms wrapped around his neck freely whilst closing the distance between them.
"I've missed you," said she, her eyes sincere and serene, full of reminiscence and affection for him. "I missed you too," he replied echoing her candor.
Fading into the background, breaking the tranquillity of his welcome, came an announcement of her mother's miniature, "DAAAAAAAAD~" she screams. Dashing when she came, she sprang herself to him without reservations, almost sending them both off balance.
"Maki-chan!" he exclaimed, or more like squeaked as he hug her back.
"I missed you Dad!" she said as she squeezes him adoringly, her eyes closed.
"I missed you too, Maki-chan." He replied, smiling. The five-year-old has the same pretty features and golden locks as her mother. The only give away which, without doubt, will tell the world she has the Echizen blood was her hazel feline eyes he knew looks just like his.
Slowly withdrawing herself from his embrace, she finally look at him squarely.
". . ."
". . ." Ryoma smiling from ear to ear.
"Uncle!" she looked shocked, and he giggles, "I was close to fooling you, eh?"
She gave her mom a look of question to which she smilingly replied, "he'll be here very soon too, darling."
"Aren't you glad to see me, Maki-chan?" said Ryoma, smiling to the child.
"Well, I very am uncle!" she replied before hugging him again, "but why isn't Dad with you?" she finally asked.
"He needed to go someplace first," explaining while he rummage in the duffel bag he set on the ground beside him, "but maybe he'll be here before you finish this?" flashing a grin and a rainbow-colored dessert he randomly picked from the candy store at the airport.
He stood straight and again glanced at the house with thoughtful eyes, and breathed in deeply the supposedly fresh air but, "I smell something burning," he said matter-factly.
"Ah!" Makoto panicked, "oh no, I left the stove open, wait," as hurriedly as she was at the gate, she run back to the house.
Ryoma laughed heartily at the clumsiness of her sister-in-law. "All the same," he murmured to no one in particular then went off to fetch the rest of his belongings from the car.
o o o
"Here," Ryoga handed Ryoma the forms he needed to fill-in for his transfer to the university of his choice, while in his other arm he carries his lovely daughter.
Gently setting her down beside her uncle, Ryoma skimmed through the papers at hand. He sat himself after on the seat across his younger image, waiting for his wife of five years, Makoto, finish setting the table for dinner.
"So," Ryoga started, "you really final about this?" referring to stalling his career at Tennis after winning the Grand Slam at the young age of 18.
"For now." He admitted.
In fact he wasn't really sure if living for anything other than tennis will eventually make sense to him, because practically his whole life, until when he won the grandest title for any tennis players, which even his father and brother failed at achieving— was dedicated to the sport. And so, if anything, he's really taking chances.
For the record, it didn't took him long to decide that he wanted to give college a shot. For the past few celebratory months of his great victory, doing interviews and photo shoots, many have voiced their curiosity whether this shall be his transition to retirement. But he explained, "Not at all. I will not retire from Tennis. I don't think I can anyways," with a pause, "my dad will beat me," his humour delivered somehow.
"But I have to admit that I will have a lot of adjustment to do to accommodate the sports and studies."
". . . and love, perchance." An interviewee jested. He just laughed.
He doesn't remember when he had this crazy idea actually, that maybe he could pull off another course for his life now. But without doubt, his family has been supportive of him in his goal. He was in fact surprised that his father would approve, more than anyone else.
"You need a life, kid," he replied without much thought, one time over the phone, "and to promote the Echizen blood," the young lad hung up almost immediately, knowing where the conversation is headed. But he smiled to his father's unfamiliar empathetic nature.
With the two weeks left before the term starts, Ryoma processed his papers efficiently. He had 3 days spare so he went to Kyoto to pay his parents a visit.
Nothing seemed significantly changed in their traditional house. "Nothing of sorts I would notice, anyways," he thought to himself while he traverse the hallway leading to his bedroom. Even his room was the same as he remembered when he last came and actually slept in it, sometime three years ago. His mom did well in keeping it tidy, he mused.
Since he started competing in Australia as well, he hardly ever gets the chance to set foot in Kyoto. When they come to Japan for appointments, and only when his schedule allows, the family would enjoy the warmth of Ryoga's home in Tokyo, and most times only for a day or three.
Ryoga was made Ryoma's road manager for close to six years, their father resigning from the post. Naturally, he was with Ryoma most of the time, in all his matches, interviews, trainings, everything, all over the world, therefore he's only home once in a while.
"I would like to fire you many times. . ." he told his older brother on Maki's third birthday, her first as his acknowledged daughter, and also Wimbledon's final match "just so you can be with them."
"So dad will kill me, you mean?" he replied sarcastically.
How their dad beating them to death became an inside joke, they could not fathom as well. But they knew it's not half a lie.
Ryoma idly inspected the things he have left in the comfort of his room all the while he rise to stardom. He found his signature cap neatly placed on his nightstand; his old Seigaku jacket pinned and framed, hanging on the wall beside his bed, along with his varsity jackets as national representative to his prominent matches. He smiled to himself when he noticed how they show his growth over the years, the most recent ones barely fitting the frame, folded to only display the print on the back which read 'Ryoma Echizen, Japan'.
Atop the study table he used to study in (or never used at all actually), he found a piece he thought he saw for the first time in his life, and perhaps, was true enough. Uprightly leaning by the wall behind, and beside a tennis ball he almost forgot having possessed, one of which has a caricature of his younger self—was a painting, acrylic on canvass, a portrait of him smiling.
His brows creased in thought of how he deserved such magnificent painting, glowing in his perspective. Inspecting, sadly, it doesn't bear any initials of the artist.
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[A/N] Yey! Done with the first chapter of a new story. I am close to wrapping up "It's About Time" so it's about time to start another. What do you think about it? Feel free to tell me.