A/N: Based off of Impressions, by the lovely EmeraldLily7918. If you haven't read that, I suggest you give it a try; there are some things here that relate to said fanfic. However, by no means do you have to read it to understand. This isn't exactly romance; if you squint, it can be taken as an OC x Yukimura. It's more of a friendship fic - someone looking at him from an outsider's perspective.
For some reason it glitches if this line/sentence is deleted. o.o
Perhaps it was her luck. Perhaps it was more than luck, less than luck. Back when they'd first started playing tennis, they'd gone to the same tennis club. The adults had always adored him. Worshipped him. Preened him to be what they wanted him to be.
"Look at that boy," they would say. "Yukimura Seiichi. So gifted, and so young." Then they would point him out, a speck of white and blue in a sea of moving forms, sometimes practicing a backhand, sometimes perfecting a ground stroke. "He's definitely something."
And they would single him out. "When you grow up, you would want to play just like him. Effortless grace, powerful returns. That's how tennis should be. Strive to beat him, that's how you'll rise." (Should be, yet only he could play like that; funny, wasn't it?)
No one ever did.
He left a lasting impression on her. And that was how he always appeared to her; something so close, yet so far away. His demeanor, so pleasant yet cold at the same time.
Things changed. Time flew by in the blink of an eye, stolen right out from underneath her. He enrolled at Rikkai Dai Fuzoku, as did she. The bitter feeling of walking in the prodigy's footsteps never failed to leave an acrid taste in her mouth.
When she was younger, when Yukimura Seiichi hadn't been in the picture, she had been the centre of attention. They'd praised her.
"Look at that girl. She's one to watch out for. Look at that serve!"
She found solace in the girl's tennis club; he steadily rose in the ranks of his. And that was how it was - she, ace. He, captain.
Yukimura Seiichi, the Child of God. Demigod. Several years back, she would have laughed at the name bestowed upon the boy that contradicted everything she knew. She wasn't laughing anymore.
She didn't understand him. She didn't think anyone did. He and Sanada Genichirou were the closest, yet that didn't say a lot. The aura he exuded was inviting and dissuading at the same time. Approachable yet not.
The way he was able to make someone think he was sympathizing with them when he didn't care; the way he always wore his smiles.
Teachers adored him - loved, loved, loved him to pieces. He was their model student. The perfect example. Charming, kind, and helpful; always there before they even opened their mouths to ask for help or a volunteer.
She was always a step behind. And by then she'd almost come to accept it. The boy's team first; the girl's team second. And perhaps that was what pulled her through long nights after each crushing defeat - she was more than a shadow. Her team was more than a shadow.
In that moment he became her obstacle, her motivation. She would pull her team through this. Lead them and show the world they were equals, if not better.
The next time they met was captain to captain; eye to eye. He was just as she remembered him; as laid back as ever, yet ruling his regulars with a gentle and iron fist.
"We'll win against Seigaku," she'd said. "For Rikkai."
He'd merely smiled; humorless and razor sharp, leaving the option of defeat unmentionable.
Seigaku's captain was good. Better than good, even. She was forced to be on the defense for the first portion of the match; the points trickled by.
Love - 15.
Love - 30.
Love - 40.
It kept on going as her breaths grew more and more ragged; more and more desperate. Her team watched from the sidelines. His team watched from the sidelines. He watched from the sidelines.
And in that moment, as their eyes briefly met, she realized she couldn't afford to lose. For Rikkai. (For Yukimura, for her pride - not that she would admit that.)
They usually didn't talk much.
They would pass each other in the halls without as much as a backwards glance. Occasionally, he would find it in himself to give a curt nod, sometimes even a brief smile - she would always return it, whether or not she meant to; wanted to. There was something about him that made rejecting such a minute gesture seem blasphemous.
The first time he'd willingly struck up a long conversation - a meaningful conversation - was on that dull Saturday night.
He'd approached her after she'd sent the thugs along, and comforted the terrified girl. "Did you know her? That girl?" And his eyes had been ever so bright and curious and clear and unreadable.
She had smiled back. "Do I need to know someone to help them?"
Anxiety surged through her veins. Would he disapprove of her actions? And then - When did she actually care about what he thought of her? (Right. Since forever.)
Afterwards, he offered to walk her back to her place - and she'd accepted. Walking side by side, two figures shadowed by vibrant umbrellas, and somehow, the envy in her heart eased, if just by a little.
He was a bit more humane than she'd expected.
Funny how the smallest mistakes could lead to the greatest disasters. She wondered if it would be appropriate for her to bury her face in her hands at that moment - judging from the attention her team was garnering, she thought not. Smug faces leered across the court; calculating ones peered down from the crowd.
"And the winner… is Hyoutei!" From all corners of the arena, spectators burst out into cheers and applause. They were mocking her. They were mocking her team.
She wouldn't stand for it - not when they'd come so far. Yet, the words kept eluding her. What should (could, would) she say?
Yellow and black. Her eyes instantly latched onto the figures in the audience. And her heart sank lower. He was looking at her. Their eyes met - hers vacant, his calm.
And it hit her - he wasn't blaming her. True, they'd lost at the nationals. Yet they wouldn't stay down.
She whirled around, standing so she was facing her team mates; girls of every height, crestfallen and tired. She drew herself up to her full height.
"We won't stay down. We're Rikkaidai."
The words rang in the air and the dying applause revived again.
They'd held true to their promise. They'd swept Hyoutei in the semi-finals that year, had taken the gamble against Seigaku and nearly come out on top – until it happened.
It had been the final game; the deciding game. Both she and her opponent had been running low on stamina, both rallying back and forth; desperately praying for the other to mess up and give in.
A battle of perseverance; a battle of willpower.
Then the red hot flare of pain as one second she stood upright, shifting her weight to get the power needed for a return, and the next second, the awkward thwack of the ball hitting and going awry and herself on the ground gasping for air.
All she knew were the waves of fire radiating upward from her ankle. (It hurt – like hell.) She vaguely remembered, sometime afterwards as the paramedics arrived, the wayward tennis ball, rolling next to the net on her side of the court.
A bitter smile.
So she hadn't gotten it over.
At the glaringly white hospital room, they'd told her. A severely sprained ankle was what the doctor said.
"It's not that… bad, is it?"
The doctor was silent for a second. Two. "Perhaps. I hate to say it, but with how severe the sprain is, it's unlikely it'll ever heal completely."
And her world; her dreams shattered.
A year ago, she would've been in the court, barking orders and watching as her vice-captain bothered the freshman to no end. Yet here she was, slumped against the side of the school, wondering whether or not to set foot in the tennis court. (Truly a sight, wasn't she?)
A foot forward and two steps back.
She bit back a cry of frustration, free hand coming around to cradle her racquet arm – feeling a phantom twinge of pain as her mind simply would not (never, never, never) stop replaying that match.
Hesitantly, she put a bit more of her weight onto the previously injured foot; wincing as the phantom sensation became real – not crippling, yet a consistent undertone.
She didn't know what she was doing there; since her future had rejected her and she in turn had rejected it.
"Well? Are you going to play?" The soft voice sounded from behind her; she nearly tripped in her haste to turn.
Yukimura Seiichi, looking a bit worse for wear after being discharged from the hospital as well, but otherwise as perfect as ever.
Her response is instantaneous. "What do you think?" she sneered. As if.
The Child of God tilted his head, eyes strangely bright (but again aren't they always) and headed off; leaving her alone to her misery once more. Leaving her behind – like always. One step ahead, and still as much of a mystery as ever.
He looked back once, footsteps halting. "She'll be there at the tournament in a few months."
Her head snapped up.
Step, step, lunge. Step, lunge.
Step, step, lunge. Step, lunge.
She could feel his presence; he'd been standing there for a good five minutes already. The boys had finished their training some time ago, as had the girls. Her footwork was still shaky – she'd stayed behind to straighten it out.
True, her ankle was still bothering her, but the rare moments of pain and instability were coming on less and less.
"How's my footwork?" she asked, slowing to take a short break. (Even after all this time she was still looking for his recognition; his praise, wasn't she? Pathetic. Pathetic. Or was it normal to seek the attention...?)
He was inspecting her once again. And with the tone that she could never tell if it was meant to be serious or teasing, he uttered: "Terrible."
A/N: There. Done. Sort of a story told in fragments, if you will. Thanks for reading. c;
-Azure