Ryoma is such a brat. Which means getting into his head was like getting into mine three months ago. ...yeah, whatever. It's probably not a good idea to overly identify yourself with anime characters, is it:amused:
Stability
When Ryoma has run thirty laps around the tennis courts, his muscles start to burn. Twenty more, and sweat begins to trickle down his forehead. He has to blink them out of his eyes, stop them from stinging, and thirty more laps later he'll be bent over, hands on his knees, panting. He'll flick his bangs out of his eyes, and if it's hot Buchou will have stopped them twenty laps earlier. He'll take advantage of the short break to head over to the cafeteria and buy a popsicle, or find a vending machine and buy Ponta. Maybe one for Momo-sempai, if he wants leverage to make him buy burgers after school. Normally though, he doesn't bother with leverage and just makes him.
The next day the cycle repeats, and Ryoma pushes himself harder. Faster.
"Slow down, brat," Momo-sempai pants from behind him, thudding on his heels, and Ryoma refuses to listen.
He wants to be the best. He wants to beat his father, and to do that he'll have to beat Buchou. And to beat Buchou, he'll have to beat Fuji-sempai.
He doesn't know how he feels about that.
Fuji-sempai is mada mada dane despite how Ryoma has never been able to beat him. This has less to do with how well he plays than it does with how much better he could be, if he would stop taking this so lightly.
"It's only a game," Fuji reminds him, quiet and pensive. "It's not as important as you make it out to be."
How can Fuji-sempai say that? Ryoma wonders. Tennis is so much more than a game—it's about rituals and comfort and endurance, about an opponent on the other side of the court who just might beat him and just might not. And if they do, he has to beat them next time they play. Tennis is the burning in his lungs when he's played too long, the ache in his arms and legs and lower back, and it's about pushing himself until he collapses, and getting back up and doing it all over again. Tennis is so much more than a hobby to be carelessly discarded when bored.
He can't tell Fuji-sempai any of this if he doesn't already know. Instead, he pulls his cap lower over his face so he won't have to look Fuji-sempai in the eye and see how very different they are, and says, "Mada mada dane."
His fan club calls him the Prince of Tennis and he thinks the magazines do too. He can't bring himself to care—it's only a label, after all, and tennis is about more than labels.
Fuji-sempai invites him to his house, smiling teasingly and holding up a magazine. He flips it open to a page where a photographer has caught Ryoma mid-serve, and the photographer is obviously female because she has accentuated his face, focusing on the determination and concentration. (Ryoma remembers that match. He won.) At least, that's what Fuji-sempai claims.
He accepts anyway. "Give me that," he mutters and stuffs it into his backpack, knowing that copies have already been passed around campus; his fan club and perhaps Fuji will have seen to that.
"Where's your brother?" he asks, not all that curious, as he toes off his shoes and leaves them against the doorsill. They face out while the rest of the shoes face inwards. He wonders if that means anything and dismisses it; it's a silly coincidence.
It's several minutes into an expectant silence (with Fuji doing all the expectance and Ryoma the silence) when Ryoma finally asks his question. "Fuji-sempai."
"Yes?" Still smiling, in a distinctly disturbing way. Ryoma tries not to let it get to him.
"Why did you..."
"Why did I what?"
"...Why did you...kiss me?" Ryoma asks. His voice does not crack on the last two words, and he feels proud of himself before remembering that's a perfectly ridiculous thing to feel.
Fuji glances at him. "You're my friend," he says simply. "Almost like a younger brother." Ryoma decides that this is not the best news he has ever heard, but declines from mentioning it. "I decided to show you my affection."
Ryoma's palms itch. He opens his hand, and closes it, and wants nothing more than the steady, comforting weight of a tennis racket in his hand. Tennis, he thinks, is much more than a game, and much simpler than life.
He does not know why Fuji-sempai has invited him over. Maybe it's just as he said: they are friends, and friends go to each other's houses. Would this mean he had to invite Fuji over to his? Ryoma begins mentally cataloging how long it will take his cousin and mother to clean the house; he rarely brings friends over, and his mother always seems happier when he does.
"Are you hungry? It's almost dinnertime." Fuji-sempai is the perfect host. Ryoma wonders why this surprises him.
"...Yeah." His reply comes out unsure. He wishes this were his own room so Karupin could come slinking in and curl up on his lap, make him feel more comfortable with his sempai. If this were his own house, his sorry excuse for a father could come slouching in and break the silence, and it's a testimony to just how uneasy Ryoma feels if he actually wants his father around.
Fuji-sempai goes still. "Ah," he murmurs. "Yuuta is here." The door opens and closes with a slam, and there's the clatter of shoes being kicked off, scooped up and placed more neatly against the door, and then the cheerful "Tadaima!"
Ryoma thinks that's the creepiest thing he's ever seen.
He calls his parents and tells them he won't be coming home for dinner. He can hear his father saying in the background that the shounen is probably at some pretty girl's house and to remind him that he can't take care of a kid yet, still being one himself.
Ryoma makes a mental note to burn whatever magazines he can find.
Pervert, he thinks, and goes to the bathroom, washes his hands, and joins Yuuta and Fuji for dinner.
Yuuta stares between Fuji and Ryoma for a moment or two. Nobody talks, until Fuji-sempai clears his throat and begins retelling what exactly happened that day on the tennis courts.
Ryoma slumps down as far as he can go in his seat. Yuuta shoots him a sympathetic, albeit mocking, look.
Fuji-sempai's smile when he holds out an extra-large T-shirt would make the hairs on the back of Ryoma's neck stand up if they hadn't already run away long ago.
"You can't sleep in your clothes," Fuji-sempai says.
"I'll be fine," Ryoma mutters. It's not because he's modest—he and Fuji-sempai have showered together in the locker rooms (though it's never been just the two of them). It's just...something's changed between them. Ryoma, who rarely speaks because he's learned it's much easier to observe, can sense it. It makes him feel vaguely trapped, the chains just loose enough to give him some illusion of freedom.
"Here," Fuji-sempai says and the next half hour is spent forcing Ryoma into a T-shirt and getting him out of his tennis shorts (thank God the shirt reaches his knees). Fuji-sempai smiles at him. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" he asks pleasantly, never mind that one strand of hair is sticking to his forehead and the rest has taken on a limper look.
"Mada mada dane," Ryoma mumbles and climbs into bed with Fuji-sempai, cursing his father for having had enough influence on him to make him realize the sheer...whatever of that thought. Burn all of his magazines, Ryoma decides.
The rain drums on the roof, beating a tempo that keeps Ryoma awake for an hour. He tries to sleep, then remembers that the easiest way to fall asleep is to try not to (it makes no sense, so he always doubts it, even though it always works), and he just listens to Fuji-sempai breathe.
When he opens his eyes again Fuji's face is close enough for him to feel as if he's drowning in blue, but Fuji pulls away and starts walking to the bathroom. He sits up, blankets pooling around his waist.
"...Fuji-sempai?" Ryoma opens his mouth to ask what exactly Fuji-sempai thinks he's doing, but closes it. If Fuji-sempai doesn't want to talk, Ryoma won't ask.
"I'll be done in a moment," Fuji says and slips into the bathroom. The shower turns on and Ryoma blinks before lying back down, hands behind his head. It's much harder to wake up when Karupin's not around to poke at him for food.
Fuji-sempai leaves the bathroom fully dressed—he must have taken his clothes with him, Ryoma thinks distractedly, but I didn't see him so how...?—and smile firmly in place. "Coming?" he asks, and one elegant hand sneaks down to ruffle Ryoma's hair.
"Fuji-sempai," Ryoma grouches before swinging his legs over to the ground. Fuji-sempai has oh-so-thoughtfully provided a toothbrush for him and he uses it, thinking about annoying sempais and how they always have an urge to ruffle his hair, hug him, or demand burgers from him.
Breakfast is not something Ryoma wants to think about. Ever.
He makes a mental note to thoroughly destroy Yuuta on the tennis courts the next time he sees him.
Something very...strange is happening. It's a kind of hum in the air that makes him hunch his shoulders and move quickly through the crowds, trying to get away from everyone. His skin crawls at the thought of contact, and he avoids anyone who looks like they so much as want to breathe near him.
It does not help when he finds Fuji-sempai outside his door. Smiling. Ryoma is not surprised but extraordinarily unnerved by that.
"Hello, Ryoma."
"Fuji-sempai? What are you doing here?" He thinks he might already know the answer.
"Waiting for you." Of course. They walk together.
Ryoma makes a habit of reading people's body language; it comes in handy in tennis, when players have to position themselves according to whatever shot they're going to make, and when there's a world of difference between a fake and an actual shot. It says what kind of player they are: Buchou is precise and poised, posture straight and spine unbending. Kaidoh-sempai is strong and assured, much like Momo-sempai—he makes a mental note to tell him that.
Fuji-sempai walks too close to him for comfort, their fingers barely brushing. He turns to look at Ryoma when he speaks, upper torso twisting and practically cornering Ryoma. He smiles genuinely, not the simple twist of lips that Ryoma has come to associate with him, and his eyes have opened enough for some of the blue to shine through.
Blue, Ryoma thinks. He's never really liked the color. There's nothing wrong with it of course, but it's never been a color that has ever appealed to him.
Still. Fuji-sempai's eyes are a very nice shade of blue. Ryoma could get used to them.
His cap has remained clean and white over the year, and goes sailing off his head when Eiji's ball skims over him.
"Nya, sorry, Ochibi!" he hears Eiji call. "Fuji, go get his hat for him!" All activity stops for a moment as heads swivel over to where Fuji is standing.
It's unlike Eiji-sempai to be so bossy, Ryoma thinks, right before Fuji picks up his hat and hands it to him. Their fingers touch briefly.
What a cliché, Ryoma thinks, and that night it's hard for him to sleep without thinking of the steady rhythm of Fuji-sempai's breathing.
Ryoma is practicing against one of the new tennis walls, the ones where the ball bounces off the wall and he hits back. He doesn't like it; chances are that few people are going to hit back his serves anyway, so what's the point?
Fuji-sempai finds him. "Would you like to play tennis with me?"
Ryoma hesitates. I don't know, lingers on his lips as he stares up at Fuji's very wide, open eyes. Yes, hisses his mind.
Fuji-sempai's lips curve up into a smile. Ryoma follows the movements before realizing what he's doing, thinking that he needs to break that habit.
Fuji-sempai's smile is very kind. "Are you afraid of me?"
Ryoma answers instinctively, "No." He's not afraid of anybody, but Fuji-sempai makes his heart beat quickly the way it does when he's afraid. His breath catches in his throat as Fuji-sempai leans closer, still smiling. His eyes widen, and his palms begin to sweat—unusual, he notes. Fear is not a feeling he enjoys.
"Then there shouldn't be any problems," Fuji-sempai says and turns away, racket over one shoulder. "After practice?"
"All right," Ryoma mumbles and escapes.
The betrayal comes hard and swift, catching Ryoma off-guard and hitting him where it hurts. He hears Fuji-sempai announce his resignation—tennis is just a hobby to him, he thinks, tennis doesn't matter to him...
Thoughts twisting and turning in his mind, warping until it becomes, I don't matter to him, and he picks that thought and runs with it because it's true, isn't it, Fuji-sempai is leaving because there's nothing left for him anymore. He's lost interest in tennis, he's lost interest in Ryoma—it's all the same.
Ryoma accuses Fuji-sempai of this with the simple word, "Why?" and Fuji-sempai responds as he always does, smiling as if he can't see Ryoma's heart breaking in his eyes. Hurt changes Ryoma's eyes, turns them dark and unhappy.
"Mada mada dane," Ryoma snaps and walks away, because if he doesn't he'll run and he won't ever stop.
Behind him, Fuji-sempai's smile brightens painfully.
Ryoma sees Fuji-sempai everywhere so he stops looking everywhere, and sees Fuji-sempai whenever he opens his eyes. He sees Fuji-sempai by the courts, a camera hanging around his neck, and Fuji-sempai's features are unclear and he's always in the shadows so Ryoma can't see him. Ryoma doesn't look, knowing Fuji-sempai can't really be there. He doesn't play tennis anymore, there's nothing left for him here.
All his sempai have left and the seventh graders are calling him sempai. He's better than all of them, Horio loudly proclaiming his superiority even as Ryoma trounces him all over the courts. There's no challenge to tennis.
Tennis is so much more than a game, and without Fuji-sempai—without all the sempai, he corrects—it's become hollow, and he thinks he begins to see why Fuji-sempai might not want it to become more than a hobby.
Mada mada dane, he thinks fiercely and slams the ball across the court, and Horio hits the ground yelling about anger management, stress relief, and how he could have hit that back if he didn't feel like taking it easy on him.
He finds it's become a ritual to seek out a dark figure he knows is only in his imagination. He finds him anyway each day before he plays, and feels better.
Fuji-sempai approaches him, the ever familiar sight of the camera hanging around his neck.
"Ne, Ryoma?"
Ryoma looks up. He can't forgive Fuji-sempai fully, but he's stopped blaming him. It's in the past and he can't change anything.
Fuji-sempai kisses him.
Ryoma can't kiss back.
Stability.
That's why Ryoma plays tennis, because tennis will always be the same even as he changes.
Tennis is who he is. Tennis is all he needs.
There is no longer anything for him in tennis is Fuji-sempai is not in his life.
People change.
Ryoma feels that Fuji-sempai is waiting for him to do the same, and Ryoma is trying. He tries to open himself up to Fuji-sempai, to trust him and feel at home with him.
It doesn't matter then, that Ryoma would prefer to play tennis against Fuji-sempai rather than eat lunch with him. It doesn't matter that Fuji-sempai still unsettles him, makes him wish for Karupin's comforting weight on his lap.
He'll get there.
People change, after all.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
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