It's the simple things that count the most.
At least, that's what he taught you. It's quite ironic, actually, for someone like you, an Atobe, who is so used to your posh lifestyle that it has become boring. Ever since you were a child, your parents had trained you how to be like the brilliant man you are now. They teach; you learn. It was that simple. In exchange, they showered you with unthinkable gifts, like gemstones, cars, mansions… anything that your heart desires, was what your father had always told you when you were young.
Every morning you wake up by the delicate and trembling hand of your personal maid. It was obvious to see that she respects you greatly, although sometimes, it's hard to tell whether it was reverence or dread. You walk down the hallway, and almost immediately, maids in their blue and white aprons come scurrying past you and line up (almost fearfully) against the wall. As you pass them, they give subservient bows, oozing with adoration and respect and all the virtues that a maid ought to learn if she was to attend to someone as great as an Atobe. It annoyed you, most of the time, especially the high-pitched murmurs of "Oh, it's Atobe-sama!" and, "Don't look at him in the eye!"
But you simply nod and act regal, because that's what you're supposed to do when you're an Atobe. That's what you're parents taught you.
At times, you wonder how your life would have been like if you were born into a different family… a family of peasants, you'd like to imagine. Like those you saw on TV commercials, selling bread and illegal DVD's on the streets. Of course, you would've chosen his life now, simply because your life was easy, comfortable. But then again, the other would've been much, much easier too, in the long run.
Joining the tennis club was a decision that you'd never regret. Tennis gave you a chance to actually decide on something yourself, not because you needed to, but because… well, you wanted to. And deciding on something yourself was just something you couldn't indulge yourself into. When you were young, you weren't allowed to play outside with the street kids because, according to your parents, it was a disgrace to the Atobe family. Football, too, as well as track-and-field or even just plain biking was strictly prohibited, thus the only thing you could do was to resort to the magazines, the media, so that you actually know how a freakin' football looked like.
Ah, well. That was your life, and whatever you do, you know you can't do anything about it.
You're the head of the tennis club, their buchou, the man behind the mammoth mass of two-hundred players. Whenever it's your match, you hear them cheer wildly on the sidelines, chanting your name like some sort of religious mantra. With just a snap of your delicate fingers, they quiet down to a total stop, reduced to red-faced, giggling fangirls, all loved-dovey with hearts for eyes and all that. They swoon over your every move, your every smile. And you love it, of course, because you're Atobe like that.
You've always been an attention-seeker, after all.
But then in the crowd, you spot him, who isn't really that hard to miss, what with his unkempt strawberry-blonde hair and slumped form. You recognize him instantly; he is the guy who greeted you with an overly-excited smile during your first day. Jirou Akutagawa.
It surprised you, enormously so, that you would take in so much interest in someone aside from yourself. The boy did have a certain charm. It was only fair that you would think of him as… intriguing. So you spent time with him, you became each other's practice opponent in tennis; you became close even to the point that you would call it being… friends. You grimace uncomfortably. The way the word rolls of your tongue feels oddly foreign. Well, it is acceptable, because you haven't had one in… well, you never had one.
That's probably why you regard him so highly than the rest.
Every minute, every day, you slowly begin to realize that Jirou isn't exactly like everyone else. He is painfully sluggish in one second, and then overly-excited in the next. Looking closely, you observe that both of you are exceptionally different that one would not need to evaluate the differences to see.
You don't even realize how you've grown incredibly fond of him until it's too late.
Maybe it's your connection in tennis, you say; his 'magical volley' play style always interested you, after all. Or maybe, it's how undeniably adorable he is when he wakes up from his regular nap: his disheveled sugar-gold hair oh-so-soft and touchable, but sticking in all directions, framing a buttery face whilst he smiles sheepishly up at you with a look of complete trust and affection, a look that was similar to that of a puppy. Or maybe it's how suddenly… inanely excited he could be over the most insignificant of things. (The fact that he could babble for hours over a yellow fluff of a chick right after it hatched was beyond your comprehension) Then again, maybe it's because Jirou was the only one who talked to you like a normal person, who was not afraid to be himself whenever you were around.
Maybe it's the sheer simplicity of it all.
You never would admit, even if you had the chance, but you always loved his soft, sleepy chocolate eyes. You love it when he looks at you, only you, and smiles that brilliant, toothy smile. He would open his mouth, and you would expect something coherent to come out of those full, pink lips, but then, you aren't surprised either when a completely illogical, "SUGOI!" comes out, leaving him gushing, flushed and panting with delight over some new tennis trick you showed him. Its funny how incredibly ridiculous the boy could be, yet you love it all the more.
The world taught you how to drive a yacht.
Jirou taught you to smell the flowers.
They taught you how to properly use a steak knife.
He taught you how to eat Corny-O's Cereal—left-handed.
And then you laugh quietly, as you realize that you're thinking of him… again. Especially when he's right there sleeping on your lap. The fact that you've actually let something so obviously beneath you to take a nap on your thighs, you do not know. You have given up reasoning out the unfeasible a long long time ago. And then you think that, maybe Jirou's idiocy might've rubbed off on you somehow in some way, but then you reject the idea, because there was no way in Hell that an idiot like Jirou could influence a powerful man like you.
Then again, it isn't entirely impossible.
You feel him shift uncomfortably to face you, honeyed strands spilling onto a sunny face, warm coffee eyes stare at you sleepily, longingly. And suddenly, his face breaks into a wide smile, and you can't help but smile back, because that's what you're supposed to do when you're an Atobe. With a voice barely a whisper, he randomly tells you that he'd be there if your family got bankrupt and ended up on the streets. Then he offers you his home, where you could eat instant ramen everyday, if you wished.
And then you laugh, because damn, Jirou was being such a brainless twat.
But then again, instant ramen wasn't that bad…
It was the simple things that count the most, after all.