A few housekeeping matters. Firstly, a warning for spoilers of recent events in manga. Secondly, you have no idea how much I'd like to own the Prince of Tennis boys. Thirdly, please review!
The rest is what my brain has cooked up and speculated about, so do enjoy. Oh, and tell me if I should leave it as it is, or extend this, thanks!
To Walk Into The Setting Sun
Someone had once said that success was like doing gymnastics. Doing a few simple stunts -maybe a cartwheel or two- was simple, and if you fell, you simply got a few bruises, to your knees and to your ego.
To successfully attempt something more difficult, however, would give you admiration that a cartwheel definitely could not bring. And if you were, say, disabled or blind, the respect you'd get could only increase exponentially. The downside was, falls tended to be nasty at best, and downright shattering at worst.
Yukimura Seiichi had known this idea for a long time, and while this inelegant metaphor could not possibly compare to the pride and honour he accorded this principle, it was nonetheless the same thing. He was tennis, and tennis was him; because of this simple fact, he always won the games he played. It was impossible to beat anyone who epitomized tennis as much as him, and his opponents, still dizzy from the spin of the ball that had just swept past them, acknowledged as much.
What Yukimura did not like to think of, however, was the prospect of losing. He was not an overly humble person, nor was he arrogant; his self-confidence was able to allow him to evaluate his abilities objectively. Yukimura knew that he was the best tennis player –as of now. The realist in him knew that there would always be the chance of someone overtaking him, that he might one day have to give up his place at the apex and take a second-place position.
He did not expect that the day would come so soon.
"It looks like your jacket fell from your shoulders," that little brat had said.
Yukimura hadn't thought much of it then, and he still did not think that that little incident was of any importance. He was still recovering from his surgery, and the jacket was useful when there was a breeze- but if it had fallen off while playing, so be it. There was nothing special to it.
Perhaps, he thought, a poet might have called it a symbolic act.
The jacket had fallen, and so had the person wearing it.
The game had gone well for most part, and he was leading 4-1. Echizen, the cocky rookie with the insolent attitude and irritating smirk, was sweating hard. Yukimura glanced at him as they changed court, and was oddly satisfied that Echizen could be put in his place. To Yukimura, there was pride and dignity in being good at tennis, and there was outright arrogance at having a few flashy moves.
Yukimura decided to irk Echizen a little more- it was exhilarating, playing after so many months of hospitalization and bedrest- and adopted a more aggressive play. That was one of his strongest points, that he did not have to depend on baseline moves or acrobatic flips to play tennis. Yukimura simply took anything that allowed him to hit that yellow ball across the net. If a cord ball was needed, he learnt it; if being ambidextrous was an advantage, he trained for it.
Minutes later, Echizen looked like he'd been playing against a video-game and Wii-deprived Kirihara, and he hadn't gotten a single point before the referee declared, "Game to Yukimura, 5-1!"
Then Tezuka took Echizen aside and told him something, gravely, and Echizen lost his smirk. What took its place was something more subtle, something harder to read. But Yukimura did not have time to consider it as Echizen suddenly played- his moves became swifter, harder; and as he gained momentum his eyes changed too. They were far-off and distant, but they missed nothing.
By the time the score was 7-5, with the match to Echizen Ryoma of Seigaku, Yukimura was kneeling in the dust.
Rikkai refused the silver medals, of course, and left early. They respected their captain with a fierce loyalty, and his humiliation was theirs too. Being at the courts had not allowed that particular feeling to sink in deeply, but it nagged at all their consciences, and was reflected by the fact that even Niou was silent, and Marui did not eat anything.
Sanada bowed to the coaches, and then once to Tezuka, and brought up the rear of the Rikkai team as they boarded the bus that was bring them back to school.
The ride back was oppressively quiet, but no one cared, as they all stared out of the window, looked at the floor, or closed their eyes to avoid thinking too much. The anesthesia from shock was slipping away, and the emptiness of a lost championship gnawed at everyone.
Once back in school, the team looked to Yukimura for any sort of speech, any honest words of cold comfort, but when they saw that their captain was silent and far-away, they were mature enough to slip away quietly. Only Sanada remained, and stepped to Yukimura's right side as they began the automatic walk to the bus stop.
Usually, it was Yukimura who talked, and Sanada who contributed all the ohs and hmms, but it showed how much Sanada was affected that he spoke first.
"Seiichi, we-"
He had even forgone with the surname.
Yukimura's knees suddenly couldn't support him any longer- they had been stiff and unyielding after the lost match- and he collapsed heavily on the side of the pavement. Sanada crouched instantly, his worried face visible on the edge of Yukimura's vision.
"Seiichi, are you okay- do you need me to bring you to-"
"Not the hospital, Genichirou. I never want to go there again."
Sanada seemed relieved that he was well enough to speak, and settled besides Yukimura's sprawled figure. Yukimura started to talk, because it was easier than sitting there and thinking.
"We must look like madmen, sitting like this at the edge of the pavement like this, imagine if the owner of the house came out and saw us against his fence..."
Sanada didn't dignify that with a reply. It was not like Yukimura to senselessly chatter, and he merely looked at his captain.
The other boy refused to meet his gaze. "Thankfully the owner doesn't have a dog, otherwise we'd be barked at incessantly-"
"Yukimura."
The word reminded Yukimura of everything he had stood for- Rikkai's famed buchou, the "Child of God", even- and he broke.
There were drops of salty tears sliding down his face, but he didn't care, and he didn't give a flying fuck about who saw him or where he was. He only knew that he had lost, and to a boy two whole years younger than him. Yukimura tried to blame it on the fact that he just had surgery not long ago, that he was hospitalized and couldn't practice, but the despair was still there. He had still lost, and nothing would change that.
Then there was a strong pair of arms around him, still slightly sticky from the balmy heat of the courts, and a voice that soothed him quietly. Yukimura stiffened from the shock of Sanada doing such a thing, as he knew it was totally out of Sanada's character-
But things were equally out of plan today, and Yukimura let the tears fall until his eyes hurt and his voice was hoarse.
Yukimura's jacket dropping strip tennis. :D And if you think that's it, I've decided to extend this, so it definitely gets better in the next chapter.
REVIEW!
