Title: Denial
Author: Kat
Chapter: 1/?
Rating: PG for now
Pairings: Atobe/Oishi, Oishi/Eiji, one-sided Atobe/Tezuka, and possible Tezuka/Fuji.
Disclaimer: I don't own Prince of Tennis or any of the characters, as much as I wish I did.
Warning: Spoilers for episodes 64 and up. Yaoi abounds in later chapters. Also, this is slightly AU.
Notes: This has only been beta-read by me, given that I don't want to trouble my (wonderful) beta-reader with a long fic from a fandom she isn't in. Please feel more then free to offer opinions about characterization, plot, and general nitpicky things that I may have overlooked.
Oh, and I apologize to all John Grisham fans. I didn't think 'The Testemant' was half bad, but Atobe seems like one for higher literature.
Chapter 1
I never really did forgive Atobe for what he did to Tezuka. The intentional lengthening of the match, the injury that would destroy my beloved captain's tennis career, and finally the deportation to Germany. All because Hyotei's captain didn't think it was enough to simply win.
The day I recognized him in the bookstore, my first instinct was to give his rich self a good shove into the display of John Grisham works he was admiring. Of course, first instincts should be thoroughly examined before being acted upon, and I realized after a short bit of thought that this would not be the best course of action.
Instead, I walked calmly towards the language section, hoping to escape before I was discovered and forced to interact with the boy I currently despised. Stepping around some misplaced dictionaries, I looked up to see him watching me.
He moved quickly, replacing the book he was scrutinizing, walking with confidence and wearing the same too-proud grin he sported upon winning the first point from Tezuka in that fateful match. My lips formed themselves into a thin, bitter line at the reminder. He stopped on the other side of the display table, as if sensing my animosity towards him.
"Oishi of Seigaku, yes?" He greeted with a smile, albeit a wary one. I nodded, returning his greeting through gritted teeth. We exchanged pleasantries concerning the state of various family members states of health, the weather, and the increase in the tax on printed materials. My responses, though clipped, came fairly naturally, and I was surprised how easily conversation flowed between two people who had never really met, and if anything, had reason to dislike each other.
There was an awkward pause when neither of us could think of any way to continue a conversation about rising book prices, which was interrupted by a loud honk from outside the store. He glared out to where the no doubt terribly expensive car was waiting, said a polite farewell, and excited with a brief nod.
That night I had a number of thoughts concerning the older boy from Hyotei, none of which seemed particularly nice, given that I'd spent a good ten minutes conversing with him over a display table a few hours before.
However, Atobe Keigo was not a pressing matter, and soon disappeared from my conscious as more important things took his place.
The second time I saw Hyotei's esteemed captain at the bookstore, I took it as more then a mere coincidence. I spotted him standing in the exact same place as before, in front of the John Grisham display, moving occasionally but mostly seeming to be staring into space. His fingers absently rotated the stand once, twice, and then a third time before he reached for a book and began flipping the pages erratically.
Eventually his eyes rose to catch me staring, and acknowledged me with a nod and a small smile. Once again he shortened the gap between us, book in hand, launching into the same familiar pattern of idle small talk he'd used before.
The abnormally windy weather and addition of a new botanical garden to the Hyotei School could only withstand so many minutes of polite pleasantries before silence set in again. Shifting uncomfortably, I caught sight of the book in his hand. Grisham's name was emblazoned in ridiculously large silver letters across the bottom, dwarfing the title which rested at the top.
"You're a Grisham fan?" I asked, gesturing to the novel he held. He looked startled for a moment, then slightly sheepish as he realized the origin of my question. I honesty never would have expected Atobe would be capable of looking sheepish, yet his expression could be described no other way.
"Actually, no." He responded, "The man is an atrocious writer." Seeing the look of shock on my face, he let out a low chuckle and shrugged. "I'd explain further, but I'm afraid I'm rather hungry and was planning to get a bit to eat." I nodded, watching as he turned to leave. "Unless you'd be interested in joining me?"
Apparently my shock was equally apparent upon hearing his request, because he let go another chuckle. Atobe's laugh, I noticed, had a certain undertone of self-mocking. It was an undertone though, and most of the amusement expressed was at my expense. Misinterpreting my look of displeasure, he raised his hand and shook his head.
"We'll talk about books; no tennis, no school, no local tournaments. I promise." I couldn't say I entirely understood his sudden interest in me, but decided I didn't have anything to lose. Yes, I disliked him for what he'd done to Tezuka, but in all fairness the only impression I'd ever gotten of him was as the captain of a rival school, not a person. I agreed, and after watching Atobe pay for the book he'd picked up, we set out down the street towards his chosen place of dining.
The walk was done mostly in silence, and even upon being seated he refrained from launching into the conversation he'd promised in the bookstore. He ordered an ice tea (to which he added copious amounts of sugar) while I was content with my complimentary glass of water. Only after a few sips did Atobe feel inclined to speak.
"As I said before, Grisham is really a terrible author," he began, as if a few moments instead of a good number of minutes had passed during the gap in conversation. Bringing the book he'd recently purchased from out of his bag, Atobe pushed it forward and tapped the cover with his fingers. "Success is really based on the author, not the writing," he said, gesturing to the enlarged headings. "Once someone makes a good reputation for themselves with a few good pieces, all they need is their name in big letters on the front to get customers."
I smiled slightly, amused by his cynical attitude. The man had a way of insulting not only the subject of his ridicule, but the very foundation on which it found its support. Why insult the writing of a particular work when you could challenge the talent and integrity of the author instead?
"That still doesn't explain why you're reading it," I replied. "Normally knowledge of a book's bad caliber doesn't encourage one to buy it." Atobe looked thoughtful for a moment, then suddenly quite concentrated.
"I've actually already read almost half of the book already from a friend," he said. "It revolves around the incidents brought on by a billionaire's death, and the ensuing changes made in the lives of those still living." Atobe paused, as if uncertain of my interest, but I nodded for him to continue. "The man is a business genius; terribly wealthy but just as terribly unhappy."
I couldn't help but draw my own parallels between Atobe and the man he was so fervently describing. People have a tendency to be drawn to the things they find similar to themselves. Did Hyotei's captain see himself as a brilliant, yet suffering hero?
"Within the fist chapter he commits suicide, but not before writing a will giving all of his assets and possessions to his illegitimate daughter living as a missionary in Brazil. Yet he misleads his ex-wives and various extended family, leaving them to believe he's left them each a good portion of his eleven billion. Because of this, they incur massive amounts of debt, believing that they will be compensated for at the reading of the will two months later." Atobe paused again, this time for breath and a sip of his drink. "Of course, all this happens within the first few chapters, the rest being dribble concerning an alcoholic and various references to how hot it is in the middle of the rainforest. Horribly boring."
"So basically what you're interested in is the old man's revenge on his family from beyond the grave?" I asked, not quite sure what the other boy was getting at. Atobe frowned slightly in response.
"Actually, it's more that I'm fascinated with his character," he replied. "There are much better books about revenge that are much more satisfying and don't involve massive passages about alcohol consumption. This man though, his way of thinking is very interesting. For one thing, the-"
"Excuse me Sirs," interrupted a young waitress. "We close in five minutes." Atobe apologized for lingering longer then expected, paid for his drink, and held the door open for me while we walked out.
"Oishi," he began slowly, still oozing confidence. "You're rather fun to talk with. Care to meet me another time? I never really did get a chance to tell you the full story behind my reading of C- material." Only partially surprised at his renewed invitation (for I was quickly learning that Atobe was a full of surprises) I accepted and agreed to meet him a few days later in a different café.
It was only upon getting home that I realized how odd this was.
I met him the day of our appointment in the previously designated place, a café named after someone foreigner that seemed awfully loud for the amount of customers it housed. Upon sitting down, Atobe ordered for both of us, despite my protests, saying it was more fun eating with someone. Besides, I must be hungry, given the time.
Once satisfied that I'd accepted his gift of a meal, Atobe rejoined his train of thought from the previous day, explaining that though the character in question hadn't been mentioned since his suicide in the first few chapters, Atobe read on in hopes of uncovering more of the logic behind the old man and his billions.
"You're continuing through a book you hate in hopes of getting a glimpse of a person's character who's already dead?" I asked, chuckling at how absurd it sounded. "Seems like someone has a serious case of denial." Teasing Atobe Keigo across a plate of tempura had not been in my repertoire for the day, and I momentarily wondered how two people's relationship could go from none at all to joking over lunch in such a short span of time.
"Denial doesn't suit me," Atobe answered, a smile flitting across his otherwise contemplative features. "Besides, I'm fairly certain that the actions and revealed reasons behind those actions that come to pass because of his death will most likely show more about the character then if he simply awoke from the dead and told the reader his life story."
I waited for him to continue, but Atobe seemed quite content to sip at his ice tea (I was quickly learning this to be a favorite of his) and stare out the window at the traffic. This time the silence that settled in wasn't awkward, though not entirely comfortable either. I was just about to bring up something relating to the blatant symbolism of the missionary woman's peace of mind in the midst of chaos verses the billionaire's insanity from inside his empire of organization when Atobe turned casually to lock his eyes with mine.
"I know I have no right to be asking this," his voice was soft and measured, "but do you have any word on how Tezuka is doing?"
The world froze, then suddenly shifted itself back into place. Atobe's unnaturally fast camaraderie had taken place in order to find out about Tezuka, not because he actually enjoyed my company. 'Betrayal' whispered my mind, even though I knew I was merely the victim of mild deception. Even then, Atobe hadn't demanded my trust at all. I was the one who'd stupidly given it to him unconditionally; only to find he had other motives then those I was expecting. As if I had the right to expect anything of him.
"Better," I answered stiffly, moving my eyes to where the saltshaker sat in docile silence. Had I been a crueler person I might have excused myself then, but the uncharacteristic desperation I saw in Atobe's eyes drove me to continue. "The hospital is nice enough, and the doctor expects him to make a quick recovery. Afterwards his shoulder will most likely not hamper any of his everyday activities." Atobe winced slightly at 'everyday activities'. He knew as well as I did that Tezuka made tennis a regular part of his everyday life, but his tennis playing would most likely forever be changed.
Silence once again descended, this time permeated with guilt. Mine for having not so subtly blaming Atobe for Tezuka's condition, and Atobe for knowing that the accusation was completely justified.
"I'm afraid I need to go now, I have somewhere I need to be." It wasn't the best line of exit I could have thought up, but I hoped the obvious fib would imply to Atobe that I hadn't enjoyed the turn the conversation had taken. Atobe stood up as I did, locking his eyes with mine and reaching out as if to stop me from leaving.
"I care about Tezuka more then you know," he said quickly, as if that would make me somehow understand everything and tell him more about my absent captain.
"I care about Tezuka more then you could ever hope to understand." My eloquence was less then apparent, but my words had the desired affect. Atobe was stunned into silence just long enough for me to slip past him to the door.
"You'll meet me another time, yes?" I had to admire Atobe's confidence, as he was too intelligent for me to dismiss his persistence as ignorance. However, admiration was not enough to bridge the gap my loss of respect and trust in him had left vacant.
"I'm sorry. I'm going to be very busy over the next few weeks." With that I turned and headed once again towards the door.
"It was nice talking to you, Oishi," he said, before the door slammed close.
End chapter 1
Thank you for reading! This is the first time I've tried writing Atobe's character, so feedback is greatly appreciated.