Disclaimer: Do I really have to do this? The characters do not belong to me, even though, I would so very much love to keep Ryoma, Eiji, Fuji and Akutsu all to myself.
Author's Notes: Well, this is actually part of the show. For this chapter, it would involve bits of episode 50 and 52. So there are spoilers ahead. Read at your own risk. Well, this would probably be a two to three chapter fic, unless, of course, I am too lazy and decide to leave it as a one-shot fic, as it is with the rest of my fics. Well, if it bores anybody, I'm sorry. I was never that good a writer to begin with. Anyway, I present you now with my first Prince of Tennis angsty fanfic. So read on.
Chapter 1: Bitter Realism
It was a perfect shot aimed at the far right corner of the court. Right on the line.
... it was beyond his reach.
In normal circumstances, everyone - meaning, the spectators - would have been screeching their lungs out, raving with excitement at how precise the shot was and how the beautiful shot had caught the opponent off-guard and such. But this time, the court was filled with an awkward silence - that did not seem to budge.
The taunting silence. Of bitter reality.
I stared numbly at the spot, where the ball had been driven towards, with great precision and accuracy. The loud thud of the ball rang constantly in my ears. My muscles went rigid and my mind, blank. I stood there rooted to the ground, shivering - overwhelmed with bewilderment and shock, as I felt the knife-edge of bitter realism sliced through me. Slowly tearing me apart. Bit by bit. I felt a sharp pain surge through me. My vision blurred; the grip on my racket loosened. I felt it slip right through my hands - I couldn't do anything about it - and hit the ground, in a loud resounding thud.
I had... lost.
It was a decisive match of fate, skill and determination. And I had lost - the match. My regular status. And my chance to play in the Kantou Regional Tournament.
The bitterness of reality stung me. The morbid, inevitable truth. I felt hollow. Empty. Invalid. Weak. Useless. Defeated.
This was the end. For me.
My fingers dug mercilessly into my palm; my nails into my skin. Numbly, I bent down to pick up my racket, made a handshake with the victor and headed towards the exit.
I caught a glimpse of the look on their faces, before I left. Disappointment. Repulsion. Sympathy. Pity. All of these written across their faces. They, whose existence mocked my being. My muscles tensed. Clenching onto my racket tightly, I felt the coppery liquid slipping from my veins; the crimson red staining my racket. But I, no longer, felt the pain. Just the plain numbness - stabbed into me over and over again.
Everyone's gaze was fixed on him, as the tall, muscular figure trudged out of the court, subdued. His look on his face read nothing more than stolid indifference. His gaze cold, detached and impassive. He turned away, dejected and defeated. The silence - save for his loud, resounding footsteps - hung heavily across the air. No one spoke a word. They just stared at him - his back - unable to do anything.
The usually noisy and cheerful locker room, boosted by his loud voice, was now quiet and empty. In the second last row of the second shelf, a carefully folded regular jacket was placed neatly there. There were two words sewn on the jacket.
It read -
Momoshiro.
Author's Notes:
It's a little bit angsty. Well, what can I say? I love angst. When I say love. I mean love. Angst is my life. ^^;
For the last part when I mentioned two words. I meant that on the jacket, there were indeed two Japanese words written on it. And when translated those two japanese words are Momoshiro. Yeah so, his first name wasn't actually sewn on the jacket. So that's why I didn't put it down.
So yeah. Comments and constructive critisim are greatly appreciated.