Title: Prince Perfect

Author: Freya

Pairing: Ryoma/Sakuno

Warnings: Het, future fic, humor, random randomness, Ryoma-torment (because I love him), boredom, Freya wrote it, etc.

Summary: Ryoma returns to Japan for high school completely bored of tennis, now. Impossible, right? You'd be surprised because poor Sakuno sure was.

A/N: I know this looks like it's going to be a serious fic at first, but it really isn't. According to fandom, Ryoma is "perfect" because he always wins and henceforth he is annoying. Well, okay. But what if we take away exactly what it is that makes him 'perfect'? Ehehehe...

---

'Nobody is gonna get perfect life. No matter what you do

But I'm just trying to find my place here in the real world

Never worried what I'm gonna do now. My soul will never sink'

LIFE GOES ON - Minagawa Junko

---

"And you're all set. That'll be 1,700 yen, please."

"Thank you," Sakuno responded. Her damp hair hung in dull, dark strands over her shoulders as she handed her money over to the barber. She watched what was once two-thirds of her hair being swept into a dust pan with gloomy eyes. This was the last time she would ever get to see her precious hair. Having a spot in the high school of her choice, she now had to adhere to their dress code. All the girls would have hair this length. High school started in a week, and she would enter as the mirror image of every other girl. Tomoka, too, would be attending the same school, and her signature pig-tails would be no more. All that made them appear unique would be lost during school hours.

Well, we all have to grow up sometime, she thinks with a resigned mental shrug.

Sakuno wasn't quite ready to head home after her new haircut. She knew exactly where the big mirror in her room was. One look in that mirror would undoubtedly make her cry. Keeping her eyes off of the ubiquitous mirrors in the barber shop was challenge enough, but she wouldn't be able to resist looking into her mirror. She wanted to accustom herself to her new look by letting the world see it before she did. This way, she wouldn't spend her entire night dreading the thought of others at school seeing her this way rather than sleeping. She sure could use some sleep, after months of Hell spent studying for her entrance exams.

In any case, she made it where any well-respected Japanese student went, and that alone was satisfying enough.

She took this opportunity to wander. There was no destination that struck her fancy, thought there was a few thousand yen burning a hole in her pocket. That was enough to get a cheap meal at the burger joint. She didn't feel like cooking, and her grandmother still wasn't back from her team trip up in the mountains.

It was a custom for Sumire to bring her tennis Regulars up to the mountains for some fun. Some years Sakuno went, and some years she didn't. This was one of the years she couldn't, but it was fine. Although the majority of the team consisted of boys from her graduating class, she wasn't very interested in being there. Horio was captain in place of a certain, pretentious tennis prodigy Sakuno hadn't seen in over two years.

With Ryoma in mind, she found herself stopping at the street courts, happy it was vacant and happy she remembered to bring her racket. She needed practice, and the wall before her was wide and inviting.

She rallied off, not missing a single beat by aiming too high, returning too sloppy, or anything like that. Her current return average against this wall was 40-ish, but her record was 79. She hadn't been able to make an even 80 since the last time she watched Ryoma play on television. That was over half a year ago. Time sure flies when entrance exams become a real thing.

Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen...

Sakuno sent him a total of three letters, and Ryoma sent her a total of two responses. One response was, 'You must have cut your hair, then. I'm glad you're doing well' and another was 'Merry Christmas.' Sakuno never sent a fourth letter, because the she had yet to receive a response for the third.

Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine...

She sent it two months ago. She'd been given her instruction booklet with efficient tips on how to study for her exams via Momoshiro. In exchange, he asked for her to send a letter to Ryoma, knowing the poor kid was all alone out West, exponentially racking up victories with that bored look on his face. Momo and Ryoma were the best of friends, so he'd know best.

Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine...

The third letter wasn't really so different than the previous two. It was the usual spiel on how things in Seigaku were going, how the tennis team was, how she was doing, and so on. Sakuno had written so much, half-expecting to get a letter in return that read 'You write too much' and have that be that. The fact that Ryoma hadn't sent her a letter in return at all was quite nerve-wracking.

Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine...

She felt pathetic, having her mind wander toward a goal that simply couldn't be. Ryoma made his choice, and that choice was an entire continent away. She never felt their ties sever, especially since he had taken her ball with him. The only tennis ball she had invested a world of emotion and perseverance into. The one with Ryoma's face drawn on it was always hers, and then it was his. He was her first crush, her first savior, and her first inspiration. Of course he'd be difficult to let go of, but the beginning of forever had to start sometime. Better sooner than later.

Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine...

Echizen Ryoma was a constant ideal that filled her heart whenever she needed to drive herself to achieve a goal. Months of study was inspired by him. Hours of vocal practice was inspired by him. Even now, hitting this ball over, and over, and over was making his presence so very real to her right now, almost as if he were standing behind her right this minute, eyes shadowed underneath the bill of his white cap, and she could feel him watching. Every bone in her body tingled beneath the ache of her muscles.

Sixty-seven, sixty-eight, sixty-nine...

"Yo," she could hear him say, but it wasn't real. However, the sweat that glued her bangs to her forehead was very real, and she could smell and even taste the dirt her tennis ball collected from the pavement. Her right arm could barely move anymore, and the evening sun was beginning to do a fine job of impairing her vision. Concentrate, you're almost there, she thought to herself. If she can break this record, then, well, she didn't quite know, but something in her burned, raged, needed, wanted, everything. Everything depended on these last few hits.

Seventy-seven, seventy-eight, seventy-nine...

"Yo," he said again, and after the 80th strike she dropped to her knees, panting for breath and clutching her throbbing arm. For the life of her, she didn't know how he could do it. He made it look so easy, and he wasn't even here!

But she could hear him.

She could hear her ball being bounced up and down behind her, and it took every little fragment of courage she had to be able to turn around and face what wasn't there.

But it was there. He was there. Same bored expression, same haughty stance, same... no. He didn't have his bag of rackets, nor did he have his white cap. His hair was more neatly trimmed than she remembered, and.

Say something.

"Ryoma-kun, you're... " Missing your tennis bag. A lot taller. Extremely gorgeo-Tomo-chaaan. "... back."

---

Indeed, he was back. All two feet of him, Momo would say. Of course, he had been to America once on foreign exchange last year and knew what that measurement meant, unlike everybody else.

Everyone asked, and yet he hadn't seen Ryoma, apparently. Momo's denial wasn't convincing to some people, though. The two of them were on opposite sides of the huge country, yes, but it didn't hurt to hope. It was almost as if Momoshiro knew something that Ryoma didn't want anybody else to know.

Sakuno learned that, in America, other sports had much bigger names than tennis. In particular, baseball, which was a sport she wasn't fond of. Still, Ryoma had plenty of admirers, money, and competition. He was closer to the stars than anyone she's ever known. She saw him on television and on the news a few times. He was secretly respected and admired by those amongst his age level; a mere boy of twelve made it to the top doing what he loved. Granted, that wasn't quite in the norm, and most adults didn't find his example admirable in the least. Then again, most adults didn't find his father admirable in the least, either. The Echizen family was so quick to ditch Japan.

So why was Ryoma back so suddenly? She hadn't seen him since his return to see the Nationals, but that was only for a brief period of time. Most of the time he was back, Sakuno spent doing other things, like attending voice and cooking lessons. Her life in tennis dwindled a bit, and she didn't have enough time to always see Seigaku perform. She was very glad that they were doing well, though.

Of all the matches to see, the one where Seigaku faced Rikkai was the one. The team had claimed victory by a hair, and she was glad. The night before Ryoma headed back, she had seen him, and congratulated him on his impressive victory.

"I didn't think I'd ever see or hear from you again. I've... you... "

She wanted to say that she missed him. When it didn't come out, he simply handed her a piece of paper with his address on it. He was gone the next morning, and she wrote to him immediately.

She found she could say so much more through writing, though his responses in all mediums were brief and concise. That was fine, because that was him.

However, there were times when his brief, concise responses were not fine.

"So, Ryoma-kun," whispered Sakuno, as if she were about to ask the world's most personal question. "Why did you come back? Are you just here for a visit?"

Five seconds and a sip of Ponta later came the four most foreign words to ever penetrate her line of hearing. "I'm sick of tennis."

T B C

A/N: -le gasp- Oh no Freya di-in't. Commence flames!

If this idea horribly offends you, I have another multi-parter called "Ambition" started, which is all about Ryoma and his preciousssss tennis. That's more of a gen fic, though (OMG, those aren't allowed to exist, either. DOUBLE FLAME-AGE.)

Haha, okay, comments, reviews, express your undying hatred for me, tell me my grammar sucks, whatever. Just say something, because that's what gives me the will to continue with multi-parters. XD