Vibrant
His skin tears.
Each slap burns his back, and blood teases down his spine. Ryoma breathes raggedly. Both his hands clench at the end of the bench. His knees turn inward, and he bends forward. The wait between each stroke is agonizing. Clad in only a pair of pants, his perpetuator has direct contact with the supple skin of his shoulders to hips.
"You lost."
Tears sting. Ryoma squeezes his eyes shut. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry?" The belt rears – then flies forward.
Ryoma groans, and his back involuntarily arches.
"You could have won the game too. It wasn't out of your reach."
Ryoma gasps on dusty air. The club room is dark and damp. "I gave everything I had," he begs. His plea falls on deaf ears. The belt cracks like a whip against the torn surface of his back. Ryoma bites his lip. Blood draws down his skin, raw and vulnerable from constant exposure. This is the third time this week.
Ryoma distantly remembers when it happened only once a month.
He wonders if this is abuse or just being strict.
"I – please – I have to go home –" Ryoma tries to excuse himself. His body roars in pain, and he wants – no, he needs – it to stop.
"Home? Stop making excuses. You don't need to go home. You need to practice harder."
Whip. "Yamete…"
Whip. "I'm sorry."
Whip. "Please! Stop…"
Whip. Whip. Whip.
Ryoma hears and feels nothing but pain. He drowns in the pain, lets it slide over his delicate body and engrave into his flesh. He should be used to the pain by now. He should know better than to lose a match, especially an important one.
"Please-" Ryoma talks into darkness. Utter darkness. His voice trembles. "Please- captain-"
"What was that?"
"Captain-" Ryoma sobs.
The room stills. The belt clinks as it folds in half.
Ryoma can't stop shaking. It's over. For now.
But it'll happen again.
He knows it will. It always does.
"Practice starts at 5:00 AM sharp, tomorrow morning. Don't be late."
The club room door shuts, greeting Ryoma with a new realm of darkness. He sits on the bench for a very long time, vibrating in his clothes. Then with robotic movements, he throws on his school uniform, barely able to feel the softness of the fabric against the sear of his skin.
Tomorrow morning.
Ryoma tries not to cry.
Tomorrow morning, and it will start all over again.
"Echizen."
Ryoma is halfway through packing his tennis bag. "Yes?"
Tezuka stares at him for a moment. "I need you to stay after practice."
Ryoma freezes; much like a deer caught in headlights. He quells the tremble in his hand, and slings his tennis bag over his shoulder. "What for?"
"I need to speak with you."
"About what?" Ryoma hopes his voice doesn't sound as choked as it feels.
"I will talk to you privately."
Ryoma swallows. Fear swells up in his gut, spreading through the whole of his body. But he doesn't disobey. He just nods. The rest of the regulars don't notice the sudden paleness of his face or the tremble in his hand as he zips up his tennis bag. Ryoma presses his forehead against the cool metal lockers. It's better that way anyway.
He doesn't need them to worry. He doesn't need them to know, period.
He will take his punishment quietly and without qualms.
By the time everyone in the clubroom trickles out, Ryoma is sweating in his seat on the bench. His knees hit each other repeatedly. His hand prods at the strap of his tennis bag, worry straining the smooth skin of his forehead. He tries to ignore his pounding heart. He tries to calm his quaking stomach. He tries desperately not to throw up his Japanese lunch.
When the final member of the team, Fuji, finally exits the club room, dead silence erupts.
For a very long moment, Tezuka only stares out the club room window, arms folded across his chest.
Ryoma keeps his eyes glued to the ground. He tries not to cry.
"Echizen," Tezuka finally says.
Ryoma jerks.
Tezuka stares had him solidly. "You're scared of me."
Ryoma practically shrinks into the bench. "I'm not."
"You are," Tezuka says affirmatively. "And I want to know why."
The club room is too quiet and too empty. Ryoma's mouth won't work. His stomach lurches. "Please," he finally whispers, eyes not leaving the ground. "Just do it already."
Tezuka shuffles forward. Ryoma tenses.
"Echizen." Tezuka's voice is uncharacteristically soft. "I asked you to stay after practice because I need to understand why you fear me."
Ryoma eyes him fervently. He doesn't see a belt. He doesn't see a cane or a whip either. His shoulders relax momentarily – but then they tense up again, because he can't relax. He knows something is coming. It always is.
"Echizen." Tezuka sits down next to him.
A shudder wracks Ryoma's body. He quells a second one, barely resisting the urge to shiver. Tezuka is so close. He's only one foot away from him on the bench.
"I'm not going to hurt you." Tezuka's voice is sad. "I'm trying to help you reach your potential."
Ryoma's nails dig into his flesh. "Can you just do it?" His lips quiver.
"I don't understand." Tezuka sounds awfully unsure of himself. "What do you want me to do?"
"Punish me."
There is a long stretch of silence. Ryoma waits for reprimandation, but nothing comes.
Eventually, Tezuka says, "Why would I punish you?"
Ryoma nearly laughs. Because why. Why would he punish him? There are so many things. He's late for practice on mornings that Momo gives him a ride. He can act too cocky. He lost a few games against his match with Akutsu. He sometimes forgets that he's in Japan and forgoes the –senpai tag. He's not an ideal tennis member. Far from it.
"I don't know," Ryoma finally admits. He stills the quiver in voice. "My old buchou…" He stops short. There's no need to give Tezuka ideas.
"Your old buchou?" Tezuka says aloud. "The one in America?"
"Yeah." Silence squeezes the inside of the club room, twisting the poor freshman's brain into a frenzy of chaos. All he wants is to run out the front door and escape into the cool, fresh air of freedom. All he wants is to forget the pain. All he wants is to play tennis without the burden of punishment following him everywhere he goes.
Tezuka stands up. He stares distantly at the lockers. "Did he hit you?"
Ryoma bites down on his lower lip. He doesn't feel the need to deny it. "Yes."
Tezuka inhales sharply. Ryoma doesn't know why. Of course his old captain hit him. That was how tennis worked. Tezuka is supposed to hit him too. He doesn't know why he hasn't yet, but can only predict that the captain is waiting for a prime moment to strike. He wonders if Tezuka will be harsher than his older captain, or gentler.
"Echizen." Tezuka sounds lost. "I'm not going to hit you."
Ryoma worries his lip between his teeth. "The belt then?"
The captain practically whips around. "What?"
"The belt." Ryoma's voice goes small. "Are you going to do the belt?"
Tezuka looks at him for a very long moment, distress clear in his features. He pinches his nose. "I'm not going to belt you." He appears horrified at the thought of it. "I may punish you with extra laps, or inui juice, but I won't–" he pauses, unsure. He lowers his voice until it's merely a soft whisper. "My job isn't to get you to be scared of me, Ryoma. It's to get you to trust me."
Those words mean everything. They burn right into Ryoma's trembling heart, knocking sense into his brainwashed mind. He blinks, staring at Tezuka for a very long moment. The entire clubroom is pure silent chaos. Ryoma looks at the lockers, the carpet, the strewn racquets. He looks at Tezuka's warm brown eyes and softened face.
This isn't America. This isn't his old captain.
This is… different.
Ryoma aches. "You won't… be like him?" He can barely get the words out.
Tezuka sits back down next to him, and this time, Ryoma doesn't flinch.
"I'm your buchou." Ryoma looks into Tezuka's eyes, and feels nothing but warmth. Warmth, and warmth, and warmth. "I want you to respect me, and in turn, I will look after you like a buchou is supposed to." He puts a careful, steady hand on Ryoma's shoulder. Ryoma tenses for a moment – but then allows himself to sag. "I'm never going to hurt you."
Ryoma doesn't think Tezuka knows how much those words mean to him. He doesn't think Tezuka understand that to Ryoma those words mean everything.
"I'm sorry for being scared of you."
Tezuka squeezes his shoulder. "You're forgiven."
This time, the silence is nice. It allows Ryoma's racing heart to settle down. Tezuka reaches a hesitant hand out, and smoothes Ryoma's hair down. Ryoma leans into the touch. He's warm. He's so very warm.
In what feels like ages but is only a minute, the moment breaks into the regularity of life.
Tezuka stands up, and slings his own tennis bag over his shoulder. Ryoma watches the captain, and realizes that although the man has always been stern, he has also always been very kind. Generous. Sacrificial. He's not like his other captain. He's cold, but he doesn't mean to be. He's awkward, just like Ryoma is.
Ryoma pulls his cap down, and hides the barest trace of a smile.
He thinks he'll be okay.
"Practice tomorrow morning," Tezuka reminds him. "5:00 sharp."
Ryoma smirks a little. "Hai, buchou." His line of vision follows Tezuka as the older male exits the club room. The entryway shines with light of the sunset, and it seems to form a halo around his captain – a burst of light that blinds Ryoma with respect.
Then the club room darkens once more, light shimmering at the edges of the door.
Ryoma stands up. His gold eyes burn, and he grabs his tennis bag.
He follows his captain out the door, and bathes in the sunlight that pours over him.
He's finally free.