Chapter 3.

Keigo picks at his dinner when the call comes.

He smiles a little at his mother, who gives him a mock-scowl. "It's not very polite to bring your phone to the dinner table, Keigo," she admonishes, and with a laugh, "But I suppose it's best not to keep the caller waiting. Is it from your father?"

"Ah. No." Keigo pauses; wonders why his mother does not know his father's whereabouts. "He told me that he had an important client to entertain today. He's going to be late."

His mother's façade drops a little. "Did he now. Well." She looks down at her plate and her theatrics is replaced with a blank look. When she meets his eyes again, she attempts a smile. "Take your call, dear," she says mildly, "I shall just mourn another dinner wasted, shall I?"

"Mother," Keigo says, a little exasperated, and looks at the caller. Hiyoshi. "It's nothing, I'll be very quick," he promises. He slips out of his chair and heads over to the door and out into the large hallway. The corridor is not lit but for a dim overview, and overall the long hallway looms larger than life. Keigo leans against a bare wall and makes sure his mother cannot hear his voice before he presses take call.

"Really Hiyoshi," is the first thing he says, "I think that about three years of being your captain would make you at least know when your captain is having dinner."

There is only silence on the other line, and Keigo taps one foot against the marbled floor while waiting for his underclassman's reply.

"…Did you know?" Is the first thing to come out of Hiyoshi's mouth.

"Are you being intentionally thick, or—"

"I am very sorry," Hiyoshi says, formally (and Keigo is amused to note, through gritted teeth), "that I have interrupted your dinner plans. I just got home from judo and didn't see the time." There is another pause. "Echizen is in Hyotei this year. Did you know?"

"I must say," Keigo answers after a beat, "That our student gossip mills are atrocious. Everyone was blathering about how Tezuka would come back to Japan, and we have his little runt instead. And yes," he cuts in, before Hiyoshi could yell at him, "Of course I did know. It's my duty to know. Coach Tanaki was leaping over the moon and back."

"I think he made Echizen into a regular," Hiyoshi says. He sounds strained. "Just. No matches, no formalities, nothing."

Keigo wants to cross his arms and look at the heavens for answers. He opts for a sigh instead. "Is this some sort of petition, Hiyoshi?" he asks flatly. "Loathe as I am to admit it, Echizen hardly lacks any credentials to enter the regulars. He came second place in the Junior Wimbledon matches. Not that you would need reminding of that."

"Of course I don't," came the clipped tone, "It was the only thing anyone was talking about." There is another pause. "I wanted to fight Echizen for my position, at the very least." And his voice sounds so stiff and petulant that Keigo is taken aback a little. He blinks.

Hiyoshi Wakashi is very traditional sometimes. He came to the tennis club one day to defeat him years ago, and played judo because he was expected to pursue his family name and obligations. It was the same story for most of the students at Hyotei; at the end of the day, they all had duties and expectations to fulfill. What was interesting about Hiyoshi was that he sometimes wanted to subvert the status quo. But while he announced subversion with his typical grave manner with a smirk, he did it rigidly and followed every rule in the rulebook. He wanted to dominate with legal justice by his side. He was unlike Keigo, who sauntered over to the courts on his first day and beat everyone singlehandedly and announced, also singlehandedly, that he was to be the captain of the club. It was how he was about to be such a competent captain when Keigo had left middle school, and why Keigo would hand him the position once again after he graduates.

"Don't be absurd, Wakashi," he says, finding his footing, "Your regular position isn't just his to take. He'll fight you for the match line-ups, the same as anyone else. He can play the bench referee sometimes."

"But it's true that," and another pause. "With him, we can strengthen both our Singles and Doubles. We have you," he says grudgingly, "And Oshitari-senpai, but he plays better in doubles. So we need a strong Singles line-up to…go to nationals. I just wanted to make that clear. I can give my spot up. If we can win."

Once a captain, always a captain, Keigo thinks, amused. Out loud he replies, "This is all well and good, but you're forgetting that I'm the captain. I'll make Echizen turn cartwheels if it pleases you and vice versa. Don't excite yourself over things beyond your control, ahn?"

There is a huff of breath; Keigo thinks it's a laugh, but when Hiyoshi speaks, he is very grave. "I think if you order him to do that, he might shave your head a second time. Maybe this time without your permission."

"I think you just asked for ten laps for practice tomorrow," Keigo says mildly, and reconsiders. "Or make that twenty. Don't interrupt my dinner again, unless you're dying of some blood loss. Even then. Call Kabaji."

"….Usu." Keigo doesn't have time to wonder whether that was sarcastic or not, because Hiyoshi got off the line and left Keigo to hear the blaring beep of the phone.

"Why do I always get stuck with the most impossible brats," he mutters to himself. He straightens up and sets his phone to mute. He enters the dining hall again, all smiles.

His mother is sitting alone amidst their vast and glorious dining table. The chandelier lights glare above her; she is only a small, huddled figure in the room, her face beautiful and blank. She looks up as he enters.

"Was it important, darling?" she asks. She has not touched her food since he left.

"Somewhat," he answers, and gestures to her plate. "You should eat mother. I'm sorry to keep you waiting."

She laughs at that, and leans over to touch his hand lightly. Her fingers are cold. "That's what your father always said to me when he was younger," she says lightly. She looks a little tired.

/

/

He has a cutter knife nestled inside the lapels of his jacket.

Rinko doesn't know, of course. She thinks that she had confiscated the last of his razors, the remainders of his Swiss knife, and forbade Nanako to leave the kitchen knife lying around. Every sharp object inside his house is under lock and key. When Nanako joined him for dinner one night without his mother, she sighed a little and commented, "Aunt means well, but she really is very old-fashioned, isn't she, Ryoma-kun?"

He had just blinked at his cousin while picking out a bone from the cooked fish. "Sorry?"

She had smiled at him, a little, watery smile. "Well, she seems to think, it's not as if you can't just go over to the next stationary store and buy yourself a letter opener now, right?" She spooned miso soup from the pot and handed a steaming bowl over to Ryoma, which he accepted without a word. "Honestly…I don't know why she thinks you're a child."

"…She's never seen me grow up," he said after awhile, and he knew then that he sounded a littler bitter. He was a bitter, angry kid and Nanako was right; the next day, he had gone over to the neighborhood store and bought a stationary cutter knife. It irritated him that Nanako wasn't so easily fooled.

Nanako opened her mouth to say something, but seemed to think better of it. They ate the rest of the meal in silence.

But, Ryoma consoles himself, but. He had only drawn very fine line across his wrists; there wasn't anything worth digging flesh and bleeding a cut. Some days just the small weight of the knife inside his pocket was enough; that it was an exit card for him, that he had a choice whenever he wanted to leave. There was only a very big gash on his right wrist anyhow, and it had mostly closed up. He only needed the existence, nothing more.

The paper that Coach Tanaki had given him is crumpled at the bottom of his bag, no doubt. He didn't want to enter another tennis club with its ridiculous rules, but he didn't want to enter the cramped quarters again to retract his offer. He went home that night and ate his dinner in silence alone. Rinko was out late with another client; Nanako was busy with her studies. Ryoma ladled some soup onto a bowl and stirred it without appetite. He missed the meows that would have filled the empty house.

The paper sat in his bag, all till the next day. He is bored and restless in class again, especially in English, but he does his best to sit still and take notes. Teachers sometimes chance a look at him and pause at his name; he had been Japan's household name for a year, after all. But Ryoma ignores the looks and the occasional questions after class—so will you be going pro again, Echizen-kun?—all with a thin smile, and hopes the hours will pass by quickly.

Then of course, he just had to run into Atobe.

It's lunch time. Students are milling about in the hallways and are headed over to a separate building that is the dining hall. The cafeteria occupies an entire building and separate floors for each year, and yet another separate floor for the tennis team. Apparently, Atobe had built and funded the building even before her had come to the school.

Ryoma senses Atobe even before he sees him. It's how the students act around here; the way they falter their normally aggressive steps and take another look back. They pause and their eyes glitter strangely. Some bow. Others just gawk.

Atobe Keigo is taller in person without a stage to widen the distance between them. His slim waist accentuates his broad shoulders, and his face is pale without the mark of teenage acne. He walks each step with a certain calculation, lazy but regal, as his hands are loosely by his sides. His uniform drapes his thin but muscled form very well, and his shoes gleam in the sunlight.

His eyes are blue when they meet Ryoma's.

It's not as if time stopped. But the students are all silent, as they part ways for Atobe to pass through, all until Ryoma, until they are standing across each other and no one is in their way. Until Atobe's eyes land on him, and he is forced to look back, as the spectators all look back and forth like this is a tennis match.

He suppresses an eyeroll and a scowl. Atobe walks closer.

He had never liked those eyes; they dismissed him when he was younger, and one thing Ryoma hated was being overlooked. He hated it with a vengeance and fury, and perhaps after all these years, this is why he can admit that was why he had shaved off Atobe's hair. He did not look kindly upon people who ridiculed him, even though at the end, it had been more than that, had been more than Atobe's petty bet and his insistence that he could never reach Tezuka's tennis.

Ryoma doesn't really remember. He was never a fan of reminiscing over past matches.

Atobe stops a few feet away from Ryoma, his eyes betraying nothing. There is not even a smirk adorning his lips. He merely tilts his head and does not look away. "Echizen," he drawls out, and that, finally, is what gets Ryoma to scowl. As soon as Ryoma breaks face and frowns, Atobe's face morphs into a smirk as well. It is not very friendly, but it was better than the expressionless face that first greeted him. "What a surprise. Not very pleasant, but I suppose it's to early for that."

He wonders if he should greet Atobe with 'monkey king' and make everyone gasp in indignation. It might be funny, but it's also too soon for that—he thinks his seatmate would murder him during his nap. He opts for silence.

Atobe raises an eyebrow when Ryoma doesn't speak. "Have you gone mute while you were aboard?" he asks, and it's a deceptively pleasant tone that is nevertheless mocking. Ryoma's scowl grows deeper.

"No," he says shortly, "You're also in the way."

There comes the gasps of horror, he thinks. His classmates look upon him with wide eyes, but of course Atobe is entirely unfazed. Good god, what must it be like, to be worshipped by the entire school? Not very pleasant, Ryoma concludes, it'll only make for a big ego. What do people do with an inflated ego?

"I was looking for you, actually," Atobe says, "Otherwise, there's no reason for me to be loitering around in the first year's floor now, is there?"

"Oh, I dunno," Ryoma replies dully. He shoves his hands in his pockets. "Thought there were other first years you had to terrorize."

"How flattering." Atobe turns around a little, and the path clears way for him again almost instantly. "Believe me, brat," and Atobe gives him another smirk, and this time, it is amused and cold, all at once, as his eyes are completely unreadable, "If I had really wanted to terrorize you, you would know it. Isn't that right, Kabaji?"

"Usu," Kabaji responses from the side, and Ryoma looks over at the tall second year in concealed surprise. He hadn't noticed the bulk, he had been so silent. Kabaji? he thinks. The names are very unfamiliar to him.

"Fortunately for you," Atobe continues, and with a snap and a gesture of his hand, a lazy wave towards the elevator, "I was looking for you so you can mingle with the rest of the…regulars on the top floor." He grimaces a little, his smirk finally faltering. "I suppose Coach Tanaki would want me to introduce you to them."

"Ehhh?" A voice finally breaks out, and Ryoma is at first relieved, then disgusted, as his seatmate pushes his way towards the crowd to gap openly at Ryoma. He is not the only one; most of his classmates have already heard the news that Ryoma would not be joining the tennis club, and are now looking at him with some surprise and wariness. "Echizen! I thought you said you were going to be at the library?!"

I didn't say that, Ryoma thinks snidely, You just saw what I wrote. Out loud, he says, "I didn't say to him that I was joining the regulars. I just said I'll be in the club."

"Is there a difference with you?" Now Atobe looks bored. "And here I thought coach was all done buttering you up. What a waste. I'd hardly be the one to flatter your ego, Echizen."

Ryoma finally lets his annoyance dominate him and rolls his eyes. Fuck everyone. "I don't need anyone to flatter my ego," he says, "Unlike some people, I know when I'm actually good, thanks."

There came the louder gasps, and an even colder smile from Atobe. Very smooth, Ryoma, a voice from somewhere in his mind sighs, I thought you wanted a quiet school life. What happened to your solace and peace? Better yet, what did I tell you about provoking the enemy? He tells the voice to shut up; the voice was too rationale to be his own.

"I see you're as polite as ever," Atobe says; Ryoma doesn't know if he's actually insulted, "Shame that Tezuka never succeeded in installing manners in you. If you're adamant about being a non-regular, be my guest. Altogether," and here Atobe slightly sneers, "I never took you to be such a mediocre achiever. Or perhaps second place has always suited you."

Good god. The gasps are replaced with sniggers now, and his peers do not bother to hide it. Hostile ground, Ryoma, the voice purrs again, and this time, Ryoma half-heartedly lets it roll over his brain. Hostile, enemy grounds. Tread carefully here; you don't know what you're up against, do you? Do not provoke a yapping hound.

"Maybe I just want the top spot or nothing at all," he says easily, and allows his frown to cease; he mirrors Atobe's previous not-so-friendly smirk and cocks his head. "I don't why you haven't figured that out yet."

"Ah." Atobe's sneer is replaced by something feral and dangerous. His eyes do not leave Ryoma's, as the sniggers dissolve and there is, finally, absolute silence. "You're saying you want my spot." He says this very softly, almost like a deadly beast, as Ryoma does not break eye contact. "How unsurprising, coming from you. You're very lucky that I take such challenges to be…interesting." His lips curl. "I have no qualms giving you my Singles position. If you can earn it, of course." Blue-grey irises. Sharp cheekbones, bared teeth. "Can you?" The question is thrown at him carelessly, as onlookers await. What a spectacle they are making.

Of course I can, Ryoma thinks, unbidden scorn charging his emotions, I beat you once; I beat all of you a long time ago. I was about to beat Tezuka Kunimitsu too, but that wasn't my fault. And still. And yet. Why was that never enough?

He does not voice out his scorn. He only thins his lips and says, "I guess that's the Hyotei way, then. All's fair and merited."

"I suppose." Atobe shrugs. "Or, you can say, I have always believed that age does not determine one's ability." And his smirk this time is bland, almost wry. The coldness dissipates and replaced with a mild demeanor once again. He turns sideways, about to head off; he motions Kabaji to step forth. "As anyone can see with you."

Before Ryoma can wonder whether that was a compliment or an insult, Atobe fully turns around and walks away without another backwards look at Ryoma. "I'll tell the regulars that Seigaku's prince thinks too highly of himself to dine with them, then, shall I? I'm sure it'll make them warm up to you very quickly."

With Kabaji at his heels, he is gone and swallowed by the flux of the first years, their eyes all wide and gaping at him.

No one speaks, and before anyone can, Ryoma too, turns the other way and walks away, from the opposite direction that Atobe went.

For first-time reunions, he supposes that it could have gone worse.

/

A/N: ANNNNNND they finally meet! Wow, very friendly and whatnot.