So yeah, long time no update, right? I'm sorry about that. If you like, I could tell you my sob story about having my brand new computer crash (taking several pages of this chapter with it) during my first week of school etc, etc, but I figured I'd spare everyone the rant and just get this out as soon as I could.

I'd really like to thank all my lovely, patient reviewers who constantly inspire me to work on this fic: Sejezza, Merichuel, SunnydayinPallet, Shinra'sCrazyTurk, The Talented Mr Kipling, DrunkKid-Catholics (who reviewed twice!), mehhdroopyL, AuraBlackWolf, "Grey", phantom-willow217, K-Danuve, Dance Away, kfjkaskm, and "your reader". You're incredible and I love you all!

And for my anonymous reviewers:

"Grey": Thank you so much for the review! I promise to keep working even on this story. It has an ending and I intend to reach it, don't worry. (If I ever take a year to update, please spam me with PMs telling me to get my ass in gear)

"your reader": Thank you so much for your review. I'm glad you like the story. As for the tennis match…well, keep reading.

And so I give you: The Chapter in Which There is Tennis!

Please enjoy…


Chapter 6

Matt hated physical activity. He avoided it whenever possible. (It was only through Wammy's unbending insistence that he possessed any sort of physical prowess whatsoever.) Personal preferences aside, he just didn't see the point. Why on earth would he bother chasing a stupid black and white ball around a field when he could be chasing down zombies with a chainsaw on his x-box? Where was the appeal in sweating buckets and accumulating (more) bruises under a burning sun when he could be reprogramming Wammy's security system to obey his every whim? And even more incomprehensible, why would he ever waste his time bouncing various sized balls on hard packed concrete when he could be flying through cyberspace, bouncing around amongst the satellites of various world powers? Psssh, no contest.

Needless to say, Matt and sports did not mix. Period.

Consequently, Matt had never stepped foot on a tennis court in his life.

The Picture of Dorian Gray lay limply in his lap, utterly forgotten in the face of Yagami Moon's confident challenge.

There was no way he could do it. He didn't know the first thing about tennis. He had never so much as held a racket in his puny little hand or bounced a tennis ball. He'd have to decline. It was for the best, wasn't it?

The only exposure Matt had ever had to the sport had been during those two weeks last summer when Linda and her posse of girls had staged a coup over control of all the TVs in the house (and piled every last one of them into main play room) in order to watch the Wimbledon tennis tournament. Normally, Matt would have avoided the fangirling mass of preteen hormones and holed up in his room until the marathon of panting/moaning/sweating tennis professionals was finally over. At the time, though, Mello had been going through some sort of stage where he had morphed into some kind of diehard tennis enthusiast. Matt supposed (though he didn't really care either way) that the sudden interest in smacking small yellow-green balls with oddly shaped rackets had blossomed from the passing rumor that L had been a junior tennis champion a few years back. It was a stupid rumor, but when you dump a bunch of genius children into an enclosed environment with the goal of becoming another genius, you got obsession, and consequently stupid, baseless rumors. Rumors like "L-was-a-tennis-champ-gosh-isn't-he-incredible?!" were incredibly common (for several weeks three years ago, the kids had been convinced that L was a sugar addict and had a bizarre fondness for capoeira), though, so Matt rarely bothered to keep track of them.

In any case, for whatever reason, Mello had decided that they needed to watch Wimbledon. When Matt expressed his disinterest in this plan, Mello threw his (Matt's) gameboy at the wall (bless its nonexistent sole, the poor thing shattered on impact, so at least it didn't suffer). His resistance was ultimately meaningless since the end result still found Matt being dragged along anyway, regardless of his personal feelings on the matter, forced to endure hour upon hour of tennis torture.

He had been prepared to hate it, to go slowly insane and eat his own hair, but somewhere along the way he started to understand. Bit by bit he began to see the skill involved in what had at first appeared to be merely grunting and senseless ball-whacking. He noticed the split second decisions that won and lost games. He saw the subtle strategies lurking beneath the surface of the games and quickly caught onto why some plans worked and some failed miserably. He even learned to differentiate a smash from a volley and a lob from a drop shot. And by the end he was cheering along with the others (in his own, extremely internalized way) when Goran Ivanišević won his first Grand Slam and Venus Williams secured her third career Grand Slam title.

In the immediate aftermath of the two week tennis marathon, Matt had considered, briefly, following tennis, maybe even looking into playing it himself. Before he could decide whether or not it would be worth the effort, Mello's little obsession petered out. Near had beaten him even more severely than usual on the following battery of tests and Mello blamed Wimbledon. He consequently swore off tennis as the sport of the devil and forbid the mention of it in his presence on pain of death. Not interested in fighting about it, regardless of his own passing interest, Matt had done what he always did, bowed to his best friend's wishes and quietly let it go.

For the first time, Matt found himself regretting that decision. But regret was meaningless. Regret did nothing to change the fact that Matt was an utter n00b when it came to any sport, let alone tennis and that accepting Yagami Moon's challenge, regardless of how interesting it might prove to be, would be suicide. And while Matt was many things, suicidal was not one of them.

Generally.

Sometimes.

Well, on a good day.

He was a Wammy kid, after all, he had to be smart enough to have some sense of self preservation…right?

All rambling tangents aside, the simple fact of the matter was that Matt had no business on a tennis court, especially not when it involved playing an exhibition match with a junior championship winner (or so the guy's records reported, at least). The scenario was analogous to Matt being the poor unarmed prisoner who had the shitty luck to be the one chosen to be dumped in the middle of the coliseum at the nonexistent mercy of the bloodthirsty lion and the roaring crowds.

Three guesses as to the identity of the bloodthirsty lion in this analogy.

The first two don't count.

"Well! What are you waiting for, Greene-kun?" roared Convict-sensei, his face a stunning shade of fuchsia. One of the few areas of the Matt's mind not devoted to dealing with this mess of a challenge carefully noted the color so that he could properly appreciate the hilarity of the situation once he was safely back in his apartment and free from this hellhole.

"I don't have a racket," Matt said blandly, not moving from his seat. That could work. No racket = forfeit. A win-win situation.

"Why you!" the gym teacher growled lowly.

"That's fine," Yagami interjected smoothly, his dangerous brown eyes still fixed on Matt. "You can borrow one," he said with a polite smile that hid everything and nothing all at once as he gestured pointedly at the barrel of rackets by the edge of the courts.

Ah. Fuck. Well, it was worth a shot.

Matt suppressed a snort at that though. Worth a shot? Maybe all this time spent among the rampant stupidity of the general public was getting to him; if he was starting to do something as pointless as feel hopeful about a situation. Still, even if he didn't have an easy out, the answer was still no, because to do anything else would be absurd. Utterly ridiculous, even. Now all he had to do was open his mouth and tell Mr. Look-At-Me-I'm-Perfect-Even-Though-It's-All-Lie exactly where he could shove his racket.

Yes, yes, that's exactly what he should be doing…so why wasn't he?

Why was he setting his book down and getting up and walking over to them?!

Why was he examining the barrel of rackets like he had any idea what he was looking at?

What the fuck was he thinking?

He wasn't, obviously.

And that was how he found himself standing just in front of the white baseline of a neatly manicured court, a blue rimmed racket clutched tightly in his hand, watching Yagami bounce a tiny yellow ball against the green concrete of the court. Yagami caught the ball deftly each time, even though it was clear (to Matt, at least) that he wasn't paying much, if any attention to the action. He was far too busy watching Matt.

Fuck.

Why was he doing this again?

Before he could properly recant his inexplicable decision to agree (had he really agreed? He didn't remember agreeing to anything…) to put himself in this ridiculous position, Yagami was already moving. He tossed the small yellow ball high into the air and in one glorious movement, swept his right arm though the air. His red rimmed racket connected with the falling projectile with a resounding thwak. The ball soared, a barely visible yellow blur through time and space, over the net, impacting with the court one and half feet from where Matt stood before proceeding to spring back into the air, and right into the chain link fence that encircled the court. The red head hadn't so much as moved a muscle.

Matt blinked.

"15 – Love," an excitable student (who was apparently playing the line judge thing – that was what Linda had called it, right?) called.

Yagami's fans roared in approval.

Matt blinked again.

"Oi! Greene-kun! That doesn't count! This isn't some walk in the park, you maggot! You have to move your lazy behind and go for the ball!" Convict-sensei roared above the cheers, his face an interesting shade of brick red.

Matt was oblivious to the tidal waves of sound barraging him on all sides. His unfocused green eyes stared blankly at the spot where Yagami's ball had bounced. All he could see was the flash of yellow-green running though his mind again and again. He replayed the image over and over, from start to finish, from every possible angle. His mind tore apart those few precious seconds of time, breaking down Yagami's serve to the movements of his muscles and chemical interactions in his brain. He replayed the path of the ball, slowing the action down until he could visualize all the forces of nature acting on the ball.

After a few seconds, the red head's eyes refocused and the noise of the crowd swam back into focus. Matt's gaze zeroed in on Yagami. His analysis of the play was all conclusive. Yagami Moon was, if not a pro like Goran Ivanišević, well on his way to being one (if he hadn't quit, of course). Matt didn't need to be third to know that he well and truly stood absolutely no chance in hell of winning this game.

It was hard, though, to keep that knowledge firmly in mind while under that searing brown gaze. There was a challenge in those eyes, a challenge that Matt could not, regardless of what his self preservation instincts were telling him, ignore.

Matt realized with a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach that he didn't want to give up. He was always the one who caved, who gave in and let things go. It was always better that way, after all.

But now…

This one time…

For some reason…

He wanted to play.

Even though he had no idea what he was doing. He still wanted to play, wanted to make Yagami Moon run back and forth across the court, to make him work, to make him fight for his win. There was no doubt that he would win, but that didn't mean Matt had to lay down and let him have it.

"Do you hear me Greene-kun!" a distant part of his mind registered Convict-sensei's continued shouting, but Matt found that he could honestly care less. Convict-sensei, the Ignoramus, L, and everyone else could go screw themselves. He was going to play.

Matt let his lips quirk into a smirk (the first facial expression he had allowed himself in what felt like weeks, but was really only a few days). Yagami's eyes flashed and he returned the smirk with one of his own.

What an arrogant jackass.

The look was surprisingly familiar, but at the same time incredibly foreign. Never in his life had such a look been aimed at him, at Matt. It was always Near. Near, Near, Near. And Matt just tagging along for the ride like the useless baggage he was.

For the first time, this was something about him. Just him.

No one else.

Matt's smirk widened slightly.

What fun.

Matt spread his legs a little and bent his knees experimentally as he recalled to the forefront of his mind the games of Goran Ivanišević, Pat Rafter and dozens of other professional tennis players. The red head quickly ran through his memories of the various "ready stances" of the players, averaged them out and readjusted them for his own size, before finally dropping into what he calculated to be the best stance, racket at the ready.

Yagami's smirk widened minutely and then he was moving, sliding through that now familiar sequence of toss-swing-smack. The tiny yellow ball flew once again, but this time Matt was prepared. Copying the movements he had seen over and over again during those endless summer days of Wimbledon tennis matches, he went for the ball.

He managed to graze the edge of the ball as it soared past.

"15 – Love!" The line guard called. The line guard called excitedly. The students roared. Convict-sensei shouted, his face tinged a healthy blue color.

The twelve-year-old's smirk did not waver in the face of the missed point, if anything; it grew as he carefully made adjustments to his stance and grip.

Yagami served again. Matt caught the ball in the center of his racket, but he underestimated the strength of Yagami's serve. While he managed to hold onto his racket, his return did not make it over the net.

"30 – Love!"

Right. He nodded minutely to himself in understanding. He needed more power. Easy enough.

Yagami served again.

This time he overestimated the serve, sending the ball flying with a resound thwack. The ball soared like a bird, sailing right into the fence without bouncing once.

"40 – Love!"

A small part of Matt noticed Convict-sensei blustering somewhere far away about how Yagami's next service ace would win the game, which would be the first of at least six games, depending on how poorly "Greene-kun" played. Matt couldn't have cared less. His entire world had shrunk to the size of that little yellow-green sphere and court that enclosed it. Anything beyond the court, beyond the moment, was lost to him. His insane maybe-an-escaped-sociopath teacher, the Ignoramus, L, even Mello…they were all gone. It was just him and the ball and Yagami.

He realized with some surprise as he settled back into the "ready stance" that he would not have it any other way.

Yagami served again.

This time Matt knew just how hard to hit the ball. The red head watched with pride as the ball landed almost where he had intended and proceeded to bounce again, scoring him his very first point. The shot was poorly controlled and nothing like Yagami's graceful swings, but as far as Matt was concerned, the shot was gold. The fact that his score had only happened because he had caught Yagami off guard did nothing to dim his pride. This was a starting point; the first of what Matt knew would be many, many points and games.

He had time. He could only get better from here.

"40 – 15!"

Yagami's eyes sparked in renewed challenge as he served.

Matt did not disappoint. He returned the shot, his control even better than before. Yagami caught the ball with ease now that Matt no longer had the benefit of surprise on his side and sent the ball back with an elegant swing of his racket.

Matt, startled by the return even though he had expected it, had to scramble to return the ball. Somehow, he managed the shot (it even landed near where he had wanted it to go), but in the process he managed to set himself for a fall because the next thing he knew, the ball was flying back toward him. He couldn't get there in time; he could only watch as the ball soared by.

"Game. Yagami leads one game to Love!" cried the line guard. Funny, Matt had almost forgotten he was there, that any of the spectators were there. "That's right, isn't it?"

"Correct. Acceptable work, Nakao-kun," Convict-sensei praised. Matt nearly died of shock at the display of humanity. Who knew the psycho had it in him? Matt sure didn't.

"Your serve," Yagami Moon said, drawing Matt's attention back to their game.

"Of course," the red head said, unable to stop his smirk from slipping into a tiny smile.

Moon's eyes shone with excitement. "Don't hold back," the teen said quietly in English.

Matt simply bounced the ball like Yagami had, all the while trying to figure out how the hell he was supposed to serve. After a moment, he decided to try Yagami's serve. It seemed like an easy enough move to start with and it would have the added benefit of giving the stupid enigma a taste of his own medicine.

He tossed the ball up and swept his racket through the air…

And he missed.

"Get your head out of the clouds Greene-kun!" roared Convict-sensei, his previous good mood long forgotten.

Matt ignored him. He adjusted his stance to further account for the rather large size difference between Yagami and him. Right. He had it now. He bounced the ball to steady himself, then tossed it high. He swept his racket through the air. This time the ball connected with a pleasant thwak and flew true. The damned thing even managed to land (approximately) where he'd intended in the service box.

Unfortunately, the slightly uncontrolled shot was effortlessly returned by his skilled opponent.

Matt was ready, though, for the return this time, and managed to counter it with surprising ease. The shot was still a little wild, but after each shot Matt made sure to carefully note his mistakes and painstakingly calculated dozens of tiny adjustments that were, bit by bit, shot by shot, allowing him to keep up with Yagami.

Eventually, Yagami managed to break the rally by pretending to hit the ball to the right before actually hitting it to the left.

"Love – 15!"

Matt's focus did not falter at the loss, but he silently vowed to keep a closer eye on Yagami's movements. He refused to be manipulated by a fake out like that again.

He used Yagami's serve again. The shot was much cleaner this time. Moon returned it, but Matt could tell that his opponent was starting to get annoyed at Matt's copy-cat routine. The guy hid it well, but the irritation burned as clear as day in those brown eyes of his. Were he not practically fighting for his life, Matt might have found the situation hilarious. Of course, the boy knew that Yagami really had no way of knowing about Matt's minimal experience with tennis. It wasn't that farfetched (he supposed) for Moon to suspect that Matt, for all his mediocre playing, was just fooling around, holding back in order to catch his opponent by surprise with an embarrassing defeat. Still, it was ridiculous: the guy thought he was being messed with! By Matt of all people! The twelve-year-old, despite the hopelessness of his situation, felt giddy with the realization that despite everything he was really getting to this guy. What an incredible feeling!

They rallied again. Matt was feeling increasingly confident in his shots and even tried experimenting with various styles he had seen the professionals use so readily. One such experiment ended with the ball flying out of bounds and another point lost. Matt couldn't've cared less.

He used Yagami's serve once more. Taking as he did so an idle moment to enjoy the older boy's well hidden consternation as he struggled to figure out Matt's strategy. A part of him almost felt sorry for the guy, looking as he was for something that wasn't there, but the rest of him was too busy glorying in the excitement of the game to care. Let him stew, he thought as he countered Yagami's return, after all, a little uncertainty would probably be good for the bastard.

They rallied the ball back and forth across the court, once, twice, three times. On a whim, Matt took a chance, and pulled his return back, turning it into a gentle lob. The ball just made it over the net before dropping to the ground.

"15 – 30"

Yagami looked satisfied at the change up in his play. He probably thought the red head was ready to take him seriously. Matt almost felt sorry for what he was about to do. Almost.

He used Yagami's serve. It was perfect this time. And Yagami was perfectly infuriated to match. The teen return the serve violently, hitting the ball back across the court with all his strength.

Against his better judgment, Matt went for the ball. He managed to catch the ball in his racket, but the force was too much for him. The racket flew from his hands, falling to the court with an unpleasant clatter, the ball bounced once, twice, before rolled off to the side.

"15 – 40"

Matt felt a surge of irritation at Yagami's smug face. The ass thought he had made some sort of point. Matt growled softly to himself and grabbed up his racket with a bit more force than was strictly necessary, but he could honestly care less. If Mr. Moon was going to be like that, who was Matt to disagree? Time to switch things up a bit.

Matt served, but this time, he attempted a more complex serve that he had seen so often during the Wimbledon marathon. The shot was a little wild and barely made it into the service box, but the change in style was so unexpected that Yagami missed the serve by a mile.

What was that called again? Oh yeah, an ace.

Bloody brilliant.

"30 – 40"

But rather than getting angry, like Matt half expected, rather than throwing a fit at the surprise move like the red head knew his best friend would have, Yagami smiled. And those cold, dead eyes were suddenly alive with an inexplicable warmth that Matt could see even from his side of the court. It was like Yagami Moon was coming alive before the Matt's very eyes.

"So you're finally ready to take me seriously?"

On the surface Moon's voice was as steady and elegant as ever, but that, as so much with this strange teen, was a lie. Though Moon's voice did not betray him, his body gave it all away. Even as he settled back into the ready position, Yagami was bursting with excitement…and joy.

Despite himself, Matt could not help but respond, quietly but firmly, "Only a fool would fail to take you seriously, Yagami-kun."

And with that, he served.


Please don't kill me for leaving it there! If I had waited to update until I was where I wanted to be in the story there wouldn't have been an update until the end of November!

Besides that, what do you think? Surprised? Who thinks Matt will be able to pull one over on Junior-Champ-Light?

How's the tennis? Easy to follow or confusing as hell?

And as always, how's Matt? Disregarding the necessary character development/growth, of course, is he still in character?

In any case, I hope you liked the chapter.

Please tell me what you think; constructive criticism is always appreciated and hearing from you guys always makes my day! (Besides, it's great incentive to get to work on the next chapter so we can get to the exciting conclusion of this match!)

Until next time