A/N: Reposted this together with my other fics because I (finally) realized some of the "…"s weren't showing and how to get them to. ^^;
A/N: I realize the timeline is screwed. It shouldn't be snowing, but humour me. My first fanfic, so please review. Thank you! =)
No Regrets
He gazed at the snowstorm raging outside his window. It guaranteed him that all activities would be cancelled. It was a rare moment for someone like him to have nothing planned for the day. He could continue his studies, or choose from the number of books he had in his room and read, or simply sit and think.
He chose the third option.
His thoughts inevitably drifted towards Japan. It had been hard at first, not having his family with him in the strange new environment. It had taken him sometime to get adjusted to the different culture, but he had managed. It still hit him hard, though, not being with his team.
He knew they had done well. He had expected them to. They would never disappoint him, even though he had, after causing them all that worry and trouble, let them down. He had lost that fateful match to Hyotei's captain, Atobe.
He had no regrets, however. He had played to the best of his ability and that match had been the best he had ever played. He had no regrets.
His thoughts then focused on the other captain. Beneath all that posturing was a great tennis player he respected. He recalled the surprising email he received two days ago:
Tezuka,
Congratulations on Seigaku advancing to the finals. I'm quite surprised that thick-headed Momoshiro could defeat Amane, who has, after all, defeated one hundred of my own players, but it is nonetheless gratifying.
I hope everything is going well in Germany and that you will be able to return soon. I fully intend to have another match against you then.
Atobe
He recalled the purple-haired boy's features with startling clarity. When he had fallen to his knees in pain on the tennis courts that day, he had looked up at his opponent. The intense look on his face had been the real Atobe, of that he was sure.
The look which had told him to continue, that he would not stand for a forfeit. The look which had said, "Don't disappoint me." Those emotions conveyed to him had reinforced his own stringent demands on himself. He had continued, and he had lost.
He had no regrets.
Seated at his desk, he took out a blank piece of paper and a soft pencil. He began sketching. The outline of the haughty, androgynous face. The almost artificial colour of his hair darkened to black and grey. The long strands, he was certain, would feel like silk to his fingers, but he would never touch them. The perfect, classic nose. The mouth was not contorted into its usual smirk. Its lines were firmer, more severe. And the eyes, with the bewitching mole under the right, held the intensity he saw that day.
The portrait was of the Atobe Keigo Tezuka Kunimitsu had seen that day.
The real Atobe.
He had no regrets.