Disclaimer: Tennis no Oujisama belongs to Takeshi Konomi. I'm simply a fan.

A/N: It's 1:00 AM and I've finally finished this. This is the first draft. I'm abusing the privileges of a rough draft. Forgive any mistakes. Will be edited in future. As always, reviews are loved.

------

Kingdom Come
by soybean

------

Life is funny. Not a 'haha' funny -- far from it, in fact. It's that sort of laughter you are inclined to choke out: a snort in pity or a nervous chuckle to escape confrontation or at a joke that really isn't funny. But that's the only sort of 'funny' that life knows. It is but a cruel and twisted sense of humor.

And, well, this is life.

------

"Ryoma-kun!"

Her voice echoes in my head even to this day. It haunts the caverns of my mind, and it refuses to let me be at peace. At first it was an annoying squeal, just like the rest of them. I brushed her off, then. She wasn't worth my time. Nothing was, except tennis. That sport was my life, and she had no part of it.

Don't get me wrong, it wasn't like I disliked her. How do you hate someone that didn't exist to you in the first place?

I guess the first conclusion to be drawn when I said "it wasn't like I disliked her" would be that I did likeher. And I can tell you right now: that would be wrong. It wasn't like that either. Sure, she was easy on the eyes. In fact, she was... cute -- not in a Karupin way, but 'cute' nonetheless.

That doesn't mean I like her, though.

I simply... forgot all about the girl with the pigtails.

That was ten years ago, when I didn't think twice about her, about the opposite sex in general. That was ten years ago, when she was just another face in the crowd, and what a huge crowd it was -- especially during tennis matches. And I never cared much for crowds. They were a pain; too noisy.

But you know that saying, you don't know what you have until it's gone?

I suppose that would be the best way to describe this situation -- if there was anything there in the first place. And there might've been, if I had noticed to begin with. I should've. I could've. But -- wouldn't you know it? -- I didn't. It's sad how nothing existed, back then. There was only tennis. Tennis was all that matter. It was my constant, and it kept me alive. I love the adrenaline rush when standing on the courts. I love the feel of a challenge, of an opponent worth beating. For that one reason alone, I woke up every morning to face the task of overcoming another grueling day.

It's a decade later now.

And I realize, much to my dismay, she has been a constant as well. All this time, she was a never-changing part of my life that I failed to detect.

She was always there, at each and everyone one of Seigaku's tennis matches. It didn't matter if it was raining -- that time with Fudomine is a perfect example. No, she'd still be there, cheering with her rather loud friend. Every time.

Maybe that was why I didn't notice it. She was always there. She fit into my life. She was just another piece of a puzzle -- you can't single it out from the rest of the pieces when they're put together, but you can when it's missing. You do notice when it's gone, when it's too late, when it's nowhere to be found.

And once that piece is gone, the puzzle will never be whole.

But there is nothing I can do to change the past, now. All I can do now is regret. And remember.

------

Two months ago I received a letter.

"Ryoma-san! There's mail for you, again."

I brushed it off at first. Fan mail, probably, I thought dryly at the time. They were becoming a nuisance. I was prepared to watch TV the rest of the afternoon, before going out to practice again. Nowhere in my day did 'girly fanmail' fit in, and I was prepared to completely ignore all incoming messages from the telephone, mailbox, and whatever other communication devices they've invented.

Too bad my cousin decided it was a fine day to be persistent.

"Ryoma-san!"

"Just throw it away."

I wasn't in the mood. I really wasn't. And most people would've given up right then and there. But no -- she had to inherit those stubbornness genes from her parents.

"You should at least look at it! It's from a 'Ryuzaki'. Doesn't she sound familiar to you?"

Very few things surprised me. Even fewer shocked me. And this happened to be one of them.

...I don't suppose it's fan mail, I mused to myself sarcastically, but finding myself hoping half-earnest that it wasn't at the same time.

Fanmail from your much older ex-coach is rather creepy, to put it simply.

I gestured for Nanako to hand me the thin white envelope, and scanned it over as I took it from her. I wondered briefly what really lay within the confines of its folds. In the end, there was only one way to find out. I ripped open the seal, pulled out the small slip of paper, and skimmed over the carefully-written text:

Echizen,

Seigaku Tennis Club reunion -- a.k.a. Christmas party -- on December 24th, for the regulars we had when you were in your freshman year. Meet at the gymnasium of the Junior High compound at 6:15 PM. RSVP. (You ought to come.)

-Ryuzaki

I sighed, half-relieved it wasn't a ranting, raving, praising fan letter. On the contrary, it was short, crisp, and to the point. How typical of you, Ryuzaki-sensei.

I'm not sure what possessed me to go. It started out as a curiosity. I simply wanted to see how Momo-senpai and the others had been doing since I last saw them -- which was a while back. I hadn't seen them since I graduated Seigaku and began making a name for myself in tournaments around the world.

Or maybe I was expecting to see a certain someone.

Regardless, I replied. And I went.

------

The days flew by, and before I knew it, December 24th had come.

"Ochibi!"

"Kikumaru-senpai...," I mumbled in greeting, as said redhead held me in a head lock. What a great way to begin my evening.

Just like old times.

After all these years, he hasn't changed one bit. You'd think age would wear him down, or maybe, introduce the concept of 'maturity' into his life. But that's too much to hope for.

Hmm... I'm being a hypocrite. I haven't changed much either, other than the fact I've grown physically. My height now rivals that of Oishi-senpai, which Kikumaru-senpai noted with fascination.

And besides, I liked it better this way. I accustomed to the acrobat's energetic ways. It was a sweet dose of nostalgia that I had unconsciously been yearning for.

"Drinking milk really paid off, ne Echizen?" teased Momo-senpai, grinning.

"Mada mada dane."

And it feels like not a year has passed between the nine of us.

Fuji-senpai still has his smile -- yes that creepy one, Inui-senpai is still experimenting with new juices -- I hope he hasn't tampered with the eggnog, Taka-senpai had taken over his sushi restaurant, Kaidoh-senpai still hisses every now and then, and Oishi-senpai, who was carefully watching for any catastrophic occurrence that could take place at that very moment -- like Acne -- was still the timeless mother of Seigaku.

And Tezuka-buchou, whose elbow had healed up nicely thanks to his treatment in Germany, was still unsurpassable in tennis.

But she wasn't there I noticed, involuntarily searching for a head chocolate brown hair.

Ryuzaki-sensei smiled at us, before turning to look out the window. The snow came down, slowly, tiny flake by flake.

I let myself relax in the presence of my former teammates. For now, everything was okay. Except... my throat was irritating me.

It burned. It itched. And I coughed.

"Nyah, Ochibi! You okay? Not choking on the eggnog are you?"

"Hey Echizen, you sick?"

"Should've worn a bigger coat," Oishi reprimanded, worriedly.

Just a little ill, I guess. It wasn't that bad.

"Ryoma."

I turned to face the direction of the voice. Tezuka-buchou.

"Get some cough drops."

Finding myself unable to defy his command, I nodded and headed towards the only place where cough drops were likely to be stashed. Ryuzaki-sensei's office.

And there, I found that newspaper. Completely by accident, might I add, but fate was not on my side that night.

My first intention was to search the drawers for some candy that'd remedy my throat, which was bothering me more and more by the second. Getting sick is hell.

By pure coincidence, as I was brushing the papers on her desk aside, I found the newspaper -- it seemed to be a recent issue. And the headlines caught me entirely off guard. I wasn't prepared for what I read.

Girl Dies in Tragic Car Accident: Body Identified as 22-Year-Old Ryuzaki Sakuno

"Echizen, what are you doing in here?"

I turned around. Ryuzaki-sensei was smiling at me, but the smile did not reach her eyes. Her tear-stained cheeks revealed she had been crying. She must've recently read the article herself.

"Your granddaughter died," I stated. Perhaps I was too blunt. Perhaps I was too harsh, but I wanted to know. I wanted to be sure.

"Yes," she confirmed, "She died last week."

I was never good with words. And at that moment, I probably wouldn't have been able to say anything if I tried. So I said nothing, and let the silence of the room sink in.

And let the memories come flooding back.

------

"Ryoma-kun! You're hurt!"

A pink ribbon.

To stop the bleeding.

And I just pushed her away.

She most likely cried...

...Because of me.

------

"Ryoma-kun! Ano... what's your favorite color?"

Cream-colored cheeks tinted a slight pink.

Large, brown, innocent eyes.

Unspoken admiration...

...For me.

The admiration I never noticed.

Or love?

Love...

...For me.

Love that now, ten years too late, I finally reciprocate?

This sensation burning in my chest is a new one, but it's only a tiny nagging. It could just be guilt, right?

Yeah. I should've just been nicer to her.

So I draw the only conclusion I can.

I don't love her.

Not yet.

------

"Will you come to her funeral?" my former coach asked me, snapping me out of my reverie.

I could only nod.

I would go. As an apology. As a thank you. And as a confession.

------

The funeral was the day after New Year's. January 2nd. The cemetery was a sea of black dresses and suits, white gloves and handkerchiefs, and sobbing. The grass was dead, the trees barren of leaves, and the flowers wilted. It was a field of silence and death. Everything died in winter.

I did not cry then. Tears will do her not good. Tears will not bring her back.

And I do not cry now, as I sit in front of her grave. My hand reaches out to trace her name, carved finely in the stone grave marker.

She never married. Or even dated, her grandmother had informed me. She must've been lonely.

So I make a promise here at her grave.

Like her, I will die alone. And that will be my apology. And that will be my thank you.

Next week, I will come back, and reaffirm my promise to her again. This vow I will not break. Her heart I will not break, not again anyway.

Perhaps, when I finally do die, I will go to the same place as she -- that paradise, that Heaven. Maybe I'll embrace her, and we'll start over.

She may smile, and say shyly, "Men are dense."

And I will agree. Completely. There is no denying it. Men are dense, and I am not exception.

And then we'll begin anew. She'll teach me what love is, what I've been missing all my life. We'll nurture these feelings together.

That is all in the next life, in that kingdom come, where she awaits me.

Oh, and my confession?

I think you probably already know.

I don't know if this is love yet. But I'm getting there.

------

end.