BAHHHHHHHH! IT'S A DAY LATE! Sooo pissed at myself. It was totally my fault, too. I didn't get the chapter to Self in time for him to beta it... I absolutely won't allow myself more than a day late, though. I've gotten bad enough already... Well, thank you for bearing with it. Since I've got no shame anymore, R&R!

Here We Go Again

Chapter Twenty-Two: Meanwhile, In America

Part II

"Oi, you listening?"

Ryoma flinched and opened his eyes with a start. Once again, the first thing he saw was Kevin, in his face. Again. He irately swept aside the hand that had flicked him in the forehead. "What?"

"Get your lazy ass up, the match is almost over!" yelled Kevin, drawing amused glances from the rest of the room. Apparently, the contestants of the US Open thought that seeing the champion getting bossed around like a disobedient child was hilarious.

Kevin and Ryoma were sitting inside the waiting area that doubled as a locker room, waiting for the prince'sturn to play. If (or in all probability, when) he won this match, he would advance to the quarterfinals. Ryoma expected it to be good exercise at least; anyone who could make it this far was either skilled or extremely lucky. As far as he knew, his opponent was more or less average. Relatively new to the professional circuits, and having seen varying success, the French man wouldn't be hard to take down.

"Winner?" asked the boy with a bleary rub of his eyes.

"I don't know his name, but I'm almost positive that it'll be the guy in blue," replied the blond through gritted teeth, digging his heels into the ground as he tried to drag his sleepy friend to his feet. "Get… up!" he yelled with a final heave.

Now on his feet and without any chance of getting more sleep, Ryoma shot Kevin a disparaging glance before putting his headphones in and blocking out the world.

"Diva," muttered Kevin. With that, he wandered off, probably looking for the television where the current match would be playing.

For his part, Ryoma shuffled over to where he had left his bag and began looking through it, taking out his water bottle, towel, and racquets. To kill time, he began checking the guts on all three. He began tugging on the strings in methodic, practiced motions, making sure the tension was correct everywhere.

Unlike his first US Open, he was able to prepare for his match in peace. His face was well known, as was the fact that he wasn't just some brat. Now, everyone knew that he was a very talented brat. People gave him a wide, respectful berth.

"Ca-lled it!" The drawn out, yell managed to pierce through his music, as Kevin's voice always did. The American teen had strolled back over to his friend, with a grin splitting his face in two. "The guy in blue won. Either way, they're taking a sec' to clean up the courts, and then you're up. Everyone's getting all excited about it, too." Noticing that his friend had stopped listening, Kevin gave a long-suffering sigh and reached forward to rip out the boy's headphones. "That means get ready… like, now."

True to Kevin's word, a tournament official appeared, announcing, "Mr. Ryoma Echizen! You're up next!"

"Get going, you punk!" shouted the blond freshman, shoving Ryoma's tennis racquet into his chest and giving the small teen's back a shove towards the door.

The boy made sure to send a withering glare over his shoulder as he walked out. In the tunnel between the waiting room and the courts, the official smiled at him. "It's a pleasure to meet you in person, Mr. Echizen. Good luck today."

Ryoma nodded in recognition, squeezed the gut of his racquet one last time, and stepped into the stadium.

The sound hit him like a brick wall, as it always did. Accompanying it was the sudden blinding light of the midday sun and dozens of cameras. The cheers, some of which he could distinguish as his name, roared in his ears. He ignored it all, as he always did.

Without giving any signs of being affected by the new atmosphere, he set his towel and water bottle down on the bench. The quiet whistling sound of his deep breaths were all that he paid attention to, centering himself and focusing on tennis alone. In a familiar ritual, he began to bounce on the spot with his eyes closed, shaking and rolling his shoulders. Not once did he let his steady breaths hitch.

When his eyes opened again, he felt a razor-sharp clarity in his mind and a pliant strength coursing through his body. Preparations complete.

The young pro tightened his grip on his racquet and stepped out onto the court, meeting that day's opponent at the center of the net.

The roaring crowd quieted slightly, but it was enough for Ryoma to hear the official announcing the match. In the midst of all the formalities that he heard nearly every day, he was able to catch his competitor's name: Quentin Reyer.

In accordance with almost every match he'd ever played, the man was taller than him by several inches. His auburn hair was cut short, and his bright blue eyes bored into the teenager from across the net. They were cold as ice.

Ryoma dearly wished that he could start a little pre-game taunting, and he could speak some French to do so, but it was unfortunately out of the question. Instead, he arched one eyebrow sarcastically at Quentin's open appraisal. The only reaction he got was a slightly more intense glare. Well, it's better than nothing.

The referee called for them to shake hands, and Ryoma snapped out of his thoughts. He extended his left hand, seeing as he planned to play right handed today, and the Frenchman mirrored the action. The younger player took note of the unnecessarily firm grip. This could be an interesting day yet, it seemed.

It was already determined that Reyer would have the first serve, so Ryoma slipped into the receiver's position automatically. His eyes scanned for any irregularities in Reyer's stance that would indicate a special serve.

There were none. The first serve of the match had no special spin or technique; its only purpose was to test how fast a ball had to be to pressure Samurai Junior.

Ryoma returned it easily, making sure to keep his chest muscles loose. The rally dragged on like that, each player getting warmed up and feeling out the other. This guy's not as cocky as the others, he decided. He's not just rushing in.

A deep ground shot to the side of the court made Reyer fumble at last, hitting a lob. Ryoma leapt into the air with one arm drawn back for a basic smash. It really was a pity he couldn't use the Cyclone Smash while his chest was still healing.

Two bangs resounded through the stadium. One was from the ball's impact with his racquet, and the other was the ball slamming down on the court.

"Point, Echizen! Love - 15!"

~X~

There was a pleasant burn coursing through Ryoma's body. He had just won the fourth of five sets, and had lost a negligible amount of points on the way there. Reyer hadn't won a single game, which was clearly getting to the man. He was pouring sweat, panting hard, and frustration gleamed in his eyes.

Ryoma could feel his opponent's cold gaze on him as he took a quick swig of water and returned to the courts. Beneath the anger and irritation in Reyer's eyes, there was also a cool, calculated element. It was this that kept Ryoma from getting too complacent. Something was coming, he could tell.

"Hey, Echizen! You're still looking down on me, aren't you?" called Reyer in French. "You haven't said a word, and I don't see you doing any of your fancy little tricks. I'm not the only one who's noticed, either."

The tall brunet seemed to take Ryoma's lack of reaction as an invitation to continue. "Everyone was shocked when we heard you were going to school in Japan. Seishun High School, was it? I heard the news saying something happened there a few weeks back. A freshman got beaten up, and it was pretty brutal from what I heard. They didn't release the kid's name, though. Do you know about it?"

The boy's eyes narrowed, and his knuckles turned white from their grip on his racquet. Slowly, he shook his head. There was a new gleam in Reyer's eyes, though. Satisfaction.

"That's too bad. Well, on with the match."

Ryoma was now thoroughly angry. He didn't like the look Reyer was giving him, and he sure as hell didn't appreciate the little monologue.

Still looking calm on the outside, he began to bounce the ball in his hand. Pok. Pok. Pok. With a ferocious gleam in his eyes, he struck the ball and sent it whistling through the air. Upon hitting the ground, it reversed directions. Twist Serves really were the best when he got upset during a match.

This shot wasn't just meant to intimidate or relieve frustration, though. For the first time in a while, he used his father's favorite serve to do something filled with childish spite. The serve rocketed straight into its intended target, that being Reyer's smug face. Ryoma watched the man stumble back with a cold satisfaction.

"I seem to have struck a nerve," muttered the unfortunate target of Ryoma's wrath, rubbing his face.

"Point, Echizen! 15 - Love!"

The boy pulled another ball from his pocket and began to bounce it. The familiar, rhythmic sound calmed him a bit, just enough to keep him from aiming for his adversary's face again.

That was where things went wrong.

Reyer smirked and positioned himself to return the serve. Had Ryoma been aiming for the man, this would have been impossible. The ball came shooting back to Ryoma's side of the court, and more specifically, to Ryoma.

The teenager's eyes widened and his body froze up at the blur of yellow aimed at his chest. In his mind's eye, a ghostly fist was transposed over the bright streak.

Ryoma heard a dull thump as the ball struck him square in the chest, and as he was thrown backwards, he heard a gasp. Whether it was his or the crowd's, he wasn't sure. The only thing he was sure of was that a terrifying ripping sensation sprouted near where the ball hit him and that a sharp burn raced through his body. He could feel it, even as he lay sprawled on his back. It was indescribable, but with every breath he took, a point on his chest twinged. Something was wrong beneath his bandages. Did I just rip a stitch?

"Tch." Ryoma gritted his teeth and stood. The moment he did, a jolt went through his chest. He was definitely bleeding. A glance down confirmed that his shirt was red. Good. That gave him time. He knew all too well that someone who was bleeding wasn't allowed to play, but he wasn't going to let Reyer get away with this. Moreover, were he forced to forfeit today he would lose his shot at first place. He had to see this match through to the end.

That meant he was on a timer again, though. The bandages would only hold up for so long, and after that it was just a matter of how long he had before someone noticed blood on his shirt. He'd have to make this quick and merciless.

Ryoma got into serving position as if nothing was wrong, and without preamble he resumed play. There was, however, a barely noticeable change in him. A faint breeze swirled around him, and he seemed to glow in the sunlight. There was an ethereal gleam in his eyes, and when he served, it shot across faster and cleaner than all of his previous serves.

Murmurs ran through the crowd as the spectators recognized the telltale signs of the Pinnacle of Perfection. The Prince was out for blood.

After that, the match was blatantly one-sided. Reyer had stepped too far, and even if he didn't know the extent of the damage he'd dealt, Ryoma would have his revenge. Despite the fact that he was a professional, the Frenchman barely touched the ball throughout the fifth set.

In less than twenty minutes, Ryoma Echizen completely decimated his opponent, won the final set of the match, and broke the previous record for the shortest set played in the US Open. When it was over, he was as quick as possible with the post-match formalities. He left the courts hurriedly, hoping that no one would notice the spreading dark blotch on his shirt.

In the waiting room, Kevin sat with his eyes still on the television screen. He stood and waved, smiling goofily, when he noticed the return of his friend.

"Good job, Ryoma! I told you he wasn't- hey! Where are we going?" The blond's congratulations were cut short by Ryoma grabbing his wrist and dragging him away without a backwards glance.

Once they were out of the crowded room, the boy held the hem of his shirt out to Kevin, pointing at it.

"What? Yes, it's a very pretty color, but why… Holy shit is that blood?" The American grabbed his friend's shirt, yanking it up to expose Ryoma's bandaged abdomen. "Holy crap! Holy crap, holy crap, holy crap! What the hell happened?"

As entertaining as Kevin's hysterics were, Ryoma didn't think it was the best idea to be so loud about a little bit of blood. He flicked the panicky teen's forehead and pointed down the hall, towards where he remembered seeing the first aid station. They were more geared towards treating bone and joint problems, but it was better than nothing. If it was really necessary, he could still always go to the hospital. It would be better if things didn't come to that, though.

"Oh, right! The first aid place." Kevin had apparently regained cohesive thought, and now switched their positions, leading Ryoma down the hall. "Seriously, though what happened? Did you just pop a stitch from moving around too much?"

Ryoma shook his head, mouthing Reyer's name.

"Reyer? But how… Wait, that time his shot hit you right before you went all berserker on him? That was terrifying by the way, I'm really glad I wasn't in his shoes. But what a stupid thing to do! Well that and it's just plain old mean. If you're losing by that much, why would you do something so freaking petty, right? That son of a…"

If he could, Ryoma would be groaning right now. Kevin seemed to think that he needed to speak enough for the both of them, and then some.

"Can I help you?"

Thankfully, the question made Kevin stop rambling. A gentle looking blonde woman in the uniform worn by tournament staff stood before them, smiling slightly. Around her arm was a white band with a red cross on it, indicating that she was from the first aid team. There were several other people milling around the room in the same clothing, as well as seated athletes nursing sprained ankles or hurt arms.

"Oh, yeah. We need first aid, and it's really important," replied the taller of the two boys. "My friend's hurt, but we'd really appreciate it if you kept this on the hush-hush."

The woman's eyebrows furrowed, but she didn't pry. "Of course. Where's the injury?"

"Um… could we do this in private, please?" asked Kevin, looking slightly awkward. The lady helping them now looked thoroughly intrigued, but she nodded and led them off all the same.

She walked down a hallway filled with doors, some open and some closed. Those of the former group had empty examination rooms behind them, very much like the ones in doctor's offices. She picked one at random, gestured for them to step inside, and closed the door behind her.

"Now, what's the problem?" she inquired seriously.

By way of response, Ryoma peeled off his shirt, which now had a dark red blotch the size of one of his hands. That's definitely not good.

Underneath, the once-white bandages wrapped around his chest and shoulder had a large crimson stain on them. Kevin winced, and the woman gasped softly.

"Oh my god…" she murmured, her eyes wide. Without pausing to think, she bolted to the door, sticking her head out and yelling, "Doctor! We need a doctor in room fourteen, now!" Shutting the door again, she whirled on Ryoma and Kevin. "Lie down there, please," she said in a steely voice, indicating a bed against the wall. She then turned to the cabinet on the opposite side of the room, bringing out a pair of scissors, bandages, and gauze.

As she was cutting the soiled wrappings away, she began an interrogation. "What's your name? How did this happen? Why didn't you tell someone earlier? When did the initial injury occur, and how?"

"Oi, oi!" yelled Kevin, the pressure making him slip into his Japanese speech patterns for a moment. He began making "calm down" motions with his hands as he tried to answer the barrage of questions. "I'm Kevin Smith, and that's Ryoma Echizen-"

"What?"

"Yeah. He got hit with a tennis ball during his match and popped a stitch. He wasn't complaining and I didn't know until a few minutes ago! I honestly didn't think it was that bad. Um… the original cut was what? Almost a month ago, right? Should be pretty much healed by now…"

Ryoma nodded coolly, not looking like he was bleeding profusely and being questioned at all.

"Well, I can tell you right now that this is bad. A broken stitch in and of itself can be easily dealt with, but he's bleeding pretty badly now," she said as she finished removing the old bandages. She pulled out a wad of gauze next. "This might hurt- sorry." Without further adieu, she pressed the white padding against the source of the blood.

To Ryoma's credit, he did nothing more than twitch slightly.

"Wait, but he'll be fine, right? I mean, you're making it sound like he's dying or something!" Even Kevin was beginning to look concerned.

"No, he's not dying, but there's a chance he'll need a transfusion at this rate."

The blond smacked himself in the face. "You idiot! Why didn't you just say, "Oh, hey ref, I'm freaking bleeding!" I can tell you right now, it wouldn't have been that hard! And you know what's worse? Ryoga told me to take care of you're a- …Oh mother of god… Fuji's going to freaking kill me!"

Remember the last "Meanwhile, In America?" You know, when I said Ryoma can speak, like, a gabillion (totally a word) languages? I know it seems pretty ridiculous, but: a) I figured he wouldn't be happy with a translator following him around, and b) I felt like it, and I'm the author. Na~na~nana~na. Anywho, that's how he could understand Reyer.

Oh yeah, who saw that Pinnacle of Perfection shit with Tezuka in the anime? YOU CAN'T JUST DO THAT! IT'S RYOMA'S THING! I'm also beginning to wonder if PoP is involuntary, like the others originally were for Ryoma. Meh. Even if that's true, I'm just gonna assume he's gotten control of it by now and it's voluntary.

Yeah, the end was kinda heavy, but I tried to lighten it up a bit. No one can make a mockery of a serious situation like Kevin, eh?