Disclaimer: Prince of Tennis characters belong to Takeshi Konomi
Warning: Authoress is suffering from ADD, lyme disease, and the early morning hours so the following may be fail. +1 year gap in rewriting.
Previously:
"Find the woman to spend your life with."
Echizen Ryoma, age 21, was screwed the moment he opened the envelope.
Chapter 2: Choose Your Poison
He could always pretend he never saw this, he contemplated.
Yes, he could just act as if he had no knowledge of this accursed letter. Society is imperfect, right? The letter could have easily gotten lost at all the postal stops and ended up at some random doorstep for all he cared.
His father wouldn't know anything about it and it would be all good. Problem solved.
Sigh.
Who was he kidding. Problem not solved.
This letter. This challenge. He'd know about it. And he knew about it. He knew about it right now. And if he knew, his pride would get in the way. His self-worth.
He never turned down a challenge (well, unless it was from a certain unibrowed fellow or a certain leopard print tank-top clad guy) and he never backed out of a challenge, no less. It just didn't work that way. Rejecting or retreat from a challenge, it made him ill with restlessness and anxiety. In the end, he would always turn around, smirk, and chant (almost as if mechanically tuned to do so): "Mada mada dane."
Why? Because he's Echizen Ryoma, that's why. That's just the way he did things. And he wasn't going to change his life style for anyone.
He glanced back at the paper. Maybe he didn't have a choice this time.
Maybe he did have a choice. He could shred the evidence and he would be home free.
But then there would be guilt. Okay, there wouldn't be guilt. More than anything, there would be a big bruise of ego-hurt.
He was a man. A Japanese, born-American man with great honor and valor… right?
"Ugh…"
Ryoma slumped deep into his white leather recliner. He then scooted toward the edge; he closed his eyes and began rubbing his throbbing temples, elbows balanced atop his knees.
What was he doing? Wasting him time away, fretting over something so trivial? Why was this even bothering him so much in the first place? It shouldn't even pose that much of a threat to him… it was just some noncommittal challenge. No sweat.
Yeah… no sweat! He could go a try to get the girl. And hey, if he didn't, who cares right? Not him…right?
Feet slammed hard upon the floor, Ryoma stood in his triumph and glory of intellectual resolve.
He would try to find a woman. If he did not succeed, then he'll just tell his father that the letter encountered an "accident." Or, he could just continue ignoring his father and all familial contact like he had for the last 4 years.
It was brilliant, if he didn't say so himself.
He smirked to himself, humming a nondescript tune, and headed back over to resume mail sorting.
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Flurries of envelopes, torn stamps, and shredded debris fluttered onto the mahogany wood below.
He. Was. An. Idiot.
He would just "try to find a woman?" Who was he kidding? He had no women in his life. He lived a strict existence that was very male dominant and he did not mind it being that way.
The presence of women always seemed to anguish him anyhow. Tears and squeals, giggling and gossiping… was it worth it? He hardly tolerated sharing oxygen with one of the opposite sex, let alone be bonded to one in holy matrimony.
This wasn't going to work. Where was he going to find a female anyways? Sure, he had tons of fangirls, but he couldn't just go "Eenie, meenie –I chose you, Pikachu!" and then let the rabid fangirl put a wedding band 'round his finger. But the result could only be man rape. The catastrophe that it could cause. The catastrophe that it would cause. Like dominos, there would be an inevitable chain of events; the unsystematically-chosen fangirl would also, in turn, be raped by other fangirls, spitting with white hot jealousy.
Not that he entirely minded a bunch of girls rolling around fighting for him. (He was a straight male, after all.)
But being involved in such disputes was troublesome and tiring. Like he needed the extra work.
His ideal situation would be that he could just wed and marry, and then afterwards separate while keeping rings on their fingers. Sure, it was no picture-perfect marriage, but hey, it would free him from a number of problems –lower taxes, lower fangirl population, higher income, estate benefits, lower fangirl population…
It's not like he found relationships completely idiotic and worthless. No, he had dated before and whatnot, in order to dip his foot into the water, test it out. That brief dating era allowed others to get over the mystery of his sexuality, but that's another thing.
Thing was, he hadn't been serious about it. He had been…for lack of a better word, "practicing." Practicing for what and when, he didn't know and can't say, but he had.
He uttered another deep sigh.
He probably should have put in more practice.
The thing about relationships was there was another party. A partner, where you had to harmonize with to some degree, like doubles tennis. The selection, the candidate, the chosen significant other: the identity, character, and personality held extreme importance.
Ryoma scrambled over to his desk and rummaged through unidentified papers until finding a blank pad of paper. He grabbed a dusty pen from a drawer and sunk into the familiar leather seat.
He was going to play this strategically. Since he did not want to go through the hassle of getting to know someone and go through the whole process of building familiarity, he figured he should just target a female friend. Okay, so he didn't really have any female friends. All he needed was a female of adequate familiarity.
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Ryoma nibbled at the cap of his pen.
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Ryoma wheezed a dry cough.
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Ryoma pet a kitty.
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When was the last time he had any personal interaction with the opposite gender? Sure, he had met females over the course of the last few years, but none whom he had any degree of intimacy with. Then there was the issue of obtaining contact information and, even more problematic, remembering names.
When had his life last been "normal?" Now, reflecting over it, his life was completely consumed by the pro tennis circuit. Whatever free time he had, it was dedicated to his sole passion, his hobby, his career. Social life tended to be all connected into tennis as well.
So when did this start? Tennis became a profession around 14 and before, he was in some exclusive all boys' private school in California.
And how could he forget –his single year's stay in Japan. It was one of the most colorful and extensive years of his life, a year that would be treasured for every bead of sweat and tear shed.
Ryoma never realized how void his life was of companionship.
"Mreoooooooow."
Ah, inattentive pats do nothing to tame this fluffy beast.
You know what? Worse comes to worse, he would live a placid life with his cat. Other persons in this celebrity's life? Completely, entirely, utterly discretionary.
And everything Echizen Ryoma does is at his discretion. Always.
"MEOW."
Well, maybe not all things.
An impassive groan curled into the air. Time to play butler to the fickle feline, as per usual.
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A canister of cat food later, and we're back.
Back to a blank notepad and a runny ballpoint pen.
But never fear: the writing implements are no longer necessary.
Because Echizen Ryoma, the Samurai Junior, has an idea. And not to be egotistical or anything (as if!)…
…But if you asked him, he'd say it was quite brilliant.
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To Be Continued.
A/N: Umm so I had this mostly complete over a year ago, but I just left it. But yeah, if I don't finish this, it'll bother me to heck so here I am. I hope you enjoyed it. Chapter 3 is on the way (really)!
Please review and critique so I know the fruits of my labor have some worthwhile audience. :)
Started 06-24-2009. Finished 04-23-2011. Uploaded 04-23-2011.