CHAPTER THIRTEEN – NIGHTTIME RECOLLECTIONS
By the time he stepped out of his room and into the corridor, Ryoma knew that it was too late to back out. Plenty of time had passed after he had finished his daily workout with Kirumi at the gymnasium, giving him enough chances to change his mind about the excursion he had taken. But in the end, going against the tiniest speck of reluctance that might give him cold feet, he had decided to instead ready the tennis equipment that Hope's Peak had given him, the same equipment that he had initially thrown aside for reasons that still lingered even now. It felt odd—wrong, even—to clean everything up and ensure that the equipment was all in place, from rackets to the cans of tennis balls. Even so, he opted to leave the tennis clothes behind, unable to bear the thought of seeing his own self clad in such apparel after spending a very long time shunning what was once his beloved sport.
The walk to the gymnasium—where Kirumi might already be waiting, no doubt—felt even more difficult now. Ryoma dug deep and stiffened his resolve, grimly aware that he would be bound to attract the eyes of any passing students as he walked among them with his tennis bag slung across his shoulder. Either they would laugh at the sight of a diminutive young man carrying a bag that was almost as big as he was, or they would whisper and mutter at the sight of a tennis ace who looked as if he was readying for a comeback on the court. It had been a great deal easier back then, when he would march through the stadium towards another match, relishing the stares of doubters who would then be proven wrong after the opposing player's resounding thrashing. Then again, those were days that felt like they were from a lifetime ago. The walk to glory had become an unbearable walk of shame, when he had been tried before a court that was no doubt influenced by the powerful people whom he had wronged. And even that could not compare to the personal guilt he felt with the sheer amount of blood in his hands, the eyes of the people whose demise he caused boring into him whenever he was left alone with his thoughts. To stop himself from being overtaken by his growing pessimism, Ryoma focused instead on whether Kirumi had managed to secure what he had asked of her, though part of him still felt bothered by the inconvenience that he might have caused her.
By some stroke of luck, no student interrupted his grim march to the gym, though the stares and whispers could not be avoided. Most of the students he passed by were from the Reserve Course, who were only just finishing the last of their vocational classes and were now passing by the school's main building on their way to their quarter. Ryoma kept his head down, wondering if Hajime Hinata was among those who recognized him for who he was. The Ultimates that he came across, he simply ignored, not intending to let them corner him and give his disinclination more time to set in. It seemed counterproductive to what the headmaster had asked of them earlier, but Ryoma imagined that Jin Kirigiri would understand his plight if he did know of it like he had implied before.
And then, there was the matter with Kirumi as well. Ryoma did not want to imagine that the things he had said to her earlier would be enough to change her demeanor towards him, but he could not stop himself from worrying all the same. They had been so personal, so intimate even, that anyone would easily come to a conclusion as to what he wanted to conveyed. And try as he might to deny it, to protest that he was simply trying to reinforce the strengthening foundation of his friendship with Kirumi, there was no stopping the feeling in his core, that same feeling that was starting to keep him up a little later at night as he thought of Kirumi. As hardboiled and aloof as he could be, Ryoma could not deny the joy he felt when he was with her—or the excitement he felt at wanting to know more about her, to keep talking to her, an admission that would undoubtedly fuel the rumors that were circling the two of them. Kirumi never lacked for anything that made him feel better, from her words of advice and encouragement to her warmer demeanor, which she often displayed when it was just the two of them together. It was not that she was cold to the other students, but from his perspective, he was starting notice the difference about the way she approached him; and Ryoma himself felt a little bewildered that the same case was true when he was with her, shedding the quiet façade he often showed his schoolmates and becoming a bit more open when it came to the Ultimate Maid. With all that, of course, came the choice to listen to her as intently and sincerely as she did for him, to help her feel like she could be heard and appreciated and understood as an equal, especially after the fact that she may have just inadvertently let slip the first few bits about her family life that no one seemed aware of. Ryoma wanted to know more about that, though he knew that it would come at Kirumi's own pace should she see fit to share it with him.
Kirumi stood like a silent sentinel next to the gymnasium doors, looking almost pensive until she heard him coming. Ryoma saw that she was wearing her usual maid uniform again; then again, he knew that she would simply be waiting on him, reluctant as he was to let her, instead of joining him in any strenuous activity. After all, the training part would come only from him. She did, however, have a small tote bag with her; Ryoma remembered her mentioning how she would be bringing him some water and face towels to use.
"Good evening," Kirumi said in greeting. "Did you rest well?"
"Just enough, I hope," replied Ryoma. The aches in his body from their earlier workout were still present, but they were manageable enough. "So what did they say?"
Kirumi inclined her head, knowing full well what he was referring to. "They told me that you may use the gymnasium for your practice should you wish, though school rules dictate that it closes at nine o'clock in the evening, no exceptions. The same goes for the open field. As for the tennis ball machines, you can ask for them at the maintenance shed next to the field, close to the Reserve Course quarter. A caretaker should be there to help us with them."
Ryoma nodded, feeling relieved and a little surprised as well. "Good to know that they don't mind me training late like this. Thanks for inquiring for me."
"You're quite welcome," said Kirumi, smiling. "Now, where would you prefer to practice?"
Ryoma pondered on the answer for a moment, his eyes moving from the gymnasium to the open field. Kirumi waited patiently for his reply, as she always did. "I think the gymnasium's gonna be fine for tonight," he replied after a while. "I mean, it'll just involve me practicing my serves first, getting into the feel of things, see how I do. At least that way, I don't bite off more than I can chew."
"Understood," said Kirumi. "Shall we proceed, then?"
"Sure thing." Here we go.
Compared to the earlier hours, the gymnasium was now completely devoid of people, and even the exercise room was now closed, its interior dark and its doors locked up. Without crowds of Ultimates to flock in it, the place looked more cavernous than before, even though the lights on the ceiling and the walls were still lit. The two of them walked in relative silence, Ryoma's chains clattering on the hardwood floors. The noise they made rang hollowly throughout the empty area.
Ryoma chose the wall on the left side of the stage, far away from the exercise room so that no wayward shots can hit the glass doors there. Before he set forth, Kirumi set him aside to tie down his chains with thread like she always did during their exercise sessions, so as to lessen the chances of him tripping over them. When the links were secured around his ankle, he set down his bag and took out what he needed as Kirumi took a seat on the nearby bleachers, giving him enough space to practice in. Ryoma went over the tennis rackets he had brought, chose one that felt best in his grip, and opened one of the cans to take out a couple of tennis balls. The rough feel of them made him falter momentarily, as the phantom sensation of an iron ball grazed his fingertips and palm. He shook his head vehemently to ward away the feeling, and realized that he had not yet warmed up. He set the balls and the racket aside and did his basic stretches, feeling more foolish by the second. The tension eased on his limbs, tired as they were from his previous workout earlier. He noticed how slow he seemed to move, and imagined whether that was out of a desire to have everything in its proper place or sheer unwillingness about getting through with his plan. But Kirumi's eyes were already on him as she observed him in silence, making him feel more grateful for her presence; had she been absent, he might have given more focus on his own doubts than to the matter at hand.
When he was done warming up, he took up the racket and the balls, and stared at the wall that stood a few meters away before him. It was definitely wide enough that it lessened the chances of him hitting his shots towards the stage or the nearby bleachers. Still, as he readied his racket, he had to wonder just how much figurative rust he had left on his body where tennis playing was concerned. He pocketed one of the balls and dribbled the one he had chosen against the floor, letting it bounce over and over with repeated taps from his racket, the sure rhythm giving him some comfort. At least I can do this without any problems.
But after a few more seconds of this, he knew it was now or never. Taking a deep breath, he tossed the ball in the air. It seemed to move in slow motion, and for a moment his right hand seemed to move on its own, the racket rushing through the air to meet it. Silence endured for a split-second . . .
. . . until the racket smashed the ball full on the side, sending it sailing forth like a bullet. It bounced with a dull thud against the gym floors and ricocheted towards the wall, bouncing back towards him. Everything happened in an instant, and Ryoma saw only too late that the ball had whizzed past his shoulder, bouncing away until its momentum slowed down. He turned around to look at it as it rolled away, having reached almost half of the gymnasium's length. My first serve in years, he realized.
Kirumi stood up to retrieve the ball, but he waved his racket at her. "I've got it," he called out, not intending to trouble her this early in the session. He ran up to the ball and picked it up, ignoring the fact that he had one that he could have used in his pocket, still overcome by the notion that he had finally served his first real shot in a very long time. He gripped the ball tightly, as if drawing any residual energy it had in its spherical shape. Again, he stood before the wall, focusing his gaze intently on it, and readied the ball in his hand. Focus, Hoshi, he grumbled darkly to himself. With another deep breath, he threw the ball in the air and served yet again. This time, as he did so, a memory flashed past him, the motion of his serve bringing back a familiar, terrible recollection.
A man in a black suit, reeling backwards as an iron ball smashed upon his face, an iron ball that Ryoma himself had launched at him with a ruined tennis racket. He was not the same man in his last nightmare, but he felt that he remembered him all the same.
Ryoma grunted like he had been punched in the gut, and again his serve went without a response. This time, he did not go after the ball, but instead stood still, his eyes closed tightly as his breath caught in his throat. His heart seemed to hike in rhythm, and a finger of chill ran down his spine. His fingers struggled to keep the racket in his grasp. Thoughts fled from his head, leaving him feeling lost. The only thing he could attempt to do was to walk to the nearby bleachers to recover and regain some semblance of composure and focus. Beneath him, his legs felt like they were about to give way.
As if from some other plane of existence, Kirumi appeared next to him, already holding the tennis ball he had failed to catch. Deep concern was evident in her tone as she spoke. "Ryoma? Ryoma, are you okay?"
Ryoma exhaled, trying to steady his quickening heartbeat. A sense of dread ached in him, eating away at his core and causing his hands to tremble, but he managed to blurt out, "I'm alright."
"Do you need anything? Water, perhaps?"
"No, it's okay. I'll be fine, don't worry. . ."
Kirumi placed a hand on his shoulder. She was so close to him that he could feel her warmth emanating from her, but Ryoma did not—indeed, could not—care any less. The growing sensation of fear and pain racked him. The dead man had gone from his vision, but he found himself anticipating that he will come back any moment to haunt him again, to make him relive everything that he had done on that dark, gruesome night years ago when he solidified his reputation as Killer Tennis.
"Ryoma, if you're not up to this, perhaps you should reconsider," Kirumi suggested, the worry in her voice growing even more. "This might not be good for you at this time."
Ryoma grunted. To those who were unaware, his attack might seem like a strange occurrence, but it was obvious that Kirumi knew what exactly was happening, even though it was her first time seeing him endure such an attack. Even Ryoma himself did not experience the post-traumatic stress of his past experiences in such a manner; most of them came in his dreams, turning them into nightmares that made him anxious about falling asleep at times.
"No." He muttered his response with a hint of vehemence, aimed more towards his plight than to her. "I'm going to do this. Tonight, if I can. I promised myself."
Kirumi's eyes beseeched him helplessly. He could tell that she wanted to argue, to convince him to go through with his plan on another day, but he could also sense her own disinclination at hindering his progress. Formal duty and concern clashing against each other. To reassure her, he forced himself to straighten up. The stress he felt was starting to ease, though the cold sensation remained in his body.
"I'll be fine," he muttered to her again, his voice thick with discomfort. "I expected something like this, to be honest. It's part of the risk. I just . . . just have to overcome it."
"Is there any way I can help you with that?" Kirumi asked, as if ready to take on whatever she needed to do to ease his discomfort.
Ryoma looked straight into her eyes. "You're doing enough," he said. "I'll be alright. I've got this."
Not waiting for her reply lest his predicament take advantage of the lull, he took the ball from her hand and moved back to his spot, taking in deep breaths all the while. His arms still felt like lead, his feet even heavier so, but he willed himself to draw focus and resolve from the implements in his hands; the coarse surface of the tennis ball, and the firm rubber grip on the racket's handle. Focus. Focus on tennis, dammit, he told himself angrily.
The ball was in the air once again, and miraculously he managed to hit sound of it reverberated like some giant's hammer across the silent gymnasium. This time, channeling his frustration and resolve into the task at hand, Ryoma was readier, and as soon as the ball bounced back towards him he hit it again, sending it hurtling back to the wall it had just rebounded off of. It responded indirectly in kind, and soon he was sending back a few more shots before one of them sailed too far to the right. Immediately he ran after it, barely noticing that his body was starting to move on its own, going through the motions grimly if a little reluctantly. On the bleachers, Kirumi watched in silence, her reaction unfathomable from a distance. Throw, smash, bounce, return, repeat. The same thing happened in his next serve, and soon the trauma started to fade from his mind as his brain focused on tennis. Doubt was still there; indeed, he felt less of a prodigious champion channeling old form and more like an injured player trying to remember what it was like to play. Then again, was not that the case here?
This routine endured for the next few minutes, with each round taking longer than the last. Slowly, everything seemed to come back to Ryoma, and he only vaguely realized that he was alternating between varying forehands and backhands like he had never forgotten how to do them, the racket being brandished like a warrior's blade looking for its mark. And each time it did, with the ball hitting the racket's surface with one satisfying thwack after another. Ryoma even noticed with surprise how he was not moving that far from the spot he was staying on, as if the ball was controlled by his own shots to hit a certain spot over and over until physics did its work, forcing him to chase the ball before it streaked off somewhere else. Even so, during the times the ball sailed too far to the left or the right, he managed to send it back where it came from and continue the round until he chose to break the stalemate himself by catching the ball. But the breaks that followed were short, giving his trauma no room to return. Before long, he was back at it, engaged in a literal and figurative duel with his own self, the battered ball fulfilling its purpose well. By the seventh round, he was already starting to sweat beneath his leather jacket and prison clothes, his breath rising and falling in small pants. The intensity in his bones felt hard to curb, the fire in him growing to a point where he felt keen to keep going for as long as he could. The high that surged through his veins felt like an old friend's embrace, and it confounded him so much that again he had no words to say or any thoughts to express. His earlier reluctance had blown out like a candle in a storm, and though there were still flashes of his bloody past that crept at the edges of his mind, focusing on his shots helped ward them off.
After the eighth round, he decided to take a break. Twenty minutes had passed since his first serve, and he realized that all the while Kirumi was just patiently, concernedly watching him. He went back to the bleachers, sweat seeping through his beanie. Dutifully, Kirumi went over to him, a bottle of mineral water in one hand, a clean face towel in the other.
"Here," she said, handing them over to him.
"Thank you." Ryoma took a nourishing gulp of water, exhaling with relief and satisfaction. So steeped he was in the high of playing that he could imagine steam emanating from his countenance. Only after he had emptied the water bottle and wiped his face dry did he remember to acknowledge Kirumi. Her eyes still looked serious as she watched him.
"It's quite the bother, isn't it?" he asked her. "And with something like that happening so early. . ."
"No, it's fine," said Kirumi, knowing what he meant. "It's an understandable incident, though also something I wish I was readier for. I apologize for being unable to do anything."
Ryoma shook his head. "Don't apologize. It's not your fault. Besides, I doubt anyone'll be ready for something like that."
Kirumi looked unconvinced. "A maid—no, a friend—should be ready to help when something like that happens," she said rather somberly. "For me, if I don't give what you need in that moment, it is considered a failure."
"Hey, you don't have to beat yourself up over that," Ryoma told her. "The fact that you were there in an instant when I got overwhelmed, that's more than enough for me. In fact, if you weren't here, I think I would've just given up after that little episode, or I'd still be waiting for it to pass."
Kirumi was silent for a few seconds. When she spoke again, reluctance held back her words. "Do they happen often? These attacks . . . ?"
Ryoma sighed. "Not like this. Mostly, it's just in my dreams and my private thoughts, when I'm left alone with nothing to do. I guess holding a tennis racket like this again made me remember . . . things."
"I see. I feared as much," said Kirumi. "That's why I was highly worried when it seemed that you could not continue. I understand that trauma such as this is too much of a toll to bear."
"Can't argue with that. I've still got a ways to go, that much should be obvious. I'd be way in over my head if I think I'm back in great form, mentally and otherwise. But . . . I have to keep going, you know? Otherwise, I should just count myself gone and back in prison after September, back in the sorry state I was in. This chance is something I may never get again, and I don't want it to go to waste. I've squandered a lot of important things already. That's why I wanna do this, or at least try. And if there's anyone I can trust to help me with it, it's still you."
Kirumi's warm green eyes regarded him with appreciation. "Thank you for your continued trust in me, Ryoma. I'm glad to help you on this," she said.
Ryoma shook his head. "I should be thanking you. And I don't think I can ever do that enough." Indeed, the entire experience made him marvel about many things, especially encouragement; it was surprising how far it can take a person, and though it tended to fizzle at times when it came from the wrong person or one who was too ignorant of the other's plight, where Kirumi was concerned, he could see authenticity and warmth in every aspect of it, in spite of it being borne out of formal duty at first. Kirumi smiled at him and thanked him for his openness, unaware of just how deep his gratitude for her ran.
For the better part of the next quarter of an hour, only the sounds of tennis balls clashing against both wall and racket rang through the gymnasium's interior, a steady beat that seemed to fall in near-perfect sync with the momentum that Ryoma had going. His beanie and prison shirt were both soaked with sweat now, but he was too focused on his playing to ever consider taking them off, even during the times he paused to wipe the sweat from his face and neck. Soon, both of his hands were gripping the racket, and his serves and shots had a little more force in them, causing the ball to become nothing but a tiny green blur at times. Those were the moments that he had liked best back then, and it made him happy to know that he still felt the same way now. Outside the gymnasium, figures continued to pass by, unaware of the intense practice session going on, their silhouettes moving across the doors' glass windows. And all the while, Kirumi was always ready with a clean towel and a new bottle of water when needed, even going to catch any of his wayward shots. Ryoma finally decided to let her assist him, thanking her each time if only to make up for the inconveniences. A number of times, he would turn to see her smiling as she watched him, and twice she actually acknowledged his fiercer rallies with applause. He responded only with an awkward nod in both instances, though his gratitude ran deeper than the gesture made it out to be. Kirumi's presence was a far cry from the crowds that used to clap for him respectfully during his games and raucously when he raised a trophy in the air, but he would not have had it any other way.
When fifteen minutes ended, Ryoma felt like he had just come back from a worthy game. The count ended at four emptied water bottles and three used face towels, with only two of the tennis balls used in the rigors of his practice. The racket stayed true to form, showing no makings of wear and tear even though he had been striking with it with all his might. Drenched in sweat, he took off his beanie and leather jacket, the cool air caressing him faintly through his prison shirt.
When he had finally managed to clean himself up, he sat down on the bleachers to rest. His muscles burned from all the exertion, from his shoulders down to his fingertips and further to his torso, combining with his earlier strains from the exercise room to form a growing inferno within him. It felt like the best thing in the world at that moment.
Kirumi sat down next to him, collecting the used towels and empty water bottles. "A fine showing, especially for your first day of practice," she told him. "Well done, Ryoma."
Ryoma chuckled softly. "It might be fine only to someone who's watching. There were times when I felt like I looked foolish on the floor."
"You weren't, don't worry. For what it's worth, it was incredibly motivating to see you playing all the while."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yes." An earnest look crossed Kirumi's face then. "As heavy and traumatic as your past is, Ryoma, your brilliance remains the same, only lying dormant inside you."
Ryoma grunted. "That's one way to put it, I guess."
"It's true," said Kirumi in reply. "Nothing is more inspirational than knowing how, even with your shortcomings and tribulations, you are able to preserve the things that have helped define you, the things that made you who you are in our eyes—an Ultimate, and a great athlete besides. When you were moving earlier, hitting that ball over and over with a myriad of serves and shots, it felt as if I was having a glimpse of one of your matches. A privilege if there ever was one. For you to be able to start returning to your old form like that . . . it shows the sheer amount of skill and talent that you still have in you. And tonight, I believe I've seen that skill and talent come to life once more. It was nothing short of amazing."
A hush fell between them, during which Ryoma could do nothing but stare down at the tennis racket next to him. Kirumi's words made enough sense for him to believe in. As if by force of habit, every step and move he had made fell in its proper place, guided by nothing other than instinct and experience. It was still an alien sensation to him, knowing that he had yet to truly look forward to the feeling of engaging in a true tennis game instead of simply going through the motions with what he already knew, but he could not deny that he had just cleared the first few steps of that.
But of course, there was a hint of bitterness threatening to spoil it all, with some skepticism coloring it even further. For no matter how many times he would be playing, some memories do not exactly come off that easily. "You would think that someone as skilled as I was would be able to get back into the groove a lot sooner," he murmured. "Back then, I would've had no problems doing that. I guess that's one indication of how far I've fallen."
"No, Ryoma," Kirumi told him firmly. "Please do not downplay your efforts tonight. So much has changed, and who you were then is not the same as who you are now. There is little we can do about the past, but as I've said before, the future lies open for us to explore and cultivate. It is up to us to try and make the most out of it, and you have started doing just that. It is noteworthy, to say the least."
Again, Ryoma heaved a sigh. "I guess you're right about that," he said. "I'm sorry. Sometimes my brain just gets the better of me, and I forget to take into value the things I do, even if they're already staring at me in the face."
Kirumi smiled. "I understand. I'll do my best to keep reminding you, if that's what it takes."
Ryoma nodded. "Thank you. Anyway, I think that settles it for tonight. I'm gonna see if this is too much of a strain to do every night, or if I can manage even with our afternoon workouts happening beforehand. If I can, I'll be back here by tomorrow night. Does that sound fine to you?"
"Yes. But do not hesitate to rest if you need it," said Kirumi. "There are always more days for you to practice on should you miss out tomorrow."
Ryoma looked upon the gymnasium's vicinity. "Yeah, you're right."
They talked for a little while, with Kirumi asking minor questions about his performance and Ryoma giving what explanations he could. With the two of them being the sole occupants of the gymnasium, their words felt like mere specks in the galaxy as they floated up to the rafters. Still, Ryoma was thankful that it was just the two of them, that it was just Kirumi watching as opposed to a whole crowd, or even a handful of their classmates. That would change when the sports festival and the evaluations came, though there was still time to help him prepare for that. Again and again, she praised him for his efforts, and offered to accompany him again in his future practices if time and duty were willing. Ryoma did not promise anything in case his determination fluctuated, but he was highly appreciative for her assistance and company all the same.
When he had finished stashing his equipment away, he remembered something. "I still owe you an unfinished story, right?"
Kirumi looked around at him. "Story?"
"About Isabella," said Ryoma. "That night when we got interrupted by Genocide Jack."
"Oh, yes, I remember now." Though she said the words casually, Ryoma glimpsed what seemed to be a hint of excitement in Kirumi's features, as if she had been anticipating the story to be continued and was simply waiting for him to continue it freely. It amused him somewhat.
"To be honest, I should've remembered it sooner," he said, "especially since you were sitting by watching me, and helping me all the while. She . . . She used to do that a lot back then."
Kirumi regarded him with earnest eyes. "Was it a problem back then?" she asked. "I mean, with her tagging along and you being a world-class athlete and all."
"For a time it was, but not on my part," Ryoma replied. "My manager often flew in my parents to watch me play on my big matches—a privilege we had as athletes—but he had never done it for anyone else, even my classmates. When Isabella and I got closer, I just . . . knew I had to take her along. She said no a number of times, but I knew she really wanted to go."
Kirumi smiled. "Anyone in her place would want to."
"Maybe," Ryoma acknowledged with a short chuckle. "It took me a long time convincing my manager to book her as well. Not to brag or anything, but if I wasn't one of the top athletes in our group, I doubt that he'd grant my request. He did, in the end, though it fell to me to make sure that she had her own place to stay, that she wouldn't be bothering us during practice, that sort of thing. If there was ever a time when I felt like I was a husband trying to sneak in his mistress in his public affairs, that time was it."
Kirumi did laugh then. It was a brief but sweet sound, and one that made his heart feel at ease. "You're not alone in that regard. Some of my employers have done worse."
"Then you might have an idea how it went for me," said Ryoma, chuckling along with her. "My first course of action was to tell my parents about her. It was tough, really. Talking to them through e-mail and cellphone calls, explaining everything without being there in person—though I should be grateful for that. I might've been bombarded by questions if I talked to them face to face. They were more than happy, though a little surprised since she was a foreigner. Isabella was dead scared of talking to them at first, but they got along well quickly enough, mainly because my parents always wondered why I never had a girlfriend."
He shook his head, smiling to himself. "It didn't take long before my friends found out about her too. She insisted on going to some of my practice sessions, against my manager's wishes, but he agreed in the end when I promised him that she wouldn't be disrupting our progress. She met the gang, and they warmed up to her as well. Brought her along to our gatherings, since there was no rule against that. She liked drinking, and she could handle her liquor better than I ever could. The guys loved seeing us together, and she was fine with that. She did most of the teasing anyway, and she loved seeing me get embarrassed when we were in front of other people. But she'd always apologize when it was just the two of us again, telling me that she didn't mean the jokes. Personally, I didn't mind. It always lightened my mood when she did that."
Kirumi stared wordlessly at him for a while, her eyes full of wistful sympathy. "She truly does sound like an amazing girl," she remarked softly at last.
"She was," Ryoma stated. "She really was." As expected, a pang of sadness gripped him as he spoke of these things; of his family, his friends, and Isabella most of all. It felt like a lifetime ago when he had come to them after his games, celebrating at a restaurant privately somewhere with Isabella in tow, or having her watch them during their practice sessions in some private court, not unlike the way Kirumi had done. He opened up a fresh bottle of water and took a deep gulp, heaving a sigh as he swallowed. The pain and yearning ached inside him more than any physical strain could. He wanted to keep going, if only to present even more of his memories about Isabella that he had kept quiet about; of her openness, her wit, the way she was ready to pick on him just enough so that he could push himself further whenever he had a big match coming; of the way she made him feel less insecure about being a diminutive athlete in a world full of tall, muscular and handsome players; of how she loved him for that, and in spite of that. But he found himself unable to say anything more as he remembered where his story was heading, where all the blood and pain and sorrow lay, the final glaring pages of the cautionary tale about recklessness that was his downfall.
Seemingly unwilling to let the atmosphere take a somber turn at his expense, Kirumi placed her hands neatly atop her lap and said earnestly, "Now then, I think a story such as that merits another one in return."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I did mention my parents, right?"
That surprised Ryoma somewhat. "What about them?" he asked tentatively.
"I just imagined that . . . well, it wouldn't be fair if I'm always the only one who gets to hear about someone else's life. That's why I thought that perhaps I should be telling my own stories too," replied Kirumi. "Again, this is not something I would talk about with people, but if it's you . . ." She hesitated for a second, her composure hitting the tiniest of snags. "Is it truly just fine if—?"
"Yes, it is," Ryoma said immediately. "Kirumi, you don't have to ask for permission for that. We're friends, right? You can speak freely around me, it's not a problem. Again, If there's a person who I can trust enough to talk to about these kinds of things, it'd be you." He shook his head, laughing a little. "Then again, I do that sometimes, asking for permission first before I bother someone with what I want to share, so I'm a bit of a hypocrite myself."
Kirumi smiled, her beautiful eyes twinkling. "I understand. Perhaps starting tomorrow, we can help each other curb that habit."
"Hopefully. If I do it again, don't be afraid to scold me."
"Scolding might be a little too much, Ryoma."
More laughter between the two of them, soft and sincere as they agreed wordlessly on the prospect, until they quieted down. Kirumi said nothing more as she stared out at the open spaces of the gymnasium, as if looking for something that was so far away. It gave Ryoma a chance to observe her closely as he waited for her to speak.
"I used to live in Nara," Kirumi said softly. "Our family was one of the wealthier ones there, and I was my parents' only child. My life was as ordinary as it could be, if you didn't count the lavish lifestyle my parents led. We had a few maids taking care of the housework; growing up with them in the house, I managed to observe them at their work, and even talked to them when I could. They spoke with unfailing courtesy every single time, though admittedly that made it difficult for me to ask them other things. Nevertheless, I took note of their routines, and watched how they served my parents flawlessly. As I got older, I began seeing the more profound aspects of being a maid. The poise they exuded, the diligence they maintained, and the consistency they strove to uphold. I saw how they took everything in stride, even the severe criticism of how they handled their duties. For me, it was nothing short of amazing to be able to deliver like that, and I learned to truly appreciate how much effort it takes to preserve such composure and devotion to duty, even if you have a master breathing down your neck.
"But the more I observed, the more I saw the flaws that my parents had in dealing with our maids. They treated them the way you'd expect them to—harshly, always with some form of negativity that came from being their master, regardless of how perfect their work is—and I resented them for it. I was frustrated that they couldn't see what I saw, and understand the things I noticed. Young and rash as I was, I quarreled with them about it a few times, and they told me that I didn't need to fraternize with helpers like them, not when I had more important things to look forward to."
At this, Kirumi glanced down at herself, seemingly taking in the sight of her own maid uniform like it was giving her more memories to recall. "They had plans for me—enrolling me in some prestigious school in Germany to prepare me for our family business, if I remember correctly. My mind, however, was set on another goal entirely: to become a maid. I don't remember the exact words they said to me when I told them about it, but I remember explaining to them how I came to that choice. I told them that being a maid is not the artless and demeaning task that they and so many others see it to be. Rather, it involved impeccable poise, patience, and devotion most of all, which all people strive for regardless of what profession they have. To prove that, I said, I would be glad to become a maid and serve people's needs. You can guess how that turned out in the end."
That was indeed an easy enough guess, Ryoma knew. He had always wondered if Kirumi's formal bearing had more to do than just her profound diligence to her duties as a maid. Had he thought of guessing on his own, somehow he felt that he should have expected her to have such a past. He could also sense a touch of heaviness in her tone at the end; no doubt Kirumi was starting to realize certain things that she might have overlooked before in her decision to move on from her past. Still, it felt gratifying to hear it come from her own lips, to know that she was now opening up to him a lot more than before, that she was entrusting him with a story that she had never told anyone in such a way—personal, from one friend to another, rather than as a maid formally explaining her background to her master.
"Thank you. You know, for sharing that with me," he said after a while, feeling a little self-conscious at his lackluster reply. It was the only thing that came to his mind at the moment, an attempt to not make the silence stretch on for too long as to be considered oppressive.
Kirumi smiled, belying the potential heaviness of her recollections. "Much better than talking about konjac, yes?" she asked with amusement.
"Hey now, that story was also good," said Ryoma. "I mean, good in the sense that it helped me see more of your character too."
"My weaknesses, you mean," Kirumi mused. "But it's fine. At any rate, I'm glad that I can share my tales with you. I'm starting to feel that I can keep going, at least with you."
Ryoma nodded. "I'm pleased you think so. Does that mean we'll have even more things to talk about at lunchtime?" he asked, chuckling so as not to sound too hopeful.
Kirumi picked up on his tone easily enough, however. "Yes, I suppose that's the case now," she said warmly. Ryoma nodded with a smile, and turned back to look around at the gymnasium. Between his first day of actual tennis practice and the deepening bond between him and Kirumi, he could not tell which gave him more hope for the future.
A/N: And a wild unexpected chapter update appears!
The thing about this chapter is that since it was a direct continuation of the last one (similar to the other ones), writing it came a little bit easier than I expected, and now I'm just stoked to know that I didn't make you guys wait for a month or so for it. I hope you'll enjoy the read!
I'll see if I can turn in the next one as quickly as I did with this one. I'm still figuring out where and when I can put in some stuff that I have planned. Hopefully it goes a little more smoothly. See you until then. Cheers!