Ryoma is such a brat. Which means getting
into his head was like getting into mine three months ago. ...yeah, whatever. It¡¯s
probably not a good idea to overly identify yourself
with anime characters, is it? ::amused::
Stability
When Ryoma
has run thirty laps around the tennis courts, his muscles start to burn. Twenty
more, and sweat begins to trickle down his forehead.
He has to blink them out of his eyes, stop them from stinging, and thirty more laps
later he¡¯ll be bent over, hands on his knees, panting. He¡¯ll flick his bangs
out of his eyes, and if it¡¯s hot Buchou will have
stopped them twenty laps earlier. He¡¯ll take advantage of the short break to
head over to the cafeteria and buy a popsicle, or find a vending machine and
buy Ponta. Maybe one for Momo-sempai,
if he wants leverage to make him buy burgers after school. Normally though, he
doesn¡¯t bother with leverage and just makes him.
The next day the cycle
repeats, and Ryoma pushes himself harder. Faster.
¡°Slow down, brat,¡± Momo-sempai pants from behind him, thudding on his heels,
and Ryoma refuses to listen.
He wants to be the best.
He wants to beat his father, and to do that he¡¯ll have to beat Buchou. And to beat Buchou, he¡¯ll
have to beat Fuji-sempai.
He doesn¡¯t know how he
feels about that.
Fuji-sempai is mada mada dane
despite how Ryoma has never been able to beat him.
This has less to do with how well he plays than it does with how much better he
could be, if he would stop taking this so lightly.
¡°It¡¯s only a game,¡±
How can Fuji-sempai say
that? Ryoma wonders. Tennis is so much more than a game—it¡¯s about rituals and
comfort and endurance, about an opponent on the other side of the court who
just might beat him and just might not. And if they do, he has to beat them
next time they play. Tennis is the burning in his lungs when he¡¯s played too
long, the ache in his arms and legs and lower back, and it¡¯s about pushing
himself until he collapses, and getting back up and doing it all over again.
Tennis is so much more than a hobby to be carelessly discarded when bored.
He can¡¯t tell Fuji-sempai
any of this if he doesn¡¯t already know. Instead, he pulls his cap lower over
his face so he won¡¯t have to look Fuji-sempai in the eye and see how very different they are, and says, ¡°Mada mada dane.¡±
- - -
His fan club calls him the
Prince of Tennis and he thinks the magazines do too. He can¡¯t bring himself to
care—it¡¯s only a label, after all, and tennis is about more than labels.
Fuji-sempai invites him to
his house, smiling teasingly and holding up a magazine. He flips it open to a
page where a photographer has caught Ryoma mid-serve,
and the photographer is obviously female because she has accentuated his face,
focusing on the determination and concentration. (Ryoma
remembers that match. He won.) At least, that¡¯s what Fuji-sempai claims.
He accepts anyway. ¡°Give
me that,¡± he mutters and stuffs it into his backpack, knowing that copies have
already been passed around campus; his fan club and perhaps
¡°Where¡¯s your brother?¡± he
asks, not all that curious, as he toes off his shoes and leaves them against
the doorsill. They face out while the rest of the shoes face inwards. He
wonders if that means anything and dismisses it; it¡¯s a silly coincidence.
It¡¯s several minutes into an expectant silence (with
¡°Yes?¡± Still smiling, in a
distinctly disturbing way. Ryoma tries not to let it
get to him.
¡°Why did you...¡±
¡°Why did I what?¡±
¡°...Why did you...kiss me?¡± Ryoma asks. His voice does
not crack on the last two words, and he feels proud of himself before
remembering that¡¯s a perfectly ridiculous thing to feel.
Ryoma¡¯s palms itch. He opens his hand, and closes it, and
wants nothing more than the steady, comforting weight of a tennis racket in his
hand. Tennis, he thinks, is much more than a game, and much simpler than life.
He does not know why
Fuji-sempai has invited him over. Maybe it¡¯s just as he said: they are friends,
and friends go to each other¡¯s houses. Would this mean he had to invite
¡°Are you hungry? It¡¯s
almost dinnertime.¡± Fuji-sempai is the perfect host. Ryoma
wonders why this surprises him.
¡°...Yeah.¡± His reply comes
out unsure. He wishes this were his own room so Karupin
could come slinking in and curl up on his lap, make him feel more comfortable
with his sempai. If this were his own house, his sorry excuse for a father
could come slouching in and break the silence, and it¡¯s a testimony to just how
uneasy Ryoma feels if he actually wants his father
around.
Fuji-sempai goes still. ¡°Ah,¡±
he murmurs. ¡°Yuuta is here.¡± The door opens and
closes with a slam, and there¡¯s the clatter of shoes being kicked off, scooped
up and placed more neatly against the door, and then the cheerful ¡°Tadaima!¡±
Ryoma thinks that¡¯s the creepiest thing he¡¯s ever seen.
He calls his parents and
tells them he won¡¯t be coming home for dinner. He can hear his father saying in
the background that the shounen
is probably at some pretty girl¡¯s house and to remind him that he can¡¯t take
care of a kid yet, still being one himself.
Ryoma makes a mental note to burn whatever magazines he
can find.
Pervert, he thinks, and
goes to the bathroom, washes his hands, and joins Yuuta
and
- - -
Yuuta stares between
Ryoma slumps down as far as he can go in his seat. Yuuta shoots him a sympathetic, albeit mocking, look.
- - -
Fuji-sempai¡¯s
smile when he holds out an extra-large T-shirt would make the hairs on the back
of Ryoma¡¯s neck stand up if they hadn¡¯t already run
away long ago.
¡°You can¡¯t sleep in your
clothes,¡± Fuji-sempai says.
¡°I¡¯ll be fine,¡± Ryoma mutters. It¡¯s not because he¡¯s modest—he and
Fuji-sempai have showered together in the locker rooms (though it¡¯s never been
just the two of them). It¡¯s just...something¡¯s changed between them. Ryoma, who rarely speaks because he¡¯s learned it¡¯s much
easier to observe, can sense it. It makes him feel vaguely trapped,
the chains just loose enough to give him some illusion of freedom.
¡°Here,¡± Fuji-sempai says
and the next half hour is spent forcing Ryoma into a
T-shirt and getting him out of his tennis shorts (thank God the shirt reaches
his knees). Fuji-sempai smiles at him. ¡°That wasn¡¯t so hard, was it?¡± he asks
pleasantly, never mind that one strand of hair is sticking to his forehead and
the rest has taken on a limper look.
¡°Mada
mada dane,¡± Ryoma mumbles and climbs into bed with Fuji-sempai, cursing
his father for having had enough influence on him to make him realize the
sheer...whatever of that thought. Burn all of his magazines, Ryoma decides.
The rain drums on the roof,
beating a tempo that keeps Ryoma awake for an hour.
He tries to sleep, then remembers that the easiest way to fall asleep is to try
not to (it makes no sense, so he always doubts it, even though it always
works), and he just listens to Fuji-sempai breathe.
When he opens his eyes
again
¡°...Fuji-sempai?¡± Ryoma opens his mouth to ask what exactly Fuji-sempai
thinks he¡¯s doing, but closes it. If Fuji-sempai doesn¡¯t want to talk, Ryoma won¡¯t ask.
¡°I¡¯ll be done in a moment,¡±
Fuji-sempai leaves the
bathroom fully dressed—he must have taken his clothes with him, Ryoma thinks distractedly, but I didn¡¯t see him so how...?—and
smile firmly in place. ¡°Coming?¡± he asks, and one elegant hand sneaks down to
ruffle Ryoma¡¯s hair.
¡°Fuji-sempai,¡± Ryoma grouches before
swinging his legs over to the ground. Fuji-sempai has oh-so-thoughtfully
provided a toothbrush for him and he uses it, thinking about annoying sempais and how they always have an urge to ruffle his
hair, hug him, or demand burgers from him.
- - -
Breakfast is not something
Ryoma wants to think about. Ever.
He makes a mental note to
thoroughly destroy Yuuta on the tennis courts the
next time he sees him.
- - -
Something very...strange is happening. It¡¯s a kind of hum
in the air that makes him hunch his shoulders and move quickly through the
crowds, trying to get away from everyone. His skin crawls at the thought of
contact, and he avoids anyone who looks like they so much as want to breathe
near him.
It does not help when he
finds Fuji-sempai outside his door. Smiling. Ryoma is
not surprised but extraordinarily unnerved by that.
¡°Hello, Ryoma.¡±
¡°Fuji-sempai? What are you
doing here?¡± He thinks he might already know the answer.
¡°Waiting for you.¡± Of
course. They walk together.
Ryoma makes a habit of reading people¡¯s body language;
it comes in handy in tennis, when players have to position themselves according
to whatever shot they¡¯re going to make, and when there¡¯s a world of difference
between a fake and an actual shot. It says what kind of player they are: Buchou is precise and poised, posture straight and spine
unbending. Kaidoh-sempai is strong and assured, much like Momo-sempai—he
makes a mental note to tell him that.
Fuji-sempai walks too
close to him for comfort, their fingers barely brushing. He turns to look at Ryoma when he speaks, upper torso twisting and practically
cornering Ryoma. He smiles genuinely, not the simple
twist of lips that Ryoma has come to associate with
him, and his eyes have opened enough for some of the blue to shine through.
Blue, Ryoma
thinks. He¡¯s never really liked the color. There¡¯s nothing wrong with it of
course, but it¡¯s never been a color that has ever appealed to him.
Still. Fuji-sempai¡¯s eyes are a very nice shade of blue. Ryoma could get used to them.
- - -
His cap has remained clean
and white over the year, and goes sailing off his head when Eiji¡¯s
ball skims over him.
¡°Nya,
sorry, Ochibi!¡± he hears Eiji
call. ¡°
It¡¯s unlike Eiji-sempai to be so bossy, Ryoma
thinks, right before
What a cliché, Ryoma thinks, and that night it¡¯s hard for him to sleep without
someone breathing behind him.
- - -
Ryoma is practicing against one of the new tennis walls,
the ones where the ball bounces off the wall and he hits back. He doesn¡¯t like
it; chances are that few people are going to hit back his serves anyway, so
what¡¯s the point?
Fuji-sempai finds him. ¡°Would
you like to play tennis with me?¡±
Ryoma hesitates. I don¡¯t know, lingers on his lips as he
stares up at
Fuji-sempai¡¯s
lips curve up into a smile. Ryoma follows the
movements before realizing what he¡¯s doing, thinking that he needs to break
that habit.
Fuji-sempai¡¯s
smile is very kind. ¡°Are you afraid of me?¡±
Ryoma answers instinctively, ¡°No.¡± He¡¯s not afraid of
anybody, but Fuji-sempai makes his heart beat quickly the way it does when he¡¯s
afraid. His breath catches in his throat as Fuji-sempai leans closer, still
smiling. His eyes widen, and his palms begin to sweat—unusual, he notes. Fear
is not a feeling he enjoys.
¡°Then there shouldn¡¯t be
any problems,¡± Fuji-sempai says and turns away, racket over one shoulder. ¡°After
practice?¡±
¡°All right,¡± Ryoma mumbles and escapes.
- - -
The betrayal comes hard
and swift, catching Ryoma off-guard and hitting him
where it hurts. He hears Fuji-sempai announce his resignation—tennis is just a
hobby to him, he thinks, tennis doesn¡¯t matter
to him...
Thoughts twisting and
turning in his mind, warping until it becomes, I don¡¯t matter to him, and he picks that thought and runs with it because
it¡¯s true, isn¡¯t it, Fuji-sempai is leaving because there¡¯s nothing left for
him anymore. He¡¯s lost interest in tennis, he¡¯s lost interest in Ryoma—it¡¯s all the same.
Ryoma accuses Fuji-sempai of this with the simple word, ¡°Why?¡±
and Fuji-sempai responds as he always does, smiling as if he can¡¯t see Ryoma¡¯s heart breaking in his eyes. Hurt changes Ryoma¡¯s eyes, turns them dark and unhappy.
¡°Mada
mada dane,¡± Ryoma snaps and walks away, because if he doesn¡¯t he¡¯ll run
and he won¡¯t ever stop.
Behind him, Fuji-sempai¡¯s smile brightens painfully.
- - -
Ryoma sees Fuji-sempai everywhere so he stops looking
everywhere, and sees Fuji-sempai whenever he opens his eyes. He sees
Fuji-sempai by the courts, a camera hanging around his neck, and Fuji-sempai¡¯s features are unclear and he¡¯s always in the
shadows so Ryoma can¡¯t see him. Ryoma
doesn¡¯t look, knowing Fuji-sempai can¡¯t really be there. He doesn¡¯t play tennis
anymore, there¡¯s nothing left for him here.
All his sempai have left
and the seventh graders are calling him
sempai. He¡¯s better than all of them, Horio loudly
proclaiming his superiority even as Ryoma trounces
him all over the courts. There¡¯s no challenge to tennis.
Tennis is so much more
than a game, and without Fuji-sempai—without all the sempai, he corrects—it¡¯s
become hollow, and he thinks he begins to see why Fuji-sempai might not want it
to become more than a hobby.
Mada mada dane,
he thinks fiercely and slams the ball across the court, and Horio
hits the ground yelling about anger management, stress relief, and how he could
have hit that back if he didn¡¯t feel like taking it easy on him.
He finds it¡¯s become a
ritual to seek out a dark figure he knows is only in his imagination. He finds him
anyway each day before he plays, and feels better.
- - -
Fuji-sempai approaches
him, the ever familiar sight of the camera hanging around his neck.
¡°Ne,
Ryoma?¡±
Ryoma looks up. He can¡¯t forgive Fuji-sempai fully, but
he¡¯s stopped blaming him. It¡¯s in the past and he can¡¯t change anything.
Fuji-sempai kisses him.
Ryoma can¡¯t kiss back.
- - -
Stability.
That¡¯s why Ryoma plays tennis, because tennis will always be the same
even as he changes.
Tennis is who he is.
Tennis is all he needs.
There is no longer
anything for him in tennis is Fuji-sempai is not in his life.
- - -
People change.
Ryoma feels that Fuji-sempai is waiting for him to do
the same, and Ryoma is trying. He tries to open
himself up to Fuji-sempai, to trust him and feel at home with him.
It doesn¡¯t matter then,
that Ryoma would prefer to play tennis against
Fuji-sempai rather than eat lunch with him. It doesn¡¯t matter that Fuji-sempai still
unsettles him, makes him wish for Karupin¡¯s
comforting weight on his lap.
He¡¯ll get there.
People change, after all.