Prince of Tennis: Ibu Shinji, 100: Writer's Choice
Title: Breakout
Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Characters: Ibu Shinji, Echizen Ryoma
Prompt: 100: Writer’s Choice
Word Count: 1,051
Rating: G
Summary: Shinji has a crisis of faith.
Author's Notes: After the Ibu/Kamio match in the new manga.
Main table can be found here and here.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
It was the only time that Shinji could recall that he had actively hated Kamio.
Maybe, he thought, it would’ve been better if Kamio could just stop gloating. Yeah, he won. And Shinji could’ve managed to be happy for him, would’ve been happy for him, but…not now.
Not when he knew that he was now relegated to the place of watcher. Not when he just felt so…so…. Shinji couldn’t find a word for how he felt. Maybe…extraneous.
Yes. That was it, exactly. Extraneous, unnecessary, unneeded. It was a feeling that had been dogging him through the whole season. It just seemed that when the chips were down, he could never follow through. He was the one hurting people, or getting hurt. He was the one that lost, when they needed a win.
And worst of all, to Shinji, was the feeling that he was letting everyone down. His friends. Tachibana-san.
I’m not sure why I was even here, he thought to himself, watching Kamio go over his win with Tachibana. It seems they were looking for the best…clearly I’m far from it.
He snorted. So many times, Shinji had heard himself referred to as “Fudomine’s tensai.” Even Tachibana had said that. Some genius I am…one who can’t even win a match.
Shinji looked down at the racquet in his hand, let it slip from nerveless fingers. He wondered if it would be that easy to just…let go of it all. To walk away from a sport that was ceasing to give him any pleasure.
Because when Shinji closed his eyes, all he could see were his losses, losses when it truly counted. His wins were meaningless, because they came at times where they had swept, anyway. And he didn’t even want to think about his doubles matches…because they had all been with Kamio. At one time he had been proud of those wins; now he just wondered if Kamio had been the true driving force.
Extraneous….
He wasn’t needed, not really. He could step aside, walk away, free up space on the team for new, worthy talent to come in. Fudomine didn’t need dead wood, after all. And that’s all he was.
Shinji found himself looking at Kamio again, saw the proud smile Tachibana was giving him. How long had it been since he had been on the receiving end of that smile? Far too long, if Shinji couldn’t remember. He had seen everyone else get them…but for him? Pitying, maybe. Or, not a smile at all. A stern look, an air of ‘You can do better, Shinji.’
Shinji wasn’t sure that he could. Not anymore. Or that he had ever been capable of doing better.
Yes, maybe it would be for the best for him to walk away right now. To go, and never look back…. He stood, purpose in his eyes. He’d at least walk away with his head held high.
“Don’t.”
Shinji blinked at the unexpected voice beside him. “Don’t what, Echizen?”
“Don’t do what you’re thinking of doing.”
Shinji shook his head. “How can Echizen know what I’m thinking, because it’s all in my head, and it’s not like he’d be the first person I’d talk to if I wanted to share my thoughts, and, maybe he’s wrong, in fact, he probably is, because he’s many things, but a mind reader is not one of them.”
Echizen sighed. “I’m right here. And you were muttering a mile a minute while sitting here, you know.”
“I was not.” Shinji blushed, though, because he probably had been, and he knew it, too.
“’Sides. I know that look in your eyes.” Echizen bent and picked up Shinji’s racket and studied it, his expression unusually thoughtful. “I’ve seen it before.”
“Oh? Where?”
“In my own.”
Shinji was startled by that. “You…thought about quitting?” He frankly couldn’t believe that.
Echizen shrugged, like it wasn’t that big of a deal. “Yeah. I reached a point where it stopped being enjoyable. Everyone goes through that at some point, if the game means something to them.”
Tilting his head to the side and considering Echizen’s words, Shinji asked, “What did you do then?”
“I found something that made it enjoyable again.” Echizen’s eyes drifted to his teammates, and for a moment, Shinji swore he saw genuine affection in the younger boy’s face, but it was gone again behind the mask of indifference. “Between you and me? It’s only the best players that have that crisis. I did, Fuji-senpai did, Tezuka-buchou did. Your captain did.”
“I…I’ve never thought like that before. Why…?” Shinji sat down again, his mind racing.
“Because we’ll always feel something lacking.” Echizen, for the first time, met Shinji’s eyes. “For everyone else, it’s a game, a hobby, something they’re good at. For some of us, though, it’s a drive. We plateau, we freeze, we doubt.”
Shinji felt like those words were describing him exactly. “So what do I do?”
“Don’t quit.” Echizen handed Shinji’s racquet back to him. “You didn’t make it here. A lot of good players aren’t going to. A lot of players that could be great.” His eyes strayed back to the courts. “Don’t mope. Play. Train. Find your own breakthrough, and come back even stronger.” The boy’s voice was, to Shinji, wiser than his years. “A lot of the players are peaking now. They won’t get better. You can, and will.”
Shinji was silent for several minutes, turning the racquet over in his hands, staring at it, feeling the weight of it in his grip. “You still owe me grip tape, Echizen.”
“You’ll get it when I meet you in the city tournament next season.” Echizen pulled his hat down over his eyes. “Mada mada da ne.” He walked away without another word, back to his team.
Shinji watched Echizen go, turning his words over in his head, then stood, hand gripping his racquet tight. He’s right…I do have a long way to go. I’m not there yet…but I will be.
No, he wasn’t going to be driven away by this. He would come back, stronger than ever.
And I’ll beat him into the ground.
He had no idea who he meant by that. Kamio? Tachibana? Echizen? Or maybe…himself.
Either way, Shinji knew he wasn’t quitting. Not today. Not until he was sure he couldn’t reach any higher.
--The End--
Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Characters: Ibu Shinji, Echizen Ryoma
Prompt: 100: Writer’s Choice
Word Count: 1,051
Rating: G
Summary: Shinji has a crisis of faith.
Author's Notes: After the Ibu/Kamio match in the new manga.
Main table can be found here and here.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
It was the only time that Shinji could recall that he had actively hated Kamio.
Maybe, he thought, it would’ve been better if Kamio could just stop gloating. Yeah, he won. And Shinji could’ve managed to be happy for him, would’ve been happy for him, but…not now.
Not when he knew that he was now relegated to the place of watcher. Not when he just felt so…so…. Shinji couldn’t find a word for how he felt. Maybe…extraneous.
Yes. That was it, exactly. Extraneous, unnecessary, unneeded. It was a feeling that had been dogging him through the whole season. It just seemed that when the chips were down, he could never follow through. He was the one hurting people, or getting hurt. He was the one that lost, when they needed a win.
And worst of all, to Shinji, was the feeling that he was letting everyone down. His friends. Tachibana-san.
I’m not sure why I was even here, he thought to himself, watching Kamio go over his win with Tachibana. It seems they were looking for the best…clearly I’m far from it.
He snorted. So many times, Shinji had heard himself referred to as “Fudomine’s tensai.” Even Tachibana had said that. Some genius I am…one who can’t even win a match.
Shinji looked down at the racquet in his hand, let it slip from nerveless fingers. He wondered if it would be that easy to just…let go of it all. To walk away from a sport that was ceasing to give him any pleasure.
Because when Shinji closed his eyes, all he could see were his losses, losses when it truly counted. His wins were meaningless, because they came at times where they had swept, anyway. And he didn’t even want to think about his doubles matches…because they had all been with Kamio. At one time he had been proud of those wins; now he just wondered if Kamio had been the true driving force.
Extraneous….
He wasn’t needed, not really. He could step aside, walk away, free up space on the team for new, worthy talent to come in. Fudomine didn’t need dead wood, after all. And that’s all he was.
Shinji found himself looking at Kamio again, saw the proud smile Tachibana was giving him. How long had it been since he had been on the receiving end of that smile? Far too long, if Shinji couldn’t remember. He had seen everyone else get them…but for him? Pitying, maybe. Or, not a smile at all. A stern look, an air of ‘You can do better, Shinji.’
Shinji wasn’t sure that he could. Not anymore. Or that he had ever been capable of doing better.
Yes, maybe it would be for the best for him to walk away right now. To go, and never look back…. He stood, purpose in his eyes. He’d at least walk away with his head held high.
“Don’t.”
Shinji blinked at the unexpected voice beside him. “Don’t what, Echizen?”
“Don’t do what you’re thinking of doing.”
Shinji shook his head. “How can Echizen know what I’m thinking, because it’s all in my head, and it’s not like he’d be the first person I’d talk to if I wanted to share my thoughts, and, maybe he’s wrong, in fact, he probably is, because he’s many things, but a mind reader is not one of them.”
Echizen sighed. “I’m right here. And you were muttering a mile a minute while sitting here, you know.”
“I was not.” Shinji blushed, though, because he probably had been, and he knew it, too.
“’Sides. I know that look in your eyes.” Echizen bent and picked up Shinji’s racket and studied it, his expression unusually thoughtful. “I’ve seen it before.”
“Oh? Where?”
“In my own.”
Shinji was startled by that. “You…thought about quitting?” He frankly couldn’t believe that.
Echizen shrugged, like it wasn’t that big of a deal. “Yeah. I reached a point where it stopped being enjoyable. Everyone goes through that at some point, if the game means something to them.”
Tilting his head to the side and considering Echizen’s words, Shinji asked, “What did you do then?”
“I found something that made it enjoyable again.” Echizen’s eyes drifted to his teammates, and for a moment, Shinji swore he saw genuine affection in the younger boy’s face, but it was gone again behind the mask of indifference. “Between you and me? It’s only the best players that have that crisis. I did, Fuji-senpai did, Tezuka-buchou did. Your captain did.”
“I…I’ve never thought like that before. Why…?” Shinji sat down again, his mind racing.
“Because we’ll always feel something lacking.” Echizen, for the first time, met Shinji’s eyes. “For everyone else, it’s a game, a hobby, something they’re good at. For some of us, though, it’s a drive. We plateau, we freeze, we doubt.”
Shinji felt like those words were describing him exactly. “So what do I do?”
“Don’t quit.” Echizen handed Shinji’s racquet back to him. “You didn’t make it here. A lot of good players aren’t going to. A lot of players that could be great.” His eyes strayed back to the courts. “Don’t mope. Play. Train. Find your own breakthrough, and come back even stronger.” The boy’s voice was, to Shinji, wiser than his years. “A lot of the players are peaking now. They won’t get better. You can, and will.”
Shinji was silent for several minutes, turning the racquet over in his hands, staring at it, feeling the weight of it in his grip. “You still owe me grip tape, Echizen.”
“You’ll get it when I meet you in the city tournament next season.” Echizen pulled his hat down over his eyes. “Mada mada da ne.” He walked away without another word, back to his team.
Shinji watched Echizen go, turning his words over in his head, then stood, hand gripping his racquet tight. He’s right…I do have a long way to go. I’m not there yet…but I will be.
No, he wasn’t going to be driven away by this. He would come back, stronger than ever.
And I’ll beat him into the ground.
He had no idea who he meant by that. Kamio? Tachibana? Echizen? Or maybe…himself.
Either way, Shinji knew he wasn’t quitting. Not today. Not until he was sure he couldn’t reach any higher.
--The End--