FIC: "He'll See," BeKami, PG-13
This fic was entirely lyntek's idea.
She's kind of into SanaTachi (hears her squeeing "sanatachiiiiiii!!!" right beside me) right now, but she's still a diehard Kamio fan, so I guess this is still all right ^_^v
We've been squeeing over this scenario for a few weeks now, and I thought I'd finally write it down and put it up as a Valentine's Day gift to all the friendly and talented BeKami fans out there :) Though of course, this attempt is dedicated especially to lyntek. BTW, she made this inspirational pic that I just want to share with all of you :)
Hee. I adore Kamio. Writing him lets me use a lot of exclamation points. It's a happy change of pace.
"Bastard thinks he's so hot...thinks he's better than everyone..."
Fudoumine's second-year speed ace, Kamio Akira, finished rolling up his jersey. He threw it into its designated shelf.
Under normal circumstances, he would be folding it properly, the way Tachibana-buchou insisted that everyone on his team would -- but today was not an ordinary day. Today, someone on the Fudoumine courts made the mistake of mentioning the name "Atobe Keigo" in Kamio Akira's presence.
"...thinks he's such a bigshot...and what's with that nose, huh??"
"What's with that nose?" Beside him, Kamio's teammate and friend Ibu Shinji folded his own jersey with absolute calm.
"That nose! He keeps it turned up all the time like -- like -- like everybody else is just dirt to him! Like he's up there being this sparkly godlike thing and we're all just -- aargh!"
Kamio slammed his hand against the shelves, which rocked back obligingly. Not happy with this, he threw himself upon the whole rack and shook it as hard as he could. Some items that weren't his fell to the floor...but given Kamio's slight frame, there was no real damage done.
"That nose, huh...well, I haven't noticed." Ibu waited for the ruckus to subside and the shelves to stand still. Then he deposited his jersey, and started picking up the oddments on the floor and returning them to their proper compartments. He was used to this.
Afterwards, Ibu sat on the bench, hands on his lap, courteously waiting for his friend to bust a vein or something.
"He's an idiot. Don't you think he's an idiot?"
"I think he's an idiot," Ibu agreed placatingly. "But I don't get what you're so worked up about. Did he badmouth our school? Did he tell you anything? Not that it's any of my business, but it would just be polite to tell the people you're with, what makes you turn all red in the face like that..."
Kamio didn't answer, all his energy taken up by stomping back and forth and keeping the froth from escaping his mouth.
"He better be ready," he mumbled to himself through gritted teeth. "I'm going to show him. He's going to remember my name. He just better be ready!"
The rest of his second year was simply uneventful. The next year, which he spent as captain of the Fudoumine team in Tachibana's place, seemed too long. It was hard to improve one's own skills without Tachibana to play against, but he had to be resourceful.
Kamio was desperate. Even if he couldn't lead his team to victory in the nationals (though he was giving it his damned best, thank you), his skills had to go beyond national-level. He had to be the best.
Right behind taking his team to their first win in the nationals, he had a goal. A noble one. It was to put all arrogant self-centered attention-whoring players back in their place, to show them that there was always someone better, and to bash those bloated egos into the ground.
And he had an ultimate target. He kept this target's photograph in a secret compartment in his wallet -- so that during moments of deepest, darkest despair, that maddening, self-satisfied smirk could work him right back up to a killing mood.
Atobe Keigo...
Kamio worked hard. He graduated. He got a scholarship in a good high school. Ibu got the scholarship with him. There were many good players in their new school and the powerful Ibu-Kamio doubles pair was challenged to their limits.
However, by then they had enough control of their skills, and were able to make it as tennis team regulars in their first year. They could only improve in skill from there.
Kamio was energized. There was no stopping him now.
In their first participation in the annual high school tennis tournament, Kamio's school faced off against a private high school which eerily resembled Hyoutei Junior High -- if the hundreds of student spectators and abundant "We <3 Atobe" streamers were any sort of giveaway.
The rival tennis team's captain was second-year ace Atobe Keigo.
"Atobe-sama is so cool!"
Kamio shut his eyes tight. That suffix! That damned "-sama"! Will it hound him to the end of his days?? Will it never die??
Before the game started Kamio sneaked off to the opposition's corner, where Atobe Keigo sat with arms folded across his chest. The regulars eyed the strange freshman warily.
"Yo, Atobe," Kamio greeted, grinning cruelly. "Bet you didn't expect to meet me again this early, eh?"
Atobe took his time turning to answer. When he did, his eyebrows were raised. "And you are...?"
Someone snickered. Kamio didn't bother to see who it was. His fists balled at his sides. Anger bubbled up inside him and he started to quiver. Unable to keep the rage inside for long, he pointed and shrieked:
"You're going down, Hyoutei bastard!!"
...Easily forgetting the fact that Atobe wasn't in Hyoutei anymore and had gathered a whole new crew of fangirls in his high school. Said fangirls rose up in a furor over what he had just said. The Atobe worshippers were in chaos.
Kamio looked lost as he turned to the audience, would have cried "heat of the moment stress much pressure sorry" in apology -- but his glance was drawn back to the rival team's captain, and the smirk he saw there brought back his seething full force. His eyes narrowed.
You're going down.
There was nothing else for him to do, so Kamio slunk back sulking to his team. Then got whacked over the head by his stern second-year vice captain for causing a scene.
After all Kamio's trouble, Atobe Keigo did not go down.
Kamio walked off alone with Ibu, avoiding the rest of his team, after the competition ended.
"Wasn't wise to rile up the fangirls," Ibu began.
Distressed, indignant, inconsolable, Kamio cried: "The idiot still doesn't remember my name!"
Ibu sighed noisily. "Akira..."
"What?!"
"Did it ever occur to you that he likes making you angry? I mean he probably knows your name, but he refuses to call you by it because he knows you'll get mad and when you're mad your concentration gets thrown off. I mean, it doesn't take much to spot that. You really are a hothead."
Kamio did not take this well. Kamio did not like being told that he was dumb enough to fall into a psych trap. As former captain of the Fudoumine team, he knew all about psych traps, dammit, he'd even invented some of them, or thought he did...
But he knew...at the heart of it was, he wasn't good enough yet. Atobe Keigo was getting better, too. He had to train harder.
Very well then. He was fulfilling his goal next year. Next year!
Next year, third-year Atobe Keigo accepted an invitation to finish his studies at a tennis school in Germany.
After all, he had already become captain of his high school team in his second year, had won several private tournaments on the side, and was getting excellent grades. He and everyone else knew that he was ready to move on to professional training.
But second-year Kamio Akira was outraged.
"How dare he leave?! How dare he??"
He wrote a long, poison-filled letter addressed to Atobe Keigo in Germany, and asked Ibu to proofread it "so the idiot can't say nothing about the grammar." Ibu read it, but refused to waste time proofreading, saying he could just see Atobe Keigo trashing something that looked like a death threat at the first sentence.
Dissatisfied, Kamio phoned his sempai Tachibana Kippei and relayed the contents of the letter for initial feedback. There was pensive silence at the other end of the line, after which Tachibana grimly said: "Kamio...it's been three years. Get over it."
Though Tachibana very well knew Kamio would not. However, Kamio did not send the letter either. He tore it up and told himself it was pointless to feel so betrayed.
He got little news of Atobe while Kamio finished high school. The most that Kamio was able to ferret out of his old high school was that a new Atobe Keigo fan club had been established in Germany within the boy's third month there. There was no proof of this, so the info probably came out of the remnants of the Ore-sama's notorious egotism.
Just wait, Atobe Keigo, Kamio said to the worn and crumpled photograph of a handsome, smirking schoolboy. Someday I'm going to be a great tennis player -- then I'm going to defeat you and slap it in your FACE!!
Kamio graduated from high school. He lived on his own and financed his own college education with earnings from various tournaments. He aimed for pro rank before graduating, and was able to get it.
He got almost everything he wanted.
Everyone knew his name. More than that, he also got a nickname -- "The Crusher" -- for his trademark hatred of arrogance. Famous players (some of whom he knew from middle school) signed up for tournaments just because they learned "The Crusher" was going to participate.
He was admired and respected. But none of it really mattered to Kamio. His pro tennis life felt static, empty, until finally, finally Atobe Keigo came back to Japan.
Kamio heard from his manager that the international tennis superstar Atobe Keigo had come home for a vacation, and had signed up for a particular local tournament for fun. That was when Kamio felt an old familiar stirring, a rush of excitement that he thought he'd lost.
He had been waiting for this moment.
One last, long look at the photograph in his wallet, and then he was ready for anything.
Atobe Keigo turned out to be taller, leaner, tanner than Kamio remembered -- though no less arrogant. In fact, he was more arrogant than Kamio had ever thought possible. That nose was held even higher, that eyebrow was even more arched, that stance was even more challenging.
That stare more piercing, captivating. More than just a tennis superstar, Atobe seemed to be a true international idol.
This time Kamio said nothing at all to provoke him during the match. And Atobe Keigo, thankfully, did the same. They were both professionals, fighting simply with skill, surrounded by so many cameras, people, lights, eyes.
After so many years, it finally took place -- Kamio's retribution. It was set after set after set, but in the end it was --
Glorious.
There was no stronger word for it that took up more than four letters. It was glorious.
Atobe Keigo's face was impassive as he left the courts. Nothing could be read about him as he walked past everyone, ignoring even his manager's comforting pat on the back.
But Kamio knew that the real victory wasn't on the court. After the brief interviews and pictorials, he excused himself in a rush. He simply said, off the top of his head, that he had to catch someone about to make his way out.
They met in the empty corridor outside the basement dressing rooms. Kamio was still holding his racket; he hadn't exactly thought to let go of it. Everyone with a camera had wanted him holding it anyway.
Atobe stopped walking and turned to acknowledge him.
"Well," was the snark. "If it isn't the Crusher."
Kamio's face darkened. "That's not my name."
Atobe smirked. "Oh? What is your name, then?"
Kamio felt himself turning red. He hadn't expected this. He had just beaten the man's ass.
"You know damn well what my name is! You had damn well better say it!"
Atobe Keigo flipped his splendid hair back, rolled his gorgeous eyes, and turned to walk away.
Kamio tensed up, eaten away with disbelief. "Idiot!!" he cried, along with a multilingual mess of expletives. But Atobe Keigo did not turn.
Kamio no longer saw straight. At the back of his head, he knew he should be be more mature than this. He was an adult now, but he was also, all of a sudden, 13. On a street court. Yelling after a tall, lovely boy who had turned his back on him.
"I can't believe that after all these years you're still full of yourself! You overgrown windbag! Hey, I'm talking to you!"
He strode up to Atobe within seconds, speed ace that he was. He laid a hand on the international idol's shoulder and, with one quick motion, spun him around.
Atobe Keigo reached up and snaked one hand up to Kamio's nape. Planted the other hand firm on the base of Kamio's spine.
Drew the young man close.
And kissed him.
It was a long, mad, passionate kiss. It lasted for nearly ten years.
...or thirty seconds. Whatever it was, it was enough time to dash everything Kamio had worked for to the ground.
When they broke away, Kamio stood stunned. He was vaguely aware that he was looking into Atobe's eyes, and that Atobe was smirking the same conqueror's smirk the schoolboy in the picture in his wallet had on.
Atobe left unhurriedly. And when he was gone, the spell was broken. Kamio felt life flowing back into his veins, the heat in his body subsiding.
The anger was subsiding too, and that was the worst thing.
Kamio swore loudly. It echoed throughout the corridor. He threw the racket he was still holding onto the ground.
Slammed himself back against the wall, felt like he had just been slapped in the face. And that he was awakening from a long, strange dream.
She's kind of into SanaTachi (hears her squeeing "sanatachiiiiiii!!!" right beside me) right now, but she's still a diehard Kamio fan, so I guess this is still all right ^_^v
We've been squeeing over this scenario for a few weeks now, and I thought I'd finally write it down and put it up as a Valentine's Day gift to all the friendly and talented BeKami fans out there :) Though of course, this attempt is dedicated especially to lyntek. BTW, she made this inspirational pic that I just want to share with all of you :)
Hee. I adore Kamio. Writing him lets me use a lot of exclamation points. It's a happy change of pace.
"Bastard thinks he's so hot...thinks he's better than everyone..."
Fudoumine's second-year speed ace, Kamio Akira, finished rolling up his jersey. He threw it into its designated shelf.
Under normal circumstances, he would be folding it properly, the way Tachibana-buchou insisted that everyone on his team would -- but today was not an ordinary day. Today, someone on the Fudoumine courts made the mistake of mentioning the name "Atobe Keigo" in Kamio Akira's presence.
"...thinks he's such a bigshot...and what's with that nose, huh??"
"What's with that nose?" Beside him, Kamio's teammate and friend Ibu Shinji folded his own jersey with absolute calm.
"That nose! He keeps it turned up all the time like -- like -- like everybody else is just dirt to him! Like he's up there being this sparkly godlike thing and we're all just -- aargh!"
Kamio slammed his hand against the shelves, which rocked back obligingly. Not happy with this, he threw himself upon the whole rack and shook it as hard as he could. Some items that weren't his fell to the floor...but given Kamio's slight frame, there was no real damage done.
"That nose, huh...well, I haven't noticed." Ibu waited for the ruckus to subside and the shelves to stand still. Then he deposited his jersey, and started picking up the oddments on the floor and returning them to their proper compartments. He was used to this.
Afterwards, Ibu sat on the bench, hands on his lap, courteously waiting for his friend to bust a vein or something.
"He's an idiot. Don't you think he's an idiot?"
"I think he's an idiot," Ibu agreed placatingly. "But I don't get what you're so worked up about. Did he badmouth our school? Did he tell you anything? Not that it's any of my business, but it would just be polite to tell the people you're with, what makes you turn all red in the face like that..."
Kamio didn't answer, all his energy taken up by stomping back and forth and keeping the froth from escaping his mouth.
"He better be ready," he mumbled to himself through gritted teeth. "I'm going to show him. He's going to remember my name. He just better be ready!"
The rest of his second year was simply uneventful. The next year, which he spent as captain of the Fudoumine team in Tachibana's place, seemed too long. It was hard to improve one's own skills without Tachibana to play against, but he had to be resourceful.
Kamio was desperate. Even if he couldn't lead his team to victory in the nationals (though he was giving it his damned best, thank you), his skills had to go beyond national-level. He had to be the best.
Right behind taking his team to their first win in the nationals, he had a goal. A noble one. It was to put all arrogant self-centered attention-whoring players back in their place, to show them that there was always someone better, and to bash those bloated egos into the ground.
And he had an ultimate target. He kept this target's photograph in a secret compartment in his wallet -- so that during moments of deepest, darkest despair, that maddening, self-satisfied smirk could work him right back up to a killing mood.
Atobe Keigo...
Kamio worked hard. He graduated. He got a scholarship in a good high school. Ibu got the scholarship with him. There were many good players in their new school and the powerful Ibu-Kamio doubles pair was challenged to their limits.
However, by then they had enough control of their skills, and were able to make it as tennis team regulars in their first year. They could only improve in skill from there.
Kamio was energized. There was no stopping him now.
In their first participation in the annual high school tennis tournament, Kamio's school faced off against a private high school which eerily resembled Hyoutei Junior High -- if the hundreds of student spectators and abundant "We <3 Atobe" streamers were any sort of giveaway.
The rival tennis team's captain was second-year ace Atobe Keigo.
"Atobe-sama is so cool!"
Kamio shut his eyes tight. That suffix! That damned "-sama"! Will it hound him to the end of his days?? Will it never die??
Before the game started Kamio sneaked off to the opposition's corner, where Atobe Keigo sat with arms folded across his chest. The regulars eyed the strange freshman warily.
"Yo, Atobe," Kamio greeted, grinning cruelly. "Bet you didn't expect to meet me again this early, eh?"
Atobe took his time turning to answer. When he did, his eyebrows were raised. "And you are...?"
Someone snickered. Kamio didn't bother to see who it was. His fists balled at his sides. Anger bubbled up inside him and he started to quiver. Unable to keep the rage inside for long, he pointed and shrieked:
"You're going down, Hyoutei bastard!!"
...Easily forgetting the fact that Atobe wasn't in Hyoutei anymore and had gathered a whole new crew of fangirls in his high school. Said fangirls rose up in a furor over what he had just said. The Atobe worshippers were in chaos.
Kamio looked lost as he turned to the audience, would have cried "heat of the moment stress much pressure sorry" in apology -- but his glance was drawn back to the rival team's captain, and the smirk he saw there brought back his seething full force. His eyes narrowed.
You're going down.
There was nothing else for him to do, so Kamio slunk back sulking to his team. Then got whacked over the head by his stern second-year vice captain for causing a scene.
After all Kamio's trouble, Atobe Keigo did not go down.
Kamio walked off alone with Ibu, avoiding the rest of his team, after the competition ended.
"Wasn't wise to rile up the fangirls," Ibu began.
Distressed, indignant, inconsolable, Kamio cried: "The idiot still doesn't remember my name!"
Ibu sighed noisily. "Akira..."
"What?!"
"Did it ever occur to you that he likes making you angry? I mean he probably knows your name, but he refuses to call you by it because he knows you'll get mad and when you're mad your concentration gets thrown off. I mean, it doesn't take much to spot that. You really are a hothead."
Kamio did not take this well. Kamio did not like being told that he was dumb enough to fall into a psych trap. As former captain of the Fudoumine team, he knew all about psych traps, dammit, he'd even invented some of them, or thought he did...
But he knew...at the heart of it was, he wasn't good enough yet. Atobe Keigo was getting better, too. He had to train harder.
Very well then. He was fulfilling his goal next year. Next year!
Next year, third-year Atobe Keigo accepted an invitation to finish his studies at a tennis school in Germany.
After all, he had already become captain of his high school team in his second year, had won several private tournaments on the side, and was getting excellent grades. He and everyone else knew that he was ready to move on to professional training.
But second-year Kamio Akira was outraged.
"How dare he leave?! How dare he??"
He wrote a long, poison-filled letter addressed to Atobe Keigo in Germany, and asked Ibu to proofread it "so the idiot can't say nothing about the grammar." Ibu read it, but refused to waste time proofreading, saying he could just see Atobe Keigo trashing something that looked like a death threat at the first sentence.
Dissatisfied, Kamio phoned his sempai Tachibana Kippei and relayed the contents of the letter for initial feedback. There was pensive silence at the other end of the line, after which Tachibana grimly said: "Kamio...it's been three years. Get over it."
Though Tachibana very well knew Kamio would not. However, Kamio did not send the letter either. He tore it up and told himself it was pointless to feel so betrayed.
He got little news of Atobe while Kamio finished high school. The most that Kamio was able to ferret out of his old high school was that a new Atobe Keigo fan club had been established in Germany within the boy's third month there. There was no proof of this, so the info probably came out of the remnants of the Ore-sama's notorious egotism.
Just wait, Atobe Keigo, Kamio said to the worn and crumpled photograph of a handsome, smirking schoolboy. Someday I'm going to be a great tennis player -- then I'm going to defeat you and slap it in your FACE!!
Kamio graduated from high school. He lived on his own and financed his own college education with earnings from various tournaments. He aimed for pro rank before graduating, and was able to get it.
He got almost everything he wanted.
Everyone knew his name. More than that, he also got a nickname -- "The Crusher" -- for his trademark hatred of arrogance. Famous players (some of whom he knew from middle school) signed up for tournaments just because they learned "The Crusher" was going to participate.
He was admired and respected. But none of it really mattered to Kamio. His pro tennis life felt static, empty, until finally, finally Atobe Keigo came back to Japan.
Kamio heard from his manager that the international tennis superstar Atobe Keigo had come home for a vacation, and had signed up for a particular local tournament for fun. That was when Kamio felt an old familiar stirring, a rush of excitement that he thought he'd lost.
He had been waiting for this moment.
One last, long look at the photograph in his wallet, and then he was ready for anything.
Atobe Keigo turned out to be taller, leaner, tanner than Kamio remembered -- though no less arrogant. In fact, he was more arrogant than Kamio had ever thought possible. That nose was held even higher, that eyebrow was even more arched, that stance was even more challenging.
That stare more piercing, captivating. More than just a tennis superstar, Atobe seemed to be a true international idol.
This time Kamio said nothing at all to provoke him during the match. And Atobe Keigo, thankfully, did the same. They were both professionals, fighting simply with skill, surrounded by so many cameras, people, lights, eyes.
After so many years, it finally took place -- Kamio's retribution. It was set after set after set, but in the end it was --
Glorious.
There was no stronger word for it that took up more than four letters. It was glorious.
Atobe Keigo's face was impassive as he left the courts. Nothing could be read about him as he walked past everyone, ignoring even his manager's comforting pat on the back.
But Kamio knew that the real victory wasn't on the court. After the brief interviews and pictorials, he excused himself in a rush. He simply said, off the top of his head, that he had to catch someone about to make his way out.
They met in the empty corridor outside the basement dressing rooms. Kamio was still holding his racket; he hadn't exactly thought to let go of it. Everyone with a camera had wanted him holding it anyway.
Atobe stopped walking and turned to acknowledge him.
"Well," was the snark. "If it isn't the Crusher."
Kamio's face darkened. "That's not my name."
Atobe smirked. "Oh? What is your name, then?"
Kamio felt himself turning red. He hadn't expected this. He had just beaten the man's ass.
"You know damn well what my name is! You had damn well better say it!"
Atobe Keigo flipped his splendid hair back, rolled his gorgeous eyes, and turned to walk away.
Kamio tensed up, eaten away with disbelief. "Idiot!!" he cried, along with a multilingual mess of expletives. But Atobe Keigo did not turn.
Kamio no longer saw straight. At the back of his head, he knew he should be be more mature than this. He was an adult now, but he was also, all of a sudden, 13. On a street court. Yelling after a tall, lovely boy who had turned his back on him.
"I can't believe that after all these years you're still full of yourself! You overgrown windbag! Hey, I'm talking to you!"
He strode up to Atobe within seconds, speed ace that he was. He laid a hand on the international idol's shoulder and, with one quick motion, spun him around.
Atobe Keigo reached up and snaked one hand up to Kamio's nape. Planted the other hand firm on the base of Kamio's spine.
Drew the young man close.
And kissed him.
It was a long, mad, passionate kiss. It lasted for nearly ten years.
...or thirty seconds. Whatever it was, it was enough time to dash everything Kamio had worked for to the ground.
When they broke away, Kamio stood stunned. He was vaguely aware that he was looking into Atobe's eyes, and that Atobe was smirking the same conqueror's smirk the schoolboy in the picture in his wallet had on.
Atobe left unhurriedly. And when he was gone, the spell was broken. Kamio felt life flowing back into his veins, the heat in his body subsiding.
The anger was subsiding too, and that was the worst thing.
Kamio swore loudly. It echoed throughout the corridor. He threw the racket he was still holding onto the ground.
Slammed himself back against the wall, felt like he had just been slapped in the face. And that he was awakening from a long, strange dream.