Hop on the fiction train!
I've been sooo fiction-happy with the exchange going on. Aaand, I realized that I need to write something for 30_kisses before the end of the month. -_-;;
IN THE MEANTIME, I bring Ryoma/Momo love... sort of. Anyway, Dustin said she wanted some... so here it is.
Disclaimer: Prince of Tennis and its characters aren't mine; I just borrowed them for a bit.
Warnings: hints of m/m (unrequited); general depressingness
Notes: This fic was inspired during last year's flight to Y-con as I repeatedly listened to Vienna Teng's Blue Caravan.
For bloodstaindnght, who said she was in the mood for Ryoma/Momo.
Thanks to pixxers and senshixdoukeshi for their opinions and love.
A Beautiful Fiction
The marble was cold beneath his bare feet. He missed the smooth wood floors of the temple in which he'd only briefly lived. The hall was dark - he didn't need to waste the electricity on light when he could find his way easily. He turned right at its end, into the bedroom. Ambient light from the city spilled through the window, and he could see Karupin sleeping in the middle of the bed. The himalayan had ruffled the unmade covers into a small nest around him and ignored the soft sounds of familiar footsteps entering. The bedroom was large and simply decorated. Echizen Ryoma, despite the money acquired from his career victories was a man of rather plain tastes. His bed, a dresser, a television, an old autographed picture of a Japanese pop group that he kept thinking he should put away somewhere, and a single framed photo from six years ago of the only team he'd ever had. He wasn't nearly as messy as he'd been as a young adolescent, particularly because he now had laundry and cleaning services. He walked through the room, past the photo, to the window. New York had a certain beauty at night - lights for miles. But those weren't anything unusual; Tokyo was even brighter. When he was in the heart of the city - Times Square and all - he could squint and it almost felt like he was back in Japan.
Since leaving at fifteen, he'd been back, but he hadn't returned. He stopped off in Tokyo for AIG every year, but never stayed longer than the tournament. Everyone always thought he'd have a sort of home-field advantage. Though, to date the only major title he'd won was the US Open - two years running - but one of these days, he'd be able to beat the world. That had been his goal, after all - his entire reason for leaving. He couldn't stand looking at the picture of his former teammates without reaffirming the thought that he would win... otherwise, why had he left at all? He was nineteen, and it was an accepted fact in the sporting world that he was just coming into his own as a professional player. Some even speculated that he would be the greatest tennis player that ever lived - better than his father, than Nadal, Federer, and Agassi. He didn't have off-time for recreational travel. When he wasn't playing tournaments, he was training for them. He always returned to New York, the place of his birth. It wasn't Japan, but he felt a certain affinity for the city. It was a place to be alone, and Ryoma had always been a loner.
He left the window and its city lights and walked over to the bed, letting himself fall backwards, flopping onto the mattress. Karupin took great exception to this disturbance and jumped off the bed to scamper elsewhere in the apartment. That was fine with Ryoma - he didn't use most of the apartment anyway. When he was home, he spent most of his time in his bedroom sleeping, watching television, reading. He even ate in there. The remote was in easy reach, but he really didn't want to watch anything at the moment. He stared up at the smooth white ceiling and thought of his adolescence, of Japan, of his team. Tezuka-buchou's silent way of demanding more from him. Fuji-sempai's smiling challenge. Oishi-sempai's gentle encouragement. Kikumaru-sempai's exuberant cheerleading. Kaidoh-sempai's silent faith. Inui-sempai's close inspection. But mostly he remembered Momo-sempai's cocky grin. His headlocks and annoying noogies. The tacit communication that passed between them before matches: a smile and a smirk - "Kick his ass." "You know I will."
Momo had encouraged him to go out and challenge the world once when they'd only been in middle school and again in high school. Tears weren't involved the second time, but there had been a warmth that had drawn him to Momo in that moment. Ryoma closed his eyes and thought about Momo's house at dusk when he'd gone over to tell him the news that he'd be playing in the US Open again. They'd sat on the back porch and drunk ramune. Momo was uncharacteristically quiet - none of the histrionics of their junior high years. He took a long time to say that he knew Ryoma would show the world what a great player he was, and that he'd be waiting for Ryoma's return. Laying on his bed with his eyes closed, Ryoma could almost feel the warmth of that embrace that was so frequent and familiar once. He let the comfort of the mattress over take him, let himself doze and filter through the flashes of memories. The talks and games and meals and contests, they got him through the days when he didn't feel like getting up for practice. His favorite place to remember was Momo's porch, the orange sunset and warm hand on his shoulder. It was something for him to return to - something he could carry with him no matter where he was playing. It gave him the strength to improve - the strength to win.
Cars raced by on the streets below, but Ryoma was sheltered from their noise in his sky-rise apartment. The outside world was muffled into the background, letting Ryoma stay in Japan for a little while longer. He had no clocks that would mark the passing seconds as he enjoyed the way Momo's smile softened his eyes.
The mattress shifted as Karupin jumped onto the bed and Momo's porch was gone. Ryoma was staring at his ceiling again, and his cat was meowing his hunger. He rolled onto his side and grabbed his cellphone off his night-stand to check the time - past time to feed Karu. He leaned reluctantly and put the phone back where he'd gotten it - where he always kept it in case of phone calls from the other side of the world at bizarre hours of the day. He sat and slid off the bed in one motion. "I hear you, Karupin. You can lay off. I'll feed you." His voice always sounded strange in his apartment that so rarely heard any conversation.
The marble floor was cold and the hall was dark as he navigated into the living room, past its lush furnishings that were mostly for show, and then into the kitchen, large and largely unused. His pantry was pathetically empty; not even any cat food. He needed to go to the store. There was always one open, even at this time of night, but he didn't feel like going out. So, he went to the fridge and snagged a box of takeout off the top shelf. He emptied half of the lo mein into a bowl that he set on the floor, and grabbed a set of chopsticks from a drawer. Ryoma leaned against the counter and watched his cat eat Chinese while he picked through his own noodles. He'd left his phone on the bedside table. It never rang anyway. He hadn't received middle-of-the-night calls since his first trip to the United States during junior high.
His cat looked up at him from his empty bowl, and Ryoma dumped the rest of the noodles into it. He knew that Chinese take out wasn't exactly the nutritional ideal for cats, but Karupin liked it. He tossed the empty carton in the trash and his chopsticks in the sink. He stared at the dark tile of the back splash; the only sound in the kitchen was the occasional scrape of Karupin's bowl on the floor.
The emptiness of the apartment always closed in on him in the quiet, and that emptiness made him remember.
There hadn't been any porch at sunset. There hadn't been any warm hand on his shoulder. No embrace. No soft smile. No request for him to return. He hadn't even gone to tell Momo he was leaving. He hadn't been able. Momo had found out with everyone else at practice the day before he left. Cheering all around. General confidence that he'd do well had been the tone of conversation. Momo hadn't pretended to be fine with it, like he once had. He was fine with it. He hadn't chased Ryoma down after practice for any final private farewells.
Ryoma hadn't returned to Japan because he didn't have anyone to return to.
He picked the empty bowl up off the floor and placed it in the sink with his chopsticks to be put in the dishwasher later. His fingers flicked off the light as he left the kitchen, and he made his way back through his dark apartment. His feet were cold.
He climbed back into his bed. It was warmer; warm with dreamt memories that were so much better than the silence above the roar of the city streets. In his bed, he closed his eyes, wrapped himself in his blanket, and let himself be wrapped in a memory that never happened but kept him warm when his apartment was cold.
His apartment was always cold.
*****
Six US Open titles. Four Wimbledon. Four Australian Open. Two Roland Garros. Twice winner of calender-year Grand Slams.
Ryoma was twenty-five.
He'd finally won AIG. Something in his mind had settled after the final set. He planned to retire.
The tournament had only been over for two hours. He'd skipped the scheduled press conference and texted his manager that they'd have a bigger one before he left Japan.
Standing in front of empty courts that he knew so well, Ryoma couldn't help feeling as small as he once had been while playing on those courts. They were a bit more worn than his memories, but time, of course, accounted for that. He closed his eyes and heard the pock of rallying tennis balls and the cheers of the freshman - Horio's voice rising above all the others. Arms wrapped around him from behind, over his shoulders, not quite too tight for him to breathe. A warm, familiar chest against his back. He inhaled deeply the smell of sweat and sunshine. A voice near his ear, "Play a game with me, Echizen." Ryoma opened his eyes and he was alone.
He'd apply for the coaching job at Seishun, there's no way the school would turn him down. He knew Ryuzaki-sensei had retired, but didn't know who'd taken over for her. He didn't bother trying to feel guilty about taking someone's job. His dad had taught him how to be a great tennis player, not a great person.
He set his bag down next to a bench and pulled out a racket and some balls, pocketing all but one. He didn't bother tightening the nets because he knew where they would be, where they lived forever in his memories. Standing at the baseline, he bounced the ball twice, threw it, and swung with his right arm. His twist serve; the shot that made him famous. He walked to the other service square, pulled out another ball, and switched hands. His left arm; the serve that had won him tournaments. He served the other two balls in his pocket, the court comfortingly familiar beneath his feet.
No one knew instinctively to look for him here. No one walked up casually or ran to greet him enthusiastically or called out to him, "Oi, Echizen!" He almost laughed at himself for even thinking about it. Fiction didn't suddenly become reality. Fabrication didn't materialize. He had these courts and their memories, and that was enough.
The sun was setting. He ought to leave. Slow strides that had never learned to have a sense of urgency carried him around the court to collect his balls. Everything made its way into its spot in his tennis bag out of habit. He headed for the train station.
The crush of people in the train reminded him of New York, which always reminded him of Japan. He almost laughed at how circular it all was. His hotel wasn't anything special because he didn't require anything special. But it was in the heart of the city. Karupin wasn't waiting for him in the hotel room. Karupin hadn't been there to greet him for three years. He shucked his shoes by the door - a habit that he hadn't managed to loose in the US - and went to the window. The lights were brighter in Tokyo... or maybe it was just in his head that they were. His socked feet were silent on the carpet as he left the window and went to the bed. He laid down and stared up at the ceiling. His cell phone was still in his bag, and he didn't bother fishing it out.
Ryoma was tired, not just from the match or the tournament. All the tournaments. The ten years he'd been gone. The victories... he could tally them in his head without even thinking about it. Major titles. Great sports achievements. The trophies sat on a shelf in a living room that he didn't use. He largely ignored them. Thinking about them only made him feel more tired. He closed his eyes. It was good to be back in Japan. He didn't have anyone to return to, but he did have memories to bring with him. He felt himself relax into the mattress and remembered cold soda, a warm sunset, and an even warmer smile.
IN THE MEANTIME, I bring Ryoma/Momo love... sort of. Anyway, Dustin said she wanted some... so here it is.
Disclaimer: Prince of Tennis and its characters aren't mine; I just borrowed them for a bit.
Warnings: hints of m/m (unrequited); general depressingness
Notes: This fic was inspired during last year's flight to Y-con as I repeatedly listened to Vienna Teng's Blue Caravan.
For bloodstaindnght, who said she was in the mood for Ryoma/Momo.
Thanks to pixxers and senshixdoukeshi for their opinions and love.
A Beautiful Fiction
The marble was cold beneath his bare feet. He missed the smooth wood floors of the temple in which he'd only briefly lived. The hall was dark - he didn't need to waste the electricity on light when he could find his way easily. He turned right at its end, into the bedroom. Ambient light from the city spilled through the window, and he could see Karupin sleeping in the middle of the bed. The himalayan had ruffled the unmade covers into a small nest around him and ignored the soft sounds of familiar footsteps entering. The bedroom was large and simply decorated. Echizen Ryoma, despite the money acquired from his career victories was a man of rather plain tastes. His bed, a dresser, a television, an old autographed picture of a Japanese pop group that he kept thinking he should put away somewhere, and a single framed photo from six years ago of the only team he'd ever had. He wasn't nearly as messy as he'd been as a young adolescent, particularly because he now had laundry and cleaning services. He walked through the room, past the photo, to the window. New York had a certain beauty at night - lights for miles. But those weren't anything unusual; Tokyo was even brighter. When he was in the heart of the city - Times Square and all - he could squint and it almost felt like he was back in Japan.
Since leaving at fifteen, he'd been back, but he hadn't returned. He stopped off in Tokyo for AIG every year, but never stayed longer than the tournament. Everyone always thought he'd have a sort of home-field advantage. Though, to date the only major title he'd won was the US Open - two years running - but one of these days, he'd be able to beat the world. That had been his goal, after all - his entire reason for leaving. He couldn't stand looking at the picture of his former teammates without reaffirming the thought that he would win... otherwise, why had he left at all? He was nineteen, and it was an accepted fact in the sporting world that he was just coming into his own as a professional player. Some even speculated that he would be the greatest tennis player that ever lived - better than his father, than Nadal, Federer, and Agassi. He didn't have off-time for recreational travel. When he wasn't playing tournaments, he was training for them. He always returned to New York, the place of his birth. It wasn't Japan, but he felt a certain affinity for the city. It was a place to be alone, and Ryoma had always been a loner.
He left the window and its city lights and walked over to the bed, letting himself fall backwards, flopping onto the mattress. Karupin took great exception to this disturbance and jumped off the bed to scamper elsewhere in the apartment. That was fine with Ryoma - he didn't use most of the apartment anyway. When he was home, he spent most of his time in his bedroom sleeping, watching television, reading. He even ate in there. The remote was in easy reach, but he really didn't want to watch anything at the moment. He stared up at the smooth white ceiling and thought of his adolescence, of Japan, of his team. Tezuka-buchou's silent way of demanding more from him. Fuji-sempai's smiling challenge. Oishi-sempai's gentle encouragement. Kikumaru-sempai's exuberant cheerleading. Kaidoh-sempai's silent faith. Inui-sempai's close inspection. But mostly he remembered Momo-sempai's cocky grin. His headlocks and annoying noogies. The tacit communication that passed between them before matches: a smile and a smirk - "Kick his ass." "You know I will."
Momo had encouraged him to go out and challenge the world once when they'd only been in middle school and again in high school. Tears weren't involved the second time, but there had been a warmth that had drawn him to Momo in that moment. Ryoma closed his eyes and thought about Momo's house at dusk when he'd gone over to tell him the news that he'd be playing in the US Open again. They'd sat on the back porch and drunk ramune. Momo was uncharacteristically quiet - none of the histrionics of their junior high years. He took a long time to say that he knew Ryoma would show the world what a great player he was, and that he'd be waiting for Ryoma's return. Laying on his bed with his eyes closed, Ryoma could almost feel the warmth of that embrace that was so frequent and familiar once. He let the comfort of the mattress over take him, let himself doze and filter through the flashes of memories. The talks and games and meals and contests, they got him through the days when he didn't feel like getting up for practice. His favorite place to remember was Momo's porch, the orange sunset and warm hand on his shoulder. It was something for him to return to - something he could carry with him no matter where he was playing. It gave him the strength to improve - the strength to win.
Cars raced by on the streets below, but Ryoma was sheltered from their noise in his sky-rise apartment. The outside world was muffled into the background, letting Ryoma stay in Japan for a little while longer. He had no clocks that would mark the passing seconds as he enjoyed the way Momo's smile softened his eyes.
The mattress shifted as Karupin jumped onto the bed and Momo's porch was gone. Ryoma was staring at his ceiling again, and his cat was meowing his hunger. He rolled onto his side and grabbed his cellphone off his night-stand to check the time - past time to feed Karu. He leaned reluctantly and put the phone back where he'd gotten it - where he always kept it in case of phone calls from the other side of the world at bizarre hours of the day. He sat and slid off the bed in one motion. "I hear you, Karupin. You can lay off. I'll feed you." His voice always sounded strange in his apartment that so rarely heard any conversation.
The marble floor was cold and the hall was dark as he navigated into the living room, past its lush furnishings that were mostly for show, and then into the kitchen, large and largely unused. His pantry was pathetically empty; not even any cat food. He needed to go to the store. There was always one open, even at this time of night, but he didn't feel like going out. So, he went to the fridge and snagged a box of takeout off the top shelf. He emptied half of the lo mein into a bowl that he set on the floor, and grabbed a set of chopsticks from a drawer. Ryoma leaned against the counter and watched his cat eat Chinese while he picked through his own noodles. He'd left his phone on the bedside table. It never rang anyway. He hadn't received middle-of-the-night calls since his first trip to the United States during junior high.
His cat looked up at him from his empty bowl, and Ryoma dumped the rest of the noodles into it. He knew that Chinese take out wasn't exactly the nutritional ideal for cats, but Karupin liked it. He tossed the empty carton in the trash and his chopsticks in the sink. He stared at the dark tile of the back splash; the only sound in the kitchen was the occasional scrape of Karupin's bowl on the floor.
The emptiness of the apartment always closed in on him in the quiet, and that emptiness made him remember.
There hadn't been any porch at sunset. There hadn't been any warm hand on his shoulder. No embrace. No soft smile. No request for him to return. He hadn't even gone to tell Momo he was leaving. He hadn't been able. Momo had found out with everyone else at practice the day before he left. Cheering all around. General confidence that he'd do well had been the tone of conversation. Momo hadn't pretended to be fine with it, like he once had. He was fine with it. He hadn't chased Ryoma down after practice for any final private farewells.
Ryoma hadn't returned to Japan because he didn't have anyone to return to.
He picked the empty bowl up off the floor and placed it in the sink with his chopsticks to be put in the dishwasher later. His fingers flicked off the light as he left the kitchen, and he made his way back through his dark apartment. His feet were cold.
He climbed back into his bed. It was warmer; warm with dreamt memories that were so much better than the silence above the roar of the city streets. In his bed, he closed his eyes, wrapped himself in his blanket, and let himself be wrapped in a memory that never happened but kept him warm when his apartment was cold.
His apartment was always cold.
*****
Six US Open titles. Four Wimbledon. Four Australian Open. Two Roland Garros. Twice winner of calender-year Grand Slams.
Ryoma was twenty-five.
He'd finally won AIG. Something in his mind had settled after the final set. He planned to retire.
The tournament had only been over for two hours. He'd skipped the scheduled press conference and texted his manager that they'd have a bigger one before he left Japan.
Standing in front of empty courts that he knew so well, Ryoma couldn't help feeling as small as he once had been while playing on those courts. They were a bit more worn than his memories, but time, of course, accounted for that. He closed his eyes and heard the pock of rallying tennis balls and the cheers of the freshman - Horio's voice rising above all the others. Arms wrapped around him from behind, over his shoulders, not quite too tight for him to breathe. A warm, familiar chest against his back. He inhaled deeply the smell of sweat and sunshine. A voice near his ear, "Play a game with me, Echizen." Ryoma opened his eyes and he was alone.
He'd apply for the coaching job at Seishun, there's no way the school would turn him down. He knew Ryuzaki-sensei had retired, but didn't know who'd taken over for her. He didn't bother trying to feel guilty about taking someone's job. His dad had taught him how to be a great tennis player, not a great person.
He set his bag down next to a bench and pulled out a racket and some balls, pocketing all but one. He didn't bother tightening the nets because he knew where they would be, where they lived forever in his memories. Standing at the baseline, he bounced the ball twice, threw it, and swung with his right arm. His twist serve; the shot that made him famous. He walked to the other service square, pulled out another ball, and switched hands. His left arm; the serve that had won him tournaments. He served the other two balls in his pocket, the court comfortingly familiar beneath his feet.
No one knew instinctively to look for him here. No one walked up casually or ran to greet him enthusiastically or called out to him, "Oi, Echizen!" He almost laughed at himself for even thinking about it. Fiction didn't suddenly become reality. Fabrication didn't materialize. He had these courts and their memories, and that was enough.
The sun was setting. He ought to leave. Slow strides that had never learned to have a sense of urgency carried him around the court to collect his balls. Everything made its way into its spot in his tennis bag out of habit. He headed for the train station.
The crush of people in the train reminded him of New York, which always reminded him of Japan. He almost laughed at how circular it all was. His hotel wasn't anything special because he didn't require anything special. But it was in the heart of the city. Karupin wasn't waiting for him in the hotel room. Karupin hadn't been there to greet him for three years. He shucked his shoes by the door - a habit that he hadn't managed to loose in the US - and went to the window. The lights were brighter in Tokyo... or maybe it was just in his head that they were. His socked feet were silent on the carpet as he left the window and went to the bed. He laid down and stared up at the ceiling. His cell phone was still in his bag, and he didn't bother fishing it out.
Ryoma was tired, not just from the match or the tournament. All the tournaments. The ten years he'd been gone. The victories... he could tally them in his head without even thinking about it. Major titles. Great sports achievements. The trophies sat on a shelf in a living room that he didn't use. He largely ignored them. Thinking about them only made him feel more tired. He closed his eyes. It was good to be back in Japan. He didn't have anyone to return to, but he did have memories to bring with him. He felt himself relax into the mattress and remembered cold soda, a warm sunset, and an even warmer smile.