Fanfiction: Fluency
Fanfiction: Fluency
Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Synopsis: There's a reason why Fuji isn't a member of Rikkai.
Genre: General/Squint for ZukaFuji and SanaYuki
Rating: G/PG
Warnings: AU, taking writer's license on the distance between Kanazawa and Kansai, writer is nervous…
Dedication: To my beta, Willow cleverlilwill, the only talking tree I know, no weeping please~ <33
Disclaimer: I neither own the rights to Prince of Tennis, its characters, or its storyline. All rights reserved to Konomi et al.
“Fiyaaahhh!” The ball shot across the net with enough force to leave a sizable dent in the Astroturf.
Jackal’s opponent was a young Rikkai student he’d never seen until he had the courage to stand across the net from him. Yanagi had told him that he had risen within the ranks of the non-regulars and was to be tested. Clearly, someone had seen potential in him.
There were no secret whispers to serve easy or to play down his game. There were no handicaps. Rikkai was not a handicapped team. Rikkai didn’t work that way. And Jackal, like a dutiful team member, followed the rules of Rikkai without question. These thoughts were in his mind as he arched his back again and launched another bullet of a serve.
The Rikkai regulars were sitting on the bleachers, surveying the rather pathetic one-sided match. The boy’s pathetic attempt at bravery would be commended for the simple fact that he didn’t scurry away from Jackal the moment he had approached him. But it wouldn’t be enough to even consider being on the main team. The match was hopeless; the skill levels between them made this a hopeless match for the younger boy.
What was being measured equally, if not more so, were Jackal’s own abilities. Every fault, every slip was recorded by nine pairs of eyes, pressing against his back. A shiver of discomfort rippled through his muscular body, which he squashed the minute he had heard the scratching of Yanagi’s pencil against his clipboard.
Distantly, he could hear the popping noise of Marui’s apple bubblegum, snapping at what Yanagi would calculate to be exactly every two minutes. While his body might be languidly relaxed against the bleachers, the rubber sole of his tennis shoe against the seat in front of him, Jackel knew better. The pops would be the only signs of worry Marui would convey and for good reason. His tennis partner would prefer not to hand him an ice pack for his cheek due to a poor performance.
Fuji’s eyes were vaguely paying attention, Jackal knew. As he changed courts, he glanced toward the yellow-clad team and wasn’t surprised to see blue eyes glazed over, looking but not seeing the match in front of him. It had once annoyed the Latin player that Fuji could have so little interest in any of the matches, especially since he rivaled his own tennis partner for the title “genius”. He had gotten over it when he watched Fuji crush his opponent at the last tournament with little effort. Being valuable to the team was more important than his likes or dislikes. It was what made a team a team, close-knit and compatible. If Fuji continued to help them, he wouldn’t say a word.
Pop.
The return shot was weak against the net of his racket. Weakness was not apart of the Rikkai code of honor.
“Fiyahhhh!”
***
Rikkai had no coach. It had an emperor.
Sanada riffled through the paperwork lying in front of him, a collection of half-finished club notices, forms and slips the school needed to have him red and sign in terms of the club continuing the next year. Next to this stack were the medical papers every team member needed signed by their parent or guardian. Sanada glanced at the top page for a few minutes before turning his attention to the notes Yanagi had written for each of the members from the last inter-team ranking. Fuji's name had been scribbled more than once, with notes that made no sense. It appeared as if Yanagi was having trouble pinpointing the problem of Fuji's playing just as much as Sanada was having trouble squashing it.
He had hit Fuji once and immediately regretted it. The redness on Fuji’s cheek that he knew must sting was returned with a smile. If there was one thing that wouldn’t spurn the chestnut-haired boy, it was punishment. The next day, Fuji continued to play without the energy expected of a Rikkai player. Silent defiance. He could hit Fuji until the boy was covered in bruises and he would probably still get the same result.
He had gone home that night and thought about what to do about Fuji and his lack of proper performance. A few hours in the dojo didn’t clear his mind, nor did any of his schoolwork. Frustrated, he called Yukimura and found peace of mind. He woke up the next morning for practice; calm even with the thought that one team member was not playing the way he should.
Fuji didn’t knock, the only announcement of his entrance being the closing the door behind him. Sanada didn’t motion toward the seat. The other boy seemed to know where he belonged, on the opposite side of the desk from the vice-captain.
Neither of them spoke for a few minutes. Sanada had the good mind to know when someone was sizing him up, though the placid, silvery-blue eyes made it difficult to come to that conclusion. He broke the silence by the ruffle of the pages in front of him.
“Your playing…”
“…is pitiful.” He smiled easily, folding his hands on his knees.
It was the game they played every week since Sanada had been named vice-captain. Personally, Sanada wouldn’t have elected him to be part of the team, but Yukimura’s decision was law. He had seen potential, despite the fact that they had never played a match with each other. The captain had liked Fuji’s playing style, the fluidity of his movements were more natural than pre-calculated. If pushed in the right direction, Fuji could be a worthy asset to the team.
The problem was pushing Fuji meant moving one step forward and three steps back.
Fuji coolly stared back at him, lightly tapping his fingers against his knee. They had reached the point in their conversation (or lack there of) that could mean a turning point or utter defeat. Sanada’s own hands were itching. He longed to strike him down from the non-existent pedestal he knew Fuji didn’t put himself on, which was the problem itself. If he had, he could move him down a few notches, show him the hierarchy, teach him respect from the palm of his hand.
But this wasn’t Akaya, wild and vicious, who needed to be reigned in from time to time. This wasn’t Jackal, who would follow the laws of Rikkai and understood punishment. This wasn’t like any other team member Sanada had ever dealt with, save Yukimura. Even that comparison was faulty; Yukimura had beat him and earned his title. Fuji refused to play him at all.
Fuji was the outlier, untraceable on the team’s demographic, yet he existed and needed to be included.
“See you do something about it.” He tightened his jaw as he watched Fuji nod and take his exit. He’d lost… again.
***
The school nurse had told Yukimura that if he had persisted to play tennis, his illness would worsen. Thus, he wasn’t surprised to find himself bedridden after feeling light-headed. Being confined to his room for a week wouldn’t allow him to lead his team. He would, without a doubt, be on the courts tomorrow. But for today, he would rest.
Yukimura’s eyebrows lifted a little when Fuji came through his bedroom door. They weren’t friends. When they spoke, their conversations were full on intricacies of half-truths and part-statements. He knew Fuji had never felt a sense of true loyalty towards him as a captain. Despite this, the captain knew Fuji understood kindness and compassion. With the threat of the consequences of illness looming over Yukimura’s head, he knew the chestnut-haired boy might even feel a sense of protection toward him.
He had entered (after the softest hint of a knock) in his Rikkai tennis jersey and shorts. It was pressed and cleaned as well, no speck or hint of work and sweat lining it. One might interpret it as him wanting to look presentable for Yukimura, the same way Sanada often did whenever he visited. Yukimura knew better, however. He was wearing his uniform, almost defiantly instead of proudly.
“You just missed the team.” Yukimura began, without words of greeting. He smiled when Fuji caught his eye. The unsaid words were there. Sanada had told them when they were expected to visit Yukimura collectively. As a team. The fact that Fuji hadn’t been there earlier had been a topic the captain sidestepped by talking about his health and about the practice schedule.
“My bus passed me.” He responded, cleverly avoiding the fact that he had let the bus pass him. “I waited for my sister.”
“I was afraid you didn’t want to see me.” Good-naturedly, he sat a little straighter in his bed. The move was subtle, but the message was clear. Bed-ridden or not, he was still the captain and could command that position if he wished. Folding his hands on his lap, he smiled genially. “You look terrible in yellow.”
Fuji returned the smile. “Perhaps I shouldn’t wear it, then.”
“It’s a shame.” Yukimura sighed a little. “But we won’t change the uniform color for one team member.”
“Perhaps I shouldn’t be on the team.”
Yukimura’s smile didn’t waver at this proclamation. He had, after all, been expecting this answer, subtle request to be released. Fuji had legs, he could walk out on the team any time he wished. But Yukimura had the feeling the boy would prefer to gain official permission on his own terms. If Fuji expected him to be offended, by either his Bartleby-like defense towards the captain or his stubbornness in not playing to his potential, he would be in for a rude awakening.
A captain’s job was to lead. This included guidance.
“There are other teams.” Yukimura took pleasure in seeing the spark of shock on Fuji’s face.
***
The Rikkai team was standing on the precipice of history in the making.
There was no way to go through the junior high tennis world without knowing who Tezuka Kunimitsu was. Even Fuji, who had been less than enthusiastic about playing for the past three years, had heard his name. He had never had the pleasure of watching him play live, though Rikkai had a few videos of him playing. But all of those images paled in contrast to seeing him in action, passionately swinging the racket to return each of Atobe’s volleys.
Fuji hadn’t realize that he had walked three steps below Rikkai until Niou put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him from walking farther. At the moment, he had been transfixed by the team’s need to run toward their fallen captain. Blinking, he smiled at Niou before walking back to his place between Yukimura and Sanada.
His eyes narrowed at the outcome and the look of peace that crossed Tezuka’s face.
He felt the wind on his cheek but didn’t acknowledge it.
***
Fuji wasn’t there when Yukimura collapsed.
***
Fuji stood next to his captain as he watched his former team line up across from each other. It had been months since he'd seen the other team. The match between himself and Kirihara that day was enough to show that his betrayal against the team hadn't been forgiven. All of them stared back at him with varying signs of incredulity. He had a feeling that if the net weren’t between them, insults would have been launched. But under the glare of Sanada, the members tightened their lips around words and swallowed them.
The only one who had given him some feeling of warmth across the net was Niou, who's mouth formed the word "Puri~" He retaliated by placing a hand to his hip in what could have been a taunt. Niou got the hint.
Sanada folded his arms, watching Fuji follow Tezuka dutifully off the courts and into the stands. "A traitor."
"Perhaps." A small smile played on his lips. "But has there ever been a time when there was more of a balance within our team?"
For a few moments, Sanada had been confused by Yukimura's question. Balance, zen, tao, all words that he was familiar with coming from his family dojo. The emperor had to admit that without the presence of "the other tensai", as Marui lovingly had labeled Fuji, there was less tension between members. Of course, the general fear of punishment was there, as it should be, but with the lack of passive-aggressive defiance from the chestnut-haired man, there was more unity with the tennis team. Fuji had been their error, their cause of destruction, despite his ability to do everything as asked.
Instead of answering Yukimura, he made a comment of his own. "Tezuka can have him, then."
Tezuka was staring out into the courts, mentally preparing himself for the matches to come. After a small chat with Kawamura and Eiji over the line-up, Fuji slipped into place next to Tezuka silently. To those that didn't know Fuji or the signs to look for, his face would relay a mask of smiles. But Yukimura knew differently. He saw the slight slip as Fuji's eyes parted just enough for his silvery blue eyes to be noticeable through his eyelashes. Yukimura had almost thought Tezuka wouldn't respond, but he did. It was slight; just a quick glance downwards from the corner of his eye, but there was no denying that it had happened. Seconds later, Fuji was back to his mask and Tezuka back to his concentration.
They were communicating something to each other and Yukimura was pleased to note that he couldn’t find the words. It wasn't his conversation to know.
Wistfully, the smile broke out a little wider on the Rikkai captain's face, mirroring his former team mate's. "I'm sure he does."
***
Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Synopsis: There's a reason why Fuji isn't a member of Rikkai.
Genre: General/Squint for ZukaFuji and SanaYuki
Rating: G/PG
Warnings: AU, taking writer's license on the distance between Kanazawa and Kansai, writer is nervous…
Dedication: To my beta, Willow cleverlilwill, the only talking tree I know, no weeping please~ <33
Disclaimer: I neither own the rights to Prince of Tennis, its characters, or its storyline. All rights reserved to Konomi et al.
“Fiyaaahhh!” The ball shot across the net with enough force to leave a sizable dent in the Astroturf.
Jackal’s opponent was a young Rikkai student he’d never seen until he had the courage to stand across the net from him. Yanagi had told him that he had risen within the ranks of the non-regulars and was to be tested. Clearly, someone had seen potential in him.
There were no secret whispers to serve easy or to play down his game. There were no handicaps. Rikkai was not a handicapped team. Rikkai didn’t work that way. And Jackal, like a dutiful team member, followed the rules of Rikkai without question. These thoughts were in his mind as he arched his back again and launched another bullet of a serve.
The Rikkai regulars were sitting on the bleachers, surveying the rather pathetic one-sided match. The boy’s pathetic attempt at bravery would be commended for the simple fact that he didn’t scurry away from Jackal the moment he had approached him. But it wouldn’t be enough to even consider being on the main team. The match was hopeless; the skill levels between them made this a hopeless match for the younger boy.
What was being measured equally, if not more so, were Jackal’s own abilities. Every fault, every slip was recorded by nine pairs of eyes, pressing against his back. A shiver of discomfort rippled through his muscular body, which he squashed the minute he had heard the scratching of Yanagi’s pencil against his clipboard.
Distantly, he could hear the popping noise of Marui’s apple bubblegum, snapping at what Yanagi would calculate to be exactly every two minutes. While his body might be languidly relaxed against the bleachers, the rubber sole of his tennis shoe against the seat in front of him, Jackel knew better. The pops would be the only signs of worry Marui would convey and for good reason. His tennis partner would prefer not to hand him an ice pack for his cheek due to a poor performance.
Fuji’s eyes were vaguely paying attention, Jackal knew. As he changed courts, he glanced toward the yellow-clad team and wasn’t surprised to see blue eyes glazed over, looking but not seeing the match in front of him. It had once annoyed the Latin player that Fuji could have so little interest in any of the matches, especially since he rivaled his own tennis partner for the title “genius”. He had gotten over it when he watched Fuji crush his opponent at the last tournament with little effort. Being valuable to the team was more important than his likes or dislikes. It was what made a team a team, close-knit and compatible. If Fuji continued to help them, he wouldn’t say a word.
Pop.
The return shot was weak against the net of his racket. Weakness was not apart of the Rikkai code of honor.
“Fiyahhhh!”
***
Rikkai had no coach. It had an emperor.
Sanada riffled through the paperwork lying in front of him, a collection of half-finished club notices, forms and slips the school needed to have him red and sign in terms of the club continuing the next year. Next to this stack were the medical papers every team member needed signed by their parent or guardian. Sanada glanced at the top page for a few minutes before turning his attention to the notes Yanagi had written for each of the members from the last inter-team ranking. Fuji's name had been scribbled more than once, with notes that made no sense. It appeared as if Yanagi was having trouble pinpointing the problem of Fuji's playing just as much as Sanada was having trouble squashing it.
He had hit Fuji once and immediately regretted it. The redness on Fuji’s cheek that he knew must sting was returned with a smile. If there was one thing that wouldn’t spurn the chestnut-haired boy, it was punishment. The next day, Fuji continued to play without the energy expected of a Rikkai player. Silent defiance. He could hit Fuji until the boy was covered in bruises and he would probably still get the same result.
He had gone home that night and thought about what to do about Fuji and his lack of proper performance. A few hours in the dojo didn’t clear his mind, nor did any of his schoolwork. Frustrated, he called Yukimura and found peace of mind. He woke up the next morning for practice; calm even with the thought that one team member was not playing the way he should.
Fuji didn’t knock, the only announcement of his entrance being the closing the door behind him. Sanada didn’t motion toward the seat. The other boy seemed to know where he belonged, on the opposite side of the desk from the vice-captain.
Neither of them spoke for a few minutes. Sanada had the good mind to know when someone was sizing him up, though the placid, silvery-blue eyes made it difficult to come to that conclusion. He broke the silence by the ruffle of the pages in front of him.
“Your playing…”
“…is pitiful.” He smiled easily, folding his hands on his knees.
It was the game they played every week since Sanada had been named vice-captain. Personally, Sanada wouldn’t have elected him to be part of the team, but Yukimura’s decision was law. He had seen potential, despite the fact that they had never played a match with each other. The captain had liked Fuji’s playing style, the fluidity of his movements were more natural than pre-calculated. If pushed in the right direction, Fuji could be a worthy asset to the team.
The problem was pushing Fuji meant moving one step forward and three steps back.
Fuji coolly stared back at him, lightly tapping his fingers against his knee. They had reached the point in their conversation (or lack there of) that could mean a turning point or utter defeat. Sanada’s own hands were itching. He longed to strike him down from the non-existent pedestal he knew Fuji didn’t put himself on, which was the problem itself. If he had, he could move him down a few notches, show him the hierarchy, teach him respect from the palm of his hand.
But this wasn’t Akaya, wild and vicious, who needed to be reigned in from time to time. This wasn’t Jackal, who would follow the laws of Rikkai and understood punishment. This wasn’t like any other team member Sanada had ever dealt with, save Yukimura. Even that comparison was faulty; Yukimura had beat him and earned his title. Fuji refused to play him at all.
Fuji was the outlier, untraceable on the team’s demographic, yet he existed and needed to be included.
“See you do something about it.” He tightened his jaw as he watched Fuji nod and take his exit. He’d lost… again.
***
The school nurse had told Yukimura that if he had persisted to play tennis, his illness would worsen. Thus, he wasn’t surprised to find himself bedridden after feeling light-headed. Being confined to his room for a week wouldn’t allow him to lead his team. He would, without a doubt, be on the courts tomorrow. But for today, he would rest.
Yukimura’s eyebrows lifted a little when Fuji came through his bedroom door. They weren’t friends. When they spoke, their conversations were full on intricacies of half-truths and part-statements. He knew Fuji had never felt a sense of true loyalty towards him as a captain. Despite this, the captain knew Fuji understood kindness and compassion. With the threat of the consequences of illness looming over Yukimura’s head, he knew the chestnut-haired boy might even feel a sense of protection toward him.
He had entered (after the softest hint of a knock) in his Rikkai tennis jersey and shorts. It was pressed and cleaned as well, no speck or hint of work and sweat lining it. One might interpret it as him wanting to look presentable for Yukimura, the same way Sanada often did whenever he visited. Yukimura knew better, however. He was wearing his uniform, almost defiantly instead of proudly.
“You just missed the team.” Yukimura began, without words of greeting. He smiled when Fuji caught his eye. The unsaid words were there. Sanada had told them when they were expected to visit Yukimura collectively. As a team. The fact that Fuji hadn’t been there earlier had been a topic the captain sidestepped by talking about his health and about the practice schedule.
“My bus passed me.” He responded, cleverly avoiding the fact that he had let the bus pass him. “I waited for my sister.”
“I was afraid you didn’t want to see me.” Good-naturedly, he sat a little straighter in his bed. The move was subtle, but the message was clear. Bed-ridden or not, he was still the captain and could command that position if he wished. Folding his hands on his lap, he smiled genially. “You look terrible in yellow.”
Fuji returned the smile. “Perhaps I shouldn’t wear it, then.”
“It’s a shame.” Yukimura sighed a little. “But we won’t change the uniform color for one team member.”
“Perhaps I shouldn’t be on the team.”
Yukimura’s smile didn’t waver at this proclamation. He had, after all, been expecting this answer, subtle request to be released. Fuji had legs, he could walk out on the team any time he wished. But Yukimura had the feeling the boy would prefer to gain official permission on his own terms. If Fuji expected him to be offended, by either his Bartleby-like defense towards the captain or his stubbornness in not playing to his potential, he would be in for a rude awakening.
A captain’s job was to lead. This included guidance.
“There are other teams.” Yukimura took pleasure in seeing the spark of shock on Fuji’s face.
***
The Rikkai team was standing on the precipice of history in the making.
There was no way to go through the junior high tennis world without knowing who Tezuka Kunimitsu was. Even Fuji, who had been less than enthusiastic about playing for the past three years, had heard his name. He had never had the pleasure of watching him play live, though Rikkai had a few videos of him playing. But all of those images paled in contrast to seeing him in action, passionately swinging the racket to return each of Atobe’s volleys.
Fuji hadn’t realize that he had walked three steps below Rikkai until Niou put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him from walking farther. At the moment, he had been transfixed by the team’s need to run toward their fallen captain. Blinking, he smiled at Niou before walking back to his place between Yukimura and Sanada.
His eyes narrowed at the outcome and the look of peace that crossed Tezuka’s face.
He felt the wind on his cheek but didn’t acknowledge it.
***
Fuji wasn’t there when Yukimura collapsed.
***
Fuji stood next to his captain as he watched his former team line up across from each other. It had been months since he'd seen the other team. The match between himself and Kirihara that day was enough to show that his betrayal against the team hadn't been forgiven. All of them stared back at him with varying signs of incredulity. He had a feeling that if the net weren’t between them, insults would have been launched. But under the glare of Sanada, the members tightened their lips around words and swallowed them.
The only one who had given him some feeling of warmth across the net was Niou, who's mouth formed the word "Puri~" He retaliated by placing a hand to his hip in what could have been a taunt. Niou got the hint.
Sanada folded his arms, watching Fuji follow Tezuka dutifully off the courts and into the stands. "A traitor."
"Perhaps." A small smile played on his lips. "But has there ever been a time when there was more of a balance within our team?"
For a few moments, Sanada had been confused by Yukimura's question. Balance, zen, tao, all words that he was familiar with coming from his family dojo. The emperor had to admit that without the presence of "the other tensai", as Marui lovingly had labeled Fuji, there was less tension between members. Of course, the general fear of punishment was there, as it should be, but with the lack of passive-aggressive defiance from the chestnut-haired man, there was more unity with the tennis team. Fuji had been their error, their cause of destruction, despite his ability to do everything as asked.
Instead of answering Yukimura, he made a comment of his own. "Tezuka can have him, then."
Tezuka was staring out into the courts, mentally preparing himself for the matches to come. After a small chat with Kawamura and Eiji over the line-up, Fuji slipped into place next to Tezuka silently. To those that didn't know Fuji or the signs to look for, his face would relay a mask of smiles. But Yukimura knew differently. He saw the slight slip as Fuji's eyes parted just enough for his silvery blue eyes to be noticeable through his eyelashes. Yukimura had almost thought Tezuka wouldn't respond, but he did. It was slight; just a quick glance downwards from the corner of his eye, but there was no denying that it had happened. Seconds later, Fuji was back to his mask and Tezuka back to his concentration.
They were communicating something to each other and Yukimura was pleased to note that he couldn’t find the words. It wasn't his conversation to know.
Wistfully, the smile broke out a little wider on the Rikkai captain's face, mirroring his former team mate's. "I'm sure he does."
***