[fic] Prince of Tennis: AU: Come Back
Title: Come Back
Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Rating: PG (language)
Spoilers: for the anime up to episode 65, manga up to vol 18 (same incident)
Warnings: AU, set in the future. Slight pairing hinted at, but mostly a general story about one of the characters.
Notes: Whee, my first PoT story. I was uploading the manga for someone and the image of the first few paragraphs wouldn't leave me alone. So I started writing it and the rest wouldn't leave me alone. I hope the guys are in character. I don't know one of them that well, but this is how he strikes me.
A cold November breeze blew across the courts, scattering sand and long dead pieces of leaves and grass in its path. No one had cleaned here in ages. The net was up, but sagged a bit, needing to be tightened. There were backboards along one fence, pale and cracked from exposure to the elements.
He felt like this court.
The waves from the ocean were faint in the background. Gulls were crying out to each other as they fought over scraps on the empty beach. Even though there was a flock of them, they sounded lonely to him.
He walked along the outside of the fence, trailing his hand along it, letting it bump from rung to rung of wire. Crowds were cheering faintly, calling his name. He blinked, and heard only the gulls again. He shook his head, annoyed at himself.
The wind blew harder now, chilling him through his thin jacket. His arm ached. It always did now, in the cold. He clenched his fist, a spike of pain shooting through him at that simple action.
The courts wavered for a moment, turning the reddish-orange of clay. The color of that last match, at the French Open.
He blinked. They were gray old asphalt again.
He'd gone to France after a bruising victory in the Australian Open. They hadn't faced each other in Australia.
But Echizen had been there, his first time in the tournament. His face cracked in a rare smile, remembering the first time he'd seen him, a young boy swallowed by his hat. He'd beat him to take the first Grand Slam title, but it had taken everything. He'd thought four months would be enough time to recover for the French Open.
Maybe it was. Maybe nothing would have prepared him for that last match.
A match destined to be remembered as the greatest of their rivalry. Six and a half hours long. Every point fought for. No quarter given. It had been too much. They couldn't fix him again. It had been one time too many.
He hadn't been near a tennis court since. He watched, a little, on television. The men's finals at Wimbledon, Atobe winning easily. The US Open finals, where he took some small measure of revenge at Echizen's stunning defeat of the other man in straight sets, Echizen clearly saying before the last point that the victory was for his former captain.
No Echizen. Your victories are for everyone.
The rusted gate shrieked as he opened it and walked through to the bare court. Pain knifed through him again, though this time the cause wasn't physical. The dry asphalt rasped under his loafers as he walked up to the net. He stood there, looking across to the other side.
The ache in his heart grew at the memory of the familiar face, black hair tousled around it, fire in his eyes, determined to win each time. Determination as great as his own. They had proven their worth to each other time and again across such nets.
What was he worth now?
The wind whipped his jacket around him. He felt he should get out of it, but wasn't really sure why. He should head for shelter, but didn't know where to find it. The path he had taken to get here couldn't be retraced.
He'd come here for rest. Recuperation. Time to get his head together. Time to find himself. All that he'd found was a lack. A hole. One that was swallowing him.
His whole life had been tennis. What was he to do now? Teach? That was everyone's suggestion. Didn't they have any idea what kind of pain that would cause, day after day, to be reminded that he could no longer compete?
He heard a car pull up outside the courts, the gravel cracking under its weight. He turned his head, brown hair tossed behind his glasses by the wind, making it impossible to see. He shoved his hand through it, holding it back.
A familiar red Porsche sat outside the fence. His parents must have spilled his location. The door cracked open and a man's tall, muscular body rose out of the opposite door. He then turned to rest his arms on the roof, and then his chin on his arm. A single finger pulled his black sunglasses down to the end of his nose, then they just stared at each other for a few minutes.
"I was in the neighborhood..."
Tezuka raised an eyebrow at the silly excuse.
"Your parents asked me to drop off a package?"
He snorted a little and turned back to the court. "Do you remember it as vividly as I do?"
Footsteps approached. "Which one?"
"Huh?"
"Which match? I remember all of the ones with you vividly. The most vivid, I think, is the first. When you first showed your true self to me. You were perfect that day."
"Not perfect enough to win."
"You know that never mattered between us. One will always lose in tennis. What mattered was the way we drove each other to play our best, and then surpass it."
He reflected for a moment, match after match flashing before him.
He nodded. "That's true. Others may have been better players, but with you I played my best."
"Speak for yourself. No one is better than me."
A sly look sideways. "Even Echizen?"
A disgusted look back. "I should have known you'd be watching that. I was distracted. He has potential."
"Hah. In a year or two, he'll be unbeatable."
"Not if you help me."
He turned, startled, to face his opponent.
"What are you doing these days? Any plans? Gonna stick around here and sweep this court once in a while? Gonna teach spoiled rich kids how to swing a racket? Maybe move up to middle school eventually?"
His eyes narrowed. "Fuck you, Atobe."
"Good. Get angry. From what I've heard you haven't felt an honest emotion since you came off the court in June. What have you got to lose, Tezuka?"
Pain spun him around so he didn't have to face him. What do I have?
"You're acting like you have nothing. You know what the song says. That means you've got nothing to lose."
He clenched his fists, making the physical pain overpower the emotional. "It also means I have nothing to offer you."
"I just told you what you offer me. You make me play tennis better than anyone on earth. Do you think it's because you're good? It's not. Not just that. It started out that way in our first match. Until I saw you for what you are. Until I saw your spirit. It's never been just skill since then. You could be facing me in a wheelchair and I'd be driven to play my best. Because you won't allow anything less. You showed me that by example, that first match, when you got up and played, again and again, in agonizing pain. And in every match since. You never let me rest. You're always pushing, even when it meant the sacrifice of your arm."
Hands gently turned him around. "Tezuka. Kunimitsu. I need you. We're tied too closely together, you and I. If you give up..."
He took the hands from his arms. They disturbed him. He liked them there too much. He searched the eyes in front of him. "You don't need me. That was just a dream you were chasing. You push yourself, Atobe, without any help from me."
Atobe stood there, fight in his eyes. He walked back to his car and returned with two rackets. "Play me."
"What? Here? How?"
"You know. Hit the ball. I hit the ball back. Then you hit the ball again..."
"Smart-ass. I can't play anymore, and right-handed I'm barely good enough to beat amateurs."
"So what? Play me, right-handed. Don’t worry. I'll stoop to your level so the set lasts more than, oh, 10 minutes."
"Will you. Will you really." His voice seethed with an anger he hadn't heard in it in months.
He could barely hold the ball in his left hand. He hadn't exercised seriously since August. He played with all he had. He couldn't do anything else.
The game was over with inside half an hour.
Atobe jumped over the net. "You suck, Tezuka."
He was bent in half, trying to catch his breath. "I know that!" he snarled. "Is that what you call going easy on someone? Jesus. You were playing at the top of your form. Except in the third game. What the hell were you thinking?"
"I was trying something new. Something that came to me while playing Echizen. What did you think of it?"
"I think that if I could score a point off you, then it's not working."
Atobe laughed. "I need to work on it. You could help me." He bent down so his head was near Tezuka's. There was concern in his eyes. "How do you feel? Are you alright?"
Tezuka stood up abruptly, still snarling. "I'm not an old man. I'm just out of shape. If I'd been exercising you wouldn't have had such an easy time."
Atobe smiled. "No. I wouldn't have, would I?"
"Damn you. You damned interfering amateur psychologist bastard."
He looked at the racket in his hand. "I feel like Kawamura. Holding this makes me want to kick your ass."
He hadn't felt this alive in months. He was honest enough with himself to admit why. He had to play. And he had to play this man. It didn't matter if he lost for the next thousands games. He was going to win the 1001st.
He looked back up at Atobe, who was looking at him expectantly. Knowingly. It pissed him off even more. "Fine. I'll work with you. But if I ever catch you going easy on me, I'm walking. Understand?"
Atobe grinned. "Got it. Now what do you say to going out to dinner with me? How about a date?"
Tezuka stared flatly. "I'm your coach? Well, you're in training. No eating out."
Atobe's eyes narrowed.
Tezuka strolled back across the court to the gate, calling back over his shoulder, "You need a healthy diet. I'm going to phone Inui."
Atobe's eyes widened in fear.
Tezuka walked the rest of the way to the Porsche and opened the door, tossing the racket inside. "And you have to restrict excess use of energy. Call your girlfriends and tell them goodbye. No sex until you beat Echizen."
Tezuka got into the car and smugly closed the door.
Atobe stood on the courts, a smile playing on his lips. Girlfriends, huh? Have you really been so blind? Well I'll give you the first one. And I'll even drink Inui's potions. But we'll be discussing that last in the near future. And that's one match I'll win, Tezuka.
He tossed a tennis ball up into the air, and lobbed it long and high over the fence into the ocean. Gulls scattered, shrieking at him.
"That's right. Scream and fight." He laughed. "That just means you're alive."
He rested the racket on his shoulder and headed back to the car, still laughing, watching the man in the passenger seat glare at him. Life was looking up.
~end~
Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Rating: PG (language)
Spoilers: for the anime up to episode 65, manga up to vol 18 (same incident)
Warnings: AU, set in the future. Slight pairing hinted at, but mostly a general story about one of the characters.
Notes: Whee, my first PoT story. I was uploading the manga for someone and the image of the first few paragraphs wouldn't leave me alone. So I started writing it and the rest wouldn't leave me alone. I hope the guys are in character. I don't know one of them that well, but this is how he strikes me.
A cold November breeze blew across the courts, scattering sand and long dead pieces of leaves and grass in its path. No one had cleaned here in ages. The net was up, but sagged a bit, needing to be tightened. There were backboards along one fence, pale and cracked from exposure to the elements.
He felt like this court.
The waves from the ocean were faint in the background. Gulls were crying out to each other as they fought over scraps on the empty beach. Even though there was a flock of them, they sounded lonely to him.
He walked along the outside of the fence, trailing his hand along it, letting it bump from rung to rung of wire. Crowds were cheering faintly, calling his name. He blinked, and heard only the gulls again. He shook his head, annoyed at himself.
The wind blew harder now, chilling him through his thin jacket. His arm ached. It always did now, in the cold. He clenched his fist, a spike of pain shooting through him at that simple action.
The courts wavered for a moment, turning the reddish-orange of clay. The color of that last match, at the French Open.
He blinked. They were gray old asphalt again.
He'd gone to France after a bruising victory in the Australian Open. They hadn't faced each other in Australia.
But Echizen had been there, his first time in the tournament. His face cracked in a rare smile, remembering the first time he'd seen him, a young boy swallowed by his hat. He'd beat him to take the first Grand Slam title, but it had taken everything. He'd thought four months would be enough time to recover for the French Open.
Maybe it was. Maybe nothing would have prepared him for that last match.
A match destined to be remembered as the greatest of their rivalry. Six and a half hours long. Every point fought for. No quarter given. It had been too much. They couldn't fix him again. It had been one time too many.
He hadn't been near a tennis court since. He watched, a little, on television. The men's finals at Wimbledon, Atobe winning easily. The US Open finals, where he took some small measure of revenge at Echizen's stunning defeat of the other man in straight sets, Echizen clearly saying before the last point that the victory was for his former captain.
No Echizen. Your victories are for everyone.
The rusted gate shrieked as he opened it and walked through to the bare court. Pain knifed through him again, though this time the cause wasn't physical. The dry asphalt rasped under his loafers as he walked up to the net. He stood there, looking across to the other side.
The ache in his heart grew at the memory of the familiar face, black hair tousled around it, fire in his eyes, determined to win each time. Determination as great as his own. They had proven their worth to each other time and again across such nets.
What was he worth now?
The wind whipped his jacket around him. He felt he should get out of it, but wasn't really sure why. He should head for shelter, but didn't know where to find it. The path he had taken to get here couldn't be retraced.
He'd come here for rest. Recuperation. Time to get his head together. Time to find himself. All that he'd found was a lack. A hole. One that was swallowing him.
His whole life had been tennis. What was he to do now? Teach? That was everyone's suggestion. Didn't they have any idea what kind of pain that would cause, day after day, to be reminded that he could no longer compete?
He heard a car pull up outside the courts, the gravel cracking under its weight. He turned his head, brown hair tossed behind his glasses by the wind, making it impossible to see. He shoved his hand through it, holding it back.
A familiar red Porsche sat outside the fence. His parents must have spilled his location. The door cracked open and a man's tall, muscular body rose out of the opposite door. He then turned to rest his arms on the roof, and then his chin on his arm. A single finger pulled his black sunglasses down to the end of his nose, then they just stared at each other for a few minutes.
"I was in the neighborhood..."
Tezuka raised an eyebrow at the silly excuse.
"Your parents asked me to drop off a package?"
He snorted a little and turned back to the court. "Do you remember it as vividly as I do?"
Footsteps approached. "Which one?"
"Huh?"
"Which match? I remember all of the ones with you vividly. The most vivid, I think, is the first. When you first showed your true self to me. You were perfect that day."
"Not perfect enough to win."
"You know that never mattered between us. One will always lose in tennis. What mattered was the way we drove each other to play our best, and then surpass it."
He reflected for a moment, match after match flashing before him.
He nodded. "That's true. Others may have been better players, but with you I played my best."
"Speak for yourself. No one is better than me."
A sly look sideways. "Even Echizen?"
A disgusted look back. "I should have known you'd be watching that. I was distracted. He has potential."
"Hah. In a year or two, he'll be unbeatable."
"Not if you help me."
He turned, startled, to face his opponent.
"What are you doing these days? Any plans? Gonna stick around here and sweep this court once in a while? Gonna teach spoiled rich kids how to swing a racket? Maybe move up to middle school eventually?"
His eyes narrowed. "Fuck you, Atobe."
"Good. Get angry. From what I've heard you haven't felt an honest emotion since you came off the court in June. What have you got to lose, Tezuka?"
Pain spun him around so he didn't have to face him. What do I have?
"You're acting like you have nothing. You know what the song says. That means you've got nothing to lose."
He clenched his fists, making the physical pain overpower the emotional. "It also means I have nothing to offer you."
"I just told you what you offer me. You make me play tennis better than anyone on earth. Do you think it's because you're good? It's not. Not just that. It started out that way in our first match. Until I saw you for what you are. Until I saw your spirit. It's never been just skill since then. You could be facing me in a wheelchair and I'd be driven to play my best. Because you won't allow anything less. You showed me that by example, that first match, when you got up and played, again and again, in agonizing pain. And in every match since. You never let me rest. You're always pushing, even when it meant the sacrifice of your arm."
Hands gently turned him around. "Tezuka. Kunimitsu. I need you. We're tied too closely together, you and I. If you give up..."
He took the hands from his arms. They disturbed him. He liked them there too much. He searched the eyes in front of him. "You don't need me. That was just a dream you were chasing. You push yourself, Atobe, without any help from me."
Atobe stood there, fight in his eyes. He walked back to his car and returned with two rackets. "Play me."
"What? Here? How?"
"You know. Hit the ball. I hit the ball back. Then you hit the ball again..."
"Smart-ass. I can't play anymore, and right-handed I'm barely good enough to beat amateurs."
"So what? Play me, right-handed. Don’t worry. I'll stoop to your level so the set lasts more than, oh, 10 minutes."
"Will you. Will you really." His voice seethed with an anger he hadn't heard in it in months.
He could barely hold the ball in his left hand. He hadn't exercised seriously since August. He played with all he had. He couldn't do anything else.
The game was over with inside half an hour.
Atobe jumped over the net. "You suck, Tezuka."
He was bent in half, trying to catch his breath. "I know that!" he snarled. "Is that what you call going easy on someone? Jesus. You were playing at the top of your form. Except in the third game. What the hell were you thinking?"
"I was trying something new. Something that came to me while playing Echizen. What did you think of it?"
"I think that if I could score a point off you, then it's not working."
Atobe laughed. "I need to work on it. You could help me." He bent down so his head was near Tezuka's. There was concern in his eyes. "How do you feel? Are you alright?"
Tezuka stood up abruptly, still snarling. "I'm not an old man. I'm just out of shape. If I'd been exercising you wouldn't have had such an easy time."
Atobe smiled. "No. I wouldn't have, would I?"
"Damn you. You damned interfering amateur psychologist bastard."
He looked at the racket in his hand. "I feel like Kawamura. Holding this makes me want to kick your ass."
He hadn't felt this alive in months. He was honest enough with himself to admit why. He had to play. And he had to play this man. It didn't matter if he lost for the next thousands games. He was going to win the 1001st.
He looked back up at Atobe, who was looking at him expectantly. Knowingly. It pissed him off even more. "Fine. I'll work with you. But if I ever catch you going easy on me, I'm walking. Understand?"
Atobe grinned. "Got it. Now what do you say to going out to dinner with me? How about a date?"
Tezuka stared flatly. "I'm your coach? Well, you're in training. No eating out."
Atobe's eyes narrowed.
Tezuka strolled back across the court to the gate, calling back over his shoulder, "You need a healthy diet. I'm going to phone Inui."
Atobe's eyes widened in fear.
Tezuka walked the rest of the way to the Porsche and opened the door, tossing the racket inside. "And you have to restrict excess use of energy. Call your girlfriends and tell them goodbye. No sex until you beat Echizen."
Tezuka got into the car and smugly closed the door.
Atobe stood on the courts, a smile playing on his lips. Girlfriends, huh? Have you really been so blind? Well I'll give you the first one. And I'll even drink Inui's potions. But we'll be discussing that last in the near future. And that's one match I'll win, Tezuka.
He tossed a tennis ball up into the air, and lobbed it long and high over the fence into the ocean. Gulls scattered, shrieking at him.
"That's right. Scream and fight." He laughed. "That just means you're alive."
He rested the racket on his shoulder and headed back to the car, still laughing, watching the man in the passenger seat glare at him. Life was looking up.
~end~