(no subject)
Title: Never-Say-Die
Fandom: Prince of Tennis.
Featuring: SanaYu.
Genre: Drama.
Words: ~ 300.
Rating: G.
Warnings: Serious introspect; a little grave, even.
Notes: This was supposed to be AtoJi. ... Do you see Atobe or Jirou's name in there at all? Yeah, I didn't think so. Sanada took this over, just like he took over my icon-making time, my font on AIM, and my TeniPuri playlist. The man's an absolute bulldozer, I swear.
Sanada knew all too well how people looked at him. There was a reason, after all, that he was so careful with his image, his reputation. He knew that his teammates looked up to him, depended on him to some extent - but they could stand on their own, because if they couldn't, they wouldn't be good enough for him. He knew that the teachers and coaches and parents cast appraising eyes on him; they anticipated much, expected more and demanded less than he gave. He knew that rival tennis players gazed ahead to him, worked to measure up to him, and saw him as a goal, a challenge. On the whole, he knew himself to be respected, admired, and even feared.
As such, he found himself hard-pressed to admit, at times, that there were people whom he respected and admired in turn. (Never feared; Sanada Gen'ichirou knew little of fear when so much of his world was under firm control. It was only the uncontrollable that struck terror into him - death and dying, the only kind of loss that he couldn't train to overcome.)
He looked forever admiringly, sometimes longingly, sometimes searchingly at Yukimura Seiichi, a boy so steeled with determination and sheer willpower that he was essentially invincible. There wasn't an opponent Yukimura had come up against that he'd failed to defeat, on or off the courts, and it filled Sanada with a heart-wrenching pride and concern when such a person reached out for him and his support at his weakest moments. It would take forever for Sanada to understand how someone so strong could need him so much; Yukimura's worst was ten times Sanada's best. But though his hands would sometimes tremble as he smoothed a careful thumb over an elegant, pale cheekbone, he would never question it.
Fandom: Prince of Tennis.
Featuring: SanaYu.
Genre: Drama.
Words: ~ 300.
Rating: G.
Warnings: Serious introspect; a little grave, even.
Notes: This was supposed to be AtoJi. ... Do you see Atobe or Jirou's name in there at all? Yeah, I didn't think so. Sanada took this over, just like he took over my icon-making time, my font on AIM, and my TeniPuri playlist. The man's an absolute bulldozer, I swear.
Sanada knew all too well how people looked at him. There was a reason, after all, that he was so careful with his image, his reputation. He knew that his teammates looked up to him, depended on him to some extent - but they could stand on their own, because if they couldn't, they wouldn't be good enough for him. He knew that the teachers and coaches and parents cast appraising eyes on him; they anticipated much, expected more and demanded less than he gave. He knew that rival tennis players gazed ahead to him, worked to measure up to him, and saw him as a goal, a challenge. On the whole, he knew himself to be respected, admired, and even feared.
As such, he found himself hard-pressed to admit, at times, that there were people whom he respected and admired in turn. (Never feared; Sanada Gen'ichirou knew little of fear when so much of his world was under firm control. It was only the uncontrollable that struck terror into him - death and dying, the only kind of loss that he couldn't train to overcome.)
He looked forever admiringly, sometimes longingly, sometimes searchingly at Yukimura Seiichi, a boy so steeled with determination and sheer willpower that he was essentially invincible. There wasn't an opponent Yukimura had come up against that he'd failed to defeat, on or off the courts, and it filled Sanada with a heart-wrenching pride and concern when such a person reached out for him and his support at his weakest moments. It would take forever for Sanada to understand how someone so strong could need him so much; Yukimura's worst was ten times Sanada's best. But though his hands would sometimes tremble as he smoothed a careful thumb over an elegant, pale cheekbone, he would never question it.