Atobe Keigo was having a serious problem.

His problem consisted of one Echizen Ryoma. For some bizarre reason that he was still having trouble grasping, Echizen Ryoma was becoming attractive to him. This in itself was a problematic matter. Atobe couldn't focus on anything going on in the tennis camp when the small boy was always next to him.

He smelled nice. He looked nice. He talked nice.

It was becoming an unnecessary distraction.

Whenever he wanted to smooth out court details, Ryoma would sit next to him, determined to be involved. Atobe's typing would stop-midway as he tried to ignore the dark hair tickling his neck and the smell of shower gel drifting to his nose. His concentration would waver when Ryoma tiredly leaned his head against his shoulder for a pillow when it hit the later hours. He would be completely useless when Ryoma fell asleep, unable to stop himself from staring at Ryoma soft skin and long lashes.

Atobe was - simply put – head over heels.

Luckily, Atobe was grasping at straws that kept him sane. He didn't like Ryoma. He didn't want to take him on dates and be his boyfriend or anything. He just thought the boy was attractive. You know, the way people thought celebrities were attractive. It wasn't anything… beyond superficial appearances.

Atobe was certain of this.

Besides, he already had his whole future planned out. He was going to marry a pretty rich girl and they were going to have pretty rich babies together. The girl would be smart, gorgeous, and witty. She would be dark-haired, for sure. Atobe wasn't keen on blondes. She had to be a little on the sassy side, because he didn't want a pushover. Atobe didn't want her to have too many curves either. He wasn't a fan of the big boobs and ass. He preferred the petite women. Of course, now that he was thinking about it, she had to play tennis, and good, too. That was pretty much a given. Oh! And she'd have to be exotic. What was an exotic feature? Hazel eyes… no, gold eyes…

Atobe stopped himself mid-thought, stomach clenching into a knot. Why was he describing a female version of Ryoma?

She had to cook.

Atobe sighed to himself in relief. That was right. His dream girl had to be a fantastic cook. Echizen Ryoma surely sucked at cooking. Speaking of good cooking, the food served at the tennis camp was absolutely delicious. Atobe sat among his teammates (and of course Echizen) with a plate full of exquisitely arranged Chirashi sushi.

It was the third day of the camp, and while Atobe may have been getting tired from all of the excessive tennis workouts, he definitely wasn't missing the food back at his mansion. Even though he got the best food, this was first-class. This was beyond genius-

"Echizen sure has a knack for good food," Oishitari mentioned.

Jiroh crammed more than a few rolls in his mouth. "Mmm! Definitely!"

Atobe arched his brow. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Ootori smiled. "Echizen asked the cook if they could make this sushi today."

Atobe turned to Ryoma, who was chewing quietly beside him. "Explain," Atobe demanded.

Ryoma shrugged. "I made it at home once. I wanted to see how it tasted made professionally."

"WHAT?!" Jiroh cried out. "You can cook!"

"Interesting," Oishitari mumbled.

Ryoma shrugged again, not answering, but the group prodded him until he gave in. "Before my cousin Nanako-san moved in with us, my mother was too busy at work to cook often, and my oyaji couldn't cook if his porn magazines depended on it, so I used to cook a lot." He didn't look too happy about it. "I'm a fast learner, so cooking comes easily." He frowned. "A waste of time though when I could be playing tennis."

"Impressive," Gakuto said grudgingly

Atobe just gaped, heart thudding in his chest. "You can cook?"

Ryoma shot him a derisive glance. "Yes," he said shortly.

Atobe glanced down at his sushi, and gulped.

Echizen Ryoma could cook.

He was officially a goner.

During tennis practice at camp, Atobe tried his best to avoiding look at the person who was now dubbed as his dream girl. Well, Ryoma was a boy, but it was still unnerving that he had all the qualities he looked for in a girl. The cooking wasn't actually important in terms of benefits – he had plenty of cooks in the kitchen, and with his richness, he could eat out every day if he wanted. However, he enjoyed the traditional image of a pretty woman in an apron taking a warm, steaming pie out of the oven.

Sure, maybe it was sexist, but that was the beauty of women. Men just couldn't pull off that apron look the same way. If he imagined Ryoma doing that…

Cute little Ryoma with a pink apron around his waist, greeting him with pie and bright gold eyes. His hair would be mussed, and his cheeks would be flushed from the heat of the oven. He would have that smirk on, like he owned the world…

Atobe swallowed.

On second thought…

Fuck it all!

Atobe was done with this. He liked girls. He definitely liked girls.

He just felt sorry for Ryoma, and his mind was playing tricks on him because he felt bad.

"You're very distracted lately," Shishido commented to Atobe.

Atobe blinked. "Ahn?"

"Distracted," Shishido said again, pointedly. "We should start our practice match."

"Our practice match?"

Shishido gave him a confused look. "The camp counseller told us to start our practice match at Court D."

"He did?" Atobe said, before coughing. "I mean, he did. Of course ore-sama was aware of that. I was just giving time for you to mourn for your coming loss."

Shishido snorted, but kept quiet. The two of them headed over to their assigned court. As Atobe passed the array of fresh grass courts, he noticed Ryoma was playing a game against Ootori. Atobe stared at Ryoma's small form and golden skin, and turned away. He needed to stop this ogling. It was disgraceful for an Atobe to admire with such ferocity.

This action did not go unnoticed by Shishido. "You've been spending a lot of time with the Seigaku kid," he said casually.

Atobe hoped his face wasn't as hot as it felt. "His father requested I take care of him."

"Take care?" Shishido questioned.

"It's a trivial matter," Atobe said briefly, not wanting to get into it. They continued to walk toward the courts, but just as they were reaching a good distance, Atobe couldn't help but look back. Ryoma was in the air, about to do a smash.

He looked impeccable, and Atobe felt a fond grin form on his face.

Shishido grumbled amusedly, "A trivial matter, huh?"

Atobe had come to appreciate his evenings with Ryoma. While most of their conversation during the day consisted of petty arguments, Ryoma always grew tired enough in the evenings to soften up and bring down his walls. He would sit next to Atobe on the bed while Atobe sent e-mails to the lawyer, occasionally mentioning details that would be helpful.

Atobe liked it. He liked the way Ryoma smelled, and the way Ryoma leaned his head against his shoulder for a pillow when sleep got the best of him.

And it was on quiet evenings like this that he, just for a precious moment, allowed the denial coating his mind to fall away.

He enjoyed Ryoma.

"So, are you getting anywhere?" Ryoma asked, leaning over to him to look at the laptop.

Atobe had a blank e-mail file open. Frustration clouded his face. "I'm not getting anywhere. There's no media, no nothing about what happened. Are you sure you don't have any evidence? Can't doctors test you for rape?"

Ryoma looked uncomfortable. "It's too late for that. Obviously they tested it a couple years ago, but the evidence is all cleared." His tone had anger simmering underneath it. "How else do you think he fooled the court? He made sure there were no traces – nothing that could send him back to jail."

"None of the paperwork from when you got tested?"

Ryoma looked tired – not from sleepiness, but from mental drainage. "Not that I know of."

Atobe paused, and there was silence.

"What about witnesses?"

Ryoma looked up. "What?"

"Witnesses." Atobe licked his dry lips. He didn't want to bring it up because he knew it would trigger painful memories for Ryoma. "You know, you were sold… to customers. It wasn't just Kon that you had to do it…you… know…with…" Atobe cringed at his own wording.

Ryoma's hand squeezed at the edge of the blanket. His voice was anxious when he spoke. "What's your point?"

"I was thinking we could find one of your… customers…" Atobe winced again. "And have him give his word at court."

Ryoma took a deep breath, closing his eyes and leaning his head against his pillow. He looked so stressed that all Atobe wanted to do was take him in his arms and let that stress seep away from him. But he couldn't do that. Of course he couldn't. This was Ryoma, and he was Atobe, and they were nothing more than rivals.

"That's a stupid idea," Ryoma finally said.

Atobe was taken aback. "It is?"

"None of my customers are going to appeal to the court. They'd get thrown in jail if they did." Ryoma looked at him like was crazy. "Do you think anyone is going to admit to rape in a court trial?"

That was a good point. Atobe blamed his lack of foresight on the fact that Ryoma was still sitting too close to him for him to be able to breathe properly. Pushing that aside, he tried to attack a new direction. "What about cameras? Do you think there were cameras where – you know – they hurt you?" He knew he sounded insensitive and too eager for answers, but he wanted the best for Hyotei.

And the best for Hyotei was not Kon Nikolaj.

Ryoma looked pissed. Not at Atobe, but everything in general. "I don't know. Do you think I was looking out for cameras in the room when that happened?"

"It was just a question," Atobe said.

"A stupid one, from a stupid Monkey."

Atobe grit his teeth. "You call me that one more time, brat, and you'll see what I can do."

Ryoma confidently replied, "Stupid, Monkey Kin-"

Before Ryoma could finish, and Atobe could throttle him, the door to their hotel room flew open. Their bodyguard took a protective stance, but Atobe waved him off. Leaning against the entrance was Jiroh, Ootori and Gakuto. Jiroh was holding a stack of beer (that Atobe did not want to know where it came from), and they were all dressed fresh out of tennis clothes into dress shirts and khakis.

"What is it?" Atobe asked suspiciously.

"We're going out!" Jiroh exclaimed.

"It's eight," Ryoma said. "And dark."

"Nobody asked you," Gakuto said.

Ryoma glared at him. Gakuto glared back. Atobe sighed, wondering if Gakuto would ever get over the fact that an associate of Kikumaru was at the camp. He eyed his teammates. Still, a night out seemed fun. Stressing about Ryoma took up much of his energy, and he hadn't had proper time to revitalize with his teammates.

"Alright." Atobe slid out of bed. "Ore-sama will be out in an hour ready to go. Prepare Kabaji."

"Yes!" Jiroh fist-pumped.

Ryoma crossed his arms. "Are we even allowed to go out?"

"Have rules ever stopped you?" Atobe asked, walking into the shower and closing the door shut behind him.

Apparently no rules applied to Ryoma. As they walked down the brightly lit corridors of the hotel, Atobe couldn't help but sniff in disgust. He and all of his teammates were finely dressed for a night out, and Ryoma had chosen to wear… his tennis jacket. It made his lips curl downwards, and a rude comment stirred on the tip of his tongue. But he knew he wouldn't get anywhere.

Ryoma was a stubborn smartass.

"I still don't get why he's coming with us." Gakuto pointed to Ryoma.

Ryoma had his hands stuffed in his pockets, his eyes on the ground. "That's because your captain is obsessed with me."

Gakuto scowled. "You wish."

Atobe scowled too. "Don't be a brat."

Ryoma yawned. "This is getting old, Monkey King. Can you come up with a better comeback?"

"Can you come up with a better nickname?" Atobe ran a hand through his hair. "Monkey King this, Monkey King that. It's ridiculous."

"You're ridiculous."

"I'm magnificent, and you know it."

"You're the opposite of whatever you call yourself."

Atobe narrowed his eyes, but before he could reply, Ootori laughed softly. Atobe turned to glare at him. "Is there something hilarious about this?"

"Nothing, really," Ootori said rather shyly. "It's just, I don't usually see you so flustered."

"Flustered?" Atobe squawked.

Ryoma smirked. "I make you flustered."

"You do not!" Atobe said indignantly. He whipped back around to Ootori. "I'm not flustered."

"Okay," Ootori shrugged, clearly not wanting to get into a confrontation.

Atobe turned to Kabaji, who had been trailing behind them quietly. "Kabaji. Tell them I'm not flustered."

"Usu."

"That's not telling them I'm not flustered!"

"Usu."

"I said-"

Ryoma tugged on his arm, and Atobe paused, looking down. Ryoma exchanged a meaningful glance with him, and Atobe realized it basically said: You're making a fool of yourself. Calm down. He didn't know why, but he trusted Ryoma. So he cleared his throat, and quieted down. When he looked back up, Ryoma was staring at him, eyes bright and curious.

"What?" he said under his breath.

Ryoma grinned. "You listened to me."

"I didn't."

"You did." Ryoma said it quite happily, so Atobe didn't bother trying to squash his happiness.

He liked Ryoma being happy.

He knew Ryoma had suffered a lot, and it was the least he could do to make him happy, couldn't he?

Atobe suddenly swallowed, nausea swirling in his stomach. The gnawing had only grown every day, until it felt like a desperate craving from the bottom of his gut. He didn't know what the craving was. All he knew was that Ryoma made him feel flustered and confused and not like himself – except, sometimes, Atobe realized that the way he acted with Ryoma was himself, and that he hid it, unintentionally, from others.

Atobe didn't know why he found Ryoma both attractive and endearing. He had tried to lure himself away from that train of that, but with every half-hearted denial, he grew closer and closer to a ground-breaking truth he didn't want to accept.

He liked Ryoma.

But he couldn't. That was something he knew. They were rivals. They were tennis players. They were different in too many ways to count. But when Ryoma walked beside him, the dim lights of the hotel lobby shining on his face, and the cool air from the open entrance blowing back his black-tinted-green hair, it took all of Atobe's strength not take his hand.

It took all of his energy to remind himself that Ryoma was a rival.

It took all of him to remember that he was an Atobe, and wanted to marry a rich, pretty girl who could cook.

Those old fantasies seemed petty and dry; but Ryoma was real.

So real.

Atobe closed his eyes, and shook his head brusquely.

"Can we sneak a drink?" Jiroh asked. "I know we're underage, but-"

Maybe a drink would help him from drowning in Ryoma.

Atobe took out his debit card. "I'll treat."

They got into a bar – simply because he was Atobe, and an Atobe had ways – and immediately scattered. Jiroh searched for pretty girls. Ootori tried a drink, before spitting it back out. Gakuto slapped him on the back, called him a "noob" and ordered shots. Kabaji headed to the bathroom to apparently help a girl who was high on the date rape drug.

Atobe had polished off an expensive wine, and was sitting outside on the empty streets of the city. It was cloudy against moonlight, and humid summer air clung to tree bark and grass. Warmth of alcohol coursed through Atobe's veins. He hadn't drunk much, but enough to make him feel more relaxed. He closed his eyes, and leaned his forehead against his knees.

Sometimes he wondered why he even bothered trying to be perfect. Everyone else continued to be amazed by his endless capacity, but Ryoma saw right through him. It seemed like a pointless endeavor if he couldn't fool Ryoma, the one person that suddenly mattered. The only person he wanted to impress because he was falling hard and fast for him.

Atobe sighed heavily. He would ask his dad to go on a world-class cruise. Maybe a luxurious trip would help with stress.

"You left me," Ryoma said.

Atobe looked up warily. Ryoma exited the bar, and sat next to him, drinking out of a Ponta can. Atobe's heart throbbed, and he turned away. But then he worried that Ryoma may have left his drink unattended, and returned his gaze.

"Is that spiked?"

Ryoma snorted. Then he smiled. Actually smiled. "Worried?"

"Hardly." The words felt fake and stiff. He let them drop. "Actually, yes. I was worried. Are you sure you didn't leave it unattended?"

"I'm sure." Ryoma took a sip, and moved closer to him. Atobe felt a sizzle of electricity shoot up him – a sizzle he wanted to make disappear. "You're acting weird," Ryoma finally said, and his voice was quiet. "You've been acting weird ever since we came to this camp, but even weirder now."

Atobe laughed humorlessly. "I guess I am."

Ryoma blinked. "Are you okay?"

Atobe wasn't okay. He felt sick. This wasn't something new. But most of the time the feeling always passed. He felt sick because pressure was always on his shoulders. He ran jobs for his father's company. He had a perfect GPA. He consistently rose to any tennis challenge, and coached a team of over 200 members. He was part of student council, and involved in many other clubs. He acted like perfection in public, and kept up that image flawlessly. He volunteered at a local homeless shelter because he tried to occasionally help the unfortunate, and now he was helping Ryoma with Kon Nikolaj.

And even with all of the stress, Atobe usually managed to keep his head up. But now he felt nauseous because he maybe-sort-of liked Ryoma, and that made everything crumble around him, like the earthquake before a hurricane.

"You're ruining my life," Atobe said.

"Me?" Ryoma's brow rose. "Huh."

"You." Atobe shook his head. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. He wanted more wine. "You've made everything worse."

They sat in silence.

Atobe's stomach did churning circles, and he wanted more than ever that cruise. His eyes shadowed over, and he stared at the dark cracks of the sidewalk.

"That's funny," Ryoma finally said. "You've made everything better."

Atobe jerked his head up, but Ryoma was already standing up, walking back into the bar. His heart did this little squeeze thing and Atobe let his face fall back into his lap. And then he cried because he didn't know how else to contain the emotions bursting at the seams of his body, always threatening to spill over like blood from his veins.