AU in which Ryoma is in third year and Atobe is in his first. A small chaptered fic to give everyone a taste of how I would write them age-reversed. I fear I made Atobe into a petulant brat. Also, please keep in mind that school in Japan starts in March and the nationals would take someplace in June—August.
Also, I played with my favorite trope of Ryoma angsting over his legacy and being a raging bastard/monster. Bite me.
Also a dash of onesided Tezuka/Ryoma. Eventual Atoryo, but before that some angst and more angst.
/
/
Atobe Keigo was a good tennis player, Ryoma often acknowledged, but that didn't excuse his cockshit behavior. If Tezuka didn't care about his teammates and their health so much, Ryoma would have been sure to make the boy howl and quit the tennis team.
But he desists. He slides into the court benches and lets his mind wander as he waits for the regulars to get into court.
"I think he's like you, to be honest," Tezuka once ventured out in the locker rooms, in the early spring days, in his cautious and solemn way. "When you were his age."
Ryoma had grunted, his activities too focused on doffing off his shirt. "I think you have poor memory skills," he told his captain, "And you were a self-pompous git in our first year."
Tezuka had suppressed a smile, but Ryoma saw it and it had made him scowl.
"I," he said, and he put much disdain in the pronoun as he could have mustered, "I never swaggered off to the courts. He treats the game like it's a performance."
Tezuka inclined his head and dropped the subject.
Now, in the later summer, Nationals was upon them, and Atobe stops where he is sitting. Ryoma can tell from his clipped steps upon him that it was the younger boy. He had a gait to his steps. What a horse, Ryoma thinks. Another point I should make with Tezuka—I never have a way with walking.
"The nationals are next week, and I still have never seen you play," Atobe remarks loftily to Ryoma, twirling his racket on one hand as he advances, "Is your racket for show?"
"Brilliant observational skills, Atobe," Ryoma deadpans. He is not in the mood to talk to the kid, not when he is terrible with all his koukais and he barely functions his role as a vice-captain. He manages to paste on a bored expression for the occasion. "But I'm sure Tezuka made me his vice-captain for a reason."
Atobe sneers. He always sneers or scowls when he is around Ryoma, he finds it all very amusing and irritating at once. "I don't see how you ever became second-in-command, is all. Our captain—I can understand. He's good." He says this very reluctantly, as if admitting Tezuka Kunimitsu was a good tennis player would somehow pain him to do so. Ryoma bites back a smirk. "But you. I don't see that merit."
Oh, Ryoma could say a lot of things. He could sneer and thwack the boy, or offer him a match and crush his little ice world technique he perfected. Or he could assign him laps until the boy was too weak to face up Kirihara next week. He would, but Tezuka would be appalled.
He shrugs, opting to ignore the younger boy and continues to watch the other regulars trickle into the court grounds. He watches Tezuka, his lean form and hard grip, his brilliant eyes.
"You're not answering me," Atobe huffs, persistent cocky brat he is, leaning against the fence and still glaring at Ryoma, "I really don't see how you ever became second-in-command."
"It's not a war zone, you know," Ryoma says before he can stop himself, "It's a title."
From the corner of his eyes, he sees Keigo smirk, a very deliberate curl of his lips. "Everything's a warzone, Echizen," he says snidely, and Ryoma notes how he uses his surname instead of the more respectable senpai. Not that he cares about that either, but those little perks are adding up. "Maybe you'll think it more in terms of strategy when I beat you."
Ryoma shoots an annoyed glance at Keigo who stares back unperturbed. "Are you asking for a match?" he asks bluntly.
Keigo tsks. "You make it sound so plebian," he comments, disdain smearing all over his words.
"You make it sound like a poorly written script from Hamlet," Ryoma says back, his voice as flat as it would get, "What is it you British use for this situation? Oh yes—bugger off." He says it in English, in his American accent, all full of his sarcasm and amusement. Atobe narrows his eyes.
"Our captain's good," he repeats, "So I'll say I need a few weeks more to beat him after the nationals. But you—"and he turns his attention to Ryoma, with his dismissal and disdain all rolled into one, "You—I can beat."
"Scary," Ryoma deadpans.
Atobe laughs a little, and Ryoma's startled how it sounds terse. He doesn't like to be mocked, that Atobe brat. "Careful, senpai," he says, finally rolling off the offending respect off his tongue, "You don't know how good I am."
"You don't know how bad you are," Ryoma replies, standing up at last—Tezuka has seen him. He is irritated to note that he and Atobe are eye level with each other. He should do more push-ups. "Pity I'll ruin it for you."
Atobe sneers. His blue eyes are cold and flat, and Ryoma almost smiles at that.
/
/
/
"Are you provoking our third?" Tezuka asks him later, when Tezuka makes him stay behind after all the regulars are gone. "It's not good to provoke him, you know."
"I know," Ryoma snipes, and he is not looking at Tezuka as he is hoisting up his tennis bag, "And for the record. He came up to me. Why would I provoke him?"
"He needs all the rage he can get from Rikkai," Tezuka says quietly. Ryoma snaps.
"I know. Worry about your arm instead."
There is a terse silence after that, and Ryoma almost regrets it, but he is also feeling belligerent and it is not the first time he attacked Tezuka in this way. So he fumes silently until Tezuka speaks again, which predictably enough, Tezuka does. He speaks with a new tiredness.
"I worry," he says quietly, "I might not be able to play Sanada with my best."
That makes Ryoma turn, and squint his eyes. The locker rooms are not lighted and it makes Tezuka's shadow dark and foreboding.
"You said it was healed." He says this in a sharper tone than he would have liked, but. "Completely. You even left school in our second year for that."
Tezuka pauses. "I know. I think…perhaps I'm wrong."
"You're never wrong."
That gets a small smile out of Tezuka, which worries him. Tezuka was never humorous except in typical self-deprecating situations. "It's just the nerves. Rikkai is strong."
Ryoma scowls before he can help it, and turns away. "Put yourself in singles three, then," he says, before he can stop himself and regret it. "Make Atobe singles two. Play Kirihara, you can beat him."
There is a pause. "Atobe won't be able to beat Sanada."
"Well of course not," Ryoma mutters viciously, "And you're a manipulative asshole. I'll play Yukimura, and we can all go home happy."
There is another silence after that before Tezuka ventures out wryly, "I don't know if you can beat Yukimura with words."
That makes Ryoma tense; all lean and angled, as he glares down at his tennis bag. It has his three rackets, dirtless and spotless. He suddenly wonders if Tezuka overheard his conversation with Atobe. "I didn't know," he says carefully, his words deceptively light and sharpless, "That you doubted my tennis. Do you think I'll lose?"
Ryoma likes Tezuka's immediacy, not even a hesitation in his answer. "No," Tezuka says, and Ryoma is glad to hear the firmness creep back. "No. That's not it. But Yukimura is…his tennis is not normal."
"No, they come from devil rituals," Ryoma agrees dryly, and turns to look at Tezuka. Tezuka is twitching his lips. "I'll live. I know how to deal with him."
Tezuka locks his eyes onto his. He nods minutely.
"We must win this year," he says softly. Ryoma smirks.
"I'm in singles one," he says breezily, "How the hell will we lose?"
/
/
/
"Why are you in singles one?" Atobe demands at him, the moment Ryoma enters the courts. Atobe is up in his racket, and his eyes are narrowed. He looks furious.
Ryoma blinks at him lazily, and shurgs when Atobe wouldn't let some things go, as usual. "You're in singles two now," he points out, "I vouched for you. Aren't you grateful?"
He is about to turn and go over to his bench and take a nap. He needs to think and Atobe is not helping.
But whatever Atobe is, whatever he may become, he surely is a stupid and reckless first year. Ryoma keeps forgetting that, this Atobe Keigo who burst into the tennis courts on the first day of his school and challenged all the regulars and beat them all. He would have challenged Ryoma too, those blue eyes locking with Ryoma's, his racket pointed at him. He would have played him then, had it not been for Tezuka's intervention. Atobe would have demolished the team.
But today, he is struck by that springtime deja-vu, the boy with his foreign ways and brash tennis that was hungry for power.
Atobe points a racket at him and his eyes are blazing and cold. "I don't need anyone vouching for me," he spits, and his eyes are all ice and fire, "Especially from a former tennis superstar's son. Why do you even play tennis, if you're not going to take it seriously? I thought the Samurai would have taught you better."
He strikes a point. Ryoma feels the words before he actually processes them, and he is aware at his hands, his eyes and his mouth. He knows he is angry before he even thinks, that kid. I will crush him. It is suddenly barbaric.
"You don't know anything about my father," he says, and he is aware that his voice had suddenly gone soft.
Atobe grins, a sharp grin, because he think he has it now, a weakness. It is not, but Atobe is stupid and proud enough to exploit it. "I know enough," he sneers, and his next words are words Ryoma had heard, so many times in many different settings and situations. He can imagine them before Atobe says them. "You aren't good enough to ever become him. You never play."
Ryoma stares at this younger boy, his mind blank and curiously white. He should not rile you up. The match is next week. Do not do anything stupid. All those rational thoughts are made in Tezuka's disapproving voice, and Ryoma banishes them all with a snarl. Fuck you, he thinks, I deserve this and he deserves this. I will crush him and Yukimura too.
"What do you want?" And he voice is flat and dead. Atobe stares at him, suddenly aware that he touched something he should not have, but he is so self-possessed and so full of himself that he does not know what. He shifts his foot and lifts his chin.
"I want a match," he says, his regal tone in place. "I'll be the one to decide if you're worthy of singles one."
Ryoma smiles. You will dig your grave and I will bury you alive.
/
/
/
Ryoma unleashes the Pinnacle of Destruction after the first serve. Atobe does not know what hit him.
Atobe gapes, and across the court, Ryoma can see him visibly freeze, before he turns around and give Ryoma a look. It is a contemplating look before his smirk comes back up. "Well," he says, "You are quite good. I'm impressed."
Ryoma does not answer to that. It's a stupid and worthless remark. Atobe uses his Insight and Ryoma fakes his moves. He scores another ball.
When it is Atobe's turn to serve, he uses a narrow volley that Ryoma returns easily with his side step. He hits a curve ball that defies gravity and hits a power ball that Atobe cannot return. He predicts the counts of rallies inside his head, he unleashes power in his right arm and Atobe's racket almost flies out. Atobe's eyes are wide and almost comical. The boy grits his teeth.
Atobe had not yet won a single point. Atobe is blatantly panting now, his eyes narrowed. His face looks frustrated, but at least it lost its sneer.
Soon, Ryoma thinks, he will lose any facial expressions too.
He hits the ball.
That is when Atobe falls in his side of the net, his eyes suddenly hazy and wide. He opens his mouth but no sound comes out. For an exalting moment, the boy is openly terrified and vulnerable. He cannot return the ball, and his racket clatters to the ground.
"ECHIZEN!"
He turns. Tezuka is there, his eyes furious, as the regulars hover behind him. Tezuka's gaze goes to Atobe and Ryoma, flitting back and forth in rapid succession, and Ryoma thinks Tezuka is about to rush over to Atobe. Atobe is on the ground, his mouth still gasping. His eyes do not blink.
But it is Oishi who goes up to him, and Tezuka comes up to him, his mouth set tight and his hands balled into fists. Ryoma meets his eyes all the way up to the point Tezuka marches up to him.
"I thought," Tezuka says, and Ryoma notes the naked anger, the sheer emotion Tezuka puts into his words, "I thought we discussed this. No matches."
Ryoma wonders what to say. He started it sounds childish. He provoked me even more so. He wonders how to convey to Tezuka that sometimes tennis was not about just matches and balls and points. It was more than that, sometimes he felt that he would excel in politics, with all the whispers and titters behind him. He wants to tell his captain that tennis wasn't all about the game.
He is about to say that, but he looks at Tezuka's arm. Well. It wasn't as if Tezuka was that stupid. Tezuka would know about hidden alleyways and rackets used beyond courts.
He raises and eyebrow. "I have battles that I have to fight for," he says instead, "Just like you have yours."
Tezuka looks at him, stares at him until Ryoma feels the anger seep out of him, until Tezuka registers the words and meanings and Ryoma is left with an unhappy and tired Tezuka. "It doesn't mean you had to use the yips on him," he says wearily. "This isn't a battlefield."
Ryoma quirks his lips. He cannot think everything is so ironic. "That's what I've been telling him."
/
/
/
Will be divided into five-six parts, so stay tuned! Reviews are welcome!