The rumors are afloat as soon as Keigo enters his final year of Hyotei High: Tezuka is back in Japan.

The whispers begin in an excited flurry of hisses, cultivated in locker rooms and soon traveling through the hallways like wildfire. Those who do not care for tennis nevertheless participate in the gossip mill. Who cared about a racket and a net when you had Atobe Keigo? Everyone at Hyotei was all familiar with the name Tezuka Kunimitsu and his ratty Seigaku school, and their own Hyotei team that Atobe had led gracefully if not successfully against the legendary tennis player (and all quickly smile guiltily at the events that should not be explicitly mentioned, not even amongst themselves). Soon the words reach one, long crescendo: nationals, will we see him at nationals? (If we even go this year, they all say, and look away again, more abashed but also sullen and quiet.) Soon the rumors escalate, and some who are more interested than the rest are left wondering if Echizen would also grace the courts of Seigaku along with Tezuka; such rumors, wild enough as they are, are soon squashed. In the end, only the name Tezuka falls upon Keigo's ears on day in his first period. He sits back and folds his arms before the teacher is about to take roll.

"Tezuka," Keigo says, not so much as relishing the name as assessing for confirmation, "He's back?" He ignores the chattering of his classmates and their fugitive glances, merely dismissing them with a bland smile. His eyes are only for his second-in-command.

Oshitari shrugs and adjusts his glasses. "So I've heard," he drawls, "But what are the chances? Surely there are many people in Seigaku with brown hair and glasses. Don't overexcite yourself, Atobe."

"I wouldn't dream of doing anything so crass," he sneers, and raises an eyebrow at the genius. Oshitari looks bored at the entire conversation, his legs casually spread apart upon his seat, his textbooks yet unopened. "I'm surprised that you're not as unnerved as I am. If Tezuka is here…" he trails off and frowns a little. "If he's even here," he says. "I would have thought he would have contacted me, at the very least. How rude."

Oshitari finally breaks out of his blank face to give out a laugh. "Atobe, you're rivals. He shouldn't have to call you."

"He called me well enough when he was in Germany back in middle school," Atobe says, his tone now undoubtedly petulant. He puts on a grimace. "Very homesick he sounded too. Last time I heard, he's still there." He shakes his head. "Rumors, then. What an utter waste of time."

Oshitari gives him a little smirk, and shrugs. "It's better that they're rumors, captain," he says, so pointedly, even for Oshitari, that Keigo snaps his head up to glare at him, "We'll be facing them at the regionals. I don't really like the thought of meeting such a strong player from the very start. Do you?"

Keigo stays silent, and Oshitari continues to look at him. Keigo lets the silence stretch beneath them and the tension flow until Oshitari can feel the strain, and finally lets his lips curl slowly. "They still have Fuji," he says, "If you think you're up for facing him this year."

This is what Keigo likes about Oshitari Yuushi, whatever qualms he might have had about the genius over the years. They had fought for the nationals after middle school; twice they had failed. First to Rikkai, then to another black hole in one of the new tennis teams at Nationals. Both were close tiebreakers, but a defeat was a defeat, as Keigo well knew and his father was quick to point out. They are third year students now; next year, they will be in university. Keigo will be wherever his grandfather will order him to be, and Oshitari in medical school. Keigo's father had told him the day before in a stern voice: don't let anything lag you behind this year. Your future comes first. And he had looked at Keigo gravely until Keigo agreed, his words and vows as easily as they would come. He was used to telling his father white lies and doing whatever he wanted. He would excel in his studies and go to nationals. It would be the year, his year. He is wondering whether Oshitari had the same resolution. Now he sits back and waits for Oshitari's reply.

Oshitari laughs, just as their homeroom teacher bursts in breathlessly. "Oh, Keigo," he says in an infuriating voice, "It isn't like you to beg so nicely."
Keigo smiles, a not quite so nice smile. "I wasn't begging," he says through gritted teeth. He is about to stand up, about to proceed to lead the class to greet the teacher with a bow. Oshitari smirks at him from his seat.

"I do live to serve the King, Atobe," he says sweetly. Keigo ignores him and leads a formal bow towards the teacher.

He pretends that a weight in his heart had not just lifted.

/

/

Japan in mid-February was cold.

"It's not that cold, Ryoma," Rinko sighed from the doorway, "Snowing a bit, but hardly the worst temperature that you've been facing. You shouldn't huddle so much in the covers."

Ryoma ignores his mother, not even for the smell of the steamed rice and grilled fish drifting from his doorway. He is still safe and sound in the bundle of his blankets, not even Karupin to snuggle up to him. The thought of his cat makes his throat well up. He stomps it down.

"Ryoma."

He doesn't answer back, his form a petulant ball against his bed. He glares out at the darkness his huddled form provides him.

"There's food on the table if you're hungry," Rinko says after another beat of silence, as if Ryoma's nose couldn't smell the hot food, "I'll be back before dinnertime, hopefully, but who knows what clients I'll have today….I asked Nanako to check up on you, is that okay?" Rinko hurries on as if she would know the silence that would have followed up to her question. "I also brought back brochures from the school you'll be going to. I think the freshman orientation is in a week's time. Hyotei is only a five minute drive from here, so I could easily drop you off on my way to work—"

The rambling of his mother does not register to him until she mentions his school. He sits up, hurling his beloved blankets out of the way as he finally stares into his mother's eyes. Rinko blinks.

"Hyotei?" he repeats. He hasn't spoken for the past three days, ever since they had landed in Narita Airport with their luggage and without their cat (and his father, but he is refusing to think about that right now), but this was another thing entirely. "I thought I was going back to Seigaku."

Rinko just stares at him, until she finally catches his words and opts for a sigh. "Oh, Ryoma," she says, and Ryoma hates how her sighs are long and weary. It was a sigh before bad news, before telling him things that he hated knowing and knowing he hadn't a choice in the matter. "Ryoma, I don't think you should finish school at Seigaku. High school is different from middle school, you know."

"I don't see how different," he says, glum and very willing to put up a fight if necessary. But Rinko smiles at him a little, very heartbroken and so very full of love it make him feel sick.

"I would have enrolled you into Seigaku if you were going to play tennis," she says, "But you said you wanted to go to college, right? Hyotei would give you better chances for admissions. Well." She looks away. "If you still don't want to play, that is. We did bring all your rackets back."

His eyes do not sting, he tells himself. He is being silly and a brat. As his father had consistently told him fondly (he erases that too and replaces his father's fondness with malice).

"I—no," he says quietly, "No. I—I'll throw them away today. Didn't have the time." That's a lie, he knows, he had all the time back in the States when he was set packing, and time after he came back but Rinko nods at him as if his answer was the most natural reply in the world, and she offers a tentative smile again. "So I'll be back before dinnertime," she repeats, "And then we can look at the school brochures together, okay? See if you would like it there. They have a great library," she adds, somewhat sheepishly, "And a nice, up-to-date lab equipment too. You like working at the shelves, don't you? It'll be good for you."

His mother thinks that he had always stacked books and offered to work at the library because he liked books; she does not know he ventures there often because the place was quiet and devoid of stupid people hollering insipid questions. He nods quickly to ward off his irritation. "Okay," he says, and moves to huddle back in his bed again. He hears Rinko sigh, but she bids him goodbye and moves forward to his bed. He feels a press between his blankets; Rinko had kissed his blanket-covered head. "Be good," she murmurs against the cloth, "Play some video games if you're bored."

He doesn't answer her.

/

/

A/N: And YES, this is THE fic that I've been plotting inside my head for god knows how long. I think this (along with 'and your flesh shall be my eulogy' and 'we adorn our graves with dead men' ) will be my last contributions for this fandom, just because I've run out of ideas and how to make their lives realistic and miserable. But hopefully my Hyotei! Ryoma will meet all of your expectations before I call it quits :P Reviews and feedback are always welcome!