Wicked Game
A Prince of Tennis Fanfiction
By Caillen and Aishuu
Pairing: Fuji x Kirihara
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Konomi-sensei, manga-ka! Written before the Fuji/Kirihara match took place.
If there was one thing Kirihara Akaya couldn't stand it was losing - but what made it worse was losing when he knew he should have won... if he'd been allowed to play the way he'd wanted to. But Sanada and the others had restrained him during that fateful match when he'd finally gone head-to-head with Fuji Syuusuke, and he had lost, a defeat that made everything in his world turn bitter.
He should have won - but that had been taken away from him. It was true that Fuji was a good player, and Kirihara had been fascinated by the triple counters, but those were the kind of players he delighted in breaking the best.
And he could have broken Seigaku's tensai, if...
They met at the net after, sweat trickling down their brow as the score was announced. "Game Seigaku's Fuji, 6-4!"
It was pitiful.
"Sugoi na, Fuji‑senpai," Momoshiro shouted from the sidelines, just inside Fuji's peripheral senses as Fuji approached the net. No acknowledgement was made of the catcalls or the triumphant shouting because there was something niggling at his mind.
6‑4. No one could deny that Fuji had beaten the Rikkai player and kami‑sama knows Seigaku could use the point. Still, the match had felt like a farce. No, Fuji knew it was. There had been telltale hints of something held back.
He felt insulted.
And maybe this conveyed itself in the gaze he leveled the other player as he looked at him over the net, not holding out a hand for the other to shake. He stared, silent for the moment, to catch the other's attention.
Kirihara was simmering inside, feeling the beast that was his skill clawing to get out, wanting to hiss that Fuji hadn't seen the truth; he wanted to turn to the referee and demand a rematch, because he hadn't been serious, he'd tied back by people who didn't understand...
His hand was at his side when he should offer it to Fuji, smile politely and congratulate the older boy on his win. He knew the routine, but rarely was he the loser... no, no...
He lifted his eyes to meet Fuji's, trying to warn the other not to take this win too seriously. You weren't playing the real Kirihara Akaya! You weren't faced with the real demon that is me! he tried to say, even as he bared his teeth in a mockery of a polite smile as he offered his hand for the closing shake. "Game, Fuji." No congratulations, because Fuji didn't deserve it.
Game? I wouldn't exactly call it that. And you wouldn't either.
Kirihara Akaya looked like he would have gladly bitten off his tongue rather than acknowledge that the game ended. The words were terse despite the polite smile that the other wore. Granted, the smile was barely polite. One could almost call it a snarl, really, if he had bared his teeth.
"I wonder how long it took to polish the silver platter." Fuji told Kirihara, not bothering to shake his hand. Maybe the other would notice the allusion, maybe he would not. It wasn't particularly complimentary but Fuji didn't think the match was particularly 'complimentary' to his skills either.
Seeing Kirihara's reaction to all of this though, he was curious on how the situation came about. The statement had been a double‑edged barb meant to draw out a reaction.
Kirihara wasn't a scholar, but he knew the reference. His eyes fell on Sanada, then on the Seigaku brat who had defeated him. Twice he had lost to Seigaku, but his loss to the Seigaku brat he could swallow a bit more, because at least then he hadn't been restrained.
"Ah. Weren't you in singles one until this match?" Kirihara said softly, and his eyes fell on Ryoma. "I wonder which of us had really been the sacrifice?" He stepped back from the net, turning his head, but even as he walked away, it was clear he was issuing a challenge.
The gauntlet was on the ground, figuratively. And Fuji wondered if he should pick it up.
Certainly the insult leveled had not phased him at all. The lineup for Singles and Doubles have always been based on strategy. Trust was an essential part of the Seigaku tennis team.
But he could never back down from a challenge. Especially from one that bordered on an insult. Especially not one that made him curious in the paradox the situation presented. Someone who would deliberately not give their all did not have the right to seethe like they were the offended party in this little game.
He looked at the retreating back for a long moment.
A few seconds later, a ball flew past in a serve that had only been seen in one match before, against Hyotei's Akutagawa-kun. With pinpoint precision, the wind sliced the air inches from Kirihara's face and appeared as the ball on the ground.
The spectators hushed as Kirihara, never one to back to a challenge, wheeled around on his heels, his green eyes spitting fire. His mouth opened to lash out verbal abuse, but the referee, a slight man who shivered a bit in fear at the atmosphere yelled down at them, knowing that the situation was getting dangerous.
"The game is over! Behave, or I'll have both of you removed!"
Kirihara licked his lips. He didn't want to offend the board, because he needed them, but across the net, Fuji was standing, a living testament to his failure. "It was merely a friendly challenge," Kirihara said almost sweetly, using his racket to scoop up the game ball. He bowed mockingly at Fuji, even as his racket bounced the ball in a hypnotic rhythm. "I'll just keep this until we play again, ne?"
"Kirihara!" Sanada's voice called from the sidelines.
Kirihara sighed a bit, then his smile grew. He mouthed directions at Fuji, knowing that the tensai would be able to make sense of them, and no one else would be close enough to decipher the secret message. Your courts, tomorrow at midnight. I'll show you how I really play.
A long cryptic stare met Kirihara. It betrayed neither understanding nor puzzlement at the silent challenge.
"Mouu, that idiot is challenging Fuji, I swear. Ike, Fuji! Don't let that upstart beat you." Kikumaru yelled from the sidelines. "He lost to you nya! You can glare at him with your super Fuji beam!"
The acrobatic player was on a natural high, seeing his team still in the game with Fuji's win. He hadn't seen Kirihara play before so he didn't know how the match was almost farcical.
"Eiji!" Seigaku's acting captain cuffed his partner. "That's not very polite."
Fuji's attention was still on the boy on the other side of the court, his teammates' voices a soft buzz that his subconscious filed for future references.
He was thinking.
Kirihara Akaya was confident. That, Fuji knew. Confident of beating me, apparently.
The thought was amusing.
"Keep the ball, Kirihara-kun." Fuji finally said, smiling as he turned his back on the other without acknowledging the silent message.
Or maybe he did.
I do not play into anyone's hands, Kirihara-kun. If you want this match, you play by my rules.
"Kirihara!" Sanada said again, and from the tone in his voice, the second year could tell that no further antics would be allowed.
Kirihara hmmphed a bit, and swung his racket over his shoulder. "Your choice," he said, and the slight smile that pulled on his lips contained a bit of satisfaction, before strolling off the court.
Seigaku's courts at ten minutes to midnight were strange, Kirihara reflected. He liked playing tennis at night, but usually he selected well-lit street courts, not school courts where security was liable to throw him out at last minute. It had been easy enough to break into the fuse box and turn everything on – now the question was if his opponent would be brave enough to show his face.
"There is a switch just to the side of Court A. No need for such covert operations."
Fuji's voice came from the shadows just beyond Court B, tennis bag swung over one shoulder. He looked like he had been there for awhile.
"More fun," Kirihara said, a cat-like grin stretching over his lips. He had already stripped his warm-ups off and was wearing nothing but a tennis shirt and shorts. It was a bit cool, and the air was making the hair on his arms stand up in protest, but he knew that shortly he'd forget about the discomfort. "Wasn't sure you'd come, anyway."
Fuji shrugged, not taking off his jacket as he reached Court B. These courts were as familiar to him as his own house. His feet reacted to each crack and gouge in the terrain without conscious thought. He could play here without dividing his attention on how to react to an unfamiliar environment.
Which was why he would not.
He walked passed Kirihara expecting the other to follow.
Kirihara watched the tensai, analyzing for weakness. Was he tired, being called out so late? Irritated? Grumpy? None of those fit, really, but there seemed to be a tension between them, the bond that only hatred could bring.
Kirihara snickered slightly, but grabbed his bag and tailed after, wondering if he should stay quiet or provoke. Of course, provocation was always his first attack of the game. "There's no one to stop me from playing this time," he said as he pulled his racket out of his bag.
Fuji continued walking, an eyebrow raising itself at the comment.
"I see. I suppose leashes still exist in Rikkai." Fuji told him mildly, the insult apparent even so. They had passed Court A, B and C and stood on Court D. The court where the freshmen and nonregulars practiced.
Fuji could play here. It had been years since he had last set foot on this court.
"It's because those who are older fear getting clawed down." Kirihara knew Fuji was up to something, leading him to the farthest court, but couldn't figure out what. "Keep your friends close and your enemies closer," he said. His racket was ready and he ditched his bag to the side. "Do you need some time to warm up?"
"Ma ne. I believe the more determined ones are able to find some ways around it. I believe I can't relate. Paranoia has never been an issue in Seigaku." Fuji said conversationally, taking off his jacket though he did not change out of his pants.
It was the dead of the night and he didn't want to come up with a cold. Inui had a perchance to give them homemade drinks deadlier than Aozu with the Nationals at stake. Something that 'reminded' you of your responsibility without incapacitating you the NEXT day.
A thought randomly flitted pass. He hoped kaasan did not hear him sneak out of the house.
Fuji had had every intention to leave the Rikkai player waiting on the courts all night when the other had left the court on the Finals. But curiosity won out, curiosity and something else.
He would win tonight and lay those questions to rest.
"I jogged on the way over. I'm good to go unless YOU need to warm up, Kirihara-kun?"
Kirihara's senses were beginning to heightened, the way they did whenever he had prey within his sight. Destroying Seigaku's tensai would restore something he felt he was losing, and edge... He hadn't been able to unleash his fury last time, so he knew this match would be wilder and more dangerous than any he'd played in a while.
There were reasons other members of his team called him a walking powder keg.
"I'm always ready to play," Kirihara said, his eyes lambent in the light. "Anytime, anyplace." He stretched his back slowly, feeling the adrenaline begin to flow. "I'll even be nice and let you have the serve."
Rikkai had always reminded Fuji of predators. Though Kirihara was just a second year, he had the same aura as everyone else did. Power emanated from Rikkai, the knowledge that they were one of the best lent confidence and more. It called to Fuji sometimes. Like a half forgotten thrumming in his blood, tamped down in favor of civilized veneer.
Younger Kirihara might be but Fuji would never think of underestimating him. Not when he stalked like one experienced in hunting.
"Maaa, I've heard said 'nice ' is not in Rikkai vocabulary. I'd rather be fair and do it the usual way, ne?" Fuji told Kirihara. "Rough or smooth?"
"Rough," Kirihara said, coming to the net to see which way the racket fell. He watched as Fuji leaned over and spun the racket expertly, and the whirling sound seemed to go to his head. As the racket slowed, he smiled a bit when it landed upside-down. "My serve," he said, pulling a ball out of his pants pocket. He tried not to lick his lips in anticipation, but they were feeling dry all of the sudden, and he could almost taste the satisfaction in the thoroughly crushing the other boy. "You'll regret giving me the serve."
There are odd gestures that sometimes arrests one's interest. Fuji noticed how Kirihara kept making the same one.
Like the wind, Fuji's mood changes without warning. "Ne, Kirihara-kun?" He began, stepping up to the net and motioning the other to do the same.
Kirihara was a bit puzzled, and a bit annoyed at having the match delayed, but his curiosity got the better of him. "What do you want, Fuji-san?" he asked.
Fuji didn't answer Kirihara, waving him over instead. When Kirihara was close to the net and within arms' reach, a hand extended out, open palmed, a cylindrical tube in its center.
Kirihara studied it for second, but in the dim court's light, even his usual perception wasn't able to figure out what Fuji was offering – and he was smarter than to take anything Fuji gave without asking what the hell it was. "What is it?" he asked.
"You won't find out until you take it, ne?" Fuji's lips quirked into a smile. "It doesn't bite." He said helpfully.
"I don't trust you," Kirihara said, still not taking the bait.
"I don't think a small tube could kill you, Kirihara-kun. Unless I was a Borgia."
"I wouldn't put it past you," Kirihara muttered, but reached out, finally taking the tube as his damnable curiosity got the better of him. His eyebrow twitched as he finally saw what it was.
It was quite entertaining really to see people so hesitant. To Fuji's recollection, he had not in any instance killed, maimed or tortured a person to merit such a reaction. It tickled the perverse side of him though and he continued to smile, knowing it put people on edge.
"Why the hell are you giving me chapstick?" Kirihara asked, trying to figure out Fuji's chain of thought and failing. He'd heard Seigaku's tensai was weird, but giving an opponent chapstick right before a match was... beyond that. "Is it some kind of peace offering?"
A small chuckle. "You looked like you could use it, you've been licking your lips for the past few minutes." Fuji shrugged. "Unless you happen to be contemplating midnight snacks, I'd guess your lips are dry."
Kirihara tried not to fume as he clenched the tube and contemplated throwing it into Fuji's face. "It's a bad habit," he said. "Thanks for your concern, but I'm quite fine!"
Kirihara-kun had an interesting way of going on the defensive when the situation did not necessitate it, Fuji decided with a tilt of his head. The smile on his face grew the slightest bit at that, amusement clearly writ on his features.
"Will you stop smirking at me?" Kirihara growled, and he grabbed Fuji's hand to press the tube back in it. "The only game I want to play with you is tennis!"
Situations like these always amused Fuji. It's what made life so interesting, knowing people, finding out how much you can push and how far.
And Kirihara-kun was making it entirely too easy to push the right buttons.
The warmth of skin touching skin as Kirihara pressed the tube back into Fuji's hand gave Fuji an idea. He took hold of Kirihara's hand and pulled, just enough to unbalance the other boy.
Kirihara wobbled a bit in surprise, but it was a bit too late. He stumbled forward in surprise, ending up nose-to-nose with the blue-eyed boy, who was smiling at him disconcertingly. He tried to reclaim his hand, but Fuji's grip was too tight. "What the hell are you doing?" he asked in surprise, green eyes wide with confusion. He couldn't follow Fuji's train of thought, and it was disconcerting.
"Why, nothing at all." Eyes opened just a fraction, the light on the court dancing in the blue depths. Seigaku regulars would run as far away as possible from the prodigy when this happened but others weren't as fortunate enough to know.
"I was just trying to take a better look at your lips." Fuji replied, warm breath ghosting over Kirihara's cheek as Fuji inspected Kirihara's lips or at least seemed to inspect them.
This is certainly more fun that I first thought it would be, Fuji thought to himself, seeing how disconcerted the other boy looked.
"There's nothing interesting about my lips," Kirihara said in a dangerously level voice. His eyes met Fuji's squarely, refusing to back down. He recognized when he was being toyed with, and didn't like it. "Are we going to play or not?"
"Interesting isn't the word I'd put to it." Fuji chided softly, eyes shuttering close again. "I was looking at the state of them, seeing that you refused the lip balm, hmmn?" The hand that had pulled Kirihara closer was still clamped a bit on the other's, rendering him slightly immobile.
Kirihara dropped his racket, and the sound echoed over the courts as it spun slowly, landing upside down. Neither of them noticed, too lost in the confrontation as Kirihara raised his now-free hand to attempt to pull away. "Stop messing around," he ordered.
"Maa, you really should relax, Kirihara-kun." Fuji soothed, tone lowering a bit in a bid to calm the other (though amusement was still evident in the tone). "I don't bite."
"I do," Kirihara shot back, feeling the hair on the back of his neck stand up. His fingers began to work on removing Fuji's hand from his own.
Tennis players have grips that rivaled steel bars when so minded, Kirihara would be reminded of it as he tried to break Fuji's grip. "You didn't say 'please'." Fuji told him.
"I'm not playing this game," Kirihara replied. His fingers were beginning to hurt, but there was no way he'd give into any of the tensai's demands.
"Aa? No tennis then?" Fuji told him, being deliberately obtuse as he let go of Kirihara's hand so fast that Kirihara's hand lifted a few inches high with the force with which he had been pulling away.
"Maa, I'll be going then."
The tensai had already turned his back, walking towards his tennis bag with his racket.
Kirihara flexed his fingers a few times, trying to regain the sensation in them before racing over to Fuji. "I didn't come out to just go home!" he fumed. "It's freaking midnight, and we're going to play!" He was riled now, he sure-fire temper brought to the surface by Fuji's quirky behavior. Faced only with the tensai's shoulders as Fuji continued to move away, he grabbed Fuji's wrist to jerk him around. "No one walks away from me!"
Instead of moving away, Fuji moved towards the motion of Kirihara's tugging, allowing momentum to unbalance the other boy. The slight disadvantages of being one of Seigaku's lighter players had made him more attuned to using another's force to his advantage.
Kirihara stumbled, surprised at Fuji's motion, but knowing he shouldn't be. He landed against the other boy's side, not heavily, but the shock of it surprised a gasp from him.
"That's not entirely true. I rather think that Echizen did." Fuji told Kirihara in amusement, arm disentangling itself from Kirihara's grip. The Rikkai second year sounded like a very spoiled child with his pronouncement and Fuji mused on how it contrasted to what he had heard from Tachibana and the rumors.
How far did the facade go? he wondered.
Kirihara growled. "Have you beaten him yet?" he snapped. His fingers bit tightly into Fuji's arm. "Why was he playing singles one, that game?"
"Why did you sell out your game?" Fuji countered, eyes opening to bore holes into Kirihara, slightly hurt pride peeping through the suddenly electrical blue depths.
The question lingered in the air between them, and Kirihara's hand fell away. "That was low," he said, and his anger was unabated. Fuji seemed to know exactly how to provoke him, and Kirihara knew it would be wise to forget the whole mess and just leave – but no one had ever claimed he was particularly wise.
"It's truth." Fuji said, the edge on his voice tickling on the edge of contempt. The short sentence a challenge to prove him wrong.
The knowledge that anyone would deliberately underestimate any opponent and throw a game was so contradictory to Seigaku's, more to any tennis players', beliefs that anyone who did so, much less Rikkai, was subject to questionable contempt.
Prove me wrong. The unspoken words hung in the air.
"They're scared of me, you know," Kirihara said. "I'm the number two player as a second year." His apparent change of topic didn't go unnoticed, but Fuji was quiet, waiting for elaboration. "They fear what they don't understand."
It had been incredibly hard, hearing Sanada issue that ultimatum about what would happen if Kirihara lost control on the courts that day. He had believed, previously, that Sanada would support him, always, but Sanada had drawn a line, one which Kirihara couldn't cross.
If you lose control, I'll be bringing you before the board. Not only will you lose the captaincy next year, but chances are you'll be kicked off the team as well. Akaya, it's time you grew up.
"Tell me, Fuji... what would you choose? To play a mediocre game, or to never play again?"
There was a part of Fuji that could relate to what Kirihara was talking about, a part that had felt similar feelings. Being set apart because of innate abilities, being categorized as different for something that came as natural as breathing, it was something Fuji understood.
What he could not understand however was how one could simply choose to abandon one's principles. Fuji had seen his teammates brave permanent physical damage to play their very heart for a game. There was no such thing as a mediocre game in Seigaku's dictionary and certainly no thrown game.
Fuji might be flexible and open minded in many things but principles weren't made so cheaply.
"If you feel for something so strongly, is any sacrifice too great?" He countered then.
It was stark honesty, no grays or in betweens. A question meant to challenge and perhaps, double barbed. The answer would help Fuji understand this paradox wrapped in seemingly careless cruelty and seeming innocence.
"Exactly," Kirihara said. He stood still, waiting to see if the tensai would understand what he meant.
Fuji's eyebrow lifted. His question went unanswered. 'Exactly' wasn't the answer he wanted. Or perhaps it was, in its own way.
Saaa, you think differently.
Fuji shrugged, tilting his head to one side to regard the tree that rustled a little from the breeze. "I would still play to the best of my abilities. I would not insult my opponent with less. Would you?"
"There's always going to be another match," Kirihara replied, feeling drained. "I live to play tennis – if you take that away from me, I have nothing."
He wasn't used to being honest, wasn't used to confessing. But the match – which he hadn't thrown, not exactly – had been preying heavily on his mind. Maybe he owed Fuji the explanation – or he owed it to himself.
The heavy atmosphere was cut by the soft buzzing of something cutting through the air, seconds after the impact of a racket on something solid rang through the quiet court. A ball grazed the curls rioting out from Kirihara's left ear, rustling unkempt hair as it whizzed past and hit the ground a few meters away.
Kirihara stared at Fuji, who was holding his tennis racket and smiling in the fashion that made so many people want to murder him. The sound of the ball bouncing to a stop on the empty courts behind them was too loud, but he didn't dare turn to look. Uncharacteristically, he hadn't anticipating Fuji's move in the first place.
He was rattled, but wouldn't show it.
"Let's begin," Fuji's smile widened. "Before the wind dies down."
The racket was hefted in the air, arm wide in a 90 degree angle from his body, a gesture of defiance on the heaviness that weighed on muscled arms.
Show me what you're made of, Kirihara Akaya, and tell me your story.
Kirihara's eyes lit up. "You're going to follow this through, no matter what happens?"
For what seemed to be a long time, Fuji looked at Kirihara, eyes peeping out, silver lights played in the blue depths in speculative silence. The edges of his lips twitched up, half-hidden as he dipped his head in acknowledgement. Finally, in a voice half-amused half-mocking, he said, "Let's play with no regrets."