He crouched on the ground, feeling weak. He hated feeling weak He had no mental strength (he couldn't stop thinking about Yukimura- had his surgery ended yet? was it going well?); his body felt tired and limp. He realized distinctly that he had no control- over himself, over their fate.

It was terrifying. He could not remember a time when he had not been in control of at least his own body. He felt his blood thudding thickly through his veins, reminding him of what Yukimura might not have. He was alone, here, surrounded by cheering Seigaku supporters and club members in yellow who had never glimpsed what was beneath his sharp eyes, sharp muscles, sharp words.

He knew Yukimura had faith in him, believed that there was abundant benevolence in his pulsing, wet heart. He knew his teammates and captain had seen it on occasion when it did not coincide with his duty or his pride; when he stood at the edge of the pool with one eye towards land, towards Yukimura, one eye on his team in the water. Jackal and Marui swam steadily, with Marui smoothly using the currents of Jackal's kicks, but Kirihara was at the far end. He made waves and splashed water up other kids' noses and nearly drowned himself. Sanada threw a floating device- twice the training. Save yourself. Yukimura knew it wasn't a punishment. Yukimura knew everything Sanada told him and everything he didn't.

Someone like that should not be in a hospital.

Just the same, it was liberating not to have control. His father set high expectations for him. He set even higher ones for himself. Nobody recognized this but Yukimura, and this was partly why the team was placed in his hands. It wasn't a question, nor a demand. And he never needed to say anything at all.

Sanada held no regrets. He had wanted to bring Yukimura the championship medal; he was not able to. But he had played hard, hit hard, breathed hard, and he knew Yukimura would not be disappointed. He'd be proud, for having fought with everything he had. He hadn't played like that for a long time- since Yukimura had been hospitalized. Their whole team would get stronger because of it. He knew. He tasted the sweat on his upper lip and smiled.

In the surgery room, Yukimura breathed in sweet anesthetic.

Logically, Yanagi knew that Sanada's match with Echizen was not so directly related to Yukimura's surgery that one fail would incite another. But then, logically, Seigaku should not have been able to muster the strength to beat Rikkaidai in a week, especially without Tezuka. Logically, he should not have been so easy for Sadaharu to manipulate without him noticing. Logically, maybe his old friend was onto something.

It went against everything he knew, but Yanagi was starting to lose faith in logic. He knew he shouldn't because it had gotten him thus far, and because it added to his strength. But then, Yanagi hadn't won his game, had he?

When they heard that Sanada had lost, the only member not too stunned to move was Kirihara. He slammed his fist into the wall opposite the room with Yukimura's feeling-less body in it. They were a crappy team if they couldn't do just his for their buchou. He was a crappy player anyhow. His knee hurt. His hand hurt.

"Dammit!"

They all knew Kirihara was a volatile person. They had seen it in his games, in the way his eyes could turn bloodshot and excited in a heartbeat. (They prayed their captain did not have so few beats; they prayed Kirihara didn't steal them all.) He had cruel and animalistic tendencies, but he looked up to Yukimura more than anyone else in the world. They all did, really.

Yukimura had that type of persona. That soft voice encouraged and strengthened them; his tennis sense was something any player would kill to have. But none of them were jealous, rather they were proud. They trusted in him, in his skill and kindness, in his leadership and his confidence in them. They trusted in the way he was tolerant and open to all.

But now he was literally open on the surgery room table, with scissors and instruments and doctors' fingers poking into his tendons, his muscles. They were all strong, rational people, but they empathized with Kirihara and his limp, bruised hand.

Sanada was beaming when he went to find the Seigaku team. Some of them looked a little shocked at his clear smile. He shook hands, wondering at their hidden strength, and at the fact that their chances of wining had been 0.01%, according to Yanagi. He promised to meet them at Nationals, strong and no longer without a captain.

Every single member of the Seigaku team smiled back and agreed. They understood, after all.

It was an interesting thought. The two strongest teams had someone who they all loved and respected to fight for. It made him smile. At least they Seigaku had won for someone, if not for Yukimura.

That was when Sanada started to run.

The surgery was running longer than expected. Yanagi was talking to a stray nurse, who had met their captain and remembered his kind smile and care towards the chronic children, but knew nothing about his case. Marui was eating twice the amount of cake he normally did (which meant he was now eating enough for four or five people), claiming the cool air of the hospital wing was bringing his energy levels down. He didn't say that it had to do more with nerves than with the temperature, but nobody mentioned it anyway. Niou looked out the window and tried to keep his heart from jumping out of his body in fear. Jackal coughed. Yagyu adjusted his glasses. Kirihara paced, and no one tried to calm him down.

With their buchou's situation so precarious, they milled like lost sheep. Sanada entered the hall, and the dynamic changed drastically: they milled like wolves. Marui snapped his teeth; Kirihara prowled and made sharp turns. Sanada leaned tensely against the wall.

"Any news?" Sanada asked, his voice tight. Jackal shook his head. No one spoke.

Time in that little corridor seemed to stop, or maybe it consumed everything. Yagyu looked at the clock frequently, watching the little pulses of time bleed away. One minute, four, twenty-seven, forty-two...

Jackal was the first to notice the "surgery in progress" light go off. He stood suddenly, brushing the little chiseled-off minutes off of his knees. The others stopped what they were doing and stood still.

When Yukimura was wheeled out of the operating room, the first thing Sanada noticed was that he was still unconscious, eyes closed, skin paler than usual. The second thing he noticed was the jacket he had passed off to Jackal, hanging from a post of the gurney.

The doctors wheeled Yukimura-buchou to his room, and the team followed. They made an odd little procession in the halls. A few kids cheered when they saw it was Yukimura coming back; the nurses shushed them with smiles. One of the doctors gave the kids a thumbs-up. The team trailed behind wordlessly.

They heaped themselves into the small hospital room, even with the doctors saying how he won't wake up for another couple of hours, and that visiting hours were ending in fifteen minutes anyway. A few of the doctors scowled, but Yanagi asked quietly for those fifteen minutes; the nurse turned to her colleagues (give them that much, at least). They reluctantly agreed, and hustled themselves out of the crowded room.

Sanada reached for his jacket.

"I wouldn't," the nurse said with a quiet smile, putting her hand over his. "He asked that we leave that there until he wakes up." He nodded and dropped his hand, closed his eyes. As if by unspoken command, the rest of the team closed their eyes as well.

"I'll let you know when your fifteen minutes are up," she murmured, and then she left the room.

She returned twenty minutes later to find them all with their eyes still closed. The boy with the spiky gray hair was leaning on the windowsill, head bowed; next to him, the boy with the glasses stood with his hands folded. The wild-eyed boy was crouched by the foot of the bed, eyes shut tightly and lids twitching slightly. Of the seven, the boy with the hat and the closed hawk eyes was closest to the bed. He gripped the thin white sheets with tight hands, contrasting with his emotionless visage.

Regretfully, she knocked on the open door and sent them all home.