A PoTty Dish: How To Catch A Sanada, a prince of tennis fanfic

Title: A PoTty Dish - How To Catch A Sanada, Otherwise Known As: The Peanut Gallery
Author: Gold
Pairing: Sana/Yuki, together with lots of random PoT characters popping up.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Prince of Tennis is created by Konomi Takeshi. This work is a piece of fanfiction and no part of it is attributed to Konomi-sama or any other entity holding any legal right associated with and arising out of Prince of Tennis . It was written purely out of fanservice and it is not to be used for profit or any false association with Konomi-sama or aforesaid entities.

Lyrics are from "ROCK 54!"

Summary: Set after the boys have graduated from high school and gone on to bigger and better things (like pro tennis). Sanada and Yukimura let us into their heads. The Peanut Gallery tags along for the ride.
Notes: This was written for the sheer fun of it. The main portion took some months to write, as I kept putting it off. The omake took exactly one day to write-- yesterday.
Warning: I am not known for my brevity. This is a 4,400 word piece, so you have been forewarned. This piece has been edited slightly... very slightly.

Title: A PoTty Dish: How To Catch A Sanada

Otherwise Known As: The Peanut Gallery

Overhead, the sun was high in the sky, and the heat of the afternoon peeled the leaves from the trees and dried the bark on the trunks. The very air was tepid, curling the thin blades of grass rooted in the soil and seeping into the artificial dark red of the hardcourt.

Yukimura Seiichi lifted his head, the wet towel draping either side of him in a way that would have been comical if he hadn't looked so much like a nun. There was something about that calm face and those cool, long-lashed teal-blue eyes and that almost saintly smile that curved his lips—something that opposing players on the international pro tennis circuit would eventually come to recognise (after repeated and painful experience) as an iron-clad ruthlessness that bore itself out through the mastery of his game, and the terribly destructive beauty of that which was Yukimura Seiichi's tennis. Few things could stand in its way—very few things—

One of them, for example, was silently doing warm-up stretches from across the court without even looking across in Yukimura's direction.

He was very tall, with shoulders broad enough to take on the burden of all the world's peoples, and his genes had seen it fit to gift him additionally with a muscular, athletic frame and powerful wrists which he had bound with black wristbands that seemed a little larger and thicker than normal. He wore a completely black cap that blended in near-perfectly with his short, black hair, and the peak of the cap threw most of the upper half of his face into crisp shadow so that one could just barely make out the very straight nose and the stern set of the mouth that joined together with a very firm jaw to make a handsome, if decidedly iron-grim profile.

Yukimura's eyes softened perceptibly as he ran his gaze automatically over that familiar, stalwart figure.

The tall, broad-shouldered young man with the black cap completed a final set of stretches and straightened. He carefully adjusted his cap and looked up—and happened to have the good fortune to find himself looking squarely at Yukimura Seiichi.

Such a very stern, inscrutable face, Yukimura mused, a tiny bubble of amusement twitching his lips. Such very straight, dark brows like a single, flowing, thick brushstroke of black ink sweeping up and narrowing into fine points. Such very piercing dark eyes under those straight, blade-sharp brows. Really, Genichirou always looked as if he had walked out of the pages of an illustrated history text—

"Hn. Yukimura, stop staring at Sanada and get on with the match."

There was something like a cacophony of ill-concealed snickers that echoed around the court.

—Well.

It was like being back in junior high again, where your best friends were also your worst enemies, and you ran into them every day of every month of every year, in every tennis competition you entered and on the street tennis courts you passed. And sometimes they went to your school just to challenge you, and sometimes you went to their school just to hit around a few balls with them, and everyone traded verbal barb after barb because they were schoolboys and couldn't keep their big mouths shut. And the sparring before the match always spilled into the match itself so that friendly inter-school matches sometimes became battles to the death, and people who had the fortune to catch those matches admitted, really, that they went to the matches just to watch the players fight it out with loud mouths and even louder rackets.

Yukimura gritted his teeth and turned around to face the source of the chortles with murder in his heart.

Oh, yes, most assuredly, it was exactly like junior high all over again.

Atobe Keigo, resplendent in a white, silver and deep lavender open-necked tennis shirt and blindingly white shorts (together with matching lavender aviator shades, what a poseur), sat with haughty mien and folded arms, and met Yukimura's murderous gaze with his most supercilious smile. A little to Atobe's left, leaning back into the cooler shadows of the gigantic purple silk canopy overhead, was Tezuka Kunimitsu, whose mouth appeared to be twitching, but who somehow managed a dignified nod of acknowledgement to Yukimura.

Flanking Tezuka and Atobe were more familiar faces—Fuji Syuusuke, comfortably lolling back in Tezuka's shadow; Echizen Ryoma with his eternal little white cap and that famous smirk that always made his opponents want to smack it right off his face; Tachibana Kippei, clad in a classic but very ugly olive-green FILA tennis shirt and black shorts; Sengoku Kiyosumi, face stretched in a cheeky, knowing grin that made Yukimura itch to hit him many, many times in the solar plexus; Mizuki Hajime, who had somehow elbowed his way to a front-row seat and was trying to out-purple Atobe in a full royal purple tennis jacket and matching pants with scarlet-and-gold trim; and Saeki Kojirou, coolly sipping at his coconut drink with a half-smile on his lips that reached all the way to his eyes, where it blossomed into unrestrained laughter.

Milling around these central characters in a somewhat desultory fashion were the rest of the peanut gallery—Atobe's chain gang from the old Hyoutei days, Tezuka's own rag-tag band of Seigaku people, some of Tachibana's loyal little Fudomine band, random people whom Yukimura recognised vaguely from the tennis tournaments he had played in as a schoolboy, and Yukimura's very own personal circus from Rikkaidai, whom, most regrettably, couldn't seem to stop their general smirking and snickering.

"Sanada-fukubuchou, you're blushing!" sang someone from the crowd. "Ow—sempai, you're hurting me—"

"Hush, Akaya, if you value your life," muttered someone else.

Too little, too late—Yanagi Renji and Jackal Kuwuhara had, separately and simultaneously, each made a desperate grab at Kirihara Akaya just as soon as he opened his infamous motor mouth, but they were approximately five seconds behind, and that was all it had needed to wreak the damage. Yukimura smiled to himself viciously. He was going to wipe the courts later with those tiny little pieces of Renji's kawaii little Akaya-chan and then hand them over to Niou Masaharu for a reward—just as soon as he was done with something else, that is.

Yukimura Seiichi's lips curved upwards in a soft smile that promised sugar and spice and everything nice... tipped with poisoned arrowheads, that is. "Genichirou..."

There was something in the way Yukimura said it that made Sanada Genichirou's cheeks blaze a very burnished red beneath the bronzed colour of his skin.

Sanada Genichirou had known Yukimura Seiichi since their days as schoolboys in the same junior high school some ten years or so ago, back in the happy halcyon times when Sanada Genichirou was very young, very innocent and full of patriotic, rainbow-tinted dreams.

In junior high, Sanada had joined the calligraphy society and the kendo society. Kendo was Sanada's first love; it was a family addiction passed down through the generations and their samurai roots were completely to blame for this. Sanada also had a deep and abiding interest in calligraphy, which had the added attractions of assisting in the development of deep patience, attention to detail, ability to grasp the larger picture, and fluidity of even the minutest of movements—all of which were essential to true art of kendo.

Further to his membership in the kendo and calligraphy clubs, Sanada Genichirou had then made a decision that would change the course of his life forever, choosing to join Rikkaidai Fuzoku's famous tennis club. Like calligraphy, Sanada's interest in tennis had its roots in kendo. Tennis was a modern sport that Sanada had picked up a couple of years before to further develop certain physical skills—tennis, after all, required immense strength of the arm and wrist, and speed and accuracy of form and footwork, all of which would be useful in bringing Sanada's own already-impressive kendo skills to a higher stage of development. Sanada had expected a great deal out of Rikkaidai's tennis club; it had a tried-and-tested regimen that had brought them fifteen consecutive regional tennis championships in the last sixteen years and at least five national titles in the same space of time. He had been certain that it would be a most fruitful experience, and in this he was not wrong, for Yukimura Seiichi had joined the same club.

From the very beginning, Yukimura Seiichi had not struck Sanada terribly as someone of consequence. For one thing, Yukimura had pretty eyes, a pretty nose, a really pretty mouth and a very pretty chin. Sanada, severely prejudiced by the generations of chest-thumpers that had gone before him, found that Yukimura had a face that was really too feminine (and way too pretty) for his liking. For another, Sanada had strongly disliked the fact that Yukimura's hair was obviously not its natural shade—the Sanada family of conservatives of the first water that forever resided in Sanada's blood quickly assessed Yukimura as one of the rabble-rousing, hair-dying, irresponsible members of Japanese youth that spent their time loitering around Harajuku instead of using their time for the betterment of Japan and mankind. So it was that Sanada Genichirou's first impression of Yukimura Seiichi had not been all that prepossessing.

On the other hand, Yukimura and Yanagi Renji—with whom Sanada was very well-acquainted—got along like a house on fire. By the middle of the first week of his freshman year, Yanagi was in full flower as Sanada had never seen him before, reeling off statistics in respect of the current Rikkaidai boys' tennis club's first-string and second-string squads. Yanagi was even plotting performance graphs based on those statistics, predicting future team performances, future wins, etc. of each particular player, probability of the exact scores for each match, etc. Yukimura Seiichi exhibited a freakish fascination for all this, aiding and abetting Yanagi Renji, right down to the calculation of just how many aces this regular might fire in the next practice match, or which pair of shoes and racquet combination was more suitable for that regular. It was sheer insanity. To Sanada's increasing consternation and bewilderment, by the end of just that first week at the tennis club, Yanagi's seventy-nine predictions had all materialised, and Yukimura and Yanagi had become a truly inseparable duo on the Rikkaidai tennis courts.

Sanada, therefore, had appeared to be an afterthought in the friendship between Yanagi Renji and Yukimura Seiichi, a sort of background piece who was around simply by virtue of the fact that Yanagi never went anywhere without him, and who was perfectly happy to remain in the shadows, swing his trusty racket and quietly pick up the stray balls. Freshmen didn't get to play until the second month, which was when the district tournaments began and the regulars were away. Sanada, who saw no reason to question this policy, had absolutely no complaints about that, although he could sense the rising tide of restlessness amongst the other, more competitive freshmen, particularly one Yukimura Seiichi. On hindsight, Sanada might have guessed that something was up; being of an uncorrupted, admirably straightforward nature, Sanada fully underestimated what Yukimura Seiichi could do, especially when ably assisted by one Yanagi Renji.

It had begun innocently enough, at the end of the first week of school, because Renji had wanted Yukimura to join in the thrice-weekly private tennis practices that Renji and Sanada had been having since Renji moved into Sanada's neighbourhood the year before. Renji had therefore asked permission politely of Sanada, who had just as politely resented the intrusion but could see no reason not to let it happen.

At the first practice, Yukimura soundly whipped Sanada 6-0, 6-1 and 6-2 in the three one-set matches they played against each other. Renji had then casually observed that it had taken him three sets before he had finally managed to take a game off Yukimura.

"Instinct," Yukimura Seiichi had said, smiling warmly and virtuously at Sanada. "Genichirou has better instincts than you do, Renji."

Genichirou.

Sanada had felt a cold prickling all over his skin as every hair of his stood on end. It had seemed so very natural for Yukimura Seiichi to call him that. That, in itself, was wholly unnatural.

"I think," Yukimura Seiichi had continued, almost musingly, "that we should play."

Renji had nodded his head. "Yes, we are almost ready."

As if with one accord, they had turned to look at Sanada.

Sanada had counted slowly to thirty, caught by those cool, long-lashed eyes... such very pretty eyes...

"I'm so glad that we all agree," Yukimura had murmured, with a bright smile that seemed to come from right inside him, lighting the very depths of his eyes.

That they had all been speaking of one another as a single unit, as a "we", would not occur to Sanada until many, many moons later. By then, the Holy Trinity of Rikkaidai had been forged and its ensuing personality cult too entrenched. At any rate, it was all pretty much downhill from there as Sanada Genichirou very quickly found out to his detriment what "they" had "all" agreed to.

"The district tournament is in three weeks," Yukimura had announced suddenly and with apparent irrelevance about ten minutes after he had whipped Sanada on the courts.

Sanada, lost in the cloud of relief brought by Gatorade, had made no reply, since none seemed to be expected.

"Genichirou, Renji, what do you think?" Yukimura had tilted his head winsomely to one side. "What are our chances?"

Sanada had glanced up sharply. Yukimura Seiichi had never asked his opinion before... especially not when he usually asked Renji. Then there was the fact that Yukimura had asked a question with a remarkably obvious answer. Unless the Rikkaidai coach had been planning to field first-year freshmen, there was no way they could lose any championship. Granted, they might just field the second-string squad for the finals of the prefectural championships, but even so, Sanada had been reasonably certain that the second-string players of Rikkaidai could probably take the title. What was most profoundly disturbing, however, was that Yukimura had a cat-ate-the-canary look on his face that made Sanada want to bolt for the nearest hills.

Yanagi, on the other hand, had appeared to have no notion that something was up in the wind. "I believe that our chances of playing in the district tournament are extremely slim. The coach will allow us just one doubles slot and a place in reserve at most. For that, we would need to defeat all our opponents during club practice. This includes the regulars we choose to target."

Sanada's fingers had tightened around the half-empty bottle of Gatorade. He had begun to have a very bad feeling. Playing in the district tournament? They still had three more weeks of picking up balls! They were first-years! Yukimura—and now Renji? Had they gone stark staring mad? Was it time to call in an adult who might be able to handle the situation?

Yanagi had continued speaking, unperturbed by the growing look of horror in Sanada's eyes. (In later years, Yanagi would disclose that he had, however, noted at that point the amazing fact that Sanada's eyes were extraordinarily expressive as compared to his stony face)". "It would be unrealistic to expect us to defeat any of the regulars at this point in time, although I believe we could give them a fight they would never believe."

"Then at what point?!" Yukimura had snapped impatiently.

"We can beat them after the district tournament. From now until the end of the district tournament, we have approximately four weeks. We have a ten to one chance of raising our game to the level where we can defeat four out of the seven regulars and give the others a very bad scare. We need the time to observe... and to train. This will give us the perfect opportunity. I surmise that by then, we can officially mount a challenge to the first-string and reserve regulars."

By then, it had been pretty obvious which direction the wind was blowing in.

Sanada would have no answer when asked in later years why he had not opposed this coup d'etat of the Rikkaidai Boys' Tennis Club. Possibly it was the fact that he had just been solidly creamed and hadn't had much breath to spare. Possibly he had recognised the tide of history about to be directed in another direction and had wisely chosen not to stand in history's way, particularly when he had such a big part to play in it. Possibly it was because he couldn't find it in him to deny those pretty eyes, with the unflinching glint of steel in them... Possibly, it was the samurai in him answering the call of his liege lord...

"Genichirou?"

Those same pretty eyes, looking up at him... Sanada shook himself from his reverie. A familiar feeling swept over him—breathlessness, coupled with something indefinable, increasing the rhythm of his heartbeat, escalating the fierce rush of blood in his veins and lighting in him this strange fire of a need to fight at Yukimura's side as if they were schoolboys again, battling for glory on the broad swathes of green and red courts that they called home. No one else in Rikkaidai could claim that place beside Yukimura but Sanada Genichirou.

And Yukimura Seiichi, l'enfant terrible of Rikkaidai Fuzoku (way before Kirihara Akaya even reared his curly head) was smiling up at Sanada Genichirou in a cat-ate-the-canary way on his face that rang alarm bells so loudly in Sanada's mind that all the breathlessness and racing heartbeat in the world couldn't hide the trickle of cold sweat that was beginning to edge its way down Sanada's brow...

"Yukimu—mmf—"

Sanada's racket clattered to the ground.

In the stands, under his favourite purple silk canopy, Atobe Keigo arched an eyebrow. Nothing surprised Ore-sama anymore.

Tezuka Kunimitsu blinked once and then very thoughtfully averted his eyes.

Tachibana Kippei's brow furrowed slightly then cleared, just before he shot one quelling look at a mumbling Ibu Shinji.

Mizuki Hajime first looked shocked, then recovered the next split second to lean forward with sparkling eyes and a sly smile as he whipped out his trusty digital camera and contemplated blackmail material...

Niou Masaharu, Saeki Kojirou and Sengoku Kiyosumi wolf-whistled and cat-called, halted abruptly, then slung their arms around one another's necks, and began whistling loudly and successfully something that sounded too much like The Wedding March to be anything else.

Kirihara Akaya fainted.

Thus it was that on an unusually hot day in early August, on a lavish estate belonging to one Atobe Keigo somewhere in Tokyo, that Yukimura Seiichi stole Sanada Genichirou's first kiss on a tennis court in front of some thirty pairs of inquisitive eyes and under the auspices of The Wedding March.

Title: Omake

Atobe Keigo had decided to employ the Wedgwood Cornucopia service, a white-and-gold service which stood out quite well against the elegant mahogany furnishings and fittings of the room, and matched the blue and gold upholstery very nicely indeed. Also, on a more practical note, the Wedgwood Cornucopia was much more replaceable than the Royal Crown Derby Ashbourne service that Atobe himself was using. Two of the housemaids passed by, bearing ornate silver trays of Wedgewood Cornucopia teacups and saucers, tall teapots of hot chocolate (Valrhona brand, because Atobe Keigo served only the best), Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee, pu-erh tea (highest-grade and exceedingly expensive) and freshly-squeezed orange juice. Another two housemaids brought up the rear, bearing trays of cut crystal tumblers, bottles of Coca-Cola, and cans of Ponta and other soft drinks.

"Atobe, you do spoil us," murmured Fuji Syuusuke, happily lacing his teacup of hot chocolate with marshmallows and liberal dollops of wasabi. "Tezuka, would you like to try some pu-erh tea? I hear Atobe had it specially hand-picked and flown in from Yunnan."

Tezuka Kunimitsu swiftly laid hold of Fuji's straying hand and pushed it far, far away from the teapot of pu-erh tea. "Thank you. I can help myself."

"Wasabi?" Fuji offered, with a winning smile.

"Eh, Fujiko…" Kawamura Takashi, who was standing just behind Fuji, began to look extremely nervous, his eyes darting from his ex-captain to the ex-Seigaku tensai.

"No, thank you." Tezuka carefully ensured that his teacup was well out of reach of Fuji by keeping a firm grip on it and gave Kawamura a reassuring smile.

Across the table from Tezuka and Fuji, Inui Sadaharu and Yanagi Renji exchanged amused glances.

"Yukimura looks preternaturally pleased with himself—as well he should be." Inui Sadaharu sipped from his eight-thousand-yen teacup, perched atop a six-thousand-yen saucer. "Renji, how many years has he been angling after Sanada?"

Yanagi pursed his lips. "Probably since junior high, though I think his intentions didn't turn romantic until high school."

Meanwhile, Saeki Kojirou had been flipping through a stack of photographs. He let out a low whistle as he stared at one particular photograph. "Yo, Syuusuke… did you Photoshop this? I think I see tongue. "

Niou Masaharu and Sengoku Kiyosumi all but fell over themselves as they sprawled in ungainly fashion all over Saeki's shoulders.

"Where?"

"Let's blow up the photo!"

"Ooh, I see tongue! I see tongue!"

There was a dull thud as Kirihara Akaya fainted.

Fuji Syuusuke fairly beamed over the rim of his teacup. "Oh, I was in an excellent position." He turned his head slightly. "Speaking of which—Atobe, where have you put our Golden Couple of the Moment?"

Atobe sniffed haughtily. "I have not put them anywhere. Doubtless they are cavorting somewhere. I only hope they do so discreetly."

Kirihara, who had just recovered, looked distinctly green at the gills. "Ca…cavorting?"

"Kissing and suchlike," explained Niou, looking up for a moment. "Maybe more." He looked hopeful. "Atobe, you have close-circuit television everywhere, right? I want to see your security videos later!"

Kamio Akira, who was tentatively sipping away from his teacup (he hadn't dared to take a can of soft drink, in case he insulted Atobe), nearly choked.

Shishido Ryou, who had been sampling Coca-Cola straight from the bottle, paused to snort a laugh. "What, you think Atobe's really going to let you view all that 'kissing and suchlike' for free? This is pay-per-view—"

"Shishido-san!" interrupted Ohtori Choutarou with a warning look.

Niou launched himself at Shishido, whose bottle of Coca-Cola promptly threatened to upend itself.

"My carpet!" roared Atobe.

Yagyuu Hiroshi, far from the madding crowd in his little corner, considered the situation from his vantage point and decided not to intervene. He was playing an excellent hand of poker against Momoshiro Takeshi, Kaidoh Kaoru, Jackal Kuwahara, Bunta Marui and Akutagawa Jirou, and there was no way he was going to give up a royal flush.

"Genichirou is too proper for that," commented Yanagi placidly, ignoring the escalating fracas and absently watching Echizen Ryoma edge away hastily from a poleaxed Kirihara and move towards the poker table. "And I think Seiichi respects that."

Saeki looked up with interest. "That proper, huh? So does the kiss mean that Sanada thinks they're engaged?"

Somewhere, Kirihara gave a little twitch and then fainted dead away for the third time that day.

Yanagi, barely keeping a straight face, answered Saeki as mildly as he could. "Probably."

Saeki stared. "Whoa. So, does that makes Yukimura-san happy?"

Yanagi shook his head. "Not until he sees the ring."

"Not until he has their marriage registered," put in Inui with a grin.

"Not until the honeymoon!" cheered Sengoku, grasping very quickly the line of logic.

"Not until their first child!" Niou sang out gleefully, having disentangled himself from Shishido not five seconds before. He raised Shishido's half-full bottle of Coca-Cola. "To Mr. and Mrs. Sanada!" he shouted.

"To Mr. and Mrs. Yukimura!" hollered Sengoku, not to be outdone.

Atobe rolled his eyes.

Sometimes, it was like being back in junior high all over again. The same cheeky faces, the same loud mouths, the same idiots who'd go to war over who could eat burgers faster—really, sometimes he had to marvel at the saintliness of his nature, putting up with this bunch of—

"Atobe."

Atobe glanced up. "Oshitari."

Oshitari Yuushi slid one hand into his pocket. "Good party."

Atobe flapped one hand in an expansive gesture. "Naturally. It is all part of Ore-sama's bountiful nature and unparalleled planning skills. Isn't that so, Kabaji?"

"Usu."

Somewhere, a voice began warbling none too tunefully.

Atobe frowned. "Did you let Gakuto turn on the karaoke function in the home theatre system again?"

Oshitari just smiled. "It keeps him happy."

"It keeps my ears unhappy," growled Atobe. "Can't you find some other way of keeping him occupied? Buy him a Harley-Davidson or something?"

"You have a bountiful nature," Oshitari needled, with a grin. "And I'm buying Gakuto something else. Come on, Atobe. We always end your tennis parties this way. It's tradition. Besides, you'll get to sing later—you always do."

Atobe sniffed. "As if Ore-sama wants to."

Oshitari chuckled. "What, and miss the chance to let us hear your beautiful voice? Don't worry, Gakuto won't sing for more than five minutes and the Kisarazu twins are up next, so your ears will be quite happy then."

Already, people were beginning to throng the corner of the room.

Hey! Hey! Hey!

Gyouretsu ni naranda. Sunzen made kite urikireta!Sore wa nai da ROCK ROCK ROCK!

HAMBURGER SHOP de PICKLES nuiteru yatsu wo mita!

Nokosazutabe! ROCK ROCK ROCK!

Atobe drank the last of his Darjeeling tea quietly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Hiyoshi Wakashi and Ibu Shinji break off their staring match and drift in the direction of the music. Most of former Rokkaku and SeiRuu were already there, joining in the raucous chorus. The poker game had just folded, and Momoshiro was leading the stampede over to the singing, shoving a reluctant Echizen and a somewhat indignant Kaidoh ahead of him. Someone had spilled Coca-Cola (or maybe hot chocolate, or coffee, or Ponta—could be anything, really) in his haste; perhaps it would be well to have ordinary carpet laid over every time he had guests. It was the third Persian carpet he had ruined this year.

Atobe permitted himself the luxury of a sigh.

Yes, it was exactly like junior high all over again. Well, let them sing for now. It was good, after all, to be in junior high again, if only for a little while.

Just for a little while longer…