A/N: An AU WIP that will be updated when the muse strikes. So please review? Feedback is loved. Oh, and it's Royal.

Disclaimer: No, I don't own Prince of Tennis. And no, I don't own Romeo and Juliet.

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The studio head almost pitied the poor fool who would have to play Atobe Keigo's love interest. The man was an attention whore, if you could forgive the language; he was arrogant, rich, spoiled, narcissistic, and—

"Talented," put in his assistant, who happened to be of the female gender. "And absolutely gorgeous."

He had to agree to that, but it was reluctantly, mind you. Atobe was the studio's only big name actor, and as much as he secretly detested the pompous young man, it was all he had. He needed another actor who could share the top billing with Atobe; this would deflate his ego, the director thought.

Another male was preferable. He'd tried to find the female starlets to sign on, but Atobe took advantage of them all, and they left, whining, crying, because they had thought he was their one and only, and this was never the case.

The director might have been stern and said a few choice words to the man, but he had, unfortunately, the influence of the name of Atobe. Besides which, his family had helped fund the studio's very humble beginnings, and this Atobe would never let the man forget this. He also never wasted an opportunity to remind the director just how invaluable he was to the studio—as much as the director hated it, it was the sad truth.

But another actor—a male at that—would take something away. Atobe was decidedly heterosexual, and he wouldn't possibly lay hands on the newcomer. Of course, that newcomer had to be somewhat talented too, because as much as Atobe would hate to see someone shine as much as him, he wouldn't have liked much for that someone dragging himself down as well.

The tragedy of Romeo and Juliet had been revisited countless times in the cinematic world, but that is why there were twists. And in this case, there would no Juliet, and instead, she would be replaced with a Julio.

Since Atobe had given his go-ahead (a rather rare occurrence too), there was no turning back now. Of the available actors to play Julio, none would be found in this studio. Ever since Shishido Ryou quit a few months back to leave for another studio, the director had lost his number two man. And Atobe absolutely, absolutely refused to work with Gakuto after that disaster a couple of years ago concerning that scene mix-up. So Gakuto, who had become the number two name after Shishido's departure, was out for this.

And Oshitari Yuushi, the recruiting agent, was out on vacation again with his supposed 'true love' for the millionth time. It was a brunette, he'd said before his departure, and he liked brunettes, especially those with long legs. He was sure that she was going to be the one, but the director had heard that one before. Many, many times before, he could even add.

Thus, the director thought, the best and only solution was to find someone new. For he was sure that of all of the people in this world, there had to be someone who could stand Atobe.

A long, arduous process. The search began with thousands of hopefuls, and the good majority of them were dismissed at the first glance.

"Too wide," the director said. Or else he said, "Too short," or "Too low of a voice," or "Too quiet," or, worst of all, "Too ugly."

He was merciless in his words—which he had to be, of course—and it was not uncommon to see these former hopefuls leave the studio with eyes full of tears. "I've sympathy for them," said the director's assistant, "if not for my job, I might be one of them."

"Quit yakking," returned Atobe, "and go give the old man his drink or something."

She heaved a soft sigh, but there was nothing to be done. If you didn't listen to Atobe, he would be sure to have a hand in having you fired. Besides which, if he did talk to you, it meant that you existed, and there weren't many people who could be accounted for in that category.

Day in and day out, this was what the director spent his time doing. Atobe came once every few hours to check up on the process, even though he claimed he didn't care one bit. Some applicants were lucky enough to perform a few lines in front of him, but if the director was tough, then, well, Atobe was a drill sergeant.

"Shut up," he would say, "why is that voice ending up so high?"

More hopefuls went home in tears. The tissue box count shot up for the month. The director sighed. Atobe sneered.

And they were nowhere near close to finding that next movie star.

Echizen Ryoma sighed partly because he was tired, but mostly because he did not want to be here. He'd never been one for movies, had never liked watching movies much, so he wondered how Momoshiro used that logic to sign him up for an audition.

"You're a natural at acting!" he provided. "Always scowling and saying 'mada mada dane', you know? It could be a movie catchphrase!"

And then Momoshiro left him there, saying that he didn't want to disturb his acting thoughts—whatever that meant—he was sure that Ryoma would do great, and break a leg! He was signed in by the tired-looking young woman at the front who only said to him: "Get back there and wait for your name."

It seemed easy enough, he thought, as he joined tens of other people in a stuffy waiting room. There were young people like him, there were older people who must have convinced themselves to be late-bloomers to have the guts to come here. There were vain young men who ogled at themselves in a mirror as if they were a girl.

He sighed again. The movie industry was all fake anyway. The best course of action to take was to simply bomb whatever he would be forced to do, and then he could return to the tennis courts to play tennis with Momoshiro. And like hell if Ryoma was going to take it easy on him today. He'd show that big, big git what would happen if he crossed his wrath.

So he was in the midst of imagining himself hitting yet another unreturnable serve when his name was called.

"Echizen Ryoma! Number 243!"

He started up, followed the general direction of where the voice had come from. It was the same girl who'd signed him earlier. She had a weary smile as she said, "Here, dear, this way please."

Looking extremely disheartened, he must have been a strange person to the girl. Everyone else was enthusiastic, cheerfully offering their future lifestyles in the high-scale industry, but here he was: giving off the impression that he was at a funeral.

The man who introduced himself as director took one look at Ryoma and said, "The first fit-looking guy in hundreds. I'm liking you already."

Ryoma was taken aback by this frank confession. He would learn later that people in the business liked to talk like this—it made them feel powerful. "I play tennis," he offered.

"Tennis, huh? Oh good, good. Atobe—the cocky brat that struts around here like it's his own (even if it partly is, but don't tell anyone that)—he plays tennis too. But anyway," he coughed. "Well, what'd ya got?"

"Excuse me?" So far, Ryoma had no idea what he was supposed to do. Smile, act, be yourself!—had been the trash of advice that Momoshiro'd offered.

"I mean," said the director, looking disappointed himself, "act. Do something. Sell yourself, kiddo. And hurry up. I haven't got all day."

"Er," said Ryoma, who still had no idea what to do.

The director sighed impatiently. "Well," he finally said, "just talk. Tell me, what do you like to do?"

"Tennis," Ryoma immediately said, and noticing how bored the director seemed, added, "it's a very enjoyable pastime for me."

"Good job, bright boy," the director said, "now keep going."

Although the jab was mildly annoying, he continued. And somehow, this was how he passed the time, describing every aspect of tennis he could think of. Soon enough, he was no longer thinking about this audition—it was about the mental aspect of that green rectangular court. It was about the battles that were fought there, and there was that question: How far are you willing to go to win?

He kept talking, and the director did nothing to stop until finally he said, "Look kid. I think that's enough for today."

"Does this mean I can go home?" he asked.

"In that you can leave now, yes," the director replied, "but I want you to come back. You hear me? My assistant will give you further instructions, but you will come back. No matter what, okay? You got that, right?"

Somehow, Ryoma said, "Okay," and that was it. When he found the girl, she handed him a card with the address to a studio—"Where we actually work," she clarified—and he left. Momoshiro was outside, waiting for him. "How'd you do?" he eagerly asked.

And when Ryoma answered, "Pretty good," he thought that he sounded much happier than when he first entered the audition. It wouldn't be so bad if he got to talk about tennis after all.

Ryoma did return. Momoshiro had been kicked out at the gate. He'd called out, "Break two legs this time, 'kay?" But when he looked back, Momoshiro was gone.

He continued down, passing by the large sets from previous movies made. There were trailers lazily parked around, hordes of camera crew men shuffling this case of film to its next destination. Overall, it was a very busy atmosphere.

The number of applicants had greatly slimmed down. Ryoma had been one of seventy people chosen to proceed through. As he looked through the reports, he realized that there had been a total of ten thousand people who'd tried out. And he had made it to the next round.

Of course, he didn't bother to kid himself. He didn't even act, he thought, he was just talking, talking about tennis. If he was lucky, he would get kicked out right here, and he wouldn't have to bother about movies ever again.

Yet, he had that determination which carried over from tennis: he didn't like to lose. And as much as he detested the movies, he somehow couldn't bring himself to purposefully fail.

He met the director once again when it came to his turn. "It's harder this time, kid," he said. "We've got everyone lined up there, right on the stage. So do your best, okay?"

Ryoma wondered why the director acted like this towards him. Perhaps if the director had spited him from the very beginning, Ryoma might have had the motivation to mess up intentionally.

There they were—all seventy of them on the stage. Ryoma was number forty-three: he stood between a tall, young boy and a suspicious looking bearded man. He decided to ignore them, it would be better to think less of the others.

(In tennis, you only think about your side of the court. Don't think about your opponent. Play your game, and everything will work out.)

When the director came out, everyone automatically clapped for him. Apparently, Ryoma learned, he was rather famed in his own right, and to have a prominent director appear here was a dream come true to many.

"First off, congratulations to everyone who's made it so far. This isn't easy, I tell you, and I'm not kidding. It really is," he took a breath and coughed. "So. I'll be testing more your acting abilities today. There'll be a few challenges, you could say. And after each challenge, a couple of people will be eliminated.

"I think we'll be going through a couple, so pace yourselves, you all got that?"

Everyone gave one collected nod.

"Good. I'll have my assistant give out the directions for the first."

The girl called Ayano now took the director's place. "Hello to everyone," she began, then looked down at her clipboard. She fidgeted with removing a sheet of paper out, then said, "So, um, we'll be having everyone come up here—one at a time—and you'll just talk. I'll be interviewing you, so for everyone waiting, please be patient. And, so, first up, Nishikawa Den."

One by one, everyone filed off stage, leaving only Nishikawa Den standing. He stepped up to the microphone rather comfortably, as if he'd been here before, and, as it turned out, he had.

Ryoma, along with the others, took their seats down below. They were in, after all, an auditorium. Spacious and well-built, it held all the requirements to be considered one of the best performance centers in Tokyo. The seats were plush and not at all lumpy or hard. But as he held no interest in the so-called interviews, he drifted to sleep, thinking that he'd wake up when his number was called.

It was number forty-two who woke him up. "Hey, hey," he whispered, "get up there! It's your turn."

He woke up, eyes wide open. He took a look around him—everyone, to be sure, was staring at him. "Oh. Right," he grumbled, and began the walk up the stage.

He had to adjust the microphone height; the man who'd gone previously was very tall. Then he looked down at his audience; they seemed to be numbered in the thousands.

Faces, faces, faces. They all stared at him unabashedly, their faces seemed to glow. The dim lighting of the room did not help the situation.

"Echizen Ryoma?" Ayano called out. "Can you hear me?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Good. I'll be starting now. Then, please tell me, Echizen-kun, why have you decided to become an actor?"

And Ryoma froze where he stood, as if he didn't understand what she said. The faces seemed to be glowering at him now; they were daring him to make something up, daring him to say something.

His first thought was to give up. Just say something, anything! But then his mind turned to something else: why not just improvise? It'd show how much of an actor he was, which probably wasn't very much either way, and also, it'd show if he belonged here or not.

Or rather, if he really wanted to be an actor.

(You've got to go out there on that big, green rectangle and decide. . . Just how far you willing to go?)