Summary: Maybe, just maybe, it's all about the tennis?

Disclaimer: Konomi Takeshi owns Prince of Tennis and the follow-up of Shin Tennis no Ōji-sama, which I pay tribute to… by not attempting to inflict Inui-like juices on my family, with zero profit from exercising the muses.

A/N: There's a lot of bad PoT fanfiction out there. Horrendous to read but very useful to experience, when poking fun at any of it. Former pen name is Lil' Monk, which is going to be handy later. This first chapter was published on 12 April 2009, when the manga chapters were just coming out.

Referring to Echizen Ryōma throughout the story by either Echizen (family name) or Ryōma (personal name) has a certain connotation here, in terms of degree of personal perception. Or in short: How and when it gets a bit more personal for Ochibi.

Clash of the Cs

What would you expect a team of excited Middle School tennis players to do, in their first evening at the U-17 National Candidates Selection Camp?

Sitting around the remnants of nine dinner trays at the fancy mess hall, no one could come up with anything. Everybody was too restless to go back to their rooms. Any suggestion with a racket had already been mooted, because nobody could agree on what to do with that. Furthermore, the most prolifically reticent of them all was being more reticent than usual (if that was even possible). So naturally, the loudest and most persistent won.

'I've got it! Let's go to the computer lab, nya!'

'But the computer lab is supposed to be closed until tomorrow, Kikumaru-senpai.'

'Don't be such a wet blanket, Momoshiro. You never know. We can quickly check it out,' was Oishi's helpful contribution. And with that backup, it was settled.

'C'mon, guys!' was punctuated with an acquiescent and smiling Fuji being hauled out of his seat by the acrobatic half of the Golden Pair, who dragged the unresisting tensai towards the exit.

Pushing the glasses further up his nose, Inui Sadaharu was quick to follow and take the lead. He had noticed how Hyōtei Gakuen had been behaving rather oddly after their tensai whispered something to an acrobatic partner, who then whispered something to the next guy, and so on. As one, they had left the mess hall rather quickly after dinner. This was a good chance to figure out what was going on with their rivals, and the temptation of gaining useful data could not be resisted.

So off they trundled, down long plain hallways illuminated with fluorescent white lights from high ceiling. Kikumaru was nearly choking an indulgent Fuji while bouncing behind Inui. Oishi smiled from behind at his partner's exuberance, while having a conversation with Kawamura Takashi about the drama "Love Shuffle". Momoshiro Takeshi kept a firm arm around Echizen while regaling him with what had happened, ever since he'd left for America. Kaidō Kaoru nearly jammed himself between them so as not to lose out to his rival where positioning was concerned, hence getting into a heated exchange of insults with Momoshiro. Tezuka Kunimitsu was at the rear and apparently deep in thought, while Echizen was rolling his eyes at his seniors' antics while wondering if his captain had more facial expressions than himself.

Wandering around a few corners and guessing with a few turns later, the data maestro was recalculating the odds of success over retracing his steps with the previous two twists, when a sharp elbow dug into his side. He had to resist a groan. Why did his junior Kaidō have to have such bony elbows? But it was Kikumaru's super-sharp senses that drove the point home.

'Ooh, there's a faint light from under that door! Did you hear that funny sound?'

A hush fell over the whole team. Now they were all curious. The small metal plaque affixed next to the nondescript black door said "Library". Quieter than snoozing cats, the door was opened, and everyone snuck in single-file.

The sight which greeted them was confusing.

If it was possible for an incredibly supercilious smirk to be even more radiantly annoying than usual, Atobe Keigo had obviously perfected it. He seemed very amused at his teammates, who all appeared to be stuck in various throes of some sort. A red-faced Shishido Ryō was flat on his back, clutching his stomach and gasping. One would have thought he was pregnant. His doubles partner Ōtori Chōtarō was sprawled on the floor and clinging to a chair leg, head flung back as tears streamed down his face between snorts. Akutagawa Jirō was anything but sleepy, yelping with laughter at the reactions of those two. A grim-faced Hiyoshi Wakashi on bowed legs appeared to be gripping the chair head for support and was muttering in a somewhat distressed manner about 'Gekokujou can't be like that!'

Kabaji had obviously passed out, nose bloody and hand clapped across his mouth. Mukahi Gakuto's eyes were as round as moons, staring at the captain in the chair, wearing an expression almost nobody could decipher. The one in the chair could have done so, but he had just come to the most important part of the exercise, and Gakuto's expressions were always irrelevantly overdone in his perceptions. It was time to ask the golden question.

'And the moral of the story is?'

'There are morals in that pigswill?' exclaimed Gakuto, still a tad green around non-existent gills and liable to throw up at any moment.

Jirō was quick to chime in with 'Tomato relish can be useful and tasty?'

'Perverted seniors enjoy breaking brains for nothing?' That barb earned Hiyoshi a quick swat on the head, as well as a benevolent smile from Oshitari Yūshi.

'No. It means you must trounce opponents so thoroughly that they cannot be considered rivals, thereby avoiding the creation of future nightmares like the ones you've just read. Speaking of opponents..." The tensai of Hyōtei Gakuen swivelled around in the chair to match stares with the new arrivals.

Momoshiro rubbed his nose. 'Ah, are we interrupting something?' And then he, like the other Seigaku regulars, realised one thing: The majority of Hyōtei Gakuen's tennis regulars were focused on the smallest menace in their team. But what made the scenario weird was the way they were looking at him. And an inexplicable tension. The room appeared to be heating up. There was unity in-

'It's your fault, you brat!' exploded Shishido, frazzled nerves loaded in every word.

'But senpai, it was Atobe-buchou who first used the cucumber in their relationship-'

"You wanna argue with me, Chōtarō-kun? Let's take this outside-"

'Cucumber, nya? What are you impl-' piped a curious Kikumaru Eiji, looking from one of Hyotei's famed doubles player to the other.

'Sorry, senpai, I shouldn't have-' gasped Chōtarō, reaching one hand out to his senior partner.

'No, it's my fault, I didn't have to blow-' muttered Shishido, looking ashamed and tenderly grasping his junior partner's hand, as if to-

'Could you both blow yourselves outside and spare us the sap?' wailed Hiyoshi, sounding completely unlike Atobe Keigo's prime choice of being Hyōtei Gakuen's next captain to lead more than 200 players to national victory.

'Er, Eiji, I don't think we want to know,' Oishi smoothly interjected at the same time, starting to look a little off-colour himself. This was what came of being too concerned for his fellow teammates: The imagination also became too healthy for its own good.

Mukahi Gakuto was not so accommodating, and more than willing to spread and increase discomfort since he reckoned their most-annoying opponents did not need mercy. 'Yeah, but when your brat grasped the cactus, he didn't have to-'

By this time, Fuji Syūsuke and Echizen Ryōma were pushing their way through the other school's players to find out what was on that computer screen; the genius being determined to find out why cacti were involved, while the prodigy could not contain curiosity starting to smoke at the edges.

And Hyōtei Gakuen's tensai was only too willing to accommodate, by scrolling up and down at will.

A minute passed in absolute silence. By this time, all the other Seigaku members tried muscling in to get a spot and figure out what was going on.

Blue eyes had darkened to an ominous shade. Hazel eyes were now so bright that they were almost golden, gleaming dangerously. Everybody else was gaping, spluttering or muttering inaudibly to themselves so nobody else could hear. Ryōma was the first to make a statement. 'Ridiculous.'

If a cobra could spit, the saliva would be as venomous as the boy who turned away from the computer, mouth set in a thin line. 'I beat the Monkey King, so this rubbish makes no sense.'

And with those words, there went Fuji Syūsuke's notion of exacting justice for a poorly-used cactus (until later), as described by the fanfiction writer Lil' Monk. Nevermind the appalling involvement of cactus juice; the grossness of its ordeal screamed out to him for vengeance in the form of one of Inui's juices being forced down the throat of such a perverse writer. And damn the story for flooding his brain with enough erotic images to render it a muddled mess. But he was unreadable, he was a genius, and he was not about to reveal any weakness… And he went with whatever first came to mind. Nobody expected him to look at the youngest player present with an indescribably mild expression, head shaking slightly and flashing a smile so gentle, Echizen found it condescendingly offensive.

'Ochibi, you're so innocent. That's just... just...'

'Too cute!' yelled Eiji, glomping his junior with an enthusiasm threatening to give Echizen Ryōma's neck an hourglass figure it didn't need. Oishi had to pry him off, as said junior began to choke and cough while flailing for air. Almost staggering, Echizen found his back against someone, being steadied by two hands on his shoulders. He did not like how Oshitari Yūshi was eyeing him with a disturbing satisfaction.

'Indeed, he doesn't know…' murmured Hyōtei Gakuen's resident genius, smugly pushing spectacles up the nose to stare even harder at the upstart pipsqueak he had no fondness for.

'That in the world of fanfiction and irrespective of all else, the taller guy usually tops the shorter one, hence seme and uke. Hear that, Uke Boy?' hissed Gakuto, enjoying himself immensely. There might be a silver lining after all. It was galling how nobody in Hyōtei could beat the midget, and their captain had yet to be avenged for the wonderbrat shaving his head. The joy of knowing this shorty had never read fanfiction was deliciousssssssss.

'That means everyone- Even Jirō tops him?' squeaked Hiyoshi. Jirō would have laughed at usually forceful solemnity now as scruffy as a strangled toilet brush, except for the vivid stream of action which just popped into his mind. It was too much. Since he wasn't sleepy, he did the next best thing.

He fainted. And landed on top of an unconscious teammate who couldn't object to cushioning his fall.

Atobe's smirk widened. He was used to all sorts of adoration from his fans, and fanfiction was nothing new to him. But apparently his poor squad did not, and their amazing Oshitari had decided to use that knowledge to inspire them to beat everybody they met in this selection camp. It never occurred to him such logic might not be that logical and in fact, somewhat twisted. Ah, the price of popularity. He knew within the Hyōtei tennis squad, his name was googled the most times. Such data was unchangeable. And speaking of data…

'Ii, data? Despite verbal cockiness, is it even possible to do that with his mouth and tongue?' A traumatised Inui wondered out loud to nobody, but it was enough for Tezuka to go into a fit of sneezing. And that was the last straw.

'Get your hands off me, Momo-senpai,' escaped coldly from between gritted teeth. Eyeing them all, his ire was fierce enough to fry the sun. Hyōtei was full of perverts. And how could his seniors not- He was only interested in tennis balls. His dad's adult porno magazines were- He did not want to think about the crap he'd just read, about Atobe and- Or the possibility of other fanfiction pieces pairing various players with him- The notion made him sick to his stomach and he managed to suppress the gag reflex, but not the shudder. And he forced himself not to think further on it.

'Che. It's fine if guys like other guys, but leave me out!'

Nobody had ever seen the officially-unbeaten champion crack. He was always unperturbed and quiet except when snarky, plus only ever displaying emotion for tennis. He usually exemplified determination, arrogance, subtle kindness and many various shades of grey, but never anything blatantly black or white or red. Until now. The inner armour had remained soundly intact, irrespective of how the outer armour was battered and healed. But for the first time, everybody present was prepared to swear that maybe, this new crack-line extended a bit further than usual.

Eiji whispered to Oishi, 'Is he homophobic?'

To which Oishi whispered back, 'He's too young to be homophobic. From what we've seen, even a cactus would be more sexual.'

Kaidō had hissed, 'Doesn't save him from the paedophilic perverts.'

Momoshiro couldn't resist asking, 'Aren't paedophiles perverts, anyway? And how would you know about that?' which Kaidō took to be an insult, resulting in verbal fisticuffs for Fuji to mediate between.

Inui was suddenly very interested in making sure his glasses were perfectly balanced on his nose, down to the last millimetre. Tezuka was just as engrossed in the same action. They ended up glaring at each other for being copycats. Kawamura said nothing. He was already blissfully unaware on the floor with a nosebleed, after reading half of the story.

And as expected, Hyōtei's captain always had the answer, even though it was doubtful if he was aiming for the same bulls-eye or was aware of any bulls-eye. 'Nothing's disgusting, brat. Ore-sama's magnetism simply transcends gender and age.'

'Great. Then keep your cucumber away from my cactus, Monkey King. Preferably in Antarctica.'

Sincerity versus sarcasm was a draw in this instance, the balance tipped only by arrogance. And in this case, Atobe had more of it. Topped with a Grade A+++ smirk.

The result was wiped out by an irked Echizen firing off one last potshot at him, pricking his pride and unintentionally stinging almost everybody present. 'Besides, I'm only interested in those I haven't beaten. Mada mada dane.'

And with that bite of bitter relish, the Seigaku prodigy strode towards the exit and stormed out. None of Seigaku's other players were certain of whether to follow or just leave him alone. After all, they'd never experienced the flare of animosity that he'd displayed just now, which resulted in musical statues.

'Even the author's end-notes that it's a parody with everything just being a dream is lost on him, isn't it? Or did he fail to read that?' sighed Hyōtei Gakuen's tensai.

'Shut up, Yūshi. You've gone too far.'

'Hey Gakuto, you were the one that called him 'Uke Boy', remember? Uh, where's-'

'Atobe-buchou going?' exclaimed Chōtarō, watching his captain's back vanish out the door.

Quickly running one hand through his hair, Fuji sighed. It might be better to try and make Echizen feel less rattled by the entire episode, but later. After all, given what Horio-kun told him about their classes, he wouldn't be surprised if their little pillar had slept through biology and sex education. And when all was said and done, an Echizen oblivious and inexperienced to many things outside of tennis was too young to read that type of fiction about himself without freaking out.

Damn the library.

How dare he? A volcano had erupted in his chest. Atobe Keigo was furious. He had taken many things in stride. Being beaten by a brat was one thing. His head being shaven was another thing. Gakuto exchanging the school flag with his Armani pinstriped boxer shorts was another thing. Being told by said talented brat he was not worthy of interest as a rival anymore, in front of his team? Unforgivable. He was not Atobe Keigo, if he did not make this bratty simpleton realise how wrong being a simpleton was. Oddly enough, the memory of certain expressions on a few Seigaku regulars hovered at the back of his mind, refusing to go away.

What the Hyōtei captain didn't know was that he wasn't the only one remembering the hurt on the faces of Momoshiro Takeshi, Kaidō Kaoru and Oishi Shuichiro, and the discomfort this awareness caused to Seigaku's youngest player. The Hyōtei captain also did not know Echizen Ryōma had experienced guilt twinges at leaving abruptly three days after the Nationals without informing his teammates, whereby the only solution seemed to be gaining some space until everything was sane enough to a certain someone's rationale for possibly undertaking an apology. Preferably tonight, before the shuffle matches started tomorrow.

But that wasn't THE problem. The Hyōtei captain also would not have known the fanfiction written by Lil' Monk had reminded Echizen Ryōma of it. Maybe it was the milk. Maybe it was the return to/from America. Maybe- Ryōma was used to Samurai Nanjirō's addiction to the porno magazines, and usually ignored the pulp trash after one glance. But lately, he had done something unusual. After winning the Nationals and in America, he'd found himself leafing through a discarded magazine copy more than a year old. And the models no longer seemed big or scary or comical or ridiculously proportioned. They were- He was unable to look away from the explicit poses that revealed too much body parts. And before he knew it, he was at the last page.

And he detested himself. Something had stirred uncomfortably, making him instinctively cross his legs and sit there until the oddly stiff but restless feeling wore off. After that, for two nights in a row, Ryōma greeted the sunrise with two anomalies: rumpled sheets and sticky stains on his underwear. He couldn't remember what he had dreamed about, if he ever had any dreams in the first place. And girls were no longer completely repellent, with him going so far as to watch a rock-influenced chick with a sexy grunge look cross the street in the Bronx, before he caught himself. Was this part of growing up? Was this a sign of the hormones and puberty his irritating dad had always yakked about?

Fuck, he did not want this. He had just found himself in tennis, and now life had decided to throw another screwball his way? Two things were clear in his immediate future: More laundry and a lot of venting through tennis. No more of his dad's magazines. And no way in hell would he get topped. If anyone was doing any topping, it would be him. But that was completely irrelevant. He was Prince of Tennis. He would devote himself to-

'Hoi, brat!'

There was no pause, upon hearing the Hyōtei Gakuen captain addressing him. In fact, he sped up.

'Coward, Echizen Ryōma!'

That mocking tone was reason enough to slam on the brakes. Spinning around, the shorter boy glared at the other like a swatter with a fly. They were almost at the end of the long corridor, sizing each other up like infectious diseases. Dark blue and hazel clashed, blinked and held. Ryōma struck first. 'Go back to babysitting your squad, Monkey King.'

But Atobe was unfazed. His rival was feistier than normal, which usually spoke of uneasiness. Oh yes, his insight was never wrong. Well, apart from the time when he'd walked in on Shishido and Chōtarō after their mock wrestling match in the locker room and assumed the worst. They'd both yelled at him.

'Buchou! You pervert! Give Kabaji-kun a foot massage and see what we say about it, alright?'

Ordering both to do a hundred laps around the tennis court did nothing to salvage a bruised ego. But right now, it was not his bruised ego on his mind. It was the hurt faces of certain Seigaku players, all older than this brat. What came out next was rather unexpected. 'After you apologise to your seniors for your choice of words, brat.'

Echizen Ryōma did not accept what he had been told, especially when he had no fondness for Atobe Keigo. This moron obviously didn't understand limits. His temples were starting to throb like the metronome on a piano. A headache appeared unavoidable. Echizen was now severely irritated. He wanted to be alone for the time being. In fact, why had he even bothered to stop? 'None of your business. You've got some nerve to try to boss me.'

Oh yes, one more thing- 'And don't use my name!'

The taller teenager stepped closer, not flinching despite the heated dynamo in front of him. He was used to calling the shots and being obeyed, even if insolent pests didn't know better. And he would wager that this brat had stopped not because of the name, but the label before it. Being ordered by someone younger and dumber than him was too rich. And that is when he noticed the shape of hostility framed by sparse but long lashes, almost feminine in curvature and especially at the corners. Those eyes narrowed dangerously like a cat about to claw, changing the shade from a subdued stubbornness to- Shaking his head, one hand shoved the boy against the wall.

A wicked idea had just taken hold. Uncapping the water bottle he had filched earlier from Jirō, Atobe Keigo took a sip, swished the liquid around in his mouth and then swallowed.

'Do you know who you're talking to, Echizen Ryōma? Ore-sama doesn't listen to a brat like you, Echizen Ryōma. In fact, Echizen Ry-ō-ma-'

They both stared at each other; Atobe because he was surprised at Echizen Ryōma, and Ryōma because he was surprised at himself, and what he was suddenly thinking of.

Karupin. He missed Karupin. He missed stroking the cat's head, holding him in his lap, rubbing that plump belly until she purred louder than the sprinklers in the neighbour's garden. He missed the comfort derived from such simple delights. And ever since he'd been to America, he hadn't seen Karupin because- The way Monkey King said his name reminded him.

He was reminded of stroking and cuddling, mewing sweetly. He was reminded of smooth serenity, silky comfort wrapping itself around him, leaving a pleasantly warm lump in his chest. Secure and soft and safe, unless he fell asleep holding the cat and accidentally rolled over to squash his beloved pet, which resulted in a few scratches that were laughed at. At this point, the lump was in his throat. And he had to resist the urge to be patted on the head or scratched between the ears, or something similar. What was he thinking? At this rate he would turn INTO Karupin.

And it was unnerving. For a moment, he wanted to be Karupin. What was that? The realisation that he had found his voice (Of! All! People!) alluring enough to want to-

A certain somebody invading his private space mentally and physically + unsettlement from reading *!* = lashing out = salve.

'You freak. Don't do that thing with your voice!'

For twenty seconds, Atobe Keigo was speechless. If he didn't know better... He could have been seeing someone without makeup. Bare. Wistful. Eyes widening before misting over, chin losing defiance and mouth drifting opening slightly... A spot had been hit, but the brat did not appear to be seeing him. Damnit! What was the fixation with this guy's eyes? Why did this not-so-expressive brat suddenly have such expressive eyes? That lightly shrill protest shattered odd musing. Possible hysteria. Definitely flustered. Insults getting weaker. The upper hand was his. Oh yes. Hm. Hmm. Hmmm. How to get the brat fired up enough to want to play against him again? The diabolic urge was not yet fully exorcised. And he went with it.

'Don't do what, Echizen Ryōma?'

And the pillar of Seigaku was anything but steady, feeling more like Quaker oats. What was Monkey King up to, making his voice slower and deeper and using emphasis that sounded like running cream? Talk about low blows. And why the hell was it getting on his nerves so fast? Flashbacks of what he'd read in the library shot through his mind, and he grimaced. His body felt funny, as if it was trying to crawl and run at the same time, the skin being too tight to contain pin-prickling stretchiness beneath. It suddenly made him uneasy to be in unwanted limelight. If Hyōtei Gakuen was a pimp squad, Atobe Keigo was qualified to lead. This one was standing too close, an uncomfortable gleam in dark eyes. He had enough craziness for one day. He was bailing, no matter how undignified it seemed. This situation was icky. It was-

Sweet. Grape.

Eh? Ehh? EHHHHHHHHHH?

It had been less than five seconds. Eyes opening, one devilish narcissist was rewarded with the owlish unblinking stare of a frozen target. Straightening up, he turned on his heel and strode off, laughter welling out loud and long. That experiment was tasteless but oddly reminiscent of crepe paper made from rose petals. And oh, the glee of-

'ATOBE PIMPHO, I WILL POUND YOU IN THE DIRT WITH MY TENNIS!'

Laughter subsiding into satisfaction and rounding the corner, the heir to the Atobe Conglomerate was smirking with success and easily ignored Echizen's English slurs. In turn, Echizen recovered fast enough to get to the end of the corridor and head in the opposite direction of the one who'd baited him, one hand savagely swiping across his lips. They both missed the sight of a certain bespectacled voyeur collapsing in a melodramatically undignified heap with a disbelieving murmur of 'Iie, dataaaa-' just outside the library, as well as the boy next to him.

If looks could kill, Fuji Syūsuke would have slain Mizuki right after their match. As it was, he'd just discovered that he found someone more despicable than the unethical captain from Saint Rudolph who had tried to ruin Yūta's shoulder. And the most disturbing thing was... he himself could not understand why.

At least he knew why a sullen and aloof Echizen Ryōma glared so fiercely at Atobe Keigo, whenever they encountered each other over the next few days. But what he didn't know was why their junior (who could probably stare down a tiger) could not hold that one's gaze for long. And Seigaku's greatest trump card refused to even acknowledge the incident(s) inside and outside the library. Why?

And why did he care?

Sometimes, not even a prodigal genius could know everything.

End notes: Rikkai Dai Fuzoku Chūgakkō's Yukimura Seiichi gets girlified/uke-like and OOC too much for my liking. Hm, what would he do, if he ever got to spend some personal time with Echizen Ryōma? And how would that happen, at this camp? Ah, that thing about cats gives me an idea...