A/N: Alright guys – I've been so shaky all over FFnet, something I really didn't want to become! But honestly, life just kind of took over, but I've buckled down and decided that hey, I love FFnet, I love my readers, and I don't want to leave them hanging! For those of you waiting on my 'RISING AMBITIONS' story, just wait a little more for the next chapter – and this is the original My Kouhai, Your Kouhai story, that will be entirely rewritten with my now-bettered writing, and perhaps a few more plot twists and definitely, hopefully longer. If you want the previous version of the story, I have it all nice and saved, so just PM me!

Disclaimer: I do not own PoT.

Hyotei Gakuen was a school defined by prestige: its students, its teachers, and even those who simply lived near the school all had one thing in common: a disgusting, sinful amount of wealth. Funded by generous donors and eager parents and all-too successful alumni, Hyotei had the ability to provide the state-of-the-art equipment for each and every artistic need of each and every student.

That being said, its music department was no exception: it was known to student musicians all across Japan that Hyotei Gakuen had perhaps the most enviable resources for the budding musician. Soundproof walls and structures specifically designed to enhance sound dynamics and a plethora of critically acclaimed teachers were only a part of what it had to offer its students, and it went without say that the practice rooms were god-sent gifts when it came to catering to the needs of the especially passionate.

It was in one such room where everything began – room number 21, identical to all other practice rooms save for the brass '2 – 1' hung upon its oak door.

On an ordinary Tuesday, if one happened to walk by the room, one would be caught by the slow, sweet melody singing from within; the tune filled and seeped through the air as fingers danced nimbly across polished black and white keys, moving with a sense of practiced ease. The notes of a genius composer from centuries ago trickled out from the massive instrument, controlled with a natural air of perfection; the player, she was perhaps the most enraptured of all by the music she produced herself.

A small smile – the faintest quirk of her lips, as though it had simply snuck onto her features without her knowing – graced her expression-

-abruptly, the music stopped.

The fingers froze, hovering above the keys, splayed in the position that would have continued the melody. Instead, eyes darted to the watch on her wrist, and horror pooled in her eyes upon tracing the needles to the current time.

…Study hall for third-years had ended ten minutes ago.

Maka-sensei would kill her! It was the third time she was late this week-

-the girl bolted from her seat, scrambling to stuff the black binder from which she'd been reading her notes into her bag. Just as she did, though, a single packet of paper fluttered to the floor. She bent down to pick it up, whereupon her eyes widened once more, and a cross between terror and exasperation flitted over her expression.

'Prokofiev's Third Piano Concerto.'

"Choutarou – Ore-sama is being quite gracious, here. Do you not agree?"

A swift, hurried nod from the tall boy confirmed Atobe's question. Atobe nodded imperiously before continuing. "Ore-sama is hereby allowing you skip practice every Friday from here on out in order to practice for your-" Atobe paused in his self-preening motions, brows raised carelessly. "-what were you doing again?"

Choutarou's eyes, Atobe noted with some amusement, literally lit up, lips stretched in a smile so large he was sure it must physically hurt. Choutarou sat up a little straighter in his chair, though he grimaced at the twang in his back – he had, after all, been frozen in his seat, listening to Atobe explain (in detail) of his generosity for the past fifteen minutes.

"To practice for the concours, buchou!" he murmured excitedly, positively beaming with pride.

Atobe nodded whimsically, with the sort of indulgent interest given a screaming toddler from a mollifying mother.

To Choutarou, however, these 'concours' (more specifically, the Hyotei Annual Music Concours – H.A.M.C.) were quite important, it was easy to see.

Hyotei was a school far above the level of any ordinary middle school; following its tradition of grandeur, the school's music department was considered one of the best in the nation. In the name of 'good fun' – and to simultaneously stress just how good the department was – the school hosted a competition for its music students every year, with divisions based on grade and instrument.

In the end, there were twelve winners – a player from each grade, and instrument family: percussion, wind, brass, and strings.

Choutarou, with his talent at the piano, would be competing in the percussion division for second years.

Nominees and the resulting final participants had been released last week; already, most of them had booked the music rooms for private practice sessions during study hall – and Choutarou, excited (thrilled, really) about it all, had promptly explained it all to his captain. He'd asked, quite tentatively, because this was Atobe-buchou, and who knew what he allowed and what he didn't, if he could perhaps skip a few tennis practices for the next few weeks in order to practice.

All the participants had been announced last week, and most of them had private, self-study sessions during study hall, and had booked one of the music practice rooms for themselves. After all, Hyotei had the facilities to back them up – why not use them?

Atobe, true to his fashion, had shown up in a glorious declaration of his abounding generosity, to inform Choutarou of the days he would be allowed to skip.

Choutarou, of course, was ecstatic – he'd be practicing right now, even, if it wasn't that he was waiting for a certain senpai of his to deliver him the music sheets he'd asked her to acquire for him. She was supposed to have met him a few minutes in front of his room, but she seemed to have forgotten-

Bang-

Atobe paused in his ministrations. What on earth made such an unseemly entrance?

And there, by the open doors, stood a girl whom Atobe noted to be wearing the third-year badge on her cardigan. Wide-eyed with an expression of a sheepish grimace, she clutched a black binder to her chest and an aura of haste to her being; her hair was an absolute frightful mess, drooping hear her elbows, a scramble of darkest black, and her cardigan hung haphazardly open on her shoulders.

Atobe, brows raised and a roll of his eyes ready, was quite ready to inform the plebeian that she was in the wrong, only to widen his eyes when she promptly walked over to Choutarou with a grin and a greeting hug

"Sorry, Chou-chan," she said, and Atobe thought that he must be hearing things at the familiar tone she used with his kouhai. "I was preoccupied."

There were, Atobe concluded upon making a quick review of the happenings in this room, precisely two solutions.

One being, of course, that this girl was Choutarou's senior, judging by the third-year badge and the binder labeled 'Music Sheets' in her arms, and this was all simply a friendly affair.

The second: she was some miserable twat who was wasting Choutarou's time by clinging to him, wasting the precious time that Atobe had given to him.

And Atobe, the reasonable and rational person that he was, came to the conclusion that was obviously correct.

The second.

He could see it all now: third year and pompous and arrogant, she'd lured in Choutarou with her wily smiles and long hair – Choutarou liked long hair, didn't he? (This question had been raised by a fun-seeking Gakuto who had wished to see just how red Choutarou could blush).

Well. This wouldn't do.

No, not at all.

Atobe coughed loudly, and purpose was strung all about the single action. When Choutarou whirled around to face his captain, Atobe was waiting with an elegant brow raised, and watched in pleasure as the other boy's expression mingled into that of realization. "Oh!" he exclaimed, a sweet smile on his lips.

Poor, poor naïve Choutarou, Atobe tsked, eyeing the silver-haired boy through pitying eyes. As his Captain, it was only proper that he protect the young bird from the indecent advances of those like this girl, he affirmed in his mind

…Well, that, and the fact that Choutarou seemed to be smiling brightly at the girl with something akin to adoration twinkling from his eyes – the adoration and respect that is all, completely, rightfully his.

It wouldn't do, not at all, to have Choutarou respect another senpai so much – Atobe believed that everyone on his tennis team should look up to him, and only him. This was, after all, how he kept the team in line; not, of course, that he was being vain, or anything of the sort. Of course not.

Oblivious to his Captain's inner thoughts, Choutarou barreled onwards in a stunning display of excitement: "This is my tennis team Captain, Atobe-buchou, and this is my senpai in the music department – Ayaka-senpai!" Choutarou introduced, with a cheery bob of his head.

And unbeknownst to both Atobe and Choutarou, the so-called 'Touda Ayaka' was having some internal conflicts of her own.

After all, it was Atobe Keigo who stood in front of her now.

Atobe Keigo, the king of the Hyotei kingdom, who had single-handedly established his regime in but a day in his first year. Rome wasn't built in a day, they say, but obviously, they had never met a king like Atobe, who'd have no problem burning Rome to the ground and rebuilding an even bigger empire in half a day. Just a peek into Atobe's features, and Ayaka could swear up and down that she could see the accompanying golden crown and scepter, that she could see the sea of people behind him, bowed down to the emperor above them all.

And, well, as humiliating as it was, Ayaka had been one of the other thousand girls who had found Atobe Keigo immensely charming and beautiful and perfect, a real life render of the fairy tale Prince Charming. That is, she had, in her first year at the school.

Who could blame her, though? In all the foreign air and newly-expanded campus of middle school's first year, Atobe Keigo had waltzed in as though he were the lord of them all; wealth, prestige, and a famous name dangled carelessly from his fingertips like edges to the sword he'd use to conquer the land, and the accompanying smirk had seemed just so cool back then.

Add the fact that he obliterated the then-regulars of the tennis team and planted himself as the new leader of the entire club, and he really was like a living legend.

And then Ayaka had grown older and wiser and a bit more sensible, realizing that her 'infatuation' was rather pointless in the end, because this was Atobe Keigo, who was more myth then man. That, and she'd decided that the piano was much more worthy of her complete, utmost devotion.

The second time Ayaka had had a reason to pay attention to Atobe Keigo was just last year – when he'd been responsible for damaging Choutarou's precious wrist to the point where he'd had to withdraw from last year's concours.

Ayaka had met Choutarou in the beginning of her second year – as the already-established member of the music department, it had been inevitable that she'd meet the brilliant newcomer. And once she'd seen how incredibly talented Choutarou was, she'd immediately staked a claim over his music and his career in the department, 'taking him under her wing.' It was all a bit silly and horribly dramatized, she realized now, but she'd been just so excited at seeing a talent such as his in their department.

As an avid participator of the concours every year, she'd been ecstatic once they announced that Choutarou, too, would be entering in his freshman year.

That is, until he'd come to her with his wrist heavily bandaged and a bright, bright grin on his lips.

"I broke my wrist perfecting my scud serve – Atobe-buchou helped me with it! The doctors said I wouldn't be able to play in the concours, but senpai, see, I finally finished the serve! I'm so happy – is it okay?"

And Ayaka, crestfallen as she'd been, hadn't been able to say a word.

Not when darling Choutarou with his naïve, beaming expression and all the pride of the world worn on his lips, came up to her and asked 'Is it okay?'.

Atobe was responsible for it all; the Captain who had pushed his player so far to simply develop a measly serve (whatever a serve even was – hell if she knew anything tennis or sport related), who had forced Choutarou to drop out of the concours in his debut year.

Ayaka gathered up her nerve, then, to greet Atobe-

"Well, then, Choutarou. Ore-sama shall be at the courts, in better company." Atobe flourished his sentence with a twirl of his hand, as if he were preening himself, before walking out of the room – but not before sliding Ayaka a smug, arrogant look.

Ayaka blinked once, twice, before the reality of it all settled in.

'Better company'?

Was he implying that she wasn't good company?

Was he-

Oh, he was.

…What a prick.

As the week wore on, Atobe found his beautiful hair growing even grayer. Not from stress, necessarily, but from pure, illogical irritation. Irritation, at that stupid girl who kept taking Choutarou's precious tennis-allotted time, and irritation at the fact that his hair was growing grayer.

And should a certain freshman brat see him with this crown of silver, he was sure to receive a remark following the lines of "Growing old, Monkey King?"

And then that would give him more gray hairs.

Atobe had come to terms that Choutarou could, indeed, have another senior whom he viewed with utmost respect; but, it went without say, that he would always have the largest amount of adoration and reverence from anyone and everyone.

Why, he was Atobe Keigo.

He could come to terms with the fact that she would be influencing his blank mind with her dark, wily traits.

But he could not accept her intruding on Atobe's majestic tennis practice.

The courts were something of a shrine to Atobe – everyone who wore the tennis jersey knew that the jacket was a sign of servitude to Atobe. That when he snapped his hand, everyone was obliged to scream and chant his name. That when he told people to run laps just because he damn well felt like watching people run in a circle, they'd turn and ask 'how fast?'. That when he made people go on various errands just for shits and giggles, they obeyed eagerly.

Atobe was a god on campus, and he was the god of gods in the tennis courts.

And this girl – this girl right here – had the daring nerve to intrude upon his holy grounds, beckon Choutarou to the gates to talk to her, and promptly launch into a discussion about the stupidest things in existence.

Such nerve.

Ah – here she was now, right on time. Atobe watched from his imperial perch in the bleachers, shaded by a silent Kabaji holding an umbrella over his head. He watched, through narrowed eyes, lips pressing together in a tight line.

Just look at her.

Walking around as if she owned the place – and that would be hard now, wouldn't it, because it was he, Atobe Keigo, who owned the courts.

And from the distance, Atobe could hear the fierce whispers of club members, as they were always wont to gossip:

"Oi! Did you hear? Ohtori landed himself some hot third year girl!"

"Did you see Ohtori's new girlfriend?"

"She's here every day to see him! She must like him a lot!"

"I didn't know Ohtori was so good!"

"Hey look! She's here again!"

Atobe shifted his chin ever so slightly, gracing them with a still gaze – and it was as though the weight of the world had fallen carelessly onto their shoulders with but one glance from Atobe. All four males fell silent immediately, expressions quelled as they stared into his disapproving eyes.

"100 laps around the court. Now."

And all four ran off to do just that, because Atobe was Atobe.

Watching the boys scramble away, Atobe felt a renewed sense of power, and stood up in a dramatic fashion. Kabaji fumbed to raise the umbrella higher to accommodate him.

He'd deal with the girl here and now.

Atobe, as it turned out, was not the only displeased person to be found on the courts that day.

Shishido gnashed his teeth together, before furiously gulping down the water in his water bottle. The plastic crinkled loudly under his tight grip, and even as water overflowed onto his neck, he ignored it – all the while, his gaze was fixated on the gate, where Choutarou spoke to that Touda (yes, he knew her, they were in the same damn class).

Those practicing around him widened their eyes at him, and shuffled away quickly; Shishido's temper was legendary, after all.

Shishido kept his glare going.

Touda, the damned girl, had literally come in every day of practice this week, as though taking up Choutarou's time on Fridays wasn't enough anymore. Shishido had overheard one of their conversations before – and it had been a nightmare.

Half the phrases were in Italian – something about…glissanis? Glissano? Gli…ah, right, glissandos. And about chords, and movements, and some other jumble of terms he didn't really understand.

In fact, there were a lot of things Shishido didn't understand – like why Choutarou insisted on devoting himself so wholeheartedly to the piano; wasn't tennis enough?

Also, he didn't understand why that girl had to come every single day. Yes, Shishido was well aware she had won the last two years for her division in the concours. Their homeroom teacher, after all, was the chair of the music department, and had an obvious, sickening favoritism for Touda. Right.

Touda, the girl who looked as if she didn't even have the time to eat because she was too busy playing the piano, like some sick, twisted obsession slash addiction.

Shishido also knew the girl had taken it upon herself to make sure that Choutarou was successful – she, like so many before her, had fallen for Choutarou's talent and humbled demeanor. That was nice and all, team camaraderie and support all that good shit, he figured.

But if you asked him, Touda was taking things to a whole, fucked up new level when she visited every practice, lunch period, and study hall.

As if that wasn't enough, Choutarou was off his game these days, too – when he used the scud serve these days, instead of speaking "Scud Serve" – as was right and normal and good – Shishido caught him saying "Etude."

Etude.

What in the blazing hells was etude?

With an air of finality, Shishido finished crushing his water bottle, and hurled it to the side. Damn it all, he'd tell that girl off today!

Determination blazing in his eyes, Shishido rapidly walked forward-

-only to be cut off by Atobe, who waltzed into the area with all the air of a king taking the precious time to visit his commoner people.

"Ore-sama demands to know why you, an outsider, is in Ore-sama's courts," Atobe's prissy voice rang out, and Shishido rolled his eyes. Damn Atobe and his wonderful timing – trust him to always soak up the spotlight like a stupid sponge.

Choutarou, on the other hand, visibly wilted in the irritation reflected in his Captain's voice; oh, this wasn't good.

Ayaka caught it, and barely refrained from rolling her eyes. Really, how could Choutarou possibly be so afraid of such a…prick? She watched through defiant eyes as Atobe practically pranced closer, hair sparkling silver in the sunlight. Seriously - was there anything about this guy that wasn't over-dramatic and atrociously over-the-top?

"Good afternoon to you too, Atobe-san." Ayaka replied back dryly, crossing her arms. "And if you don't mind, please refrain from rattling Choutarou's nerves so much – he needs all the concentration he can gather poured into the concours."

Atobe drew back, as if it were a tragedy that Ayaka had dared to speak to him. "…And?" He now took to observing his nails.

Ayaka bristled. "Well, considering the fact that he didn't win last year because he broke his wrist training for tennis, perhaps you could be a little more considerate this time around."

Choutarou paled.

"And?" Atobe repeated. "Silly little concours are not much of sacrifices, for the magnificent serve he developed. Isn't that so, Choutarou?"

For a moment, the second-year was remembered, and both pair of angry eyes turned upon him to make the reply. Choutarou stiffened, eyes widening and lips opening and closing – but nothing refused to escape save for empty air and a whole lot of fear. "I…Well…That is, I just-"

"Forget it," Ayaka snapped. "A wrist was not much of a sacrifice? Are you insane?"

"Would you quit being dramatic," Atobe sighed.

Ayaka's eyes bulged.

"It's not as if he can't use his wrist today – it was just a temporary strain, so stop acting as though he chopped off his whole hand." Atobe waved his hand carelessly in the air, as if to dismiss Ayaka's presence. "Besides. Tennis is certainly more noble than that frivolity you associate yourself with, girl."

"Frivolity? Do you know how you look? Running around, hitting balls with nets? Has anyone taken the time to take a step back and look at what tennis actually is? You look like a circus act."

Atobe's eyes narrowed. "Watch your mouth, girl."

"Ever consider taking your own advice?"

For a moment, the two glared stonily at one another. Choutarou could swear he saw static passing between their eyes, and he gulped. He looked around frantically, looking for something, anything-

"Senpai!" he cried out, spotting Shishido walking leisurely about.

Shishido turned and crooked a grin on his lips, raising his hand in a: "Yo, Chou-…taro."

Shishido trailed off as he saw Atobe and Ayaka glaring at one another through the tennis court gates. He took one, perhaps two seconds to assess the situation, before making a quick u-turn and exiting quickly. Choutarou was a nice boy, really-

But getting between Atobe and whoever he wanted to murder?

Not a good idea.

Choutarou crumpled as he watched Shishido walk away quickly.

"…Is that what you think, you bossy, manipulative captain?" Ayaka's shrill voice snapped Choutarou back to attention, and he swallowed thickly.

"Why yes, it is. Choutarou and Hiyoshi will head the tennis club in the near future – he needs to focus on tennis."

"Oh please, once he graduates school, tennis won't be a steady career."

Atobe sneered. "And you think fiddling away on a piano is? He'll be lucky to play on the streets for change."

Choutarou blushed a deep scarlet.

"He absolutely would not. He's much too talented – I guess that's something someone like you wouldn't know."

"Your concerns are meaningless to Ore-sama's prowess. And tennis will be a much more lucrative activity than banging away on keys," he drawled, an air of superiority lacing his words.

"No, he'll realize that music is a far better choice – he has raw talent, and if he hones it just a bit more, he'll be brilliant!"

"He's already brilliant enough in tennis!"

Ayaka stomped her foot on the ground. "Whatever! Just keep your demanding, over-bearing, grabby paws off my kouhai!" she shrieked, and emphasis placed on 'my.'

"Your kouhai? He's Ore-sama's kouhai, and Ore-sama doesn't like to share-"

"He's mine! And believe me, buddy, he agrees-"

"Enough!" Choutarou roared, and everyone in the vicinity seemed to take a staggering step backwards.

Perhaps Choutarou was the passive-aggressive type?

"If you two keep bickering like this, I'll drop both things!" Tears forming in the corners of his eyes, Choutarou stormed off into the club room.

Ayaka blinked once, twice, before blinking in guilt. Had she gone too far? But-

"Do you see what you did?" Atobe's sharp voice cut into her thoughts, and Ayaka turned on him, teeth bared.

"What I did? This is all your fault!"

"This is obviously your fault, girl-"

"Listen, pal, I have a name, and it's not 'pal'! It's-"

"Ore-sama does not care for your name," Atobe sniffed.