Disclaimer: I don't own Prince of Tennis. How surprising.

Warning: somewhat AU (or totally…)

The Emptiness State of Mind

Because that's what tennis was: empty.

Ryoma was molded to love tennis. And – really – for a long time, he did. After all, that was what he was supposed to do. The small boy should feel contentment just for the fact he was holding a racket or hitting a ball.

Ryoma was – and always had been – molded to love tennis. His father was The Samurai – with capitals letters. He never asked about it, but could be almost sure that his first word had been tennis or a synonym. It wouldn't astonish him if it was so. His father, Nanjiroh, only spoke to him when talking about the goddamn sport. Why would it be different when he was a baby?

Ryoma also knew that his mother was a busy woman. She went to work early and came back late. Nanako was a university student and couldn't be home all the time. With a tennis-obsessed father taking care of him all day long, the small player wasn't supposed to be any other way personality-wise.

Ryoma was molded to love tennis. And – really – for a long time, he did.

After effortlessly winning his fourth junior competition – he was nine at the time – Ryoma became somewhat empty. His father had trained him to be the best and the best he was. Kids his age couldn't play as well as he did. Older players were, well, old. High-school and middle-school students were arrogant and annoying, especially after losing to Ryoma.

His only opponent was his father. But Ryoma was tired of him too, because, well, Nanjiroh was always distant – even though he was the adult that stayed at home every day. His mother went to work every single day and spent many – fucking – hours inside this – damn – building, but, somehow, she was closer. She asked about his day even after arriving late and tired. Not enough to satiate his childish need for attention, but enough to tame it until tomorrow night.

Ryoma was molded to love tennis. And – really – for a long time, he did. When he stopped loving it, it was because tennis was empty. The feeling of winning, the sound of rackets hitting the balls, the squeaking of the shoes… Every single damned thing.

Months – years – went by and Ryoma stayed quiet, simply because that was what he always did. What he was supposed to do. Love tennis. Love tennis. Love tennis. He didn't, but Ryoma played it anyway. There were expectations. Love tennis. Love tennis. Love tennis. And there was pressure. And there was his father. And there was his busy mother.

Love tennis. Love tennis. Love tennis.

And there was the emptiness – because, after repeating the same damn thing for a thousand times, his mind went blank.

Love tennis. Love tennis. Love tennis.

Ryoma was molded to love tennis. And – really – for a long time, he did. He tried to do so. But what could he do when there was no passion, no love? His father whispered to him: love it, love it, love it. He nodded and went to another competition.

Upon entering the court, Ryoma picked his hat from his bag as well as his racket. The piece of plastic felt broken on his calloused hands. And, for a moment, Ryoma felt nothing, but emptiness.

Ryoma simply ignored it, because that was what he was supposed to do – love tennis.