Shuusuke regarded the lineups for the first ranking matches of the year as though the board might bite him. In a sense, it already had, actually. He had expected to see Tezuka’s name there. No one would argue, any more, that it didn’t belong there. What he hadn’t expected was to see his own, in the same block. He looked back down at Yamato-buchou, who was leaning back in the chair behind the table, apparently quite relaxed. He raised his brows in inquiry at Shuusuke’s suddenly rather tight smile.

“That wasn’t a very kind thing to do, Buchou,” Shuusuke noted.

“Wasn’t it?” his captain mused, twirling a pen through his fingers. “Perhaps not. But if you choose to keep going, Fuji, you’re going to have to face Tezuka in competition sooner or later. Isn’t it better to start now than be surprised in a professional setting?”

Shuusuke’s mouth tightened a bit further, and he didn’t answer. He and Tezuka had played each other, over the winter and spring, as often as studying for exams allowed. He had started, and this was just gratuitous. But he knew perfectly well that Yamato-buchou was remarkably stubborn for someone who seemed so easygoing, and that nothing Shuusuke could say was likely to change his mind.

So he murmured an acknowledgement, and resigned himself to it. He would wade through the second and third years, and he would play as a Regular this year; he would likely incur some resentment, but that had never really bothered him in the past. He would give the team his best, and if that failed to reconcile any of the club members to having yet another younger player pass them by, well, then their opinions weren’t worth being bothered by.

And he would play seriously against Tezuka when they faced each other, here. Despite his continuing dislike of exposing himself. He couldn’t do any less, not anymore, not without hurting his friend badly. Yamato-buchou really was too perceptive for other people’s good, sometimes.

Two days layer, he was having a hard time not glaring at the murmuring club members gathered around the court as he and Tezuka met at the net. Yes, it was a new thing for him to show himself so clearly; yes, he was better than they had thought; yes, this would be an interesting match, thank you so much, and would they please shut up already? There was a gleam of amusement behind Tezuka’s calm expression, and Shuusuke indulged himself and did glare at Tezuka for a second.

“On edge?” Tezuka asked, quietly.

“Irritated,” Shuusuke clipped out.

“Mmm.”

Too ruffled, and too busy not showing it, to pursue what was on Tezuka’s mind, Shuusuke set himself and waited for Tezuka’s serve.

It was not the best game he had ever played.

It was harder than usual to focus on Tezuka the way he needed to, to match Tezuka’s game. This was unlike Nationals, where challenge and need had taken up all his attention, unlike their games alone, where nothing but the contact between them mattered. Now, awareness of the watching eyes prickled at him all the time, and he found himself having to fight his own long-standing reflex toward concealment. He had to remind himself, constantly, that he wasn’t playing that kind of game anymore, couldn’t play that one if he wanted to stand against the person on the other side of the net.

Tezuka won cleanly, 7-5.

Frustrated with the audience, with Tezuka’s forbearance in not asking what was wrong with him, and with himself in particular, Shuusuke favored his captain with an unusually sour look when Yamato-buchou strolled over to them.

“Impressive,” Yamato-buchou said.

Shuusuke barely pressed a snarl into a smile.

Yamato-buchou shook his head. “I mean it, Fuji-kun. To play aggressively was never your preferred style, mentally or technically; you’re making quick progress. You just need to remind yourself that no one watching can make much use of what you show them.”

A valid point, Shuusuke had to admit. Still. “That won’t be true when outsiders are watching,” he pointed out. “Especially at competition matches.” And, really, he was just being contrary, because he already knew that, in a competition match, he was far less likely to care. Still. He didn’t feel like letting Yamato-buchou off easy.

“That’s true,” Yamato-buchou admitted, “but it still doesn’t matter.”

Shuusuke blinked.

“Fuji, if you intend to play seriously, you can’t afford to spend any game second guessing yourself. Play to the extent the opponent demands you play. If you lose a match because you were thinking twice about a potential future opponent, then your caution will have defeated itself, won’t it?”

The words sank into Shuusuke’s mind and rang there, because he knew they were true. So much for being contrary; he should know better, with Yamato-buchou, he supposed. He took a deep breath and let some of his tension go. His captain smiled and patted his shoulder, which Shuusuke took half as reassurance and half as an admonishment to get it right next time. He offered a slightly crooked smile back. “Yes, Buchou.”

“Good! If you have more trouble acclimating to an audience, just let me know. I’m sure we can come up with some exercises to help.”

“I’m sure it won’t be a problem,” Shuusuke said, with as much confidence as he could inject into one sentence. He crossed his mental fingers, hoping this would be accepted. He had enough interest in his life right now without Yamato-buchou’s often quirky ideas of useful exercises.

“Excellent,” Yamato-buchou declared, not looking deceived at all. “And Tezuka, watch that side step. You’re stepping wide on your push-off; it will set your balance off if you do that when you play someone besides Fuji.”

Tezuka acknowledged this with a respectful nod. Shuusuke looked up at him, surprised. He hadn’t realized they had been playing hard enough today for that. Tezuka shrugged, minimally, one corner of his mouth quirking. Shuusuke’s smile softened. He knew that was exactly what Tezuka loved about their games.

Shuusuke walked for a long time after practice that day. Wandered might be closer to the truth, he reflected, as he sauntered down dark sidewalks. He had a lot to think about. He fetched up, eventually, at the street courts by the park, watching the matches under the floodlights. Some of the players were just here for fun, and won or lost with a laugh. Some were clearly serious, and focused on their opponents in a manner he found familiar, though they fell far short of the intensity he was used to seeing. He found himself remembering something he had seen and heard over and over again: someone mentioning that they had been saving a particular move for later, but would use it prematurely rather than lose. It had never entirely made sense to him, not viscerally. He’d never had to do any such thing. He’d rarely been driven to develop new moves. Now…

Now, he thought it would happen far more regularly.

He had unfolded himself, opened his talent out as far as it would go and found himself among the very best. But the very best did drive themselves forward; he’d seen it. And they would overtake him if he stood still. It was a precarious feeling. Yamato-buchou was right; he would have to show himself, and watching opponents would plan and work and develop based on what they observed in order to defeat him, and he…

He would have to do the same.

A tiny shiver tracked down his spine, and he laughed, breathlessly, to himself. Precarious, yes, but also thrilling. A challenge.

A familiar tilt of head caught his eye, down on one of the benches that surrounded the courts. Shuusuke’s brows rose, and he picked his way through the onlookers.

“Kirihara. You’re a ways from home tonight,” he greeted, coming to stand beside him.

Kirihara shot a quick look up at him before turning back to the match in progress. “Yes, I am,” he agreed, sounding very pleased with this condition.

“A bit below your level, isn’t this?” Shuusuke prodded, curious.

“As if you have room to talk,” Kirihara snorted.

“I hadn’t thought to play here.” It was entirely true, but Shuusuke was arrested by a sudden thought. He eyed Kirihara, and the courts at large. Opponent. Audience.

Opportunity.

“Would you care to play a match against me?” he asked.

Kirihara’s head snapped around, eyes wide. “Now?”

“Yes.” Shuusuke gave him the kind of bright smile he knew would be annoying. “We’re not, technically, in opposing teams this year, so there shouldn’t be any problem, right?”

A little to his surprise, Kirihara didn’t bristle, merely gave him a long, serious look. “For real?” he asked.

Shuusuke had to admit, he was somewhat impressed. Very few people could stand him being cheerful at them with equanimity. Kirihara seemed to have gotten a better grip on his temper, if nothing else, this year. “For real,” he agreed.

It wasn’t as difficult as Shuusuke had thought it might be, to put the watchers out of his mind and concentrate on what the match demanded. By the end of the second game he had to start wondering whether his own club actually made him more nervous than potential rivals. He tucked the thought away for later.

Already thinking about the shape of his own game, Shuusuke noticed some interesting changes in the shape of Kirihara’s. For one thing, Kirihara was silent. When Shuusuke caught himself on the edge of fidgeting, waiting for Kirihara to prod at him and give him an opening to bait back, he had to laugh at himself. Yamato-buchou was right; the habit of playing defensively was one that could get him in trouble if he let it get out of hand and distract him from the other possibilities.

The other thing Shuusuke noticed, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with yet. Kirihara relaxed, as the match went on, even when Shuusuke gained a two-game lead. It made Kirihara’s game smoother than the tension of their last match had, but Shuusuke wasn’t at all sure that was a deliberate adaptation on Kirihara’s part. His curiosity was piqued, especially since Yuuta’s account of his own practice match against Rikkai’s new captain had hinted at something similar. Perhaps he could have another chat with his brother about this particular player.

Kirihara was out of breath as they met at the net, but still held his head high.

“Good game,” Shuusuke told him, offering his hand.

Kirihara snorted as he extended his own hand. “I’ll catch you, too.”

“Considering who else you have on your list, I’ll take that as a compliment,” Shuusuke answered, lightly.

He turned the match over in his head, as he walked home. It was possible, he thought, that Kirihara’s play style was shifting. Where he had previously relied on his strength and speed to break past any opponent, this new relaxation might be the start of a move toward a more rounded style. Not that the boy was any less aggressive, to be sure. That was all the more obvious in comparison to the match Shuusuke had played with Tezuka, today. The stillness at the core of Tezuka’s game made a stark contrast to the reaching outward that characterized Kirihara.

That was something he could use, Shuusuke mused. The stillness of Tezuka’s techniques was, he thought, based on the perfection with which Tezuka controlled the ball. Equal precision could answer that, making the competition between them a matter of who could achieve the finest degree of control.

A thought struck him, making Shuusuke pause under one of the streetlights. He was already making the kind of plans he had told himself he would have to start making—had already accepted the challenge, at least in one case. A certain smugness followed on the heels of that realization. Yamato-buchou might have been right, but so had Shuusuke. That made him feel much better about taking his captain’s advice.

Tezuka would probably give him an exasperated look, if Shuusuke told him about this.

He continued on his way, chuckling at himself.

End