Chapter Text
The soft white ball makes a satisfying sound when it slams hard against the side of the house, a solid smack that reverberates through the entire neighborhood like cannon fire.
Touma doesn’t pause to admire it for too long, lunging forward to hit another half-volley off the pavement. He aims at the wall again, using perhaps a little too much force.The ball claps like thunder against the concrete, then rebounds too fast for Touma to receive it.
He lets it roll despondently across the patio, following its trajectory with tired eyes. It comes to a rest at the edge of his mother’s flower garden, half-hidden beneath the red-orange begonias. Her pride and joy, that garden.
Game, set, match. Touma wasn’t keeping score, but he gets the feeling that he lost.
He feels that way a lot, lately. He thought winning the summer tournament would make that feeling go away. For a brief time, it did. Touma had his club, he had his friends, he had Maki, albeit in some unnamable way that only really existed on the court. He felt like a four-leaf clover encased in resin: a perfect, shining moment suspended safely in eternity.
Then his mother called, and that fragile moment crumbled into dust.
Ryoma insisted on walking home with him after the match. He tried to coax Touma into conversation by asking questions about the tournament, knowing that Touma had been obsessing over it for weeks. He asked Touma which teams he played, how many matches he won, how many points Maki scored.
(A lot of his questions involved Maki, actually, which was just rubbing salt in the wound.)
Touma didn’t take the bait. He made sure to stay three paces ahead of Ryoma the entire way home, and then retreated to the backyard with his ball and racket immediately after they arrived. He didn’t bother to change out of his uniform.
Ryoma chose not to follow him, which should have been satisfying in a vindictive kind of way. Instead, it was frustrating.
So, Touma reacted the same way he always did: he focused all of his frustration on a soft tennis ball, and then hit it against a wall until his arm felt like jelly.
He doesn’t usually use his own house as a backboard. For one thing, the concrete is too hard and flat to give Touma a proper rebound. The balls leave behind scuff marks that are always a pain to scrub off. He has to draw the net with a piece of sidewalk chalk, and the line is always slightly uneven, and never quite as high as it should be.
But the main reason is that his mother hates it. She insists that the noise gives her a migraine. She says it’s disrespectful and childish and Ryoma never did it, so Touma is clearly doing it just to torment her.
Everything Touma does is a carefully-orchestrated act of psychological torture, according to his mother. She thinks he’s been waging a fifteen-year war of attrition just by continuing to exist under her roof.
Fortunately for her, they won’t be under the same roof for much longer.
So, Touma figures, why not have some fun? If she’s going to accuse him of being vindictive no matter what, he should quit trying to prove her wrong. He’s tired of trying to prove himself to people. He’s tired of always falling short.
...But that’s bullshit, isn’t it? Pretending this is some act of teenage rebellion. That’s the kind of half-baked lie that Nao would come up with.
The truth is that he’s been running himself ragged hitting as many volleys as possible, in the vain hope that his mother will come down to yell at him for the noise. Maybe then she’ll be forced to actually look at him for once.
For once, just once, he wants her to see him as he really is: the son she decided to throw away. He’s under no illusion that it will change her mind, but he would give anything to see even a flicker of guilt in her eyes. A suggestion, however small, that she’s capable of feeling remorse for the way she treats him.
Deep down, though, he knows this is nothing more than a child’s fantasy. No amount of noise will get her to come down and talk to him. She’ll continue to ignore him for weeks, months, however long it takes for the divorce to be finalized. After that, she’ll fade away from his life like a ghost.
The door swings opens behind him. He curses his heart for fluttering in his chest, nervously anticipating the sound of his mother’s waspish voice. He shouldn’t want to hear it, but he does. He really, really does.
That’s why it hurts so bad when he feels an unmistakably heavy hand land on his shoulder, turning him around. He wills himself not to look too disappointed when he meets Ryoma’s eyes.
“Touma, we need to talk,” Ryoma says. His hair is slightly mussed on one side, like he’s been running his hand through it a few times too many.
“It’s a little late for that,” Touma replies, a bit nastily. Ryoma looks taken aback by his tone. That’s one thing Touma definitely inherited from his mother: when he gets annoyed, he has no trouble showing it.
He brushes Ryoma’s hand off his shoulder and goes to lean against the wall, sullen.
“Touma,” Ryoma tries again, slower this time. Softer. “I know you’re upset, and you have every right to be, but this is serious. I need you to listen to me, okay?”
More than anything, Touma hates it when Ryoma treats him like a child.
“Just say it, then,” he mutters, glaring at his feet. If he looks directly at Ryoma again, he’s afraid he’ll start crying. Maybe Ryoma is right to treat him like a child. “Whatever it is, it can’t be worse than what mom already told me.”
“This isn’t about that,” Ryoma says. In the receding light of the setting sun, he looks half-sick. He says: “It’s about Maki.”
“Maki,” Touma repeats. It comes out sounding utterly flat, like a ball hitting concrete.
Of course. Of course Touma’s entire life is falling apart, slowly unravelling into nothing, and all Ryoma wants to talk about is Maki. Today was supposed to be about proving his worth to the student council, but if he’s learned anything in the past three hours, it’s that he can’t even prove his worth to his own family. He’s never likable enough, never smart enough, never good enough.
No matter how fast he runs, someone else is always waiting for him at the finish line.
With this, the last thread of his self-control snaps. He throws his racket to the ground, not caring if it dents or even breaks.
Ryoma doesn’t react at all, which only makes him angrier.
“You can’t do this,” he says, low and quiet. “You can’t just let her make a decision like that, and then pretend it doesn’t even matter. I don’t expect you to understand how I feel, but you could at least pretend to care instead of trying to change the subject—"
“Touma, please,” Ryoma entreats, stepping forward with his hands raised in supplication. He looks more tired than Touma has ever seen him, so much older than his twenty-one years. “I'm sorry. I know this is hard for you. It's not fair, and you don't deserve it. If there was anything I could do about this, any of it, I swear to you I would. And I promise we can talk about this later, but right now—"
"I don't want to talk about it later," Touma interrupts. A part of him is embarrassed at his own petulance, but another, larger part is tired of waiting for people to prioritize his needs. Fifteen years is a long time to wait. “What could possibly be more important?”
Later, sitting in the hospital waiting room with his head between his knees, Touma will remember exactly what Ryoma looked like in that moment: pale-faced and grave, like the words crowded up behind his teeth were a white-hot coal burning a hole through his tongue. There was some hesitance, too. Regret. He knew he was about to hurt Touma in the worst possible way, but there was nothing he could do about it.
All of this will make sense to Touma later, as much as anything about this fucked-up situation can make sense.
But right here, right now, all he can think about is the emotional rollercoaster of the past three hours. It plays through his mind like a movie on a scratched disc: one second he’s clutching Maki after beating the national champs, happier than he’s ever been, and then suddenly, he hears his mother’s cold, laughing voice over the phone: I don’t have to suffer anymore!
It echoes in his ears so loudly that he almost doesn’t hear when Ryoma says: “I just got off the phone with Aya Katsuragi. Maki’s in the hospital.”
There is a moment, like the split second before a tennis ball connects with the racket: one brief, suspended moment where the words don't quite signify, and Touma gets to live in a world where Maki is safe and sound for the time it takes his brain to catch up.
Ryouma continues: “He's in critical condition. They’re doing everything they can, but they don't know if he's going to pull through. She said he’s in surgery now.” And then, the coup de grace: "They think he was assaulted."
Everything snaps into place like a dislocated knee popping back into joint. Each word comes like a physical blow, knocking all the breath out of Touma's lungs. Maki was the one who suggested they start running to improve their lung capacity, wasn’t he? But maybe Touma needs more training, because suddenly he can’t breathe. The only thing holding him up is the sturdy concrete wall against his shoulder. It’s cold now, all of the summer heat leeched away in the space of a single sentence.
They think he was assaulted. Touma draws in a deep, shuddering breath, and he thinks about the last time he met Maki's father. He swore he would protect Maki from that man, he swore it. He got so wrapped up in the national tournament, in his own grief, he forgot all about it. What kind of partner is he?
His racket lies a couple feet away, miraculously unbent. Looking at it almost makes Touma sick.
He'd been throwing a temper tantrum over some stupid family drama, while Maki was--
"Touma." Ryoma's voice cuts through his thoughts so unexpectedly that Touma flinches. A moment too late, he realizes that Ryoma's hand has returned to his shoulder. It's a warm, anchoring weight, and he leans into it as hard as he can, trying hard not to cry.
"I want to see him," Touma manages to say. If his voice is rougher than normal, Ryoma doesn't mention it.
"Ms. Katsuragi said that he'll be in surgery for at least two more hours. It's been pretty touch and go so far, from what she told me. And even after they finish, he'll need some time alone to recover. We can try to visit in a few days, if Ms. Katsuragi is okay with it."
"I want to see him today," Touma clarifies. Ryoma frowns.
"Touma, be reasonable. His wounds are really serious. Besides, visiting hours will be over by the time he's out of surgery."
"Then I'll wait at the hospital." Ryoma looks like he's prepared to argue, but Touma has already made up his mind. "Maki and I are a pair. I'm going to be there for him whether you agree with it or not."
There's only one hospital in the immediate area, and it's about ten minutes away by train. Touma is already mapping out the route in his head, thankful for the momentary distraction from what Ryoma just told him. If he lets himself think about it for too long, he'll start wondering what kinds of injuries would require emergency surgery. And by the time he’s finished with that, it'll be impossible to think about anything other than finding Maki's dad and shoving those stupid sunglasses down his throat. Slowly, and with relish.
It’s a dangerous line of thought, and Touma is glad to avoid it for the time being. There will be time for homicidal fantasies later. Right now, he needs to focus on getting to the hospital.
He's already walking towards the street when Ryoma catches his arm. His grip is strong and sure, as you would expect from the former soft tennis champion.
Touma tries to twist free, to no avail. He hears himself growl like an animal in a trap. "Let me go."
"So you can run off by yourself in the middle of the night? Sorry, not happening. The person who hurt Maki is still on the loose, you know."
"I don't care," Touma lies, still struggling to free himself.
The truth is that he cares so much it hurts, but he's not worried for his own safety. Touma has only had the misfortune of meeting Maki’s father once, but that single meeting told him everything he needed to know about the man.
For starters: he acts all big and tough, throwing his weight around whenever he can get away with it, but he’s actually nothing but a coward. Every act of violence is carefully calculated to avoid any legal repercussions.
That’s why Maki is the perfect punching bag: he’s too afraid to fight back, and he won’t report anything if it might cause problems for his mom. A woman and a child living on the margins of society are easy targets for a sadist like Maki's father.
But Touma is from a wealthy family, a family that would (theoretically, at least) press charges against anyone who causes him bodily harm.
More importantly, Touma isn't afraid to fight him. If anything, the idea of going toe-to-toe with Maki’s father makes Touma’s pulse spike with excitement, the way it does when a tennis game has reached deuce and the opposing team sends a volley in his direction.
He wants to make that man hurt. He wants to make him bleed.
Ryoma feels him tense up and misinterprets it as fear (which is probably for the best, because the last thing Touma needs is for his brother to realize just how bloodthirsty he actually is.) He loosens his grip, allowing Touma to break free at last. Before Touma can run out to the street, however, Ryoma blocks his path.
"I meant it when I said that I won't let you go alone," he says. "It's too dangerous, Touma."
His tone brooks no argument. Touma opens his mouth to argue anyway, but Ryoma raises a hand to stop him.
"That's why I'm coming with you."
"...Come again?"
"You heard me," Ryoma says, squaring his shoulders. "I might not be Maki's tennis partner, but he used to be like a little brother to me. There's a reason Ms. Katsuragi still has my number, you know. Besides," he adds with a wry smile, "I know you'll leave even if I tell you not to; that's just who you are. What kind of older brother would I be if I let you go alone?"
“Mom will be mad if you don’t show up for dinner,” Touma points out, more out of curiosity than genuine concern.
It doesn’t really matter if Touma shows up or not; in fact, she’ll probably be happier if he stays away. But Ryoma often skips meals at home in favor of going out with his friends, and it always leaves their mom in a sour mood.
Ryoma hums in consideration of this, tilting his head to one side.
After a long pause, he says: “Let her be angry. This is more important, don't you think?”
All Touma can do is nod. Of course he thinks it's more important, but Ryouma was the one who said that visiting tonight would be a waste of time. He gets the sense that his brother is humoring him. Normally this would annoy Touma, being treated like some stupid kid who needs to be coddled and protected, but tonight it doesn't matter. Nothing matters except getting to Maki, making sure he's okay.
He can figure out the rest of it on the way.
"Let's go, then."