Chapter Text
ever since daiki stopped coming to practice, ryouta no longer has the prospect of elusive defeat to keep him wide-eyed and tethered to the court. now, ryouta is the first to bolt after the final whistle, in and out of the shower in a neck-breaking ten minutes, fingers flicking over his phone, finding his manager's speed dial through muscle memory as he bows his way out of the gym before the majority of first string has even had a chance to peel off their jerseys.
seijuurou notes this. he lost daiki, but he will not let the rest of his team go just yet.
he extracts ryouta's modeling schedule from satsuki, who gives it hesitantly, and extends practice just long enough that ryouta has to scramble, never allows him that extra minute to straighten his tie before leaving this life under seijuurou for another off school grounds.
seijuurou has timed it: it takes ryouta less than two minutes at a full sprint to reach teikou's front gates, where the same black car waits for him every time, its engine running, tinted windows sealed tight. ryouta bows in apology to the driver before throwing open the door to the backseat and folding himself in.
it's a strange scene to seijuurou, who is accustomed to having other people open up heaven and earth, not to mention doors, for him, until he remembers that ryouta is going to work and not being chauffeured home by a security detail hardwired to throw themselves at his feet.
that's been the usual course of events, even now in the weeks leading up to nationals, however--
this is one of those rare weeks when ryouta's manager (whose file reads: twelve years in the industry but never has he seen a boy rise so fast) takes a moment to remember that ryouta is fourteen, that there are grades and friends and growing up to fit alongside all the photoshoots and interviews, and that even kise ryouta, darling of japan, is only allowed twenty-four hours in a day.
without a black car waiting at the front gates today, ryouta is taking his time in the showers, humming the top single from last week's oricon chart. everyone else has already trooped off for home, their ties loose and cardigans tucked away for the early spring.
the water finally turns off and seijuurou remembers now: ryouta has always had impeccable, infuriating timing.
"akashicchi's not going to change?" ryouta asks upon exiting the showers. the smell of his green apple body wash permeates the room and seijuurou disapproves, distantly.
seijuurou does not deign to answer, sitting straight-backed in front of his empty locker, his sweat-damp practice uniform now cold on his skin. he keeps his back turned and listens to the rustle of ryouta getting dressed, to the incessant buzzing of ryouta's phone as the messages flood in after ryouta powers it on again.
"is akashicchi hurt?" ryouta goes on absently, and seijuurou can hear the touch tone sounds of ryouta going through his inbox. "should i get coach?"
"no. go home, ryouta," seijuurou commands, voice level.
once ryouta is gone, he can start plotting retribution in earnest. seijuurou already saw his shower supplies in the trash, thrown in along with his clipped lock; he's not stupid enough to believe the bolt cutters are still on the premises. still, it's all so juvenile; he wishes they could have exercised more creativity, given him something grander to spend his anger on. perhaps he has to monitor the television viewing preferences of the team as well, to limit their exposure to the mind-numbing drivel of broadcast teen dramas.
but mostly, seijuurou is displeased he didn't see this mutiny sooner. he owes it to nijimura-san to uphold the captaincy and the teikou name, this year and the next. steps will have to be taken. he busies himself with a mental list of potential suspects while he waits for ryouta to obey.
but a different kind of silence follows instead, and seijuurou recognizes it as the silence that falls over ryouta whenever ryouta is taking a person apart under his eyes, disassembling a body with ease and reassembling it so that it looks like ryouta himself, so that ryouta can learn to move and speak and think just like you. he feels ryouta scanning the room, feels ryouta's gaze coming to rest on his back.
and seijuurou knows this: ryouta never forgets anything he's learned, likes to show off, stockpiles his weapons carelessly and gleefully. off the court, not even seijuurou knows the full extent of ryouta's arsenal, how long he's been building it, and seijuurou does not like becoming a part of it.
seijuurou slams his locker shut, but it's too late.
"ah," ryouta says softly, a damning, knowing sound, and seijuurou's mind swerves towards contingency plans for the complete removal of one kise ryouta from teikou. the team can do without him, strictly speaking, and seijuurou would not lose no matter the setback.
(he doesn't have to think long. oha asa's reported lucky item for cancers tomorrow is a harpoon gun and shintarou is always unfailingly prepared. it would be simple.)
but ryouta's laugh, which seijuurou knows to be soft and low when ryouta's genuinely amused (disdainful), doesn't come; instead ryouta crosses the room to seijuurou, stands on his toes and stretches his hand over the top of the row of lockers, where seijuurou is not tall enough to reach. (this is how middle school boys are cruel.)
after a bit of grasping, ryouta pulls seijuurou's bag down to drop it lightly on the bench.
ryouta takes in a breath, prepares to say something; seijuurou steels his gaze, but--
"really now, akashicchi should take care not to misplace his things," ryouta sighs, ignoring the dust that settles in his freshly washed, peppermint-scented hair. "what if you misplace one of us next, on the way to a game? the team would fall apart, you know!"
seijuurou blinks down at his rescued gym bag. it's full of his clean change of clothes and polished shoes and, in an inside pocket, a shogi piece from the first game he won against father--and for a moment can think of nothing to say but, "yes, of course. i will take more care next time."
there's the slightest pause and seijuurou catches it because he is radioed in to the rhythm and flow of all he commands, but ryouta only chirps, "nah, i know akashicchi would never do such a thing. i'll be going now. thanks for your hard work today!"
ryouta's shirt is untucked and his tie is barely trying for a knot. the smile he gives seijuurou over his shoulder shows no sharpness, no teeth.
across the room, ryouta's locker stands open, plastered with his own pictures and littered with forgotten gifts from his fans, but his shampoo and body wash are sitting out on the bench, in plain sight. the message is clear.
i'm always so forgetful, he can imagine ryouta wail theatrically. i'm lucky akashicchi looks out for me.
his smile, though, would be small and indulgent, and seijuurou would not find it completely unbearable.
tomorrow's practice comes and, with the ghost of green apple lingering on his palm, it takes seijuurou all of four seconds to identify whom he has to kill.
kihara hidetoshi. third year, but newly first string. runs in the same pack as shougo, whom seijuurou has already neutralized. keeps flicking his eyes towards seijuurou then back down at his feet. laughs too loudly when he drops the ball under seijuurou's gaze. 171 cm.
he's reaching for shintarou's harpoon gun, packed under the bench while shintarou is practicing his threes, when ryouta slides himself into seijuurou's field of vision.
"kihara-senpai!" ryouta calls, slinging an arm over hidetoshi's shoulders with lazy, unearned familiarity, putting himself squarely in the line of fire. "i've been looking for you!"
ryouta makes a complicated sign behind his back, which seijuurou translates as, are you crazy, akashicchi?!
before seijuurou can shoot ryouta first for insubordination and for being late to practice, hidetoshi shoves him away.
"why?" hidetoshi growls, eyes narrowing. "and don't touch me."
"please don't be mean, senpai. i just wanted to tell you, i ran into hinaka-chan on my way to practice..."
seijuurou doesn't need to hear the rest of the sentence to know why hidetoshi's face goes from suspicious to panicked. suzuki hinaka (her father deals in textiles; her parents had first met while marveling over song dynasty brocade in suzhou) has shared ryouta's homeroom for the last two years.
shougo's play, seijuurou notes. how interesting. and as expected, ryouta pulls it off with more grace. seijuurou lowers the harpoon and gives hidetoshi a generous 45 seconds before he breaks. then he will shoot him.
"she told me she's been wanting to check out the new karaoke place near the train station. i know senpai already had plans with hinaka-chan after school, but well--she said it was all right?"
"oi, kise," hidetoshi starts. he sounds strangled and seijuurou is curious to see whether he means to protest or beg, would enjoy either option, truthfully, but ryouta interrupts with a snap of his fingers.
"ah, senpai can come too!" ryouta's smile lights up, white and merciless. "wouldn't it be fun? senpai, me and hinaka-chan."
"i don't need your permission--" but hidetoshi must recognize the futility now. who would choose him when they could have ryouta. seijuurou's mouth curves.
everyone is pretending not to stare and hidetoshi looks like he's about to throw a punch, red-faced at the audacity of ryouta, of seijuurou, his underclassmen. but the truth is, seijuurou could tell him, they have always been above him, unreachable. ryouta's expression is eager, eyes bright with what seijuurou appreciates is malice.
hidetoshi is the first to look away.
"oh, how regretful," satsuki sighs as she takes a seat next to seijuurou, diligently noting this new development on her clipboard (daiki must be coming to practice today too). "it took kihara-senpai weeks to work up the courage to ask hina-chan out. he's had a crush on her forever, did you know?"
seijuurou did know, because he knows everything, although he will have to make another upward adjustment to his evaluation of ryouta's perceptiveness. but seijuurou decides this is fitting; there is no need to get his own hands dirty when people are already so easy for ryouta, who, for the time being, is still loyal enough.
"you don't sound very upset for him," seijuurou allows. he chooses to keep the approval out of his tone.
satsuki laughs. "well. he was smart to back down. you just can't compete against ki-chan in these matters. though ki-chan must have been really angry about something, huh? i wonder what."
"hey, akashicchi!" ryouta scolds from the three-point line, fists on his hips and the ball secure in the crook of his elbow. the vestiges of a grin can still be read on his face. "as captain, please try not to harpoon anyone so close to nationals! we'd get disqualified!"
"of course not," seijuurou says, replacing the harpoon gun under shintarou's watchful eye across the court. "what do you take me for."
"how reliable," satsuki hums quietly, writing.