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Tilt his racket a little to the right, step his left leg forward a few more inches. Feel the world spin as he bends and swings, the ball hitting the sweet spot perfectly.
It collides with the net.
A voice that strangely sounds like Yanagi's echoes in Bunta's head, speed up by zero point thirty-five seconds. Your left foot was late and off by an inch. Begin again.
He clicks his tongue, but he does so anyway, preparing to hit it once more. The whirring of the ball machine sounds. Tilt the angle of his racket a little more, flick his wrist a little faster, bend down a little lower so his chin hits his chest. It leaves him no room to defend if it ever gets hit back. Usually he'd think that it'd be okay, because that's what Jackal is for — but for this particular technique he cannot count on him, and therefore he has to figure out how to fix that. He can do it later. He just has to focus on getting it over the fucking net first.
It doesn't.
The ball hits the frame of his racket and falls to the floor, and violet eyes watch as it rolls away, the beat that sounds as it hits the metal pole of the net the equivalent of a mocking laughter. With a soft curse he sets his racket down onto the ground, and his knees feel so weak he sits right down onto the floor.
Nothing is working.
He hates getting tired. Perhaps a break is warranted.
—
Stationed at the net in his and Jackal's doubles play his task has always been to maintain a wide field of vision spanning every single inch of the wide court, never wavering, never failing to grab at any chance that presents itself to him. The idea for what he's working on started as a private admission to himself, in that space of quiet self-reflection everyone found themselves in after their nationals loss, that all this time he's been lacking something fundamental.
No matter how wide his vision was and how far he saw, the balls he could reach were still severely limited. Not even Jackal stood a chance. When their switch was clicked and the Golden Pair began their real counterattack, his ability only gave him a clearer view of every point he failed to get.
Nationals was supposed to be where everything ended — they'd get their new start in high school, with Yukimura-kun back on the court with them, where he belonged. Really, despite the frustration, Bunta had been fine with all of it.
And then they were invited to the camp.
He refers to his moves as wizardries, but their foundation is anything but magical. His prowess and skill as a genius ensures they are possible. He knows that he has it in himself to perfect this next one. Perhaps, now that he was given space to work on it, it is one of the most important techniques he'll have in his entire tennis career.
He's going to make it work.
—
It is impossible for the days to blur together, because memorable things keep happening. The camp never seems to rest. Every single day after the elimination matches, the triumphant middle schoolers fight together and deal with their individual matches in order to rise above the ranks and move up the courts. It can be considered fun, but it is a display of their power all the same. They were underestimated by their superiors, and now they were proving their rightful places. The feeling of having conquered something, gained through consecutive victories, is nothing new to Bunta, and he welcomes it.
Everyone left behind grows closer, forming friendships with prior rivals from different schools.
As for Akaya, he still works so hard. Back at Rikkai he already had many to look up to, but now that they were at the camp he could set his sights even higher. Their second year ace took on every opportunity to ask and learn and challenge and play, losing none of his fighting spirit despite the humiliation of his elimination match with Yanagi. In fact it seemed to bring him even higher.
Lately they haven't had time to spend with each other. When Bunta thinks he isn't missed among all of Akaya's new senpai, he gets stolen away for a time at various points of the day and proven wrong. When a rough hand is intertwined with his, and even if they have to hide what they have among all the strangers, he can be glad that nothing between them has changed.
…It's hard not to miss the people who had to leave, though. Yagyuu tries to hide it, but Bunta knows he roams the camp sometimes dressed as someone else. Yukimura-kun is quiet more often, too — when Sanada's stern figure is nowhere near him near it feels as if something's missing.
He has someone he wished were here, too. But still. Bunta watches over everyone, and sees they're all the same.
—
Sometimes, when Bunta doesn't have a shuffle match or anything important or fun to do, he works on perfecting his new technique.
And after every tiring day he somehow always finds himself here. It is midnight and everyone in the camp is asleep, but the banquet set at the coffee table in an empty lounge seems as if it is set for many.
Bunta turns to one of his constants.
Food always tastes good, and the quality of it never wavers so long as he's careful enough — and he knows exactly what he's doing, knows exactly what flavors he needs and what cravings he wants to satisfy. It both invigorates him and punishes him. It is the push he needs to get going and keep moving forward, and also a time bomb that pressures him to do so quickly, because if he doesn't the scales will tip and he'll be left off even worse than before.
And so he always has to find that balance. There was a singular moment in the past where his shirts started fitting too tightly and his movements started slowing. When Akaya's arm wound itself around his waist in concerned, innocent affection his slender fingers sank into his abdomen more than usual, and with a simple quirk of an eyebrow from their trusted data master Yanagi after a particularly painfully achieved victory he finally realized he was eating too much and training too little. It wasn't a dramatic realization. It was something that could be laughed off, really, but it was just the reality. Training too little equaled failure and loss, and failure and loss isn't anything to be tolerated. If the balance is broken it means something is off.
He learned this fact at the circus, where the elders overseeing their independent study all taught him vital things he would never forget. Besides how fun it was these are things he's incorporated into his tennis and etched into every stroke, every move, every breath he takes. Perfect control over every inch of his body was needed in order to succeed with every backflip, every ball juggled, every tightrope. He never could stay balanced on top of there for very long, but he gained something more important from it anyway. The look on every regular's face when he showed off his new technique at practice was priceless, and the blistered palms and the sleepless nights and the food ( God, all the food) leading up to its perfection was proven worth it.
And so it's okay. It's okay. One more bite. Everything tastes so good, it was worth sneaking all of this in. The aches in his body seem to melt away. He can work it off. He can always work it off, and it makes him stronger and faster and more endurant — he hasn't failed himself yet. Really, he's never failed with anything he's set out to do.
Tomorrow will be better. He overextended himself today, but tomorrow he will double the routine the coaches have set and practice even more. The only consequence he can accept is self-improvement.
The last plate is cleared.
The world spins when he stands up. He feels a little sick. Everything he's ingested bubbles and boils, his stomach almost feels like it’s threatening to burst. Something that disgustingly tastes like bile and acid sits at the back of his tongue. It doesn't seem like it's midnight with the way the sweat sticks to his neck, damp limbs making their way out of the lounge and into the hall in blurry, harried motions. The bathroom door is quickly located, and it swings open after he jiggles the knob a few times. He throws himself into an open cubicle and in front of the toilet.
The night is quiet. The silence is broken with his heaving coughs in front of the bowl.
He doesn't mind. Tomorrow he'll work even harder.
—
The day everyone who left returned there is much fanfare and chaos. The sun is shining, warm on Bunta's face. The breeze is pleasant, and noise fills it and carries through the entire camp as friends greet and reunite with each other once more. Bunta wades through the sea of people, leaving Akaya behind so his kouhai can launch himself at Sanada and Yanagi. His heart beats quickly despite himself.
Suddenly he is pulled into a bone-crushing hug that knocks the wind out of him. It doesn't take another second for him to return it with even more force — he knows exactly who it is, and he's missed him so, so much.
" Bunta," a breathy laugh tickles his ear, and he jerks at the pleasant feeling, wriggling out of Jackal's grasp to playfully rub at his head.
"Jackal!" Bunta grins as Jackal dodges his hand. "Hopefully you didn't miss me too much."
"My wallet was safer in the mountains," Jackal rolls his eyes. His best friend looks stronger, taller, more rugged, somehow — but the warmth Bunta is used to still emanates from him. Despite the time spent away from each other he knows nothing about Jackal has changed.
"If you hate treating me so much you can just go right back there," Bunta sticks out his tongue playfully.
“Geez, you're really…" Jackal sighs, but he trails off. It takes a singular second for his expression to suddenly change, and before Bunta can ask what the problem was, Jackal suddenly grabs him by the shoulders and looks him up and down. "Bunta, you…”
The large hands gripping him suddenly make him feel five times too large for his own skin. He gives him a questioning smile, and Jackal steps away, reluctant.
"While I was gone, what have you been…"
All Bunta knows about what's wrong is that the U-17 jersey hangs off him more.
He and Jackal have been through so much together. The boy's presence in his life is non-negotiable, and there should be no secrets between the two of them. And Bunta has absolutely nothing to hide, but it still surprises him how easy his remark comes and how lighthearted it is, like he's lying even if he's not.
"Speak for yourself, you're all scratched up!" Bunta gives him his usual grin, punching him on the chest lightly. "Did you have to fight a boar with your bare hands or something?"
Jackal searches his eyes, but Bunta is sure he finds nothing there.
"...Close. It was an eagle," Jackal tries to match his tone, but it still comes out unsure.
Bunta laughs it off, pats his best friend’s smooth head, and tries to ignore the pit forming at his stomach. Despite so many people surrounding him he suddenly feels alone.
—
The face that greets him in the mirror is almost a stranger. Cheeks a little less full, clothes a little more loose. If he puts on his Rikkai jacket he knows it will hang off him, and the thought makes him feel a little ill. But within that tinge of discomfort there is pride. When his palm brushes over his abdomen he feels taut muscles, and he can feel his ribs poking out like swords. But he isn't gaunt. He is just more toned.
Just... stronger.
When night falls, the vigor he shows when dinner is served proves that there's nothing about him to worry about. Even when Yanagi furrows his brow ever so slightly at him when he passes by, even when Jackal eyes him with worried, questioning eyes when Bunta smiles at him. The sheer volume of his food hasn't changed, because every indulgence results only in pleasure.
He's made sure of that.
This is the balance he's reached.
For someone as skilled as he is, it was easy.
—
They're the only two people in the lounge, the large TV propped up on the wall playing a show in the background that Bunta stopped caring about ten minutes ago. The chatter of their peers outside, the chirping of the birds, the sound of footsteps — everything else is muffled. Everything else seems far away except for the sound of content sighs.
All that he cares to register is the tender feel of Akaya's lips against his, the softness of the couch's headrest supporting his neck as he leans against it, and Akaya's weight grounding him as the younger boy sits almost on top of him. Calloused palms cup his cheek, and Bunta breathes into his mouth as he tilts his head, slotting their lips together more perfectly. It tastes like the mint of the toothpaste the camp provides, and a slight hint of orange juice.
When he is with Akaya it's easy for everything else to blur into the background, because Akaya wants and takes just as much — sometimes even more — as Bunta does, and they give and keep giving to each other with the same enthusiasm.
He sighs contentedly when they part, smiling as Akaya burrows his face into the crook of his neck. He kisses the tender skin there and Bunta's back arches. Locks of curly hair rest on Bunta's cheeks, tickling him, and the hand holding his face starts to wander down as Akaya captures his lips once more. It traces his chin, his sharp collarbones, his narrow shoulders. The paleness of Akaya's skin complements the pink of Bunta's shirt. It makes him think of strawberry milk. When Akaya traces his ribs through the fabric, rubbing the taut, sensitive skin underneath, Bunta's breath hitches as he jolts involuntarily, and unintentionally his teeth grind against Akaya's lips.
Akaya abruptly pulls away, sitting up straight, metal-green eyes wide. The midday light from the wide window at the side casts shadows framing his adorable, frowning face.
"Marui-san?"
Bunta knows what the expression on his face means — it's the one he wears when he thinks something is wrong, but he doesn't know the words to articulate it or exactly how to press for details. He's been seeing it more often lately, and he wonders if his boyfriend has been having any problems with any of his new friends. As Akaya is someone who always acts before he thinks, when there is no possible space for him to do so he simply waits and wonders. Once given a singular prompt or hint of a direction he would latch onto it and try everything in his power to brighten things up. But it doesn't really matter. It's enough that he cares, even if Bunta doesn't really know what the problem was.
"Change the channel, Akaya," Bunta pushes him off the couch, laughing at his indignant squawk when he falls and scrambles to his feet.
"You didn't have to shove me," he grumbles but obeys anyway, going up to the TV to press the button at the side.
What the screen shows makes the smile on his face freeze. It's a dumb, corny commercial starring a face that is both familiar yet unfamiliar, because it is one he's seen and admired from afar in magazines and TV commercials. And yet the shining idol in the ad looked nothing like the cold man who spoke to him earlier in the day.
It's Akaya who reacts first.
"Hey, he's that first string guy we saw on the court!" He excitedly points at the screen before he turns to Bunta, grinning. On the screen, the Negotiator of the Courts gives him a different sort of smile. "Did you see that, Marui-san?"
He did, alright. That and more. Bunta leans forward, thinking. "Yeah." He stands up. "They're all star players."
There's something in the tone of Bunta's voice that makes Akaya's expression shift. "Huh?" Akaya watches him go, perplexed. "...Marui-san? Where are you going?"
"Out for a walk," When he reaches the way to the hall he tilts only his head back to look at him.
"I'll see you later?" Akaya presses, a little desperately.
The sunlight is warm on Bunta's skin as it filters into the room from the large, open window. He laughs a little, "I'm not really going anywhere far, am I?"
If he were to fully turn towards him, perhaps the confused, innocent look on Akaya's face would've convinced him to say something about what happened earlier, about what he and Kimijima talked about before Bunta sought Akaya out and dragged him by the hand to the empty lounge and kissed him, willing to forget everything for just a moment. So he doesn't. He is unwavering, and so he leaves.
Bunta's silence is worth Akaya's confusion. He's not supposed to tell anyone.
—
Bunta stares resolutely up the ceiling. The room is cold despite him being under the covers.
The matches against the Genius 10 are tomorrow.
Earlier, that player from Higa — Kiteretsu he called him, to break the ice and to establish some form of familiarity, because Bunta never really did well with stifling formalities — demonstrated exactly what he needed. Their roles were divided perfectly.
It isn't going to be like his past doubles matches. Of course he's going to be counting on him, too, but instead of one plus one coming together to multiply their strengths it's more an addition. Bunta does fantastic in doubles, he's sure Kite does well too, but there is so much they can do with a quickly put together partnership. He thinks it's going to go fine, even if the technique he's been working on isn't complete yet. Instead of synergy it's more like the both of them fill their roles so aptly they don't have to be in sync. It's very pragmatic and clean.
He's barely interacted with the guy, but he'll do. From what he's gathered from all he's heard about him he knows that he's not doing this for nothing either.
But Bunta knows what he's in it for.
"Your captain, Yukimura Seiichi-kun," the highschooler's eyes were cold behind the exterior of politeness. "I hear he went through an illness that took him out of the middleschool circuit for an entire season. Your team must have suffered."
"How do you know that, Kimi-sama? What's it to you?"
"It is not what it matters to me, but what it matters to you, Marui Bunta-kun. What if I told you I could relieve him of his worries?"
"What do you mean?"
"I'll make it clear: I have many connections. There is a surgery in America that he can undergo in order for him to fully heal from his illness, and I have the means to let him access it. But I need something in return."
Bunta remembers his surprise when the highschooler asked for him to injure his doubles partner, and how he had hidden his shock as he blew his bubblegum and stared resolutely back.
Drastic measures need to be taken.
Bunta started playing tennis because it was fun, as most people get their start. He continued to do so because he discovered he was good — no, a genius at it — and the natural talent he had led him to Rikkaidai, where it earned him a spot among the most talented members in the entire middle school circuit.
He isn't a cog in a well-oiled machine — they're all their own individual superpowers, and when they are together they can take down and overcome anyone in their way. The pride that their conquest gives him is something he values. And these talented members that Bunta is spending the peak of his youth with aren't just rivals or teammates — they are priceless, irreplaceable friends.
And because of this, the day Yukimura-kun collapsed it seems as if time both jet forward and stood eerily still. But like a phoenix fresh from death he rose again to stand with all of them, brushing off ashes, connecting them to their dreams once more through Rikkai's law and the unbreakable bonds they shared.
No matter what happens, they are a team. All of them would do anything for each other.
And so, he made his choice. It turns out that Bunta's not as self-preserving as many think he is.
More than that, though:
When Bunta remembers Yukimura-kun's shining figure, he thinks that there is something horribly off with the way Yukimura still stares off into the distance, regrets weighing down his shoulders, silently terrified at the prospect of relapse. He's been through hell and back, and every moment he's playing tennis he is reminded of the anguish he's had to go through. It still affects the rest of the team.
…Yukimura probably thinks no one else sees, but everyone does. The scales are tipped, their harmony in chaos. They need to fix it.
And here was someone offering a perfectly viable solution.
"So? Do we have an agreement?" Amidst the snoring of his roommates and the whirring of the air conditioner, Kimijima's light, impersonal tone sounds in his ears.
Bunta closes his eyes.
He doesn’t like getting tired, or getting hurt.
…Yukimura-kun, his friend, teammate, captain, doesn’t like those things either. And so there is no excuse. He knew, that if the rest of the team were in his position, they'd agree in a heartbeat as well. That was just how tightly-knit they were.
And so his agreement came like it was second nature.
—
The first hit that lands catches him off-guard, because it comes from the wrong side of the net. But there is no time to question motives or cry about the injustice when Kite's glasses flash in the sunlight, hiding his expression, and when Tono's schadenfreude-fueled witch cackles fill the air. Even as his friends call and protest from the stands, even when he catches Akaya's bewildered green eyes and still finds the space to smile back at him.
What’s worse is that even with his lightheadedness ( you should’ve eaten more last night ) the pain isn’t blurred or softened — he feels the full extent of every single hit. When he finally couldn’t take it anymore it’s almost like a switch inside him clicks, and he knows exactly what he should do.
Wonder Castle.
Bunta doesn't know if it's inopportune or otherwise, the moment his wizardry finally works. At the back of his mind he marvels at how it finally happens in a state of complete imbalance, when he's being beaten three against one, when everything is going absolutely wrong. But his fortress proves strong. Bunta never doubted he could do it for a single second, even after all the frustrations that led up to this point.
He is a genius. That hasn't changed.
And then, in the middle of the match, something clicks. The flow of cooperation changes once more. He doesn't know if he's proven something to the capricious player he's sharing his side of the court with, when the other man returns to hitting balls back instead of at him. At the back of his mind he thinks it’s mildly humiliating just how far he had to go to gain the man’s—respect? Cooperation? Trust? But that didn’t matter. He can only fight the battle in front of him.
But even past the betrayal, and besides the entire reason he accepted this arrangement in the first place, he knows he has no other choice but to accept every consecutive ball aimed at him from either side right after. He remembers the entire reason he's doing this in the first place, and he knows that if you're planning to hit someone, you have to be prepared to get hit right back. Every ball will be returned. Both the guilt and the indignance are nothing. When they start finally working together he doesn't even blame the guy he's sharing a court with anymore—
Because both he and Kite are only a means to an end.
Despite the praises coming from every bystander of the synergy of their combination, that's all their partnership is. That's all this entire doubles match is: a negotiation. A catalyst. A process that will end another at the cost of an unlikely victim. This fact is once again proven, when Kite takes the ball originally aimed at the right side of Bunta’s face, talking about making up for things but not offering a single semblance of an apology. Bunta thinks it is another exchange, another transaction. He is getting repaid, because all his doubles partner really cares about is that things are even. From the start, he doesn’t know what Kite had to gain from this. He doesn’t particularly have the spare time to care about it right now, when the other boy is getting bloodied and battered and bruised. But perhaps relief can be sought from the fact that at least now, they are now fighting on the same side. Maybe they're even making a pretty good team. Their skills in both the roles they're filling are equal, after all.
But it really doesn't matter if it is him or his doubles partner or both who will take the fall, because on the other side of the net their efforts will eventually be returned.
As more blood is spilled and the slaughter reaches its peak the moment he’s been waiting for comes faster than anyone else anticipated. Bunta is the only one who isn’t surprised. He hasn't changed. He has always been one to wait for the right opportunity.
Bunta smashes the ball into the highschooler's knee, blood dripping from the wound on his right eye, seeping into the bandages.
And at his periphery, he sees Yukimura-kun, his crossed arms falling limply to his sides, surprise on his elegant features.
Everything led to here. He's been negotiating with his doubles partner, with Kimijima, with his racket, with himself. And so, amidst the pained screams of the highschooler, Bunta thinks that it is an equal, unavoidable exchange.
And so he goes back to his original resolve. If you want to maintain balance, sometimes you have to tip the scales first.