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The buses that Atobe had arranged from Kanagawa let their team, and some others from the region, off on a circular driveway around a crystal fountain where water cascaded through bejeweled facets. Sanada didn't need to have visited this particular villa before to know that this was one Atobe Keigo had designed and commissioned himself. His friend had very particular lavish tastes that no one else could fake. And, as usual, he'd invited them all here for a week of ridiculous mayhem. Buses from Tokyo, Chiba, Osaka... as, naturally, Atobe hadn't arranged for the subway to extend this far. He probably had some kind of labyrinth built underground already, and goodness only knew what kind of monstrosity he'd hidden at the center. It looked like those teams that weren't from the main island had jets coming in on the landing field nearby.
Everyone was here. Everyone. Again.
From a few buses over, Sengoku Kiyosumi whooped, "Who's ready for another week if Mandatory Fun by Atobe?! Lucky!!"
In fact, most of the other players seemed excited, following the color-coded lightsticks waved by countless butlers and maids to direct them through an array of tensa-barriers to a large hall labeled "Changing Room".
Oh no. A changing room? Why couldn't anyone but him see that this was a terrible, horrible omen? But they all buzzed about, finding their personally labeled garment bags on the rack for their team, pulling out the costumes on their hangers to drape the clothes against their torsos and admire the patterns. All too soon, the warehouse-sized (but plush and warm and full of overstuffed ottomans for sitting on) changing room was full of laughing tennis players in their underwear, trying to figure out how to manage everything from Elizabethan jerkins to Regency cravats and Victorian cufflinks. Meanwhile, Sanada -- also in his underwear, because otherwise Yukimura would smile his terrifyingly pleasant smile and tell him, "What's the harm in a little make believe? Take off your pants, Gen'ichirou!" -- was staring down a yellow kimono and gray hakama, with all necessary undergarments (including, fates preserve him, a fundoshi), which would have been perfectly reasonable if it weren't for the starched, white ring of frilled and pleated linen meant to go around his neck. He knew it was meant for his neck, because Atobe had left everyone personalized instructions featuring a chibi cartoon version of himself demonstrating how to wear any unfamiliar items, and in his own comic, the linen ring went around the cartoon Atobe's neck. That much was clear.
Atobe wanted him to wear a ruff. With hakama. He was not the only person wearing a ruff, of course, as everyone seemed to have been dressed according to a "Western-style Prince" theme... but a ruff with hakama? His costume design aesthetic was clearly slacking!
"I dunno about this," Kirihara growled behind him, looking at a pair of tights and some puffy velvet shorts. "Think Atobe'll notice if I just go home?" he whispered to Sanada. "There's so many other people here!"
Whatever part of Sanada's heart that may have told Kirihara to run and save himself was stilled by Yukimura pouting at him from afar, as if to say, "Really, Gen'ichirou? You should set a better example for the next generation!"
So, with a cough, he settled his kimono around his shoulders and told Kirihara, "the Emperors of Rikkai never run."
And so he put on the ruff as well. Blast and damn. And were those trumpets playing above the alcove that transformed into a stage on the northern wall? Of course those were trumpets. And of course there was a stage. This was Atobe! What else could he have expected?!
Flanked on both sides by Hyoutei regulars in bedazzled brocades and himself wearing a maribou-trimmed robe of state (Sanada cursed the day his acquaintance with Atobe ever taught him what maribou was!) their self-proclaimed Lord of Festivities snapped for his spotlight.
He never built anything without a spotlight.
"Honored guests!" Atobe purred into his microphone. "Allow me to welcome you to the First Annual Fantasy Drama Get-Away. Thank you all for coming this week. You will all find your personalized agenda with your costumes. The packets should include a map of the grounds and a recommendation for activities you may prefer over the course of the week. Mix! Consort! Meet new people among your tennis brethren!" With a chuckle, their host threw his patented (actually) come-hither smile at the assembled league players. "And at the end of the week, we shall see which lucky attendant will choose my marvelous personage to be his date to the dance!"
Date? To a dance?
Oh, their tempest-tossed souls. Someone had introduced Atobe to the concept of dating sims.
Over by the Seigaku rack, Fuji raised his hand. "Question!"
"Yes, Fuji?" His Lordship asked.
"What if Tezuka already has someone to be his date to the dance?"
While Atobe let an echoing guffaw loose over the room, Seigaku's captain looked like he might be trying to hide inside his garment bag, but there was no escape. Even the back of his neck was blushing red, but he should have known that was coming.
"Such trifling worries! Fuji... surely you know by now, my wondrous love is not bound by this society's petty habits and taboos!" Inui probably could have told him exactly what percentage of the room looked terrified, exactly how many people were cheering and looking to Atobe as a bastion of open-minded frivolity, how many were already planning "group parties" and with whom, as Atobe's say-so always cast a special spell over any gathering, like a ring of fairy stones that said, "The world has ended beyond my gate, and here, there are no rules but the ones I give you! I am the only rule! So, my friends... Eat, drink, love, and be merry!"
Oh dear. That had actually been Atobe speaking, not just his imagination filling in words. And he was still talking.
"If two or more of you wish to romance me together, you are more than welcome to try. And now, unless there are any further questions... Let the revels begin!"
Bells tolled. Lights flashed. People who hadn't been dressed two seconds ago were somehow fully in costume. More was wrong with this scene than Sanada had any reason to understand, but his schedule said he was to report to the portrait chamber on the western edge of the property. And he knew he would actually enjoy himself. That was somehow the most infuriating thing of all. Atobe was really and truly good at this.
"Hmm?" A voice sighed from somewhere in the direction of Seigaku. It had to be Echizen. He turned the map over in his hands, puzzling something out. "Ah. Tennis courts are in the rose garden, that way," he murmured, then tied his navy cravat as if it were the easiest thing in the world and slung his racket bag over his shoulder. "See ya!" he called to his teammates with a wave and a high-five for whoever was close.
Oh, how he wished he were wearing a cravat instead of this infernal ruff.