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Losing against Seigaku is humiliating. Losing against Tezuka is insult to injury, a dagger plunged into his chest and twisted until he’s seeing red.
Two years he’s spent getting ready, gathering a team capable of taking on the national tournament while his father rolls his eyes and tells him to play it safe, tries to convince him life’s too cruel for flighty things like dreams and ambitions, only to have everything torn out of his hands by some sanctimonious mainlander.
Eishirou knows with complete certainty that the boy across the net can have the world if he lifts his arm a little higher, stretches out his hand and grabs, just like he knows with complete certainty that for him it will never be that easy.
Tezuka Kunimitsu’s regulars whisper about self-actualization, about how they’ve never seen Tezuka this angry, and it’s nothing short of infuriating to think he lost the match not to Tezuka himself, but to Tezuka’s scorned sense of fair-play. All the while Tezuka burns across the court, the immortal phoenix whose flames seemingly feed on itself, never wavering or weakening.
“Is this the victory your teammates would want,” Tezuka asks him, dead serious, and even though Eishirou knows he’s lost, even though he knows he can throw everything he is against Tezuka’s fire and only burn up alive, he clenches his racket and plays on.
Tezuka doesn’t know, wouldn’t know, that any victory is worthwhile if you’ve only ever been told you’ll never make it, that moral high ground is a privilege, not a god-given right. The umpire calls the final score and Eishirou gasps for breath, every inhale burning him up a little further.
The world around him is riddled with static, out of focus when they bow towards the net, losers in nothing short of a massacre. His forehead throbs, and he’s not sure if it’s sweat or blood running down his cheek, unwilling to check because he thinks it might actually be tears and he’s not sure how he could ever look his team in the eyes again if it is.
Rin’s hand on his shoulder is clammy and Yuujiro’s promise of a next year lacks his usual vicious edge, and Eishirou’s voice breaks to pieces in his throat so all he manages is a soft grunt and a smile he hopes isn’t as brittle as he feels. A droplet of red hits his shoulder and rolls down his arm, and he thinks that’s cathartic enough in a way tears wouldn’t have been.
The trip back to their hotel unfolds like a poorly scripted play, recorded slightly out of focus to a tuneless theme, Yuujiro slightly too loud, Rin slightly too quiet and Kei’s lack of food-related commentary an almost-silent white noise ever present in the background.
The non-regulars titter on about what to do with their day tomorrow now there’s no more matches to attend, and for once Eishirou’s happy he’s not good with small talk, glad for the invisible borders his teammates tiptoe around as they carefully refrain from drawing him into their conversations where they normally would ask for opinions and confirmations.
Being a sore loser is something Eishirou has a lot of practice in, and the years have yet to teach him how to bite through the bitterness with the kind of grace someone like Tezuka Kunimitsu would probably show. Defeat leaves him hollowed out, too much of his heart and soul stuck into his battles, into his team and everything they stand for to make it out in anything but pieces.
He’s clawed his way out of deeper holes, fought through worse disdain than a coach abandoning him the moment he couldn’t reap his victories any longer, grit his teeth through crueler insults than ‘we’ll probably be playing Rokkaku in the next round’, but there’s a sense of vertigo in loss that leaves chinks in his armor, and all he wants is a moment to breathe, snap the world back into focus before he has to square his shoulders and be captain again.
Saotome-sensei, they learn when they get to the hotel, has checked out early. Tomorrow the non-regulars will get on a plane back to Okinawa because there are only eight beds reserved until the end of the tournament, further souring the mood. Everyone knows the double will be going to Kei, and Eishirou silently dares anyone to say anything about it. None of them do.
He keeps himself from clenching his fists because his nails got done recently, sharp enough to tear grooves into his palms if he lets them, and tells the receptionist the seven names of the people staying for her accounts.
He catches sight of the worried crease between her eyebrows and bullshits something about an uncle living in the city to step in during their teacher’s ‘family emergency’ to ease her concerns and keep her from sticking them where they’re not wanted. The sub-regulars, disgruntled though they may be about the early end to their trip, know better than to call his bluff.
Still, he’s grateful when Yuujiro grabs a whiny second years by the collar and hisses at him that if he wanted to stay longer so badly maybe he should have trained hard enough to get on the regulars and won his own damn vacation, asshole. Gratefulness doesn’t stop him from telling his childhood friend off for being rude, but going by the slant of Yuujiro’s too tight grin he knows anyway.
Throughout dinner the world remains off-kilter, dyed just the wrong shades of blue and green through a filter that is three tints short of flattering. He can’t for the life of him remember what they talk about, only that he answers a question about mathematical equations and that Yuujiro’s shoulder is all angular bones pressed up against his ribcage.
Rin, Yuujiro and Hiroshi fall asleep early, or at the very least pretend to, because nobody comments when he grabs the keys from his nightstand and slips out of the room shortly after the sun sets, deliberately ignoring the receptionist lady’s questioning stare as he leaves the building.
Tokyo’s stars are blotted out by light pollution to an extent he’s never seen on Okinawa, and the sky looks heavier for it.
An older woman, sharply dressed and immaculately coiffed, chortles as he offers to carry her groceries across the street for her and warns him not to walk around alone so late. He doesn’t tell her he knows karate, doesn’t let himself get carried into Tokyo’s crowds and wander, because today he’s not a suave predator on the prowl, but an ill-adjusted chameleon in need of space and silence.
Instead he sits on a wooden bench in the small park on the corner and pretends not to be surprised when Kouichi sits next to him not a full minute later.
“Shouldn’t you be resting, Aragaki-kun?” he asks pleasantly, because they both know he’s anything but.
“I’m… sorry, Kite-buchou,” Kouichi says, looking down at his hands. He’s not talking about rest either.
“Next time,” he says, because Kouichi is the one member on his team he can’t promise to give his next year to, “Drink. Even if the sun here doesn’t feel quite as sweltering as it does back home. It’s a good lesson for anyone.”
Overconfidence is the first step to defeat, but it’s crept up on all of them. How many times has he thought to warn Kei not to rely only on his serve, only to tell himself there would be time to work on those kinds of things later? How many times has he blindly assumed Rin’s occasional balking wouldn’t affect the way he runs the club?
How did Tomoya and Kouichi, who spend hours running themselves ragged on the beach for fun, let Tokyo’s deceptive summer sun trick them into forgetting their own bodies’ needs?
Eishirou shakes his head, suddenly hyper-aware of Kouichi’s silence beside him, the way he’s clenched his fists against his knees. As the captain, their loss is on his hands. Being stern is one thing, but not pulling punches while his underclassman is already low isn’t going to help anyone.
“Aragaki-kun,” he starts, resting his forearms on his thighs in an unusual slouch, “next year, I’m going to take Higa-kou to the nationals. Even if I won’t be captain, I’ll still be the one to bring everyone to Tokyo.”
There’s no fireworks or loud noises as the world slips back into focus, turns on it’s axis until white noise and static flow back into pavement and sky. Rin asked him to start over, Yuujiro told him the same, the others agreed to follow where he’ll choose to lead them. Lost, but not defeated.
“But you’re not done yet. Don’t-” he takes a slow breath, glances at Kouichi from the corner of his eye. “Don’t let anyone tell you you can’t bring next year’s team to win the nationals until you’re beaten.”
Kouichi looks at him with an expression Eishirou can’t quite place, which is not all that surprising; Higa’s second year regular has always been harder to read than his more candid teammates. His eyes flash, and there’s that familiar hint of a competitive edge he smothers under polite sweetness, the one Eishirou wants to sink his claws into and drag into the light but doesn’t quite know how to reach.
He wonders if captaincy can give Kouichi what he failed to manage.
“Did anyone tell buchou we couldn’t win?” Kouichi asks, voice just flat enough to mask how he feels about that.
Eishirou lets out a startled laugh and looks away. “If I kept count of the amount of times people tried to tell me I’m in over my head with anything I do I’d have to start writing down names, Aragaki-kun. People would start assuming I’m keeping a hit-list.”
Kouichi doesn’t respond to that and gets up from the park bench.
Eishirou lifts his head in question, but before he can form the words to a question Kouichi has put both hands on his shoulders. His fingers twitch nervously and he hovers awkwardly for a few seconds, looking indecisive. Then he leans down, pressing dry, summer-chapped lips against Eishriou’s forehead.
Eishirou blinks once, twice, trying to figure out what is going through his junior’s head.
Kouichi pulls back and jams his hands into his pockets with more force than necessary, tilting his head to the side in an attempt to hide the flush on his cheeks. “I will take Higa-chuu to the nationals next year,” he says, with an uncharacteristic fierceness to his voice. “So buchou should just be proud about leading Okinawa past Kyushu for the first time in 26 years.”
Then, apparently having reached his bravery threshold for the evening, Kouichi turns around and scurries off without another word.
Eishirou looks at his retreating back, then at the hotel keys clipped to his belt-loops which, as the captain’s set, are the only ones that have the hotel’s front door key on the ring.
With a light grin he fishes his wallet out of his pocket and starts counting his change; more than enough for two cans of coffee from the nearest vending machine.
He opens one, puts the other on the bench beside him and gets comfortable, curious to see if it’ll be cold by the time Kouichi realises he can’t get back into the building without his help.