Work Text:
The photograph slipped from an old notebook.
Kunimitsu caught it before it could hit the floor.
Seigaku Tennis Club.
Year 20xx.
He recognized every face instantly.
Oishi. Kikumaru. Fuji. Kawamura. Inui. The rest of the club members from years past.
Yet his gaze lingered on only one person.
"Who's that?"
Ryoma's voice came from directly behind him.
Kunimitsu glanced over his shoulder.
Ryoma had abandoned whatever he had been doing and was now peering at the photograph with undisguised curiosity.
"The one in the middle with the glasses."
Kunimitsu looked back down at the image.
"That is Yamato-buchou."
"The captain two years before you?"
"Yes."
A faint smile touched Kunimitsu's lips.
"He was the captain during my first year."
Ryoma hummed.
"Never heard you talk about him."
"There was never much reason to."
Ryoma snorted.
"That usually means there's a lot of reason."
Kunimitsu chose not to dignify that with a response.
Instead, he carefully set the photograph on the desk.
"When I was a first year at Seigaku, I did not intend to attract the attention of the captain or the upperclassmen. First-years were expected to keep their heads down, carry equipment, and avoid causing problems."
"Sounds boring."
Kunimitsu gave him a flat look.
Sometimes he genuinely wondered how he had fallen in love with this brat.
Then Ryoma smiled.
And unfortunately the answer became obvious.
"So?" Ryoma prompted.
"So what?"
"How'd you attract his attention?"
Kunimitsu sighed.
"By accidentally finding myself in the middle of problems."
Ryoma pointed at himself.
"Hey."
"Unlike you," Kunimitsu continued, "I did not actively create those problems."
"I wasn't that bad."
"You were."
Ryoma looked offended.
"I was not."
"You challenged everyone. upperclassmen. Coaches. Opponents. Tournament officials."
"They deserved it."
Kunimitsu folded his arms.
"You were a brat."
Ryoma grinned.
"Was?"
"Still are."
Ryoma laughed.
The sound filled the room far too easily.
"You? Responsible for problems?" Ryoma asked. "I find that difficult to believe."
"At the time, some of the upperclassmen had certain ideas regarding how first-years should behave."
"Meaning?"
"They believed first-years should obey without question."
Ryoma's smile faded.
"Ah."
"And they disliked being outperformed."
Ryoma immediately understood.
He had heard the story years ago from Oishi and the others during Kunimitsu’s match against Atobe.
The infamous incident.
The injury.
The sacrifice.
"Was this before your arm?" Ryoma asked quietly.
"No."
Kunimitsu's expression softened slightly.
"It was after."
For a moment he was silent.
"I had heard stories about Yamato-buchou before then. Everyone spoke highly of him."
He looked down at the photograph again.
Even now he could remember the moment perfectly.
The certainty in Yamato's voice.
The calm confidence.
The refusal to look away.
The refusal to let Kunimitsu disappear into his own doubts.
"He found me afterward," Kunimitsu said. "And ordered me to run one hundred laps and that he’d run them with me."
Ryoma blinked.
"He what?"
"One hundred laps."
"After your arm got injured?"
"Yes."
"That's insane."
"At the time, I agreed."
Ryoma stared.
"At the time?"
Kunimitsu's gaze drifted away.
Back then his shoulder had hurt.
His legs had burned.
His pride had been shattered.
More than anything, he had felt humiliated.
A first-year who had challenged his seniors.
A burden.
A problem.
Someone who had disrupted the club.
"I thought he was punishing me."
"Wasn't he?"
"No."
The answer came immediately.
Ryoma raised an eyebrow.
Kunimitsu paused.
Even now, years later, he remembered sitting alone after practice away from the other five freshmen he had befriended.
Remembered staring at his resignation form.
Remembered convincing himself that quitting was the logical choice.
Then footsteps.
Then a shadow falling across the court.
Then Yamato-buchou's voice.
Run one hundred laps.
Not quit.
Not leave.
Not surrender.
Run.
"He knew I was considering quitting."
Ryoma's expression softened.
"You were really going to?"
"I was twelve."
Kunimitsu looked down at the photograph.
"At the time, it seemed reasonable."
"And the laps changed your mind?"
"No."
Ryoma blinked.
"No?"
"Yamato-buchou changed my mind."
Silence settled between them.
"He saw through me immediately."
Kunimitsu's fingers brushed the edge of the photograph.
"He knew exactly why I wanted to quit."
Ryoma was quiet for a moment.
"You really admired him."
Kunimitsu opened his mouth.
The answer should have been simple.
Instead he found himself staring at the familiar glasses.
At the smile he remembered with surprising clarity.
"...Yes."
Ryoma narrowed his eyes.
"Admired."
"Yes."
"Just admired."
"...Ryoma."
"I'm only asking."
"No, you are not."
Ryoma grinned.
Kunimitsu sighed.
Then, before he could stop himself, he spoke again.
"I met him again years later."
Ryoma immediately perked up.
"When?"
"At the U-17 camp."
"The Germany conversation?”
"Yes."
Ryoma nodded.
Kunimitsu had told him that story before.
What he had never told him was what happened afterward.
Kunimitsu hesitated.
"And..."
"And?"
"He confessed to me."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Ryoma stared.
"Excuse me?"
Kunimitsu immediately regretted continuing.
"He confessed."
"And you never mentioned this?"
"It never seemed relevant."
"Relevant?"
Ryoma looked personally offended.
"That is the most relevant thing you've said all day."
"I declined."
"That is not the point."
"It seemed like the point at the time."
Ryoma dropped into a nearby chair.
"You are unbelievable."
Kunimitsu chose not to argue.
After all, Ryoma was not entirely wrong.
"Were you aware?" Ryoma asked suddenly.
"Of what?"
"That he liked you."
Kunimitsu fell silent.
The answer should have been easy.
Instead he found himself thinking back.
The extra attention.
The trust.
The conversations.
The way Yamato always seemed to notice him.
Looking back, the signs were obvious.
At twelve years old, however, Kunimitsu had not exactly been an expert on romance despite living with his lovey-dovey parents.
"No," he admitted.
"I suspected nothing."
Ryoma laughed.
"Of course you didn't."
Kunimitsu frowned.
"Neither of us confessed until you were sixteen and entered the pro circuit ."
Ryoma immediately turned red.
"That's different."
"How?"
"You were impossible."
"And yet you married me."
Ryoma muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously affectionate.
A small smile appeared on Kunimitsu's face.
Then it faded.
"But I also did not understand my own feelings back then."
Ryoma looked up.
"What do you mean?"
Kunimitsu considered the question carefully.
For years he had called it admiration.
Respect.
Gratitude.
Inspiration.
Every word except the obvious one.
Because admitting that he had spent all of middle school fascinated by two other boys had been easier to ignore than examine.
"I thought I wanted to become like him."
"And?"
Kunimitsu looked at the photograph one last time.
Then he looked at Ryoma.
Golden eyes.
Messy hair.
The same stubborn expression that had driven him insane since the day they met.
A feeling entirely different from what he had felt for Yamato.
Yet somehow connected to it.
Yamato had been the first person to make him question himself.
Ryoma had been the first person who made the answer obvious.
"I think there was more to it than that."
Ryoma was quiet.
Then he asked softly,
"What made you realize?"
Kunimitsu's gaze never left him.
"The day you walked onto the Seigaku courts."
Ryoma blinked.
"What?"
"It was the first time I knowingly and purposefully broke one of the school rules."
"The ranking matches?"
Kunimitsu nodded.
"A first-year had never participated before and first years weren’t supposed to do more than equipment picking and conditioning. "
"And you let me."
"Yes."
Ryoma smiled.
"You were impressed."
"I was."
The corner of Kunimitsu's mouth lifted.
"But that was not the reason."
Ryoma's eyes widened slightly.
For once, he looked uncertain.
"What was the reason?"
Kunimitsu reached over and took his hand.
"The moment I saw you, I knew there would be no going back."
For perhaps the first time all evening, Ryoma had no response.
Which, Kunimitsu reflected, was a rare and satisfying victory.