[There. There it is. And it's almost enough to bring a smile to Yagyuu's face, except that he never smiles when he's in the midst of an intense rally, not unless he's holding full control in his hand and about to end it in his favor. She's faster now, hitting harder, and while it's true her form is suffering because of it (it's simply a lack of practice, that her technique is still unrefined enough that she has to think about it, it isn't a part of her), it's also true that Yagyuu would rather have a match like this than one filled with neat returns and careful strategies, more a "the fundamentals of tennis" demonstration than a game. It's not technique he wants; he already knows that isn't there. What he wants is what is there, what she's been hiding, what a few well-placed words miraculously seem to have drawn out.
And for a minute or two, as he smashes returns back at her and forgoes his own strategies and ploys in favor of a direct confrontation, he finds his thoughts drifting to their second-year (funny, her hair looks nothing like seaweed) and the show he never failed to put on when his right buttons were pressed. They all saw it in Akaya, that sheer drive and potential, but there was never any doubt that their ace understood what it truly meant to be a part of this team. He'd known it from the first day he'd arrived, when he'd made a scene leaping atop the school gate and carrying on about his destiny to be number one; he'd striven to prove it in the way he'd challenged the senpais and crushed them all, one by one. And he'd learned the hard way why their team was the best in the nation, and suffered the public humiliation of having his ambition thwarted in one fell, effortless swoop.
But he'd gotten stronger. He'd come back for more. And when Niou brought him word one afternoon that the kid had challenged the Big Three to a rematch, he hadn't hesitated a second to let everything else go by the wayside to see it.
And when he'd been pushed to the brink in the National semifinals, and they had literally staked everything on his ability to go on and rise above his limits once again, it had fallen to Yagyuu to deliver the blow that sent him over the edge.
The satisfaction was so great, it almost managed to sweeten the bitter taste of an orchestrated loss into something bearable.
And do you have it, too? he wonders, rushing the net to return another ball, ducking back in preparation for her next return. Can she understand that need for victory, that drive to maintain their role as kings, that willingness to put everything on the line to achieve it? It's not about the moves, the angles, the trajectories; it's the spirit, the urge to fight, the need to overcome and take that victory with their own hands. It's the passion, the anger, the bitter taste of defeat and the furious vow that it will never happen again, not so long as they can fight, not so long as they draw breath, not so long as they still have hearts and souls to pour out onto the court.
She saw his Laser because this is tennis, and it's part of who he is and this is who he is, here and now, chasing the ball with sweat beading on his forehead and that beautiful, familiar ache of exertion pumping in his muscles. And in exchange, he wants the same from her--the passion, the anger, and yes, that bitter scowl when he hands defeat to her.
The second time he hits the Laser, it's completely out of instinct; there's no ploy, no plot, just an exhilarating rally drawn on too long that intuition urges him to finish.]
no subject
And for a minute or two, as he smashes returns back at her and forgoes his own strategies and ploys in favor of a direct confrontation, he finds his thoughts drifting to their second-year (funny, her hair looks nothing like seaweed) and the show he never failed to put on when his right buttons were pressed. They all saw it in Akaya, that sheer drive and potential, but there was never any doubt that their ace understood what it truly meant to be a part of this team. He'd known it from the first day he'd arrived, when he'd made a scene leaping atop the school gate and carrying on about his destiny to be number one; he'd striven to prove it in the way he'd challenged the senpais and crushed them all, one by one. And he'd learned the hard way why their team was the best in the nation, and suffered the public humiliation of having his ambition thwarted in one fell, effortless swoop.
But he'd gotten stronger. He'd come back for more. And when Niou brought him word one afternoon that the kid had challenged the Big Three to a rematch, he hadn't hesitated a second to let everything else go by the wayside to see it.
And when he'd been pushed to the brink in the National semifinals, and they had literally staked everything on his ability to go on and rise above his limits once again, it had fallen to Yagyuu to deliver the blow that sent him over the edge.
The satisfaction was so great, it almost managed to sweeten the bitter taste of an orchestrated loss into something bearable.
And do you have it, too? he wonders, rushing the net to return another ball, ducking back in preparation for her next return. Can she understand that need for victory, that drive to maintain their role as kings, that willingness to put everything on the line to achieve it? It's not about the moves, the angles, the trajectories; it's the spirit, the urge to fight, the need to overcome and take that victory with their own hands. It's the passion, the anger, the bitter taste of defeat and the furious vow that it will never happen again, not so long as they can fight, not so long as they draw breath, not so long as they still have hearts and souls to pour out onto the court.
She saw his Laser because this is tennis, and it's part of who he is and this is who he is, here and now, chasing the ball with sweat beading on his forehead and that beautiful, familiar ache of exertion pumping in his muscles. And in exchange, he wants the same from her--the passion, the anger, and yes, that bitter scowl when he hands defeat to her.
The second time he hits the Laser, it's completely out of instinct; there's no ploy, no plot, just an exhilarating rally drawn on too long that intuition urges him to finish.]