[Since the day he first spoke to Kujikawa Rise, when he heard her name from a handful of his teammates and discovered that somehow a girl who was only a novice at tennis had worked her way into their attentions, Yagyuu has silently wondered what it was his team could've possibly seen in her. She'd carried herself pleasantly enough, made conversation, acted friendly and supportive--all things considered, not the sort of girl he would personally put much stock in. But it was Niou's word and Yukimura's tacit approval, and that meant there had to be something more to her, something worth the investment of time it would take to pursue it and draw it out.
And is this it, he wonders? Niou, who can read people so thoroughly he can outright become them; Yukimura, whose sheer force of skill and personality never seems to fail at drawing out the best in people. Is this what they saw, and implicitly challenged him to find for himself?
There's no doubting she's much more interesting this way, stripped of the smiles and cheers and encouraging words. Here, there's something more--ambition, determination, frustration. Perhaps better than anyone, Yagyuu knows how it feels when that tension begins to rise, when the mask clamps down to hide the clenched fingers and gritted teeth, when circumstances push so hard that you just want to scream and you don't because someone might be watching, and that's not a luxury you can afford.
She's like him. For a fleeting, arrogant moment, he wonders if perhaps that's why they took so well to her in his absence.
He doesn't call out to her as he walks toward the net, slightly out of breath from the length of the rally, but still in far better condition than she is at the moment. He's trained to play like this, his stamina is better; idly, he reminds himself not to draw this out too long, or he'll run her into the ground and have a whole set of slightly awkward explanations to make to his team because of it. But there's no mistaking her stance, her expression, the fury now brewing beneath her pretty surface.
It's strange. Kikumaru Eiji once managed to return it, even if the shot never made it over the net. Does this girl, this deceptively fiery opponent of his, think she has what it takes to do the same?
He could tell her he doesn't think so, because the truth is he doesn't. But on the other hand, he doubts one more dismissal is really necessary.
So instead, he reaches into his pocket and retrieves one of the spare balls he'd put there earlier, tossing it gently in her direction to save her the trouble of running after the one he just hit--which is now somewhere near the fence, a whole court away.]
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And is this it, he wonders? Niou, who can read people so thoroughly he can outright become them; Yukimura, whose sheer force of skill and personality never seems to fail at drawing out the best in people. Is this what they saw, and implicitly challenged him to find for himself?
There's no doubting she's much more interesting this way, stripped of the smiles and cheers and encouraging words. Here, there's something more--ambition, determination, frustration. Perhaps better than anyone, Yagyuu knows how it feels when that tension begins to rise, when the mask clamps down to hide the clenched fingers and gritted teeth, when circumstances push so hard that you just want to scream and you don't because someone might be watching, and that's not a luxury you can afford.
She's like him. For a fleeting, arrogant moment, he wonders if perhaps that's why they took so well to her in his absence.
He doesn't call out to her as he walks toward the net, slightly out of breath from the length of the rally, but still in far better condition than she is at the moment. He's trained to play like this, his stamina is better; idly, he reminds himself not to draw this out too long, or he'll run her into the ground and have a whole set of slightly awkward explanations to make to his team because of it. But there's no mistaking her stance, her expression, the fury now brewing beneath her pretty surface.
It's strange. Kikumaru Eiji once managed to return it, even if the shot never made it over the net. Does this girl, this deceptively fiery opponent of his, think she has what it takes to do the same?
He could tell her he doesn't think so, because the truth is he doesn't. But on the other hand, he doubts one more dismissal is really necessary.
So instead, he reaches into his pocket and retrieves one of the spare balls he'd put there earlier, tossing it gently in her direction to save her the trouble of running after the one he just hit--which is now somewhere near the fence, a whole court away.]