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almondinflower2006-05-01 02:57 am
fromastudio) wrote in almondinflower2006-05-01 02:57 am
Assimilation, 1/2? [Marui, Jackal]
Assimilation, part 1 out of a probable 2.
Rating: G
Wordcount: 2100
Characters: Marui, Jackal
Notes: The obligatory Rikkai D2 backstory fic. Mainly standalone, although it occurs in the same timeline as Requiem for a Trio.
The new student is bald like an egg. Not that eggs are bald, just that the tanned contours of his head are strikingly embryonic in shape, and as Bunta stares at them he has to bite down on his gum to keep from chuckling out loud.
The teacher glances at him suspiciously, which is unfair. Two-thirds of the time it is Niou who precipitates disruption, and two-thirds of the time she does look at Niou first, although it’s not always the right two-thirds. But this time she is looking at Bunta because Sanada is also glaring in his direction, more out of annoyance rather than suspicion. Bunta is fairly sure Sanada isn’t psychic the way Yanagi and Yukimura are, but he does a pretty good imitation of it sometimes.
Academics are academics, and lie outside of tennis club jurisdiction – even if it occasionally feels as if Yukimura owns their souls – so Bunta cheerfully ignores his teammate, tucks his chewing gum into the left corner of his mouth, and focuses on the newcomer, who is dark and tall and smiles as if he would rather be somewhere on the other side of the world.
Or perhaps the other side of the Pacific Ocean. The name is Kuwahara – “please call me Jackal” – a few students try out the name on their tongues: ja-ke-ru - and a girl sitting near the front door starts giggling. It’s like an animal exhibit, Bunta thinks, and recalls last Sunday, when he took his brothers to the zoo. Only extreme self-control and the conviction that good food should not be wasted kept him ramming the sharp end of an ice cream cone into their throats.
He blows out his gum, pops it again, and waves his right arm enthusiastically. Let him sit next to me, he says, nodding at the seat on his left, which has been vacant ever since Tsuzaki lost patience with Bunta’s habit of affixing chewed gum to the closest available piece of furniture.
The teacher still looks suspicious but the relief wins out; Jackal Kuwahara,still smiling awkwardly and carrying enough stationery to last him the rest of his junior high career, is directed to the fifth desk in the fourth row from the back. The entire class is still staring but not as brazenly. Bunta’s protection is social acceptance, but Bunta’s protection is tennis club protection, and while the Three take a minimal interest in school politics, their reputation echoes all the way up to the Board of Trustees and back again. Nobody is interested in being the target of Yukimura’s cold, cold fury.
The new boy reaches the desk. His face is drawn tightly together the way people sometimes do when they do not want to look nervous, but his hands are large, brown and steady. On opposing sides of the classroom, Sanada looks thoughtful and Niou looks neutral. Bunta ignores them and grins at Jackal’s uncertain expression.
“Shikuyoro! I’m Marui Bunta,” he says brightly. “Some people call me a genius, but you can call me Bunta.”
Teeth often look white against dark skin, but Jackal’s teeth are truly white, the color of refined sugar. The sincerity of his grin catches Bunta off-guard.
#
That afternoon Jackal joins the tennis club. By the time they run their twentieth lap and Bunta’s lungs are screaming for rest, reprieve, oxygen, Jackal is barely breaking a sweat. While they are completing their stretches, Renji quietly takes position behind them; the Three have noticed.
Bunta drags Jackal out for a practice match at first opportunity. Jackal’s groundstrokes are fast and careful, his mistakes rare, his game all solidity. A defensive player, Bunta thinks - what a rare thing at Rikkai. Yanagi’s playing style is not defensive so much as it is freaky; Sanada’s tennis is merely perfect, invulnerable in every aspect.
By the time they reach 2-1 half the people on the courts are watching. Bunta’s popularity holds in the club, as it does everywhere else except at home, but he doesn’t kid himself that he’s the one attracting the spectators. Club members enjoy boasting about the Miracle Skills - in the same proprietary way they used to say, ‘our first-year regulars’ – but they became a subject of ennui a long time ago. If people are not equally blasé about Yukimura, it is because of the way he shatters his limits, every time he hits the seeming end of his potential.
Yukimura is currently watching the match with a narrow-eyed, considering look. Bunta has no time to look at the sidelines – if he doesn’t pay attention he will lose – but it doesn’t take great imagination, to visualise the speculative gleam in Yukimura’s eye as he turns to speak to Sanada. Sanada’s brow will knit as he replies, and Renji will stay silent, noticing everything from Jackal’s topspin to the number of Bunta’s unforced errors. It doesn’t take Niou’s mind to foresee the Three’s actions; as individuals they are unpredictable, but as one entity their movements follow consistent patterns.
At 6-4, Bunta is totally exhausted. “Please go away and let me die,” he mutters at the shadow that falls across his curled-up body on the bench. Yukimura laughs. It is the laugh that makes people want to think of metaphors like windchimes and water splashing past rock and, if you are really observant, the glint of a switchblade, but it is 4:30 and Bunta is hungry and practice is not over yet.
“The Regulars are having ball drills,” Yukimura says. “Come on, get up, or I won’t be able to make excuses for you.”
As if Yukimura makes excuses for anyone. Bunta pushes himself upright, stretching tired muscles. “Where did Jackal go?” he asks.
“With Niou and Yagyuu. They’re having practice games with Akaya.”
“Is that how it is?”
Yukimura looks amused. “Don’t make assumptions.” There are months to go before the fall ranking tournament. “You weren’t holding back in that match, were you.”
Bunta turns his head and looks blearily up at Yukimura. “Why should I do that? Losing to pre-regulars isn’t part of the plan.”
“Well, that’s good to know.” Some of Yukimura’s smiles are maddeningly elusive, but this one is as unmistakable as any other.
Try harder, it says. Play better. Somewhere inside, Bunta instantly acquiesces, sharpens his tennis resolve.
He doesn’t know how to do anything else.
#
Tennis swallows Jackal and Bunta up. It seeps through all their conversations and classes; in one week, Bunta learns more about Gustavo Kuerten than he ever wants to know.
“Let’s talk about, like, Brazilian food or something,” he says, after their fifth (extremely interesting, but repetitiveness is repetitiveness) discussion of the French Open and the demands of clay court surfaces. Jackal smiles and tells him about feijoada and roast suckling pig, guarana and doce de leite. Bunta’s stomach grumbles.
“When I save up the money, I am going on a world culinary tour,” he says with perfect conviction. “And you are going to show me around South America.”
“I only know Brazil,” Jackal says, showing his white teeth. “If you want a Latin American tour guide, you’ll need someone who speaks Spanish.”
That’s right, Bunta thinks, remembering an old World History class on colonization, Brazil was a Portuguese colony. It seems so strange, he says, to be a conquered nation, to speak a language that doesn’t belong to you.
“Don’t Japanese people write with Chinese characters?”
That’s different, Bunta says indignantly. We weren’t conquered, we just borrowed.
“If you have to borrow something, it obviously belongs to someone else,” Jackal says reasonably. Bunta clicks his teeth in annoyance. He takes revenge by correcting two-thirds of Jackal’s kanji in violet ink, that afternoon in Japanese class.
A few days later he notices that Jackal is gradually becoming fascinated with Akaya. This is not unusual. Everyone notices the brat at some point, and the Three have never stopped watching him.
“Why isn’t he a regular yet?” Jackal asks Bunta in surprise. “He seems stronger than you are.” It is not meant to be insulting. This is the language of Rikkai: balanced, objective assessment, and the endless reminder to play better tennis. Bunta sighs and pops his gum.
“The brat played Sanada in the first match of the April ranking tournament,” he says. “Then he played Renji in his second match.”
Jackal has yet to see any of the Three play a match, but he’s got eyes. “Both of them?”
“After that, Yukimura got so interested he invited Akaya to an unofficial match.” ‘Interested’ might not be the right word to use. Bunta trusts Yukimura to deploy his ruthless edge only when necessary, but he had his doubts that day.
“They were really good matches.” Bunta watches the thoughtful expression on Jackal’s face. “Really good. First time I ever saw Sanada use the Ka.”
This precipitates a discussion of the Fuurinkazan, progressing to Renji’s Kamaitachi and then the Laser Beam. Eventually Bunta is reluctantly led to discuss the Miracle Skills.
“This school is very impressive,” Jackal says, when Bunta has finished explaining the topspin on the Techuu Ate. “You have many strong players.”
Bunta shrugs. “We’re the current national champions.”
Jackal has a little frown on his forehead. It reminds Bunta strangely of Akaya, and he is puzzled by the resemblance until he recognizes the expression for what it is: determination. “And you’re on the Regulars this year, right? How does someone get on the team?”
Bunta is in dire need of friends who are neither tennis-obsessed nor compulsively single-minded. It’s tragic, that the people he likes best always turn out to be both.
“Get Yukimura to like you,” he says, spitting out his gum and sticking it on the adjacent tree trunk. “Playing good tennis helps.”
“Come again?” Jackal glances at the saliva-wet circle of gum. He looks unsure whether to be amused or perplexed; Bunta resists the urge to sigh.
“The main ranking tournament is held in April,” he explains. “Everyone participates in that one. The September tournament is for the pre-regulars only; it’s used to fill the regular spots that the third-years leave empty when they retire.” Bunta can see Jackal mulling over the information, processing numbers in his head.
“That means that there’ll be three places, right? One for Akaya- and,” Jackal looks up. “Niou’s the only other player who’s good enough.”
Bunta pulls out another pack of gum, unpeels the silver wrapper. “Like I said, get Yukimura to like you.”
Within the tennis club there is only one way to gain Yukimura’s affections. Bunta thinks about all the things he could tell this white-toothed foreigner, his new friend, his probable teammate. He opens his mouth to speak and shuts it immediately.
Sooner or later, Jackal will understand.
#
Bunta is paired regularly with Renji in doubles only because other combinations are worse; Yukimura has been spotted before, watching their matches with a not-quite wince that mirrors Bunta’s feelings – and Renji’s as well, he suspects. The fact that they are undefeated in tournaments only aggravates the situation, in some ways.
“You think too much,” Bunta accuses. They are putting away their racquets after winning the second round of Kantou; Renji’s expression is rueful, in a neutral-Renji sort of way.
“Try to be reasonable, Bunta.”
We have to be reasonable about so many other things, Bunta wants to say, homework and family and piano exams. Isn’t it possible to be a little bit unreasonable about tennis? But Renji is also the Three, despite being Renji.
He stares down at his tennis bag. After a moment, Renji’s voice breaks the silence. “Are you planning to come this Saturday?”
It is several moments before he remembers Yukimura's invitation weeks ago, to attend his sister's school fair. Bunta had long forgotten about it until Renji’s reminder, but of course Renji knew that he would forget.
“Masaharu and Hiroshi have already promised to be there.”
“What about Jackal?” Bunta asks.
Renji opens his eyes wide. “Would you like us to invite him?”
Only if you really mean it, Bunta says, and this time Renji smiles.
“That’s not a decision for us to make.”
Bunta wants to ask him what the heck he means. But Nishiki and the third-years are approaching, necessitating an end to the conversation; Yukimura and Sanada appear a second later, still wearing their watchful battle-gazes.
It is not until evening that Bunta recalls that Renji rarely answers a question with a question - not unless he truly wants to make a point, and only when he cannot think of a better way to do so.
On to Part II
Rating: G
Wordcount: 2100
Characters: Marui, Jackal
Notes: The obligatory Rikkai D2 backstory fic. Mainly standalone, although it occurs in the same timeline as Requiem for a Trio.
The new student is bald like an egg. Not that eggs are bald, just that the tanned contours of his head are strikingly embryonic in shape, and as Bunta stares at them he has to bite down on his gum to keep from chuckling out loud.
The teacher glances at him suspiciously, which is unfair. Two-thirds of the time it is Niou who precipitates disruption, and two-thirds of the time she does look at Niou first, although it’s not always the right two-thirds. But this time she is looking at Bunta because Sanada is also glaring in his direction, more out of annoyance rather than suspicion. Bunta is fairly sure Sanada isn’t psychic the way Yanagi and Yukimura are, but he does a pretty good imitation of it sometimes.
Academics are academics, and lie outside of tennis club jurisdiction – even if it occasionally feels as if Yukimura owns their souls – so Bunta cheerfully ignores his teammate, tucks his chewing gum into the left corner of his mouth, and focuses on the newcomer, who is dark and tall and smiles as if he would rather be somewhere on the other side of the world.
Or perhaps the other side of the Pacific Ocean. The name is Kuwahara – “please call me Jackal” – a few students try out the name on their tongues: ja-ke-ru - and a girl sitting near the front door starts giggling. It’s like an animal exhibit, Bunta thinks, and recalls last Sunday, when he took his brothers to the zoo. Only extreme self-control and the conviction that good food should not be wasted kept him ramming the sharp end of an ice cream cone into their throats.
He blows out his gum, pops it again, and waves his right arm enthusiastically. Let him sit next to me, he says, nodding at the seat on his left, which has been vacant ever since Tsuzaki lost patience with Bunta’s habit of affixing chewed gum to the closest available piece of furniture.
The teacher still looks suspicious but the relief wins out; Jackal Kuwahara,still smiling awkwardly and carrying enough stationery to last him the rest of his junior high career, is directed to the fifth desk in the fourth row from the back. The entire class is still staring but not as brazenly. Bunta’s protection is social acceptance, but Bunta’s protection is tennis club protection, and while the Three take a minimal interest in school politics, their reputation echoes all the way up to the Board of Trustees and back again. Nobody is interested in being the target of Yukimura’s cold, cold fury.
The new boy reaches the desk. His face is drawn tightly together the way people sometimes do when they do not want to look nervous, but his hands are large, brown and steady. On opposing sides of the classroom, Sanada looks thoughtful and Niou looks neutral. Bunta ignores them and grins at Jackal’s uncertain expression.
“Shikuyoro! I’m Marui Bunta,” he says brightly. “Some people call me a genius, but you can call me Bunta.”
Teeth often look white against dark skin, but Jackal’s teeth are truly white, the color of refined sugar. The sincerity of his grin catches Bunta off-guard.
That afternoon Jackal joins the tennis club. By the time they run their twentieth lap and Bunta’s lungs are screaming for rest, reprieve, oxygen, Jackal is barely breaking a sweat. While they are completing their stretches, Renji quietly takes position behind them; the Three have noticed.
Bunta drags Jackal out for a practice match at first opportunity. Jackal’s groundstrokes are fast and careful, his mistakes rare, his game all solidity. A defensive player, Bunta thinks - what a rare thing at Rikkai. Yanagi’s playing style is not defensive so much as it is freaky; Sanada’s tennis is merely perfect, invulnerable in every aspect.
By the time they reach 2-1 half the people on the courts are watching. Bunta’s popularity holds in the club, as it does everywhere else except at home, but he doesn’t kid himself that he’s the one attracting the spectators. Club members enjoy boasting about the Miracle Skills - in the same proprietary way they used to say, ‘our first-year regulars’ – but they became a subject of ennui a long time ago. If people are not equally blasé about Yukimura, it is because of the way he shatters his limits, every time he hits the seeming end of his potential.
Yukimura is currently watching the match with a narrow-eyed, considering look. Bunta has no time to look at the sidelines – if he doesn’t pay attention he will lose – but it doesn’t take great imagination, to visualise the speculative gleam in Yukimura’s eye as he turns to speak to Sanada. Sanada’s brow will knit as he replies, and Renji will stay silent, noticing everything from Jackal’s topspin to the number of Bunta’s unforced errors. It doesn’t take Niou’s mind to foresee the Three’s actions; as individuals they are unpredictable, but as one entity their movements follow consistent patterns.
At 6-4, Bunta is totally exhausted. “Please go away and let me die,” he mutters at the shadow that falls across his curled-up body on the bench. Yukimura laughs. It is the laugh that makes people want to think of metaphors like windchimes and water splashing past rock and, if you are really observant, the glint of a switchblade, but it is 4:30 and Bunta is hungry and practice is not over yet.
“The Regulars are having ball drills,” Yukimura says. “Come on, get up, or I won’t be able to make excuses for you.”
As if Yukimura makes excuses for anyone. Bunta pushes himself upright, stretching tired muscles. “Where did Jackal go?” he asks.
“With Niou and Yagyuu. They’re having practice games with Akaya.”
“Is that how it is?”
Yukimura looks amused. “Don’t make assumptions.” There are months to go before the fall ranking tournament. “You weren’t holding back in that match, were you.”
Bunta turns his head and looks blearily up at Yukimura. “Why should I do that? Losing to pre-regulars isn’t part of the plan.”
“Well, that’s good to know.” Some of Yukimura’s smiles are maddeningly elusive, but this one is as unmistakable as any other.
Try harder, it says. Play better. Somewhere inside, Bunta instantly acquiesces, sharpens his tennis resolve.
He doesn’t know how to do anything else.
Tennis swallows Jackal and Bunta up. It seeps through all their conversations and classes; in one week, Bunta learns more about Gustavo Kuerten than he ever wants to know.
“Let’s talk about, like, Brazilian food or something,” he says, after their fifth (extremely interesting, but repetitiveness is repetitiveness) discussion of the French Open and the demands of clay court surfaces. Jackal smiles and tells him about feijoada and roast suckling pig, guarana and doce de leite. Bunta’s stomach grumbles.
“When I save up the money, I am going on a world culinary tour,” he says with perfect conviction. “And you are going to show me around South America.”
“I only know Brazil,” Jackal says, showing his white teeth. “If you want a Latin American tour guide, you’ll need someone who speaks Spanish.”
That’s right, Bunta thinks, remembering an old World History class on colonization, Brazil was a Portuguese colony. It seems so strange, he says, to be a conquered nation, to speak a language that doesn’t belong to you.
“Don’t Japanese people write with Chinese characters?”
That’s different, Bunta says indignantly. We weren’t conquered, we just borrowed.
“If you have to borrow something, it obviously belongs to someone else,” Jackal says reasonably. Bunta clicks his teeth in annoyance. He takes revenge by correcting two-thirds of Jackal’s kanji in violet ink, that afternoon in Japanese class.
A few days later he notices that Jackal is gradually becoming fascinated with Akaya. This is not unusual. Everyone notices the brat at some point, and the Three have never stopped watching him.
“Why isn’t he a regular yet?” Jackal asks Bunta in surprise. “He seems stronger than you are.” It is not meant to be insulting. This is the language of Rikkai: balanced, objective assessment, and the endless reminder to play better tennis. Bunta sighs and pops his gum.
“The brat played Sanada in the first match of the April ranking tournament,” he says. “Then he played Renji in his second match.”
Jackal has yet to see any of the Three play a match, but he’s got eyes. “Both of them?”
“After that, Yukimura got so interested he invited Akaya to an unofficial match.” ‘Interested’ might not be the right word to use. Bunta trusts Yukimura to deploy his ruthless edge only when necessary, but he had his doubts that day.
“They were really good matches.” Bunta watches the thoughtful expression on Jackal’s face. “Really good. First time I ever saw Sanada use the Ka.”
This precipitates a discussion of the Fuurinkazan, progressing to Renji’s Kamaitachi and then the Laser Beam. Eventually Bunta is reluctantly led to discuss the Miracle Skills.
“This school is very impressive,” Jackal says, when Bunta has finished explaining the topspin on the Techuu Ate. “You have many strong players.”
Bunta shrugs. “We’re the current national champions.”
Jackal has a little frown on his forehead. It reminds Bunta strangely of Akaya, and he is puzzled by the resemblance until he recognizes the expression for what it is: determination. “And you’re on the Regulars this year, right? How does someone get on the team?”
Bunta is in dire need of friends who are neither tennis-obsessed nor compulsively single-minded. It’s tragic, that the people he likes best always turn out to be both.
“Get Yukimura to like you,” he says, spitting out his gum and sticking it on the adjacent tree trunk. “Playing good tennis helps.”
“Come again?” Jackal glances at the saliva-wet circle of gum. He looks unsure whether to be amused or perplexed; Bunta resists the urge to sigh.
“The main ranking tournament is held in April,” he explains. “Everyone participates in that one. The September tournament is for the pre-regulars only; it’s used to fill the regular spots that the third-years leave empty when they retire.” Bunta can see Jackal mulling over the information, processing numbers in his head.
“That means that there’ll be three places, right? One for Akaya- and,” Jackal looks up. “Niou’s the only other player who’s good enough.”
Bunta pulls out another pack of gum, unpeels the silver wrapper. “Like I said, get Yukimura to like you.”
Within the tennis club there is only one way to gain Yukimura’s affections. Bunta thinks about all the things he could tell this white-toothed foreigner, his new friend, his probable teammate. He opens his mouth to speak and shuts it immediately.
Sooner or later, Jackal will understand.
Bunta is paired regularly with Renji in doubles only because other combinations are worse; Yukimura has been spotted before, watching their matches with a not-quite wince that mirrors Bunta’s feelings – and Renji’s as well, he suspects. The fact that they are undefeated in tournaments only aggravates the situation, in some ways.
“You think too much,” Bunta accuses. They are putting away their racquets after winning the second round of Kantou; Renji’s expression is rueful, in a neutral-Renji sort of way.
“Try to be reasonable, Bunta.”
We have to be reasonable about so many other things, Bunta wants to say, homework and family and piano exams. Isn’t it possible to be a little bit unreasonable about tennis? But Renji is also the Three, despite being Renji.
He stares down at his tennis bag. After a moment, Renji’s voice breaks the silence. “Are you planning to come this Saturday?”
It is several moments before he remembers Yukimura's invitation weeks ago, to attend his sister's school fair. Bunta had long forgotten about it until Renji’s reminder, but of course Renji knew that he would forget.
“Masaharu and Hiroshi have already promised to be there.”
“What about Jackal?” Bunta asks.
Renji opens his eyes wide. “Would you like us to invite him?”
Only if you really mean it, Bunta says, and this time Renji smiles.
“That’s not a decision for us to make.”
Bunta wants to ask him what the heck he means. But Nishiki and the third-years are approaching, necessitating an end to the conversation; Yukimura and Sanada appear a second later, still wearing their watchful battle-gazes.
It is not until evening that Bunta recalls that Renji rarely answers a question with a question - not unless he truly wants to make a point, and only when he cannot think of a better way to do so.
On to Part II