As the ball arcs vicious and beautiful over the net, and the crowd's cheers turn to awed whispers, Ryoma props his chin on his knee and watches Tezuka-buchou play. He ignores the mutterings from behind the fence, following the interplay of calculation and effort and breathless skill that makes Tezuka who he is. Ryoma watches the zero-shiki hang in the air, still ringing with the gentle vibration of ball on gut, and thinks of everything that's happened in the last three years.
He remembers middle school � that first year with the team, training and friendship and the glory of their National victory; the second year, too, with the shock of losing so many Regulars eclipsed by the endless fights Momo-senpai and Kaidoh-senpai got into without seniors to keep them from arguing. By his third year, there hadn't been a player in the circuit who'd been able to come close to beating him, and Ryoma had spent most of his free time at the high school courts, bothering Fuji-senpai and Tezuka-buchou until they agreed to play.
Ryoma remembers opponents. Atobe with his arrogance and personal cheering squad, and (even more irritatingly) the skill to back it all up. Chitose, who'd stunned them all and almost put an end to too many hopes. Kirihara, who'd never given up on challenging him, and who seemed to get better and more vicious every time they met. Yukimura, unbelievable strength and tenacity masked by that quiet calm.
And then there are his senpai. Ryoma smirks as the shouts of Seigaku! Fight! rise from behind him, and doesn't turn away from the court. Momoshiro's enthusiasm, Kaidoh's scowls and hisses, Inui's notebooks and juices; these are the images which fill his memories. He remembers friendship and support and intense competition: Kawamura's burning power, Kikumaru's bouncy energy, Oishi's worry and pride, Fuji's deadly skills and innocent smiles. He remembers partnerships, doubles pairs, unwavering dedication; he remembers matches, and the sweat and effort and burn of stretching every limit he has, over and over again.
Above all, with every image and memory that overlaps in his mind, Ryoma remembers Tezuka-buchou. Ever since the stunning, awakening shock of that first incredible match, with the rattle of trains overhead drowned by the sound of his own panting as he stared up at his captain, Tezuka has been Seigaku to Ryoma. He watches Tezuka-buchou hit a spin smash that slides past the opponent's racquet with inches to spare, and remembers discovering that tennis could be more than a means of defeating his father. More than that, he remembers a year of new pride and new aspirations; a year of watching that stern figure at the edge of the courts.
Three years ago, Seigaku had competed in the Nationals for the first time, and Ryoma had finally seen the true extent of his captain's strength. He smiles, remembering the churning feeling in his gut as he'd sought Tezuka-buchou out afterwards, challenging him� just as Tezuka had wanted him to. Even with two years in between, he'd felt as though he could defy gravity when he walked back onto Tezuka-buchou's courts this spring.
Meeting Tezuka's eyes, Ryoma feels as though he can do anything � as though they can do anything, because tennis is a game for two. He remembers ranking matches, and breaking each other down to the bone, and the way it felt as though nothing in his life had ever been so right. Ryoma remembers long looks, and intense eyes, and most recently the illicit thrill of clumsy, inexperienced kisses in the locker room after practice. He remembers passion and certainty, and the sheer satisfaction of reducing his usually-stern captain to panting gasps and dishevelled clothing.
The crowd explodes as Tezuka-buchou turns an awkward backhand into a thing of beauty, putting the deciding shot neatly into the left corner. The umpire calls game and match for Seigaku, and Ryoma grins, shoving himself to his feet and meeting Tezuka's eyes as he walks back to the bench. He already has his own racquet in hand, and their hands clasp, briefly, as Ryoma steps out onto the court.
Ryoma can hear whispers of his name in the sudden hush of the spectators. He stands at the baseline, absently bouncing the ball, and looks over to the team one last time, those familiar words echoing in his mind: Echizen, become the pillar of Seigaku! His eyes meet Tezuka's, and Ryoma can see the future laid out before him, stretching on forever. He smiles, and tosses the ball to serve.