Trial and Error

I am extremely proud of this piece, and I only hope it's worth being proud of. This really reminded me of why I love to write and why I write. I took some risks and played with different scenarios, and ultimately I think it paid off. A whole lot of love and work went into this. Huge thanks to my wonderful IronicallyYours, who beta read this in record time and made me feel comfortable putting it out there. Any mistakes you find are purely my own and I would love for you to review and point them out to me. As always, half of the joy and rush comes from hearing what you guys think, so let me know if it was dreadful or if I pulled it off. Above all else, thank you, thank you, thank you for reading.

Fuji makes him ache. Makes him grip his racquet, clench his jaw, and want more than anything to play him again. Fuji excites him like Tezuka does, but somehow there are subtle differences. There's something about the way Fuji plays that stirs him. It might be Fuji's grunts, sending shivers rippling through his stomach and settling beneath his molars. It might be his perfect form, making Ryoma almost giddy with the sharp longing to get back on the court and execute a flawless forehand. It might even be his footwork, carrying him back and forth in a single breath.

Fuji makes him ache beyond tennis, too. Makes him swallow the rock that becomes lodged in his throat whenever the senior player happens to pass by. Makes him act flippant and bored around him when in reality his palms are sweating and he's aching, just aching. Aching for that flutter of his blue and white shirt whenever his arm swings up in the air—perfect follow-through, God, he grows hard every time, no use denying it—and some of his skin peeks out from underneath. He knows he wants to hear Fuji make those pretty noises underneath him, or on top of him, or beside him, or wherever else Fuji would like. He also knows he wants to see more than the glimpses he's managed to sneak in the showers, to confirm if what he's conjured in his mind is close to the real thing. Most of all, he wants to touch, he wants to taste, and he wants to scratch the itch.

It's a windy October afternoon and Ryoma is bouncing a tennis ball off the cement court. He clutches it momentarily before dropping it again, flicking his wrist as his fingers pull away. It bounces back, and he holds it for a moment. Feels the fuzzy material against his fingers. Drops it again. Holds it. He does this five times, pauses, and then straightens and looks across the court at Fuji.

The wind is playing with his hair, picking up some of the longer strands and twisting them leisurely. Ryoma's throat clicks when he swallows, and suddenly his confidence is gone. He has to grip his racquet, grit his teeth, and bounce the ball two more times to get his focus back, because his mind isn't filled with thoughts of serving and winning but of nibbling and tasting.

Everything melts away when he goes through the motions of serving. He throws the ball in the air, bends his knees and leans backwards, then brings his racquet slicing upwards until it clouts the ball with a thwack. His arm curves downwards for the follow-through, his whole body turning with it, and the ball bounces exactly where he meant it to. Fuji hits it back to him—of course he does, how could he not?—and with that little grunt Ryoma loses his focus. Just for a second. He puts in an extra dose of strength this time when he slams his racquet into the ball. Fuji's eyes slip open and at that moment he vaguely wonders how one can forget to function, how one can forget to breathe, but he has and the point goes to Fuji.

He pulls his eyes away from Fuji's sinuous form and bounces the ball on the cement once again. Thump. Thump. Throws the ball, cuts the air, smirks as it collides with his sweet spot. Thwack. The ball leaps across the net—back and forth, back and forth—until Ryoma drags Fuji to one end of the court and drives the ball into the other corner. He feels jubilant but guarded, suspicious that Fuji let him slip in such an easy point. He glares at him across the court and Fuji smiles. Smiles and opens his eyes.

Chemistry: Noun. 1. (Uncountable) The branch of natural science that deals with the composition and constitution of substances and the changes that they undergo as a consequence of alterations in the constitution of their molecules.

Fuji's English classroom is 201. Ryoma knows this because he has math three doors down, and sometimes Fuji will walk him to class. Of course, they're headed in the same direction anyway, so Fuji doesn't walk him to class so much as stroll alongside him if they happen to meet in the hallway. All the same, Ryoma is annoyed on the days he doesn't see Fuji on his way to math, and on the days he does he is annoyed at himself for being so excited over it.

Two days after he loses spectacularly to Fuji, Ryoma is late for math and trying to come up with a plausible excuse. "I was helping a pregnant lady give birth" doesn't quite seem to cut it anymore, and his math teacher dislikes him to begin with. He's wondering if blaming his tardiness on Horio would go over well when he hears Fuji's muffled voice. Startled, he whirls around, and realizes he has just walked straight past room 201. He's already late, so he sees no harm in stretching it a bit further and sneaking a peek through the window.

Shifting his binder and pencil case into the crook of his left arm, Ryoma looks around, sees no one, and sneaks towards the open door. He sidles against the wall, worried someone will spot him and wonder what he's doing spying on their classroom. A quick glance inside reveals about two dozen students sitting at desks, most of them fiddling with a pencil or taking a nap. At the front is Fuji, smiling cheerfully and reading from a battered paperback.

"And wouldst thou have me cast my love on him?"

Eiji, standing next to him and squinting at his text, says, "Ay, if you thought your love not cast away."

"Why he, of all the rest, hath never moved me."

"Yet he, of all the rest, I think, best loves ye."

"His little speaking shows his love but small." The corner of Fuji's mouth quirks up.

"Fire that's closest kept burns most of all."

"They do not love that do not show their love."

Ryoma shrinks back and tries to rearrange his features into a casual, bored expression. He hears shoes clicking smartly down the hallway, and he doesn't want anyone to catch him skipping. He knows his math teacher is going to snap at him, probably give him a detention, but his mind is occupied by other things. Finally, he has a vague idea of what he's going to do.

"We have a different kind of chemistry."

–Kyle Singler

He wants help and he isn't sure how or who to ask. Lying in bed, distractedly petting Karupin, he scrolls through the list of people he knows and weighs the pros and cons of talking to each. Anyone from his own grade is out of the question, as he doubts they have any more experience than he does. If it was any other issue he would have a team full of older players to ask, but this isn't something he can approach just anyone about. Tezuka is his captain, so logically he would be his first choice. However, the very thought of telling his captain he wakes up with his lap wet and images of Fuji's eyes slipping away makes him shudder and puts a sour taste in his mouth. Definitely out of the question. The same holds true for Kaidoh.

Momoshiro would tease him to no end if he so much as uttered a word regarding his feelings, and Eiji would find the whole thing sickeningly adorable and never leave him alone about it. Oishi is by far his best choice, but Ryoma doesn't want his image of his boyhood innocence tarnished forever. He stresses enough whenever the other regulars make crude jokes or bring up lewd topics of conversation. Knowing Ryoma rakes his eyes over Fuji's form and wonders what his neck tastes like would probably send him into a fit of epilepsy.

Asking Kawamura wouldn't be too bad, he supposes, but it could go one of two ways. Either Kawamura would scratch the back of his head and mutter something about puberty and coming of age, or he would grab his racquet and shout out his approval. Both reactions are too annoying to be worth the trouble. As for Inui, he would present him with charts and statistics to determine his likelihood of success and the best way to ask him out. He would also probably have some detailed graphs to explain to him just what to do if he ever manages to sleep with Fuji.

Right. He definitely isn't asking Inui.

The only person he has left to ask is his father, since his cousin and mother would just giggle and tease him. When faced with the prospect of his father blowing up because he won't be bringing home any cute schoolgirls for him to ogle he would rather go to Atobe with his little problem.

Karupin jumps up when the doorbell rings, and Echizen winces as his cat's claws sink into his leg. Kaidoh has been coming to his house for the past few days to help him with his chemistry homework. His first choice was Inui, but before he had a chance to ask for tutoring Kaidoh offered to come over a few nights a week. He was dubious at first, but Kaidoh has been a pretty good tutor so far. Even if he freaks his cousin out a bit. He pushes thoughts of Fuji and admitting his feelings aside, trying to concentrate on the laws of Gay-Lussac and Charles and whatever else he's supposed to be learning in chemistry class these days.

"The course of true love never did run smooth."

-William Shakespeare

He decides to write Fuji a note. He doesn't want it to be something sappy and lame like his cousin would write. None of that I stare longingly at your plush, pink lips as I gaze into your shimmering eyes crap. Just brief and straightforward, letting Fuji know how he feels in no uncertain terms. But then…what if Fuji thinks he isn't romantic? Or he's confusing love with friendship? Or he isn't serious enough to write something a bit more lyrical than "Hi, senpai, I have a crush on you. Yours, Ryoma"? The whole thing makes his head hurt.

First he starts by writing it on a page torn out of his chemistry notebook. When he's done he surveys his work critically, and realizes the frayed ends of the page where he ripped it from the notebook look stupid and tacky. He goes into the kitchen and grabs some of the printer paper under the phonebook. The first time he rewrites his note it slants towards the left. The second time he tries to put a piece of lined paper under the blank page but it slips around too much. Finally he digs around in his desk, finds a ruler, and uses it to painstakingly write each line as straight as possible. This takes several tries because he is using a black ballpoint pen and he keeps making mistakes.

When he's finally done it's already ten at night and he still has homework to do. He folds the stupid note into an envelope and puts it in his tennis bag; he'll give it to Fuji tomorrow during their afternoon practice. Too tired to worry about his English homework, he changes into his pyjamas, shuts off the light, grabs Karupin and crawls into bed. A cramp has started to worm its way into his palm, focused near the middle and creeping towards his thumb. Fuji had better appreciate the dumb note. Highly irate, he turns over onto his side and eventually manages to fall asleep.

Chemistry: Noun. 2. (Countable) An application of chemical theory and method to a particular substance. The chemistry of iron. The chemistry of indigo.

Eiji knows almost everything about Oishi. He knows his favourite flavour of chewing gum (lemon) and the number of movies he's cried over (ten). He can tell when Oishi is smiling nervously, anxiously or excitedly, and when Oishi laughs he knows whether he's faking it or not. He knows all of this, but he has no idea which tennis bag is his.

This isn't entirely his fault. All of the regulars' tennis bags look the same: blue and boxy, with few distinguish features. When Oishi asked Eiji to grab his water bottle out of his bag he trotted off eagerly, knowing Oishi has to stay hydrated. What he completely forgot, however, is that all of their tennis bags look the same. If someone—say, Tezuka or Kaidoh—was to find him snooping through their things, he would probably have to run six hundred laps. He puts his hands in his pockets, sighs, and is about to go back to practice when something catches his eye.

"What's this, nya?" he asks as he walks towards one of the tennis bags. It looks like all the others, thrown carelessly on the bench and zipper hanging open, except for the envelope sticking out of it. The plain white envelope that Eiji can't help but snatch up and open. Thoughts of Tezuka and Kaidoh are replaced by his boundless curiosity. He has no idea who would bring an unaddressed envelope to practice, but he's about to find out.

It's not what he expected. At all. His eyes widen as he reads, lips forming the words written in a tidy script on the page. He reads it twice more, just to make sure he isn't imagining things, and then a grin splits across his face.

"Oh, Oishi, you're too cute, aren't you?" He chuckles and puts the note back in the envelope, then tucks it in his back pocket. He should have seen right through his ruse, of course—aren't they supposed to be the Golden Pair? This is just the kind of thing Oishi would do. Casually ask Eiji to fetch his water bottle and plant a love note in his bag for him to find. He's been expecting something like this for a while now. Oishi gives him those looks, eyes not just seeing him but examining him, scanning him. They're not innocent eyes, not at all, and they've been whispering him a message, whether Oishi realizes or not. I want you. That's what I need to tell you, that's why my hand keeps brushing against your arm in class, that's why I stay longer in the showers than strictly necessary.

With a smirk on his face Eiji walks out of the locker room. The regulars are playing one another while the freshmen are on ball duty. As he makes his way purposely towards Oishi, who is playing Fuji and holding his own, Eiji checks to see if anyone is watching. They're not; the matches today are intense and they're all concentrated on their own games. Not for long, though. He's pretty sure of that.

"Oishi." He comes up to Oishi and shakes his head.

"Um—what? Eiji, where's my water bottle?" It's Oishi's turn to serve, but he pauses to address his doubles partner.

"Haha, water bottle. You're funny," Eiji says. "You're just so cute, Oishi. Giving me a note and everything, as if I wouldn't know who it's from. But I know, nya, don't think I don't!"

The others are starting to stare. Tezuka's arms are crossed, and he seems ready to scold Eiji. Ryoma, who is playing him, has a seriously annoyed look on his face. Oishi flushes: he doesn't want to disrupt practice. "Eiji, I don't know what you're talking about, but I'm busy right now."

"I'll make this quick, then." Eiji giggles. Before Oishi can stop him he bounces up to him, throws his arms around his neck, and kisses him.

Behind them, Ryoma slaps his palm against his face and sighs.

Chemistry: Noun. 3. (Informal) The mutual attraction between two people; rapport.

Inui relishes a challenge. That's why he's taking advanced calculus, chemistry, biology, physics and functions this term. When something makes him think, makes him frown and chew his pencil and lose himself in the problem, he loves it. So when Oishi asks to see him after practice and hands him the note, mumbling something about "didn't write it" and "not sure who did but I'd like to find out", he takes it as a challenge and smirks. This seems to unnerve Oishi more than ever, but he isn't paying attention to Oishi anymore. He's miles away, wondering how he should start, asking himself if he still has those labelled samples of everyone's handwriting. He's already going through the possibilities, trying to determine if the person who wrote the note is from Seigaku, or one of the regulars, and if he is who it might be. At this point, it could be anyone. Even Tezuka is a suspect.

The moment he gets home, Inui dumps his things on his desk, takes out a notebook, and pens a title on the front cover. "Investigation Volume I". Satisfied, he opens the notebook and jots down today's date in the right margin. He then composes a list of all the regulars. He has determined whoever wrote it can't be from another school, because he keeps careful tabs of who comes to watch their matches, and no one came by today. Given the state of the envelope, he can tell it hasn't much been folded, wrinkled or handled. As such, there is a 94% chance the note was composed either yesterday, probably during the evening, or today. The other 6% is based on the fact that the person could be exceptionally neat—such as Tezuka—or might have brought it in a Ziploc bag. He writes in his notebook a reminder to check everyone's lunches tomorrow for Ziploc bags.

The first name on his list is Tezuka. So far, he thinks he has a reasonable amount of information to consider Tezuka relatively suspicious. The crisp state of the envelope and the perfect script all make him a primary suspect. Writing a note is also something Tezuka would do. From what Inui knows of him, when it comes to romantic situations he lacks confidence. He is not the type of person who would go up to someone and blurt out any romantic feelings he might have for them.

The second name on his list is Kawamura. He finds it unlikely that Kawamura wrote the note. First, he knows for a fact which tennis bag is Kawamura's, because it has a sticker of a dog 3.9 cm from the center of the strap. Second, if Kawamura had feelings for someone on the team, he probably would have yelled it out during practice already upon holding a racquet. On the other hand, when he isn't in "burning mode" Kawamura is exceptionally shy. He wonders if Kawamura would actually write someone a note, or if he might be too shy even to do that. He'll have to carefully observe his behaviour over the next few days.

The third name on his list is Kaidoh. He is almost positive Kaidoh didn't write the note. Its tone is close to one he might employ, but it's still too out of character to seriously consider. Besides, from what he knows of Kaidoh, he would be more apt to go up to someone and mutter that he likes them before writing them a note. Furthermore, he has observed several times that Kaidoh has very secretive behaviour. If he were to write someone a note, he wouldn't arrange it so the note is peaking out of his bag, where anyone could see it. Instead, he would probably hand-deliver it or hide it where he is positive no one else could find it. Kaidoh is not a very likely suspect, either.

The fourth name on his list is Fuji. This is his least likely suspect. The handwriting is too large and spaced out. While he is sure Fuji could change his handwriting to avoid being suspected, he knows this isn't something he would do. Fuji would make it extremely apparent if he liked anyone on the team. He would blatantly flirt with them and make lewd comments. Besides, if he were to write a note, Inui imagines it would be filled with erotic imagery and sensual wording. The mystery note has none of this.

The fifth name on his list is Momoshiro. Like Fuji, Inui finds the idea of Momoshiro writing the note almost laughable. He's been stuck on Ann for far too long, and he probably wouldn't write her a note to tell her how he feels. Even if he did, why would he stick it in his tennis bag where anyone could see it?

The last name on his list is Echizen. At first, he doubts Echizen is the author of the note. If he were to write someone a letter, Inui imagines it would be scribbled on a page torn from one of his school notebooks. He probably wouldn't put it in an envelope, either, and the handwriting doesn't resemble any of Inui's samples. However, Inui can't entirely dismiss Echizen from his list. When Eiji went up to Oishi and kissed him, the other regulars were shocked, and Tezuka wasn't very impressed. But Echizen was outright glaring at Eiji, and he seemed exasperated with the entire situation. This sort of reaction isn't one Inui can just ignore. It's entirely possible that Echizen just wanted to continue his game with Tezuka, but it seems unlikely. There was something more to his anger that Inui supposes could have been frustration.

He creates a hypothetical scenario in his mind. Say Echizen is the one who wrote the note. He put it in his bag, hoping someone would find it, and Eiji did. Eiji goes on to kiss Oishi. Echizen might be frustrated because the note was meant for Eiji, but Eiji thought Oishi was the one who wrote it. Logical, except Echizen has an expression of longsuffering weariness on his face whenever he's around Eiji. The second possibility is that Echizen wrote the note for Oishi, and he's angry because Eiji kissed him. Slightly more plausible. The third possibility is that Echizen wrote the note for someone other than those two, and he was upset because his plan fell through. Inui sets the probability for this scenario at about 64%.

But who did Echizen write that note for? Tezuka? Doubtful; Echizen should know by now Tezuka wouldn't take something out of one of their bags, let alone open and read it. Fuji? Again, unlikely. Echizen's feelings towards Fuji seem, according to his data, to range from irritated to terrified. He doesn't think Echizen has any romantic feelings for Fuji whatsoever. The same holds true for himself; Inui is observant and he would have noticed if Echizen was interested in him. Kawamura is also a possibility, but Echizen is an intelligent person. Would he have written Kawamura a note when he might have picked it up while holding a tennis racquet? Not unless he wanted the whole tennis team to hear its contents, which is unlikely, at best. He applies this logic for Momoshiro as well, who would have made such a big deal about it the entire country would have heard the news by lunch.

That leaves one more choice. And the moment he stumbles across this choice everything suddenly clicks, and Inui feels a smile spread across his face as he realizes he's solved the puzzle. Who has been going to Echizen's house for the past three weeks? Who blushed and looked away angrily when Inui interrogated him about these visits?

Kaidoh.

"Excellent data," he mutters, selecting a pen from his drawer and pulling his notebook closer. He has to write this down quickly; it's late and Kaidoh's mother doesn't like people calling after ten. He and Kaidoh have a lot of things to discuss.

"Thou art to me a delicious torment."

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

Ryoma's new plan is foolproof. He has thought this one over very carefully, examined it from every angle and taken into account every possible complication, and he's positive this one can't go wrong. Whenever he thinks of the stupid, stupid, stupid note he winces and flushes furiously. Everything turned out just fine for Oishi and Eiji: they've been holding hands and kissing when they think no one's looking ever since. About time, too. But Ryoma knows Oishi gave Inui his note, and it won't be long before Inui figures out what's going on. The thought makes him sick to his stomach.

The main issue with his original plan was that anyone could find it. Anyone could walk into the locker room, see it peaking out, and open it up. Anyone could, and someone did. With his new plan the chances of anyone reading the note other than Fuji are slim to none. They're so infinitely small that Ryoma doesn't even hesitate to pick up his cell phone and punch in the message the moment the idea comes to mind.

He's going to send him a text message.

He repeats what he wrote before in his note. Short and perfectly straightforward, getting to the point without any frills. He knows he'll be up all night wondering if Fuji got his note, wondering what he'll say to him tomorrow (or if he'll say anything at all), but it's a perfect plan. It has to be done. He goes to bed satisfied but anxious. They have tennis practice the next morning, so hopefully Fuji will read his text message before then and reply. If not, they can talk about it when they're alone at practice. The thought of being alone with Fuji and discussing this makes his heart thump nauseatingly; he tries to control himself and fails. He really needs to get a grip on himself before he's driven insane.

The next morning Ryoma spends extra time combing his hair and straightening his clothes. Of course, it doesn't much matter, and he tells himself he's being stupid because in under an hour he'll have to change for practice, anyway. Besides, Fuji seems him everyday, and how he looks ten minutes before practice isn't going to change things. But still. Flattening his shirt with his hands and smoothing down his hair makes the nerves go away, at least temporarily, and he doesn't feel like too much of an idiot for doing it.

When he gets to practice the knots in his stomach are so bad he wonders if he's going to be sick. Part of him wants to lie down in bed and yank the sheets over his head. Another part wants to pull on his running shoes and sprint around the court a dozen times. He has so much pent-up energy it's dizzying. Walking into the locker room, he tries to arrange his face into an expression of detached disinterest. Fuji is already there, and his heart leaps into his throat and suffocates him when their eyes meet. Fuji's are glinting mischievously, and Ryoma thinks, 'Holy shit, he read my text. He read it and I'm an idiot for sending it. What the hell did I just do?'

But then Fuji turns away and continues his conversation with Kawamura, and Ryoma frowns. Isn't he going to say anything to him? Mention he'd like to see him after practice? Wink? Wave? Anything at all? Apparently not. Ryoma is in a foul mood by the time they start jogging around the court, and he's only angrier when they divide into doubles pairings and Fuji asks Kawamura to pair up with him. Ryoma goes off with Kaidoh, glaring at Inui when he sees him smirking for no apparent reason. If Inui has a new vegetable juice to try out on them he swears he'll throw his racquet at someone's head.

When practice is over and Fuji leaves with Tezuka, talking about a math test they've been studying for and whether or not their teacher is going to start on vectors next, Ryoma wants to go back home and sleep. Crawl into his bed, pull the covers over his head, and call Fuji a bunch of nasty names. He doesn't care if it's childish or not. He was up all night worrying about Fuji and he doesn't even seem to care about the damn text message.

To put a cherry on top of this morning's wonderful sundae, Inui walks to school with him from the locker room.

"Echizen," he says, nodding as he approaches him.

"Senpai," he mutters, pulling his hat over his eyes and looking away. He really isn't in the mood for questions about whether or not he owns red underwear and what his mother's blood type is.

"What are you doing tonight, Echizen?"

"Nothing. Kaidoh is coming over."

Inui nods. "Is he, now?"

He shrugs. Why does Inui care, anyway? He's about to ask him when Fuji approaches them, smiling and holding out his cell phone. 'Finally,' he thinks viciously. 'He read the stupid message and he's going to tell me "thanks, but no thanks", and you know what? I don't even care.' But his stomach twists and his palms sweat and they let him know he's lying.

"Inui," he says. "I seem to have broken my cell phone somehow. Could you have a look at it for me? I'll try to find the warranty tonight but it's probably expired."

Ryoma grinds his teeth together as Inui takes the cell phone and pops out the battery. "It won't turn on?"

"No," Fuji sighs. "I have no idea why. I just woke up this morning, realized the alarm never rang, and saw it was turned off. I thought maybe the charger was broken, but it hasn't been turning on all day."

"I'll have a look at it." Inui pockets it and nods. "I'll call you later tonight to update you on the situation."

Fuji grins. "Excellent." He turns to Ryoma. "Hi, Echizen. Math session with Kaidoh?"

"How'd you know?" he asks moodily.

"Oh, you know."

He's about to snap "No, I don't know" when Inui steps forward. "I'm going your direction, Fuji. Walk with me so we can go through your cell phone's history. I think I have an idea what might be the problem."

"I knew you would, Inui." He waves at Ryoma as they leave, but he doesn't wave back. He glares and imagines several terrible things happening to Fuji and his stupid cell phone. He adjusts the strap on his tennis bag and takes a step forward when Kaidoh comes up to him. His hands are in his pockets and there is a sour expression on his face. Ryoma sighs. What now?

"Echizen." Kaidoh stands a few feet away from him. To Ryoma's amazement, he blushes. He opens his mouth to ask him what he wants but Kaidoh beats him to it. "I know."

His eyes widen and his mouth hangs open. 'No way. No frigging way.' "Know what?"

"The note." Kaidoh is looking everywhere but at him, and his blush has spread to his neck and chest. "I know."

"What? How'd you figure it out?"

"Inui."

"Is he telling everyone?" he barks angrily.

"No." Kaidoh shakes his head. "He thought I should know, in case I wanted to accept your offer."

"My—what?"

"Your offer. And I do. Just give me a time and place." With that, he bows his head and hurries away, hands still shoved in his pockets.

With mounting horror Ryoma realizes what's going on. Inui, for whatever reason, thinks his note was meant for Kaidoh. Inui thinks Ryoma asked Kaidoh on a date. Dear God. Worst, he told Kaidoh, and Kaidoh wants to go on a date with him. Kaidoh, his math tutor who seems terrified of his cat and who creeps his cousin out. Kaidoh, his teammate he knows for a fact he never wants to see as anything more than a teammate.

Today is a very bad day.

On the other hand, there is something to be said for Kaidoh's strategy. Ryoma realizes this during math class that day. Whenever he thinks of the fact that he has to call Kaidoh and explain the situation to him he groans and clutches his head, but that's beside the point. No one heard their conversation, did they? No one thought Kaidoh was confessing to them instead of Ryoma, did they? He didn't miss the message because his cell phone broke, did he? No. Going up to someone and just plain telling them the truth seems like a great idea right about now, because Ryoma is starting to slip up in tennis whenever Fuji licks his lips or drinks from his water bottle and he can't have that.

"Love is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake and then subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part."

-St. Augustine

Inui has made a horrible mistake. It happens; he's only human, after all. He knows this, but it still pains him to admit it. His data is rarely ever wrong. For it to have failed him, and so badly, is embarrassing and troubling. Once this situation is over he is going to have to seriously reconsider much of the information he has on the Seigaku regulars so far.

Echizen doesn't like Kaidoh. He was sure he did, so positive he would have bet a reasonable amount of money on it, until he fixed Fuji's cell phone. It was a simple procedure, actually. Fuji's original guess was right: something was wrong with his charger. It didn't charge his phone overnight (Inui knows Fuji plugs his cell phone into the charger at approximately 9:40 PM). As such, Inui examined the charger, and replaced the cable with a new one. Once the phone was done charging, he turned it on to make sure it worked, and right away a dozen messages popped up in Fuji's inbox. He didn't mean to snoop—not really, anyway. The opportunity was just too good to pass up. So he quickly took a peek, and was shocked to see one of his messages was from Echizen. According to his data, Echizen only sends 0.8 text messages a week on average. He therefore checked the message—purely for his research, of course—and that is when he realized the horrible mistake he made.

He is understandably nervous when he calls Kaidoh to tell him. Kaidoh won't take it well. Not only does Inui know he spent at least four hours stressing over what to do, but he will be humiliated when he knows he accepted an offer Echizen never extended. However, it has to be done, before Kaidoh takes things further than he already has.

"Kaidoh," Inui says the moment he answers the phone. "We have a little problem."

"I told Echizen," he mutters.

"I know. That's the problem."

"Senpai…"

"I was just fixing Fuji's phone when it received a text message," he explains as quickly as possible. "I checked the message, and Echizen was asking Fuji on a date."

"…So he's two-timing me?"

"No. Not quite." He clears his throat nervously and continues, "It is my assumption that Echizen wrote the mystery note for Fuji. As his plan failed, he has resorted to sending him a text message, which he has yet to receive."

There is a long silence, which Inui finally breaks by saying, "Because this is my fault, I'll speak to Echizen tomorrow at practice and explain, if he hasn't already figured it out. He'll understand."

Another long silence. Inui opens his mouth to ask Kaidoh if everything's alright when he hears a click and the sound of the dial tone.

"Oops."

"Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion. That is just being "in love" which any of us can convince ourselves we are. Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident."

-St. Augustine

Inui is exceedingly nervous when he walks to practice. It is a beautiful autumn day outside, and if he wasn't so worried about Echizen's reaction he would be able to appreciate the crispness of the air. As he is going to have to go up to Echizen right away and explain, however, he notices nothing but the anxiety dancing in his stomach. He also asks himself how Kaidoh will treat him today. He is Kaidoh's senpai, meaning Kaidoh gives him a large amount of respect, but he knows Kaidoh must be mortified right now. Truth be told, he can't blame him.

He walks into the locker room and sighs. Last night was a marathon of going through his notes and considering everything written. Such a serious slip-up can't be ignored; most of his data will probably have to be rewritten. As the regulars age it's only natural their personalities, habits and reactions will change. He has known for a while now he was going to have to rewrite much of his data before long; he just wasn't expecting it to happen so soon. The thought is discouraging.

He steps through the door and goes to slip his tennis bag off his shoulder when he freezes. Fuji and Ryoma are standing a few feet away. Fuji isn't wearing a shirt, while Ryoma's zipper is undone, and Inui is shocked to see that Fuji's hand is plunged into Ryoma's pants.

"I—I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"Good morning, Inui," Fuji says pleasantly.

"Good—I mean, what…?"

"Senpai," Ryoma drawls, giving an exasperated sigh. "Get out."

Inui is only too eager to comply, dropping his tennis bag on the bench and hurrying away. As he closes the door behind him he pulls his notebook out of his pants pocket, flipping through the pages as quickly as possible. If he's going to recollect data on the regulars he had better start now, right? Opportunities like these don't come around often.