A/N: Taking my first big step into the TeniPuri fandom... with a non-yai fic, no less! Don't get me wrong, I've got nothing against yaoi (I'm pretty partial to the Golden Pair myself), I just think the fandom's seriously lacking in the RyoSaku fics. So here's my little contribution. It's nothing much, and it probably sucks, but, well, here you go.

I apologize beforehand if Ryoma seems a little OC (he does speak an awful lot in this fic), but I personally don't think it's that drastic...

Ooh, also, timelines suck. Don't even ask me where this would fit it (cuz your guess is as good as mine).

But enough of my rambling. Here's hoping you like!

Recipe For Disaster
Chapter One: The Ultimatum
By Jonah

Very few things dared to get in the way of Echizen Ryoma and his tennis. Those stupid enough to try either got a well-aimed tennis ball to the head, or the threat of having a well-aimed tennis ball to the head (or some other trajectory Ryoma may have had handy at the time). Either way Ryoma made clear that tennis was his life, and to get between him and his life will only result in a very angry tennis prodigy, who'll have to make up for lost time by using your head as a ball instead.

But there were certain things, Ryoma would be quick to find, that even a genius can't get around.

"'Failed'?"

"Yes, Echizen-san, failed."

Ryoma blinked. Failed. In all his life, Ryoma could only remember failing twice, and both times it was at tennis. He never held school at the same regard as the sport (because, really, tennis had no equal), but he didn't exactly slack off either. He did his homework like any other student, and usually at an exceptional level.

But this…

"How can anyone fail cooking?" came Horio's baffled cry, which would have been too loud and just that tad bit insulting, if Ryoma bothered enough to care.

As it was, he merely shrugged the comment off, as easily as he shrugged his uniform off in favor of his usual practice clothes. On the other side of the fence, Horio busied himself by mulling over Ryoma's predicament, as if it were something to even worry about. So what if he failed? Students failed all the time. Ryoma's world was not ending.

Wordlessly grabbing his racket from his bag, Ryoma turned at his heel, fully prepared to ignore Horio for the rest of the afternoon. He thought maybe if he hit the ball hard enough against the wall, the sound might drown out Horio's inevitable babbling.

The tennis prodigy eased into his stance, eyes glazing over with that fire he reserved only for the courts, lifted his hand to serve…

When Horio's voice cut through the air like a scorching knife through melted butter.

"Gee, I hope you can still play at the tournament next month."

Ryoma jolted, actually jerked in his place, before blazing eyes turned to the other boy, who immediately recoiled with something akin to fear. "What the hell are you talking about?" came Ryoma's clipped question.

"W-Well…" Horio hesitated, only adding fuel to Ryoma's steadily growing impatience. Right when he finally needed the boy to say something, he chooses to shut up!

"Spit it out already," he all but growled, making the other boy squeak a bit before his words came out in a flurry.

"I'monlysayingplayersusuallyneedapassinggradeinalltheirclassestoplay!" Horio gulped. "That's all…"

Ryoma stared at him, long and hard. The tennis ball in his hand spun with practiced ease as he thought the new information over.

Horio, sensing the prodigy's surfacing doubt, quickly blurted out: "But I'm sure that won't be the case for you! B-Being one of Seigaku's star player and-and all…"

The more Ryoma thought about it, the more Horio began to make sense. Surely the old lady wouldn't let a simple thing like cooking get in the way of their chances of winning…

x

"No dice."

Stupid Horio.

Sumire shrugged casually, even as Ryoma gaped at her in muted disbelief. "I'm sorry Echizen, but as long as you have a failing grade, I can't let you play."

"I have to play," Ryoma bit out curtly. There was simply no other way around it.

But the old lady merely shrugged again, flicking off a speck of dust on her jersey in her indifference. "Then pass the class. That was just a progress report, wasn't it? You still have time to pick it up." She stared at Ryoma's glowering visage, light amusement dancing behind her eyes. "What class are you failing anyway?"

If possible, Ryoma's expression grew even darker. "Home economics."

His face grew practically livid at the immediate laughter that followed. "It's not funny!"

Sumire tried her best to control herself (really, she did), but the thought of Seigaku's tennis prodigy, the Echizen Ryoma, son and heir to Echizen Nanjirou's tennis throne… failing cooking? Buddah himself would laugh.

But eventually her mirth faded, and when she was only resolved to but a few giggles here and there, Sumire placed a hand on the boy's shoulder and said (sans giggles), "Cooking isn't that difficult. A few hours of practice and you'll pass that class with ease."

Tell him something he didn't know. Of course Ryoma knew how easy cooking was (hell, if his Oyaji could manage a decent meal or two, he sure as hell can). It was just the 'few hours of practice' part that was the problem. Ryoma only really spent his free time practicing tennis (usually in the form of rigorous one-on-ones with his Oyaji), and all other hours were devoted to homework, eating, and sleeping (with the occasional video game thrown in, if he was feeling especially generous).

"I don't have time," he stated very plainly, with the kind of tone adults usually reserved for lies that were pretty big, and pretty necessary.

Sumire, however, was apparently a very sly old bat. "Right," she said. She turned slightly, a thoughtful look on her face before she smiled and reached out to flick the bill of his cap with her finger. "I'm afraid I can't allow a regular to miss that tournament, especially for something as silly as grades—"

For a moment, Ryoma thought he could hear the angels sing.

"—so everyday after practice I want you to head over to my house for cooking lessons."

But it wound up just being the sound of his luck nose-diving into the ground.

"…You're going to teach me how to cook?" came his dubious reply, simply for a lack of anything better (or insulting) to say.

The sudden bark of laughter that followed his words was not the reaction he'd been expecting. "Me? Heck no! No, my granddaughter will be teaching you," she said, hurriedly whipping out a pen and paper and scribbling away. "I'll be far too tired after a long day of practice to bother with something like cooking," she grinned, looking remarkably like Fuji in one of his 'moments', and handed him the paper. "Here's the address." She flicked his cap again. "Lessons start tomorrow. Don't be late"

It took Ryoma a while to figure out that he'd been conned, and conned good. He stared at the piece of paper in his hand. So it would take away the only other free time he had in the day, but it was just cooking lessons. Two, three days at the most. No big deal.

… Yet for some reason… he couldn't shake off the feeling that he'd just walked into one of the biggest mistakes of his life.

Survey says?