DISCLAIMER: I do not own PoT, it owns me.

Challenge

Atobe Keigo had neither the time nor the patience for this. It was really wearing on his last nerve. Of course, he was fully aware that it took time to properly woo someone, but this was getting ridiculous. In all honesty, he didn't know why he was still pursuing this matter. He told himself that he was still in it for the thrill of the hunt, and to mend his wounded pride. Atobe wasn't used to being so openly rejected. No one turned down Atobe Keigo. It was unheard, unacceptable. He wanted, no needed, to build up his ego once more, to return his image to flawless perfection. He wanted to satisfaction of ensnaring rebellious pray. And more than anything, he just plain wanted Tezuka Kunimitsu. And what Atobe Keigo wanted, Atobe Keigo got.

It was late one Saturday afternoon that found Atobe reclining in a chair, legs crossed elegantly, and taking the cell phone that a servant offered him. He brushed back a few strands of hair before dialing the number, deft fingers moving over the buttons. The phone rang two times before someone on the other line picked up. "Tezuka," Atobe said, voice laced with confidence while at the same time sounding laid back.

"Atobe," the voice replied, formal as it always was. Atobe let a silence hang between the two of them, deciding to let Tezuka continue to conversation, if not only to see what he would say. "Atobe," the other both finally repeated the annoyance evident in his tone. Atobe could imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers as he held the phone in his other hand. "If you're calling to arrange a match—"

"No, it's nothing of that sort," he interrupted, examining his finger nails before brushing them against his shirt.

"Then to what do I owe the honor of you calling?" the brunette demanded.

"Ore-sama's in a generous mood tonight. Perhaps you might like to accompany me to dinner this evening," Atobe replied.

"Atobe, I believe we've already been over this, and my answer is still no," he said, hanging up.

Atobe frowned at the phone for a brief moment before settling it down and chuckling quietly. He liked a challenge.

Tezuka was not at all pleased when he reached the locker room, only to find an excessively large bouquet of flowers waiting for him. His frown deepened as he heard the other regulars beginning to mill into the locker room. He closed the door to his locker and tried to pretend as if nothing was out of the ordinary, untying his sneaker so that he could change, but it was too late.

"Those are nice flowers, Tezuka," Fuji said from behind his, tone calm and pleasant.

Tezuka turned to face him, suppressing a groan and hoping his face didn't betray the frustration and confusion that he felt, but Fuji smiled knowingly.

Eiji walked over quickly and draped himself over the tensai's shoulders. "Buchou got flowers?" he asked excitedly, "Nya, who are they from?"

"It doesn't say," he responded dryly as he walked away.

Tezuka took a deep breath and threw the ball up in the air. He watched it as it steadily rose and then lowered in the air. Tezuka swung his racket and the ball hit the other side of the court with a satisfying 'smack'. He closed his eyes for a moment before digging into his pocket and pulling out another ball.

Every day this past week had been the same. Each time he to change for practice after school, Tezuka found another gift waiting for him in his locker. Not one of them had a card attached, but Tezuka knew full well who they were from.

On Tuesday he had received a box of gourmet chocolates. On Wednesday, it had been more extravagant. In his locker waiting for him was a bottle of foreign designer cologne. Tezuka shook his head and later put the cologne in the same drawer in his room where he had stored the chocolates. The next day it was much simpler, only two rolls of grip tape. One was his favorite brand, the other looked far more expensive, a brand he didn't recognize. On Friday, when he arrived at the locker room before everyone else, he found a racket that looked almost identical to his own. It was only when he examined it further that he realized there was something engraved on the handle.

He didn't know why Atobe why being so persistent. He had made his feeling clear, he had said no several times already. So why him? Atobe could have almost anyone he wanted, and much more conveniently, yet he continued to chase after Tezuka. Showering him with gifts was useless; Tezuka wasn't the type that you could buy. Yet, he couldn't rid his mind of what was engraved on the tennis racquet. He had spent over an hour sitting on his bed the night before, running fingers of the engraved letters on the plastic, contemplating their meaning. That one sentence had confused him so deeply that he was no longer sure what he felt.

Smack. The ball hit the court, bouncing off to the side with the others. Amid the sea of tennis balls, there was only a single mark on the green surface. Breathing heavily, he started towards the other side of the court to gather the balls that littered the ground.

"You were off by a few centimeters on that last one," a voice remarked from behind the chain link fence.

Tezuka stopped momentarily, straightening his shoulders, but then continued walking. "The grip tape?" he asked, deciding not to dignify that last remark with a response.

"Your favorite," Atobe stated, flipping back his dark hair.

"I'm aware of that. I was asking about the other roll," informed him, bending over to pick up the tennis balls.

"My favorite," the heir explained, "Did you like the cologne?"

"The scent is a bit strong, but it's nice," Tezuka replied, standing up and turning to face Atobe, "I don't like chocolate, though."

"I know," Atobe said smirking.

Tezuka raised an eyebrow, asking his question without having to voice it.

Atobe shrugged nonchalantly, smirk still firmly in place. "I do," he told him.

Tezuka shook his head, strolling back to his side of the court. "Are you just going to stand there," he began, "Or are you going to play?"

The smirk on Atobe's face grew and he chuckled quietly, sauntering onto the court. "Anything you ask of me is yours."