Prince Of Tennis Fan Fiction ❯ Use ❯ Use ( Chapter 1 )

A/N: I did this when I was supposed to be studying for an Art History Test thinger and writing an essay and what not. Yay for procrastination! Heh.

Sequel Will be Forth Coming. Someday. Well, I can hope, yes?

RyoxMomo angst, with Unhappy Dellusional RyoxSak

Warnings: Language, Implied Sexual What Not, Angst?

Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish it was, though if it was, there would be more pr0n. Mm ~~~~

He didn’t love her. Hell, when he was young, he didn’t even know her name. And look at them now. Screwing. Having sex. Making Love. Or, his personal favorite, Fucking. Because that’s what they were, fucked. Fucked up, that is.

When he was young, he had been so wrapped up in his tennis-induced orgasms, Ryoma had been very surprised when Momo had expressed interest in him. No, scratch that, he’d been shocked and confused and he hadn’t known what to do. So he did the only thing he could do: he pushed him away.

That hadn’t stopped him, stopped Momo from coming for him, from expressing more interests, from groping him in the locker room, from trying to walk him home after school, from all manner of activities. As they grew, he got used to it, came to expect it, even if he wasn’t quite sure what the hell it was Momo wanted.

He’d gotten a rather rude awakening when he overheard his teammates musing on whether or not they were screwing. Fuji seemed quite certain they were, before the sadistic youth turned and walked away, muttering something about ‘Me and Tezuka were supposed to be first.’

And that scared him. He wasn’t oblivious, no matter how some might think he was. He knew what they meant, and that terrified him no end. Momo was a guy, and even if he wanted/needed/did return the feelings Momo seemed so intent on expressing, Ryoma was terrified.

So he did the only thing he felt he could do. He pushed the other youth away, pushed everyone away because he was so freaking scared of what it entitled. Looking back now, he laughed because he was stupid, laughed because he was just a kid who was scared of being loved.

He ruined it, ruined what they had had. Ruined Momo, ruined himself. Years later, after being followed around, the damn girl’s annoying whine always echoing somewhere in the background, he did what he supposed was expected of him. He wasn’t seeing Momo anymore, and he didn’t question that.

He asked the girl out, dated her. He wondered, sometimes, as they walked down the street arm in arm, where Momo was now. He wondered when he kissed her if Momo’s lips would feel the same, rough and chapped. He wondered if the sex would feel the same.

He stayed with her, thinking it inevitable. A girl whose name he couldn’t even remember half the time, whose face was always overlaid with someone else’s, he stayed with her. He used her, and she was oblivious, happy just to feel her idol’s, her god’s, skin against her own. And when she cried out his name in breathless abandon, in his mind that voice was deeper, and that face was changed, and he was on his knees, not her on hers.

Sometimes, he wondered bitterly when the girl was asleep, where Momo was now, if he had done the same. If he saw someone else’s face, if he understood what was wrong with him. If Momo ever wondered what had happened to him.

And sometimes, Ryoma wished that things weren’t quite so fucked up as they were.