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Forfeit

Sanada-fukubuchou was a man who had dignity. Who had honor. Who had absolutely no discernable sense of humor, unless you happened to be conducting the search with the aid of a high-powered microscope.

Anyone in Rikkai's tennis club would have sworn to the above in a heartbeat, especially a certain kouhai who was more exuberant and outspoken than might have been otherwise advisable.

Really, knowing all of that about Sanada-fukubuchou only made the whole situation more bizarre.

Akaya was the one who mentioned it first. "Where's Sanada-fukubuchou?" he wondered out loud, while Yanagi-senpai helped him stretch. "He's really late to practice."

But Yukimura-buchou didn't seem overly concerned with Sanada-fukubuchou's tardiness, and for once Yanagi-senpai didn't seem to know exactly what was going on, so Akaya was left to wonder.

The Regulars had started the precision drills, knocking tennis balls from cones without knocking over the cones themselves (which was pretty normal and boring, except that Marui-senpai was showing off while he was at it, but that wasn't anything new), before Sanada-fukubuchou finally showed up.

Jackal-senpai noticed him first, jaw dropping and his racquet clattering to the ground as he stared.

That got just about everybody's attention, since Jackal-senpai was as unflappable as they came, and they turned to see what he was staring at.

Sanada-fukubuchou ignored them all, continuing to stretch his muscles as if not a thing in the world was out of the ordinary, and as if he weren't a good fifteen minutes late to practice. And things were pretty normal, if you didn't count the being late thing, except--

Except that Sanada-fukubuchou was not wearing his tennis uniform. Or even his gym clothes. In fact, he wasn't really wearing very many clothes to speak of, assuming that a pink ruffled apron and a kerchief counted as clothes. Akaya wasn't sure they did.

Niou-senpai was the first one to break the frozen silence. "Nice boots, Sanada," he drawled.

It might have just been the exertion, but there was just the faintest tinge of pink on Sanada-fukubuchou's cheeks. It, Akaya thought dazedly, went nicely with the kerchief.

"Thank you, Niou," Sanada-fukubuchou said, grave, and went to fetch a basket of tennis balls so that he could join Yukimura-buchou (who hadn't missed a beat, and was still swatting tennis balls off of cones with movements so precise that they were their own kind of beauty).

Akaya found that he had to sit down, lest his knees give out entirely. That apron was the only thing Sanada-fukubuchou was wearing.

"You're late, Genichirou," Yukimura-buchou said, not taking his eyes of the tennis ball he was aiming for. "You'll be making up the missed time at the end of today's practice. Extra laps for the rest of the week, as well."

"Of course. I apologize for my lapse. It won't happen again." And Sanada-fukubuchou started smashing tennis balls at the cones, rather harder than Akaya thought the drill really warranted. "The rest of you, get back to work."

And practice continued on like that, as if everything were perfectly normal--except that Sanada-fukubuchou had gone stark raving mad and wasn't even wearing enough clothing for decency's sake. The first years stared and the second years boggled and the third years shook their heads--and the Regulars caught one another's eyes and communicated silently while Yukimura-buchou and Sanada-fukubuchou carried on as normal, until club was dismissed for the day.

Akaya lingered a little as Yanagi-senpai and Yukimura-buchou stood at the edge of the court, talking quietly like they normally did after practice, and Sanada-fukubuchou made up the lost practice time, and that was what let him hear the quiet exchange that explained it all.

"You didn't seem surprised," Yanagi-senpai essayed, and his tone was cautious, even for him.

Yukimura-buchou just smiled at him. "Of course I wasn't. I was the one who won the bet, after all."

Oh. A bet, that Sanada-fukubuchou had lost, to Yukimura-buchou. Akaya nodded to himself, and decided, as Sanada-fukubuchou jogged past, apron fluttering, that he would never, ever make a bet with his captain about anything.

end

The picture that spawned this can be found here, drawn by the ever-lovely Kizu, whose site is http://bloodstained.fanworkrecs.com/ and who can be emailed at kizu@fanworkrecs.com.