Standard Disclaimers Apply.
A/N: Giving another smack at fandom. I really have no idea what the hell I'm doing. If anyone knows my style, this may never get finished, and it may get deleted at anytime. I suppose this can stand on its own, but I have been planning to expand it. Until then, enjoy!
Echizen has always been honest, in that blunt, brutal way of his.
It's really all in the logic. Why fiddle around, and waste time when you can say things straight out? Echizen primarily operates on this principle, except when his emotions get the better of him.
Sometimes his senpai come to him because of this—when they cannot bear to let themselves see what is there, when they cannot see what is there—they come to Echizen. And just like every time before, Echizen will give it to them, plain, without dressings—just the stark, honest truth as he sees it.
So when he finally figures out how he feels about his Buchou, it only takes him half a Saturday afternoon to decide to confess.
Realization does not come with intense gazes across the tennis courts, or even a tennis match, it comes suddenly when he's sprawled out on his bed on a hot and lazy afternoon, when it is too troublesome and tiring to get up and do something useful. He is bored, and he thinks that if only every day were like his matches with Buchou—hard, fast, thrilling, the kind of feeling that rushes warmth through his body, the kind that makes his fingers tingle and his feet shift weight from one leg to the other in anticipation—life would be much more worthwhile.
So he thinks about Buchou; he hasn't much else to do, after all. And he thinks about the serious eyes, the half-smiles, and the invisible, but reassuringly present hand that is always at the small of his back, as if saying, 'Don't worry, I'll always catch you.' Then a whisper curls about his mind. Don't be careless. Soft and hard, gentle but firm, Buchou is his pillar, and he feels that he has always known that on some level. He is always there, supporting and encouraging him to go to new heights, and soar as high as he can. He wonders if he'll be able to be Buchou's pillar one day.
Not one day, now, his mind complains, and it hits him all at once.
So, he marches up to the net on a Saturday evening, tennis racquet in his hand. He is sweating, and his opponent is too. His heart is beating fast, and he feels a new kind of exhilaration. He offers a hand, and his opponent takes it.
"I like you Buchou," he says blandly. His expression doesn't change and his gaze is steady, along with his handshake. He squeezes the hand gently with calloused fingers, and holds on after the handshake is over.
"I like you, Buchou," he says again, just to prove his point. They are still holding hands.
"Will you go out with me?"
Blunt, stark, and honest, but never harsh.
It's only logic.