It's unbelievable how little power Yukimura has once it stops being about winning a game against him. It's not that he's any less of a tennis player; he is still incredibly strong. It simply doesn't matter that he is. The knowledge no longer feels like a weight slowing her reflexes, or an abyss swallowing her whole. Her mind is as clear as it's ever been, her body feels ready to burst she has so much energy.
It's the adrenaline in both cases. But it's enough. The game is no longer terrifying but thrilling, and suddenly-- it's not that Yukimura has developed blind spots, but his and Flayn's combination is full of them. She can see them all so well now, like glimmers of light across the court. It's almost too easy. She hardly notices the passage of time and their swelling lead. What she sees is the opponents' ragged determination and tenacity. Peripherally, she's aware of Yukimura's frustration and growing desperation to not lose this game, but more in her focus is Flayn's excitement and drive to keep trying simply for the fun of playing. That's right; that's the energy to ride out to the finish.
Match point. Sanada's double clutch sends the ball sharply askew to the corner of the court. A strangled cry tears from Yukimura's throat as he dives and sends the ball whizzing back like a bullet. He skids across the court paving, scraping up his limbs and dirtying his jersey. The ball smacks against the top of the net and rolls along the top, not unlike Bunta's most famous volley.
She knows, before it even happens, it's going to follow the same trajectory too. She moves without further thought. Knows without words that it's hers. Her racket arcs parallel to the ground and taps the ball with the frame back to the opponents' side without touching the net. It feels like slow motion watching it drop, not two inches from the net, and come to rest with barely a second bounce, sealing the outcome of the match at six games to four-- the same score Yukimura suffered to Echizen years ago.
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It's the adrenaline in both cases. But it's enough. The game is no longer terrifying but thrilling, and suddenly-- it's not that Yukimura has developed blind spots, but his and Flayn's combination is full of them. She can see them all so well now, like glimmers of light across the court. It's almost too easy. She hardly notices the passage of time and their swelling lead. What she sees is the opponents' ragged determination and tenacity. Peripherally, she's aware of Yukimura's frustration and growing desperation to not lose this game, but more in her focus is Flayn's excitement and drive to keep trying simply for the fun of playing. That's right; that's the energy to ride out to the finish.
Match point. Sanada's double clutch sends the ball sharply askew to the corner of the court. A strangled cry tears from Yukimura's throat as he dives and sends the ball whizzing back like a bullet. He skids across the court paving, scraping up his limbs and dirtying his jersey. The ball smacks against the top of the net and rolls along the top, not unlike Bunta's most famous volley.
She knows, before it even happens, it's going to follow the same trajectory too. She moves without further thought. Knows without words that it's hers. Her racket arcs parallel to the ground and taps the ball with the frame back to the opponents' side without touching the net. It feels like slow motion watching it drop, not two inches from the net, and come to rest with barely a second bounce, sealing the outcome of the match at six games to four-- the same score Yukimura suffered to Echizen years ago.
The silence that follows is deafening.