For the 30_kisses challenge. #8, In Our Own World.
I have spent my Christmas vacation daydreaming about Ryoma and
Tezuka playing tennis forever and living happily ever after, and Ryoma
winning the Grand Slam and then Tezuka winning Wimbledon the next year
by defeating Ryoma in, like, the greatest match of all time ever, and
then they're so high from it that when they meet at the net they just kiss
and everyone is like :o *_* and then they're like, on the cover of the
Advocate and are, like, Barbara Walter's #1 Most Intriguing Couple of
the Year ads;lkjadsf and YOU KNOW THEY SO WOULD BE SADJKLFDSA and they
have sex and tennis and Ryoma gets lots of ad contracts with Ponta and
Tezuka does a milk ad and Ryoma convinces Tezuka to buy a really big
house in Tokyo near Tezuka's parents but far away from Ryoma's where
all their friends can come over and play tennis whenever they want and
where Fuji never remotely manages to break them up despite various
attempts because they are too busy living happily ever after and OMG I
NEED TO BEAT THINGS IN GLEE.
And speaking of fic, I have some. TezuRyo (with some Golden Pair thrown in) for New Year's Eve and 30_kisses
. #8, In Our Own World—and for achiasa
, who told me I could write this scene and gave me the idea for it.
This is, like, the sappiest thing I’ve written in years, but I’m so in love with them I don’t even care.
had been trying not to look at Tezuka all night, and now when there was
no excuse not to and they were the only two people in the room, the
temptation to look was too great; Tezuka’s presence was strong and even
with his back to him Ryoma could feel him, could feel himself wanting
to drink in the sight of him until he couldn’t fight it off anymore.
turned around and looked evenly at Tezuka where he sat on the couch.
Tezuka was looking just as steadily back at him, and Ryoma’s heart
suddenly lodged in his throat.
They had been doing this all
fall, ever since Ryoma moved back to Japan for his first year of high
school at Seigaku: watching each other, moving circles around each
other, in orbits that kept shrinking in diameter so that soon there
would be nothing to do but touch. Ryoma knew now what it was like to
want something he couldn’t win from just trying; he had done everything
but come right out and say it—he had dropped a million hints as subtly
as he knew how, and Buchou had given him utterly no
encouragement—nothing to hope for, nothing to read into. But he had
watched. He had watched Ryoma doing this to himself, until Ryoma was
nearly in a frenzy of wanting--and, oh god, it was only the off-season.
As Ryoma looked at Tezuka looking back at him, both of them well aware
of what they weren’t saying and Tezuka apparently content to be silent
forever, he suddenly thought of the new year, and the full season
awaiting them, just the two of them as captain and freshman all over
again. He thought of the courts awaiting them, the long afternoons of
tennis practices to come, the sound of Tezuka’s voice and how it would
stay with him every evening, into the night…
And Ryoma couldn’t
do this, couldn’t be expected to hang back and not touch him, not talk
to him, not—not when he would be Tezuka’s teammate again, when they
would be supporting each other, watching each other play, growing
stronger and facing each other as rivals—
Tezuka’s hair was
catching the flamelight from the fireplace. He sat rather stiffly on
the edge of the couch, looking far better than anyone had a right to
look in a plain brown turtleneck, and this was love
, Ryoma decided. It had always been love, and there was a moment and an opportunity, and he couldn’t take it anymore.
didn’t actually go rigid all over when Ryoma mumbled, “Buchou,” and
settled into his lap, but that was only because he had already been
rigid all over. Ryoma melted against him, wound his arms around
Tezuka’s back, and clung to him, breathing him in, wanting him, and
suddenly unable to remember a time when he didn’t feel like this.
Tezuka said, but his voice was a breathy, unsteady shadow of itself,
and if the intended effect was to push Ryoma away, it gave him hope
instead. He looked up into Tezuka’s face.
“Buchou,” he said,
painfully aware that Tezuka wasn’t touching him back. “I can’t—” he
shifted closer, pressed his chest against Tezuka’s; and now Tezuka’s
expression was coming undone, and Ryoma whispered, “I can’t—” again,
and Tezuka’s mouth was on his.
The shock that ran through Ryoma
when their lips touched ran through Tezuka also; Ryoma felt him
untense, felt him crumble until his arms slipped around Ryoma’s back,
and suddenly he was clutching Ryoma tightly, holding him closer,
pouring himself into the kiss. Ryoma had never been kissed before, and
he had no way to know if it was a good kiss or not, but the mere fact
kissing him, of feeling wrapped up in his touch after wanting it, wanting him
for so long, made him hungry for more. When they finally broke apart
Ryoma pressed closer and shivered, whispering, “Buchou,” again against
Tezuka’s cheek. And then Tezuka kissed him again: kissed his lips
repeatedly, then took Ryoma’s bottom lip between his and traced it with
his tongue, then slowly let Ryoma work out where to put his teeth so
they wouldn’t get in the way of their tongues, and Ryoma had always
thought of kissing as messy and disgusting, but this wasn’t, this
wasn’t at all. Kissing Tezuka was the only thing in Ryoma’s experience
that felt even better than playing tennis with Tezuka, and in between
kisses they touched, and said each other’s names, and Ryoma didn’t ever
want to stop.
And when they finally did stop, Tezuka’s hand was
against Ryoma’s cheek and their foreheads were pressed together, and
their arms were wrapped around each other, and Tezuka’s glasses were
fogged but he didn’t mind, Ryoma knew, and Tezuka was smiling the way
he had smiled the first time Ryoma had ever beaten him—relieved and
proud and a little sad, too.
And Ryoma understood now, understood and clung as close to Tezuka as he could. Because this was
love, and it had always been love. And now they both knew it, and
eventually they would talk, and Ryoma would try to tell Tezuka how much
he had wanted, and for how very, very long; but for now, words could
wait, thought Ryoma, and held on.
In another part of the house
the members of the Seigaku High regular tennis team, minus their
captain, were making eggnog, or trying to, when Eiji exclaimed, “Nyahh,
someone should go find Tezuka-Buchou and Echizen before midnight!”
put down the spoon he was holding, and Fuji beside him said gently,
“Let Oishi go. You stay and help me measure.” He gave Eiji a smile, and
Eiji brightened and told Oishi to hurry back.
“There is a 98% probability that they are in the living room where we last saw them,” Inui remarked.
Oishi thanked him, and looked there first.
The door was partially open, which saved him the embarrassment of knocking. Oishi peeked in—and stared.
sat knees-apart on Tezuka’s lap, pressed close to him, as close as he
could get, with Tezuka holding Ryoma tight around his waist, pulling
him in even closer. Their foreheads touched, and Tezuka’s other hand
was laced through Ryoma’s. They were looking into one another’s eyes,
but they could have been blind, Oishi thought, for all they could see
of anything except each other. He watched them stay like that for
moment after wordless moment, til on some unspoken cue, their lips met,
and they kissed as intensely and silently as they had been unmoving a
Shaken out of the moment by the intimacy of what
he was watching, Oishi silently pushed the door closed and returned to
“I couldn’t find them,” he said shortly.
Fuji glanced up and said, “Hmm,” and went back to stirring.
“Hoi, but it’s almost the New Year!” said Eiji. “They’ll miss the good part!”
“No, Eiji,” said Oishi, “I don’t think they will.”
He slipped his arms firmly around Eiji’s waist, and held on.