Ryoma sometimes suspects Tezuka makes him romantic. He wants to tell
Tezuka things. He wants to tell him not to be afraid, that he can touch
Ryoma every once in a while, or look at him when he talks; that he
doesn't have to tense whenever Ryoma stands too close, or say "Echizen"
as roughly as he can to hide the fact that his voice softens naturally
when he says Ryoma's name. He wants to tell Tezuka that just because
they're in love now--and Ryoma knows they're in love--doesn't
mean they haven't always done this, gravitated towards each other
irrestibly, Ryoma mesmerized by the strength and the power and the
grace in Tezuka, Tezuka drawn to whatever it is he sees in Ryoma.
Ryoma
isn't sure what it is that Tezuka sees, but he knows Tezuka sees
something. His eyes are full of it, the thing he sees, and Ryoma knows
that if Tezuka ever touched him, really touched him, his hands would
be, too.
Tezuka hasn't touched him yet. They haven't spoken of
it. Their games, their talks, their lingering silences, are prelude to
the moment when. It will be a moment when their hands brush
accidentally, or linger at the net too long to pretend they are still
at the level of handshakes; a moment when Ryoma's breath catches in
spite of himself and Tezuka can't quite bring himself to look away; the
moment that launches Tezuka out of denial and Ryoma into his arms. And
Ryoma already knows how that will be.
Ryoma knows what kissing
Tezuka will feel like, the way he knows the feel of a ball against his
racket before it hits: challenge, purpose, and victory; and stars in
the moment of impact.