For the 30_kisses challenge.
#7, Superstar. Tezuka/Ryoma, and this is, oh god, so much fluff. WHY AM I SO EMBARRASSING. 978 words.
Ryoma
maintained a sulky silence all the way back to their hotel room. Tezuka
let it last until they were safe behind closed doors, then remarked
while changing out of his suit, “It’s flattering of you to be jealous
after nearly four years.”
Ryoma said, “Hmmph,” and sat down on his side of the bed. “I don’t like the way girls look at you.”
Tezuka smiled. “Maria Sharpova looks at everyone that way. She meant nothing by it.”
“Did you have to ask her to dance?” Ryoma asked sullenly.
“We
were seated side by side. It would have been rude not to,” Tezuka said
gently, sitting next to him. Ryoma placed a hand on his knee.
“Well, I don’t like it,” he said. “Every year we come to this thing and it’s the same thing, those women fawn all over you.”
Tezuka,
ignoring the point that the same thing could easily be said of all the
women who routinely crowded around Ryoma, placed his fingers against
Ryoma’s cheek. “Are you saying you want to come out before Wimbledon?”
Ryoma pouted. “No.” He scooted closer and leaned his head on Tezuka’s shoulder. “Not right before. Maybe—maybe right after.”
In spite of his best efforts, Tezuka’s smile grew bigger. “What would you do, hold a press conference?”
“Maybe.”
Ryoma slipped a hand under Tezuka’s shirt and ran it lazily over
Tezuka’s chest. “It’d be more interesting than just winning. The news
people would have something new to talk about.” Tezuka allowed himself
to be pushed back against the mattress. Ryoma leaned over him. “They
could chase you around instead of me.”
“They wouldn’t pay less
attention to you,” Tezuka retorted, reaching up to unbutton Ryoma’s
shirt. Ryoma, instead of helping, made the task more difficult by
wriggling closer and pushing Tezuka’s shirt up to hum kisses over his
stomach. “They would pay more to both of us. The press has an infinite
ability to multiply.”
His voice was light, but Ryoma still looked up in concern. “So you don’t want people to know?” he asked. “Not ever, Buchou?”
The
last word slipped out, and Tezuka was sure Ryoma hadn’t meant to say
it. It was something he only called Tezuka anymore during moments of
extreme intimacy.
Tezuka blinked up at him, and for a moment
focused on deliberately undoing the rest of the buttons on Ryoma’s
shirt, sliding it over his pale shoulders. Ryoma returned the favor,
and laid his head on Tezuka’s bare chest.
“I don’t think you’re
ready to take on the dual role of youngest Grand Slam champion in
history and poster-child for gay athletes,” Tezuka said carefully.
Ryoma
snuggled closer, and Tezuka threaded fingers through his hair. “But
I’ll have you to help me,” Ryoma said with a yawn. “It’s not like
anything could happen to mess us up.”
Tezuka kissed the top of
Ryoma’s head. “You would have new responsibilities, duties you never
asked or expected—about things that have nothing to do with tennis.”
Ryoma shrugged as best he could while lying stretched out against Tezuka.
“You’ve
always been able to ignore other people’s opinions,” Tezuka continued,
thinking “able to ignore” was the understatement of the evening. “But
it would become harder, much much harder. I don’t know if you realize
just how much would change.”
Ryoma stilled and went silent for a
moment. Tezuka continued to stroke his hair, concentrating on the rise
and fall of Ryoma’s stomach against his.
“Well,” said Ryoma after another moment. “I do a lot of interviews and get my picture on the cover of
The Advocate,
and lots of fans start to hate me because I’m suddenly a fag, and I
have to watch how I act because how I behave will reflect badly on the
world of tennis and gay people everywhere. Is that basically it?”
Tezuka’s hand slowed. “Yes,” he said blankly. “More or less.”
“And
in exchange I get to take you as my date to these stupid banquets so I
don’t wind up having to talk to people I barely know while I watch you
spend the whole night being molested by the Williams sisters?”
“Yes,”
Tezuka responded, as something warm and dear surged through him,
swelling his chest. “Though I may still occasionally ask women to
dance.”
“You shouldn’t," Ryoma scowled. “You’re terrible at it.”
He looked up at Tezuka. “It doesn’t seem that bad,” he said. “It
doesn’t matter how much changes, only
what changes.”
Tezuka’s hand stilled where he touched Ryoma's hair. “I suppose,” he said cautiously.
“Our
friends already know,” Ryoma continued, “and our families. I’d rather
have to do some stupid interviews where I talk about how great you are
then wind up in a tabloid because somebody snapped pictures of us
having sex on a beach.”
“We will never have sex on a beach.”
“It was just an example.”
“Or anywhere someone might have hidden a camera.”
“Geez,
you’re so boring.” Ryoma flopped over on his back and quickly slipped
out of the rest of his clothes. “What am I doing with a guy like you?”
“Waiting
for Atobe to make it to a Grand Slam final, clearly,” said Tezuka
wryly. He reached across Ryoma, who was burrowing under the covers, and
turned out the light. “Goodnight.”
“Ryoma caught his hand in the
dark and said, suddenly very close to Tezuka, “I don’t think it’ll be
bad at all. Coming out with you.”
“Think about it before you come to a decision,” Tezuka replied. He could feel Ryoma’s nod against his shoulder.
“Buchou?” Tezuka opened his eyes. “I hope we win.”
Tezuka laced their fingers together. “We can’t both win.”
In the dark Ryoma’s eyes shone. “But we can get close,” he said. “I want you to be the last person I play.”
“Goodnight, Echizen,” Tezuka answered, and slept with Ryoma’s hand tucked in his.