Topgallant : Prince of Tennis: 30 Kisses

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.

Ryoma 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.

He 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.

Tezuka 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.

“Echizen,” 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 of Tezuka 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!”

He 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.

Ryoma 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 moment before.

Shaken out of the moment by the intimacy of what he was watching, Oishi silently pushed the door closed and returned to the kitchen.

“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.