Transferring responsibility for the club to a new captain is a curious feeling. Tezuka sits in the tennis office after practice, filling out the paperwork and trying to look forward rather than back. He should have no regrets, he thinks; not after this year.
The door slides open behind him with a smooth whisper, and Tezuka can hear quiet footsteps on tile. He doesn't need to turn and look.
"Echizen."
"Heh." Tezuka can see Echizen's face in his mind's eye, the amused expression that always accompanies that tone of voice. "That's buchou."
No one else would have stayed this late to wait for him, Tezuka thinks, signing his name in the space on the form. "Are you done with clearing the courts?" He squares up the papers and sets them neatly to the side of the desk, then picks up his bag.
"Aa." When he turns, Echizen is grinning up at him, hands clasped behind his head. "It's going to be Momo-senpai, right?"
Tezuka inclines his head noncommittally, heading for the door without a word. Echizen's eyes on his back are heavy with everything they've been building this past year, and Tezuka has to suppress the urge to reach out as he passes.
"Buchou."
Tezuka halts just outside the door, then turns curiously to find Echizen staring intently at him. "What is it?"
"Do you remember the clay court by Haruno University?" There's a challenge in Echizen's voice that isn't quite familiar. Tezuka frowns.
"Of course." They haven't played there since that last, explosive match three years before; all their matches since Echizen returned to Japan have been at the shrine behind his home. Belatedly, Tezuka thinks to wonder why.
"Good. Three pm tomorrow. I'll bring the balls." The words take Tezuka back to middle school with a flash, and for a moment he sees with dual vision, remembering the overwhelming need to show Echizen just how far he could go. Then Echizen smirks, eyes bright, and Tezuka is back in the present, eyes widening despite himself. "Come alone, buchou."
Tezuka watches him walk away, feeling for a moment as though the world has swayed beneath him. Echizen has come so far from the slight, prickly child he had been � and he has pulled Tezuka with him every step of the way.
Tezuka hasn't regretted a moment of it.
Echizen is waiting on the court, hitting serve after serve into the corners. His eyes light up as Tezuka arrives, transforming his face from the usual faintly sulky disinterest to something bright and compelling. Tezuka reminds himself again not to be careless, but he can't quite keep from smiling in the face of that expression.
Echizen tilts his cap back, looking up across the net. "Do you want the serve?"
Tezuka considers that for a moment. At the level they both play, it matters, but he doesn't yet know what Echizen wants from this match. "You can have it."
"Aa. Three sets, okay, buchou?" Tezuka just nods; Echizen grins at him, then pivots and walks back to the baseline. When he turns to serve, his eyes are intense and focused; Tezuka feels as though he is suddenly standing at the centre of the world. He's moving before Echizen hits the ball, narrowing his own focus down to the court, the game, the explosive skill of the boy across the net.
This is their game, Tezuka thinks with the part of his mind that isn't caught up in calculating spin and impact and balance, the tennis that only they can play. He hears Echizen laugh as he returns a vicious twist smash to the line, soft and breathless and exhilarated; the sound stirs up feelings that there is no time to think about because if he lets his guard down for a moment it will be over. Echizen is relentless, and Tezuka knows he wouldn't have it any other way.
Tezuka takes the first set seven to five, and Echizen smirks across the net before pulling off his cap and shaking his head, hair flying everywhere as he pants. Tezuka passes him a water bottle and watches beads of sweat roll down the line of his throat, disappearing into his open shirt collar as he tilts his head back to swallow.
"Thanks, buchou." Echizen wipes the back of a hand across his mouth and shoulders his racquet, already making his way back to the line. He takes the next set, and when he opens the third with the Twist Serve again Tezuka knows he has a fight on his hands. Yes, he thinks, and smiles.
It is the best match he has ever played � beyond the last time on this court, beyond his first National final, beyond last summer in the States. Tezuka loses himself completely in the game, forcing himself past thought and calculation and ebbing energy into the instinctual space where his body reacts without thought and there is nothing in the world but the court and the net and Echizen. It feels like flying.
When the zero-shiki finally settles into the net like a sigh, Tezuka can no longer tell who hit it and it doesn't matter. There is only Echizen, stumbling to the net to meet him with more need in his eyes than Tezuka has ever seen.
Handshakes are the last thing on Tezuka's mind. Echizen's fingers twist white and bloodless in the front of his shirt, pulling him down, and then their mouths are meeting hot and breathy and urgent.
The kiss is clumsy and desperate. Echizen is making choked-off, throaty sounds, and Tezuka feels as though he is drowning, starving, burning to ashes. Echizen sways against him, gasping for breath, and Tezuka wraps both arms tight around him, tugging him closer and deepening the kiss. Their tongues meet and slide together, and Echizen arches his back, hands sliding possessively across Tezuka's shoulders and making him shudder with more than stretched muscles or exhaustion.
By the time Echizen finally pulls back, eyes dilated and mouth bruised red, Tezuka has lost all track of time. He's faintly surprised to see that the sun has almost set, the court lights bright white and glaring in his peripheral vision, but most of him is caught up in the sensation of Echizen's hands still on his shoulders. Echizen � Ryoma, Tezuka thinks � is looking at him as though he is the only thing in the world.
"Buchou�"
The word cracks in Ryoma's mouth, full of wonder and need, and Tezuka cannot find a reason to stop himself from smiling. He lifts a hand, threading his fingers slowly through Ryoma's damp hair; they are both still sticky with drying sweat, and the air is beginning to chill. Ryoma smiles up at him and leans into his hand.
"Let's go somewhere else, buchou. The net's in the way."