Prompts: Gifts, Spice, Mistletoe.
Every year it's the same. Ryoma pokes at the wrapped gifts unenthusiastically, ignoring his mother's encouraging smile and his stupid father's scowl. Even in Japan his birthday is swallowed by Christmas; all the packages on the table are smothered in bright red and gold, stars and holly leaves decorating the papers. Ryoma knows he's lucky to get two sets of presents at all, but he doesn't have to like it.
The large boxes with the ribbons are from his mother and Nanako, and Ryoma already knows that they will contain a new set of Fila tennis gear. Last week he'd had to suffer through shopping for them, mentally cursing Inui-senpai for insisting on all that milk. The new racquet that will be his Christmas present is waiting to be collected from the sports shop down the street.
There are presents there from senpai too, probably involving grip tape and sushi coupons and other useful things. At least no one appears to have told Ryuuzaki-sensei's granddaughter or her loud friend that Ryoma is turning thirteen today. He sorts through the pile, trying to find a happy expression for his mother's sake, and pauses when he comes to a flat package that's almost buried beneath the rest. It stands out, though, because it's wrapped in blue-and-white chequered paper rather the garish red-gold-green of the rest.
The label, when Ryoma frees it from the pile, is neatly written in a familiar hand. His name, and Tezuka-buchou's. Ryoma weighs the package in his hands, feeling strangely, stupidly pleased, then carefully peels off the tape and paper.
It's a picture � a photograph in a plain metal frame. A picture Ryoma hadn't known existed, of himself on the court during the National finals, almost airborne in the midst of the twist smash that had been his match point. The rest of the team are ranged in the background of the photo, clinging to the fence; Tezuka himself is on the coach's bench, arms folded and face intent. Ryoma stares down at the picture, thumb absently stroking the smooth edge of the frame, and cannot quite keep a smile from surfacing.
The party is rowdy enough that it isn't hard to catch hold of Tezuka-buchou's arm and tug him out into the deserted garden. No one notices their absence; the buzz of music and conversation from inside is muted by the door that Ryoma carefully closes behind them.
Moonlight shimmers on snow, and the air bites. Tezuka's eyes are calm and half-amused behind the silvered sheen of his glasses. Ryoma moves into the warmth of his body deliberately, reaching up to wrap his arms around buchou's shoulders and pull him down.
Their breath makes frosty clouds that bleed into each other, mingling. Ryoma tiptoes and Tezuka's mouth is on his, hot familiar slide of their lips and tongues that warms him down to the bone. Buchou tastes of mulled wine and spice and himself, and Ryoma presses tight into his embrace as though they can meld together. After a long, timeless moment, he pulls back enough to smile and speak against Tezuka's mouth.
"I've been wanting to do that all night."
Echizen is surprisingly heavy for such a small body, compact muscle and strength sprawled lazy across Kunimitsu's chest. His eyes are sleepy, half-lidded molten gold, and Kunimitsu cannot breathe. He lets his hand skim whisper-light down the line of Ryoma's spine, watching the way he arcs into the touch like a cat.
"Ne," Ryoma's voice is low and drowsy, and Kunimitsu tries not to feel lost under the weight of him, this prickly half-asleep boy who has challenged him for years. "Are you awake?"
"Aa." His voice comes out throaty and almost hoarse. Ryoma's skin against his is like a drug, running hypersensitivity through his veins and turning his bones to water; Kunimitsu closes his eyes and sees the candlelight behind them as he runs his fingers through Ryoma's hair.
"It's not my birthday any more," Ryoma murmurs against his chest, his breath stirring Kunimitsu's skin into goosebumps. His fingers trace patterns along the muscles of Kunimitsu's arm, sliding slowly up to settle warm over his shoulder.
"Happy Christmas," Kunimitsu whispers, staring up at the blurry recesses of the ceiling. His fingers trace the shape of Ryoma's smile, imprinting it into memory.