Sequel to Solitaire, Stare At The Sky, and Long Way Down.
"Deuce!" the umpire calls, and Ryoma suppresses a wince. This damn tie-break is no surprise at all, but it's still as riveting as any match can be when he isn't the one out there. Three years ago he wouldn't have cared about the outcome. Now, with the national title riding on it& yes, he admits to himself silently, it does matter to him. How can anyone not be affected by the determination in Tezuka-buchou's eyes as he lifts his racquet to serve?
Ryoma hears Horio's shrill voice among the cries of "Seigaku!" from the stands, and momentarily wishes (as he has so many times) that someone would shut the idiot up. Kawamura-senpai is up there somewhere too, with the flag, but there's no way Ryoma can look away from this match. His eyes follow the clean, defined lines of Tezuka's body as he returns Yukimura's slice, feeling his own muscles stretch and burn in sympathy. He's caught between twin, warring desires, unable for the moment to decide which side of that court he'd rather be on.
Somehow, he hadn't been at all surprised when Tezuka-buchou had actually asked him if he wanted Singles One or Two for the finals. Instinct and pride both had opened his mouth to demand the position he knew he deserved as much as anyone, but the words had faltered on his tongue as something in him acknowledged and understood the need in Tezuka's eyes. Tezuka-buchou had wanted to play Yukimura, badly enough to knot a stupid lump of jealousy under Ryoma's breastbone, and in the end that had been all he really needed to know.
"Advantage Seigaku!" the umpire calls, and the stadium erupts into cheers. Ryoma folds his arms across his chest, waiting for the almost inevitable, and doesn't so much as twitch as Yukimura puts an ace just beyond Tezuka's reach.
"Deuce," the umpire shouts again; Ryoma glances his way for a moment, rolling his eyes at the long-suffering expression the man wears. He's probably rethinking being involved with high school tennis at all, after that wild ball that Kirihara sent by his nose earlier. Ryoma can still feel his most annoying rival's glare from across the courts; Sanada, who occupies Rikkai's courtside bench as Ryoma does Seigaku's, has eyes for no one but Yukimura.
"Advantage Rikkai!"
"Ch'," Ryoma mutters, reproaching himself for not paying close enough attention. Tezuka-buchou's back is straight, his hair stuck to his neck with sweat as he walks back to receive Yukimura's serve. Ryoma watches him narrowly, imagining the calm of his expression as every game they have ever played flashes through his mind. From the clattering rush of trains overhead to the screams of the spectators at Nationals, everything that tennis truly is has been given to him, in the end, by one person.
When Tezuka finally turns, at the sound of Yukimura bouncing the ball, Ryoma chokes on a gasp. Tezuka's face is as calm as ever, but his eyes are fire.
"Ow!" he hears Kikumaru-senpai protest somewhere behind him. "Oishi, you're squashing my hand, nya!"
Somewhere, dimly, Ryoma is aware that he should be used to this. It's not new any more, the way a look from Tezuka-buchou can shiver him down to his toes with a rush of wanting, the way even the best and fiercest of battles on the court are no longer enough. The need that writhes through body and mind isn't new at all, but this look in Tezuka's eyes& He's mesmerised, captured, wanting nothing so much as to be the one to provoke that expression.
The umpire's calls fall on deaf ears. Ryoma knows that he's staring, but can't care enough to look away. Not for the first time, he thankful that his cap hides the blush he's sure must be scalding his face.
As though he can feel the weight of Ryoma's eyes on him, Tezuka-buchou turns his head, paused on the edge of tossing the ball up to serve. Their eyes meet, and Ryoma forgets to breathe. It's as though Tezuka can see everything he is, all he has been and will ever be. After a long, long moment, Tezuka nods slowly, breaking the contact, and turns back to the court. The arc of his racquet as he serves is like the sun rising, like an arrow pinning Ryoma to the bench; he gasps in oxygen, feeling himself shiver. This is it, this is the moment that everything hangs on.
The stands erupt as the umpire calls the game. Ryoma fumbles for a towel as Tezuka and Yukimura shake hands over the net, swallows tension as his captain comes towards him, all that shining energy and spirit suddenly dissipated into exhaustion. Ryoma stands up to offer the towel, eyes fixed on Tezuka despite the roar that seems to shake the stadium. Their fingers brush, momentarily; that and the sheen in Tezuka's eyes turns Ryoma's knees to jelly. "Buchou," he mutters, shrugging into his jacket, and as he leaves the court he can't help but glance back, once, at the way the light outlines Tezuka's figure in gold.
It doesn't really register until the bus ride back. Ryoma settles himself into a corner, wedged comfortably sideways in his seat, and glances around at the rest of the team, wondering why everyone's suddenly so quiet. Even Momo-senpai is leaning on his arms and staring out of the window.
Ryoma's opening his mouth to ask what the hell the problem is when it hits him: this is it. This is the last time, the end of Seigaku's greatest tennis team. Soon the third-years will leave the club for exams and then university, scattering the Regulars. This is the end of the road.
Ryoma exhales, settling his head against the cool glass of the window. It's the end of his own road, too, at least as far as Seigaku's concerned. He's already through with his compulsory education; once he turns sixteen this winter there will be nothing standing between him and the pros. Another two years of high school, without his favourite opponents, will do nothing for him.
He blinks, distracted by movement, as Tezuka-buchou settles into the seat across the aisle from him. Even in school uniform, there's something about him that draws the eye; Ryoma bites his lip but doesn't quite manage to look away. He knows nothing about Tezuka's plans, but the thought of not being able to play him to see him knots a cold lump in his stomach. The desire to ask wars with the exhaustion of two sets in a row pushed all the way to tie-break; he realises with a vague sinking feeling that he can't imagine tennis without Tezuka-buchou. Whether across the court or watching from the bench, that strength has always been there to lift him higher.
Tezuka-buchou turns from his conversation with Oishi-senpai, looking directly at Ryoma. The expression on his face is calm and approving, but his eyes behind the sheen of his glasses are amused. Ryoma fights the impulse to look away and blush, despite the swooping feeling in his stomach. He's not twelve years old any more.
The silence stretches out, warm and comfortable, broken only by the soft murmur of Ryuzaki-sensei talking to the driver up front. Ryoma watches the corner of Tezuka's mouth curl up into a tiny smile, and remembers all the times he's seen that look directed at him. He's all but certain now, and he makes up his mind then and there that he's waited long enough already.
"Pros?" he asks quietly, propping his shoulder against the seat back as the bus shudders to a halt in a hiss of brakes.
Tezuka inclines his head briefly, eyes flicking back to the rest of the team. "After graduation."
"Aa." Ryoma sighs in relief, then scowls as Momo-senpai and Kikumaru-senpai bounce down the aisle, apparently revitalised by the proximity of food.
"Come on, Oishi! Taka-san sushi!" Eiji exclaims in a loud voice from the front of the bus. Silently, Ryoma stuffs his cap into the pocket of his racquet bag and follows Tezuka-buchou off the bus.
The street is dim and quiet with dusk. He's been wanting this for so long that he almost feels relief as he reaches out to touch Tezuka's arm, halting him outside the doorway. Fuji-senpai looks back once, eyes sharp and blue, then smiles and herds Momo and Inui into the restaurant with soft words. Every sense that Ryoma possesses is alert and trembling; the sound of the bus pulling away behind him seems stupidly loud. Then Tezuka-buchou is looking down at him curiously, and there is nothing but white noise in Ryoma's mind.
"I'm tired of waiting, buchou," he tries to say, and somehow it comes out breathy at the end, almost a gasp. There are nerves here, now, that he has never felt on the courts, and he thinks a little dazedly, through the lamplight reflecting warm in Tezuka's eyes, that maybe there might be better things than tennis after all. He's leaning forward, up, and Tezuka is looking down at him with that quiet fire in his eyes that's so very familiar. A moment of strangeness, almost desperation, and then Tezuka's eyes change.
This is it, Ryoma thinks fuzzily as their lips meet, not uncertain at all. This is the zero-shiki moment, swooping in his stomach; this is the Tezuka Zone, the pull, and this is what they have been moving towards all these years. Tezuka's mouth is hot, insistent, and Ryoma remembers that this captain, at least, has never once treated him as anything less than an equal.
There is no uncertainty in him at all as he presses closer, winding his arms around Tezuka's shoulders and parting his lips, demanding.
"Hoi, where did buchou and Ochibi go?" Kikumaru-senpai asks loudly from inside, and Tezuka's hands tighten on his back but don't let go. There is the light sound of steps moving closer. Ryoma has just decided that he couldn't care less about being caught kissing the captain, with Tezuka's tongue in his mouth, when they halt and a soft familiar voice murmurs, barely audible through his haze of sensation, "I think they're busy, Eiji."
"Ehh?" Kikumaru-senpai's voice trails away to suspicious silence, and Ryoma starts a little as Tezuka's teeth set gently into his lower lip for a moment before the captain pulls away.
"We should go inside."
Ryoma can't really deny that, but the look in those warm brown eyes, so close, is mesmerising. He blinks as Tezuka gently sets his cap back onto his head, wondering when exactly he lost it. "Buchou," he mutters because he has to say something, and he tugs the brim of his cap down to cover his blush as he enters the restaurant.
Tezuka's matter-of-fact hand on his shoulder feels like a caress, or a promise. Ryoma smiles.