Sequel to Shadows. Theme is "Jealousy."
Ryoma never knows quite what it is that makes him look up, into the crowd, as his final volley hits the opposite court with a solid smack that he already knows will not be returned. It's like magnetism, like gravity, like there's simply no way he can not look up then and meet Tezuka's eyes as set and match is called for Seigaku. Ryoma feels as though he is standing outside himself, watching himself inhale raggedly and freeze for an instant that seems like forever, utterly incapable of looking away. And then the crowd is exploding and the rest of the team are somehow surrounding him, and by the time he breaks away from hair-ruffling, back-slapping, excited senpai it's as if Tezuka was never there at all.
He spends the presentation ceremony trying to convince himself that he'd imagined it. God knows it wouldn't be the first time, if so, and in his rational mind Ryoma knows that to pick one person out of a capacity crowd in the stadium� Every sense and expectation he has tells him that it can only be imagination, that bitter wash of emotion in Tezuka-buchou's eyes.
Still, somehow it's not at all a surprise when he slips out of the locker room's side exit to find that too-familiar figure waiting at courtside. Neither does he doubt for a second that Tezuka-buchou is waiting for him. Ryoma lets the door swing shut behind him � Ryuzaki-sensei is shepherding the others through the throng of reporters at the front, and no one will be surprised if he doesn't show � and takes three steps forward, suddenly feeling ridiculously uncertain. Tennis courts are easy, but this�
Tezuka-buchou is turned half-away, looking out over the now-empty court, and this time Ryoma knows he isn't imagining the half-proud-half-envious ache in those eyes. It makes his stomach knot up with helplessness; what is he supposed to do, when even looking at him must make the loss more vivid?
"Buchou," he whispers because he has to say something, his voice hitching breathily over the syllables, and wishes he'd kept silent when Tezuka visibly flinches. Ryoma has no idea what to do, what to say, how to respond to this, so he squeezes his eyes shut, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. When he looks up, under the brim of his cap, Tezuka has turned to face him, expression closed and distant.
"Congratulations, Echizen." His voice is even and calm, and somehow that hurts more than anything else. "You played well."
"It should have been you," Ryoma blurts out, trying not to choke on the words as he watches the flare of pain and envy in Tezuka's eyes. He means it; these past three years it's as though the heart has been cut out of Seigaku, if only in Ryoma's eyes. How many times had he dreamed of one more match, back then � how many times does he still? Once, he had thought that Tezuka could be his ultimate opponent. "It's not fair, buchou."
"Life rarely is," Tezuka says, and the calm in his voice reminds Ryoma of that match, of the way the Zone kept him controlled and at a distance, no matter how hard he struggled to push through it. "I'm not your captain any more, Echizen."
That hurts, because he knows it's true. He's gone beyond what Tezuka could teach him, and when he's beaten his father, who will there be left to be stronger than? No other opponent has ever mattered to him beyond the moment, when it comes down to it; he knows that even if (when, part of him mutters) he takes the Grand Slam, the world� it will be hollow.
"You'll always be my captain." Ryoma shrugs rebelliously into his jacket and sees the exact moment when Tezuka-buchou recognises the garment, eyes flaring wide and unguarded behind the silver sheen of his glasses.
"You're wearing �" Tezuka very visibly chokes on the words, face suddenly raw with pain as he reaches out right-handed to touch Ryoma's shoulder. Suddenly Ryoma is very, very conscious of curious eyes on them, the clusters of people lingering in the stands� he clutches at Tezuka's wrist as though either or both of them might vanish, tugging them both backwards into the now-empty calm of the locker room. Tezuka moves willingly, almost stumbling and it's not right, seeing him this weak, it's not�
Ryoma swallows the lump in his throat and quite deliberately abandons the words he has never been adept with. He can't bridge this gap with topspin and drive and drop-shot, not any more, and maybe he can't heal anything at all, but he knows bone-deep that this is the last chance he will get to have what he's been wanting for almost three years. He takes a deep breath, ignoring Tezuka's withdrawn posture and clenched fists, and steps in closer, getting a firm grip on the collar of Tezuka's shirt and tugging him down for a clumsy but demanding kiss.
It isn't anything like he'd imagined. Ryoma has no idea what he's doing, really, and Tezuka is stiff and unresponsive with shock. He has time to think, a little desperately, that this is about to get even more awkward, and then Tezuka shudders against him with what almost feels like a sob, pressing closer and tilting his head� And suddenly it fits and they're kissing like they're drowning, tongues and teeth and no one can say Ryoma doesn't learn damn fast when it matters.
It's right enough to make him forget that this is still a semi-public place, that it's not only possible but probable that coaches or senpai or even his stupid father will come looking for him soon enough. Ryoma wraps his arms around Tezuka-buchou's shoulders and stumbles backwards until his back hits tile and almost, almost manages to forget that this is all he will get.
Tezuka starts when Ryoma's hands slide beneath his shirt, but then his mouth fastens onto Ryoma's neck with a desperation born of more than simple need, teeth meeting ungently in skin. Ryoma gasps into thin air, blurry eyes fixed on the ceiling, and digs his fingers hard into muscle as his back arches, Tezuka's hands running down his spine to clutch his ass and pull their hips into contact. Ryoma hisses and throws his head back, hitting wall with a crack that would be painful if all his sensation wasn't suddenly concentrated in that one area. He wraps one leg around Tezuka-buchou's waist, rocking against him and letting the wall take most of his weight. They're both hard, he can feel it, and this is it, this is exactly what he's been wanting ever since he realised why Tezuka-buchou's absence hurt so much.
"Buchou," he gasps as Tezuka's fingers slide beneath the waistband of his shorts, curling around his erection, and shit he's so hard and wet too with three years of dreams and hormones and hopelessness and this can't last long but he has to, he has to� Ryoma gasps in a ragged breath and fumbles with Tezuka's pants, sliding desperate hands over him in a way that makes Tezuka-buchou shudder and rock into his grasp, against him� for an incongruous moment Ryoma remembers that they're both left-handed, and then Tezuka's mouth is on his again, and his glasses are digging into Ryoma's cheek but it doesn't matter because this is everything.
Tezuka-buchou's fingers slip away, lower, pressing into him, and Ryoma makes an animal sound of protest in the back of his throat before remembering where they are, why� He forces himself to relax, setting his teeth into Tezuka's lip as those fingers, slippery with sweat and his own fluids, stretch him open on an aching burn, then chokes and smacks his head on the wall again as Tezuka touches something that whites out the world in pleasure and he's so close now, so� Ryoma gasps for breath, shaking, reaches desperately for what little balance he has left, and tilts his hips insistently, demanding what he won't ask for.
Then they're kissing again, wet and messy and wordless, and Ryoma lets Tezuka take his weight, reaching up with unsteady fingers to shove his glasses up into his hair. Without them his eyes are raw and wounded, and Ryoma knows why they're doing this but it doesn't matter because he tilts his head into the kiss and somehow his shorts are on the floor and Tezuka is pressing into him, groaning into his mouth. He's trying to be slow, trying for gentleness, but Ryoma is past caring; he wraps both legs around Tezuka's hips and pulls, shoving himself past the sharp pain of it the way he pushes himself through exhaustion on-court, shuddering as he feels Tezuka all the way inside of him.
They breathe in shared gasps for a long moment, teetering on the edge of everything they're trying to forget, and then Ryoma shifts experimentally and Tezuka's hands tighten on his back as he thrusts and it hits right there. Ryoma exhales on a moan that's half a word, hips rocking forward and up as pleasure bursts like flash-scatter along his nerves and then he's lost in it, body on fire and mind rocking to the jerky rhythm of Tezuka's ragged thrusting, inside him around him there with him, messy breathy kisses and moans� he knows his voice is still working from the way Tezuka doesn't quite flinch every time he gasps "buchou" and he's so close, still trying to pull Tezuka with him the way he should even as he wonders whether he's hearing footsteps or just his back hitting the wall. And then Tezuka-buchou gasps "Ryoma" into his mouth and he's coming so hard it feels like dying, ecstasy shuddering through body and mind and blanking out everything but the wet heat on his stomach, inside of him as Tezuka shakes and gasps in his arms.
It's far too soon, for everything, when Ryoma lets go, staggering on his own feet again and letting Tezuka pull away. By the time he's managed to clean himself off and step back into his shorts he almost doesn't want to look up because he already knows that the distance is back. It's different, though, when he meets Tezuka-buchou's eyes, because he can see the pain there, three years of loss and denial and self-sacrifice.
Ryoma feels his stomach knot as he acknowledges that this is reality, after all. There is more than a net between them now; he reaches up with fingers that do not shake and slides Tezuka-buchou's glasses back to their proper place. It doesn't make a difference, and there's nothing he can say; he's almost grateful when a door slams somewhere out of sight and Momo-senpai yells his name impatiently.
Almost, because Tezuka's face shutters to that same terrible blankness and he steps back, towards the door. Ryoma swallows guilt and pain and does the only thing that he can do, turning away to zip up his tennis bag and hoist it over his shoulder. He's not at all surprised to find Tezuka-buchou already gone when he looks up, but it still feels as though he's fought two sets down to tie-break and then lost six to love.
When he emerges from the locker room to the flash and tumult of reporters trying to blind and deafen him, Ryoma has his blank face firmly in place. He zips Tezuka-buchou's jacket all the way up to the throat, hiding the marks that he knows are already fading into bruises, and shoves his hands deep into his pockets, taking his place in the team line-up. Centre; heart; the pillar of Seigaku, and Ryoma knows that the newspaper reports tomorrow will not mention Tezuka's name at all. He pretends he doesn't see Oishi's worried glances or Fuji's sympathetic, resigned eyes, and slips out of the victory celebration as soon as he can, wandering home too slowly and trying not to think. That night Ryoma dreams of heat and kisses and matches that feel like they never have to end, and wakes too soon, aching and alone.