Ryoma knows something's going on when his father tries to drag him out to the tennis court after lunch, despite the freezing temperatures and lingering snow. "No way," he mutters, turning his back on the idiot and trudging up the stairs to his room with the fuzzy warmth of Karupin heavy in his arms. He's halfway into beating his new tennis game, thinking vague thoughts about heading out to the indoor courts later, when the muffled chime of the doorbell crystallises suspicion into certainty.
"Hey, young man!" his father yells loudly from the bottom of the stairs. "You have guests!" Ryoma grinds his teeth, imagining the look on the old man's face when he finds out that his magazine subscriptions have been cancelled. Nanjiroh sounds just a little too enthusiastic, which means that Ryoma is probably about to be subjected to the squeals and clutching hands of pigtailed, pink-ribboned girls. Reluctantly, he abandons his game controller and scoops up Karupin; no one can try to hold his hands if they're full, and maybe if they all start squealing over the cat he'll be able to make a run for it.
Halfway down the stairs he halts in confusion. It's not girls at all, it's Oishi-senpai bowing apologetically to Ryoma's mother while Kikumaru-senpai peers around as if Ryoma is about to spring from a corner. With Nanjiroh lounging sulkily against the wall it's easy to see who has done the inviting here; Ryoma breathes a sigh of relief and lets the struggling Karupin free, shoving his hands into his pockets as he wanders down into the hall.
"Senpai."
"Ah, Echizen!" Oishi-senpai beams at him. "Happy birthday � I think the others should arrive soon�"
"Thanks," Ryoma mutters, unsuccessfully trying to fend off Kikumaru-senpai's gleeful attempts to squash him. Just then the bell chimes again, and his mother hurries to open the door.
"Ah! Everyone at once!" Kikumaru-senpai exclaims, hanging over Ryoma's shoulders and waving furiously at the crowd in the genkan. "Taka-san, it's been ages! Hiiii! Come say happy birthday to Ochibi!"
"Eiji, I think you're smothering him�" Oishi begins; Fuji-senpai smiles behind his hand as Ryoma finally manages to escape from Kikumaru's clutches, only to be waylaid by a furiously grinning Momoshiro.
"Happy birthday Echizen!"
"Owowow! Momo-senpai!" Ryoma complains, struggling against the headlock Momo has him in. A flash momentarily blinds him, and he looks up to see Fuji-senpai smiling over the top of his camera.
"Happy birthday, Echizen."
"Not if you're taking pictures," Ryoma mutters, kicking Momo-senpai's leg until he lets go. At least Kawamura-senpai and Kaidoh-senpai are talking to his mother instead of trying to flatten or embarrass him.
"Aa, but I always take pictures." Fuji-senpai smiles as Kikumaru bounces up and grabs onto him.
"Fuji! Our little Ochibi's all grown up!" Ryoma sets his teeth and wishes for a cap to tug down; he's only a couple of centimetres shorter than Fuji-senpai these days, and with luck he'll grow some more in the next year or two.
"Ah! You brought sushi!" Ryoma hears his mother exclaim, clapping her hands sharply and making Kawamura-senpai blush and rub the back of his head as everyone turns to look. "Boys, please come through to the living room�" She slides open the door and bows, and Ryoma makes a face at the fussily-decorated Christmas tree that is already dropping leaves in the corner. Someone's actually pinned up paper decorations as well � probably Nanjiroh, since it's a pretty half-hearted job.
The bell rings again when Ryoma is following his senpai into the front room. He jumps as his father pokes him in the back; he's forgotten the idiot is still there.
"Oi, answer that."
"Why can't you?" Ryoma demands reflexively, but he's already heading to the door. "Che. Lazy old man."
"Respect your betters, brat," Nanjiroh grumbles, but thankfully he's shambling out towards the kitchen. Ryoma feels a moment of pure relief that the old man isn't trying to join the party � it's bad enough that his senpai have met the idiot and know what an embarrassment he is. Ryoma shudders, pulling open the door and blinking up at the final two guests; however much he's grown in the past few years, he still has to look up to Tezuka-buchou.
"Happy birthday, Echizen." Inui-senpai has that unsettling grin on his face that means he's anticipating good data. That or he's brought juice; Ryoma eyes him warily and resolves to keep a careful eye on his drink.
"Inui-senpai, buchou. Come in." He backs away from the door, watching the way Tezuka's mouth flattens at the title and wondering why he isn't used to it by now. It's not as though Ryoma has ever called him anything else.
"Everyone else is here?" Tezuka asks, and Ryoma nods, ignoring Inui-senpai's muttering about percentages.
"Unless my mother invited someone else." The thought of Horio gobbling sushi in his living room and squawking about his five years of tennis experience is vaguely horrifying. Ryoma averts his eyes from his senpai as they remove their shoes, and shudders. Even with just the team here, he'd still rather have a match than a party.
"Through here," he mutters, feeling suddenly clumsy and ungracious as Tezuka's eyes fall on him, and not quite knowing what to do about it.
"Tezuka! Inui!" Oishi-senpai beams up from the table in the middle of the room. Ryoma's mother is hovering with a tray of cups as Kawamura-senpai lifts platters of sushi from his baskets. Ryoma notices with resignation that there is already a pile of wrapped gifts under the tree. Despite his distaste for social occasions in general, this is already one of the better birthdays he can remember; usually the twenty-fourth is entirely swallowed by Christmas. Sighing, he wanders over and finds a spare cushion as Kikumaru-senpai begins telling the story of the time Kawamura mixed up the vinegar and sake; they've all heard it before, but no one seems to care much.
Kawamura-senpai makes good sushi, Ryoma thinks absently, eyes wandering around the table. This is the image that comes to mind when he thinks about the team: his senpai from first year. There have been teams since, of course, but it seems like the Regulars have changed every five minutes. And all of them, with the exception of Momo-senpai and Kaidoh-senpai in second year, have held him in a certain amount of awe. There hasn't been any of the camaraderie and friendship he'd come to expect after his first year in the club, and surprisingly Ryoma has actually found himself missing it. He'd rather eat a tennis ball than admit it, but in a way he's grown to enjoy being the baby of the Seigaku team.
"Ah, no � cat, you don't want to eat that �" Kawamura-senpai exclaims, distracting him, and Ryoma looks up hurriedly to see Fuji-senpai fending Karupin away from the table.
"Karupin!" Jumping to his feet, Ryoma snatches up his protesting cat and carries him across to the kitchen door. "You know you can't eat rice � Mom, can he have some fish or something?"
His mother looks up from the table, where she sits surrounded by folders and file boxes. His father seems to have vanished, and good riddance. "Is he trying to eat sushi again? There's some leftover sardine in the fridge."
"Thanks." Balancing the cat on his shoulder one-handed, Ryoma peers into the bright interior of the fridge, poking through packages and bottles until he finds the dish and manages to tear off the foil. Smelling the cooked fish, Karupin meows eagerly and struggles in his arms, paws wildly batting air. "All right!" Ryoma exclaims, crouching to set the dish down. Karupin leaps immediately to the floor, burying his nose in the bowl. Ryoma sighs and scratches his ears; Karupin turns his fuzzy head into the caress but doesn't otherwise acknowledge him.
When he wanders back into the front room the others are all crowded around the table, cheering on Momo-senpai and Kikumaru-senpai, who seem to be engaged in some sort of wasabi-eating competition. Both their faces are very red, but neither of them are reaching for their cups. Ryoma shakes his head and is about to take his seat when someone touches his arm. Startled, he looks around into Tezuka-buchou's serious face.
"Buchou?"
"Here." Tezuka holds out a flattish, lidded blue box, something in his eyes that Ryoma can't read. Feeling his cheekbones heat, he drops down to sit on the tatami, examining the box. It's unexpectedly heavy, and there's writing on the lid. His name, and a word he doesn't recognise.
"What's this?" Ryoma asks quietly, tracing the unfamiliar kanji combination with his fingers.
"Genpuku." Tezuka-buchou looks past him at the convivial chaos around the table. "Traditionally, samurai came of age at fifteen. The occasion was called genpuku."
"Oh." Ryoma blinks at him for a moment, wondering what he's supposed to say to that, then looks away, lifting the lid from the box. He recognises the carefully folded blue fabric immediately, and feels his eyes going wide. "Buchou," he murmurs, strangely breathless as he traces the familiar design with a shaking finger. There are still faint dark spots in the fabric from the sudden rain that hit during the quarter-finals, and half of Kikumaru-senpai's signature scrawls across one corner. Ryoma knows that his own name is painted on there too, a few layers down � after their National win, they'd all signed the Seigaku flag that Momo-senpai and Kawamura-senpai had carried through the tournament. It had been their gift to Tezuka-buchou, an acknowledgement of just how far he'd brought them.
"I can't�" Ryoma looks up helplessly at Tezuka, words sticking in his throat. The flag is supposed to be a reminder of Tezuka-buchou's victory, so why�?
Tezuka's face is as calm as ever, his eyes dark with memory and understanding. "It belongs to you as much as any of us. Take it with you, for the future."
Ryoma swallows, ducking his head. "Yes, buchou." He understands that at least; both of them know that he's going to go beyond Seigaku, beyond the Nationals. He concentrates on fitting the lid back onto the box, fingers steady only through habit, and doesn't quite dare to look up at Tezuka.
"Enough, nya! Time for presents!" Kikumaru-senpai's gleeful shout breaks the tautness of the moment; Ryoma looks across the table and finds all eyes focused on him again.
"What?" His fingers automatically reach to tug down the brim of a cap he isn't wearing, which brings grins to Momo-senpai and Fuji-senpai's faces.
"Presents!" Momoshiro shoves a package into his face, which seems to be a cue for the rest of his senpai to shower him with wrapped parcels and boxes, most of which thankfully turn out to be useful things like grip tape and new gut and sweatbands. Fuji-senpai, mystifyingly, gives him a book that turns out to be a photo album; there are enough embarrassing pictures mixed in with the records of his games (how had Fuji-senpai managed to get a picture of the time he'd tripped over the fangirls, anyway?) that Ryoma slams it hastily shut, glaring. Inui-senpai mutters something that makes Kaidoh-senpai hiss and flush, and Fuji just smiles.
"It's not just you in there � but you can look at it later," he amends as the kitchen door slides open and Ryoma's mother peers in.
"Are you boys ready for cake?" That's enough to change the subject; Ryoma breathes a sigh of relief and stows the album under the table with the flag box as Oishi-senpai and Kawamura-senpai jump up to help clear the table. Even the loud and rather tuneless singing as his mother brings in a large chocolate cake with a ridiculous number of candles doesn't seem so bad right then.
"Mom?" The benefit of celebrating an American-style Christmas, as far as Ryoma is concerned, is that his father invariably drinks too much with lunch and sleeps through most of the afternoon. Currently he's snoring in the front room, underneath the tree.
"Hmm?" His mother looks up from her new book, smiling fondly at him. "What is it, Ryoma?"
"Why didn't you invite anyone but senpai yesterday?"
"Would you have wanted me to?" His mother pats the floor; Ryoma shrugs and shoves his hands into his pockets, dropping down onto the tatami beside her.
"Not really."
"Mm, you're all very much a team, aren't you?" Ryoma doesn't like the knowing way she's looking at him, but he supposes that it's just a mother thing.
"That was years ago," he objects half-heartedly, turning his head away. "I've been on other teams."
"True, but you never really bonded with any of them." Ryoma opens his mouth to object to that, because it sounds stupid and overly-analytical, but she speaks over the top of his words. "Such a lot happened that year, and your team-mates were really the first friends you had. I used to worry about you, you know, back in the States."
"Mom," Ryoma complains, ducking his head; he hates to be fussed over. His mother laughs.
"You enjoyed it, didn't you � that year."
Ryoma blinks at that, realising for the first time in a while that it was fun, more fun than he's really had since. Smiling, his mother reaches out to tousle his hair and he ducks automatically, protesting.
"Mom!" She just smiles at him, composed and a little sad around the edges, as though she misses the child he used to be. It's uncomfortable, and Ryoma escapes back to his room as soon as he can.
Ryoma takes advantage of a Sunday free of his father's annoyances, bringing his textbooks down to the kotatsu. Exams are far too close for comfort; usually the third-year students have months to prepare after they quit their clubs, but even Ryuuzaki-sensei has acknowledged that it would be a waste of time to expect such a thing from Ryoma. Tennis, after all, is vastly superior to schoolwork. All the same, Ryoma refuses to graduate with bad marks, partly out of a desire to confound his father but mostly because he hates being beaten at anything.
He's trying to blink himself awake long enough to finish reading the chapter on radioactive elements when the front door bangs loudly open, signalling the end of peace and quiet.
"Tadaima!" his stupid father yells, in the particularly cheerful tone that means he's been in a bar but isn't actually drunk.
"Che," Ryoma mutters to himself, already gathering up his books to return to his room. It's colder up at the top of the house, but he's less likely to be bothered by stupidity.
"Oi, young man." Too late, Ryoma realises; his dad is already lounging in the doorway and smirking at him. "You owe me a favour."
Ryoma stares � what the hell is the idiot on about now? "You wish. Stop bothering me, old man."
"Heh." Nanjiroh grins smugly. "While you've been wasting your time with books, I've found you an opponent for next week." When Ryoma just looks at him, he puffs his chest out proudly and continues. "He's not on my level, of course, but he's been on the pro circuit long enough to kick your ass, brat."
"No way." Ryoma settles back, opening his History textbook and trying to find the right page. "I refuse."
"Eh? But you can't!" His father straightens up and stares at him as though trying to bore holes in the top of his head.
"I just said so, didn't I? Too busy." Ryoma tries to tune the idiot out, without much success. "Graduation."
"To hell with that rubbish � the seeding committee's meeting in eight weeks, you need to keep your record up!"
"I'm not going pro this year," Ryoma mutters, skimming a passage about trade laws under the Tokugawa Shogunate. Half his mind is counting down to the inevitable explosion. The old man is silent so long that Ryoma looks up, vaguely wondering whether he's having a heart attack or something. Nanjiroh is blinking at him, wiggling his finger in his ear as though he thinks he's going deaf.
"I said I'm not going pro this year." Ryoma sighs as his father's jaw visibly drops.
"Ehh?! But � you � we already arranged�" Nanjiroh trails off, staring at him.
"You mean you arranged stuff," Ryoma mutters to himself, then jumps and almost tears a page out of his textbook as his father leaps across the room and slams his fists down onto the kotatsu.
"What the hell are you thinking, brat?" he demands loudly, leaning forward over the table and maybe has been drinking after all because his breath stinks of beer. "How long are you going to wait � you'll lose your edge! I thought you wanted to go pro � think of all the strong guys you can fight!"
Ryoma wrinkles his nose and smoothes down the creased paper, not bothering to look up at him. "Not right now."
"What the fuck are you planning to do instead?" His father pounds the table with a fist. "Every minute you wait is wasted, young man!"
"I'm going to school, of course." The next chapter is on family inheritance; Ryoma vaguely recalls reading it last week. Pity it doesn't work that way in tennis; he has to put up with his father's presence in order to learn anything from him. Not that there's much to learn. "High school."
Nanjiroh makes a noise that sounds like choking. "I � you � Rinko!"
Ryoma winces. "Don't yell in people's ears," he mutters, but his father is in full ranting mode and doesn't seem to hear him at all.
"Yes, dear?" His mother pokes her head around the kitchen door, glancing between the two of them with an expression of polite enquiry. "What's wrong?"
"This � this ungrateful brat!" Nanjiroh shakes a finger in Ryoma's direction accusingly. "He says he's going to High School, Rinko! What stupid ideas have you been putting in his head?"
"Oh?" She looks at Ryoma for a long moment, then nods as though she understands something and turns to his father. "Now, dear, there's no need to get upset�"
"No need?!" Nanjiroh howls, waving an arm in the air as though it might emphasise something other than his foolishness. "He's supposed to become a pro! He doesn't need to waste his time in school when he could be playing tournaments!"
"Education is never wasted," his mother remonstrates gently; Ryoma wonders whether she's actually as calm about this as she sounds, or if she's just had too much practice at dealing with his father.
"Rinko! Three years � he could be winning Grand Slams in three years! Why the hell does he need to sit around in school?"
"It's not the end of the world, dear."
"How would you know?!"
"Idiot," Ryoma mutters. "I never said I was graduating High School. I'll turn pro next year."
"See � huh?" His father, cut off mid-rant, deflates and stares at him. "Why the hell do you want to bother, then?"
Ryoma sighs again, wondering why he's cursed with such an idiot for a parent. "Fifteen isn't old enough for the major tournaments, old man. Did you forget that?"
From the expression on Nanjiroh's face, he plainly has. "You should be out on the courts, training! Not �" he waves a hand irritably, subsiding into a grumpy slouch that means he'll be complaining about this for weeks, even though Ryoma has already won the argument � "lazing around in school. Who the hell are you going to play against on a school timetable?"
Yukimura. Sanada. Tezuka-buchou. Fuji-senpai. Tachibana. The Monkey King. That tie-dyed Kyuushuu guy. Tezuka-buchou. "Che," Ryoma mutters. "Tokyo Tournament, Kantou Regionals, Nationals, and then the All-Japan Under-Eighteen Singles."
His mother cocks her head at him while his father gapes like a fish. "You're sure this is what you want, Ryoma?" Her face is kind, but her eyes are knowing.
"Yes." Ryoma nods, absently lining up the books his father's banging had dislodged.
"All right then." She smiles at him and ducks back out of the room, into the kitchen.
"Hmph." His father folds his arms, sulking ostentatiously. Ryoma rolls his eyes and closes his books.
"Go bother someone else, old man."
"I don't see why I should cater to ungrateful brats � oh, do what you want," Nanjiroh grumbles as Ryoma steps carelessly over him on his way to the stairs. "You will anyway."
It's cold enough in the gym that Ryoma can't indulge his first impulse and doze off through the interminable ceremony. The speeches made by the headmaster and the chairman of the school board are repetitive and seem to drag on forever, and Ryoma distracts himself by taking a mental inventory of all the matches he is going to play over the six-week break. High school matches are three-set, and since his stupid father is still refusing to practice with him it will be easier to hit up his senpai for games.
He's so busy thinking about it that he almost misses his name being called; it's habit and reflex that lets him answer, and his voice comes out bored enough that he can see Ryuuzaki-sensei glaring from the back of the platform. The name-calling seems to go on forever after that; it's even duller than the opening ceremonies at Nationals. At least then Ryoma has matches to look forward to.
They play some horrible sentimental music while the student representatives make their speeches. Kachiro is sniffling by the time he's done, and Ryoma has shoved his hands in his pockets for warmth as he stares into space. Much more of this and he might even find himself starting to agree with his father for once.
The last person to speak is the representative of the high school division; once he's done congratulating and welcoming his prospective students the doors are thrown open to six weeks of freedom � tennis and sleeping in and avoiding his father's sulks. Ryoma shrugs off his classmates' enthusiasm and the girls who are clamouring for his attention and trudges out into the thin spring sunshine as just another part of the crowd.
Blinded by the sun in his eyes, it takes Ryoma a moment to realise why this suddenly feels so much like walking off court after a match. His senpai are clustered in a rowdy bunch by the gates, cheering as though he has won the Nationals instead of just graduating from middle school.
"Too noisy," Ryoma mutters, tugging his cap down and fully intent on walking right on past them. He's had enough of being embarrassed by his elders for one lifetime. Momo-senpai throws an expansive arm around his shoulders, though, and as Ryoma turns to shrug him off he catches Tezuka-buchou's eyes and then somehow he's standing there and suffering his former team-mates' congratulations.
"You're going to make all of us proud, Echizen-kun." Oishi-senpai beams at him and Ryoma abruptly realises what's wrong with this picture. They are all behaving as though they will never see him again.
Tezuka-buchou looks down at him as calmly as ever. "Fight hard, and keep moving forward," is all he says. His face is entirely opaque; Ryoma can't even guess at what he's thinking. He's vaguely surprised, because he knows that his old man has been complaining at length to Ryuuzaki-sensei over what he still insists on calling 'this school idiocy' � it's hardly a secret.
"Buchou," he murmurs because he has to say something, an acknowledgement and acceptance. He doesn't have the words to wrap around what he wants to say; will staying on at Seigaku count as moving forward to Tezuka-buchou? Ryoma wants the Nationals again, the thrill of facing players who will surely have grown in the years since he has seen them, but there are more important things. He remembers the rattle of passing trains overhead, commanding eyes that refused to let him back down, and swallows. It's been a long time since he made that choice.
Walking onto the courts is familiar in an unfamiliar way; Ryoma feels curiously disconnected, as though time has rewound and brought him back to his first year in Seigaku. He has spent enough time here in the past two years, begging for practice matches when demanding hadn't worked, that he isn't lost like the other first years with their worried faces and clasped hands. He shouldn't be nervous at all, and the fact that he is, tendrils of uncertainty twisting in his stomach, is enough to irritate him into a scowl.
The looks on the second and third year club members' faces are vaguely amusing, gape-jawed and wide-eyed with recognition. Ryoma peers around under the brim of his cap as ripples of murmur spread out and practice effectively ceases. He counts only seven Regular jackets, and one of those on a half-familiar guy who is already looking more worried than mutinous. He's wondering uncomfortably where buchou is when a whirlwind appears from nowhere and knocks him flat.
"Ochibi!"
Ryoma stares up at the hazy blue of the sky and wonders wryly whether this isn't a bad idea after all. The stupid uncertainty has been replaced by butterflies that flutter invisible wings beneath his sternum and make the backs of his eyes ache. "Senpai, you're heavy."
"Echizen!" Oishi-senpai's worried-yet-pleased face appears above him as he peels his partner away so that Ryoma can breathe. "Are you all right?"
"Fine," Ryoma mutters, shoving himself to his feet and retrieving his cap. Kikumaru-senpai has bounced over to babble happily at Fuji; Ryoma catches snatches of "after all" and "Nationals" but he's too busy edging away from Momo-senpai, who looks ready to rub all the hair off Ryoma's head, to pay much attention.
"Echizen." Inui-senpai is already scribbling in what looks unsettlingly like a new notebook. "All data suggested that you were going pro this year; why are you here?"
"I thought so too." Fuji-senpai twists free, coming forward and looking at Ryoma as though he's done something particularly interesting. His eyes are blue and sharp and uncomfortably knowing; Ryoma tugs his cap down and shrugs, shouldering his racquet bag.
"All the good tournaments have age limits anyway."
"Ah." Fuji-senpai tilts his head thoughtfully, and Oishi looks worried.
"Echizen, you don't need to be here if you'd rather not�"
The assumption that he might not want to play tennis with his senpai blindsides him a little. Ryoma blinks up at the vice-captain, and Kaidoh-senpai hisses. "Where else should he be?"
"Oi Viper, what do you know about it?" Momo-senpai demands on what seems like a reflexive level � he looks vaguely surprised by the words coming out of his mouth right up until Kaidoh growls and glares at him. It's all so very familiar that two years dwindles to nothing.
"Why is everyone standing around?" Tezuka-buchou's voice comes as a surprise, and Ryoma only realises that he's at the centre of a ring of Regulars when it cracks, Oishi-senpai and Kaidoh-senpai backing hastily out of the way. Ryoma looks at the ground.
"Buchou."
The silence stretches like a thread between them, tight and uncomfortable. Ryoma can feel Tezuka's eyes on him, demanding; his hands curl into fists by his sides, itching to tug on his cap or adjust his sweatbands.
"Echizen," Tezuka-buchou says at last, and his voice is so toneless that Ryoma has to look up, into eyes that are as bland and distant as if the past three years are nothing at all. His stomach clenches.
"Everyone, ten laps!" Tezuka barks, folding his arms as grumbling club members start streaming reluctantly past him. Ryoma is grateful for the distraction; he stretches his legs into the run, keeping up with the Regulars almost effortlessly. Tezuka-buchou is watching from the side of the courts; he turns to follow their progress and Ryoma feels as though he is in orbit, tied into a centre. There is more to this than Tezuka not expecting him back, but Ryoma doesn't know what it is; he feels Tezuka's eyes on him like an itch in the back of his mind. It's uncomfortable and unnatural, and after practice Ryoma begs off Momo-senpai's offer of fast food in favour of wandering slowly home by himself, so tangled up in thought that he almost walks past his gate.
Second day's practice is just as awkward. Buchou ignores him completely and orders double drills for everyone before disappearing with Oishi and Amano-sensei. Ryoma runs through the first-year practices without thinking much, finding Horio's strident complaints far more troublesome. He can hear the senpai on the courts echoing them; even the Regulars are grumbling as they go through their pinpoint drills. Ryoma watches balls impact lines as he swings his racquet, absently twisting his arm to vary the spin he puts on the imaginary ball. Arcs intersect in his mind, building into complex patterns that elude his grasp.
After they are finally dismissed it seems like the entire club stampedes over to the notice board where Oishi-senpai has taped up the ranking schedules. Ryoma eyes the crowd, shakes his head, and wanders off to the locker room to change instead. He almost walks right into Tezuka-buchou in the doorway, and expects a lecture on paying more attention, but Tezuka just looks down at him for a moment before walking away. Ryoma stares after him, feeling as though he's missing something and not liking it at all.
He rushes through the shower, climbing back into his uncomfortable school uniform with skin still damp, and by the time clumps of senpai start trickling in, faces alternately smug and panicked, Ryoma is shouldering his bag to leave and there's enough room in front of the board that he can squeeze forward and see. D-block is Momo-senpai and Oishi-senpai, C-block Kaidoh-senpai and Kikumaru-senpai. He frowns and tilts his head up; Fuji-senpai will be facing Inui-senpai in B, and probably confounding him again. Ryoma swallows sudden tension, realising that he has been taking certain things for granted; the rules against first-years participating in ranking tournaments float uncomfortably to the surface of his mind before his name jumps out at him.
A-block. Echizen Ryoma, right at the bottom underneath a mishmash of second and third year names that conjure only vague faces in his mind, and Ishikawa Gensuke who Ryoma remembers is the other Regular, the new one. And there at the top, kanji drawn almost into a signature, Tezuka Kunimitsu. They will be playing each other within days, and something in Ryoma seems to come alive at the thought. He grins, ducking under the brim of his cap, and turns to leave, only to halt in confusion as Momo-senpai plants himself in the way.
"Che." Ryoma slants one look up at Momoshiro's grinning face and decides it isn't worth it. He steps to the side, fully intent on continuing on his way, but finds himself caught from behind as Kikumaru-senpai grabs hold of his collar.
"Hoi, Ochibi! Where are you going?"
Ryoma turns, eyeing him distrustfully. He has the exact same grin as Momo, which can't be good. "Home," Ryoma points out tonelessly, as if it isn't obvious.
"Nuh-uh!" Kikumaru-senpai shakes his head vigorously, bouncing in place. "We're going for burgers, and you're coming with us, Ochibi."
Momo grins wickedly. "Senpai's treating."
"Yeah � hoi! Momo!" Kikumaru folds his arms, sulking, and Ryoma eyes the pair of them, wondering whether it's worth trying to make a break for it. But then his stomach reminds him that it's been a long time since lunch, and burgers on senpai's tab suddenly seems like quite a good idea, even coupled with probable embarrassment.
Kikumaru-senpai pays for Ryoma's food without complaint, but kicks up such a fuss when Momo orders half the menu that the second year's forced to pay his own way. Ryoma grins, watching Momo-senpai pout and Kikumaru shake his head so hard that his hair flares out despite all the wax he must use.
"Are you done yet?" he asks when they look prepared to stand and bicker at the counter forever. "I'm hungry."
"Ah, yeah�" Momo-senpai carries his overloaded tray over to a table by the window, already talking around a mouthful of fries. Ryoma doesn't know how he manages to eat so much, and doesn't want to; it's kind of disgusting to watch him cramming food down his throat, so he turns his head to stare out of the window. The sports shop across the road has a sale on racquet bags, but Ryoma's is new enough that there's no point bothering, and they never have any Fila stuff in there anyway.
"Hey, what happened to Tezuka-buchou today?" Momo-senpai asks between helpings, attracting Ryoma's attention. He twists in his seat, absently screwing his cheeseburger wrapper into a ball and throwing it from hand to hand.
"Eh?" Kikumaru-senpai peers at Momo. "What do you mean?"
"He was in such a bad mood, giving us double drill. Did someone spit in his lunch or something?"
"Don't think so." Kikumaru-senpai shrugs fluidly and tosses a fry into the air, catching it in his mouth. "Maybe it's the district preliminaries; Oishi's worrying already."
Ryoma snorts, giving his opinion of that, and slides down into his seat in an attempt to get comfortable. "Buchou's just buchou."
"Heh, and you get to fight him on Saturday!" Momo-senpai grins and reaches across to ruffle Ryoma's hair with a salty hand; Ryoma scowls and moves hastily out of the way.
"Senpai!"
"That'll be one to watch, nya," Kikumaru-senpai comments, eyeing the last of Ryoma's fries speculatively. Ryoma glares at him, pulling his tray closer and jamming a couple into his mouth decisively.
"It's nothing."
"Nothing!" Momo-senpai splutters a laugh as Kikumaru-senpai grins at him.
"Ochibi's nervous�"
"Am not," Ryoma mutters, rolling his eyes. It will hardly be the first time he's played Tezuka-buchou, and the anticipation that is already coiling in his stomach has nothing to do with nerves. Saturday seems far too far away.
"Hey, you have to get past Ishikawa first," Momoshiro reminds him, stabbing a fry in his direction. "He beat Viper last year."
"Oi Momo, you know Kaidoh was sick that time!" Kikumaru pokes Momo-senpai in the arm.
"Heh. Stupid snake should have known better." The gleam in Momo's eyes is evil and familiar. "At least I don't have to play him this time round."
"Eh?" Ryoma swipes a fry out from under Kikumaru-senpai's nose while he's distracted, and grins complacently as he chews on it.
"Hoi! Ochibi! � they were in C-block together last year," Kikumaru grudgingly explains when Momo-senpai just glares at his rapidly emptying tray.
"Aa." Ryoma eyes his senpai and decides that it's worth the possible explosion. "Who won?"
"Hehh..." Kikumaru-senpai's grin is almost wider than his face. "Kaidoh was fifteen to fourteen in tie-break when Tezuka made them stop."
"Hmph." Momo-senpai bites into a hamburger viciously. "I wasn't going to lose to that bastard."
"Mada mada dane, Momo-senpai." Ryoma smirks and ducks Momoshiro's swipe at his head. This is all so familiar that the formality of ranking matches seems almost irrelevant. Ryoma already knows that Saturday, when it comes, is not going to be about the Regulars at all.
The week passes slowly enough that the knowledge of what is to come chafes beneath his skin, tight and itching. Ryoma floats through matches against the non-Regulars without needing to show much skill at all, and still doesn't drop a point. Sixes and noughts rack up along the board beside his name, mirroring Tezuka's statistics exactly.
Friday afternoon, after yet another easy win that leaves him barely sweating and vaguely bored, Ryoma wanders over to report to Oishi-senpai, who's keeping the scores. "Same again?" the vice-captain asks, smiling at him.
"Aa." Ryoma nods, scanning the board even though he already knows what the order is.
"Well, it's Ochibi, nya." Kikumaru-senpai is draped over the back of Oishi's chair; he flashes a quick victory sign then peers over his partner's shoulder at the sheets he's filling in.
"Eiji, you're playing Kaidoh in ten minutes," Oishi-senpai reminds him without looking up. "Echizen, I think Ishikawa-kun is already waiting for you on the court." Ryoma shrugs, shouldering his racquet and sauntering off. The Ishikawa guy has a bunch of sixes as well, most of them attached to ones and twos. Tezuka, of course, is the only exception; six-love to the captain.
Ishikawa has a nondescript sort of face, which might explain why Ryoma doesn't remember him from middle school. He looks solid enough to have some strength, though, and he glares at Ryoma as he walks up to the net, tense enough that his feet hit the ground with harsh, distinct sounds. Ryoma grins; plainly the guy doesn�t want to give up his place on the team.
"I don't care who you are," Ishikawa announces harshly as they shake hands over the net. His palms are sweaty, though, which makes it obvious that he's been watching Ryoma's progress through the block. "I'm not going to let some kid defeat me."
Ryoma tips back his cap, looking up into tight eyes, and grins. "Pleased to meet you, senpai. When did you transfer here?"
Ishikawa's face hardens, and he whirls, stalking to the baseline. "Get on with the game."
"Yes senpai." Ryoma smirks and glances up at the umpire, a vaguely familiar second year who's trying to keep a straight face.
"The best of one set match! Ishikawa to serve!"
The guy has an interesting serve, and he's fast enough on his feet to make Ryoma work for his points, but it quickly becomes apparent that there's no substantial challenge here. At four games to love, after Ryoma returns a heavy smash with pinpoint precision, Ishikawa's face loses its stubborn veneer. Ryoma takes the final two games straight, and Ishikawa still looks stunned when they shake hands again as the umpire calls the score. Ryoma's on the team now in all but name, and strangely enough that comes as a relief; Seigaku has accustomed him to being in the centre of things.
Everyone else is still in the middle of their games when he walks off the court. Ryoma considers wandering up to watch the matches, but going home early and badgering his father into playing seems more attractive, and getting some kind of workout today is preferable to standing around. "Six to love," he reports to Fuji-senpai, who has taken over the desk. A movement on the edge of his vision distracts him and Ryoma looks up, right into Tezuka-buchou's eyes. Words dry on his tongue; buchou looks cold, as distant and remote as though he is on the moon. Ryoma can't do anything but watch as Tezuka nods to Fuji-senpai and picks up his racquet, walking towards the court where his next opponent is waiting.
Momo-senpai is right; buchou is annoyed about something, and Ryoma has an uncomfortable feeling that it might be him. Except that he can't quite work out why buchou isn't happy to have him back in the club� and Fuji-senpai is coughing behind his hand, eyes bright and fixed on him. Ryoma glares at him and tugs his cap down as he turns away, knowing that there's no point asking why he's funny. He wanders up to the fence, watching the way Tezuka-buchou turns his racquet into the ball and momentarily wishing to be on the other side of the net.
There's something off, though; something horribly restrained in every line of Tezuka's posture. Ryoma sets his jaw, deliberately relaxing his shoulders to stop them from hunching. This isn't Tezuka-buchou at all; it shows in the careful way he moves and the closed expression he wears. He remembers Fuji's words, three years ago: there are only a few people who can make Tezuka show his true skills. Tomorrow cannot come too soon.
"One set match!" Oishi-senpai calls from the chair. "Echizen to serve!"
Ryoma bounces the ball thoughtfully, watching Tezuka-buchou's form across the net, then nods. He serves cleanly, and the stretch through his muscles is achingly welcome after the dull week. Buchou catches the ball easily, returning to the corner, and Ryoma dashes to reach it, slicing it back neatly. His point; he frowns as Oishi calls the score.
His serve again, and he pulls out the Twist Serve left-handed, knowing that it is stronger than the last time Tezuka played him just as he knows that Tezuka will return it all the same. There is something off here, though, something different; Ryoma stretches for the return, confused by the way Tezuka is hitting shots to the edges of his range. It's not his usual play at all, and that means that Ryoma can't give his best. The idea that Tezuka-buchou might not be taking him seriously knots into a burning lump under his breastbone, and Ryoma narrows his eyes, taking out his frustration on the ball in a vicious twist smash. It's an utter surprise to find it spinning back past his right hand; he stares across the net at Tezuka's implacable face and wonders what he's trying to say. His next serve hits right on the line, and as far as Ryoma is concerned Tezuka never even tries to reach it.
"Game Echizen," Oishi announces; Ryoma clenches his fist and takes his position, staring at Tezuka as he serves. This isn't his buchou at all, and he doesn't understand why until another shot hits the corner, making him race to return it. There is a question in every ball Tezuka-buchou hits, repeated until it becomes a hypnotic, irresistible demand. Show me why you are here is written in every line of Tezuka's body as he hits shot after corner shot. Ryoma feels his eyes go wide with realisation; he turns a volley into a high lob, body moving without thought in an answer that comes straight from his soul.
It takes the zero-shiki, arcing gently over the net, for Kunimitsu to understand what Echizen is trying to tell him. He tastes words on his tongue, familiar and bittersweet: become the pillar of Seigaku. It's a strange kind of ache to realise that Echizen might have taken his words so much to heart, even now when he could be flying free. Kunimitsu will not be the one to hold Echizen back from his potential, but then Echizen has always been stubborn. He inclines his head in acknowledgement and takes a deep breath, letting go of his restraint with something close to relief.
Ryoma has time to think that this is what he has been waiting for as he reaches for the ball, and then he is lost in it. Drive and volley and return, backspin and slice and Tezuka-buchou's face over the net; his world narrows to the boundaries of the court. He flows through the game like falling, flying, burning; every shot that Tezuka-buchou gives him pushes him higher and farther, and Ryoma exults in knowing that he can do the same. This is why playing against other opponents will never be enough; there are so few people for whom either of them need to go this far. Ryoma throws himself into the match body and soul, and as Tezuka-buchou's final shot slides past his racquet by scant millimetres he feels a sharp moment of disappointment that has nothing to do with winning or losing.
Ryoma tilts his head back and stares up at the purpling sky, breathing hard. The court is so silent that he can hear rush hour traffic streets away; his heart is thumping in his ears and Tezuka's breath on the other side of the net is as loud as his own. At last Oishi-senpai clears his throat and states the obvious: "Game set Tezuka, seven games to five."
The club members clustered outside the fence are eerily silent. Glimpses of stunned faces and familiar grins stick in Ryoma's mind as he heads to the net, but they are very much eclipsed by the fact that buchou is smiling at him.
"Good game," Tezuka says quietly as they shake hands, both their fingers slick with sweat. It feels like victory, and right then the score doesn't matter at all.
"Thanks, buchou." Ryoma grins up at him, tired and satisfied as they walk off court, the ragged applause of the Regulars echoing around them.
"�and then that bastard called my Dunk Smash pathetic!" Momoshiro glares at nothing and clenches his fist around his juice can. It crumples with a metallic sound that makes Ryoma wince, but Momo-senpai doesn't seem to notice. He isn't paying any attention to his food either, which is definitely weird; Ryoma would put it down to lovesickness if Momo-senpai hadn't long since abandoned the topic of his rejection by Tachibana An in favour of grumbling about Kaidoh-senpai.
"Aa," Ryoma mutters when Momo-senpai pauses for breath between outrage and invective, and props his head on his hand, staring out of the window. As far as he's concerned, girls are boring and Momo-senpai and Kaidoh-senpai's fights are repetitive. They'd played doubles in the finals of the district preliminaries last week, and there's been outright warfare in the locker room ever since.
Having spent most of the prelims sitting on the bench watching doubles matches, Ryoma is more than ready for the Tokyo Tournament to begin. He doesn't like playing Singles One outside of Nationals, because all too often the match is over by the time his turn comes around.
"Oi Echizen, are you listening?" Momo-senpai demands, taking a huge bite out of a hamburger. Ryoma shrugs.
"Not really. You hate Kaidoh-senpai; what else is new?" A flash of familiar colours across the street catches his eye; Ryoma turns and watches Tezuka-buchou disappearing into the sports shop across the street. He's on his feet before Momoshiro has finished sputtering, heading out the door without much thought.
"Oi! Echizen!" Momo-senpai calls, but Ryoma ignores him.
The sports shop is bigger than Mitsumaru; he's not been in for a while and it takes him a while to find Tezuka-buchou at the back register, talking to an assistant. Ryoma hangs back and watches as buchou hands over a paper and the assistant bows, then disappears into the back room. When he takes a step forward, his footstep seems so loud that it feels as though everyone in the store is watching him.
"Buchou." Ryoma fists his hands in his pockets and tries to look as if he's in here to shop for new gut or something � anything that doesn't involve having followed his captain in off the street.
"Echizen?" Tezuka looks down at him with mild surprise.
"�can I play Singles Two next week?" It's the first thing that comes to mind; Ryoma ducks his head under the brim of his cap, feeling his cheekbones heat.
Tezuka-buchou doesn't answer; it feels like he's weighing Ryoma with his eyes, measuring him against some unspoken standard. The idea that he might be found wanting is not to be borne; Ryoma stares at the ground stubbornly, and is relieved when the assistant comes back and distracts Tezuka with boxes. He pokes at a display of balls while Tezuka buys whatever he has come in for, and follows him out onto the street out of pure habit.
"Buchou, will you play a match with me?" His bag is still in the restaurant with Momo-senpai, but Ryoma remembers that there was a lot of food left on Momo's tray.
Tezuka halts in the middle of the pavement for a moment before turning back to him. There is enough distance between them that Ryoma doesn't have to crane his head back to meet Tezuka-buchou's eyes. "Concentrate on the opponent in front of you," is all Tezuka says. Ryoma watches him walk away, wondering why that sounds so familiar and trying to find words to explain that buchou is still the best opponent he has ever had.
"Oi! Echizen!" Momo-senpai dashes to a halt beside him, Ryoma's bag clutched in one fist. "Why the hell did you run off like that � eh, isn't that buchou?"
Ryoma just shrugs, settling his bag onto his shoulder and turning for home.
Tezuka-buchou is enjoying himself. It's painted in every line of his body as he flows across the court; Ryoma props one foot on the bench and rests his chin on his knee, watching avidly. At the level of this game, the true skill is in the subtle things, in the precise angle of wrist and forearm, the delicacy of ball control and spin.
Tachibana is good enough that Ryoma can't decide which side of the court he'd prefer to be on. His own match had been fun, but ultimately the opponent, some Higashikouen guy who hadn't been on the Fudoumine team in middle school, hadn't been much of a challenge. Ryoma had taken Singles Two in straight sets, and not even the opponent had looked surprised.
Tezuka-buchou's racquet face changes angle, the head dipping a barely perceptible fraction; Ryoma grins as the familiar arc of the zero-shiki hangs in the air before rolling gently back into the net. The umpire calls the score � fifth game of the third set, thirty to love � and the spectators break out into cheers and exhortations. Tezuka walks to the baseline, takes a deep breath that seems to run all the way down the line of his back, then pivots and serves in a single fluid motion that makes Ryoma's fingers twitch for his racquet grip. Watching Tezuka-buchou play a real match, a match he has to work for, always knots a strange kind of jealousy in Ryoma's stomach.
Tachibana returns with a vicious smash to the corner, bringing the score to thirty-fifteen. Ryoma catches a glimpse of Tezuka's eyes as he turns to serve again, and smirks into his hands as the ace hits the line with a smack, raising a puff of white dust. Across the court one of the Higashikouen players rubs his eyes; Ibu is muttering again and Ryoma sees Kamio poke him.
Tezuka-buchou takes the game point after a fast rally, and Ryoma reaches for the water bottle without taking his eyes from the tall figure of his captain. Tezuka and Tachibana exchange nods as they pass at the net, and there is a satisfied smile in the back of Tezuka's eyes as he takes the bottle from Ryoma's outstretched hand.
"Nice game." Ryoma shifts to one side of the bench, absently handing over a towel.
"Aa." The break is short, and Tezuka-buchou keeps his eyes on the court. Three more games, Ryoma thinks, and then next week they will be playing Hyoutei in the finals. The idea that buchou might lose here isn't worth contemplating.
Tezuka's breathing is steady as he stands, handing the water bottle back to Ryoma. The plastic is hot where his fingers have been; Ryoma turns it in his hands, watching the deadly grace of Tachibana's serve, and the controlled power of Tezuka's return. This is the kind of tennis that drew him back to Seigaku; watching buchou play is almost as good as facing him over the net. Almost; Ryoma turns a shiver into a smirk, already anticipating a rematch.
Kunimitsu feels the cheers of the spectators running like water through his bones, dispelling the ache of exhaustion and stretched muscles. Tachibana grins ruefully as they shake hands over the net, strength undisputed even in defeat. When he turns to walk off the court, Echizen is watching him from the bench, eyes wide and unblinking as if there is nothing else in the world. Kunimitsu swallows inevitability and deliberately turns his attention to the rest of the team, feeling the weight of those eyes on his back like a physical touch.
Buchou is sitting on the bench with his arms folded, looking as calm as ever. Ryoma throws a resentful glare in his direction and tugs his cap down before taking his place at the baseline. He indulges himself in a vicious Twist Serve, knowing that it will be returned but still satisfied with the snapping ache of muscle and tendon as he slides through the practised motion. Kabaji returns with a powerful Rising Shot; Ryoma sets his teeth and slams a double-handed smash into the back-court. He's three games up to love, but he knows it won't be long before he has his own style turned back on him. He's already proved that size and power can't make an impression here.
Kabaji is getting faster. Ryoma can see hints of his own Split Step in the boy-mountain's jerky movement, and mutters something highly uncomplimentary as he flings himself forward and up for a Drive B. Four games to love, and he knows he can't lose this match but the utter stillness of Kabaji's eyes on him makes his skin itch. Ryoma scowls as they change courts; he doesn't understand Tezuka-buchou's insistence that he play this match.
It's not at all a surprise when Kabaji returns his topspin with a perfect Drive B. Ryoma grinds his teeth as the Hyoutei supporters go crazy and leaps to catch the arc of the ball, turning it into a twist smash. The way Kabaji bounces the ball for his serve is familiar and irritating; Ryoma moves without thought into the Super Rising, already knowing that he is digging his own grave. Every time he returns one of his own shots he gives the opponent more ammunition, but he has no alternative. Ryoma sets his jaw and attacks the next two games as though qualifying for Wimbledon, losing them anyway. Tezuka-buchou's face, when they change courts, is intent and inscrutable; Momo-senpai and Kikumaru-senpai shout loud encouragement and advice from the fence.
Ryoma hates losing more than anything. Playing against his own tennis is losing by definition; no matter how he refines he skills, how high he pushes himself, Kabaji is there passively matching everything. At three to four in tie-break Ryoma abandons restraint and throws himself into the air for a Cool Drive. Kabaji stands like a rock as the ball spins past him, and something finally comes clear in Ryoma's mind.
He claims the next three points in quick succession, borrowing the zero-shiki and Fuji-senpai's Tsubame Gaeshi to take the set, and feels his shoulders hunching as he trudges over to stand in front of Tezuka. Ryoma stares at the ground, far too aware of buchou's calm eyes on him. He understands now; the way to beat Kabaji is to keep moving and evolving, to keep hitting him with skills that he doesn't recognise without giving him time to copy them.
"You're doing well," is all Tezuka says as he hands Ryoma a water bottle. "Don't lose the momentum now."
"Aa." Ryoma gulps water and concentrates on slowing his breathing. Tezuka-buchou's insistence on this match makes more sense now, and Ryoma is uncomfortably aware that he has been far from gracious about it. "Sorry, buchou," he mutters, slumping onto the bench and burying his face in a towel to hide the flush that heats his cheekbones. If Tezuka hears him, he gives no sign, and Ryoma is grateful.
The Monkey King's cheering squad is as annoying as ever. Ryoma leans back on the bench, stretching his legs out and shoving his hands in his pockets as Hyoutei's captain conducts his crowd with imperious flicks of his fingers. He can't see why Atobe bothers; Tezuka-buchou is standing by the bench checking the gut of his racquet as though he can't hear anything at all. Ryoma has never seen Tezuka nervous; under intense pressure he just seems to become more focused and determined.
Atobe poses at the net, looking put out that Tezuka isn't already there. Ryoma tips his cap back and smirks across the court at him, amused as Atobe's haughty expression darkens into a scowl. Then Tezuka-buchou steps onto the court and it's as if Ryoma no longer exists; Atobe has eyes for no one but his opponent. Ryoma bites his tongue and slouches into the bench as the umpire begins the formalities; Atobe smirks and says something as they shake hands, but Tezuka doesn't reply and Ryoma can't see his face.
It's immediately apparent that the Monkey King has lost none of his annoying skills over the years. Ryoma vaguely recalls hearing that he missed the last tournament season over some injury or other that required a long rehab stay overseas. Atobe goes into this game as if he is trying to break Tezuka with the force of his will alone; Ryoma remembers the look on his face three years ago after Seigaku faced Higa in the second round of the Nationals.
Tezuka's face is intent as he matches Atobe shot for shot, power for power; the crowd at the fence are silent as the opening rally stretches on. Ryoma watches the ball arc back and forth over the net, flashing gold in the afternoon sun, and wonders whether Atobe can live up to the pace he is setting. Three sets of this would be exhausting for anyone.
Atobe shears topspin off the ball Tezuka aims into the backcourt, returning it as a flat smash that hits the corner with a dull thud before bouncing out. Ryoma feels his eyes flare blindingly wide as the umpire calls "Fifteen-love" and the Hyoutei supporters cheer their captain. He barely hears Momo-senpai and Horio start shouting for Tezuka, too caught up in the memory of another match.
Atobe had scored the first point then too. Ryoma watches Tezuka-buchou return a vicious slice, remembering the way he had seemed to collapse in slow motion, face contorting and grace shattered as he clutched at his shoulder. It has been almost three years, and this is the first time that Tezuka has played Atobe since that day. Ryoma wonders whether Tezuka-buchou is thinking about that as Atobe pushes him back with a relentless series of centre smashes.
This game is reminding Ryoma uncomfortably of the last time. There's something in Tezuka-buchou's posture that speaks too eloquently of defeat remembered; Ryoma breathes slowly and watches as Atobe takes the first game, Hyoutei's cheers ringing unnoticed in his ears. He doesn't look at Tezuka during court change, handing over the water bottle silently. All he can seem to remember is the way I won't lose had felt so much like a broken promise.
There is a barely-there hesitation in the way Tezuka moves that keeps Ryoma's mind inextricably mired in the past. Every shot seems to echo with the memory of pain and helplessness. Ryoma watches three openings pass and doesn't think to wonder why Tezuka doesn't hit the zero-shiki; the muscles of his forearm flex unconsciously as though he can take the burden on himself again, and the first set tiebreak feels like inevitability.
Atobe's Hametsu e no Rondo is much stronger than he remembers. Kunimitsu blocks automatically, twisting the racquet to absorb the force of the smash and returning it to the right corner. With every step he takes across this court, every ball he returns, he can feel memory sliding across his skin, through his bones. The memory of effort and determination and focused desperation, and twining through all of it the memory of pain.
Kunimitsu sets his jaw and takes another point, aware of the familiar intensity of Atobe's eyes on him. He has to force himself to lift his arm and serve, unable to escape the feeling that he is playing on borrowed time. Atobe takes the point, and his face twists into a smirk; they are rapidly approaching break point. Kunimitsu takes a deep breath and thinks very deliberately of Seigaku, surprising even himself with the speed of his return ace. Another memory floats to the forefront of his mind as the umpire calls the score: I'll take it from you. I'll take Seigaku's pillar from your hands. And Echizen's face, resolute with the anticipation and determination that had laced the words.
Kunimitsu tightens his grip on his racquet and stares straight ahead across the net, looking into the past. It has been years since his first match against Atobe; this is the Tokyo final and the pain is only memory. He has long since surpassed those limits. Atobe takes the set with a smirk over the net, but Kunimitsu allows himself to smile as he walks back to the bench.
The rest of the team alternates between worried silence and falsely-cheerful encouragement during the break between sets. Tezuka-buchou doesn't say a word, but the expression on his face is calm and determined. Ryoma sits beside him and stares out at the court while the Hyoutei supporters chant for the Monkey King. They are a pocket of silence amidst all the noise from outside the court, and the air feels heavy with anticipation. Ryoma wants to say something, but all the words in his mind feel stupid and pointless so he just breathes out slowly as Tezuka walks away from him for the second set.
For the first few balls it seems as though Atobe has the upper hand still, riding on the momentum of the first set. He takes the first two points, but his third return seems to curve in a perfect arc back to Tezuka's racquet. Ryoma grins, watching the way buchou pivots neatly, slicing the ball into Atobe's dead corner. It takes another three points before he hears the murmurs begin behind him, and it goes without saying that all three are Tezuka's. Atobe looks sulkily infuriated as the umpire calls the score, and pulls out an ace for his own service game. Tezuka catches the second ball, though, as if he has been anticipating it; it curves thin over the net and hits right on the line. Ryoma sits up, pushing his cap back; that's one he hasn't seen before.
Atobe fights hard, but Tezuka-buchou is picking up momentum. The second set turns into a fight over the Zone, with Atobe trying to vary the spin of the ball enough to break Tezuka's control, and pulling out as many vicious serves as he can to win back points. Tezuka stands like a rock through everything that Atobe can throw at him, eyes fixed on the ball and body flexing and pivoting around a single point as though he is the centre of gravity on-court. Ryoma feels his eyes constantly drawn back to Tezuka-buchou with every graceful arc of muscle and bone, and his breath catches as the zero-shiki rolls back to touch the net and take the second set.
There is no longer anything in this game to recall the last. Ryoma grins in pure relief, listening with half an ear to the cheers of the other Regulars from the fence behind him. Tezuka-buchou passes Atobe on his way to the bench, and Ryoma can hear the lazy drawl of the Monkey King's voice, the words too low to make out. He doesn't understand why he feels so stupidly pleased when Tezuka-buchou's expression doesn't change, but Atobe's scowl is enough to make Ryoma throw a smirk in his direction.
Watching the third set is like finally laying ghosts to rest. Ryoma keeps his eyes on the ball, feeling every impact shuddering through his own bones as Tezuka takes point after point after game. Even when Atobe breaks through the Zone it seems as though there is nothing he can do, no shot he can hit that Tezuka cannot throw back at him. Tezuka is burning, and Ryoma cannot look away. Confused and conflicting feelings knot in his chest, crushing his breath and tangling his fingers into bloodless white-knuckled fists; he wants to run, he wants to fly, he wants things he cannot even name and he wants to be facing Tezuka-buchou on that court right now.
He's so caught up in the game that match point comes as a shock. Ryoma stares at the satisfaction in Tezuka's eyes as he walks back to the bench, and unaccountably finds himself flushing. "Here," he mutters, ducking his head and handing over towel and water bottle. Even without contact he can feel the heat of buchou's skin, and he's relieved when the rest of the team piles into the court in a wave of congratulations. Even still, Ryoma is conscious that Fuji-senpai's eyes are laughing at him again.
"Eiji, is that a new necklace?" Fuji-senpai has a peculiar gleam in his eye that matches his mood of the week, strangely subdued but sparking with vicious amusement beneath the surface.
"Eh?! Ah�" Kikumaru-senpai clutches at his throat, so busy staring at Fuji that he trips over his own feet and has to snatch at Ryoma's shoulder to catch himself. "Sorry, sorry Ochibi!"
"Che." Ryoma ducks his head, reaching forward to stretch first one shoulder and then the other. The ring that Kikumaru-senpai is wearing on a chain around his neck is none of his business; absently he wonders why Fuji-senpai is so interested, anyway.
"Hey Echizen!" Momo-senpai yells from the fence, waving a shopping bag wildly over his head. "Wanna come help me carry stuff?" Ryoma blinks, then grins; doing the club shopping is a good excuse to stop off for burgers, and with the Kantou tournament less than a fortnight away every practice seems longer and more intense than the last. He's surprised when Fuji-senpai steps in front of him.
"Momo, do you mind if I come instead? I need to get some things for Yuuta�"
"Ah� sure!" Momo-senpai grins worriedly, rubbing the back of his head, then shrugs. Fuji gives Ryoma an amused look as he leaves the court, and Ryoma sighs, dumping his racquet onto the bench so that he can begin his leg stretches. Kikumaru-senpai at least looks relieved; he attaches himself to Oishi-senpai like a limpet and seems set to stay that way for the rest of practice.
Ryoma's almost done with his warm-ups when a familiar shadow falls over him.
"Where's Fuji?" Tezuka-buchou is frowning, and Ryoma realises that everyone else is already at the nets for practice matches. Everyone else has warm-up partners, he thinks sourly, or at least partners who haven't abandoned them.
"He went with Momo-senpai." Ryoma rises fluidly to his feet, pushing his arms over his head and feeling the easy stretch of muscle.
"Ah." Tezuka-buchou narrows his eyes but doesn�t say anything, and Ryoma wanders off to pick up his racquet, absently bouncing a ball in one hand. When he returns to the court Tezuka is in the middle of stretches and Inui-senpai and Kaidoh-senpai are playing a practice match against the Golden Pair.
Ryoma's eyes are drawn to the sharp, defined curve of Tezuka's back as he bends over his own legs, stretching. Without quite knowing how it happens, he finds himself with his hands on buchou's shoulders, leaning over him to push forward and down.
"Echizen?" Tezuka-buchou sounds startled; Ryoma feels the muscles jump under his fingers and wonders why.
"It's easier with two people," he mutters, glad that Tezuka can't see the way his skin is heating. He can feel buchou's body under his even though they are barely touching, and Ryoma realises in a distant, belated kind of way that this is the first time they have ever been this close. He runs through the rest of the familiar exercises on autopilot, head filled with confused half-thoughts that all add up to one inescapable conclusion: he likes being close to buchou. As Tezuka walks away from him to give orders for practice, Ryoma curls his fingers into fists as though he can hold onto the feel of Tezuka this way, solid and warm and alive in his hands.
When he gets home, much later than usual, Ryoma abandons homework and wanders out to hit balls against the temple wall, trying to lose himself in the repetitive thwack of ball on gut and brick. He's caught up in memories � games and practices and tournaments, and the sensation of Tezuka-buchou's eyes on him that has grown comfortable with familiarity.
"Mrow," Karupin complains from the wall, awakened from his nap by the jarring impact of the ball. Ryoma ignores him, narrowing his focus down to the single stone that he is aiming for, over and over and over. The world blurs around him, light fading slowly as the sun sinks over the temple roof.
"Hey hey, young man, what's eating you?" His father's voice comes as an unpleasant surprise; Ryoma starts and misses the ball as it bounces back to him. Nanjiroh laughs raucously, setting his racquet over his shoulder and tipping his head back.
"Che." Ryoma scowls and scoops up the ball before Karupin can pounce on it; the cat settles for twining around his ankles, purring like a rusty engine. "What do you want, old man?"
"I thought you wanted to play a match." Nanjiroh scratches his head, yawning ostentatiously. "You've been out here long enough � or is something bothering you?"
"None of your business," Ryoma mutters, considering it until he realises that he's hungry � his dinner is probably cooling in the kitchen.
"Ahhhh." His father's expression turns fatuously proud. "So it's a girl, hmm? What's her name? Is she pretty?"
"Eh?" Ryoma stares at him, then sighs and rolls his eyes. "There's no girl, Dad," and even though it's the absolute truth he feels as though Nanjiroh can read the hesitation in him. The strongest of the memories crowd to the surface � buchou's eyes meeting his over the net; the feel of his shoulders under Ryoma's palms�
"Ah, young man, you know you can tell me." His father settles lazy against the wall, grinning. "Is it the old hag's granddaughter? She's not bad�"
"Stupid old man." Ryoma slices the ball in his direction, forcing Nanjiroh to bring his racquet up in a hurry to protect his face. The image of his father drooling over girls in his class is the last thing he needs. "I already told you, there's no girl."
Two nights later, after an awkward practice in which his eyes seem to gravitate to Tezuka like tennis balls in the Zone, Ryoma pulls his birthday presents from the shelf and flops onto his bed. Fuji-senpai's album is heavy with years' worth of pictures; Ryoma pages slowly through the record of his matches from first-year. The photos begin with the celebration after their defeat of Fudoumine and skip straight to the training that had preceded the Tokyo finals against Yamabuki.
Ryoma traces the glossy edge of a photograph, remembering the matches in between, and one in particular. Even now he sometimes hears the sound of trains passing overhead in his dreams. If he forgets every other game he has ever played, Ryoma thinks, he will remember that day � he will want to remember. Down to the way the light caught Tezuka's eyes and outlined his body as he twisted into the zero-shiki, Ryoma will keep this memory in place of pictures and records. Echizen, become the pillar of Seigaku.
He turns a page and is confronted with another familiar image � Tezuka in the midst of his first fight against Atobe, just minutes before his shoulder gave out. Ryoma props his chin on one hand and smiles, remembering last week's rematch and the aching perfection of buchou on court as he rewrote the score. He turns the page, skimming through game after practice after tournament, and the image that jumps out at him most often is of his own eyes, staring after Tezuka.
Setting the album aside, Ryoma runs his fingers over the top of the flag box, tracing Tezuka's precise, delicate handwriting. Genpuku. The implications of that are too bewildering for Ryoma to begin to know what Tezuka meant by the gift; he lifts away the lid and stares down at the folded and refolded fabric. The left-hand corner is uppermost, with buchou's neat writing showing, black ink faded slightly into the cloth. Keep moving forward. Tezuka Kunimitsu. Ryoma traces the kanji with his fingertips until he falls asleep with his head pillowed on the scratchy blue fabric.
Ryoma skims through the first two weeks of Kantou in a blur of team uniforms and vaguely familiar opponents, none of whom offer enough of a challenge to hold his attention. Instead his eyes return again and again to the coach's bench and Tezuka's tall, composed figure. Ryoma feels Tezuka-buchou's gaze during his matches like a physical touch, spreading warmth down the line of his spine. In the evenings he wears himself out playing the usual games with his father, trying to banish dreams of heat and skin and touches that are not impersonal at all.
The semi-finals come as something of a relief, the last hurdle on the road that will take them to Rikkai again, and Nationals. Ryoma takes Singles Two in straight sets to win Seigaku the match, conscious all the time of Tezuka's presence at the side of the court. When Ryoma finally turns to look at him, after he's shaken the opponent's hand and the umpire has declared the date of the final, he feels his muscles turn to lead.
Tezuka-buchou's face is tight, disapproval apparent in his eyes. As Ryoma stumbles towards him, stomach suddenly churning, he rises from the bench and walks out of the court without a word. Ryoma stares after him as the other Regulars jump the fence to pound on his back and rub his head, wondering what he's supposed to think of that � is buchou disappointed that he didn't get to play?
That night is restless; Ryoma dreams in variations on a theme, watching over and over as his graceless hands reach out for Tezuka and are rejected by cold, damning eyes. He sleeps through his alarm and has to sprint all the way to school to make morning practice; buchou gives him laps without even looking at him and Ryoma stares resentfully at the ground as he runs. He doesn't understand what he's done, but the way Tezuka is treating him makes things knot hard and unpleasant under his breastbone. By the time the lunch bell rings all the teachers have assigned him lines for inattention and Horio and Katsuo have given up trying to talk to him.
The lunch his mother has packed doesn't seem appetising at all. Ryoma forces down a few mouthfuls of rice that seem to stick in his throat, then gives up and tosses it into the trash, wandering up through the school to the roof. It's dark enough in the stairwell that the rush of light when he opens the door brings water to his eyes, but before he's taken three uncertain steps Ryoma knows he's not alone.
Light-blinded and blinking he stares up at Tezuka, leaning arms-folded against the fence opposite the door as though he has been waiting. "Buchou?" It comes out somewhere between a croak and a whisper, as though he has been holding his voice back for too long. Ryoma wants to scrub the brightness-tears from his eyes, but he refuses to draw attention to weakness; instead he tilts his head back and looks up at Tezuka stubbornly.
"Echizen." Tezuka-buchou's eyes are calm and still disapproving; Ryoma feels like a defiant child and doesn't like it. "Why did you come back to Seigaku, if you weren't going to play your best?"
The question blindsides him utterly. Ryoma feels his eyes going wide with the uncomfortable knowledge that he has been distracted. It's been weeks since he's been able to lose himself in a game, and while it's technically true that he hasn't needed to� Ryoma knows too well that half his mind has been on Tezuka, even on the court.
Buchou, you hold back all the time! The protest wells up in Ryoma's throat but is strangled into a barely audible sound by the remote ice of Tezuka's eyes.
"Focus on the opponent before you," Tezuka-buchou tells him evenly. "I shouldn't have to tell you twice." The rebuke in that stings; Ryoma ducks his head beneath his cap, hunching his shoulders and feeling more than seeing Tezuka walk past him to the door. All he can seem to remember is the smile in buchou's eyes after the last match they'd played, and the way Tezuka's respect and pride had felt warmer than the sunset around them. More than anything, Ryoma wants that back.
Echizen's eyes do not waver from his back as he walks away. Kunimitsu is uncomfortably aware that he is doing this more and more often, yet at the same time he knows that it is what Echizen needs. He has only a few months more, now, to try to teach Echizen to be more than his father could make of him; only a few more months to be his captain, and yet it is longer than he had thought he would have. For years he has been preparing himself to let Echizen go; Kunimitsu knows better than anyone that part of growing up means outgrowing old attachments.
The crowd are cheering for Rikkai. Ryoma takes a deep breath and doesn't look back as he walks onto the court. Yukimura is waiting for him at the net, still deceptively fragile-looking; Ryoma is distantly surprised to realise that there are only ten centimetres between them now.
"So how much have you grown, Echizen-kun?" Yukimura asks quietly as they shake hands and the umpire announces the start of the match.
Ryoma smirks at him, adjusting his cap. "You'll see."
It's Ryoma's serve; he bounces the ball on the baseline, considering, then shrugs to himself and puts so much spin on the Twist Serve that it bounces straight up and Yukimura has to dash forward to return it. Ryoma is already in position; there is no way that he can take this opponent lightly. Slice to the back-court, and he needs his Split Step to turn Yukimura's lob into a smash that comes right back at him and almost takes his cap off. Ryoma throws himself backwards to catch the ball, twisting mid-air and adding backspin to send it curving out to the line, raising a puff of dust as it impacts and bounces out.
Ryoma already knows that in this game the first point will mean nothing. Yukimura was strong three years ago and is stronger now; it's there in the precise angle of every shot, the way his seemingly-delicate body pivots behind the ball. Ryoma smirks, narrowing his focus until it feels like he is trying to pin down Yukimura with his eyes. There is nothing outside of the court and the fight; even the cries of the spectators seem to fade as Ryoma returns shot after shot, struggling for control of the game.
He takes the first set seven games to five, and the look in Yukimura's eyes foretells a vicious fight to come. Ryoma sits on the end of the bench during the break, absently sipping water as he stares at the court; he's grateful when the umpire calls for resumption after only a few minutes. The second set is harder fought; Yukimura hits him with power shot after power shot and only seems to gain energy. Ryoma grits his teeth and forces him into tie-break with double-handed slice returns and a succession of his favourite drive volleys, holding back the temptation to pull out the first of the set when Yukimura beats him nine points to seven with a double feint and lob. He doesn't like losing at the best of times, and in this time and place it is unthinkable.
The third set is vicious and dizzying; Ryoma forces himself past exhaustion and aching muscles into that place where his body reacts on instinct, fuelled by the memory of every shot he has ever played. He forgets teams, tournaments, friends, trophies; forgets everything but the tingling impact of ball on gut and the white heat of this game as it flows through his bones. Every shot returned, every point scored, feels like flying. Ryoma focuses his world down to Yukimura as though his life depends on this match, and refuses absolutely to give ground.
He knows he's won before the ball even impacts the court; the dull thud of the second bounce falls into a stunned silence that seems to fill the stadium, timeless and familiar. Six games to four, Ryoma thinks, and then the crowd is drowning out the umpire's voice as he announces the victory. Ryoma's victory, but Yukimura's face over the net as they shake hands again, both of them shaking a little with over-exercised muscles, is satisfied as well as resigned.
"As expected of Echizen-kun," he acknowledges in his usual quiet voice. "I'll look forward to the Nationals." He doesn't need to say that Rikkai are planning to win the Nationals; it's there in his eyes as he turns to walk back to his team. Ryoma grins in satisfaction and tugs his cap down as he trudges off the court.
Stepping over the white line sends a curious tugging feeling into the pit of his stomach. Ryoma looks up into Tezuka-buchou's eyes and feels the world drop out from under him.
Since the moment he'd stepped onto the court, Ryoma hadn't allowed himself to think of Tezuka at all; defeating Yukimura had required every bit of focus and concentration he could scrape together. Now, with the match won and exhaustion settling into his bones, he has no defences at all. Tezuka's eyes are bright with pride and satisfaction and something that Ryoma cannot quite recognise, and there's no way he can look away. His entire body aches with wanting, with the need to reach out and feel buchou's skin against his; he stands frozen and helpless with the force of the invisible everything that fills the air between them.
"Good game." Buchou's voice, low and smooth, is enough to sway Ryoma forward onto his toes; it takes him a long, heavy moment to realise that Tezuka is holding out a water bottle. Ryoma takes it automatically, the stares of the other Regulars beginning to filter past the white noise in his mind.
"Aa," he mutters, all the thanks he can manage as he ducks his head and slumps onto the bench. Fuji-senpai is smiling in a way that makes Ryoma's face heat with the certainty that he is utterly transparent to anyone who cares to look. He feels eyes on him all through the presentation ceremony, and the sensation doesn't stop until they all pile into Kawamura Sushi for the victory party. Ryoma finds himself a comfortable corner and a plate of his own, and carefully doesn't look at Tezuka at all for the rest of the evening.
The countryside is quiet at night. Ryoma tilts his head back and stares up at the bright sparks of a million stars that are invisible in Tokyo, stretching out his arms slowly. He can still feel the concentrated ache of a full day's training in his shoulders and back, legacy of a five-set match against Inui-senpai that had pushed him to the ragged edges of his stamina. The real thrill, though, had been watching Fuji-senpai play Tezuka-buchou afterwards � the kind of tennis that should last forever, and Ryoma wishes it could have been him. He will play Fuji tomorrow, but it won't be the same at all.
Even so, this week feels like a gift. Amano-sensei's family must be pretty well off with a place like this; Ryoma steps out onto the veranda, ignoring the noise from inside that promises another pillow fight. The moon is low and half-full in the western sky, almost dipping behind the mountains, and there is enough light for Ryoma to see Tezuka-buchou sitting cross-legged in the corner, a book in his lap. It's enough of a surprise that he freezes for a moment, but he already knows that Tezuka is aware of his presence; he can't run, and senpai are making too much of a racket indoors anyway.
"You'll ruin your eyes, buchou," Ryoma observes quietly, sliding the shoji shut behind him. Tezuka looks up at him, moonlight limning the frames of his glasses as he marks his page with a finger.
"It's too late for that," he says wryly, eyes dark and calm in the strange monochrome dimness. "Did you want something, Echizen?" His voice is quiet and curious; outside the tennis court, here, he doesn't sound quite like a captain.
Ryoma shrugs one shoulder, dropping down onto the edge of the veranda and swinging his legs just because he can. "It's too noisy in there. Your game today was good, buchou." He tips his head back again, staring up at the sky as cicadas hum in the trees and Tezuka turns the pages of his book. "Buchou?"
"Yes?" Tezuka looks up at him again; Ryoma can feel it, and he turns his head to meet his eyes, leaning back on one hand.
"Can I have Singles Two for the Nationals?"
This time, Tezuka doesn't question the request; Ryoma feels obscurely grateful, unsure exactly why he's asking this now. "You've already beaten Yukimura," is all he says, face calm in the moon-shadows. Ryoma brings one leg up, resting his head on his knee without looking away from Tezuka-buchou. "He's one of the strongest you're likely to face."
"He's not as strong as the old man," Ryoma finds himself saying, and it's so like a dream out here in the quiet night that he can't bring himself to care.
"You still want to defeat him." Tezuka's voice is calm and resigned; he shifts, setting his book aside and rising easily to his feet. Ryoma has to crane his neck to look up at him; it feels uncomfortable so he looks away, out at the dark garden and the faint glow of the white lines that border the courts in the distance.
"The idiot's not going to give me any peace until I beat him flat." It's as much for himself as for his father's sake, though; payback for years of mockery and annoyance and getting in the way. Ryoma deliberately and intentionally forgets that if not for Nanjiroh he might never have picked up a racquet; tennis is his, or it should be.
"And what will you do then?" buchou asks quietly, voice low and serious. "What will you do when you have no one left to beat?"
Ryoma stares out into the depths of the sky, unable to think of a single response beyond the words that crowd, unspoken, into his throat: Hold on to you.
The moonlight reflects in Echizen's eyes, glossing their gold with a silver sheen. Kunimitsu cannot keep himself from staring, but to walk away now would be unforgivably rude. All week he has been watching Echizen, absorbing the knowledge that it is different now. The way Echizen looks at him is different, no longer confined to the simple territory of tennis captain and kohai. It opens up a whole new realm of possibilities, things that he has been pushing out of his mind for a long time but can no longer avoid.
Starlight catches in the dark shock of Echizen's hair as he tips his head back, staring wide-eyed at the sky. Kunimitsu remembers another time, the first time he'd been aware that Echizen's eyes on him had changed. A few simple words, I will take Seigaku's pillar from your hands, and suddenly buchou meant more than it ever had and Kunimitsu had been unable to escape the deeply inappropriate certainty that respect was the least of what he wanted from Echizen.
He remembers the recent night-time helplessness of watching Echizen settle himself on the neighbouring futon, and the way his fingers had itched to reach out and tug the covers higher around still-slender shoulders. Subsequent nights have not made the startling proximity any easier; Kunimitsu finds himself waking in the small hours and turning his head to look at Echizen � to watch Ryoma sleeping, huddled into a tight bundle even in the summer warmth. During practice and training he is too aware of Ryoma's presence, of the need to touch and the fact that being the captain makes no difference at all, now, in the face of Ryoma's voice cracking over the title.
Last night he had opened his eyes to find Ryoma staring back at him, serious and a little lost-looking. Kunimitsu had turned over and stared at the blurry shadows the moonlight made on the wall, too aware of being watched to sleep.
The slight grating of the shoji being pulled back is a welcome relief from the too-narrow space between them. Kunimitsu turns away from Ryoma and ignores the knowing smile on Fuji's face as he glances between them.
"Ah, Tezuka, here you are � Oishi asked me to find you, Momo and Kaidoh are fighting again�" It's enough to remind Kunimitsu of duty, that he needs to be the captain now; he doesn�t look back as he strides off to sort out the latest quarrel, but later that night he finds his abandoned book waiting neatly by his pillow.
Nationals arrives with all the usual pointless fuss. After the third time Tezuka glares at him for yawning during the speeches, Ryoma gets the hint and keeps his eyes fixed on buchou's back. The lines of Tezuka's body are clearly visible beneath the blue-and-white club uniform; Ryoma's fingers tingle with the desire to reach out and touch, to run his hands over buchou's skin and feel the warmth of him.
As a seeded team, Seigaku automatically pass the first round; it all seems very familiar and Ryoma feels as though he is walking in the footprints of his younger self. Their first opponents are a team from some school in Hokkaido that Ryoma has never even heard of, but they're strong enough to be a challenge and the Singles Two match runs to second-set tie-break. After that it's Shitenhouji High in the quarter-finals and Tezuka puts Ryoma into Singles One against Chitose. The match is breathtakingly intense; Ryoma remembers watching Tezuka-buchou's game three years ago, trembling with exhaustion and still unable to look away, and wonders if Tezuka watches his tennis in the same way.
Chitose laughs when Ryoma slams the final ball past him, and wishes him luck in his professional career. Afterwards, the annoying Kansai kid dashes up and demands a match, and the fact that he's a good five centimetres taller than Ryoma now is annoying enough that he refuses automatically, shrugging into his jacket as he turns to follow his senpai back to the bus. The satisfaction in Tezuka's eyes as he reminds everyone of the semi-final details is enough to bring a tiny smile to the corner of Ryoma's mouth.
The semis are held in the packed stadium court, which seems to glitter with camera-flashes. Ryoma picks out Rikkai's ugly yellow jackets from the crowd of school uniforms; they will play Hyoutei tomorrow for their place in the finals, which means the Monkey King is probably around somewhere too. The other team, Shokurinchi, are all in black and purple; Ryoma eyes them over the net and wonders why their captain looks so familiar � tall and imperious with slicked-back hair and narrow rectangular glasses. The look on Tezuka's face as the guy glares at him advises against asking, and Ryoma spends Singles Three and Doubles Two watching buchou stare straight ahead at the court.
The answer doesn't occur to him until he's walking onto the court for Singles Two, facing some ridiculously tall guy who smirks down at him as though he thinks he's already won. Shokurinchi's captain is that Kite guy from before, the one whose team had beaten on the old guy from Rokkaku. The one who'd thought he could beat Tezuka-buchou with speed and violence; Ryoma can remember that match as though it was yesterday, but every image in his memory centres on Tezuka's side of the net.
It's obvious that the Kite guy is here for revenge; Ryoma pauses on his way back to the baseline, looking over to Tezuka-buchou. If he wins this game, Seigaku will take the match and buchou will not play at all. Ryoma remembers sunny rooftops and stinging words: Why did you come back to Seigaku, if you weren't going to play your best? It doesn't matter whether buchou wants to play; the path of the match was mapped out the moment Ryoma stepped onto the court. He nods to Tezuka and turns neatly on the baseline to grin at the opponent, then serves with everything he has.
Practice the next day is more intense even than the semi-final matches. After lunch Oishi-senpai and Inui-senpai go off to watch the Rikkai-Hyoutei games, and Kikumaru bounces onto the court to drape himself over Fuji.
"C'mon, Fuji, let's play Momo and Kaidoh!"
"Kikumaru-senpai!" Ryoma protests; he's five games up to three in their practice set and doesn�t appreciate having his opponent stolen from under his nose.
"Ah, it's all right, Echizen." Fuji-senpai extricates himself and smile apologetically at Ryoma. "I need to leave soon anyway � Taka-san's expecting me."
"Fuji, no fair!" Kikumaru-senpai pouts and sets his hands on his hips. "Fine then, Ochibi! Come and play doubles!"
Ryoma backs hastily away before his senpai can catch hold of him. "No way. Go play them by yourself." The only thing worse than doubles is doubles against Momo-senpai and Kaidoh-senpai when they're fighting � and they've been at each other's throats all morning. For once the low-level wrangling is actually a relief; ever since the training camp the two of them have been staying out of each other's way in a suspicious mutual silence, and there's just something vaguely wrong about tennis club without fighting second-years.
Leaving his senpai to work it out for themselves, Ryoma shoulders his racquet and wanders off the courts in search of Ponta. To his annoyance the machine between the science block and the main building is out of grape flavour and he has to settle for the tasteless fizz of orange. He's so absorbed in glaring into the half-empty can that he almost walks right into Tezuka-buchou on the way back and has to catch himself with a hand on the captain's arm. Ponta spills unheeded onto the ground, darkening the path for a moment before the sun fades the moisture.
"Sorry, buchou." Ryoma looks up into Tezuka's face and has to remind himself to remove his hand; he curls his fingers tight around the lingering sensation of buchou's skin under his palm as though he can keep it forever.
"It's nothing." Tezuka looks down at him for a long moment, then turns his attention back to the court where Kikumaru is bouncing from side to side to intercept Momo and Kaidoh's attacks. Ryoma glances over long enough to see him flick back a Boomerang Snake and backflip into an attacking position, then looks back to Tezuka. They are very close, here; close enough that Ryoma imagines he can feel the heat of Tezuka's body permeating his skin.
"Buchou?" he asks, before he quite knows what he's going to say. "Are you happy?" Tezuka looks away from the game, glasses reflecting sunlight into Ryoma's eyes. "That we're in the final, I mean," Ryoma amends, absently twisting his racquet from rough to smooth and back.
Tezuka just looks at him. "We still have a match to play, Echizen; we can't be careless now."
"Aa." Both of them know that Rikkai won't go down easily � but both of them know that they can win this, too. Nationals; it's always been Tezuka's dream for Seigaku. Ryoma wonders if he's ever had a dream like that � somehow he knows that beating his father doesn't count. Besides, he hasn't achieved that one yet. "It's the draw for the Under-Eighteen Singles soon, isn't it?"
"Thursday of next week." Tezuka-buchou looks away, focusing on the activity on-court. Ryoma smirks up at him anyway, leaning against the fence with a rattle of wire links and tucking his racquet under his arm.
"I'm going to win, buchou." At fifteen he is finally old enough to participate, and the team Nationals have already guaranteed him a place in the draw. "I'll take the tournament from you." Tezuka has been the national champion two years running, and Ryoma has already decided that this year will be his turn.
"I won't be playing." Tezuka's voice is cold and remote, and Ryoma feels his breath stop sudden and painful at the words.
"�buchou?" It feels as though the world is crumbling around him, and Tezuka is standing there like a statue, the pillar of Seigaku in form as well as function, looking away from him.
"I won't be participating," Tezuka-buchou repeats as though Ryoma is a child or stupid.
"But � you have to�" Ryoma trails off, clenching his hands into impotent fists. Buchou doesn't have to do anything, and he knows it. But it feels as his life has been wrenched painfully off its track; even more than the team Nationals he has been waiting for this tournament, precisely because he will get to play Tezuka.
Buchou's face is set in stone, and his words settle between them like an unbreachable wall. "The tournament dates clash with the entrance exams for Tokyo University." There's an electronic cheep and Tezuka fishes his phone out of his pocket; Oishi-senpai is calling from the stadium with a match report. Ryoma sets his jaw and turns to walk away without a word, disappointed fury writhing like a living creature in his chest.
Ryoma spends the rest of the week avoiding Tezuka as much as he can, torn between anger and betrayal and the desperate desire to grab hold of buchou and never let go. Momo-senpai and Kikumaru-senpai tease him for sulking and make jokes about growing pains until Ryoma just wishes everyone would shut up and go away; the final on Saturday comes as both an anti-climax and a relief.
Everyone is expecting this match to go all the way to Singles One, and with Sanada and Yanagi in doubles Ryoma already knows that it will. He feels Tezuka-buchou's eyes on his back as he walks onto the court to face Kirihara, but doesn't turn; if this is the last of his matches that buchou is going to see then Ryoma will give him something to watch. A spiteful, childish part of him wants Tezuka to know exactly what he's giving up, and he returns Kirihara's opening serve as though this is a Grand Slam instead of a high school tournament.
Kirihara has grown a lot in the two years since their last match, but all Ryoma can think is that this is not Tezuka. He wants to be playing buchou, and he goes into the match as though he is, pulling out every skill he possesses and still never quite finding what he's looking for. Two six-four sets are not the result he wants, and Ryoma ignores Kirihara's exhausted fury over the net as they shake hands amidst a whirlwind of cheering.
Tezuka-buchou gives him a long, steady look as he trudges head-down back to the bench; Ryoma turns his face away and goes to slump against the boundary fence, absently biting the straw of his water bottle as he watches Oishi and Kikumaru losing to Sanada and Yanagi. It's a narrow enough victory that the rest of the Regulars cheer anyway; Kikumaru-senpai flashes them a grin and leans into Oishi-senpai's arm around him as Tezuka-buchou picks up his racquet to warm up. Ryoma ducks his head and turns away, wandering off in search of juice.
Watching Tezuka-buchou play Yukimura in Singles One hurts. Ryoma scowls and settles himself into a tense huddle on the bench, eyes intent on the court. The crowd is almost silent in the background and his senpai exchange hushed whispers about skill and power; Ryoma ignores everything but the tall, graceful figure of his captain. Even with the weight of anger in his stomach, buchou's tennis can take his breath away.
It takes Yukimura five games to break the Zone, and as his backspin slice curves out beyond Tezuka's racquet it is as though Tezuka comes into focus. The rest of the set is a battle of skill and subtlety and ball control; Ryoma's breath aches in his chest as he watches. The idea that this could be the last time he will ever watch Tezuka-buchou on the court is heavy and abhorrent, and he shivers with the desire to be out there, to face Tezuka over the net one more time. As the set runs into tie-break, Ryoma traces the flowing lines of Tezuka-buchou's body with his eyes and wishes that games could last forever.
Kunimitsu is painfully conscious of Echizen's gaze on him as he steps forward to accept the trophy on behalf of his team. When he turns, lifting the heavy cup to the cheers of the crowd, Ryoma's face is resentful but his eyes are lost and confused. Kunimitsu swallows the useless words that rise in his throat; there is nothing he can say now, and he knows that one day Ryoma will be grateful for this. The time for guidance is over, and now Ryoma must make his own path. Don't look back, Kunimitsu thinks as he leads the team out of the stadium at the head of the procession, fingers white-knuckled around the handles of the cup. He's no longer Ryoma's captain, and he won't hold him back.
The only people who seem surprised by Ryoma's progress through the Under-Eighteen Singles are the reporters. After the semi-finals the sports papers are full of Youngest Finalist Ever! headlines and reissued photos from his years in the Under-Sixteens, which Ryoma ignores. When someone connects the names and runs a retrospective on his stupid father's brief career he considers ripping up the pages but ultimately can't be bothered. The old man isn't worth it, and he'd only take it as a challenge in any case. Nothing could be further from Ryoma's mind; the whole tournament is a bitter disappointment, and he wanders the house so aimlessly on the day before the final that his mother calls Momoshiro out and sends them both down to the street courts.
Playing his senpai is both exhausting and weirdly relaxing. Everyone on the team knows Ryoma's tennis so well that even with the difference in skill he has to work for his points. Ryoma's wrists are still aching from returning Momo-senpai's Dunk Smash when they finally yield the court to a group of elementary-school kids, collapsing onto the concrete steps.
"Eh, you don't go easy on me at all!" Momo-senpai collapses back and grins at the sky; Ryoma leans against the wall and slants his eyes at him.
"I never thought I'd see you using Kaidoh-senpai's Snake, Momo-senpai."
Momo-senpai just laughs. "Stupid Viper isn't here anyway � don't tell him!" he adds hastily, turning to stare beseechingly at Ryoma.
Ryoma smirks. "You just don't want him finding out how much you don�t hate him, senpai."
"Echizen!" Momo-senpai turns tomato-red and glares at the ground as though Kaidoh-senpai is standing on it. Ryoma shrugs and pulls his bag towards him, slotting his racquet neatly away.
"Whatever. Are you going to watch tomorrow?"
"Wouldn't miss it!" Momo cheers up, grinning at him. "That arrogant bastard'll probably have his cheering squad there; everyone's coming along to watch you kick his ass � well, except buchou�" He frowns, and Ryoma pretends he can't see the way Momo's watching him sideways.
"Yeah, I know." He shrugs and pushes himself to his feet, suddenly not liking the way the conversation's going. "Senpai, didn't you say you'd pay for burgers?"
"I did?" Momo-senpai glares at him, but it's enough of a distraction. "You little scrounger � only if you beat me to the restaurant!"
"No fair, senpai!" Ryoma yells as Momoshiro dashes for his bike with an evil laugh, but the bickering is familiar enough that tomorrow fades back into the distant future.
Atobe smirks at him over the net as they shake hands. "Have you beaten Tezuka yet, Echizen? It's a pity he can't be here to defend his title�"
"Che." Ryoma pulls his hand away as soon as Atobe lets go, tipping the brim of his cap back. "You'll have to do instead." The look on Atobe's face at that brightens the day a little; it's always fun to needle the Monkey King. It doesn't ease the sting of it, though; this is not the match Ryoma wants to play. The fact that Atobe very obviously wants to be facing Tezuka as well just makes him more annoying.
Some of the irritation dissolves once Ryoma gets into the match; Atobe is a dangerous opponent with a solid foundation of skill beneath the flashiness. It takes concentration and focus to keep from being distracted by the theatrics, but that has never been a problem for Ryoma. Halfway into the first set, he blocks Atobe's Stupid Name Smash by changing hands and realises that he's stopped playing against Tezuka in his head.
Ryoma takes the first set six games to four, and as they pass at the net during the break Atobe laughs with a toss of his head, as though he's posing for a photo shoot. Absently, Ryoma wonders whether he practices that in the mirror every morning.
"Let's give Tezuka something to watch, hmm?"
"He's not here." Ryoma ducks his head under his cap and wanders back to the bench, ignoring Atobe's reaction.
The second set is harder fought. Atobe pulls out that fancy serve of his in the tie-break; Ryoma can never remember what it's called, but it's annoying enough that he glares at the ball and doesn't waste effort trying to return it. One set all, and Ryoma knows Atobe will fight to the last. He paces behind the bench during the break, stretching out his legs as he works through the muscle memory of all his drive volleys, one after the other.
Ryoma hits the third set like a tidal wave and doesn't give Atobe a chance to breathe. Even a series of aces in his service games can't make an impact, and only seem to exhaust him. Ryoma flicks the final Drive E neatly past him to claim the set six-three, feeling vaguely let down. He has just become the number one junior player in Japan, and the only thought that really occurs as he accepts the trophy is that there is nothing right about this.
As soon as Ryoma sets foot in the door that evening his father appears, as smug-faced as if it had been his victory. Something crystallises in Ryoma's mind; he snatches a racquet out of his bag and shoves his feet back into his shoes. "Come on, old man."
"Eh?" Nanjiroh blinks at him, an unopened beer bottle forgotten in his hand.
"One set match." Ryoma walks out, heading for the court without bothering to check whether the idiot's following him. If he can't play his favourite opponent then he'll play his oldest; the old man isn't much of a father but he's still a challenge.
"Oi oi!" Nanjiroh appears on the other side of the court as he always does, tossing his ancient racquet from hand to hand. "What's this about, young man?"
"Nothing." Ryoma squeezes the ball in his hand, then bounces it perfunctorily and serves. Nanjiroh returns with the ease of long practice and it's easy, then, for Ryoma to lose himself in the familiar tug and stretch of muscle, the glowing arc of the ball against the dimming late-summer sky. He stops thinking, reacting on instinct as he trades points with his father, slice and backspin and drive and smash and everything that is tennis, everything that has always been his life. It's a choking, numbing shock to watch the zero-shiki settle into the net and realise that the set is tied at six games to six.
"Tie-break," his father says after a long pause, and he sounds as though he doesn't believe it either. For the first time in his life, Ryoma realises, he is about to beat his father at tennis, and it means nothing to him. His racquet hits the court with a dull, dusty smack, and Ryoma flees the temple grounds as fast as his legs can carry him.
When Kunimitsu arrives home from the library his mother hurries out of the living room to tell him that his kouhai from the tennis club is here waiting for him. It's not at all a surprise to open his bedroom door and find Echizen Ryoma sitting round-shouldered and uncomfortable in his desk chair. Kunimitsu sighs and sets his books carefully onto his bed, looking down at Ryoma's unhappy expression.
"Echizen." It's harder, here, to be the captain, but Ryoma seems so caught up in whatever is bothering him that they might as well be on the Seigaku courts.
"I � my father. We tied," Ryoma mutters, not looking up. "Six-all." His hands on his knees are white-knuckled; Kunimitsu stamps firmly on the urge to reach out and uncurl them.
"You didn't play the tie-break?" Ryoma is still in his tennis clothes, hair lank with sweat; Kunimitsu wonders if he has run all the way here.
"I couldn't. I � I'd have beaten him, and it wouldn't have mattered." Ryoma looks up at him, finally, eyes full of confusion. "It's not supposed to be this way, buchou!"
That hits home. Kunimitsu closes his eyes, taking a deep breath and reminding himself again of everything that lies between them. "No one can predict the future." The words taste trite and meaningless in his mouth; Ryoma looks down at his knees again.
"Are you quitting tennis, buchou?"
"No." The word slips out without thought, instinct and reflex overriding conscious decision. Kunimitsu sighs and sits down carefully on the edge of his bed, watching the way Ryoma's eyes light, finally, with relief. He doesn't mention that the Olympics will be held in China in three years, or that he expects to go professional after university; the simple reassurance seems to be all that Ryoma needs.
"I'm going pro next year." Ryoma's eyes make Kunimitsu ache with so many things that he cannot say; he swallows the irrational lump that rises in his throat and nods decisively.
"I expected you to. You need to keep moving forward � there are stronger players than your father out there."
"Aa." Ryoma ducks his head but doesn't look away, and Kunimitsu cannot find the words to tell him not to hold back.
It's raining again outside. Ryoma sits and looks at his phone for a long time before flipping it open and dialling the number. It rings twice, and then a familiar voice comes on the line.
"This is Tezuka."
"Buchou." Ryoma straightens his back automatically, even though there is no one to see. "Do you have plans for tomorrow?"
"Echizen?" Tezuka-buchou sounds startled. "Ah, no �"
"Good." Ryoma relaxes a little, satisfied. "I'll come by at one."
"What?" Ryoma can hear voices in the background, and wonders where buchou is.
"You're busy. I'll see you then." He rings off in the middle of Tezuka's demand for an explanation, knowing that buchou is probably more than a little exasperated with him right now and not really caring. Sometimes Ryoma would rather be a pest than be ignored, and it's been too long since he's had more of Tezuka than a brief nod as they pass in the halls. This birthday present is as much about him as it is about buchou, really.
Tezuka answers the door on the second knock, already wearing tennis gear. Ryoma blinks at him, wondering just how transparent he is, then grins. "Happy birthday, buchou."
Tezuka inclines his head in a silent acknowledgement, then frowns at him, glancing out at the grey sky. "Don't you have a coat? It's going to rain."
Ryoma shrugs, shifting impatiently from foot to foot as Tezuka gathers his racquet bag and coat. "I booked the covered court over by the gasworks. We can get the bus."
"Aa." They walk down the street to the bus stop in a comfortable sort of silence that Ryoma doesn't see any need to break. The tiny part of him that isn't already anticipating the game is self-consciously aware that it would only take a small movement to reach out and touch; Ryoma ignores it.
The rain is coming down in round, fat drops by the time they reach the court. It splatters on the thin plastic roof and puddles outside the gate; Ryoma ducks into the locker room quickly before his cap gets soaked through and fumbles for the switch to turn on the court lights. The sudden blaze of illumination makes him blink, fuzzy afterimages invading his vision, and when he turns to see Tezuka getting out his racquet a fierce thrill of happiness runs through him. He's been waiting too long for this.
They meet at the net, shoes scuffing on the freshly-swept clay court. Ryoma reaches over to spin his racquet without looking away from Tezuka's face, knowing that his eyes are wide and bright with anticipation. "Which?"
"Smooth." Tezuka-buchou doesn't turn away. His face is calm and composed as ever, but the floodlights strike sparks from the rims of his glasses that seem to invade his eyes.
The racquet lands rough; Ryoma eyes it in surprise then shrugs, reaching down to pick it up. "You can serve, buchou. Best of three sets."
They start slowly. Ryoma returns Tezuka's serve with a backhand slice, feeling his muscles beginning to loosen as he leaps to catch the next ball. The sound of the rain on the roof is just familiar enough to bring back memories of their first match; Ryoma feels as though he's come full circle as he slides a backspin volley past Tezuka's racquet to take the first game. They trade points, neither of them needing an umpire's voice to keep score as they flow across the court. As the first set continues, all drive and topspin and exquisite ball control, Ryoma feels his face settling into a grin. This is the way it should be, he thinks in satisfaction as he returns a slice with enough extra spin that it bounces free of the Tezuka Zone. This is the way they should be, always.
Kunimitsu stretches to reach Ryoma's Drive B before it hits the top of its arc, smashing it into the backcourt and watching Ryoma all but materialise to catch it with a neat and vicious slice, taking the point. It is his serve again; he moves into the rhythm of the game without thought, eyes fixed as always on the darting form of the boy on the other side of the net. Ryoma is unquestionably the best opponent he has ever had; the tennis they play together is breathtaking enough that he aches with it.
Ryoma returns with a topspin lob that curves out towards the line; Kunimitsu throws himself back to catch it without taking his eyes off the way Ryoma moves into position, all definite grace and determination. There is nothing in the world but this game, this court, the two of them fighting each other with everything they have.
Kunimitsu remembers his words beneath the tracks three years ago, and the way they have echoed in his mind ever since, reminding him of who and what he is supposed to be. This thing between them, this tennis, goes beyond roles and proprieties and what is supposed to be; every time they step onto the court they build something new out of the game. Kunimitsu's muscles slide into the familiar form of the zero-shiki and he watches Ryoma dive for the net to try and volley, body hitting the court with a jarring impact that he doesn�t seem to feel at all. His grin as he pushes himself up for his service game is every bit as enthralling as the way he spins the ball in the air, and Kunimitsu breathes deeply, needlessly reminding himself to focus on the game.
Ryoma's serve is something he has never seen before, a variation on his usual Twist that adds enough backspin to make the ball bounce backwards. Kunimitsu feels his eyes widen, then narrow; he's ready when Ryoma serves again, moving forwards into the serve and returning it as an overslice that doubles the topspin and makes Ryoma dash to catch it, grinning.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Kunimitsu knows that this is the best game he has ever played. It's in the subtlety, and the power behind it; in the strength of the way Ryoma faces him. Both of them are playing all-out, flying and burning and pushing each other higher. As Ryoma returns his backspin lob with a twist smash that impacts the clay of the court with a resounding crack, Kunimitsu feels his mind fall utterly silent with the conscious realisation of something that he has known for years: he can't hold Ryoma back.
Every step of these last three years, Ryoma has been there � watching, waiting, challenging him with every word and glance. This tennis, this glorious, soaring game that makes his heart pound in his throat and his body sing with tension � it belongs to both of them. It always has. Kunimitsu feels his mouth curving into a smile as Ryoma puts a neat slice inches beyond his reach, and for once he doesn't bother to suppress it.
Ryoma feels as though he never wants this game to end. For every shot he hits, buchou is there across the net to counter him, deadly and perfect and everything he has ever wanted from tennis. Points and games and sets go by as if in a dream; the world is reduced to the impact of ball on gut and the ache in his muscles and the look in Tezuka-buchou's eyes over the net as neither one of them gives an inch. It's glorious and exhausting and the final tie-break would be disappointing if Ryoma could look away long enough to think.
Twelve points stretches to twenty and thirty and by the time Ryoma's final smash raises chalk dust from the service line he's trembling with the tension of it. He stumbles to meet Tezuka-buchou at the net, the sound of his breath drowning the words that crowd unspoken under his tongue. Tezuka is breathing just as hard, the rise and fall of his chest rhythmic and pronounced as he looks down across the suddenly-narrow gap between them. Ryoma stares up at him, all thoughts of handshakes or thanks lost in the warm brown of Tezuka's eyes, and then he's doubly breathless as Tezuka's hand reaches out over the net. A fleeting, gentle touch to the side of his head that seems as inevitable as the winter's snow and Ryoma leans into it, swaying forward and up without thought as Tezuka leans down to kiss him.
Their mouths are clumsy and unsure, sliding together soft-wet-hot, but there is no uncertainty in Ryoma at all as he wraps his arms around buchou's shoulders and presses into the kiss. Their tongues tangle, lips parted breathy and impatient and everything he has ever wanted in that instant, and all Ryoma can think is that buchou is so very warm against him. The sudden uncomfortable pressure of the net cord against his stomach as he tries to move forward is an unwelcome distraction; Ryoma surfaces blurrily from the kiss, staring into Tezuka's eyes, wide and dark behind the so-close sheen of his glasses as they breathe together.
"We should leave," Tezuka-buchou says after a long moment, and though his voice is matter-of-fact the tone of it is soft and new. "The next players will arrive soon."
"Aa." Ryoma knows he's right, but it takes effort to step back; his hand lingers on Tezuka's neck, fingers falling away regretfully in a slow caress. The way Tezuka shivers makes desire uncoil in the pit of his stomach; Ryoma turns away deliberately and picks up his racquet before heading to the locker room.
The water in the showers is hot enough to soothe the ache from tired muscles. Tezuka takes the first turn, and doesn't look surprised when Ryoma slides into the cubicle to wrap slippery-wet arms around his shoulders and pull him down for a kiss. Without his glasses his eyes are unguarded and hazy; Ryoma smirks up at him, fingers tracing the contours of muscle and bone as he arches into Tezuka's possessive hands on his back. The world spirals down to water and tile and slippery bodies sliding against each other, lips and tongues and teeth and slick, certain hands building a perfection that surpasses anything he has felt on court. Ryoma gasps "Buchou" into the brief, warm spaces between them, and gives himself up to the heady, dizzying wonder of Tezuka's skin and hands and mouth.
Kunimitsu can still feel the tingling heat of Ryoma on his skin as they walk down the street in search of food in the early evening, the reddening sun showing ragged through the patchy cloud on the horizon. There's a new and aching kind of wonder in this that keeps his eyes constantly drawn back to Ryoma, walking by his side with his hair rough-towelled and still glinting with droplets. He should be suspicious of this silence between them, Kunimitsu thinks, but instead it is comfortable and familiar; there are no words he needs to say.
"Look, buchou." Ryoma takes his hand, interlacing their fingers as he points to a ramen stand on the corner past the bus stop. Kunimitsu looks down into his eyes, wide and golden and utterly certain as they smile up at him, and doesn't let go.