Buchou is warm. Ryoma splays a hand across his shoulder, admiring the contrast of his tanned skin against Tezuka's pale-gold. Tezuka's fingers comb slowly through his hair, rubbing against his head in a way that makes Ryoma want to purr like a sunlit cat. The silence is utterly comfortable; somewhere outside falling snow hisses against the roof, the sound just audible over the soft exhalation of Tezuka's breath against his ear. It tickles, all the way down to Ryoma's toes.
Ryoma draws his hand across Tezuka's chest, watching the shivers that follow his fingertips. Tezuka's skin is smooth and startlingly soft over breathtakingly graceful planes of muscle. On a whim, Ryoma leans down and licks a slow, thoughtful path along one elegant collarbone, dipping his tongue into the hollow of Tezuka's throat to feel him shiver and gasp. He tastes of snow and salt and everything that is addictive, and his fingers curl around the shell of Ryoma's ear before sliding down his jawline and pulling him closer.
Ryoma smiles and shifts lazily, tangling their legs comfortably as he looks into Tezuka's blurry eyes. The kiss is breathy, slow, their mouths moving together languidly, tasting. It's arousing in a breathless way that has nothing to do with the desperate heat of earlier; Ryoma curls one hand comfortably into the hollow of Tezuka's shoulder, smiling into the kiss as fingertips trace his cheekbones, eyelids, throat.
"Mitsu-kun," he murmurs between their lips, and feels Tezuka's soft laughter vibrating beneath both their skins as though it could meld them into one. When he pulls back, reluctantly, torn between touch and appreciation and everything that this quiet space has become, Tezuka's smile is serenity and acknowledgement and all his. There is nothing at all outside of this moment, timeless as it stretches into the future.
There are no words needed here, Ryoma realises as he slides his fingers down his Mitsu-kun's chest, following them with lips and tongue. Tezuka gasps and shifts as he detours to a nipple, then subsides with a wordless sigh as Ryoma pillows his head on his stomach, looking up into his face. He often wonders what buchou sees, without his glasses � is he blurry, or just plain invisible? Just in case, Ryoma presses a kiss and a smile into his skin, a silent message for hazy eyes.
"Ryoma," Tezuka-buchou all but whispers, voice throaty and vibrating beneath his cheek. Ryoma smiles for him, turning his face into Tezuka's skin and mouthing the only words that come to mind � six-four, and five-seven, and six-all. Deuce; their last game. He knows Tezuka understands; his hand settles gentle onto Ryoma's head again, fingers twining with fine tousled hair. Ryoma hums in agreement, tasting the skin below his buchou's navel and letting his fingers wander. He turns to look back up as his hand slips under the waistband of Tezuka's shorts, watching the way he gasps, eyes widening as Ryoma wraps fingers around him, stroking softly.
Tezuka breathes deeply, hands curling around Ryoma's shoulders and tugging. Ryoma lets himself be pulled up into another kiss, tongues twining as he sprawls bonelessly across Tezuka, fingers still slowly moving. Content in the moment, he lets his eyes slide shut again, feeling Tezuka's breath vibrating along his skin. Buchou is so very warm.