Tezuka stares at the roll of film. It's much easier than he thought to keep his face expressionless.
"Fuji," he says. "Where are the other pictures."
He knows that the smirk he is wearing in the photos Fuji has calmly presented him is from just having won the national championship. He knows that at no time did he seriously entertain Atobe's proposal to return to the hotel "to commemorate our glorious competition." He knows that whatever pictures Fuji has taken of what followed, he hasn't thought about that in months - not the way Atobe's mouth tasted of sweat and resignation, of too much longing suppressed for far too long, or the way his hands tightened in Tezuka's jersey as he pressed him back against the wall.
He knows it was just a kiss.
He also knows Ryoma can never see the rest of this roll of film.
He dares to look up at Fuji, whose face is just as calm as his.
"You and Echizen are so happy together," he says. "I wonder if he suspects the truth."
Tezuka's grip tightens against the edge of the photo in his hand.
"Just tell me what you want," he says.
_______
"You're even more like a monkey this way," he'd muttered against Atobe's mouth, sliding his hand up and over Atobe's razor clean head.
Ryoma stares down in horror. Buchou can't know about this, he thinks.
"Fuji-senpai," he mutters. "There are more of these, right?"
Fuji beams.