Ryoma sometimes suspects Tezuka makes him romantic. He wants to tell Tezuka things. He wants to tell him not to be afraid, that he can touch Ryoma every once in a while, or look at him when he talks; that he doesn't have to tense whenever Ryoma stands too close, or say "Echizen" as roughly as he can to hide the fact that his voice softens naturally when he says Ryoma's name. He wants to tell Tezuka that just because they're in love now--and Ryoma knows they're in love--doesn't mean they haven't always done this, gravitated towards each other irrestibly, Ryoma mesmerized by the strength and the power and the grace in Tezuka, Tezuka drawn to whatever it is he sees in Ryoma.
Ryoma isn't sure what it is that Tezuka sees, but he knows Tezuka sees something. His eyes are full of it, the thing he sees, and Ryoma knows that if Tezuka ever touched him, really touched him, his hands would be, too.
Tezuka hasn't touched him yet. They haven't spoken of it. Their games, their talks, their lingering silences, are prelude to the moment when. It will be a moment when their hands brush accidentally, or linger at the net too long to pretend they are still at the level of handshakes; a moment when Ryoma's breath catches in spite of himself and Tezuka can't quite bring himself to look away; the moment that launches Tezuka out of denial and Ryoma into his arms. And Ryoma already knows how that will be.
Ryoma knows what kissing Tezuka will feel like, the way he knows the feel of a ball against his racket before it hits: challenge, purpose, and victory; and stars in the moment of impact.