PoT Fic: Rising [R; Tezuka/Ryoma]
Title: Rising
Author: Ria
Disclaimer: Not mine - all Konomi's.
Rating: Hard R
Pairing: Tezuka/Ryoma
Warning: sex
Words: ~7,700
Summary: Tezuka has always thought he knows how the routine goes. But it turns out that Ryoma can still surprise him.
Author's Notes: Written for pillarchallenge's Plane challenge. Much thanks to cimorene111 for beta-ing this. <3 I hope you enjoy reading.
Rising
America is nothing like home, but airports are all the same. Tezuka is greeted by people rushing frantically for their flights, announcements being boomed in various languages, and trailing queues when he steps into the terminal. The airport is hotter than it is outside; sweat immediately begins to bead at his temples and hairline. He grimaces, grips his hand luggage tighter, and follows the other passengers flowing around him as they hurry towards passport control.
Tezuka has never understood why people hurry at airport arrivals - even once passport control is cleared, baggage is never brought in on time. Tezuka has taken to listening to his iPod while he waits instead of having to contend with the repeated whining of "But why aren't the bags here yet?" from cranky children.
He knows that he doesn't have to put up with this. His sponsors and manager have repeatedly told him that there have been offers of private aircraft from admirers and people who appreciate his status as Japan's highest ranking tennis player, but Tezuka has always declined them, especially Atobe's offers of better travel and living arrangements.
The baggage eventually begins to roll around and Tezuka's bag comes soon enough. When he leaves the arrivals area, he has to stop for a moment, resisting the urge to grimace, when he sees a chauffeur holding up a sign with his name written in both English and Japanese. Apparently, this is something that Atobe gained control of before anyone could inform Tezuka.
Still, it's impolite to turn it down in public. But when Tezuka reaches the hotel and checks in, he writes a strongly worded email to Atobe, clicking the 'send' button harder than he should.
It's a strange system that he and Atobe have worked out, and not one that Tezuka expected he would have when they turned professional, but Atobe persists. He knows that Tezuka accepts it on a basis of friendship, nothing more, and indeed Atobe doesn't seem to expect anything to happen between them anytime soon, if ever. Tezuka protests and declines because he knows he should, and because his manager has privately told him that if he doesn't then rumours will begin to circulate.
Everyone, from Tezuka to Atobe's own father, put their foot down when Atobe suggested that he and Tezuka room together at hotels when participating in the same tournaments. Tezuka sometimes has to sit down and take a few minutes to simply boggle at the absurdity of it all; Atobe still considers Tezuka to be the same exception to everything he was in junior high, and Tezuka has no idea why.
He rings his mother to let her know that he arrived safely, and she wishes him luck. There is a dinner for the top players that night, something Tezuka hadn't expected to be included in (when asked, Atobe had snapped that, no, he had not pulled strings to get Tezuka included, and when would he realise that the title of Japan's top ranked player brought certain obligations and expectations with it), and he washes and dresses with care, knowing that he'll be scrutinised from all sides.
There's an email from Fuji when he goes online minutes before he has to leave, but Tezuka decides to read it when he comes back.
It's still strange being seated with players that he's watched on television through his youth and even stranger being included in conversation with them. Tezuka does the best he can, though he has no illusions about the social impression he's made. Still, he isn't participating in the U.S. Open to be nice - he's participating to win.
He hides away as soon as he is able, settling into a smaller, less crowded room. The players here seem to be friends as well as rivals, the room filled with low conversation and laughter. Tezuka sits in a chair in a corner and picks up one of the books lying around - it's not one he's particularly interested in, but if he brought one of his own and it got back to his manager, he'd be stiffly and politely scolded again. He's pondering standing up and asking an unfamiliar face (his first year at the U.S. Open judging by his awestruck expression) for the National Geographic back-issue at his elbow, when a voice says, "I thought you were told you couldn't read at these idiot things anymore."
Tezuka pauses for a moment, takes a breath, then closes the book and puts it away neatly. "I thought you weren't participating this year," he says, but there is a strange feeling in his chest, warm and then settling, as if something right has fixed itself back into place.
"My knee healed quicker than expected, so I was able to participate at the last minute," Ryoma replies, sitting down and stretching his long legs out before him. He's grown in the months since Tezuka has seen him; he'll be twenty-three this December.
"Good," Tezuka says, and they lapse into a comfortable silence. Ryoma's manager must have got her way this time; he's dressed in a neat pair of black trousers and a smart red shirt. It suits him, softening the angles of his face and limbs.
Ryoma takes a swallow of mineral water, the closest thing to a carbonated beverage that he can get at these gatherings, and catches Tezuka watching him out of the corner of his eye. He swallows, smiling when he realises Tezuka is gazing at the curve of his throat as he does so.
"You know," Ryoma remarks, "we should get drunk when the U.S. Open's finished this year. It'd be fun."
"It would be very short-lived," Tezuka counters, "since you and I have no alcohol tolerance."
"Ah," Ryoma says, his eyes crinkled at the corners, "but that's the fun bit."
They lapse into silence again and then Tezuka sighs, a shudder running down his spine as he feels Ryoma's fingertips brush over the back of his hand, feather-light and gentle. His eyes close, but he has to whisper, "People could be watching."
"Let them," Ryoma murmurs back. "My old man thinks we're the worst-kept secret in the tennis world." But he removes his fingers, regardless.
"That's your father," Tezuka says. "He doesn't think like other people do." He has to smile at the lopsided grin Ryoma flashes at him in response.
"Maybe some day I won't be ashamed to admit that I'm actually related to him," Ryoma remarks, draining the last of his water. He swallows, considering, and adds, "Of course, that'll probably be the same day that I won't cringe at the worship he still gets."
Tezuka chuckles lightly, and then looks up as their names are called. It's Kevin Smith, who bows and greets Tezuka politely, before turning and scowling at Ryoma.
"You could have told me Tezuka was here!" Kevin snaps, indignant, and huffs loudly as Ryoma rolls his eyes.
Tezuka thinks what Ryoma will not say in reply: Because meeting in rooms like these is what we always do before a tournament.
Kevin doesn't stay long, but before he leaves he informs Tezuka, his eyes glittering, that he will not lose to him in the qualifying rounds this year. Tezuka nods, accepting the challenge, but he's been paying attention to Smith throughout the year, and knows that there will not be much challenge in their match.
Ryoma snorts, and stands. "C'mon," he tells Tezuka over his shoulder. "If I stay any longer, I'm going to go insane."
Tezuka drains his glass and follows, weaving easily through the crowd to the entrance and slipping through; it's late enough that their escape goes unnoticed.
"Where's Atobe?" Ryoma asks, slipping his hands into his pockets and glancing at Tezuka. "I thought he'd be in the thick of an event like this." Standing, Ryoma is close enough to Tezuka in height that it's still sometimes distorting. What is worrying is the possibility of any remaining growth spurts, putting Ryoma on eye-level with Tezuka, but Ryoma always says that his grandfather isn't that tall.
Tezuka shakes his head. "Atobe's father informed him that there was a family engagement he could not miss, not even for the U.S. Open. Atobe wasn't happy, but there was little he could do to argue with him."
Ryoma snorts. "Atobe's going to have to choose between being a pro and being his father's heir soon enough, with the amount of family obligations coincidentally clashing with the big tournaments."
"Hmm," Tezuka replies, but he has to agree. He's had to listen to enough of Atobe's rants on the matter to know that Atobe will bow to his father's wishes eventually, since the thought of being without his family's blessing, social standing and financial backing terrifies him.
Ryoma raises an eyebrow. "You're just as bad," he informs Tezuka, "finishing university before turning pro."
Tezuka returns his gaze calmly. "It would have been foolish to turn down an offer from Tokyo University, of all places," he says mildly. "And I wanted the security of a university degree following my retirement. Tennis doesn't last forever." He knows his words fall on empty ears; they've been having this argument for years.
Ryoma snorts, rolling his eyes. "I only finished high school because mom was worrying over my future. I was hardly going to go onto university when there was tennis."
"Most teenagers would have given anything to be in your position," Tezuka says quietly.
"Most teenagers don't have a father who was convinced that the world was ending because his son got a university offer," Ryoma grumbles, but Tezuka doesn't believe him; Ryoma hasn't cared about what his father thinks of him in years.
It's cooler now that night has fallen, and Tezuka takes a deep breath before he follows Ryoma, who knows his way much better than Tezuka does. They pass several McDonald's, from which Tezuka drags Ryoma away despite his longing looks, and they end up in a popular noodle bar where they have ramen and Yakisoba. They drift onto other topics: Tezuka tells him about Japan and the old regulars; Ryoma tells him about Karupin and the people who want to get Tezuka's autograph through him, and politely looks away when Tezuka almost chokes on his water.
Ryoma insists that they go for one drink - only one, and he argues that they won't be playing for another day, anyway - and Tezuka reluctantly agrees. He dislikes American beer and drinks it quickly, but realises that's a mistake when it goes straight to his head. Ryoma laughs at him and abandons his own bottle; their corner is dark enough that no one notices when Ryoma presses his mouth to Tezuka's. Tezuka opens his mouth with a slow sigh and Ryoma slides his tongue in, deepening the kiss as he presses closer.
They stumble onto the underground, and Ryoma's hand is damp in his but Tezuka can only hold on tighter. His head begins to clear when they go back onto the street and he follows Ryoma willingly, resisting the urge to laugh as Ryoma pulls him along at a run. This will get back to their managers tomorrow, and they'll no doubt be given yet another lecture, but neither of them cares, and that's the important thing.
They kiss greedily in the elevator, Tezuka tangling his fingers in Ryoma's hair and moaning, and Ryoma nips his bottom lip insistently, his eyes lazy and molten. His hands move over Tezuka's chest and back, digging trails into his neat shirt, drifting down to grip his hips and pull him closer. Tezuka pants when they break apart when the elevator pings, hands still pressed against Ryoma's face as they gaze each other. The doors open, and Tezuka hurries down the corridor, Ryoma's wrist warm against his palm as he tugs him along.
He presses his palms against the inside of the door as he leans against it, the back of his head smacking against the wood as Ryoma presses himself flush against Tezuka and kisses him hard, pulling his shirt free and sliding his hands up his back. Tezuka hisses as Ryoma digs his nails in briefly and slowly drags them down.
Tezuka sucks in a breath when they break apart, gazing at Ryoma in the gloom. "I missed this," he says, and his heart hammers painfully at the lingering, solemn expression in Ryoma's eyes. He pulls him close, hands cupping Ryoma's face and kissing him again and again, until something close to a whimper bubbles at the back of Ryoma's throat and he starts unbuttoning Tezuka's shirt, swearing as his fingers fumble. Tezuka laughs before reaching to help him, shivering as their hands brush together.
Tezuka grunts as he falls back onto the bed; Ryoma grins as he straddles him. They're really going to have to come up with a better arrangement if not meeting for a few weeks is going to do this to them.
Tezuka lies back in the bed, gazing up at Ryoma. Tezuka squeezes his eyes shut as his vision blurs when Ryoma removes his glasses. He reaches a hand towards Ryoma's shoulder and their fingers intertwine when Ryoma reaches for his hand at the same time. Their breath breaks the heavy silence, Ryoma leaning down so close that Tezuka can see his eyes clearly.
He lets out a long sigh as Ryoma settles on top of him, warm and comfortably solid, and lets his fingers tangle in Ryoma's hair as they kiss again, soft and slow this time. Ryoma rises to straddle him, their fingers still curled together, and Tezuka lets out a strangled sound as Ryoma grinds their hips together.
"I missed you," Ryoma murmurs, and Tezuka's eyes flutter closed as Ryoma trails his fingertips across Tezuka's face, brushing his eyebrows, his nose, his cheekbones, his lips. Ryoma's hands move slowly further down, paying strict attention to Tezuka's collarbones, his chest, his ribs. Tezuka can't help automatically writhing when Ryoma drags his nails across the left side of his abdomen.
Tezuka groans when Ryoma moves farther down the bed, parting Tezuka's legs and pressing his lips to his inner thighs. The sounds he makes as Ryoma alternatively kisses and nips the skin are ones he'll be ashamed of later, but Tezuka doesn't care, couldn't have it in him to care, and oh god.
Ryoma moves his mouth slowly, and Tezuka has to bite his lip to stop from shouting at the top of his lungs - the consequences of which would be a press conference he would definitely not want to attend. He digs his fingers into the duvet as hard as he can instead, breathing in through gritted teeth as he tries not to yank at Ryoma's hair and push deeper into his mouth.
Ryoma has always enjoyed this far too much, has always known exactly what to do to make Tezuka lose what little self-inhibition he still possesses, and he works even faster tonight. Tezuka lets out a long moan when he comes, arching off the bed. His heart hammers as he brushes damp hair from his eyes; his body feels heavy and sated.
Ryoma presses close to his side, sliding their legs together as he smirks. "You definitely missed me now," he drawls, and the expression in his eyes is wicked.
"Be quiet," Tezuka says, and abruptly rolls them over so he's staring down at Ryoma. Their eyes meet for a moment before Ryoma smiles, and then Tezuka is kissing him hard.
# # #
"You could have told me he was entering," Tezuka says, again, and scowls at the window which is currently in his field of vision.
"I did," Fuji points out in a reasonable voice. "It's not my fault that you decided not to read my email before you left. Besides, it's not as if you decided not to have sex with Echizen just because you didn't know beforehand that he was going to show up."
"Fuji," Tezuka snaps into the phone, pinching the bridge of his nose. After over ten years of friendship, he should probably be able to deal with Fuji's disturbingly direct way of addressing sex, but then, Fuji is always full of surprises.
"How is the tournament shaping up?" Fuji asks, and Tezuka grimaces as the signal crackles and weakens for a few seconds.
"Mostly the same as the last few years," Tezuka says. "The usual new ones on their first circuit; there are rumours of a possible dark horse from the United Kingdom."
"Oooh," Fuji says, and Tezuka can almost imagine his expression. There is a note of genuine interest in Fuji's voice; he and Tezuka have maintained regular contact since the end of high school, and Fuji has told him that he plans on attending next year's Wimbledon to cheer them on. When Tezuka told Ryoma, Ryoma's eyes had widened, and he had groaned before pulling a pillow over his head.
"Will you be returning to Japan after the U.S. Open?" Fuji asks. "I could probably organise a get-together."
"That would be nice," Tezuka says, and he means it. "I'll be returning to see my family, anyway." He hadn't planned it, but his mother has been ill recently, and it's an uneasy reminder that his parents are growing older even as Tezuka has begun facing adulthood.
"You should convince Echizen to come back with you," Fuji remarks, his tone casual. "His father has complained that he receives so little news from him."
This isn't a surprise to Tezuka at all, since he's often been a witness to Ryoma and Nanjiroh's version of a parent-sibling relationship, but he thinks that it would be good for Ryoma to visit Japan again, after so long. "I'll mention it to him," he says.
"Good," Fuji says, and sounds far too pleased with himself.
"Fuji," Tezuka sighs, and presses his lips together as Fuji laughs and tells him that he worries too much. They say goodbye and finish the call soon after, much to Tezuka's relief as he puts the receiver back.
# # #
Both Tezuka and Ryoma go through the qualifying stages easily, and as their round matches go on, they quickly become favourites; people recognise them from their previous years, and any newcomers are quickly informed of their rivalry. It's become the strongest wish of many to finally see the two of them in the final.
Tezuka has forgotten how exhilarating it is to play in a tournament with the knowledge that Ryoma is waiting for him. He plays with no mercy, exterminating his opponents with brutal efficiency. This includes Smith, who laughs afterwards, winks and tells him to kick Ryoma's ass for him.
Even though tennis makes him ride a pure adrenaline rush during the day, it's nothing compared to Ryoma cornering him at night and the two of them stumbling into whichever room is closest. Tezuka has forgotten his smell, the way Ryoma's eyes gleam as he tilts his head and peers at Tezuka, his mouth widening in a familiar smirk.
"I want you," Ryoma says as he straddles him, fingers caressing Tezuka's chest in light circles, and Tezuka can only let his head fall back, moaning as Ryoma presses kisses to his throat and collarbone. Surrendering to Ryoma is as good as making him keen, his legs wrapping around Tezuka's waist as he begs.
Tezuka suspects (and not just because Fuji has told him many times) that they're the only two who could build a relationship like this without any promises or expectations. Many wouldn't even call meeting every few weeks and then falling into bed on a nightly basis a relationship, but it works for them right now. Their lives currently revolve around tournament after tournament, practising, and keeping their current sponsorship deal while keeping an eye out for another one. They hardly get to see their families, never mind a significant other. Along with acknowledging a growing fanbase (well, Tezuka does, at least; Ryoma's fans are lucky if they get a sentence of more than five words from him, but they don't seem bothered by this at all) and having their every move, on and off the court, tracked, any proper relationship would be doomed before it started.
Still, it's not like he complains about this… thing that they have because semi-regular sex is never anything to complain about.
He's returning to his hotel room after morning practise when he finally realises that someone is calling his name, and probably has been for quite some time. He turns to find a red-haired woman running towards him, waving energetically.
"Kunimitsu!" she says when she finally reaches him, breathing heavily. "Honestly, have you gone deaf?"
"Essenheimer," he replies automatically, blinking.
She huffs and waves a finger at him disapprovingly. "If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times: it's Hannah. It's been years since I've been one of your authority figures."
Tezuka bites his tongue to stop himself saying that she was never really one of his authority figures anyway. "How have you been?" he asks instead.
Hannah puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head, laughing. "Glad to see you haven't changed," she says, smiling. "I'm fine, ripping through my opponents as expected. You?"
"Good," Tezuka replies, and she rolls her eyes.
"I was sure adulthood would make you say more than a word every hour," she sighs, hooking an arm around his shoulders and ignoring how he tries to politely unhook himself from her grip. "Want to go for a beer?"
"Hannah!" Tezuka says, mostly because he decides that if he calls her by her first name then she'll finally stop lecturing him about it, and because he has to impress upon her that they both have matches tomorrow and drinking the evening before them is a really bad idea.
She laughs, her eyes glittering. "Relax, I was just joking. Even I take things more seriously than that." And for her, Tezuka thinks, that's saying a great deal. "So," she says after a pause, "where's - well, speak of the devil."
Tezuka follows her gaze to see Ryoma walking towards them. He grins at Tezuka until he spots Hannah beside him, and then his mouth twists into a scowl. "Oh, it's you," he says, stopping before them. "The drunk."
"Oi, brat!" Hannah snaps, releasing Tezuka as her eyes narrow. "Respect your elders!" Tezuka looks from one to the other and sighs; Hannah has no right to call Ryoma a brat any more than she has the right to consider herself his elder, but then, Hannah has never taken any notice of what he thinks.
If it wasn't for the fact that they weren't near any practise courts, Tezuka thinks the two of them might challenge each other to a match. As it is, they reach the hotel a few minutes later and Tezuka leaps for the chance to say goodbye to her, dragging Ryoma away and lecturing him all the while.
"I said nothing that wasn't true!" Ryoma protests, scowling.
Tezuka sighs, giving him a look. "I thought I'd managed to teach you tact," he mutters.
"Dream on," Ryoma replies bluntly.
Ryoma's mobile phones rings and they both jump; Ryoma stares at the flashing screen, his forehead furrowing, and doesn't immediately answer.
"Who is it?" Tezuka asks, but his stomach is already sinking. When Ryoma takes this long to answer the phone, the caller is usually someone whom neither of them enjoys talking to.
"My old man," Ryoma mutters, looking furious, and Tezuka has to close his eyes in resignation. Whenever Nanjiroh deigns to personally call Ryoma, disaster always seems to somehow follow from Japan. He kisses Ryoma lightly on the lips, smiles, and bolts for it; he has no intention of sticking around for the argument that is sure to occur.
# # #
Ryoma lets out a strangled cry and clenches his teeth together. "Fuck," he hisses, shifting his hips, and tugs Tezuka's mouth down into a kiss.
Tezuka eases back, moving as carefully as he can, trying to mumble, "We should slo -" into the kiss; Ryoma hooks a leg around his waist and groans.
"Don't be careful," Ryoma snarls, pushing against him and squeezing; Tezuka moans, nipping Ryoma's throat. He moves faster, yelping as Ryoma's fingers dig into his shoulders and then scratch down his back.
"Ryoma," he begins, but Ryoma is kissing him again, tongue sliding against his. Tezuka's thighs are trembling and straining, his hands sliding against the sweat clinging to Ryoma's ribs, muffling his cries against Ryoma's neck. Ryoma lets out a long moan, dragging his nails up Tezuka's spine. Tezuka chokes, orgasm overtaking him. His thighs jerk, and he can only thrust erratically; Ryoma crying out, "Oh, crapcrapah!" as he comes.
They lie tangled together on the bed, sweat cooling as their breath rises against the silence. Ryoma settles his head against Tezuka's chest and sighs. He murmurs as Tezuka presses his lips against his hair, his fingers slowly circling on Ryoma's hip.
"They're saying we'll definitely be in the final together," Ryoma remarks after a while. "It'll be one of the greatest matches in recent history."
Tezuka can't help but snort. "They know nothing," he says, and Ryoma makes a sleepy noise in agreement. "Still…"
"The U.S. Open needs some excitement," Ryoma says. "But not as much as Wimbledon," he adds, moving so his face is beside Tezuka's and his scowl is clearly visible in the moonlight. He's never hidden how much he dislikes the strict tradition of the tournament, and has told Tezuka repeatedly that he only attends since winning it is required for a Grand Slam title.
"What? Are you going to kiss me at the end of our match?" Tezuka asks, humouring him even though part of him knows that Ryoma would actually do it if he got it into his head.
"No," Ryoma decides after a moment of contemplation, shaking his head. "Too many people expect us to do that. Besides, I think Fuji and my old man weren't kidding when they said we're one of the worst-kept secrets in the tennis world."
Tezuka rolls his eyes. "Nothing you do is ever predictable," he points out, but he also knows that Ryoma hates being second-guessed as well.
"That's not the point," Ryoma says sullenly. It's moments like these when Tezuka remembers the arrogant twelve-year-old who eventually turned into the impulsive, but more mature twenty-year-old he met professionally and fell for. Ryoma's been a part of Tezuka's life for so long that Tezuka is often hard-pressed to remember the years before Ryoma's arrival at Seigaku.
They lapse into silence and Tezuka is almost asleep when he murmurs, "I'm returning to Japan after the tournament. The others would like to see you. And I'm sure your family misses you, especially Karupin."
There is no response for so long that Tezuka begins to believe that Ryoma has fallen asleep, but Ryoma finally mutters, "Well, I do miss Karupin… and mom's cooking." Any mention of Nanjiroh is carefully avoided, and Tezuka knows better than to press.
Ryoma's voice is so low that Tezuka almost misses what he says next, except for a certain word which he hears as clear as a bell. He sits bolt upright, turning on the light and staring at Ryoma.
"Retirement?" he repeats in bewilderment. "You're planning on retiring?"
Ryoma shrugs, but can't hold Tezuka's gaze for long. "Well," he says, "I've been thinking about it. This is the year we've been waiting for: the year we're both at the top of our game, and no one else is good enough. And after playing you in the finals of the big tournaments this year… and, okay, not winning all of them," he adds like an afterthought, making Tezuka raise an eyebrow and snort. "What I mean is… I don't think there's anything else I want to do, except for play you. What else is there?"
"Tennis," Tezuka says quietly. His fingers itch to touch Ryoma, to trail his fingers through the dark hair spread on the pillow, but he resists. "The two of us aren't the sum of all tennis, no matter how much it may seem like it," he adds.
Ryoma shrugs again. "I haven't made a decision yet," he points out. "And you'll be the first person to know when I do."
They gradually fall asleep after that, and Tezuka's dreams are scattered, fragmented and troubled. He wakes up feeling like he hasn't slept at all; when he pats the other side of the bed, it's cold. Ryoma has already showered and left to practise.
# # #
"Atobe," Tezuka says, barely managing not to sigh. Atobe is the only one who will ring him when he's abroad and stay on the line. He's done it often enough that Tezuka considers hanging up on him immediately, like he used to do with Inui. The only thing that stops him from doing this is that Atobe would take it as a personal slight, and would try communicating with Tezuka through any means necessary.
"Tezuka, what is this that I've been hearing about the brat's upcoming retirement?" Atobe demands, his tone biting and his signal distressingly clear.
Tezuka sighs as he massages the bridge of his nose. "Atobe," he repeats, not even bothering to wonder how Atobe managed to find out so soon - there are no such things as secrets in any field of professional sports. "It's not certain yet."
"That's not the point!" Atobe snaps, his voice rising. "How can the brat even be thinking of retiring before I've beaten him?"
Tezuka seriously considers balancing the mobile between his ear and shoulder so he can take off his glasses and start polishing them, a habit he's recently noticed he indulges in when nervous or exasperated. He doesn't tell Atobe that this is why there has never been any love lost between Atobe and Ryoma, and he also doesn't tell him that Ryoma hasn't considered Atobe a serious opponent in years, not since Ryoma beat him in junior high.
They speak for a few more minutes - or, rather, Atobe rants and Tezuka listens in silence - before Tezuka tactfully mentions that he has to practise for the final tomorrow. Atobe wishes him luck (and to smash Ryoma into the ground) and tells him that they have to meet up when Tezuka returns to Japan. Tezuka stares at his phone and wonders if Ryoma would take him seriously if he mentioned the two of them moving in together and staying in America permanently.
He then wonders why he has always been reluctant to broach the subject of the two of them moving in together at all.
# # #
The times when Tezuka and Ryoma have faced each other across the net have always resulted in extraordinarily memorable matches. Even when Ryoma stayed in America after winning his first U.S. Open while Tezuka went on to high school in Japan, this intensity had never faded between them. When Tezuka had finally joined Ryoma on the professional circuit, their matches, both personal and public, became more frequent, along with their precarious and unconventional romance.
But this is the year that they have both been waiting for: a year where both have had losses only to each other and injuries have not plagued them for any of the major tournaments. Tension between their fans has been growing since Wimbledon, when Tezuka managed to swipe the title from under Ryoma's nose at the very last moment.
This match, however, is different. This match will decide if Tezuka will manage a Small Slam (Ryoma having won the French Open earlier in the year), or if they will both end up with even wins. While Tezuka's supporters (and, more importantly, his sponsor) remind him that a Small Slam this early in his career will do wonders, Tezuka doesn't particularly care; all he wants is to face Ryoma across the net.
But even Tezuka didn't realise that the match would be quite this difficult. At the of the second set, 7-5 to Ryoma, they are both level, and Tezuka's legs tremble when he lowers himself onto a bench, a towel draped over his head as his coach hands him a water bottle.
She says that sympathy is with him, Ryoma already having won several Grand Slams in his career. She rolls her eyes at Tezuka's stony silence, waving a hand and saying, yes, yes, she knows that the media and the fans don't know Tezuka's history with Ryoma and, yes, she knows how important this match is to him, and could he please lighten up where Ryoma is considered, really. Then she pats his shoulder, beaming, and tells him to go out there and win.
He swallows a few sips of water before rising to his feet again, taking a deep breath as he grips his racquet tightly and walks back onto the court. Ryoma is already waiting, his cap abandoned on the bench; Tezuka suspects it was becoming more of a hindrance than a help with the amount of dashing back and forth they've been doing, and the amount of sweat clinging in his hair and dripping down Ryoma's brow. Ryoma adjusts the sweatband he's put on instead, and smirks at him.
"Mada mada dane," he says loudly, a phrase that most of the tennis world has learned off by heart; Tezuka has always been bemused by the brief upsurge of interest in the Japanese language following Ryoma's first year on the circuit.
"Yudan sezu ni ikou," Tezuka replies, and a wave of laughter and a few cheers ripple through the audience. Ryoma smirks one last time, and then walks back to the base line to serve.
What follows next can only be described as the game of Tezuka's life. Ryoma pulls out everything he has, and more, and Tezuka follows suit, breaking through Ryoma's signature moves and tricks as steadily and calmly as the breakneck pace will allow him. He grits his teeth and hisses, sweat dribbling down his face and neck and making his racquet grip slippery, as Ryoma finally manages to break through the advanced form of the Tezuka Zone that he's perfected over the years, and the crowd begins to roar.
The screams and cries fade to an irritating buzzing at the back of his mind when Tezuka squeezes the ball before flinging it up to serve. He manages to get four no-touch-ace serves past Ryoma and the screams rise in pitch; he shakes his head but Ryoma scowls at the noise before flashing a wry grin at Tezuka. Will the crowd never figure out that silence really is more conducive to a good game?
But what happens following that - later Tezuka will only be able to describe it as Ryoma lashing out, akin to a trapped, struggling animal - except that trapped animals rarely have Ryoma's shining eyes or his wide grin as he leaps into the air, his racquet arching for the ball.
The end of the match Tezuka will only remember as a fast-paced blur. Towards the end exhaustion begins to get the better of him, not helped by the effects of a stifling August kicking in. The crowd is starting to wilt and Ryoma is also beginning to appear irritated. When the umpire calls the score and Tezuka realises that they've reached match-point, the taste of impending victory explodes in his mouth. His body moves before his mind can catch up, dashing to the net when Ryoma lobs a chance ball into the air.
Ryoma's eyes widen as he lunges towards the net to counter, but Tezuka makes one last bolt, reaching for some deep-seated burst of energy. He skids, his legs beginning to give out, as the zero-shiki glides gracefully over the net; Ryoma digs in his heels to avoid ploughing straight into the net as the ball rolls gently backwards. He smiles ruefully as it slowly stops.
Tezuka falls to the ground, racquet clattering beside him as he leans upon his arms for support. He's drenched in sweat, and his body aches, and in some ways it's not so different from when he's in bed with Ryoma, except the crowd is on its feet, shrieking and screaming. Tezuka looks around, slightly bewildered, until he realises that he's actually managed the Small Slam, at last, in his third year on the circuit.
Then the sound of laughter reaches his ears and he turns his head to find Ryoma leaning over the net, his hand extended and his eyes warm as he smiles.
"That was some match," he says, still smiling, and then quietly adds, "buchou."
Tezuka's stomach drops when he clasps Ryoma's hand and it's suddenly even more difficult to breathe. Ryoma hauls him back onto his feet, gripping his hand for longer than is necessary. Tezuka fears for a moment that he's actually contemplating kissing him, but then Ryoma lets go, his eyes wicked and dancing. He murmurs, "I guess I'll just have to wait until tonight to kiss you."
Tezuka shivers again, but raises an eyebrow as he asks, "And what about going out and getting completely drunk?"
"Nah," Ryoma says, balancing his racquet against his shoulder, "we'll do that tomorrow night. No use having fuck-your-brains-out sex when we won't be able to remember it tomorrow."
Tezuka's breath momentarily catches in his throat as all the blood drains from his head, but their coaches are running towards them before he can respond, and his manager is babbling at him, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she tells him what a press conference this is going to be and -
The press conference isn't so bad since he gets to sit down, and he's showered so he doesn't quite feel like hell. He can even tolerate all the media, and the cameras and the flash of the photographers as they ask him questions which his manager mostly answers. The media know by now not to expect many actual answers from him, or from Ryoma, who is sitting beside him and not even bothering to hide his boredom. Still, it's become an in-joke among journalists that Tezuka, at least, will answer more than Ryoma, whom they've all given up on.
However, Tezuka soon notices that there are more Japanese journalists here than normal, though their numbers have obviously increased due to Ryoma's Japanese heritage and following Tezuka's growing success. But there's definitely more here than usual, and then Tezuka's eyes widen when he spots Atobe, who most definitely should not be here, waving at him from the side.
"What is Atobe doing here?" he hisses at Ryoma, low enough that the microphone doesn't pick up, even though he realises that it was a stupid question the moment the words leave his mouth, since Ryoma will hardly know any more than Tezuka why Atobe isn't back in Japan. Instead, Ryoma raises an eyebrow and motions for Tezuka to be quiet, leaning forward.
Atobe raises a hand, smirking, and Ryoma nods at him. Tezuka can only marvel at the effort they must be making at being this civil, before his mind collapses in sheer horror when he realises that Fuji is sitting beside him as one of the photographers.
He can only think, oh, hell, before Atobe clears his throat and starts speaking - Ryoma rolls his eyes slightly as silence falls; Atobe has never lost his touch.
"There have been rumours of your upcoming retirement," Atobe announces, and Tezuka can only cringe at the explosions of whispers and shocked cries that breeze through the assembled media. "Do you care to elaborate on said rumours, or make a few remarks to alleviate many worried minds?"
Ryoma waits for the noise to die down before speaking. "I had been considering a retirement," he admits, pressing his lips together as he waits for the next explosion to fade, "but, instead, I have something much different to announce."
Tezuka doesn't even bother to hide his confusion, but his eyes widen when Ryoma winks at him briefly before turning his gaze back to the audience. He remembers their conversation about how the U.S. Open needed some excitement, and his stomach begins to churn, dread rising in his throat.
"I know that many mothers have been secretly wishing for their own daughter to be the one to catch my eye," Ryoma begins, and doesn't even scowl when the expected ripple of laughter blossoms and dies. He must have been coached in this speech, Tezuka thinks, and his eyes narrow when his gaze falls on Fuji; his dread increases when Fuji beams at him.
"But I'm afraid that this is never going to happen," Ryoma goes on, "because I have already been taken for quite some time." Tezuka thinks his face must have turned abruptly white, judging from the worried expression on his manager's face, except that her own face is just as pale, and Ryoma's manager doesn't look too well either.
No, no, no, Tezuka can only think. Don't do this, you'll ruin both our careers, everything we've worked for, this is not the time or the place -
Speculative gazes begin to flicker towards them; Tezuka's expression (along with the fact that he feels like he's going to faint and collapse from his chair) must be answering all of their unspoken questions.
"For the last three years," Ryoma says in a clear and confident voice, his fingers curling around Tezuka's under the table, "I have been in a relationship with Tezuka Kunimitsu."
Tezuka has exactly one second to take in Atobe's smirk, Fuji's smile, and the clammy feel of his manager grabbing his other hand in mute horror and sheer disbelief. Then the press conference practically explodes and destroys itself as the journalists completely lose their heads and sense.
He doesn't remember much of the remainder of the conference, either, but that's more because he deliberately blocks it from his memory than from exhaustion overtaking him. He does know that his and Ryoma's managers practically jumped in to salvage what they could, and the next thing he knows is that he's back in the changing rooms with Ryoma, staring at their mobile phones, which have been ringing incessantly since the conference ended.
"I think that's our families calling," Ryoma remarks, glancing at the screen. "Oh, it's mom. Or, wait," he says, frowning, "it could be the old man calling from her phone to trick me." His frown deepens, and he lets it ring out.
Tezuka is staring blankly at his own phone; this is his father's fourth time calling him, and his fourth time getting no answer. They're going to kill him. As if it's this thought that jerks him out of shock, he turns to Ryoma and finally explodes, "What were you thinking?"
Ryoma unashamedly gawks at him, most likely due to the fact of actually hearing Tezuka shout. "What?" he asks. "I thought you wanted to go public."
Tezuka indulges in a moment of hysterically wondering what exactly Atobe and Fuji have been telling him, before sputtering, "Not like this. You could have just ruined both of our careers!"
"Nah," Ryoma says, shaking his head. "Not really. We've both caused a huge upsurge of interest in tennis as a sport; they aren't going to kick us out just for being gay."
Tezuka's never thought Ryoma especially naïve, especially not in matters directly relating to tennis, but Ryoma's expression is calm and sincere. "Trust me," he says. "The tennis world has changed a lot since we were kids, you know."
Not likely, Tezuka thinks helplessly, but the damage has been done. He only hopes that their managers can salvage enough from this mess that they can still continue with their careers.
On the other hand, part of him - the silly romantic part that he tries to ignore but which has a horrible tendency to pop up whenever Ryoma is around - feels quite touched by Ryoma's gesture. The Ryoma he knew years ago wouldn't for a moment have considered telling an international press conference about his feelings, and even though Tezuka still isn't sure about Ryoma's motivations for doing it now, he can't help but let out a choked laugh and tug Ryoma close to him. Their lips meet in a slow kiss, and Ryoma smiles against his mouth, settling comfortably into Tezuka's lap.
"See," he says when they break apart, "this definitely makes it all worth it."
Tezuka kisses him once more before telling him, "You're a complete and utter idiot," except now he's laughing, even if there's a touch of hysteria in it, and hugging Ryoma hard.
"Hey," Ryoma remarks after a moment, "are you still going to go home? It's probably not the best thing to do after this, but I really want to see Karupin." He pauses, and then adds in a casual voice, "And I think you've been ranked as Japan's number one player for far too long."
Tezuka blinks, the meaning of Ryoma's words finally registering, and he stares at him with his mouth hanging open. Then they both groan as footsteps approach and they hear Atobe and Fuji calling.
"Do we have to deal with them now?" Ryoma asks, his tone dangerously plaintive. "They're going to give me a headache."
Tezuka sighs, but he doesn't even bother to pretend that he wants to deal with them, either, even though he suspects that Ryoma just doesn't want to own up to any conspiracy with them involving his announcement. He stands up, gripping Ryoma's hand, and says, "We're not running away."
"Definitely not," Ryoma agrees, grinning, and then they're dashing through a side door of the changing room, across the grounds and weaving through the lingering crowds as fast as they can to avoid recognition.
They burst onto the streets and keep going, Ryoma flagging down the first empty taxi he sees. They stumble into it, laughing, and the driver stares at them with open curiosity, but obediently drives when Ryoma orders him to.
"Where are we going?" Tezuka asks, leaning back against the seat, inwardly smiling at the feeling of Ryoma's fingers interlaced with his, familiar and warm.
"Anywhere," Ryoma says, grinning. "It doesn't matter." His stomach growls and they both pause. "I guess I am kind of hungry," he admits, and pauses to consider. "How about we go for sushi for old times' sake?"
Tezuka smiles slightly. "That would be fitting," he agrees, and Ryoma leans forward to give the driver the address of his favourite Japanese restaurant.
END
Author: Ria
Disclaimer: Not mine - all Konomi's.
Rating: Hard R
Pairing: Tezuka/Ryoma
Warning: sex
Words: ~7,700
Summary: Tezuka has always thought he knows how the routine goes. But it turns out that Ryoma can still surprise him.
Author's Notes: Written for pillarchallenge's Plane challenge. Much thanks to cimorene111 for beta-ing this. <3 I hope you enjoy reading.
Rising
America is nothing like home, but airports are all the same. Tezuka is greeted by people rushing frantically for their flights, announcements being boomed in various languages, and trailing queues when he steps into the terminal. The airport is hotter than it is outside; sweat immediately begins to bead at his temples and hairline. He grimaces, grips his hand luggage tighter, and follows the other passengers flowing around him as they hurry towards passport control.
Tezuka has never understood why people hurry at airport arrivals - even once passport control is cleared, baggage is never brought in on time. Tezuka has taken to listening to his iPod while he waits instead of having to contend with the repeated whining of "But why aren't the bags here yet?" from cranky children.
He knows that he doesn't have to put up with this. His sponsors and manager have repeatedly told him that there have been offers of private aircraft from admirers and people who appreciate his status as Japan's highest ranking tennis player, but Tezuka has always declined them, especially Atobe's offers of better travel and living arrangements.
The baggage eventually begins to roll around and Tezuka's bag comes soon enough. When he leaves the arrivals area, he has to stop for a moment, resisting the urge to grimace, when he sees a chauffeur holding up a sign with his name written in both English and Japanese. Apparently, this is something that Atobe gained control of before anyone could inform Tezuka.
Still, it's impolite to turn it down in public. But when Tezuka reaches the hotel and checks in, he writes a strongly worded email to Atobe, clicking the 'send' button harder than he should.
It's a strange system that he and Atobe have worked out, and not one that Tezuka expected he would have when they turned professional, but Atobe persists. He knows that Tezuka accepts it on a basis of friendship, nothing more, and indeed Atobe doesn't seem to expect anything to happen between them anytime soon, if ever. Tezuka protests and declines because he knows he should, and because his manager has privately told him that if he doesn't then rumours will begin to circulate.
Everyone, from Tezuka to Atobe's own father, put their foot down when Atobe suggested that he and Tezuka room together at hotels when participating in the same tournaments. Tezuka sometimes has to sit down and take a few minutes to simply boggle at the absurdity of it all; Atobe still considers Tezuka to be the same exception to everything he was in junior high, and Tezuka has no idea why.
He rings his mother to let her know that he arrived safely, and she wishes him luck. There is a dinner for the top players that night, something Tezuka hadn't expected to be included in (when asked, Atobe had snapped that, no, he had not pulled strings to get Tezuka included, and when would he realise that the title of Japan's top ranked player brought certain obligations and expectations with it), and he washes and dresses with care, knowing that he'll be scrutinised from all sides.
There's an email from Fuji when he goes online minutes before he has to leave, but Tezuka decides to read it when he comes back.
It's still strange being seated with players that he's watched on television through his youth and even stranger being included in conversation with them. Tezuka does the best he can, though he has no illusions about the social impression he's made. Still, he isn't participating in the U.S. Open to be nice - he's participating to win.
He hides away as soon as he is able, settling into a smaller, less crowded room. The players here seem to be friends as well as rivals, the room filled with low conversation and laughter. Tezuka sits in a chair in a corner and picks up one of the books lying around - it's not one he's particularly interested in, but if he brought one of his own and it got back to his manager, he'd be stiffly and politely scolded again. He's pondering standing up and asking an unfamiliar face (his first year at the U.S. Open judging by his awestruck expression) for the National Geographic back-issue at his elbow, when a voice says, "I thought you were told you couldn't read at these idiot things anymore."
Tezuka pauses for a moment, takes a breath, then closes the book and puts it away neatly. "I thought you weren't participating this year," he says, but there is a strange feeling in his chest, warm and then settling, as if something right has fixed itself back into place.
"My knee healed quicker than expected, so I was able to participate at the last minute," Ryoma replies, sitting down and stretching his long legs out before him. He's grown in the months since Tezuka has seen him; he'll be twenty-three this December.
"Good," Tezuka says, and they lapse into a comfortable silence. Ryoma's manager must have got her way this time; he's dressed in a neat pair of black trousers and a smart red shirt. It suits him, softening the angles of his face and limbs.
Ryoma takes a swallow of mineral water, the closest thing to a carbonated beverage that he can get at these gatherings, and catches Tezuka watching him out of the corner of his eye. He swallows, smiling when he realises Tezuka is gazing at the curve of his throat as he does so.
"You know," Ryoma remarks, "we should get drunk when the U.S. Open's finished this year. It'd be fun."
"It would be very short-lived," Tezuka counters, "since you and I have no alcohol tolerance."
"Ah," Ryoma says, his eyes crinkled at the corners, "but that's the fun bit."
They lapse into silence again and then Tezuka sighs, a shudder running down his spine as he feels Ryoma's fingertips brush over the back of his hand, feather-light and gentle. His eyes close, but he has to whisper, "People could be watching."
"Let them," Ryoma murmurs back. "My old man thinks we're the worst-kept secret in the tennis world." But he removes his fingers, regardless.
"That's your father," Tezuka says. "He doesn't think like other people do." He has to smile at the lopsided grin Ryoma flashes at him in response.
"Maybe some day I won't be ashamed to admit that I'm actually related to him," Ryoma remarks, draining the last of his water. He swallows, considering, and adds, "Of course, that'll probably be the same day that I won't cringe at the worship he still gets."
Tezuka chuckles lightly, and then looks up as their names are called. It's Kevin Smith, who bows and greets Tezuka politely, before turning and scowling at Ryoma.
"You could have told me Tezuka was here!" Kevin snaps, indignant, and huffs loudly as Ryoma rolls his eyes.
Tezuka thinks what Ryoma will not say in reply: Because meeting in rooms like these is what we always do before a tournament.
Kevin doesn't stay long, but before he leaves he informs Tezuka, his eyes glittering, that he will not lose to him in the qualifying rounds this year. Tezuka nods, accepting the challenge, but he's been paying attention to Smith throughout the year, and knows that there will not be much challenge in their match.
Ryoma snorts, and stands. "C'mon," he tells Tezuka over his shoulder. "If I stay any longer, I'm going to go insane."
Tezuka drains his glass and follows, weaving easily through the crowd to the entrance and slipping through; it's late enough that their escape goes unnoticed.
"Where's Atobe?" Ryoma asks, slipping his hands into his pockets and glancing at Tezuka. "I thought he'd be in the thick of an event like this." Standing, Ryoma is close enough to Tezuka in height that it's still sometimes distorting. What is worrying is the possibility of any remaining growth spurts, putting Ryoma on eye-level with Tezuka, but Ryoma always says that his grandfather isn't that tall.
Tezuka shakes his head. "Atobe's father informed him that there was a family engagement he could not miss, not even for the U.S. Open. Atobe wasn't happy, but there was little he could do to argue with him."
Ryoma snorts. "Atobe's going to have to choose between being a pro and being his father's heir soon enough, with the amount of family obligations coincidentally clashing with the big tournaments."
"Hmm," Tezuka replies, but he has to agree. He's had to listen to enough of Atobe's rants on the matter to know that Atobe will bow to his father's wishes eventually, since the thought of being without his family's blessing, social standing and financial backing terrifies him.
Ryoma raises an eyebrow. "You're just as bad," he informs Tezuka, "finishing university before turning pro."
Tezuka returns his gaze calmly. "It would have been foolish to turn down an offer from Tokyo University, of all places," he says mildly. "And I wanted the security of a university degree following my retirement. Tennis doesn't last forever." He knows his words fall on empty ears; they've been having this argument for years.
Ryoma snorts, rolling his eyes. "I only finished high school because mom was worrying over my future. I was hardly going to go onto university when there was tennis."
"Most teenagers would have given anything to be in your position," Tezuka says quietly.
"Most teenagers don't have a father who was convinced that the world was ending because his son got a university offer," Ryoma grumbles, but Tezuka doesn't believe him; Ryoma hasn't cared about what his father thinks of him in years.
It's cooler now that night has fallen, and Tezuka takes a deep breath before he follows Ryoma, who knows his way much better than Tezuka does. They pass several McDonald's, from which Tezuka drags Ryoma away despite his longing looks, and they end up in a popular noodle bar where they have ramen and Yakisoba. They drift onto other topics: Tezuka tells him about Japan and the old regulars; Ryoma tells him about Karupin and the people who want to get Tezuka's autograph through him, and politely looks away when Tezuka almost chokes on his water.
Ryoma insists that they go for one drink - only one, and he argues that they won't be playing for another day, anyway - and Tezuka reluctantly agrees. He dislikes American beer and drinks it quickly, but realises that's a mistake when it goes straight to his head. Ryoma laughs at him and abandons his own bottle; their corner is dark enough that no one notices when Ryoma presses his mouth to Tezuka's. Tezuka opens his mouth with a slow sigh and Ryoma slides his tongue in, deepening the kiss as he presses closer.
They stumble onto the underground, and Ryoma's hand is damp in his but Tezuka can only hold on tighter. His head begins to clear when they go back onto the street and he follows Ryoma willingly, resisting the urge to laugh as Ryoma pulls him along at a run. This will get back to their managers tomorrow, and they'll no doubt be given yet another lecture, but neither of them cares, and that's the important thing.
They kiss greedily in the elevator, Tezuka tangling his fingers in Ryoma's hair and moaning, and Ryoma nips his bottom lip insistently, his eyes lazy and molten. His hands move over Tezuka's chest and back, digging trails into his neat shirt, drifting down to grip his hips and pull him closer. Tezuka pants when they break apart when the elevator pings, hands still pressed against Ryoma's face as they gaze each other. The doors open, and Tezuka hurries down the corridor, Ryoma's wrist warm against his palm as he tugs him along.
He presses his palms against the inside of the door as he leans against it, the back of his head smacking against the wood as Ryoma presses himself flush against Tezuka and kisses him hard, pulling his shirt free and sliding his hands up his back. Tezuka hisses as Ryoma digs his nails in briefly and slowly drags them down.
Tezuka sucks in a breath when they break apart, gazing at Ryoma in the gloom. "I missed this," he says, and his heart hammers painfully at the lingering, solemn expression in Ryoma's eyes. He pulls him close, hands cupping Ryoma's face and kissing him again and again, until something close to a whimper bubbles at the back of Ryoma's throat and he starts unbuttoning Tezuka's shirt, swearing as his fingers fumble. Tezuka laughs before reaching to help him, shivering as their hands brush together.
Tezuka grunts as he falls back onto the bed; Ryoma grins as he straddles him. They're really going to have to come up with a better arrangement if not meeting for a few weeks is going to do this to them.
Tezuka lies back in the bed, gazing up at Ryoma. Tezuka squeezes his eyes shut as his vision blurs when Ryoma removes his glasses. He reaches a hand towards Ryoma's shoulder and their fingers intertwine when Ryoma reaches for his hand at the same time. Their breath breaks the heavy silence, Ryoma leaning down so close that Tezuka can see his eyes clearly.
He lets out a long sigh as Ryoma settles on top of him, warm and comfortably solid, and lets his fingers tangle in Ryoma's hair as they kiss again, soft and slow this time. Ryoma rises to straddle him, their fingers still curled together, and Tezuka lets out a strangled sound as Ryoma grinds their hips together.
"I missed you," Ryoma murmurs, and Tezuka's eyes flutter closed as Ryoma trails his fingertips across Tezuka's face, brushing his eyebrows, his nose, his cheekbones, his lips. Ryoma's hands move slowly further down, paying strict attention to Tezuka's collarbones, his chest, his ribs. Tezuka can't help automatically writhing when Ryoma drags his nails across the left side of his abdomen.
Tezuka groans when Ryoma moves farther down the bed, parting Tezuka's legs and pressing his lips to his inner thighs. The sounds he makes as Ryoma alternatively kisses and nips the skin are ones he'll be ashamed of later, but Tezuka doesn't care, couldn't have it in him to care, and oh god.
Ryoma moves his mouth slowly, and Tezuka has to bite his lip to stop from shouting at the top of his lungs - the consequences of which would be a press conference he would definitely not want to attend. He digs his fingers into the duvet as hard as he can instead, breathing in through gritted teeth as he tries not to yank at Ryoma's hair and push deeper into his mouth.
Ryoma has always enjoyed this far too much, has always known exactly what to do to make Tezuka lose what little self-inhibition he still possesses, and he works even faster tonight. Tezuka lets out a long moan when he comes, arching off the bed. His heart hammers as he brushes damp hair from his eyes; his body feels heavy and sated.
Ryoma presses close to his side, sliding their legs together as he smirks. "You definitely missed me now," he drawls, and the expression in his eyes is wicked.
"Be quiet," Tezuka says, and abruptly rolls them over so he's staring down at Ryoma. Their eyes meet for a moment before Ryoma smiles, and then Tezuka is kissing him hard.
# # #
"You could have told me he was entering," Tezuka says, again, and scowls at the window which is currently in his field of vision.
"I did," Fuji points out in a reasonable voice. "It's not my fault that you decided not to read my email before you left. Besides, it's not as if you decided not to have sex with Echizen just because you didn't know beforehand that he was going to show up."
"Fuji," Tezuka snaps into the phone, pinching the bridge of his nose. After over ten years of friendship, he should probably be able to deal with Fuji's disturbingly direct way of addressing sex, but then, Fuji is always full of surprises.
"How is the tournament shaping up?" Fuji asks, and Tezuka grimaces as the signal crackles and weakens for a few seconds.
"Mostly the same as the last few years," Tezuka says. "The usual new ones on their first circuit; there are rumours of a possible dark horse from the United Kingdom."
"Oooh," Fuji says, and Tezuka can almost imagine his expression. There is a note of genuine interest in Fuji's voice; he and Tezuka have maintained regular contact since the end of high school, and Fuji has told him that he plans on attending next year's Wimbledon to cheer them on. When Tezuka told Ryoma, Ryoma's eyes had widened, and he had groaned before pulling a pillow over his head.
"Will you be returning to Japan after the U.S. Open?" Fuji asks. "I could probably organise a get-together."
"That would be nice," Tezuka says, and he means it. "I'll be returning to see my family, anyway." He hadn't planned it, but his mother has been ill recently, and it's an uneasy reminder that his parents are growing older even as Tezuka has begun facing adulthood.
"You should convince Echizen to come back with you," Fuji remarks, his tone casual. "His father has complained that he receives so little news from him."
This isn't a surprise to Tezuka at all, since he's often been a witness to Ryoma and Nanjiroh's version of a parent-sibling relationship, but he thinks that it would be good for Ryoma to visit Japan again, after so long. "I'll mention it to him," he says.
"Good," Fuji says, and sounds far too pleased with himself.
"Fuji," Tezuka sighs, and presses his lips together as Fuji laughs and tells him that he worries too much. They say goodbye and finish the call soon after, much to Tezuka's relief as he puts the receiver back.
# # #
Both Tezuka and Ryoma go through the qualifying stages easily, and as their round matches go on, they quickly become favourites; people recognise them from their previous years, and any newcomers are quickly informed of their rivalry. It's become the strongest wish of many to finally see the two of them in the final.
Tezuka has forgotten how exhilarating it is to play in a tournament with the knowledge that Ryoma is waiting for him. He plays with no mercy, exterminating his opponents with brutal efficiency. This includes Smith, who laughs afterwards, winks and tells him to kick Ryoma's ass for him.
Even though tennis makes him ride a pure adrenaline rush during the day, it's nothing compared to Ryoma cornering him at night and the two of them stumbling into whichever room is closest. Tezuka has forgotten his smell, the way Ryoma's eyes gleam as he tilts his head and peers at Tezuka, his mouth widening in a familiar smirk.
"I want you," Ryoma says as he straddles him, fingers caressing Tezuka's chest in light circles, and Tezuka can only let his head fall back, moaning as Ryoma presses kisses to his throat and collarbone. Surrendering to Ryoma is as good as making him keen, his legs wrapping around Tezuka's waist as he begs.
Tezuka suspects (and not just because Fuji has told him many times) that they're the only two who could build a relationship like this without any promises or expectations. Many wouldn't even call meeting every few weeks and then falling into bed on a nightly basis a relationship, but it works for them right now. Their lives currently revolve around tournament after tournament, practising, and keeping their current sponsorship deal while keeping an eye out for another one. They hardly get to see their families, never mind a significant other. Along with acknowledging a growing fanbase (well, Tezuka does, at least; Ryoma's fans are lucky if they get a sentence of more than five words from him, but they don't seem bothered by this at all) and having their every move, on and off the court, tracked, any proper relationship would be doomed before it started.
Still, it's not like he complains about this… thing that they have because semi-regular sex is never anything to complain about.
He's returning to his hotel room after morning practise when he finally realises that someone is calling his name, and probably has been for quite some time. He turns to find a red-haired woman running towards him, waving energetically.
"Kunimitsu!" she says when she finally reaches him, breathing heavily. "Honestly, have you gone deaf?"
"Essenheimer," he replies automatically, blinking.
She huffs and waves a finger at him disapprovingly. "If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times: it's Hannah. It's been years since I've been one of your authority figures."
Tezuka bites his tongue to stop himself saying that she was never really one of his authority figures anyway. "How have you been?" he asks instead.
Hannah puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head, laughing. "Glad to see you haven't changed," she says, smiling. "I'm fine, ripping through my opponents as expected. You?"
"Good," Tezuka replies, and she rolls her eyes.
"I was sure adulthood would make you say more than a word every hour," she sighs, hooking an arm around his shoulders and ignoring how he tries to politely unhook himself from her grip. "Want to go for a beer?"
"Hannah!" Tezuka says, mostly because he decides that if he calls her by her first name then she'll finally stop lecturing him about it, and because he has to impress upon her that they both have matches tomorrow and drinking the evening before them is a really bad idea.
She laughs, her eyes glittering. "Relax, I was just joking. Even I take things more seriously than that." And for her, Tezuka thinks, that's saying a great deal. "So," she says after a pause, "where's - well, speak of the devil."
Tezuka follows her gaze to see Ryoma walking towards them. He grins at Tezuka until he spots Hannah beside him, and then his mouth twists into a scowl. "Oh, it's you," he says, stopping before them. "The drunk."
"Oi, brat!" Hannah snaps, releasing Tezuka as her eyes narrow. "Respect your elders!" Tezuka looks from one to the other and sighs; Hannah has no right to call Ryoma a brat any more than she has the right to consider herself his elder, but then, Hannah has never taken any notice of what he thinks.
If it wasn't for the fact that they weren't near any practise courts, Tezuka thinks the two of them might challenge each other to a match. As it is, they reach the hotel a few minutes later and Tezuka leaps for the chance to say goodbye to her, dragging Ryoma away and lecturing him all the while.
"I said nothing that wasn't true!" Ryoma protests, scowling.
Tezuka sighs, giving him a look. "I thought I'd managed to teach you tact," he mutters.
"Dream on," Ryoma replies bluntly.
Ryoma's mobile phones rings and they both jump; Ryoma stares at the flashing screen, his forehead furrowing, and doesn't immediately answer.
"Who is it?" Tezuka asks, but his stomach is already sinking. When Ryoma takes this long to answer the phone, the caller is usually someone whom neither of them enjoys talking to.
"My old man," Ryoma mutters, looking furious, and Tezuka has to close his eyes in resignation. Whenever Nanjiroh deigns to personally call Ryoma, disaster always seems to somehow follow from Japan. He kisses Ryoma lightly on the lips, smiles, and bolts for it; he has no intention of sticking around for the argument that is sure to occur.
# # #
Ryoma lets out a strangled cry and clenches his teeth together. "Fuck," he hisses, shifting his hips, and tugs Tezuka's mouth down into a kiss.
Tezuka eases back, moving as carefully as he can, trying to mumble, "We should slo -" into the kiss; Ryoma hooks a leg around his waist and groans.
"Don't be careful," Ryoma snarls, pushing against him and squeezing; Tezuka moans, nipping Ryoma's throat. He moves faster, yelping as Ryoma's fingers dig into his shoulders and then scratch down his back.
"Ryoma," he begins, but Ryoma is kissing him again, tongue sliding against his. Tezuka's thighs are trembling and straining, his hands sliding against the sweat clinging to Ryoma's ribs, muffling his cries against Ryoma's neck. Ryoma lets out a long moan, dragging his nails up Tezuka's spine. Tezuka chokes, orgasm overtaking him. His thighs jerk, and he can only thrust erratically; Ryoma crying out, "Oh, crapcrapah!" as he comes.
They lie tangled together on the bed, sweat cooling as their breath rises against the silence. Ryoma settles his head against Tezuka's chest and sighs. He murmurs as Tezuka presses his lips against his hair, his fingers slowly circling on Ryoma's hip.
"They're saying we'll definitely be in the final together," Ryoma remarks after a while. "It'll be one of the greatest matches in recent history."
Tezuka can't help but snort. "They know nothing," he says, and Ryoma makes a sleepy noise in agreement. "Still…"
"The U.S. Open needs some excitement," Ryoma says. "But not as much as Wimbledon," he adds, moving so his face is beside Tezuka's and his scowl is clearly visible in the moonlight. He's never hidden how much he dislikes the strict tradition of the tournament, and has told Tezuka repeatedly that he only attends since winning it is required for a Grand Slam title.
"What? Are you going to kiss me at the end of our match?" Tezuka asks, humouring him even though part of him knows that Ryoma would actually do it if he got it into his head.
"No," Ryoma decides after a moment of contemplation, shaking his head. "Too many people expect us to do that. Besides, I think Fuji and my old man weren't kidding when they said we're one of the worst-kept secrets in the tennis world."
Tezuka rolls his eyes. "Nothing you do is ever predictable," he points out, but he also knows that Ryoma hates being second-guessed as well.
"That's not the point," Ryoma says sullenly. It's moments like these when Tezuka remembers the arrogant twelve-year-old who eventually turned into the impulsive, but more mature twenty-year-old he met professionally and fell for. Ryoma's been a part of Tezuka's life for so long that Tezuka is often hard-pressed to remember the years before Ryoma's arrival at Seigaku.
They lapse into silence and Tezuka is almost asleep when he murmurs, "I'm returning to Japan after the tournament. The others would like to see you. And I'm sure your family misses you, especially Karupin."
There is no response for so long that Tezuka begins to believe that Ryoma has fallen asleep, but Ryoma finally mutters, "Well, I do miss Karupin… and mom's cooking." Any mention of Nanjiroh is carefully avoided, and Tezuka knows better than to press.
Ryoma's voice is so low that Tezuka almost misses what he says next, except for a certain word which he hears as clear as a bell. He sits bolt upright, turning on the light and staring at Ryoma.
"Retirement?" he repeats in bewilderment. "You're planning on retiring?"
Ryoma shrugs, but can't hold Tezuka's gaze for long. "Well," he says, "I've been thinking about it. This is the year we've been waiting for: the year we're both at the top of our game, and no one else is good enough. And after playing you in the finals of the big tournaments this year… and, okay, not winning all of them," he adds like an afterthought, making Tezuka raise an eyebrow and snort. "What I mean is… I don't think there's anything else I want to do, except for play you. What else is there?"
"Tennis," Tezuka says quietly. His fingers itch to touch Ryoma, to trail his fingers through the dark hair spread on the pillow, but he resists. "The two of us aren't the sum of all tennis, no matter how much it may seem like it," he adds.
Ryoma shrugs again. "I haven't made a decision yet," he points out. "And you'll be the first person to know when I do."
They gradually fall asleep after that, and Tezuka's dreams are scattered, fragmented and troubled. He wakes up feeling like he hasn't slept at all; when he pats the other side of the bed, it's cold. Ryoma has already showered and left to practise.
# # #
"Atobe," Tezuka says, barely managing not to sigh. Atobe is the only one who will ring him when he's abroad and stay on the line. He's done it often enough that Tezuka considers hanging up on him immediately, like he used to do with Inui. The only thing that stops him from doing this is that Atobe would take it as a personal slight, and would try communicating with Tezuka through any means necessary.
"Tezuka, what is this that I've been hearing about the brat's upcoming retirement?" Atobe demands, his tone biting and his signal distressingly clear.
Tezuka sighs as he massages the bridge of his nose. "Atobe," he repeats, not even bothering to wonder how Atobe managed to find out so soon - there are no such things as secrets in any field of professional sports. "It's not certain yet."
"That's not the point!" Atobe snaps, his voice rising. "How can the brat even be thinking of retiring before I've beaten him?"
Tezuka seriously considers balancing the mobile between his ear and shoulder so he can take off his glasses and start polishing them, a habit he's recently noticed he indulges in when nervous or exasperated. He doesn't tell Atobe that this is why there has never been any love lost between Atobe and Ryoma, and he also doesn't tell him that Ryoma hasn't considered Atobe a serious opponent in years, not since Ryoma beat him in junior high.
They speak for a few more minutes - or, rather, Atobe rants and Tezuka listens in silence - before Tezuka tactfully mentions that he has to practise for the final tomorrow. Atobe wishes him luck (and to smash Ryoma into the ground) and tells him that they have to meet up when Tezuka returns to Japan. Tezuka stares at his phone and wonders if Ryoma would take him seriously if he mentioned the two of them moving in together and staying in America permanently.
He then wonders why he has always been reluctant to broach the subject of the two of them moving in together at all.
# # #
The times when Tezuka and Ryoma have faced each other across the net have always resulted in extraordinarily memorable matches. Even when Ryoma stayed in America after winning his first U.S. Open while Tezuka went on to high school in Japan, this intensity had never faded between them. When Tezuka had finally joined Ryoma on the professional circuit, their matches, both personal and public, became more frequent, along with their precarious and unconventional romance.
But this is the year that they have both been waiting for: a year where both have had losses only to each other and injuries have not plagued them for any of the major tournaments. Tension between their fans has been growing since Wimbledon, when Tezuka managed to swipe the title from under Ryoma's nose at the very last moment.
This match, however, is different. This match will decide if Tezuka will manage a Small Slam (Ryoma having won the French Open earlier in the year), or if they will both end up with even wins. While Tezuka's supporters (and, more importantly, his sponsor) remind him that a Small Slam this early in his career will do wonders, Tezuka doesn't particularly care; all he wants is to face Ryoma across the net.
But even Tezuka didn't realise that the match would be quite this difficult. At the of the second set, 7-5 to Ryoma, they are both level, and Tezuka's legs tremble when he lowers himself onto a bench, a towel draped over his head as his coach hands him a water bottle.
She says that sympathy is with him, Ryoma already having won several Grand Slams in his career. She rolls her eyes at Tezuka's stony silence, waving a hand and saying, yes, yes, she knows that the media and the fans don't know Tezuka's history with Ryoma and, yes, she knows how important this match is to him, and could he please lighten up where Ryoma is considered, really. Then she pats his shoulder, beaming, and tells him to go out there and win.
He swallows a few sips of water before rising to his feet again, taking a deep breath as he grips his racquet tightly and walks back onto the court. Ryoma is already waiting, his cap abandoned on the bench; Tezuka suspects it was becoming more of a hindrance than a help with the amount of dashing back and forth they've been doing, and the amount of sweat clinging in his hair and dripping down Ryoma's brow. Ryoma adjusts the sweatband he's put on instead, and smirks at him.
"Mada mada dane," he says loudly, a phrase that most of the tennis world has learned off by heart; Tezuka has always been bemused by the brief upsurge of interest in the Japanese language following Ryoma's first year on the circuit.
"Yudan sezu ni ikou," Tezuka replies, and a wave of laughter and a few cheers ripple through the audience. Ryoma smirks one last time, and then walks back to the base line to serve.
What follows next can only be described as the game of Tezuka's life. Ryoma pulls out everything he has, and more, and Tezuka follows suit, breaking through Ryoma's signature moves and tricks as steadily and calmly as the breakneck pace will allow him. He grits his teeth and hisses, sweat dribbling down his face and neck and making his racquet grip slippery, as Ryoma finally manages to break through the advanced form of the Tezuka Zone that he's perfected over the years, and the crowd begins to roar.
The screams and cries fade to an irritating buzzing at the back of his mind when Tezuka squeezes the ball before flinging it up to serve. He manages to get four no-touch-ace serves past Ryoma and the screams rise in pitch; he shakes his head but Ryoma scowls at the noise before flashing a wry grin at Tezuka. Will the crowd never figure out that silence really is more conducive to a good game?
But what happens following that - later Tezuka will only be able to describe it as Ryoma lashing out, akin to a trapped, struggling animal - except that trapped animals rarely have Ryoma's shining eyes or his wide grin as he leaps into the air, his racquet arching for the ball.
The end of the match Tezuka will only remember as a fast-paced blur. Towards the end exhaustion begins to get the better of him, not helped by the effects of a stifling August kicking in. The crowd is starting to wilt and Ryoma is also beginning to appear irritated. When the umpire calls the score and Tezuka realises that they've reached match-point, the taste of impending victory explodes in his mouth. His body moves before his mind can catch up, dashing to the net when Ryoma lobs a chance ball into the air.
Ryoma's eyes widen as he lunges towards the net to counter, but Tezuka makes one last bolt, reaching for some deep-seated burst of energy. He skids, his legs beginning to give out, as the zero-shiki glides gracefully over the net; Ryoma digs in his heels to avoid ploughing straight into the net as the ball rolls gently backwards. He smiles ruefully as it slowly stops.
Tezuka falls to the ground, racquet clattering beside him as he leans upon his arms for support. He's drenched in sweat, and his body aches, and in some ways it's not so different from when he's in bed with Ryoma, except the crowd is on its feet, shrieking and screaming. Tezuka looks around, slightly bewildered, until he realises that he's actually managed the Small Slam, at last, in his third year on the circuit.
Then the sound of laughter reaches his ears and he turns his head to find Ryoma leaning over the net, his hand extended and his eyes warm as he smiles.
"That was some match," he says, still smiling, and then quietly adds, "buchou."
Tezuka's stomach drops when he clasps Ryoma's hand and it's suddenly even more difficult to breathe. Ryoma hauls him back onto his feet, gripping his hand for longer than is necessary. Tezuka fears for a moment that he's actually contemplating kissing him, but then Ryoma lets go, his eyes wicked and dancing. He murmurs, "I guess I'll just have to wait until tonight to kiss you."
Tezuka shivers again, but raises an eyebrow as he asks, "And what about going out and getting completely drunk?"
"Nah," Ryoma says, balancing his racquet against his shoulder, "we'll do that tomorrow night. No use having fuck-your-brains-out sex when we won't be able to remember it tomorrow."
Tezuka's breath momentarily catches in his throat as all the blood drains from his head, but their coaches are running towards them before he can respond, and his manager is babbling at him, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she tells him what a press conference this is going to be and -
The press conference isn't so bad since he gets to sit down, and he's showered so he doesn't quite feel like hell. He can even tolerate all the media, and the cameras and the flash of the photographers as they ask him questions which his manager mostly answers. The media know by now not to expect many actual answers from him, or from Ryoma, who is sitting beside him and not even bothering to hide his boredom. Still, it's become an in-joke among journalists that Tezuka, at least, will answer more than Ryoma, whom they've all given up on.
However, Tezuka soon notices that there are more Japanese journalists here than normal, though their numbers have obviously increased due to Ryoma's Japanese heritage and following Tezuka's growing success. But there's definitely more here than usual, and then Tezuka's eyes widen when he spots Atobe, who most definitely should not be here, waving at him from the side.
"What is Atobe doing here?" he hisses at Ryoma, low enough that the microphone doesn't pick up, even though he realises that it was a stupid question the moment the words leave his mouth, since Ryoma will hardly know any more than Tezuka why Atobe isn't back in Japan. Instead, Ryoma raises an eyebrow and motions for Tezuka to be quiet, leaning forward.
Atobe raises a hand, smirking, and Ryoma nods at him. Tezuka can only marvel at the effort they must be making at being this civil, before his mind collapses in sheer horror when he realises that Fuji is sitting beside him as one of the photographers.
He can only think, oh, hell, before Atobe clears his throat and starts speaking - Ryoma rolls his eyes slightly as silence falls; Atobe has never lost his touch.
"There have been rumours of your upcoming retirement," Atobe announces, and Tezuka can only cringe at the explosions of whispers and shocked cries that breeze through the assembled media. "Do you care to elaborate on said rumours, or make a few remarks to alleviate many worried minds?"
Ryoma waits for the noise to die down before speaking. "I had been considering a retirement," he admits, pressing his lips together as he waits for the next explosion to fade, "but, instead, I have something much different to announce."
Tezuka doesn't even bother to hide his confusion, but his eyes widen when Ryoma winks at him briefly before turning his gaze back to the audience. He remembers their conversation about how the U.S. Open needed some excitement, and his stomach begins to churn, dread rising in his throat.
"I know that many mothers have been secretly wishing for their own daughter to be the one to catch my eye," Ryoma begins, and doesn't even scowl when the expected ripple of laughter blossoms and dies. He must have been coached in this speech, Tezuka thinks, and his eyes narrow when his gaze falls on Fuji; his dread increases when Fuji beams at him.
"But I'm afraid that this is never going to happen," Ryoma goes on, "because I have already been taken for quite some time." Tezuka thinks his face must have turned abruptly white, judging from the worried expression on his manager's face, except that her own face is just as pale, and Ryoma's manager doesn't look too well either.
No, no, no, Tezuka can only think. Don't do this, you'll ruin both our careers, everything we've worked for, this is not the time or the place -
Speculative gazes begin to flicker towards them; Tezuka's expression (along with the fact that he feels like he's going to faint and collapse from his chair) must be answering all of their unspoken questions.
"For the last three years," Ryoma says in a clear and confident voice, his fingers curling around Tezuka's under the table, "I have been in a relationship with Tezuka Kunimitsu."
Tezuka has exactly one second to take in Atobe's smirk, Fuji's smile, and the clammy feel of his manager grabbing his other hand in mute horror and sheer disbelief. Then the press conference practically explodes and destroys itself as the journalists completely lose their heads and sense.
He doesn't remember much of the remainder of the conference, either, but that's more because he deliberately blocks it from his memory than from exhaustion overtaking him. He does know that his and Ryoma's managers practically jumped in to salvage what they could, and the next thing he knows is that he's back in the changing rooms with Ryoma, staring at their mobile phones, which have been ringing incessantly since the conference ended.
"I think that's our families calling," Ryoma remarks, glancing at the screen. "Oh, it's mom. Or, wait," he says, frowning, "it could be the old man calling from her phone to trick me." His frown deepens, and he lets it ring out.
Tezuka is staring blankly at his own phone; this is his father's fourth time calling him, and his fourth time getting no answer. They're going to kill him. As if it's this thought that jerks him out of shock, he turns to Ryoma and finally explodes, "What were you thinking?"
Ryoma unashamedly gawks at him, most likely due to the fact of actually hearing Tezuka shout. "What?" he asks. "I thought you wanted to go public."
Tezuka indulges in a moment of hysterically wondering what exactly Atobe and Fuji have been telling him, before sputtering, "Not like this. You could have just ruined both of our careers!"
"Nah," Ryoma says, shaking his head. "Not really. We've both caused a huge upsurge of interest in tennis as a sport; they aren't going to kick us out just for being gay."
Tezuka's never thought Ryoma especially naïve, especially not in matters directly relating to tennis, but Ryoma's expression is calm and sincere. "Trust me," he says. "The tennis world has changed a lot since we were kids, you know."
Not likely, Tezuka thinks helplessly, but the damage has been done. He only hopes that their managers can salvage enough from this mess that they can still continue with their careers.
On the other hand, part of him - the silly romantic part that he tries to ignore but which has a horrible tendency to pop up whenever Ryoma is around - feels quite touched by Ryoma's gesture. The Ryoma he knew years ago wouldn't for a moment have considered telling an international press conference about his feelings, and even though Tezuka still isn't sure about Ryoma's motivations for doing it now, he can't help but let out a choked laugh and tug Ryoma close to him. Their lips meet in a slow kiss, and Ryoma smiles against his mouth, settling comfortably into Tezuka's lap.
"See," he says when they break apart, "this definitely makes it all worth it."
Tezuka kisses him once more before telling him, "You're a complete and utter idiot," except now he's laughing, even if there's a touch of hysteria in it, and hugging Ryoma hard.
"Hey," Ryoma remarks after a moment, "are you still going to go home? It's probably not the best thing to do after this, but I really want to see Karupin." He pauses, and then adds in a casual voice, "And I think you've been ranked as Japan's number one player for far too long."
Tezuka blinks, the meaning of Ryoma's words finally registering, and he stares at him with his mouth hanging open. Then they both groan as footsteps approach and they hear Atobe and Fuji calling.
"Do we have to deal with them now?" Ryoma asks, his tone dangerously plaintive. "They're going to give me a headache."
Tezuka sighs, but he doesn't even bother to pretend that he wants to deal with them, either, even though he suspects that Ryoma just doesn't want to own up to any conspiracy with them involving his announcement. He stands up, gripping Ryoma's hand, and says, "We're not running away."
"Definitely not," Ryoma agrees, grinning, and then they're dashing through a side door of the changing room, across the grounds and weaving through the lingering crowds as fast as they can to avoid recognition.
They burst onto the streets and keep going, Ryoma flagging down the first empty taxi he sees. They stumble into it, laughing, and the driver stares at them with open curiosity, but obediently drives when Ryoma orders him to.
"Where are we going?" Tezuka asks, leaning back against the seat, inwardly smiling at the feeling of Ryoma's fingers interlaced with his, familiar and warm.
"Anywhere," Ryoma says, grinning. "It doesn't matter." His stomach growls and they both pause. "I guess I am kind of hungry," he admits, and pauses to consider. "How about we go for sushi for old times' sake?"
Tezuka smiles slightly. "That would be fitting," he agrees, and Ryoma leans forward to give the driver the address of his favourite Japanese restaurant.
END