Drabble: TezuRyo
And this one is actually drabble sized, and not mini-fic.
He tastes summer heat and salt sweat on thin lips, ones usually set in a thin line even in repose, unyielding determination as much a part of Tezuka as tennis is breathing is life. There is passion beneath the stoic exterior he knows, now sees, now feels. They are tangled in ways he cannot begin to unravel, has no desire to contemplate because this one instance is the closest to perfection he has ever felt. The countless games he has won are nothing in comparison to the singular instant of melding, separated only by cloth and flesh and woven netting.
He tastes summer heat and salt sweat on thin lips, ones usually set in a thin line even in repose, unyielding determination as much a part of Tezuka as tennis is breathing is life. There is passion beneath the stoic exterior he knows, now sees, now feels. They are tangled in ways he cannot begin to unravel, has no desire to contemplate because this one instance is the closest to perfection he has ever felt. The countless games he has won are nothing in comparison to the singular instant of melding, separated only by cloth and flesh and woven netting.