"Something Blue", PG, shounen-ai, Prince of Tennis, Yamato/Tezuka
Title: Something Blue
Author: Psyienna
Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Type: Shounen-ai
Pairing: Yamato x Tezuka
Mild Spoilers: The history of the Seigaku Tennis Team.
Rating: PG
Challenge: Written for the Something Borrowed Challenge.
Time: I accidentally mixed up the Challenge times, so I wrote for 75 minutes plus another 5 minutes to standardize the spelling of "buchou". My bad!
Disclaimer: Prince of Tennis was created by Takeshi Konomi; this fic was written for entertainment purposes only.
Something Old...
Taptaptap. The ball bounced off the ground, then arced high, only to be blasted across the net by the sheer force of a wielded tennis racket.
Wide.
Again, the same process. A slender right hand briefly touched the ball, flew free though the air, then snatched down and away, fingers curled slightly from the effort coursing up through his forearm and the rest of his body.
Wide again.
Tezuka didn’t know when the rain started, he finally noticed when the fat droplets streaked down his glasses. His body barely registered the growing chill in the air. Absently, he grasped his left arm above the elbow, staring intently at the area a few inches to the right of the singles line. His elbow had barely healed, but his timing was off, and he couldn’t pinpoint what was wrong. Wiping his matted hair away from his forehead, he squinted through the sheets of rain, the service box glowing in his mind.
He had to get better. He just had to.
“Tezuka-kun.”
Yamato-buchou was watching him, shielded by an enormous umbrella. His other hand rested lightly on his hip as he approached, adjusting his grip so that they were both out of the rain. Tezuka stared at his own reflection in Buchou’s sunglasses and realized just how wet he really was.
“Practice is over for today.” And the finality of Buchou’s voice offered no chance for debate.
The whimsical attitude, Regular uniform and roguish appearance intimidated many of the first-years, but Tezuka was unfazed. He followed his captain off the court and towards the changing room, studying the lean frame hidden by the jacket tossed casually over his shoulders. “You’ve been practicing too hard, Tezuka-kun,” Buchou said, opening the door. “These evening workouts have to stop.”
Tezuka’s grip tightened on his racket. “How did you know I’d been staying late to practice?”
The umbrella swung down, limp and exhausted, and the Regular spoke in a voice Tezuka barely heard. “I’m not a good Buchou if I don’t know my team.”
Tezuka sat down on the bench, his saturated clothes slapping lightly against his drenched skin. He pulled off his glasses and began drying off with an enormous towel. Even though the towel sucked up the moisture from his face and hair, nothing could help his sodden shirt and shorts.
“Get out of those clothes, Tezuka-kun. You can’t go home in them; try this on.”
The clothes puddled on the floor, although his boxers were salvageable. Tezuka pulled on the pair of sweatpants Buchou tossed him, so old they had faded to a periwinkle hue, wincing as cold leftover drops dripped from his hair onto his naked chest and back.
“The only shirts I can find are Ryuzaki-sensei’s, so you might have to make do...” Buchou’s voice trailed off and Tezuka blushed a little, accustomed to the unwavering gaze of his captain on the court, but never anything like this, half-naked and alone and without his glasses.
The dark-haired captain shoved the shirts back on the shelf, plucked the towel out of Tezuka’s hands and went to work on the younger boy’s hair, rubbing and rolling, the towel fabric flying every which way.
“Silly.” Tezuka wondered at the teasing note that crept into Buchou’s voice. “Practicing out in the rain, when you can’t even dry your hair properly. What were you thinking, Tezuka-kun?”
“I can’t become a Regular if I don’t have a serve.”
A short laugh was his only answer, and the towel flipped away from his face. Tezuka realized that Buchou was kneeling in front of him, arms resting easily on the towel looped around his waist. He inclined his head, allowing the captain's gentle hand to run through his hair.
“See? All dry now.”
Tezuka sat up a little straighter, but Buchou’s hand didn’t move as the strands filtered through his fingers, which came to rest on the younger boy’s cheek. The calluses were there in all the right places, wear spots that developed from holding a racket, gripping a ball, wrapping tape around racket handles. Tezuka reached forward with his own hand, brushing Buchou’s stubble. Funny, he thought it would be harsh and unforgiving, but it was surprisingly soft and pliant. It was Buchou’s turn to hold steady as Tezuka grasped the slender frames and pushed his sunglasses upward until they swept back the dark, messy bangs, resting neatly atop his head.
He couldn’t get enough of looking at that warm face, tan lines from his sunglasses faintly visible against the darkened skin loved by the sun. But what shook him was Buchou’s smile, a sweet, masculine smile that took up his whole face and shone in his eyes, radiant and wise, moving closer until Tezuka’s vision was totally blocked and all he knew was the sweetness of rain-drenched lips against his own.
After a few moments Buchou backed away, hands resting on Tezuka’s arms as he looked the younger boy up and down. A whispery swish filled the air as the jacket slid off Buchou’s shoulders, and within the time it took to smash a ball Buchou had removed his polo and had wriggled it onto Tezuka’s slender frame.
“It’s big now, but you’ll grow into it,” he commented softly, pulling at the sides.
The shyness inside Tezuka grew and he looked down dazedly at the bright white and Seigaku blue fabric. Buchou was near him now, almost a part of him in so many ways.
The gentle warmth still held within the polo pervaded his cool body, and he breathed deeply, warm and safe and content.
He felt brave enough to meet his captain’s gaze again; Buchou kissed Tezuka’s palm, then placed the younger boy’s hand over his heart. Tezuka trembled at the vibrant, steady beat that threatened to pop right out of the muscled, sleek skin; Buchou’s rich voice uttered his name, calling to him.
“There’s so much more to tennis, Tezuka-kun, than just hitting the ball.”
They lingered there, together, then Buchou released his hand and pulled his sunglasses down, slowly backing away from the younger boy; he pulled his jacket over his bare chest, zipping the front so only a glimmer of skin peeked from underneath the collar. Normally soft-spoken, Tezuka struggled to find the words he wanted as Buchou picked up his umbrella and swung it over his shoulder.
Finally he just made do. “I’ll return this to you tomorrow,” he promised, gripping the shirt.
Seigaku’s captain nodded knowingly and headed for the door. “There’s no rush,” he called easily. “You’ll know when to give it back.”
Something New.
The sun blazed down on the crowd, and the ritualized Hyotei cheers easily eclipsed the scattered shouts for Seigaku. To Tezuka-buchou, they were as distant as the calls of the seagulls diving in to polish off a bit of discarded bread.
The arena loomed empty and large in front of him as he absently rolled a bit of his shirt fabric underneath his fingers. He had worn Yamato-buchou’s polo in every official match he'd ever played for Seigaku, ignoring Ryuzaki-sensei’s suggestions to replace it with a new one. It was a little frayed at the edges, and Tezuka knew where to look to find the bits of blue slowly fading. He’d even spent two hours repairing a rip in the seam last year at a tournament, hiding himself away so nobody would see him with needle and thread and the precious shirt in his hands.
He would return it someday; after all, he had promised his Buchou.
Closing his eyes and forming a gentle smile only he could see, Kunimitsu Tezuka stepped onto the court.
Author: Psyienna
Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Type: Shounen-ai
Pairing: Yamato x Tezuka
Mild Spoilers: The history of the Seigaku Tennis Team.
Rating: PG
Challenge: Written for the Something Borrowed Challenge.
Time: I accidentally mixed up the Challenge times, so I wrote for 75 minutes plus another 5 minutes to standardize the spelling of "buchou". My bad!
Disclaimer: Prince of Tennis was created by Takeshi Konomi; this fic was written for entertainment purposes only.
Something Old...
Taptaptap. The ball bounced off the ground, then arced high, only to be blasted across the net by the sheer force of a wielded tennis racket.
Wide.
Again, the same process. A slender right hand briefly touched the ball, flew free though the air, then snatched down and away, fingers curled slightly from the effort coursing up through his forearm and the rest of his body.
Wide again.
Tezuka didn’t know when the rain started, he finally noticed when the fat droplets streaked down his glasses. His body barely registered the growing chill in the air. Absently, he grasped his left arm above the elbow, staring intently at the area a few inches to the right of the singles line. His elbow had barely healed, but his timing was off, and he couldn’t pinpoint what was wrong. Wiping his matted hair away from his forehead, he squinted through the sheets of rain, the service box glowing in his mind.
He had to get better. He just had to.
“Tezuka-kun.”
Yamato-buchou was watching him, shielded by an enormous umbrella. His other hand rested lightly on his hip as he approached, adjusting his grip so that they were both out of the rain. Tezuka stared at his own reflection in Buchou’s sunglasses and realized just how wet he really was.
“Practice is over for today.” And the finality of Buchou’s voice offered no chance for debate.
The whimsical attitude, Regular uniform and roguish appearance intimidated many of the first-years, but Tezuka was unfazed. He followed his captain off the court and towards the changing room, studying the lean frame hidden by the jacket tossed casually over his shoulders. “You’ve been practicing too hard, Tezuka-kun,” Buchou said, opening the door. “These evening workouts have to stop.”
Tezuka’s grip tightened on his racket. “How did you know I’d been staying late to practice?”
The umbrella swung down, limp and exhausted, and the Regular spoke in a voice Tezuka barely heard. “I’m not a good Buchou if I don’t know my team.”
Tezuka sat down on the bench, his saturated clothes slapping lightly against his drenched skin. He pulled off his glasses and began drying off with an enormous towel. Even though the towel sucked up the moisture from his face and hair, nothing could help his sodden shirt and shorts.
“Get out of those clothes, Tezuka-kun. You can’t go home in them; try this on.”
The clothes puddled on the floor, although his boxers were salvageable. Tezuka pulled on the pair of sweatpants Buchou tossed him, so old they had faded to a periwinkle hue, wincing as cold leftover drops dripped from his hair onto his naked chest and back.
“The only shirts I can find are Ryuzaki-sensei’s, so you might have to make do...” Buchou’s voice trailed off and Tezuka blushed a little, accustomed to the unwavering gaze of his captain on the court, but never anything like this, half-naked and alone and without his glasses.
The dark-haired captain shoved the shirts back on the shelf, plucked the towel out of Tezuka’s hands and went to work on the younger boy’s hair, rubbing and rolling, the towel fabric flying every which way.
“Silly.” Tezuka wondered at the teasing note that crept into Buchou’s voice. “Practicing out in the rain, when you can’t even dry your hair properly. What were you thinking, Tezuka-kun?”
“I can’t become a Regular if I don’t have a serve.”
A short laugh was his only answer, and the towel flipped away from his face. Tezuka realized that Buchou was kneeling in front of him, arms resting easily on the towel looped around his waist. He inclined his head, allowing the captain's gentle hand to run through his hair.
“See? All dry now.”
Tezuka sat up a little straighter, but Buchou’s hand didn’t move as the strands filtered through his fingers, which came to rest on the younger boy’s cheek. The calluses were there in all the right places, wear spots that developed from holding a racket, gripping a ball, wrapping tape around racket handles. Tezuka reached forward with his own hand, brushing Buchou’s stubble. Funny, he thought it would be harsh and unforgiving, but it was surprisingly soft and pliant. It was Buchou’s turn to hold steady as Tezuka grasped the slender frames and pushed his sunglasses upward until they swept back the dark, messy bangs, resting neatly atop his head.
He couldn’t get enough of looking at that warm face, tan lines from his sunglasses faintly visible against the darkened skin loved by the sun. But what shook him was Buchou’s smile, a sweet, masculine smile that took up his whole face and shone in his eyes, radiant and wise, moving closer until Tezuka’s vision was totally blocked and all he knew was the sweetness of rain-drenched lips against his own.
After a few moments Buchou backed away, hands resting on Tezuka’s arms as he looked the younger boy up and down. A whispery swish filled the air as the jacket slid off Buchou’s shoulders, and within the time it took to smash a ball Buchou had removed his polo and had wriggled it onto Tezuka’s slender frame.
“It’s big now, but you’ll grow into it,” he commented softly, pulling at the sides.
The shyness inside Tezuka grew and he looked down dazedly at the bright white and Seigaku blue fabric. Buchou was near him now, almost a part of him in so many ways.
The gentle warmth still held within the polo pervaded his cool body, and he breathed deeply, warm and safe and content.
He felt brave enough to meet his captain’s gaze again; Buchou kissed Tezuka’s palm, then placed the younger boy’s hand over his heart. Tezuka trembled at the vibrant, steady beat that threatened to pop right out of the muscled, sleek skin; Buchou’s rich voice uttered his name, calling to him.
“There’s so much more to tennis, Tezuka-kun, than just hitting the ball.”
They lingered there, together, then Buchou released his hand and pulled his sunglasses down, slowly backing away from the younger boy; he pulled his jacket over his bare chest, zipping the front so only a glimmer of skin peeked from underneath the collar. Normally soft-spoken, Tezuka struggled to find the words he wanted as Buchou picked up his umbrella and swung it over his shoulder.
Finally he just made do. “I’ll return this to you tomorrow,” he promised, gripping the shirt.
Seigaku’s captain nodded knowingly and headed for the door. “There’s no rush,” he called easily. “You’ll know when to give it back.”
Something New.
The sun blazed down on the crowd, and the ritualized Hyotei cheers easily eclipsed the scattered shouts for Seigaku. To Tezuka-buchou, they were as distant as the calls of the seagulls diving in to polish off a bit of discarded bread.
The arena loomed empty and large in front of him as he absently rolled a bit of his shirt fabric underneath his fingers. He had worn Yamato-buchou’s polo in every official match he'd ever played for Seigaku, ignoring Ryuzaki-sensei’s suggestions to replace it with a new one. It was a little frayed at the edges, and Tezuka knew where to look to find the bits of blue slowly fading. He’d even spent two hours repairing a rip in the seam last year at a tournament, hiding himself away so nobody would see him with needle and thread and the precious shirt in his hands.
He would return it someday; after all, he had promised his Buchou.
Closing his eyes and forming a gentle smile only he could see, Kunimitsu Tezuka stepped onto the court.