Title: Double Dutch
Summary: Tezuka refuses to be careless, but somehow finds himself doing unmentionable things to Ryoma in the clubroom. Spoilers for Genius 361.

"No," says Tezuka resolutely. He quickly pulls on his shirt, uncaring that he's still wet from the shower.

"Why," Ryoma demands angrily. It's not voiced as a question because he doesn't expect Tezuka to give him a real answer, one that will tell him something he doesn't already know.

Tezuka's expression is severe, tight and drawn.

"I am your captain," he says, repeating himself for what feels like the umpteenth time that week. Tezuka hates repeating himself, he hates that he sounds like a broken record when he does, he hates that Ryoma will disregard what he says time and time again.

Ryoma rolls his eyes, punching a hand through one of his shirt sleeves. Tezuka's been his captain for over three years now; unofficially for two of those years, but officially enough for Ryoma.

"It's not like you're a teacher."

Tezuka pins him with a look, the one that Ryoma knows that Tezuka knows Ryoma wouldn't care if he was his teacher or his brother or even his father.

"No," Tezuka agrees, and when he sees the beginnings of a smirk curving up the corner of Ryoma's lips he quickly adds, "but I am your captain."

The almost-smirk becomes a pout becomes a frown becomes a scowl.

"Fine."

Ryoma yanks on his jacket, grabs his bag and stomps towards the exit. The clubroom door slams shut with enough force to make the wood tremble within its frame.

Tezuka rubs his temples wearily, feeling the beginnings of a headache weaving a web around his brain.

A few days later the web is a few layers thicker and squeezing painfully in a way that makes his temples throb in a constant, steady beat.

He arrives at the clubroom an hour early for practice—he needs to check over the slots for the ranking tournaments again. The tennis club members are rarely early to practice first thing on a Monday morning. Sometimes Oishi will be there unlocking the doors; sometimes he'll see Inui sitting in the dark scribbling notes in his book; sometimes Kaidoh will be stretching and cooling down from an extra early morning jog; this never happens more than once, maybe thrice a month. This month it had been Inui, furiously mumbling under his breath the percentages and probabilities of the upcoming ranking tournaments.

It's a fact, and almost law, that Ryoma is always late—or barely on time—to practice that starts at six o'clock sharp. He's never been early (except that time he got locked in, but Ryoma had slept through their calls, and missed practice altogether that time) so it's only natural for Tezuka to be a bit shocked.

He's not just shocked though. He's dazed, astounded, bewildered, in a state of mind where he starts listing all the synonyms he knows for the strange feeling bubbling in his chest, the feeling that's creating a hazy cloud around his brain; it's a coping mechanism, though an ineffective one, he thinks dimly when he starts listing off words that have nothing to do with shock and everything to do with coc—

His brain refuses to connect to the path that leads to logic and what he's seeing refuses to register. His mouth opens and closes, over and over again as he tries to say something, anything.

There's no way to explain how he's seeing himself over there on the other side of the clubroom, pinning Ryoma against the lockers, shoving his tongue down Ryoma's throat, one arm holding him up while the other one remains suspiciously out of sight.

This is not possible, because he's not over there, he's over here blocking the entranceway. Tezuka doubts very much that he's died and gone to heaven (but oh what a delicious heaven it seems to be) because the ridges of his keys are digging painfully into his palm. He can feel the stifling heat of the blood rushing up to flush his cheeks a lovely rosy shade, as well as rushing down, making his pants uncomfortably tight.

A half-strangled sound curls around his tongue and escapes his mouth before he can think to silence himself. Ryoma (undoubtedly it's Ryoma, with his short black shorts and that deep, husky moan) makes a keening sound at the back of his throat when Tezuka's doppelganger pulls away.

Tezuka holds his breath.

His twin turns around.

Tezuka jolts back and bumps into the clubroom door, which falls shut with an audible bang, lock clicking into place like an omen.

Tezuka still holds his breath.

It's him. He doesn't know how, but that's him, right down to the pair of glasses that's reflecting the rays of sunlight.

During his moment of breath-holding, Tezuka wonders if this is a hallucination, if Ryoma somehow managed to slip some of Inui's new concoction—Forty-Love Juice Remix— into his water bottle to make him imagine this. (He doesn't need to, though, Tezuka's mind protests weakly as it struggles for more brainpower with less blood flow, because Tezuka sees this all the time in his room with his eyes shut tightly and his body hidden underneath his covers as he fists himself to completion, every fucking night—but Ryoma doesn't know that. Oh god he hopes desperately Ryoma doesn't know that.)

The raunchy smirk slandering his mirrored face drags him back down to earth. Tezuka remembers he needs to breathe in order to replenish his oxygen supply. He blinks owlishly, thinking as hard as he can around the foggy haze in his mind.

Something doesn't make sense. Tezuka is not one to smirk (much) and least of all like that: suggestive and dirty, promising things that he really does not need floating around in his mind, ever.

His double looks unfamiliar suddenly with that twisted grin. Tezuka narrows his eyes and his brows knot together in deep concentration. Regaining some of his bearings, Tezuka thinks hard.

He doesn't have long to think however, when his twin removes the thigh he has nudged between Ryoma's legs.

Another purring moan from Ryoma is enough to make Tezuka's thought processes short-circuit again. He watches, mesmerized, as Ryoma slides down the lockers to rest boneless on the floor, breathless and uncaring that his legs are positioned awkwardly beneath him. Ryoma's eyelids flutter down, almost shut with a hint of gold still visible.

Tezuka desperately wishes he could shut his eyes and block out everything. He tries too hard, and fails to notice until too late that his doppelganger is now right in front of him, now has his hands fisted in Tezuka's shirt, now yanks him forward to seal their lips together as a tongue slips into his mouth. Tezuka's glasses slide down his nose and clinks loudly with the other's—he cannot even cringe at the impact that's hard enough to crack, not when there's a hand jerking his belt free from his pants.

He tastes the Ponta immediately, followed by a sweet flavor he can only guess is Ryoma, and a distinct tang that coats itself over his tongue, around his mouth, just everywhere.
Tezuka grunts, and retaliates when he's pushed back roughly against the door. Twisting on his heels, Tezuka shoves his clone against the wall. The action doesn't accomplish much however, because they're still locked at the lips and the buttons on his double's shirt are flying through the air and the zip of his fly is undone.

Tezuka must've made a sound when his twin grinds their hips together, he has to have made a sound, but he can't remember, not through this thick haze, not when the image of Ryoma being thoroughly mauled is still burning in his retinas, oh god not with the tongue—

He suddenly understands why Ryoma was so reluctant to part with his double, and he moans, sounding pathetic and needy to his own ears, when his double pulls away from him, chuckling with smug satisfaction.

Tezuka's eyes snap open. That voice—

"Hey brat, just gonna sit there all day?"

—even someone as slow as Momoshiro could have figured this out—

A scoff answers the question, followed by rustling noises.

—the Nationals damn it, he was there, every minute of it—

"Che."

—how could this not have registered the second he saw him—

"I thought so."

—the confident, lazy drawl that could only belong to—

"Up for it, buchou?"

—cocky, arrogant, mocking little—

"Yeah, I thought so."

Niou.

And then all he could do was moan.

Note: I was going to post some older drabbles up instead, but since it is a special occasion I decided to stick up my most recent fic written for Ryoma's birthday. A very heartwarming thanks to all of you who read and review my works. I always try to reply, but all too often I forget who I've replied to already and don't want to um, fail drastically and end up sending more than one reply.

Happy Holidays!