By weirdlyyours
When Ryoma has nothing better to do, he likes to think of tennis. He likes to think of the thwack of a yellow ball meeting racket strings and the way the racket's grip fits perfectly into his hand.
He wonders what they will do at practice that day and what evil concoctions Inui-senpai has ready for them. He silently swears that he will not drink it because he will not lose to any of his senpai.
Except Buchou.
But, he tells himself, he will defeat Buchou some day and then he won't have to drink Inui-senpai's juice ever again.
For now, Ryoma contents himself with watching the way Buchou moves on the courts, long limbs agile and graceful, his play-style careful but dominating. He thinks about the way Buchou executes a Zero-Shiki Drop Shot and the way he nearly glows when he traps his opponent in the Tezuka Zone.
He wonders about the angles in Buchou's face, the way they seem so sharp they might cut, but he has seen Buchou's face soften more than once when he thinks no one is looking.
That day at practice, Ryoma pays attention to Buchou and the way he moves and the way his glasses glint lightly in the sun, reflecting light, and Ryoma savors the way brown eyes become soft pools.
The thin frames must press uncomfortably into skin if someone kisses Buchou with his glasses on, and then Ryoma wonders how Tezuka-buchou would look without his glasses and feels tempted to steal them.
He finds sharp angles in Buchou's collarbone when he takes off his jacket and wonders how that would feel on his mouth, on his tongue, soft skin over hard bone.
Ryoma feels the way the grip of his racket fits comfortably in his hand, like it's supposed to be there and wonders if Tezuka's skin under his hands will feel the same way—natural, like it belongs there.
He stares at Buchou and tells himself next time, next game and resolves to indulge his curiosities when the synthetic green courts are firm beneath his feet and Buchou is across the net.