Indefinite
"Leadership to me means duty, honor and wisdom," his father once instructed him, "one shall leave parts of his character in others, bestowing his example. One should never indulge laziness or disobedience. In other words, one should be impartial and strict."
These words always served to remind him of why people put their trust in him, or of his duties as the captain to the tennis club. He used to repeat them to himself like a mantra that would steel his spirit, his mind, until these words were imprinted in his mind, as if he had been their forger.
From what he remembers he has never failed anyone's expectations of him, every responsibility had been met with steady seriousness, determination that led to successful outcomes. He had never broken a promise, or let anyone down when they needed him. And examples stood as an invisible witness to that. He had been Segaku's pillar of support for some years now, had sacrificed his arm over and over again for the sake of not disappointing their former buchou and for the team.
He had intransigently put aside his own desires, his wants, his self, to the extent where he had lost track of his horizon. Diligent, he trained every night, in his dreams, outside the practice hours, whenever his homework took less time to take care of. Tennis has remained the only source of life for him, the sole passion to sustain his insatiable craving for alteration.
Part of him knew too well that beyond this phrase, lurked real life. Bliss that waited for no one, no matter how much you avoided it, dragged you along effortlessly, out of your shell, blunt, unadulterated, and always a challenge. Ryoma was the equivalent of life, Tezuka never doubted it. In the same fashion Tezuka regarded life; he followed Ryoma's every move with fascination and reserve.
He watched him on and off the court – during team meetings, practice, at Kawamura's sushi shop whenever they celebrate another victory, and sometimes during his periods, when he should have overseen the entire club. With every gaze, a part of Ryoma would became his point of gravity for days – eyelids closed in annoyance, smirk that attested talent, the perfect curve of his waist, the round shape of his knee.
He would realize too late that he crossed the line already, between his duty and his desire, between what he had been taught and what he was being taught- by Ryoma, by life – too late, because Ryoma had started to look back. Even when he was caught in the act, he couldn't make himself avert his eyes. He should have been embarrassed, should have listened to his conscience and not move closer, should have screamed "duty" and "wisdom" , and definitely "not right", yet no word escaped his sealed lips, sealed by Ryoma's rare and knowing smile, silenced by soundless clatters on the pavement heading towards him.
Tezuka fought every law of nature that pulled him forward, sucked his will shrinking it to a point, as insignificant as whatever images his mind conjured of the worst possible scenario. He bit his lips drawing blood, his nails digging in his palms, however, his legs wouldn't listen, wouldn't respond. Ryoma was one meter away, if he extended his arms and pulled him closer, he could embrace him, make him grasp, leaning further in his warmth. No. Not now. Not ever. Finally he managed to take a step back, putting enough distance between them, so he wouldn't do something foolish.
"Buchou?" Tezuka wished he was deaf, at least this one time. His resolve crumbled at once. He walked past Echizen, avoiding making eye contact or even brushing their shoulders with the motion. "Echizen, get on court D, now." He could feel the wide grin, and the whispering of the words "Mada mada dane," and understood that he had just sealed his fate with his own hands. Maybe someday he would give in and take chances, would get careless enough to pin Echizen on the pole of the net and kiss him open mouthed. But not today.