Before my AU, I whipped this up in 30min, on a whim IN THE NIGHT.
I am delusional. All the school crap is getting into me OTL
And this is un-betaed. This was on a whim. A WHIM. I don't know what I was trying to prove here ( facepalms)
This is what Keigo thinks of Ryoma.
He's this twisted version of Tezuka (not that he wants to compare his boyfriend with Tezuka, no that was weird), someone who loves tennis but with a different aspect. Ryoma likes tennis because it meant that was one more thing to prove he was better than other people. Tezuka played tennis for the sheer pleasure it gave him, and he played it like it was this serious form of art which had a certain process. It was perfect and he was the one that perfected it, encouraging others to do the same.
Ryoma played it to beat everyone else and eventually his father.
He remembered Ryoma saying he used to play basketball once (leading to a snipe about Ryoma's height in the process) and he knows, like he did then, Ryoma wouldn't have cared what it was he had to pursue to beat his opponent, you just beat him to it and be done with it. He was simple-minded in that way, in every way, and Keigo can't figure out if this endeared him or not.
Then there's the time when they have these frequent kisses and make out sessions.
Normally, he wouldn't lower himself to kiss his (dare he say it?) lover out in some secluded place as if it was a sin and a temptation, but it was somehow always the exception of Ryoma, always with that kid. He should feel annoyed; he really should, except he had long given up with that kind of pointless pondering.
Ryoma's hands would dig his shoulder blades when they kiss, and it's like a dance, a fiery dance, fluttering of lust and heat and god forbid more, Ryoma's breath hitching past his ear and hands tugging in his hair painfully, but really, he doesn't mind. Then there's Ryoma, whispering more,more,more and more kisses and hands, hands, hands; there is also tongue against tongue and he drives Ryoma up further against the wall, trying to drown the both of them in. More, he gives him more, and he doesn't stop.
There isn't a future for the both of you, there's also no past for the both of you; there is only now, and the future be damned, they both know this. This was a something that would be cherished in the present form, only here and only now.
Echizen Ryoma was a twisted little thing, and God help him, so was he.
This is what Ryoma thinks of Keigo.
He was annoying, always pursuing him. He was downright annoying, him and his money. He was more so annoying, him and his perfectness. Need he say more?
He was also alive with a certain something Ryoma wants to destroy.
Keigo was someone who Ryoma had hated as a kid, someone boastful of their many victories and acclaims, someone who thought the world was beneath them. Here was where Keigo stood, and he thought Keigo might, just , just might be like his father, eyes twinkling down at him, telling him he wouldn't be enough to get past that damn ball, not enough not enough not enough. And this is why he can't define what he exactly felt for Atobe Keigo.
There's the older boy's hand digging his wrists. There's this furious whisper against his ear, Mine, and it was an absolution, not giving him a right to choose, only follow. Then there was Keigo, pressing up to him and demanding him his mouth, all bothered and hot, and he obliges. And it would be another flurry of their passion of something later both of them would deny, and there would be no promises between them afterwards, only this uncertain hanging of, later and maybe. He doesn't know why he isn't more bothered. Maybe he is and he's just trying to hide it, but that was a lie, he isn't bothered, he knows that this was just a phrase, like basketball. So this is why he doesn't react to Keigo's whims and just plays along. It's much easier that way.
"Your hair's grown longer," Keigo murmurs lazily, shifting his pillow into a more comfortable position and reaching out to finger one of Ryoma's locks. Ryoma doesn't pull away for once, using his tiredness as an excuse.
"Hm." It wasn't needed to reply, he know that, only it felt good, reminding someone that he was here, the low rumble inside his throat. Keigo's lips form a small smirk, his fingers twining against his hair, and he strokes it, softly.
He doesn't ask what Keigo was doing; he just closes his eyes and falls back to slumber again. Whatever whim the boy had, he always played along with it, whether it was furious or gentle, possessive of indifference, he learned to accept every aspect of their relationship.
This was what they had, and this was what they had now.