Disclaimer: Prince of Tennis is the property of Konomi Takeshi. And gee, look. My name isn't Konomi Takeshi. Innat sad?
A/N: The third and last instalment in the First Date arc. TezuRyo, obviously. This is meant to follow Indefinable and Wonder, though it can be read as a stand-alone. I'd recommend reading the other two as well, though. I know that Wonder was OOC, and I hope this isn't quite as bad. In my defence, we've never seen any of the boys in love, and love does do strange things to people. You can turn into an absolute idiot around a person you love, after all. In any case, maybe this will make up. ::pokes Burnein::
Short, yes. I know. I'm sorry. -.-;
Should I write a lemony sequel?... Heh.
Summary: Reflection, a game, interference, and the first kiss. In that order.
Link
"You wanted to see me, buchou?" Inwardly, he wonders at the time. It isn't like the school courts to… but of course. His buchou would have the key, after all. And so, even though it's so late they would have to switch on the floodlights to stop tripping over their own feet, they'd still be able to use the courts.
"Aa." His buchou straightens, hair moving slightly in motions probably familiar only to him. "Would you play a game with me?"
Inwardly, he is surprised that it is a request and not a command. Then he remembers what the other had told him the last time they had played – and he smirks.
"Am I ready?" he wonders out loud. His buchou nods – his hair moves again, the dark locks sliding forward to shade what little can be seen of his eyes. He wishes, suddenly, that his buchou would just take those infernal glasses off, glasses that hid his soul and oftentimes glinted in the exact same fashion as his other sempai's did. And that was just… creepy, really.
They head over to Court A, the best court they have. He knows that his buchou will put his all into this game, and he swears to himself that he will, too.
For a time, there is nothing for either of them but the sound of the balls, the comfortable weight of their rackets in their left hands, and of course, their opponent. Nothing else exists. The yellow sphere sails across the net in quick succession, each point hard won.
Slowly, sluggishly, they move into a tiebreak. Again, the points come slowly. Each manages a fair number of points, but never two in succession. He is reminded, all at once, of another match his buchou had once played, one most similar. Eyes widen as the ball slips past him in that unguarded moment; he cannot allow this point, or he will have lost, and he does not lose; he dives forward in a reckless move that wrenches his shoulder painfully –
… But he returns the ball.
Miraculously, it isn't a lob, but streaks across, barely above the net. It is still an easy shot, though, and his buchou takes it, slamming the ball solidly into his court.
Then there is nothing except the sound of his harsh, ragged breathing and the pain in his left shoulder. Faintly, he hears someone walking over to him – time to be ridiculed, time to learn all over again that he could not beat his father – and then he feels gentle hands checking his shoulder, and he remembers that he isn't playing his father. He suppresses a yelp of pain, biting his lip and looking away to hide eyes that gleam in the darkness.
His buchou finally sits back, though his hand remains, comfortingly, on his shoulder. It will be fine, given a week or so of rest. But more importantly, he had done well.
He had lost, though, and he turns to tell his buchou this, uncaring of the tears sliding down his cheek – and then he freezes, breath catching in his throat. His eyes widen involuntarily, and he feels a heat in his cheeks that means he is blushing, although he doesn't know why.
His buchou smiles at him, a true, gentle smile, and his cheeks redden further. He cannot bring himself to look away, though. So he continues to stare shamelessly, one hand wrapped loosely around the glasses his buchou has placed in his hand. He stares; and his buchou seems willing enough to sit there in quiet reflection with him.
Or it would be quiet if spontaneous applause hadn't broken out. His eyes widen in horror as he realises his team has witnessed the entire match. He doesn't particularly want to know why they are here, at this time, but rather suspects his coach – standing off to the side, an infuriating smirk on her face – had had something to do with it. He looks to see if his buchou had known – but no, he is putting his glasses back on his face, a shuttered, guarded look in his eyes. He scrambles to his feet and awkwardly offers a hand to his buchou, the gesture unfamiliar to either of them. His buchou accepts with nary a hesitant pause, though, and their palms fit together neatly as if their hands had been made for each other.
And maybe that's why his buchou doesn't let go of his hand, but instead leads him towards their coach, quietly informing her that he wanted a word with his younger team-mate alone. And maybe that's why he, docile as he has never been before, follows, the warmth of palm against palm a comforting feeling.
So they leave, and they go some place quiet, and they sit together, but they don't talk because neither of them much likes talking. And they just fit in that way, the way same way their palms fit together. But when his buchou tilts his head up with the firm pressure of his fingers on his chin; when his buchou kisses him as gently and tenderly as his fingers had kissed his injured shoulder; when he realises that this was what he had been missing all this while; he still feels surprised.
He wonders why.
fin