The warmth shifted. Then lifted its head. A voice fuzzy with sleepiness and hoarse from...something...asked, "Bucho?"
Tezuka closed his eyes, willing his mind to fall back to sleep. But instead it retreated to the night before...
"Tezuka-kun," his boss grinned at him. "You never join us after the first bar. You should come along tonight!"
Tezuka bowed his head slightly. "No, thank you," he declined evenly. "I have an early day tomorrow."
The middle-aged man, his bald spot glinting under the neon lights, sighed heavily. "You always have an early day. You need to lighten up. You're still young!" He laughed and tried to slap Tezuka on the back, and almost fell over. Tezuka managed to catch him in time, then transferred his burden to an only slightly steadier coworker. He again demurred and took his leave.
As he walked towards the station along with other office workers on their way home, his eyes were drawn to a white baseball cap in the crowd. They were glued to it, though his mind barely registered it. Only when the owner of the cap turned around and fixed his eyes on him did he become conscious of staring.
Oh.
The other man sauntered up to him, barely noticing the jostling of the crowd as he approached. "Evenin', Bucho. Fancy meeting you here." His eyes gazed straight into Tezuka's.
Tezuka knew he had to reply. He nodded, slightly, and quietly said, "Echizen."
Ryoma grinned, with that same smile as in junior high. Tezuka stared at Ryoma's lips, at how they shone under the street light.
"Going home from work?" Ryoma glanced at Tezuka's suit, dark and wool and proper. Tezuka fought an urge to hide his tie and pressed shirt somehow, frowned internally at himself.
"Yes," he managed to get out. "And you? I'm surprised you're in Japan now."
Ryoma's grin shifted, so slightly Tezuka wondered if it was a trick of the light. "I come back even when there are no tournaments here. This is my home country, after all. This is where I'm from." Ryoma looked down at his watch, then looked back up into Tezuka's eyes. "Have you eaten already? Do you want to grab a bite to eat?" His eyes seemed to hold a hint of challenge.
Tezuka blinked. He had to answer, but his mind felt heavy. Underwater. He heard himself reply, somewhere up where there was air, "No, I haven't. I only had a couple of drinks. How about some sushi?" He was amazed at his body's ability to function independently from his brain. As well as its ability to betray him.
Nononononononono.
Tezuka was silent. His mind gasped for air. But his face was blank, as always.
Ryoma adjusted his cap, then stuck his hands into his pockets. "Lead the way, Bucho." His eyes seemed to have gotten even bigger in that one moment. Tezuka nodded, mechanically, then traced the path to a nice little sushi place tucked out of the way.
The dinner was, unsurprisingly, mostly silent. Tezuka had expected Ryoma to talk, about America or tennis or Japan or mutual acquaintances or the past. Or not. But about something. Instead, he found himself asking questions that Ryoma answered with a yes or a no or a maybe, and got the same questions thrown back at him. Except when they didn't apply to Tezuka. Anymore. Except when they were about tennis.
Tezuka didn't think about tennis much anymore. He had told himself, years before, that it had never really been about tennis. It was about the striving. The reaching for the goal. And when he reached the goal he had set, he was done.
It had never been about anything else.
Whenever there was an awkward silence, he knew Ryoma was looking at him like so, like he was a specimen that was being dissected and he wanted to stare back at him, or yell at him to stop, or press his mouth against...
No.
He wanted to quickly finish up this dinner that was partly catching up and mostly an exercise in endurance. He wasn't paying attention to what he was putting into his mouth, really. Which led to his body's second betrayal.
Waking up to a warmth draped on him. Flashes of heat and gasps and fumbling and sliding and need and oh god what have I done, I didn't want need yearn for any of this and his mind is moving to clean up the mess his body and the alcohol had caused.
He had always been a responsible person. And he wasn't going to stop being one now. He took a breath, and opened his eyes. And looked into Ryoma's big eyes, soft and unfocused. He caught his breath, his mind freezing and almost letting his body slip its control and do what he knew so surely he didn't want to do. Tezuka gripped Ryoma's arms, and pushed him off. He sat up, and carefully searched the night-stand by hand for his glasses. And was grateful to discover that his body had been able to at least put them aside properly.
But then Ryoma laughed, quietly. "Bucho, you know you just flung those on the floor? Good thing I grabbed them and put them out of the way."
Tezuka felt his blood freeze at those words. His body's betrayal had been complete, then. Out of control, and wild, and completely drunk. Drunk enough that last night happened.
Or not. It wasn't what he had wanted. He would never. Never do that. With Ryoma. With those big eyes and that body that only knew how to play tennis and that voice that whispered...
No.
Tezuka put his glasses on, and gazed at Ryoma. He didn't think his face was showing any of what he was feeling, but he took the time to school his face into a true mask. In the meantime, Ryoma seemed to be waking up. He frowned, small creases forming around his eyes and on his brow, and his mouth tightened. Tezuka firmly crushed the urge to trace his finger along those lips, to feel them soften and part. He had to get out of Ryoma's presence.
Ryoma didn't visibly show any surprise at Tezuka's words when he finally formed them. "Echizen, nothing happened. Nothing...it was a mistake...No, it wasn't even a mistake. It just...wasn't. All right?" He tried to summon the stern visage of the Bucho. Ryoma's Bucho. He wished he had a mirror, to check.
But then he found he didn't need one. Ryoma's face told him that he had failed. The tight mouth became a thin line. The big eyes narrowed, and after a long tense silence, Ryoma spoke one word. "Fine." He quietly got up, and began to dress.
Tezuka averted his eyes, from the tanned limbs and the pale torso. The muscles toned and smooth and...
No.
He got up as well, and began to dress. He attributed his fumbles with the buttons, the heaviness of his limbs to too much drink. To a hangover. A headache-less hangover. He cursed his very awake mind, that cataloged every part of the man that he was trying to pretend wasn't dressing after a night that had never happened.
He sensed the change, when Ryoma was done. When Ryoma turned to him. But he couldn't turn around. He didn't trust his body to betray him. To do exactly what he didn't want to do. But when Ryoma addressed his back and left, he felt oddly dissatisfied that Ryoma hadn't come around to face him.
"Goodbye."
Tezuka didn't know why his mind felt like it was in a million pieces, scattered on the floor. Why his body felt so hollow. Why his cheeks were wet with tears.