In which Ryoma is immature.

…..

Growing Pains

Morning;

"Help me," he says, almost insolent, and the other boy stops, looks up at him. He quirks his mouth downwards, glancing.

Fuji-san slopes his thin fingers together. "Come back later," he says too softly, too kindly, and Ryoma almost runs. He stumbles instead, and his upperclassman does not move to help him: he can feel mild eyes at his back, intent turning towards him, and the feeling is unpleasant.

Lunch is an empty affair; the food is uninteresting, and someone tosses him a can of juice, laughing, and he turns his arm and catches it, setting it down by his side. It seems unfamiliar to him. "Hey," said Momoshiro-sempai, abruptly, and his fingertips snag in the back of Ryoma's jersey.

"What's up?" he says, and Ryoma is silent. His friend snatches the juice away, teasing, and he reaches for it, too late. A line of dampness curls on the bench. He talks, but Ryoma can only see his mouth moving, delineating words that fade in the face of silence, small and puckered, with eyes like summer. "Be quiet," he says abruptly, and Momo frowns, his mouth twisting. He crumples an empty bag of chips: it deflates silently in his clenched hand, and he imagines the questions crowding.

When he goes to wash up he can see his skin is white and tense, and his eyes are darkly washed. His mouth is a crooked line, but he makes sure that when he walks out, his hands do not tremble. He carries three racquets in his bag, but nothing else.

The afternoon lies before him, devastated and triumphant. Momoshiro's jogs his shoulder, and Ryoma is surprised by the feeling. He walks slowly-if he turns his head, he can see swing of his friend's arm, the line of his neck. I don't want to, he almost says, but the courts are small and white and the trees are cool, and he turns to them involuntarily.

Momoshiro sits with him, silently, and watches fixedly until he eats, still rather reluctant. Ryoma's eyes are fixed somewhere above, at a point beyond his face and the frame of his shoulder, as if he was looking at something invisible. The press of his weight by his side is comforting.

"You're immature," says Ryoma, lazily, as if he were stirring the surface of a pond and a golden fish swam down, and lay silently at that bottom. "Shut up," said Momoshiro, not unkindly, and Ryoma closed his eyes in bliss. Jerk, he says, rather affectionately, and leaves.

Afternoon:

Disappointment is a familiar taste in his mouth: he closes his eyes and stands perfectly still, the racquet hanging from his side. He can almost see his father's feet crouching in the dust, ready, lurking. "I resign," he says, but his cousin is laughing from the door and frowning at his father, telling them to come in and eat. He washed his hands and his face like a good child.

After dinner, Momo-sempai calls him, and Ryoma picks up the phone, listening to the greeting, and very deliberately, hangs up. He calls him back a minute later, apologizing for the bad connection, and Momoshiro's voice is suspicious and dry.

When he goes to sleep he closes his eyes and stares out the window, pretending he can see through the shutters and already hear him throwing rocks at the window, calling for Ryoma to come down and walk with him.

Romantic

"Momoshiro-sempai," says the brat, and his voice is sweet. He grimaces. "Do you know," he says very precisely, " how to tell someone you like them?"

Momo stares at him. His mind has gone blank, and he discovers he's forgotten how to speak but still makes a valiant effort.

"To confess," he elaborates.

"Er," says Momoshiro. "Sorry. No idea. I've never-" He stops.

"Oh," says Ryoma, rather thoughtfully. "Good."