Note: Written two days ago while in the car eating fast food. 714 words.
Ryoma likes to watch Tezuka.
He’s never careful when he does it. He doesn’t care if Tezuka sees him or not. He sometimes forgets what he’s doing because his eyes are fixed on what Tezuka is doing. He drinks from his can of Ponta and keeps his eyes open and watching, his hat purposely propped up so that he can still see.
“Hey, Echizen!” Momo nudges him in the ribs, splashing Ponta up onto Ryoma’s nose. Ryoma coughs and then glares. Momo laughs. “What’s so interesting, anyway? You didn’t even notice when I sat down, you know.”
Ryoma has no good reply to that, so he takes another sip of Ponta and ignores Momo completely. Tezuka glances in his direction and Ryoma shivers pleasantly, not because the Ponta is ice-cold, either. He doesn’t answer even when Momo waves a hand in front of his face and calls his name.
Ryoma likes to listen to Tezuka, too.
Tezuka most often says things like “Thirty laps!” but Ryoma doesn’t mind. He likes Tezuka’s buchou voice. It makes him smirk, especially when the laps aren’t for him. Even when the laps are for him, it’s okay, as long as it’s Tezuka telling him to do them.
“Ochibi, come on!” Eiji tugs at his sleeve.
“You’re the one who got us in trouble,” Ryoma says, shrugging Eiji’s hand away and rolling his eyes.
“You’d think you liked doing laps,” Momo mutters from beside him. “Standing there smiling like that!”
Ryoma snorts. He wasn’t exactly smiling, and even if he was, so what? Laps aren’t so bad.
The feel of Tezuka is one of the best feelings of all.
After a hard match together, Tezuka still has strength to shake Ryoma’s hand firmly. Ryoma can feel it, the exchange of the power they both have even after a game, going from Tezuka’s hand to his and then back again. Tezuka treats him as an equal, even though Ryoma knows he is still mada mada da ne.
He works to get better because he needs to deserve that handshake.
“A good game, Echizen,” Tezuka tells him.
“Thanks, buchou,” Ryoma says, savoring the warm, slightly sweaty feel of Tezuka’s palm against his.
Ryoma can never catch as much of Tezuka’s scent as he wants to.
He wonders sometimes if it’s weird that he inhales when Tezuka passes by, and decides that it’s not. His father likes the smell of perfume; Ryoma likes the smell of Tezuka. He can’t describe it, exactly. Eiji-senpai always smells like toothpaste. Momo-senpai smells like the outdoors, and Fuji-senpai smells like lilacs, which is odd, given how much wasabi he eats.
Tezuka smells like tennis, Ryoma concludes. If tennis had a scent, it would most definitely be Tezuka’s.
He never lets anyone catch him taking a deep breath when Tezuka is near.
Ryoma has wondered about Tezuka’s taste before, and resolved once, silently, to find out before they were done with junior high. And when Echizen Ryoma resolves to get something done, he usually does it.
He wants to smirk when he finally finds out, but he’s too busy trying to catch his breath and hoping that his breath will never be caught, as long as he can keep this taste forever. Tezuka’s tongue is gentle in his mouth, sliding against his lips and his tongue.
Tezuka tastes faintly of green tea and even more faintly of mint. Mostly, though, he just tastes of Tezuka, which is good enough and better.
Ryoma leans against Tezuka’s chest once they’re done kissing, finally able to breathe in as much of the scent as he cares to. He pulls his head back and looks up into Tezuka’s eyes and grins, still nicely breathless. “Buchou, what do I taste like?”
Tezuka doesn’t even have to consider, as though he’s been puzzling over this question himself and finally found the answer he was looking for. “Ponta. Grape Ponta.”
“Do you like the taste?” Ryoma presses, the adrenaline still racing through him making him cheeky.
Tezuka regards him solemnly. “I didn’t realize how good Ponta was before today.”
“I’ll buy you one, if you buy me some green tea,” Ryoma says. Then he smirks. “Or maybe...”
Tezuka leans down to kiss him again before Ryoma can even finish the sentence.