PoT: fifteen-love
Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Pairing: Tezuka/Ryoma
Rating: PG
Continuity: probably manga, no spoilers
Notes: for pillarchallenge. 1000 words, no idea why the second person, high school-ish again.
fifteen-love
There are stains on your glasses, from the rain that is still pounding on the roof of the locker room. It's like looking through a film, a faint blurriness in your vision, but you're used to it. Outside, the rain is making mud of the clay court, and the sound of the trains passing overhead is lost in the rumble of thunder. The clouds are thick and black enough that you know they will not be clearing any time soon.
On the other bench, Echizen is slumped against the wall, scowling up at the roof as though he can stop the rain by sheer force of will. He had been two games down to three when the storm had broken, and unwilling to give up play. His shoulders are hunched beneath his damp jacket, and you wonder whether he is cold.
A flash of lightning blinds you for a moment, and bright afterimages dance before your eyes as thunder cracks overhead. The rattle of rain on the roof increases. You sigh a little, pulling off your glasses and beginning to clean them on the sleeve of your school shirt. "It will be too wet to play, even if it stops raining."
"Che." All you can see of Echizen is a pale-dark blur. Without your glasses, you feel strangely exposed; you concentrate on cleaning them, methodically wiping away the smears and water stains.
"Buchou?" Echizen's voice is thoughtful, and so quiet that you can barely hear him over the sound of the rain. When you look up, you cannot see his face at all, but something makes your stomach clench anyway. All this year there has been something different in the way Echizen watches you, something more than tennis and rivalry. Too many times you have had to remind yourself that you are his captain.
"If I want something, I should go after it, right?" Echizen is standing, now, but his face is still a rough blur between the white of his shirt and the black of his hair. Your glasses are dead weight in your hand; something keeps you frozen in place as Echizen comes closer.
"Twist serve," he murmurs, barely audible as he stares down at you, eyes wide. His hand is on your chest, fingers splayed across your shoulder and thumb resting atop your collarbone. You can feel the chill of his skin even through your shirt, and you can't tell whether it's your heartbeat or his that is echoing through your ribs.
"Rising counter." Your voice sounds like someone else's, like it doesn't belong to you. There is only one way to break this paralysis, and you have never been able to refuse him. You reach up, fingers tracing along his jaw and tugging him gently down until you can look directly into his eyes, uncertain and dilated and so close that there's nothing else you can see.
"Drive C." You can feel his breath on your skin as he hesitates, and then he closes the distance decisively.
In the back of your mind you are aware that your vision is blurrier than ever, and that the frames of your glasses are digging into the flesh of your free hand. It means nothing; all sensation seems concentrated in your lips as Echizen's mouth moves tentatively against yours. It crosses your mind that he doesn't seem to have any more idea of what he's doing than you do, but it doesn't matter because you feel like your chest is about to burst. This is the most intense feeling you have ever experienced.
Eventually he pulls away, staring half-dazedly down at you as your fingers slide through the soft hair at his nape. It takes you several moments to blink the haze from your eyes, and longer to be able to speak past the sudden lump of almost-dread in your throat. You are still his captain, and he is still a fifteen-year-old boy with more talent than his small body should contain. No amount of kisses will change that, or your responsibilities.
"Fifteen-love," you whisper eventually; he is still close enough that you are not sure you need to speak at all. When he smiles, somewhere between a grin of triumph and the kind of real happiness that you so rarely see from him, you feel your own mouth twitching up despite yourself. Somehow, that seems to make him look even more pleased with himself; his thumb strokes across your cheekbone to the bridge of your nose, skimming your eyelashes.
"You look different without your glasses, buchou." His voice is throaty and low, and you can feel yourself tremble, a little, as his hand sweeps down, lingering over your mouth. When you speak, your lips brush his fingers; your heartbeat feels louder than the rain on the roof.
"You've seen me take them off before."
"Not this close." He smirks, hand sliding around to the back of your neck. You freeze, startled for a moment, as he climbs onto your lap, settling himself against you with a wordless, contented noise. Your skin is just as cold as his, but it feels warm where you touch. You have never been this close to anyone; until now, touch has seemed an imposition, but Echizen has never paid any heed to boundaries.
You abandon your glasses to slide uncertain arms around his waist, holding him as tentatively as if he might break, or disappear. He always manages to reach what he leaps for, never falls short once he commits himself. You are the one who understands rules and proprieties and restrictions, but you have known for a long time that together you have no limits. It's there in every game you play, every time your eyes meet.
His breath is warm on your neck, making your skin tingle. You close your eyes, then open them again to stare at blurry nothing as his hands move over your back, sliding beneath the hem of your shirt.
"You look more like yourself without them," Echizen murmurs into your hair, hands hot and possessive on your chilled skin. You wonder whether it is only your imagination that the rain is slowing. "Don't take them off for anyone else, buchou."
Pairing: Tezuka/Ryoma
Rating: PG
Continuity: probably manga, no spoilers
Notes: for pillarchallenge. 1000 words, no idea why the second person, high school-ish again.
fifteen-love
There are stains on your glasses, from the rain that is still pounding on the roof of the locker room. It's like looking through a film, a faint blurriness in your vision, but you're used to it. Outside, the rain is making mud of the clay court, and the sound of the trains passing overhead is lost in the rumble of thunder. The clouds are thick and black enough that you know they will not be clearing any time soon.
On the other bench, Echizen is slumped against the wall, scowling up at the roof as though he can stop the rain by sheer force of will. He had been two games down to three when the storm had broken, and unwilling to give up play. His shoulders are hunched beneath his damp jacket, and you wonder whether he is cold.
A flash of lightning blinds you for a moment, and bright afterimages dance before your eyes as thunder cracks overhead. The rattle of rain on the roof increases. You sigh a little, pulling off your glasses and beginning to clean them on the sleeve of your school shirt. "It will be too wet to play, even if it stops raining."
"Che." All you can see of Echizen is a pale-dark blur. Without your glasses, you feel strangely exposed; you concentrate on cleaning them, methodically wiping away the smears and water stains.
"Buchou?" Echizen's voice is thoughtful, and so quiet that you can barely hear him over the sound of the rain. When you look up, you cannot see his face at all, but something makes your stomach clench anyway. All this year there has been something different in the way Echizen watches you, something more than tennis and rivalry. Too many times you have had to remind yourself that you are his captain.
"If I want something, I should go after it, right?" Echizen is standing, now, but his face is still a rough blur between the white of his shirt and the black of his hair. Your glasses are dead weight in your hand; something keeps you frozen in place as Echizen comes closer.
"Twist serve," he murmurs, barely audible as he stares down at you, eyes wide. His hand is on your chest, fingers splayed across your shoulder and thumb resting atop your collarbone. You can feel the chill of his skin even through your shirt, and you can't tell whether it's your heartbeat or his that is echoing through your ribs.
"Rising counter." Your voice sounds like someone else's, like it doesn't belong to you. There is only one way to break this paralysis, and you have never been able to refuse him. You reach up, fingers tracing along his jaw and tugging him gently down until you can look directly into his eyes, uncertain and dilated and so close that there's nothing else you can see.
"Drive C." You can feel his breath on your skin as he hesitates, and then he closes the distance decisively.
In the back of your mind you are aware that your vision is blurrier than ever, and that the frames of your glasses are digging into the flesh of your free hand. It means nothing; all sensation seems concentrated in your lips as Echizen's mouth moves tentatively against yours. It crosses your mind that he doesn't seem to have any more idea of what he's doing than you do, but it doesn't matter because you feel like your chest is about to burst. This is the most intense feeling you have ever experienced.
Eventually he pulls away, staring half-dazedly down at you as your fingers slide through the soft hair at his nape. It takes you several moments to blink the haze from your eyes, and longer to be able to speak past the sudden lump of almost-dread in your throat. You are still his captain, and he is still a fifteen-year-old boy with more talent than his small body should contain. No amount of kisses will change that, or your responsibilities.
"Fifteen-love," you whisper eventually; he is still close enough that you are not sure you need to speak at all. When he smiles, somewhere between a grin of triumph and the kind of real happiness that you so rarely see from him, you feel your own mouth twitching up despite yourself. Somehow, that seems to make him look even more pleased with himself; his thumb strokes across your cheekbone to the bridge of your nose, skimming your eyelashes.
"You look different without your glasses, buchou." His voice is throaty and low, and you can feel yourself tremble, a little, as his hand sweeps down, lingering over your mouth. When you speak, your lips brush his fingers; your heartbeat feels louder than the rain on the roof.
"You've seen me take them off before."
"Not this close." He smirks, hand sliding around to the back of your neck. You freeze, startled for a moment, as he climbs onto your lap, settling himself against you with a wordless, contented noise. Your skin is just as cold as his, but it feels warm where you touch. You have never been this close to anyone; until now, touch has seemed an imposition, but Echizen has never paid any heed to boundaries.
You abandon your glasses to slide uncertain arms around his waist, holding him as tentatively as if he might break, or disappear. He always manages to reach what he leaps for, never falls short once he commits himself. You are the one who understands rules and proprieties and restrictions, but you have known for a long time that together you have no limits. It's there in every game you play, every time your eyes meet.
His breath is warm on your neck, making your skin tingle. You close your eyes, then open them again to stare at blurry nothing as his hands move over your back, sliding beneath the hem of your shirt.
"You look more like yourself without them," Echizen murmurs into your hair, hands hot and possessive on your chilled skin. You wonder whether it is only your imagination that the rain is slowing. "Don't take them off for anyone else, buchou."