Was totally not the fic I’ve been meaning to write all week but can’t complain. Written in half an hour. :3 A first!

Kunimitsu is his first name, but there are many times where he, much as he doesn’t want to admit, fails to respond to the call. He knows “Kunimitsu” is his given name and “Tezuka” is his family name. It’s written on his birth certificate. He knows this as well as the feel of the racket in his left hand, as well as the thrill of the ball as it bounces onto his side of the court, as well as the pain that rushes through his shoulders each time he uses the zero-shiki serve.

This doesn’t stop him from responding automatically to “Tezuka”. It isn’t his fault though. Tezuka is barely ever called by his first name. Growing up, Tezuka has always been addressed by his last name – his teachers, his friends, his classmates, even his cousins. Only his mother and his grandfather dare to, but his family is a quiet one, and unnecessary words are rarely spoken, his name is rarely spoken. His father never addresses him by name either, only using a tone of voice that would never be used on his mother or his grandfather.

Consequently, Tezuka is the only thing Tezuka will respond to. Some people call him Tezuka-buchou and some call him Tezuka-senpai. It is not the title that he listens for but the name. When a teacher calls his full name, he listens for the first three syllables and responds in turn. There are even times where he almost responds to the calls for another Tezuka, and fails miserably to answer to Kunimitsu when Fuji teases him or Inui tries to collect his data.

All too frequently he feels that Tezuka is more fitting than Kunimitsu. Kunimitsu, while not unfamiliar, is not a name that slides easily off his tongue or sails smoothly through his ears. It is not the name that is ingrained in his memory.

“Ne, Buchou.”

Tezuka impulsively looks up from his homework, meeting a pair of curious gold eyes.

“Aa?”

Ryoma points at his work with the borrowed mechanical pencil. “Why don’t you ever write your full name?”

He blinks down at the loose sheets of paper and sees the characters of his family name printed neatly across the top corner.

A small smile stretches across his lips but he doesn’t answer.

Ryoma, the exception to almost every tennis rule, can call him anything he wants and he’ll always respond. It’s the way Ryoma’s voice sounds when he wants his attention that he listens for, because it is Ryoma’s voice he has committed to memory.

Forgot to post this here. Um.

Unconsciously, his eyes keep swerving back towards the player sitting on the back bench, drenched in sweat and panting lightly.

The tennis player looks like he’s in pain, with strange bruises on his elbow and scrapes on his knees, but his face betrays nothing. Ryoma finds that strange. He knows the player’s name is Tezuka from the loudmouth’s outburst. He knows that this player is the captain of the team. He’s also gathered that Tezuka had just lost his match.

Tezuka, though, doesn’t look affected at all. He is holding an icepack to his elbow and his eyes are focused intently on the doubles match.

Ryoma easily averts his eyes back to the match. He sees that the pair wearing the uniform that matches the one he is wearing is off to a bad start. The scary one who grabbed him earlier was hissing furiously and glaring daggers at his opponent. Ryoma thinks it’s vaguely funny but the match itself doesn’t really hold his interest.

Instead, he finds himself glancing backwards again. This time a slight jolt runs down his spine when he sees brown eyes focused on him. Tezuka’s gaze is narrow and his eyes are unreadable.

Ryoma inhales sharply, blinking quickly. He doesn’t shift his gaze, however, like someone who’s just been caught stealing a glance. Tezuka himself keeps his sight fixed on Ryoma.

Staying like that, however, is uncomfortable. The view he has by leaning against the rail isn’t all that fascinating either. Casually, he backtracks and then plops nonchalantly down beside Tezuka, careful of the bright red racket in his hand. He looks back at the game, feeling strangely smug when his thigh brushes against Tezuka’s.

Ryoma is running his hands down the strings of what he’s been told is his racket, pressing against them and shifting them to make perfect squares. He’s adjusting the tension, he realizes.

Ryoma quickly sneaks a glance from the corner of his eyes. Tezuka is watching the match again, as blank as always. He is sitting tall and straight, back pressed against the bench with a towel draped over his broad shoulders.

Everything in his demeanor is different to Ryoma’s, who is slouched low with his backside near the edge of the seat. He hastily slides himself up the bench and adjusts his position to mirror Tezuka’s. He sees Tezuka’s eyes flicker and can’t quite keep the satisfied smile off his face. It’s small, barely noticeable, but it’s a reaction from the stoic captain nonetheless.

The crowd breaks into enthusiastic cheering, and the opposing team is chanting something ridiculous. Ryoma turns to look at the center of the court. He feels empty. Not quite sad, but not quite lost. He’s just witnessing tennis and somehow he can’t bring himself to feel anything more to it than that. It’s just a game where people hit a ball back and forth.

The ball curves around the seat of the umpire, only to land in the center of the awaiting racket. Ryoma curls his hand around the grip of his racket and wonders if he’d be able to do something like that. He doesn’t think he wants to though, he can’t see himself hitting that shot. It’s too different and the style isn’t right. Thinking about it too much makes his head hurt and he finds himself losing concentration. Ryoma doesn’t have a long very attention span and so, yet again, he looks at Tezuka.

The captain, despite having lost, still looks dignified. Ryoma doesn’t really know what’s going on, not really, but if the blond haired guy with the annoying way of speaking was to be believed, they are at the Nationals, playing against one of the top teams in the country. This competition is for tennis, with the large roaring crowds and enthusiastic cheering team members. Ryoma can’t bring himself to believe that he’s supposed to excel at this sport.

Frankly, he doesn’t think he cares much for hitting a bright yellow ball back and forth. Right now he’s more interested in watching the recovering player next to him, more interested by the way the light reflects off his glasses, more interested by the way the ice is clenched tightly in Tezuka’s hands as he holds it against his elbow. Ryoma, with his sharp eyes, picks up how tense and restrained and frustrated Tezuka seems, even though his face his slack and his eyes are blank.

Surprisingly, Tezuka opens his mouth to speak, and Ryoma finds himself eagerly anticipating the sound of his voice.

“Echizen.”

His voice is deep, strong, calming. It reminds him of the hot sun on a summer’s day, of the fresh cool water sliding down his dry throat after a long and tiring match on the dusty clay courts, of the ache and pain that settles satisfyingly in his muscles as he sprawls out on the cool grass under the shade of a tree.

It’s reminds him of tennis, pure and simple.

“Watch the tennis match.”

And strangely enough, Ryoma can’t help but keep his eyes focused on the round yellow tennis ball.

Written for Aja a while ago and realized that I hadn’t ever posted it up. Um. And because 6A/LJ is being positively maddening, I’m considering posting fics here only. Maybe. Not decided yet since I only ever write fluff. :\

Tezuka and Ryoma live by routine.

By routine Tezuka is ignoring Ryoma and Ryoma is pretending to sulk.

As per usual Ryoma had done something to Tezuka, something that was probably Unforgivable, Wrong or Downright Embarrassing.

Ryoma snickers as he pulls the rice paper door shut behind him, but quickly forces his lips into a frown when he remembers he is supposed to be sulking.

Ryoma isn’t fast enough because Nanjiroh notices from behind his magazine which is behind a newspaper that is shrouded in smoke.

Ryoma notices Nanjiroh and his frown becomes genuine. His nose screws up slightly at the smell of smoke wafting around the room and he wonders why Nanako hasn’t told the old man off for smoking inside. Quickly, to avoid any lewd comments, Ryoma strides towards the stairs, trying to breathe in as little air as possible. The minute his bedroom door slams shut he hears the beginning of a very crude suggestion involving a girl. Really, he’s only twelve years old for god’s sake.

Ryoma drops his tennis bag by the door and sprawls out onto his bed. Blinking lazily, he punches a short and simple message into his cell phone.

Tennis tomorrow Buchou.

He sends it to the first number in his address book and relaxes. He closes his eyes with a small smirk.

Minutes tick by and he finds himself dozing off. The thought of Tezuka, however, jolts him awake. With a small sigh he pushes himself off his bed and moves towards his desk. The world doesn’t revolve around Tezuka, unfortunately, because Ryoma had homework to do.

Homework was relatively easy but rather time consuming. He breezes through English easily enough, but the quadratic equations take him a lot longer than he would’ve liked. After making a pathetic attempt at his science report he throws his pen down, pouting. Ryoma’s mouth tightens at the corners and he wonders what was taking Tezuka so long to reply. The time it takes to get half his homework done is enough time for Tezuka to get his message and reply.

Perhaps Tezuka retired earlier that night or is busy doing a chore for his mother. He did seem a bit harried earlier that day. Ryoma yawns and blinks tiredly. Time to go to sleep, he reasons, and after changing into his pajamas, brushing his teeth and saving Karupin from his old man he settles into bed. Ryoma leaves his phone on beside his pillow.

Just incase.

-

He wakes up abruptly from the buzzing of his phone. Bleary eyed he gropes around for the device. He frowns when he doesn’t feel it on his bedside table. He feels his pillow vibrating gently.

Tezuka.

Not bothering to check the caller ID he flips open the phone, grumbling with feigned annoyance. “What?”

“OI, OI ECHIZEEEN. HURRY U—”

He quickly snaps the phone shut and stews silently on his bed.

Definitely not Tezuka.

Now that he is fully awake there would be no point to going back to sleep. Not that he could anyway with that wake up call.

-

Ryoma isn’t in a good mood. First he had to wake up to Momoshiro’s voice blaring through his eardrums, then eat breakfast with Nanjiroh’s incessant badgering about some nonexistent girl, and now morning practice had been cancelled due to exams. That meant a morning without tennis or Tezuka.

No. He isn’t in a very good mood at all.

Ryoma, though, is still his sullen and unresponsive self, and his teachers and classmates remain oblivious.

Sakuno, however, notices Ryoma constantly checking his phone in between classes.

-

Lunch time doesn’t alleviate any of Ryoma’s stress. Usually he meets up with Tezuka on the gymnasium rooftop but today there is no sign of Tezuka.

His brows furrow in confusion. Tezuka couldn’t really be mad at him.

Could he?

Lying flat on his back, Ryoma stares into the sky, thinking of reasons why Tezuka could possibly be mad. Yesterday wasn’t any worse than that time he kissed Tezuka in front of his parents. Not really.

-

During afternoon practice Momoshiro is able to get four straight points pass Ryoma, winning a game. Momoshiro doesn’t have another opportunity to try for a set, much less a second game, as Tezuka steps onto the courts and orders Ryoma to run ten laps, voice strong and deep and positively empty.

Ryoma doesn’t hear his sigh of exasperation and fondness, or see his eyes softening in the corners, or the smile shining in his eyes even though his lips were physically fixed into a frown. So Ryoma keeps his eyes firmly rooted to the ground, the brim of his hat falling over his eyes and effectively covering his hurt expression from view. Without complaint, neither a smirk nor snark, Ryoma quickly spins on his heels to run his laps.

Tezuka stares at his back while the first year members and a few regulars divulge in gossip.

Ryoma’s gloomy mood had become a bit obvious after lunch, but many pinned it on lack of sleep (Oishi), getting turned down by a girl (Momoshiro), or losing in a tennis match against someone with two years of tennis experience (Horio). Many agreed on the first idea before Tezuka orders them all to run thirty laps around the tennis courts.

-

After finishing his assigned laps, Ryoma leaves practice early. He doesn’t stay behind to help Tezuka lock up like he usually does, nor does he wait to go out for burgers with Momoshiro and Kikumaru. Instead he heads home.

-

Tezuka locks up the clubroom afterwards and frowns when there is no sign of Ryoma. He was called by Ryuuzaki during the middle of practice and didn’t have the chance to see Ryoma finish his laps or leave the locker room. His forehead creases into a frown and he thinks about Ryoma. He did notice Ryoma acting strangely during practice but wasn’t sure why. He has a few suspicions and, while it isn’t in Tezuka’s nature to pry, he knows letting Ryoma stew over something isn’t a wise idea.

-

Ryoma jerks awake to see Tezuka sitting on his bed, watching him curiously. Ryoma rubs his eyes tiredly.

“Buchou,” he says quietly, void of his usual vigor.

Tezuka inclines his head a fraction of an inch but his eyes do not leave Ryoma’s.

They sit there for a while, silently, just staring. Ryoma barely notices the sounds of Karupin scratching against his closed door, or the slightly deranged singing that couldn’t quite be called humming coming from downstairs, or the muted clangs of dishes and chopsticks as Nanako sets the dinner table.

And then he’s lying sprawled out on his back, pinned to the bed by a heavy and very attractive brunet.

Ryoma doesn’t think of what a bad day Friday was, or the fact that he thought Tezuka was ignoring him; not even tennis. None of that matters because he suddenly knows Tezuka isn’t mad at all, not if they were currently locked at the lips on his bed with the door pushed open by a very disgruntled looking cat, leaving them in full view of anyone who chooses to walk by his room.

With routine, sometimes there has to be changes, but to Ryoma, theirs was a routine that changed to fit their lives without even changing at all.

Well, perhaps Nanjiroh’s startled scream isn’t quite part of routine, but Ryoma didn’t think that counted

Written for Aja and decided to post this here instead of LJ for uh, obvious reasons.

And! Oh god Aja, I didn’t realize how absolutely horrid and full of terrible typos and mistakes and god knows what else else was wrong with this fic when I sent it off to you. ajksfhljksdhgljkdg. ;____; Teaches me to skim over things carelessly. I’m so sorry, I clearly fail at fic writing business. Present tense too. ><;

Title: Boundaries
Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Pairing: Tezuka/Ryoma
Rating: PG
Words: 1,122
Summary: Clubroom, undone shirts and buttons.

The smirk slides off his face and Ryoma stares at him disbelievingly. “Germany.”

Tezuka tightens his belt. “Aa.”

Discontentment shadows Ryoma’s narrowed eyes. His mother and father would go back to America if he asked, but Germany isn’t America; it is far away and foreign and Ryoma doesn’t know a word of the language besides “thank you”. His parents are more lenient than many, but there are boundaries. Germany is one of them.

He stays quiet, not knowing what to say or how to feel. He feels something, certainly, but the problem is that it could be many things; unhappy, surprised, upset, angry, sad. The ache in his heart, Ryoma doesn’t know which one he was feeling.

Tezuka grabs his jacket from the cubicle and shrugs it one. He then bends down towards Ryoma’s and pulls out the jacket from under the unfolded regular’s jersey. He wonders if he should say something, wonders what Ryoma’s silence really means. He closes his eyes, needing just a moment where he doesn’t have to think of consequences.

They both don’t move, they both don’t speak and the room feels as if it’s suspended in time with the undisturbed silence. They stay like that for a second, a minute, for what feels like a long time.

Then, as if their clock started ticking again, Tezuka spins around on his heels as Ryoma pulls his shirt over his shoulder. In three long strides he is standing in front of Ryoma who is buttoning up his shirt. Tezuka doesn’t linger for more a split second because he never likes looking down on Ryoma. He settles down beside Ryoma, slouching slightly as he leans back against the wall. His thigh brushes against Ryoma’s right knee.

Ryoma casts him a sidelong glance. Then he stops buttoning his shirt and stares at Tezuka, eyes blazing fiercely with determination. Tezuka suddenly feels like he’s on the tennis court, with a net and so much distance separating them; he feels like an opponent, feels like Ryoma is studying him and trying to understand everything about him. In a way he was. Tezuka was as much a doubles player as Ryoma was, and the only way to coexist on a tennis court was not just as captain and underclassman, but as rivals. Tezuka returns the heated stare, but finds that his eyes are trailing down to absorb in Ryoma’s state of undress.

Something that couldn’t really be called anything else but a fond look flashes across his face as he pushes off the wall, turning his body around to face Ryoma. Ryoma unconsciously shifts his position to face him, and Tezuka reaches out his hands, grabbing onto his shirt. He starts undoing the buttons. Ryoma blinks in surprise and his mouth drops open a small fraction. He looks a bit incredulous as he glances down to at Tezuka’s strong hands.

“Huh.” The sound is a mixture of a scoff and a dismissal. Ryoma had buttoned his shirt up wrong, just one button, but as a result the rest were wrong too.

Tezuka’s nimble fingers quickly undo the last before he is straightening the shirt over Ryoma’s shoulder. He starts to redo them, slowly this time. He’s conscious of how his fingers flutter lightly against Ryoma’s chest, with only the thin material separating skin. Ryoma shivers lightly with every soft brush. His heart is beating quickly and his breathing a little faster, but he stays as still as he can, hands by his side as he watches Tezuka through half lidded eyes. Tezuka is concentrating on the buttons and the shirt holes, not the smooth plane of muscles he can see peeking out from beneath the white polyester, or the warm breath puffing against his face, or even how irregular his pulse had become as well. Tezuka leaves the first three undone because Ryoma doesn’t like the collar tight around his neck so shortly after a training session.

Tezuka exhales slowly, silently, but he still sees the smirk shining in Ryoma’s eyes. He responds to it by helping Ryoma put on his jacket. Ryoma, not one to sit still for long periods of time, moves his hands up to Tezuka’s collar and pulls the jacket together. He slowly hooks the round buttons through the slits just as Tezuka is doing to his. Their hands move together, sliding smoothly between each other. His arm is beneath Ryoma’s and Ryoma’s is above and they easily button up each other’s jacket.

Tezuka doesn’t do up the collar, and in turn Ryoma leaves his hanging limply. Tezuka is too proper to leave it like that, but whenever Ryoma does it like that he doesn’t bother finishing the job. Tezuka secretly likes it that way, and Ryoma knows full well that he does.

Tezuka is fully dressed now, but Ryoma is still in his tennis shorts. For the most part they’re done and should start heading home because the sun was already setting. Ryoma is looking at him again, the same fierce golden eyes blazing with a light of its own. This time Tezuka doesn’t look away, can’t look away even if he wants to. Ryoma’s hand is still hovering on his top gold button, brushing softly against the cold metal. Tezuka is doing the same to him, fingering patterns across the dark material that would soon occupy his own button.

Ryoma opens his mouth as if to say something. He pauses for a moment and Tezuka can see the uncertainty lurking within his eyes. He is worried, worried a lot. It wasn’t a matter of whether or not they’d win the nationals that makes Ryoma anxious, but the extent of Tezuka’s passion for Seigaku to win the Nationals. It wasn’t obvious, but Tezuka is just as stubborn as he is and can be twice as reckless if he finds it necessary. Ryoma trails his fingers up Tezuka’s neck to rest his cool palm against the warm cheek.

Then his lips thin with resolve and he looks directly into Tezuka’s eyes, gold piercing right through the transparent glasses.

“I’ll take the pillar from you,” Ryoma says with absolute surety, almost vehemently. “I’m going to train hard and I’m going to beat you,” he declares resolutely. Germany is very far away and they have yet to become adults, but there is no doubt that he’d see him again, because he is Echizen Ryoma and this is Tezuka Kunimitsu. He presses his other palm to Tezuka’s cheek, gently, and leans forward.

“I’ll see you on center court,” Ryoma whispers against Tezuka’s lips.

Tezuka relaxes his shoulders and smiles warmly. He bends forward to press his lips more firmly against Ryoma’s, hands moving up to cup Ryoma’s cheeks as well.

“Don’t get careless.”

Written for Kish. You know why. ♥

Tezuka peered down into the old-fashioned glass dangling between his thumb and fingers and swirled it around. Ice rattled against its confines and the amber liquid rippled. There a was curious expression on his face as he studied the drink. Tezuka had never been much of a drinker, but it was already his third glass. He brought the rim to his lips and quickly downed the rest of the drink. The glass quickly found its way onto the countertop and he forced himself not to react violently. He couldn’t, however, stop from cringing as the bourbon burned a trail of spices mixed and mint and vanilla down his throat. He breathed out harshly and ran his tongue tentatively around the walls of his mouth. A hint of caramel and oak remained and his mouth was unpleasantly dry. The bartender was in front of him immediately refilling the glass. Tezuka made a face. He wanted to tell him that he didn’t want to drink anymore, but his tongue felt thick and lax. He had a feeling the man wouldn’t listen to him though, and for that he cursed Atobe.

It seemed the drink had made him a bit too relaxed, and the slur rolled off his tongue smoothly. Someone scoffed and the light from his left was blocked. A sidelong glance from behind his rimless glasses revealed a tall and slim male with dark layered hair. He stared at it, noticing how very strange the color was under the bar’s golden lights. He wanted to know what color it really was. The man sat down on the stool next to the one between them.

Tezuka opened his mouth to speak, but found he didn’t know what to say. He pursed his lips and stared thoughtfully at the stranger, studying him closely. It was a blatant stare, and it would’ve been more than obvious through his peripheral even if he wasn’t paying attention. Tezuka found himself being ignored in favor of ordering a drink.

A noticeable frown pulled down the corners of his mouth. Tezuka usually never minded being ignored, but now he felt a small twinge of annoyance. It was the drink, the half of his brain that was still relatively functioning blamed. The other half was a dull buzz

He shifted his body slightly towards the stranger but kept his arms folded loosely on the tabletop. He cleared his throat and tried to get rid of the taste of dry wood. “Who are you?” His voice sounded slightly cracked, but it couldn’t be helped.

The reply was in the form of silence. Tezuka’s frown deepened. Perhaps he hadn’t asked loudly enough; usually that wasn’t a problem. Tezuka wasn’t used to being unheard, but he wasn’t used to being loud either. He asked again, “Did you—”

“I heard you.” The interruption was just as rude as it was abrupt. Tezuka wasn’t used to being cut off either. He fixed a hard glare on the stranger just as someone whistled. The bartender slid the highball glass from the other end of the counter. The man caught the narrow glass swiftly and lifted it up to his lips, sipping leisurely.

Tezuka huffed and twisted his body around so that he was facing the wall again. With his head nestled on his arms, he gazed at the bubble suspended in the middle of the heavy sham base of his glass.

The glass was set down roughly against the wooden surface and the ice clinked against the crystal glass like bells. Tezuka pretended he couldn’t see it, just like the man had pretended he couldn’t see him.

“Echizen,” he said after an obvious pause. His voice was deep and husky and strangely compelling. Tezuka shifted his head over to the side to look at Echizen before the name even registered through his sluggish mind. What did register immediately, and with a startling jolt, was how amazingly gold his narrowed eyes were.

Echizen, Tezuka thought, and then he wanted to feel how the name rolled off his tongue. It came out slurred and the corners of the alluring eyes tightened. “Familiar,” he murmured tiredly against his sleeve. He felt lethargic now, but he couldn’t go to sleep, not in the middle of the bar. Staring at plain and boring things were bound to lull him to sleep however, so he kept his eyes fixated on Echizen, intent on absorbing every little detail. A few strands of hair slid down over his glasses and obstructed his view of Echizen’s face. He stared at them blankly, almost moodily, as if trying to comprehend why they were trying to impede his careful study of the most captivating eyes he’d ever seen.

“Che.” Echizen was still giving him that strange look, but Tezuka didn’t mind so long as he kept looking at him. Then the man shrugged him off again with a small scoff and returned to his drink.

The image of Echizen turning away engraved itself into his memory just as a flurry of reds and blues and whites flashed through his mind unbidden. Tezuka pushed himself upright suddenly. He didn’t expect the sudden rush of vertigo and became unbalanced. There was a clatter of glass against wood. His vision blurred and he felt as if the world was spinning out of control. He saw Echizen staring at him in surprise before he found himself blinded by the strange dark shade of black and the exotic golden eyes. Tezuka, now steadied by the shoulders, blinked rapidly and wondered why everything was out of focus. Tezuka frowned again. He never liked it when the world went out of focus. He didn’t feel stable, didn’t feel like his feet were planted firmly to the ground because the ground felt like it was above his head, constantly rotating around. Tezuka decided to place the blame on the young man. He didn’t like the many things that Echizen seemed to be reminding him of tonight with just his presence.

“What?” Echizen asked exasperatedly when Tezuka made no move to support his own weight against the counter.

Tezuka furrowed his brows, thinking hard. He couldn’t remember anymore. He tried to remember the feeling the fleeting thought of colors brought but could only think of the colors of the rainbow. Nothing else came to him. “I forgot,” he murmured again, eyes glazed. Tezuka noticed a thin dark brow rising up from behind Echizen’s dark fringe. Tezuka had trained himself at a very young age to notice every tiny little detail. Anything at a close range would be easily recognizable, from the shape to the color to the texture. Today though, his vision remained fuzzy, constantly moving in and out of focus. “You make things blurry,” Tezuka mumbled unhappily, eyes half-lidded. He wasn’t the type to complain, and he definitely wasn’t the type to pout. He found himself doing so anyway.

Echizen snorted gently. “Your glasses fell off,” he said wryly. Tezuka felt as if he’d just been insulted, could literally hear the world “stupid” ringing after the sentence in his mind just as Ryoma’s voice does in his ears. There it was, another thing that rubbed him the wrong way, being insulted.

Tezuka tried to glare at Echizen without straining his eyes, but it took too much effort to pierce through someone who was just a big gigantic blob of hair and skin and gold. Tezuka gave up halfway and decided ignoring him was the best course of action. He pushed off the man and slouched back onto the counter, head nestled in his arms. The warmth of the firm hands on his shoulders lingered no matter how much he tried to brush off the feeling. Worse yet he could feel Ryoma’s stare on his back. He shifted uncomfortably on his seat.

The air around Tezuka shifted and Echizen settled down on the stool next to him, leaning an elbow on the polished counter. “In case you flail around again and fall off your chair,” he answered his questioning glance nonchalantly, with a shrug. Tezuka could hear amusement layered beneath his tone, but paid it no mind.

Tezuka was staring at Ryoma’s arm through his messy chestnut locks, or more specifically, how unnervingly close it was to him. Echizen was breaching his personal space when all night no one had dared approach him besides the host of the party. He eyed the arm in disdain, eyes falling closed to a squint as he tried to focus the red shirt. From close up the continuous red wasn’t so blurry; he could tell that it was made from an expensive silk.

Echizen didn’t seem so bothered by his silence and reached for his abandoned drink. Tezuka looked up when the arm he was studying moved.

“You should be careful,” Tezuka admonished solemnly. “It could have been spiked.” It wasn’t smart to drink something that had been left unsupervised for even a second, after all, ignorance and carelessness was an invalid excuse for getting drunk and doing something stupid.

The brim of the highball was touching Ryoma’s lips, but he had yet to tip the glass back. Echizen snorted but placed it back down nevertheless. He slanted Tezuka a look, the same infuriating brow raised again. “I’ll… take your word for it,” he commented dryly, looking meaningfully at Tezuka’s glass that was now three and a half quarters empty.

“But then you shouldn’t let it go to waste,” remarked Tezuka. An equally inebriated part of his mind that was clearly not functioning properly without the other half badgered him about how absolutely disgraceful it was to waste hard-earned money. The thought was less than pleasing and hurt like his shoulder on a cold day. Guilt was something he couldn’t stand. Tezuka takes hold of Echizen’s glass and sips at it delicately. The unbelievable sweetness of it had him screwing his face up in disgust. He wondered how something so sweet could be classified as alcohol and grouchily slid it across the other end of the table. The bartender was there within moments and caught the highball glass before it descended onto the ground. He shot Tezuka an irritated glare from behind thick opaque eyeglasses. Tezuka disregarded the man and drained his own beverage to wash out the ghastly taste of too much sugar. Perhaps wasting things would benefit after all; nothing should have the right to be so sickeningly sweet.

Echizen made a small inarticulate noise that Tezuka couldn’t discern. “That was my drink,” he stated.

Tezuka hummed in agreement, nestling his head back in the crook of his elbow. Echizen’s voice had a calming effect on him. “You can take mine.” The glass was dangling between his fingers again and he offered it to the man.

Echizen laughed. It was rich and husky and completely, unquestionably mocking. He took the proffered drink though and peered down through the shining amber, twirling the ice around just as Tezuka had been earlier in the night. Echizen gestured for the bartender to take it.

Tezuka was no longer paying attention, having reverted back to staring at Echizen’s arm. He blew on it, just because he could. It didn’t really do anything than incite another raised brow from the owner of said arm. Tezuka didn’t care anymore though. He was feeling dizzy and the world was still blurry and Echizen’s arm was looking really comfortable at that moment. He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the arm. The material was cool and soft against this heated skin, and the darkness was making the world stop spinning out of control, like it was no longer spinning off its axis.

He felt a small jolt from the arm but ignored it.

“You’re leaning on me.”

Tezuka made a low noise from the back of his throat, a sound that was a mixture of emotions that Echizen couldn’t quite discern from. Tezuka didn’t care to think about that though. What he was concerned about was how he couldn’t feel the vibrations of Echizen’s chest as he spoke or the beating of his pulse from where he was leaning. It left him feeling slightly disconcerted.

A hand was on his head, fingers threading through his hair like the warm rush of heat curling around his body that accompanied every sip of bourbon. Tezuka wondered if he was going to be pushed off. He didn’t want to be; Echizen made a wonderful pillow.

“You’re drunk.”

“No,” he denied drowsily, snuggling closer.

Half blind, dizzy and an absolute drunken mess, Tezuka couldn’t help but think that he wanted to keep hearing that voice and feeling that touch.

“I’m happy.”