chineseink | [PoT] Linger Long, PG, Gen, TezuRyo

Linger Long
Prince of Tennis, PG, TezuRyo, 1306 words
Ryoma chases many people and waits for only one.

For

forochel as a belated birthday gift, though she may lovingly never read this, and for

svz_insanity because she will.

Linger Long
by

meitachi

The sunlight was hot on his back as he heaved, air rushing laboriously in and out of his lungs, arm swinging in the same perfect arc time after time after time. The rhythm of the ball against his racket, the ground, the wall, and the ground again echoed in his ears, matching his breaths. The brim of his cap, tugged low, kept long shadows over his eyes in the dazzle of the afternoon, sunlight melting across the courts and fences and making the edges of the trees on the horizon blur into the blue of the sky.

Ryoma spent hour upon endless hour against a wall until he felt the burn in his right arm, sweat dripping off him and onto the sunlight-stained ground, and then he switched the racket to his left arm.

--

Club business necessitated far more paperwork than Tezuka would have liked. He preferred the comfortable, tangible grip of a racket in his hands and the familiarity of stretching towards a fast, flying ball; his body was trained for tennis, prepared after years of practice, and had grown to need it the way runners couldn't stop running without feeling sick. Somewhere, in the quiet of his eyes and the firmness of his orders—"twenty laps around the courts"—obvious but never flaunted, was a fierce love for his sport. Tezuka was not someone who would give so much of himself to anything he didn't love; he was not the type to tease or dabble on a whim.

Tezuka knew well, however, that love alone could not sustain a dream, as romantic as the notion was, all passion and hope and a flurry of sheer, unadulterated emotion, and so he fulfilled his duties to the best of his abilities. Paperwork was there for a reason: to arrange ranking matches, to maintain top-grade equipment, to guarantee club funds, to ensure continued approval and support from the school, and Tezuka would never forsake these duties as mundane or unimportant. He attended to them diligently.

"Interesting," however, was another matter altogether. He pushed up his glasses with a small frown, then set his shoulders and returned to the form he was filling out, handwriting precise and neat.

--

Sometimes Momoshiro would stay after practice to play an unofficial game or two with him, loud with friendly, competitive chatter, and serious enough about the game for Ryoma to be willing to play; sometimes they would just hit balls at each other or the wall, practicing and perfecting their new techniques, or strengthening and improving their old ones. The camaraderie was easy and the atmosphere was always warm, sunlit and loud and open. Momoshiro would praise himself and Ryoma would take him down a peg or two, for which Momoshiro would always smack him for being upstart with his upperclassman, and then Ryoma would snicker.

Sometimes Kikumaru would stay around instead of rushing off with Oishi for whatever the redhead had deemed worthy of their attention that afternoon, and he would infuse their banter with higher level of energy, turning backflips and complaining that Ryoma never hung out with them after practice anymore (to which Ryoma always replied, "What are we doing now, senpai?" and Kikumaru would exclaim, "This doesn't count!").

Most days, however, despite whoever had stayed past the long, grueling practices for whatever reasons, Ryoma always found himself alone by late afternoon, after even the other first-years had straggled off after cleaning up the courts. He didn't mind the solitude, training until his shirt had soaked through and he had to pause to pull off his cap and scrape his sweaty bangs off his forehead. Few people wandered by from their own late club activities and he adjusted his cap, tugged his shirt from where it was sticking to his back, and crouched down to pick up the balls at his feet.

He never kept track of the time.

--

Meetings were frequently difficult for Tezuka because he never felt that he had much to say. Ryuuzaki-sensei was more than aware of everything Tezuka did for the club, from any new training regimens implemented to any new formations he had his doubles pairs working on; she was a good coach and though she trusted Tezuka implicitly, she was always well up-to-date with the nuances of her club. In their meetings, she would be seated behind her desk, shuffling papers and Tezuka would stand before her, no matter how many times now she'd offered a chair; it was like ritual now. She would comment about anything that concerned her, bringing up problematic second-years, suggesting certain match-up practice games, and Tezuka would make the occasional contribution to her observations.

He kept her words firmly in mind and when the meetings were over, he retired to his desk in the student council office and mulled over the best options for the tennis club. He jotted down any comments he felt needed more thought and made a note to consult Inui for a more in-depth analysis.

Then he slid those papers to the side of the desk and, as the sunlight angling in through the window grew lower and shadows in the room grew longer, Tezuka refocused on a new set of concerns regarding school policy and student organizations.

--

The days were long with the advent of summer and Ryoma never had to worry about dark approaching before he arrived home. Hour after hour of relentless practice was accompanied by equally relentless sunlight, which trickled into every nook and cranny not shielded by self-generated shadows. It was when the dark-blur edge of the fence crept along the ground and touched his feet that Ryoma set down his racket and went to the water fountain, splashing his face and quenching his thirst.

Cool water streamed down his neck and crawled down his back, shiver-inducing contrast to the warm sweat clinging to him. He wiped his face with his sleeve and then gathered his things, heading to the clubroom. His rackets and balls were always placed carefully back into his bag before he stripped, tossing his clothes carelessly over the bench before he padded, naked, into the showers.

His showers were always quick because when he indulged, he preferred long soaks in lavender-scented baths, and the sting of water against his sore muscles was more of a cool-down than a relaxation. He scrubbed himself clean, shook soapy water out of his hair, and toweled himself dry.

The door opened as he shrugged on his uniform shirt, working methodically at the buttons. "Buchou," he said, not glancing towards the door where Tezuka would undoubtedly be framed by the blinding gold of lazy, hot sunlight.

Tezuka said nothing and waited until Ryoma was finished dressing. He held the door open as Ryoma gathered his things, slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder, and made his way to the exit.

In the distance, Ryoma could see a few of the student council members walking away, on their way home. He didn't know their names.

"Echizen," Tezuka said and golden eyes looked up at him, unconcerned. "Did you train well?"

"Hmm," said Ryoma, moving past him. "You took a long time, buchou."

Tezuka shut the door behind them and pulled out the keys, sliding it into the lock and turning. He checked the handle and then slipped the key back into his pocket. Ryoma was waiting for him and they fell in step as they made their way towards the school gates. "You've improved?" he asked, noting the tired but satisfied way Ryoma dragged his feet, hands in his pockets. He missed that feeling sometimes.

"I'll beat you soon," Ryoma said, smirk forming on his face.

Tezuka allowed a small smile in answer. He didn't say anything more as they walked in companionable silence, sun hot on their backs as the school's tower tolled a low six chimes.

--

Started/Finished: 05.25.06

Notes: Ummm...don't hate me? This is written without having ever read a single TezuRyo. No, like, ever. So it's almost like gen, really. ~~Believe it!~~