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PoT fic: Time's The Charm (Atobe/Tezuka, Yukimura/Sanada) Part Two.
Title: Time's The Charm
Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Pairing: Atobe/Tezuka, Sanada/Yukimura
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
pixxers, for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
santa_smex. :)
Part One.
Oishi and Eiji arrive late, for once, and Atobe's never been more enthusiastic about someone else's incompetence. He has time to look at Tezuka and say, meaningfully, in the sex voice that never, never fails, “I got your e-mail.”
“What?” Tezuka says. Atobe resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Oh, right, yes.”
“Perhaps we can go out for dinner, and talk about it.” Atobe makes his eyes very intense so that it doesn't matter that Tezuka's got a few inches in height on him, because he's Atobe, and he's intense, and already, Tezuka is shifting backwards a bit.
“Perhaps after the match, we shouldn't-”
“Over-indulge?”
“Yes...”
“What sort of indulgence takes your fancy right now?”
“Your sort,” Tezuka says, with a tiny smirk of his own. It's the first chink of light through a seemingly impenetrable armour, and Atobe's smile goes up a million watts.
“My sort's a dangerous sort,” he says. “Full of getting careless and letting your guard down.”
“I think I can cope.”
“Are you sure, Buchou?”
“Don't do that.” Tezuka is looking at him with a strange expression. Atobe scrutinizes him, and, just as he's working out that it's arousal and not disapproval, Oishi's voice echoes from the other side of the court, and he nearly kicks something. It's not like he can send Oishi away, either, like he could one of his own regulars — and besides, Tezuka's already going over there, and damn his stupid pillarness.
Eiji is looking at Atobe like he doesn't trust him. This is fine. Atobe gives him a wave identical to Eiji's, the last time they met. Eiji breaks out into a laugh, looks at Tezuka and then wipes it off his face in the blink of an eye. Oishi sort of looks around, and Eiji giggles at him, so Oishi has to work hard not to smile along. It's nothing like Hyotei, nothing like Hyotei at all.
The match is superb, Atobe thinks, but he's biased and Oshitari says as much when he 'phones him outside the changing rooms. Tezuka and Oishi are talking about something mind-numbing, the kind of things Atobe least wants to talk about when he's adrenaline-fuelled and exhilarated from playing and winning.
“You're telling me you trounced the GP?”
“Trounced is a subjective word. We won 6:4. How does that sound?”
“Unlikely. Are you sure? You sound like you're in the bar.”
“I'm not in the bar! Yuushi! We did it. We kicked doubles' ass. We're going to own them, Seiichi and that fucking-”
“Yes, yes, very good, very good. Do you want to come over? We could celebrate you as Japan's upcoming doubles pro. Bring Tezuka.”
“Ah, no, I have different plans...”
“Keigo...”
“Later, Yuushi.” Atobe is smirking as he flips the 'phone shut. Tezuka is heading his way, still half-waving to Oishi, and Atobe is smiling again. It is an exerted smile, a 'this is how I'd look after sex' smile, and Tezuka is starting to pay attention. They wander in together without exchanging a word, though Tezuka looks happier than he has in a while. They remove clothes and to cover up the bareness and the silence, Tezuka says, “that was excellent.”
“Yes,” Atobe says. “I knew we'd be fine.”
“I think we can win it.”
“I know we can.” Atobe strides closer to Tezuka, gradually, rotating his shoulders. He has a towel on but it doesn't cover much. Tezuka looks him in the eyes, though, and this pleases him. Tezuka goes into the shower first, and makes Atobe curve in a long arc to follow him, by which point he's naked and under the spray. His hair is very black and plastered to his neck, and his eyes look huge and young without his glasses on. Only without his clothes on is it obvious how tall he actually is; how his shoulders reach across and his back slopes, long down to his hips, pronounced and still a bit awkward. He is all angles, a growing triangle. Atobe stands behind him, and Tezuka's eyes run up the tiles, sensing the heat of his body through the water. He doesn't move, though he knows what Atobe wants. He'll do things on his terms. It isn't that he's afraid — it's that he cautious, and likes to be in control. It's that he won't make a move until he's sure where he'll land. It's that he wants to squash all of the ego out of Atobe, all of the stuff he finds ridiculously hot, and shouldn't. So when Atobe huffs a little and makes for another shower, Tezuka turns him around by the shoulder and the gesture is enough, Atobe backs up against the wall. For the first time, Tezuka feels in control of the situation.
He presses up against him and Atobe's eyes close, sensing the changing dynamic and running with it. “Tezuka,” he says, a purr, an echo of the court, an echo of a year ago. Tezuka wishes he could be so fluid, so trusting, as this body spread languid on the tiles.
“Is this what you want?” he says, voice dim under the spray, and Atobe nods, his eyes still closed. When he opens them, they are dark, almost unnatural. The wind howls outside. Atobe's eyes are like one of those days you never want to go outside in; like falling rain, like shards of sleet, all cold and painful and treacherous. All the days he's ever played Fuji, the weather was like the look in Atobe's eyes now. His body is warm and Tezuka moves closer, isn't sure how this is done but thinks he can work it out, cupping his face with one hand. The touch opens it all up, breaks the last straw, maybe, and it's on — they slam together like two dice thrown onto a board. He's kissed girls before, Tezuka, one girl. She was his next door neighbour and they were twelve. It was motionless and didn't excite him, not the way this wrecks him. It's too hot, too much, he can't breathe through it until he remembers his nose and then it's okay, okay, okay. Atobe doesn't taste like a woman, of cinnamon or lip-gloss or whatever it was she tasted like; he tastes like shower spray and sweat and faint blueberry PowerAde because he was drinking it, on the court. When Tezuka touches Atobe's upper lip with his tongue, he really tastes it, tastes it all, because Atobe's lips part and their tongues brush together and Tezuka has to come up for air, then, he just has to. Both their mouths are wet when they part and Atobe's eyes are blacker than ever. He breathes, hard, and looks at him. They look at each other.
“We can go back to Hyotei,” Atobe says. “You don't board here.”
“No,” Tezuka says, and then to clarify, “I don't.”
Atobe comes out of the shower and calls for a car, then gets back in to wash his hair. Tezuka is finishing and so he has time to think, as he's drying himself. There's not much to think about; he knows what he wants. He knows he's ready. He's not sure he wants a relationship out of Atobe — out of anyone, right now — but this is like tennis, like running down a hill until all the breath's spent from your lungs. It's right. He'd never been sure of Atobe until he'd worked out how to overcome him, beat him at his own game. There's only one question, sitting in his mind like a lazy troll, blocking the bridge ahead. When they're in the car, which is alarmingly plush for Tezuka's tastes, he leans over and asks it.
“Of course not,” Atobe says. “You know me better than that, now.”
“I didn't mean it-”
“As an accusation, I know. I know you, Tezuka. You're not that kind of person. I don't want you because we're playing doubles together, because I want to win. I want you because you're you. I've wanted you since last year but you're too stubborn to go out anywhere with me, so I relished playing with you. I thought it might change your mind.”
“It did.”
“Why do you want me, then?” Atobe's eyes are glittering with malice.
“You may be the person who understands me.”
Atobe looks at him, eyes turning serious, and nods. That means more to him than the way most people respond. But then, he knows Tezuka isn't the type to rattle off physical compliments one after another after another.
--------
Much later on, Atobe sits, in a pair of tracksuit bottoms, cursing at life. The small figure of Tezuka is long gone and Atobe doesn't know what to make of the evening. For two people so much in harmony, for two people who kicked doubles' ass , the whole sex part was obviously not meant to be. Obviously, they were meant for tennis and not for one another. They are either too similar, or too different, or too something, and Atobe is tired of chasing down reason and attempting to understand why he and Tezuka don't fit together properly. Atobe has had incredible sex with girls he's not even really liked, before. He really likes Tezuka. Tezuka really likes him. They have, each, massive lust for life; the sort that keeps them driving towards their goals, the sort that keeps them going through the never-ending tie breaks in life. They are both stubborn as hell, relentless as air, massive like tidal waves when they wash through things and make everything their own. Perhaps they're all too much for one another. Atobe is horny and fed-up and only the first one counts for anything. He can't believe, two hours on, that the sex can have gone so wrong.
The moment when he knew it was over, that wasn't something he'd experienced in tennis. Even when he's down and out, Atobe always believes there's a chance, because that's what's kept him playing through the years, that self-belief. Only sex is different, sex with Tezuka, anyway. He'd gotten them both into the room after a few nervous goes at the door, and there'd been a silence as Tezuka politely sat down and studied his surroundings. Everything about the initial fire had given way to apprehension and propriety, and Atobe had given in to thinking nervous thoughts. He'd never done this before. How is it done? How is it initiated, what am I supposed to-, and Tezuka had simply said,
“You have a nice room.”
As if it needed saying, as if it were the most important thing in the world. Atobe was so annoyed by it, so annoyed by the simplicity and the politeness and the significance of the one, small sentence, he'd climbed up onto the bed and kissed him. It was a start. They were tentative and uneasy, neither prepared to jump to the obvious conclusion of removing clothes. It hadn't been overtly said, nothing was sure, nothing was certain. Atobe didn't think he could ever start asking the questions that would need asking. He sort of hoped they'd work themselves out, in time. When he moved over, stretched out, Tezuka sort of arranged himself awkwardly against him and they looked at each other. More kissing followed, more delaying time until the inevitable point where they'd have to discuss it, make it clear that they were on the same page. Suddenly, overwhelmed by the reality of it, Atobe realised that he had no idea what the hell he was doing. It was an unfamiliar feeling that wormed in his gut and the more Tezuka looked at him, with those eyes, the more out of his depth he felt. He removed his shirt with anger, trying to force the sensation of uselessness from his head, scrubbing fabric over his chest with the pain of wounded pride. Tezuka was finding the buttons on his own shirt, the room unbearably silent as each of them fell away, leaving skin that was paler than it had been in the shower. As if it were a game, Atobe had removed his trousers next, and watched Tezuka do the same. Clinically, they took turns and the kissing stopped until they were naked, and then it started again because there were no more clothes to remove. The room was very cold.
The worst part was when he had to shift, when Atobe had to shift and run a hand down between his legs to wring out the limp nervousness, to try and encourage something in his cock that wasn't whiteout fear. If Tezuka noticed, he didn't say anything. When Atobe returned his gaze to him, he was silent, his eyes dark and wide. It dawned on him, then, that he didn't know what he'd use for lube — had they agreed that he was on top? Had he totally missed that? - and he didn't know anything about technique, and this was Tezuka, why hadn't he practised on someone who didn't mean as much? The kissing started again but the fire had gone, extinguished by nerves and inadeptness and really, Atobe should have known right then that nothing good was going to come of it. He leaned forward and Tezuka brushed a hand against his cock and he jumped, startled, and Tezuka realised that, as much as films lied, this was not what sex was supposed to be like. And Atobe, surprised, leaned down with his elbow, caught Tezuka's shoulder and his hair, producing a faint 'ow'. They looked at each other, united at last, but in disappointment and mutual resignation. They'd talked for a while, about nothing very much at all, and then Tezuka had been unable to stand it, and had left without much of a word. They'd meet in two days time for one last practice before the match at the weekend. They were back to tennis. That was it.
To: Atobe Keigo
From: Tezuka Kunimitsu
Subject: -
Maybe it happens to everyone the first time — don't worry. We can, maybe try
To: Atobe Keigo
From: Tezuka Kunimitsu
Subject: -
Maybe it was just nerves and we should
To: Atobe Keigo
From: Tezuka Kunimitsu
Subject: -
I want to try it again.
--------
When they arrive at Hyotei, Sanada gives a dismissive snort. Yukimura cranes his neck up at the buildings, quirking an eyebrow.
“Style over substance?” he queries.
Sanada just looks at him. “Wait until you see Atobe. He's only increased in-”
“I am intrigued by anyone who riles you up this much, Genichirou.”
“That's cruel, Seiichi.”
“You love me.”
“Do you think they've practiced as much as we have?”
“Probably.” Yukimura says, grimly. “Tezuka takes things very seriously. And Atobe...as you've told me, he isn't the easiest person to play doubles with.”
“I fully expect a repeat of the American tournament performance.”
“Oh, don't tease me. That'd be too easy.”
“We'd get to go home early.”
“Genichirou, I do believe you're suggesting-”
“Sanada-san,” Atobe says, walking from the main entrance. The honorific is slightly sarcastic. “Yukimura-san.”
“Atobe-san,” Yukimura says, his eyes glittering as he reaches out a hand to Atobe, slanting them across to Sanada as if to say, 'very nice'. Sanada just glowers. “Good day for a match.”
“Yes,” Atobe says, nonchalantly. “I'm sure you'll be comfortable on our grounds.”
“They're certainly up to par with our own.” Sanada cuts in, voice low and deep, slightly territorial. Yukimura smirks.
“I should hope so,” Atobe says, in such a way that it sounds polite and not insulting. It's all Yukimura can do not to burst out laughing. The man is exactly as he'd imagined the boy would be.
“Has Tezuka arrived yet?”
“Yes, he was here about ten minutes ago. I believe he's checking the court over.”
“So,” Yukimura says, the big question. “Do you think you can win?”
Atobe grins, bearing teeth. “I always do.”
--------
He doesn't feel quite so confident when they're standing beside each other, he and Tezuka, in the aftermath of the Great Embarrassment of 2006. Tezuka has told him to put it to the back of his mind and concentrate on the tennis and when Tezuka is so forthright it's difficult to disobey him. So Atobe tries, and they find an oddly comfortable calm when the rackets are in their hands and their opponents stand behind the net. They knock fists together and Tezuka says something about having a good match and not letting it go to a tie-break, and Atobe laughs, the sound filling the court. They assume positions and Atobe takes a moment to survey the crowd - his crowd — and throws the ball in the air. As it spins, there's a uproar; the game is on, and Hyotei rise to the challenge. Due to only making the quarter-finals, Hyotei have never participated in a National final. Most of the sub-regulars have never seen Rikkai players. There's a feeling of genuine excitement, of team spirit whipped up like a whirlwind. This might as well be life and death.
When he serves, the ball makes a thwack, a satisfying crack on impact, and soars over the net where it meets Sanada's racket. He returns it, not easily, but not struggling and it's a good start because Atobe taps it, just over the net. When it comes back, Yukimura having the reflexes of a cat, Tezuka backhands it to the baseline and it wins them their first point. As the game progresses, they're startlingly equal. Yukimura and Sanada take as many points as they lose, their harmony allowing them to cover most of the court and take advantage of awkward shots. Atobe and Tezuka still struggle to conceive of the court as a shared space and in the first game, they let a few points slip through their fingers. The crowd rises into a frenzy, and Sakaki-sensei crosses one leg over the other. Over the excited rhythm of the Hyotei chanting, Atobe can hear the discordant squeals of Seigaku. He remembers its authority, back in his match with Tezuka, and is glad it's on his side, now. The Rikkai squad are between the two in number, and they cheer loudly over the rest to make up for it. Atobe finds, as the games progress, that things become easier when he blocks out all the outside noise altogether. He has to close his eyes between points, between the change of server, but it's worth it because he finds the space inside his head, the space that makes it possible for him to disappear completely within tennis. Before he knows it, tennis is all there is, the stretch of limbs, the squashing of his toes inside his trainers as his wrist turns to tap the ball, to hear that wonderful crash of ball on strings. Sweat skids down his back and his eyes pinprick, focused only on the little yellow thing, the sound of Tezuka moving beside him.
Their play is not as segregated as they'd planned it. They move into harmony silently, with Tezuka pulling the ball back towards them with the Zone and Atobe using fast shots that refuse to take prisoners. Sanada is playing the defensive game and Yukimura takes Atobe on, matching brutality with brutality. They get into such a rally that Tezuka intervenes, a slippery ball comes his way, and he performs Zero Shiki just to get the point. Yukimura laughs, shakes water from his hair, nods to Atobe. Atobe grins, understands. It's impossible to see him as a true rival, when both understand tennis this way. Yukimura plays each game like it's his last, the way Atobe does. Both Sanada and Tezuka play games as stepping stones to something better, next time around. For Yukimura and Atobe, there is no next time — only now, only this, only working the body until the muscles ache with lactic acid and the heart rolls like a storm. They go fast, games like this, and the score reaches 6:6 in around an hour, twenty minutes. All of them are tiring, they've all crossed the threshold of weary and are into themselves, completely immersed in the game. The crowd has faded to a hum in the background. Between points, Tezuka and Atobe have taken to looking at each other, silent congratulations on getting this far. We did it, partner. Atobe never thought he'd find himself enjoying doubles. Tennis still has the ability to surprise him.
The last game is more intense than all of the rest put together; Yukimura shows his finest form and Atobe fears that what they have isn't enough. They gain a point when Tezuka follows through Atobe's Hametsu e no tango, which takes Sanada by surprise when he's on the defensive. This is particularly satisfying to Atobe, given the circumstances. Sanada retaliates, a rare moment of flaring fire, with an effective Fuu smash that crashes into the ground. Atobe remembers that one from Junior Senbatsu, and scowls. Tezuka looks at him, his eyes full of a plan, and Atobe remembers their idea. He lets Tezuka intervene, takes to the background and watches the Zone; watches what Tezuka is like when he's in motion. Yukimura knows that something has changed, but not what, and his aggressive style is slowly brought down by Tezuka's defenses. It is like watching a cat trying to fit itself through a small hole, with no room to manoeuvre. They exchange points until it's deuce, then advantage to them, and Atobe's turn to serve. The crowd are all up from the seats, then, watching what's like a dice rolling down a board, waiting to fall one way or another. Atobe steps up front, takes the ball and looks at his opponents, full of black fire and ready, ready to fight for the game. A quirk of his lips and he turns his eyes to Sanada, and he knows that Sanada knows what he's about to do.
He performs the Tannhauser and it's not enough time, not enough suspicion for either of them to do anything about it; both reach and it's not enough, and the ball flies past and that's it, it, it. The crowd goes nuts and Yukimura throws his head back and Atobe feels the wrench in his shoulder that's everything that's good, in that moment, that's alive and tennis and victory. He looks at Tezuka, and at Tezuka's eyes that are bright with euphoria and he's never felt better, not even when he thought Hyotei could go to Nationals, not even when he raised Tezuka's hand above the net, not even then. And so he does it again, because it feels like it's right — he walks to the net and they touch hands, he and Yukimura, he and Sanada, and then he raises Tezuka's fist. When he looks across the net, Yukimura does the same with Sanada's, and Atobe thinks that this is it, tennis is it.
They have the quickest shower imaginable, because Atobe's buzzing and all he wants to do is talk tennis, be tennis, for a bit longer. They exchange looks but they're not ones of nervousness or apprehension, not any more, because he can't stop grinning and it's infectious, Tezuka joins in. Sanada doesn't speak much but he's watching Yukimura, who has enjoyed himself more than he has in a while, so he's pleased inside. Yukimura busies himself baiting Atobe about his flashy moves and his flashy school, and Atobe is too ecstatic to care much about this plebe insulting him and so he just flicks water at him and looks back at Tezuka. Tezuka isn't thinking at all, which is how he knows that it was a good game. Suddenly, he understands why the Golden Pair are the Golden Pair. He understands Oishi, and Eiji, better than he ever has before. When they leave the showers, dressed and worn-out, he says goodbye to his opponents with genuine feeling, thinking that they have both taught him something special about the game.
--------
“You left some of your things in my room,” Atobe says, lazily, as they walk away.
“I'll collect them now,” Tezuka says, equally contented.
They take a slow stroll and for the first time, it just feels right, like friends, like unspoken harmony. Like it does with Yuushi, like it does with Oishi. Only, when the door closes behind them, it suddenly smooths into different. Atobe palms a hand on it and pushes it shut and then turns, and Tezuka is there, all brown eyes and urgency. He wraps a hand around the back of his neck and brings Atobe's mouth to his, and it's all Atobe can do to remain standing up. His pride kicks in and he kisses back, then, hard and furious and with Tezuka's face in his hands and they knock things over, trying to trample like a strange two-bodied creature across the room. Atobe palms a hand down to find the bed and he pulls Tezuka down onto it, stopping for a second before it's too much, and then it starts again. There's not much room to roll but they manage it, until Atobe's on top and looking into Tezuka's face and saying,
“What made you-”
“Shut up,” Tezuka says. “Just shut up, and do something. Do something.”
“Now you tell me,” Atobe quips, smirking. “I thought it'd take you fifty years to stop your thinking a-”
“Keigo,” Tezuka says, and it's a warning. “Now.”
If there's anything that riles Atobe up, it's being told what to do — because it irritates him, and when Tezuka does it, it's hot, and that's just as intolerable. So he snarls and pulls Tezuka's t-shirt off, scratching his skin as he does it because he's in the way, always in the way, the stupid bastard with his scrawny shoulderblades and his long arms and the legs that go on forever. Tezuka's hands are working on his trousers and he moves his knees out of them as Tezuka lifts his hips for his own. In a scrabble, with arms and legs going everywhere, they manage to shake all of the clothes onto the floor. Having had such a disaster last time around, Atobe learnt something, sent Yuushi to find some lube because Yuushi would know where to get it, having neither shame about his knowledge nor about where he shopped, and enough discretion not to ask questions. Or, enough psychic ability not to need to. One never knew with Yuushi but it was worth the alarm because he always came through, and tube in hand, Atobe felt like they could work it out. Lying out flat against Tezuka, they were both warm, warm from tennis and the shower, their angles sliding together.
“Bring your knee up,” he said, breathing on Tezuka's neck. Tezuka did so, bringing a pillow down for his neck, then resting on it so that his collarbone was there, all moist and smelling like aftershave. As he ran a hand along the back of his thigh, Atobe mouthed it, tasting tennis and Tezuka. “This is okay?” he asked, eyes finding Tezuka's.
“Yes,” Tezuka said. “Yes, this is okay. No more questions.”
There's no need to check, but Atobe still jumps when Tezuka puts his hand between his legs, and this makes Tezuka smirk. Atobe swats him on the thigh and brings his other leg up, resting between and finding a comfortable position. His hands are sticky and Tezuka makes guttural noises when he uses his fingers, letting his head fall back and making Atobe feel like he's the very king of the universe. Alexander the Great might have missed out on a few worlds left to conquer, he thinks, only he doesn't vocalize the thought because it'd come out in a series of 'unnff's and Atobe prides himself on not sounding like a moronic fool, even in bed. Only Tezuka is 'unnff'ing and, well, what's good for Tezuka is good for him. He's wriggling, and that makes Atobe groan himself, despite himself. He doesn't know when is enough but it doesn't matter, because Tezuka will tell him, tell him when he needs more — probably in that voice that, oh, fuck, like that.
Tezuka's eyes have turned very dark. His voice is very light. The contrast makes Atobe want to hump the duvet. Instead, he moves forward and feels Tezuka's fingers around his cock, a guidance, a clumsy, naïve guidance. The noise he makes when the fingers stroke around his head is echoed in Tezuka when he pushes inside, as both of their faces crumple and their mouths part, slack and needy without the words to say so. He's very still, at first, because it's the least he can do and if he moves, he'll come for sure — only Tezuka starts to take him in and it's so painfully, crushingly, wonderfully good that he has to stop and catch breath. And Tezuka laughs and so Atobe laughs, too, and it's a moment of brilliance because it makes him realise that nothing need be perfect, only real and genuine and that's enough. He slides full to the hilt and stretches himself out, looking right down into Tezuka's face, which is undone and young and carefree, the knots of discomfort working out. The movement is better, the slip and slide. Slowly, he begins to find a rhythm. Tezuka's hands are skittering on his shoulders, nails digging in, his hips starting to move. Atobe thinks he should have known, that neither of them can truly dominate. They're too equal. When he moves forward, Tezuka moves, too. Aggressive and defensive meet in the middle, two slamming die on the board. Tezuka takes him in, full and hot and wild, and takes what he needs, absorbs all of the passion and the urgency, then pushes it back. Reflects it. Lets it take him over. Neither of them are in control. They fuck each other, slowly unwinding and finding white-heat and glorious, glorious intensity.
Both of them are keening, now; Atobe with the pressure, the grip that's so much it almost hurts, and Tezuka with every bump, with every nudge right in the spot that makes his jaw work loose. They look at each other with eyes that are glazing over, sharing breath and heat and the tingling. There are no words — they need none. It is not perfect; limbs need adjusting and there's noises, but they smirk over them or they do not notice, because there's nothing else that really matters, other than this. Atobe has never felt so close to another human being as he does, slipping in and out of the person he's admired for a year and a half, the person who has taught him more about tennis and dignity and passion than anyone else before. It's rough and it's harder, harder than it is with women, and the promise of fingernails and biting kisses make him want this to be more, but it's too much to express in the middle of it so he just gnaws on Tezuka's collarbone, moving around his jaw in little nibbles. He finds his ear and Tezuka cries out, the sensitive spot just behind tingling. Atobe wants that, again and again, so he torments it with the tip of his tongue until Tezuka's arms are shaking and he swats him on the back, growls, “stop that, you bastard,” and it's so unlike him that he has to force himself not to think too hard on it.
The rhythm by the end feels like the last ten laps out of a hundred, like oblivion, like falling into the wind and into the earth. Everything else falls into the background and there is only the chase, the pulse and swell of muscles, the throbbing of head and ears, Atobe's feet slipping on the bedspread and the tug in the back of Tezuka's thighs. Tezuka is the first to speak, to try and utter something befitting of the moment, only he can't and so he just stutters, “fuck, I'm-” and it's fine because Atobe knows what it means, so he reaches down and moves Tezuka's hand away, takes his cock and strokes it in the exact rhythm that's there is his legs, in his hips, in his cock and in his balls. “This is what you feel like on me,” he wants to say, but he can't, can't find the words, and hopes Tezuka's knows. And as if he has, as if he understands, Tezuka unleashes a sound that Atobe knows he may never hear again, and his body is tight and taut and painfully tense, before it unwinds again and falls down to earth like a kite. It's all he needs, all Atobe needs, that call, that sight and his eyes pulse white, white, white and he shouts, once or twice, until his throat burns. He rushes forward onto his hands, his wrists ache, his mouth deep in collarbone and neck and Tezuka's hand on the small of his back. He doesn't surface, not for five minutes, not until he can speak again. Tezuka pats him, and they laugh, as much as their lungs will allow. Then, they look at each other, wet-faced with coiling hair. The kiss is exhausted but it is true, as true as two fists raised over one net.
Fandom: Prince of Tennis
Pairing: Atobe/Tezuka, Sanada/Yukimura
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Written for
pixxers, for santa_smex. :)Part One.
Oishi and Eiji arrive late, for once, and Atobe's never been more enthusiastic about someone else's incompetence. He has time to look at Tezuka and say, meaningfully, in the sex voice that never, never fails, “I got your e-mail.”
“What?” Tezuka says. Atobe resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Oh, right, yes.”
“Perhaps we can go out for dinner, and talk about it.” Atobe makes his eyes very intense so that it doesn't matter that Tezuka's got a few inches in height on him, because he's Atobe, and he's intense, and already, Tezuka is shifting backwards a bit.
“Perhaps after the match, we shouldn't-”
“Over-indulge?”
“Yes...”
“What sort of indulgence takes your fancy right now?”
“Your sort,” Tezuka says, with a tiny smirk of his own. It's the first chink of light through a seemingly impenetrable armour, and Atobe's smile goes up a million watts.
“My sort's a dangerous sort,” he says. “Full of getting careless and letting your guard down.”
“I think I can cope.”
“Are you sure, Buchou?”
“Don't do that.” Tezuka is looking at him with a strange expression. Atobe scrutinizes him, and, just as he's working out that it's arousal and not disapproval, Oishi's voice echoes from the other side of the court, and he nearly kicks something. It's not like he can send Oishi away, either, like he could one of his own regulars — and besides, Tezuka's already going over there, and damn his stupid pillarness.
Eiji is looking at Atobe like he doesn't trust him. This is fine. Atobe gives him a wave identical to Eiji's, the last time they met. Eiji breaks out into a laugh, looks at Tezuka and then wipes it off his face in the blink of an eye. Oishi sort of looks around, and Eiji giggles at him, so Oishi has to work hard not to smile along. It's nothing like Hyotei, nothing like Hyotei at all.
The match is superb, Atobe thinks, but he's biased and Oshitari says as much when he 'phones him outside the changing rooms. Tezuka and Oishi are talking about something mind-numbing, the kind of things Atobe least wants to talk about when he's adrenaline-fuelled and exhilarated from playing and winning.
“You're telling me you trounced the GP?”
“Trounced is a subjective word. We won 6:4. How does that sound?”
“Unlikely. Are you sure? You sound like you're in the bar.”
“I'm not in the bar! Yuushi! We did it. We kicked doubles' ass. We're going to own them, Seiichi and that fucking-”
“Yes, yes, very good, very good. Do you want to come over? We could celebrate you as Japan's upcoming doubles pro. Bring Tezuka.”
“Ah, no, I have different plans...”
“Keigo...”
“Later, Yuushi.” Atobe is smirking as he flips the 'phone shut. Tezuka is heading his way, still half-waving to Oishi, and Atobe is smiling again. It is an exerted smile, a 'this is how I'd look after sex' smile, and Tezuka is starting to pay attention. They wander in together without exchanging a word, though Tezuka looks happier than he has in a while. They remove clothes and to cover up the bareness and the silence, Tezuka says, “that was excellent.”
“Yes,” Atobe says. “I knew we'd be fine.”
“I think we can win it.”
“I know we can.” Atobe strides closer to Tezuka, gradually, rotating his shoulders. He has a towel on but it doesn't cover much. Tezuka looks him in the eyes, though, and this pleases him. Tezuka goes into the shower first, and makes Atobe curve in a long arc to follow him, by which point he's naked and under the spray. His hair is very black and plastered to his neck, and his eyes look huge and young without his glasses on. Only without his clothes on is it obvious how tall he actually is; how his shoulders reach across and his back slopes, long down to his hips, pronounced and still a bit awkward. He is all angles, a growing triangle. Atobe stands behind him, and Tezuka's eyes run up the tiles, sensing the heat of his body through the water. He doesn't move, though he knows what Atobe wants. He'll do things on his terms. It isn't that he's afraid — it's that he cautious, and likes to be in control. It's that he won't make a move until he's sure where he'll land. It's that he wants to squash all of the ego out of Atobe, all of the stuff he finds ridiculously hot, and shouldn't. So when Atobe huffs a little and makes for another shower, Tezuka turns him around by the shoulder and the gesture is enough, Atobe backs up against the wall. For the first time, Tezuka feels in control of the situation.
He presses up against him and Atobe's eyes close, sensing the changing dynamic and running with it. “Tezuka,” he says, a purr, an echo of the court, an echo of a year ago. Tezuka wishes he could be so fluid, so trusting, as this body spread languid on the tiles.
“Is this what you want?” he says, voice dim under the spray, and Atobe nods, his eyes still closed. When he opens them, they are dark, almost unnatural. The wind howls outside. Atobe's eyes are like one of those days you never want to go outside in; like falling rain, like shards of sleet, all cold and painful and treacherous. All the days he's ever played Fuji, the weather was like the look in Atobe's eyes now. His body is warm and Tezuka moves closer, isn't sure how this is done but thinks he can work it out, cupping his face with one hand. The touch opens it all up, breaks the last straw, maybe, and it's on — they slam together like two dice thrown onto a board. He's kissed girls before, Tezuka, one girl. She was his next door neighbour and they were twelve. It was motionless and didn't excite him, not the way this wrecks him. It's too hot, too much, he can't breathe through it until he remembers his nose and then it's okay, okay, okay. Atobe doesn't taste like a woman, of cinnamon or lip-gloss or whatever it was she tasted like; he tastes like shower spray and sweat and faint blueberry PowerAde because he was drinking it, on the court. When Tezuka touches Atobe's upper lip with his tongue, he really tastes it, tastes it all, because Atobe's lips part and their tongues brush together and Tezuka has to come up for air, then, he just has to. Both their mouths are wet when they part and Atobe's eyes are blacker than ever. He breathes, hard, and looks at him. They look at each other.
“We can go back to Hyotei,” Atobe says. “You don't board here.”
“No,” Tezuka says, and then to clarify, “I don't.”
Atobe comes out of the shower and calls for a car, then gets back in to wash his hair. Tezuka is finishing and so he has time to think, as he's drying himself. There's not much to think about; he knows what he wants. He knows he's ready. He's not sure he wants a relationship out of Atobe — out of anyone, right now — but this is like tennis, like running down a hill until all the breath's spent from your lungs. It's right. He'd never been sure of Atobe until he'd worked out how to overcome him, beat him at his own game. There's only one question, sitting in his mind like a lazy troll, blocking the bridge ahead. When they're in the car, which is alarmingly plush for Tezuka's tastes, he leans over and asks it.
“Of course not,” Atobe says. “You know me better than that, now.”
“I didn't mean it-”
“As an accusation, I know. I know you, Tezuka. You're not that kind of person. I don't want you because we're playing doubles together, because I want to win. I want you because you're you. I've wanted you since last year but you're too stubborn to go out anywhere with me, so I relished playing with you. I thought it might change your mind.”
“It did.”
“Why do you want me, then?” Atobe's eyes are glittering with malice.
“You may be the person who understands me.”
Atobe looks at him, eyes turning serious, and nods. That means more to him than the way most people respond. But then, he knows Tezuka isn't the type to rattle off physical compliments one after another after another.
Much later on, Atobe sits, in a pair of tracksuit bottoms, cursing at life. The small figure of Tezuka is long gone and Atobe doesn't know what to make of the evening. For two people so much in harmony, for two people who kicked doubles' ass , the whole sex part was obviously not meant to be. Obviously, they were meant for tennis and not for one another. They are either too similar, or too different, or too something, and Atobe is tired of chasing down reason and attempting to understand why he and Tezuka don't fit together properly. Atobe has had incredible sex with girls he's not even really liked, before. He really likes Tezuka. Tezuka really likes him. They have, each, massive lust for life; the sort that keeps them driving towards their goals, the sort that keeps them going through the never-ending tie breaks in life. They are both stubborn as hell, relentless as air, massive like tidal waves when they wash through things and make everything their own. Perhaps they're all too much for one another. Atobe is horny and fed-up and only the first one counts for anything. He can't believe, two hours on, that the sex can have gone so wrong.
The moment when he knew it was over, that wasn't something he'd experienced in tennis. Even when he's down and out, Atobe always believes there's a chance, because that's what's kept him playing through the years, that self-belief. Only sex is different, sex with Tezuka, anyway. He'd gotten them both into the room after a few nervous goes at the door, and there'd been a silence as Tezuka politely sat down and studied his surroundings. Everything about the initial fire had given way to apprehension and propriety, and Atobe had given in to thinking nervous thoughts. He'd never done this before. How is it done? How is it initiated, what am I supposed to-, and Tezuka had simply said,
“You have a nice room.”
As if it needed saying, as if it were the most important thing in the world. Atobe was so annoyed by it, so annoyed by the simplicity and the politeness and the significance of the one, small sentence, he'd climbed up onto the bed and kissed him. It was a start. They were tentative and uneasy, neither prepared to jump to the obvious conclusion of removing clothes. It hadn't been overtly said, nothing was sure, nothing was certain. Atobe didn't think he could ever start asking the questions that would need asking. He sort of hoped they'd work themselves out, in time. When he moved over, stretched out, Tezuka sort of arranged himself awkwardly against him and they looked at each other. More kissing followed, more delaying time until the inevitable point where they'd have to discuss it, make it clear that they were on the same page. Suddenly, overwhelmed by the reality of it, Atobe realised that he had no idea what the hell he was doing. It was an unfamiliar feeling that wormed in his gut and the more Tezuka looked at him, with those eyes, the more out of his depth he felt. He removed his shirt with anger, trying to force the sensation of uselessness from his head, scrubbing fabric over his chest with the pain of wounded pride. Tezuka was finding the buttons on his own shirt, the room unbearably silent as each of them fell away, leaving skin that was paler than it had been in the shower. As if it were a game, Atobe had removed his trousers next, and watched Tezuka do the same. Clinically, they took turns and the kissing stopped until they were naked, and then it started again because there were no more clothes to remove. The room was very cold.
The worst part was when he had to shift, when Atobe had to shift and run a hand down between his legs to wring out the limp nervousness, to try and encourage something in his cock that wasn't whiteout fear. If Tezuka noticed, he didn't say anything. When Atobe returned his gaze to him, he was silent, his eyes dark and wide. It dawned on him, then, that he didn't know what he'd use for lube — had they agreed that he was on top? Had he totally missed that? - and he didn't know anything about technique, and this was Tezuka, why hadn't he practised on someone who didn't mean as much? The kissing started again but the fire had gone, extinguished by nerves and inadeptness and really, Atobe should have known right then that nothing good was going to come of it. He leaned forward and Tezuka brushed a hand against his cock and he jumped, startled, and Tezuka realised that, as much as films lied, this was not what sex was supposed to be like. And Atobe, surprised, leaned down with his elbow, caught Tezuka's shoulder and his hair, producing a faint 'ow'. They looked at each other, united at last, but in disappointment and mutual resignation. They'd talked for a while, about nothing very much at all, and then Tezuka had been unable to stand it, and had left without much of a word. They'd meet in two days time for one last practice before the match at the weekend. They were back to tennis. That was it.
To: Atobe Keigo
From: Tezuka Kunimitsu
Subject: -
Maybe it happens to everyone the first time — don't worry. We can, maybe try
To: Atobe Keigo
From: Tezuka Kunimitsu
Subject: -
Maybe it was just nerves and we should
To: Atobe Keigo
From: Tezuka Kunimitsu
Subject: -
I want to try it again.
When they arrive at Hyotei, Sanada gives a dismissive snort. Yukimura cranes his neck up at the buildings, quirking an eyebrow.
“Style over substance?” he queries.
Sanada just looks at him. “Wait until you see Atobe. He's only increased in-”
“I am intrigued by anyone who riles you up this much, Genichirou.”
“That's cruel, Seiichi.”
“You love me.”
“Do you think they've practiced as much as we have?”
“Probably.” Yukimura says, grimly. “Tezuka takes things very seriously. And Atobe...as you've told me, he isn't the easiest person to play doubles with.”
“I fully expect a repeat of the American tournament performance.”
“Oh, don't tease me. That'd be too easy.”
“We'd get to go home early.”
“Genichirou, I do believe you're suggesting-”
“Sanada-san,” Atobe says, walking from the main entrance. The honorific is slightly sarcastic. “Yukimura-san.”
“Atobe-san,” Yukimura says, his eyes glittering as he reaches out a hand to Atobe, slanting them across to Sanada as if to say, 'very nice'. Sanada just glowers. “Good day for a match.”
“Yes,” Atobe says, nonchalantly. “I'm sure you'll be comfortable on our grounds.”
“They're certainly up to par with our own.” Sanada cuts in, voice low and deep, slightly territorial. Yukimura smirks.
“I should hope so,” Atobe says, in such a way that it sounds polite and not insulting. It's all Yukimura can do not to burst out laughing. The man is exactly as he'd imagined the boy would be.
“Has Tezuka arrived yet?”
“Yes, he was here about ten minutes ago. I believe he's checking the court over.”
“So,” Yukimura says, the big question. “Do you think you can win?”
Atobe grins, bearing teeth. “I always do.”
He doesn't feel quite so confident when they're standing beside each other, he and Tezuka, in the aftermath of the Great Embarrassment of 2006. Tezuka has told him to put it to the back of his mind and concentrate on the tennis and when Tezuka is so forthright it's difficult to disobey him. So Atobe tries, and they find an oddly comfortable calm when the rackets are in their hands and their opponents stand behind the net. They knock fists together and Tezuka says something about having a good match and not letting it go to a tie-break, and Atobe laughs, the sound filling the court. They assume positions and Atobe takes a moment to survey the crowd - his crowd — and throws the ball in the air. As it spins, there's a uproar; the game is on, and Hyotei rise to the challenge. Due to only making the quarter-finals, Hyotei have never participated in a National final. Most of the sub-regulars have never seen Rikkai players. There's a feeling of genuine excitement, of team spirit whipped up like a whirlwind. This might as well be life and death.
When he serves, the ball makes a thwack, a satisfying crack on impact, and soars over the net where it meets Sanada's racket. He returns it, not easily, but not struggling and it's a good start because Atobe taps it, just over the net. When it comes back, Yukimura having the reflexes of a cat, Tezuka backhands it to the baseline and it wins them their first point. As the game progresses, they're startlingly equal. Yukimura and Sanada take as many points as they lose, their harmony allowing them to cover most of the court and take advantage of awkward shots. Atobe and Tezuka still struggle to conceive of the court as a shared space and in the first game, they let a few points slip through their fingers. The crowd rises into a frenzy, and Sakaki-sensei crosses one leg over the other. Over the excited rhythm of the Hyotei chanting, Atobe can hear the discordant squeals of Seigaku. He remembers its authority, back in his match with Tezuka, and is glad it's on his side, now. The Rikkai squad are between the two in number, and they cheer loudly over the rest to make up for it. Atobe finds, as the games progress, that things become easier when he blocks out all the outside noise altogether. He has to close his eyes between points, between the change of server, but it's worth it because he finds the space inside his head, the space that makes it possible for him to disappear completely within tennis. Before he knows it, tennis is all there is, the stretch of limbs, the squashing of his toes inside his trainers as his wrist turns to tap the ball, to hear that wonderful crash of ball on strings. Sweat skids down his back and his eyes pinprick, focused only on the little yellow thing, the sound of Tezuka moving beside him.
Their play is not as segregated as they'd planned it. They move into harmony silently, with Tezuka pulling the ball back towards them with the Zone and Atobe using fast shots that refuse to take prisoners. Sanada is playing the defensive game and Yukimura takes Atobe on, matching brutality with brutality. They get into such a rally that Tezuka intervenes, a slippery ball comes his way, and he performs Zero Shiki just to get the point. Yukimura laughs, shakes water from his hair, nods to Atobe. Atobe grins, understands. It's impossible to see him as a true rival, when both understand tennis this way. Yukimura plays each game like it's his last, the way Atobe does. Both Sanada and Tezuka play games as stepping stones to something better, next time around. For Yukimura and Atobe, there is no next time — only now, only this, only working the body until the muscles ache with lactic acid and the heart rolls like a storm. They go fast, games like this, and the score reaches 6:6 in around an hour, twenty minutes. All of them are tiring, they've all crossed the threshold of weary and are into themselves, completely immersed in the game. The crowd has faded to a hum in the background. Between points, Tezuka and Atobe have taken to looking at each other, silent congratulations on getting this far. We did it, partner. Atobe never thought he'd find himself enjoying doubles. Tennis still has the ability to surprise him.
The last game is more intense than all of the rest put together; Yukimura shows his finest form and Atobe fears that what they have isn't enough. They gain a point when Tezuka follows through Atobe's Hametsu e no tango, which takes Sanada by surprise when he's on the defensive. This is particularly satisfying to Atobe, given the circumstances. Sanada retaliates, a rare moment of flaring fire, with an effective Fuu smash that crashes into the ground. Atobe remembers that one from Junior Senbatsu, and scowls. Tezuka looks at him, his eyes full of a plan, and Atobe remembers their idea. He lets Tezuka intervene, takes to the background and watches the Zone; watches what Tezuka is like when he's in motion. Yukimura knows that something has changed, but not what, and his aggressive style is slowly brought down by Tezuka's defenses. It is like watching a cat trying to fit itself through a small hole, with no room to manoeuvre. They exchange points until it's deuce, then advantage to them, and Atobe's turn to serve. The crowd are all up from the seats, then, watching what's like a dice rolling down a board, waiting to fall one way or another. Atobe steps up front, takes the ball and looks at his opponents, full of black fire and ready, ready to fight for the game. A quirk of his lips and he turns his eyes to Sanada, and he knows that Sanada knows what he's about to do.
He performs the Tannhauser and it's not enough time, not enough suspicion for either of them to do anything about it; both reach and it's not enough, and the ball flies past and that's it, it, it. The crowd goes nuts and Yukimura throws his head back and Atobe feels the wrench in his shoulder that's everything that's good, in that moment, that's alive and tennis and victory. He looks at Tezuka, and at Tezuka's eyes that are bright with euphoria and he's never felt better, not even when he thought Hyotei could go to Nationals, not even when he raised Tezuka's hand above the net, not even then. And so he does it again, because it feels like it's right — he walks to the net and they touch hands, he and Yukimura, he and Sanada, and then he raises Tezuka's fist. When he looks across the net, Yukimura does the same with Sanada's, and Atobe thinks that this is it, tennis is it.
They have the quickest shower imaginable, because Atobe's buzzing and all he wants to do is talk tennis, be tennis, for a bit longer. They exchange looks but they're not ones of nervousness or apprehension, not any more, because he can't stop grinning and it's infectious, Tezuka joins in. Sanada doesn't speak much but he's watching Yukimura, who has enjoyed himself more than he has in a while, so he's pleased inside. Yukimura busies himself baiting Atobe about his flashy moves and his flashy school, and Atobe is too ecstatic to care much about this plebe insulting him and so he just flicks water at him and looks back at Tezuka. Tezuka isn't thinking at all, which is how he knows that it was a good game. Suddenly, he understands why the Golden Pair are the Golden Pair. He understands Oishi, and Eiji, better than he ever has before. When they leave the showers, dressed and worn-out, he says goodbye to his opponents with genuine feeling, thinking that they have both taught him something special about the game.
“You left some of your things in my room,” Atobe says, lazily, as they walk away.
“I'll collect them now,” Tezuka says, equally contented.
They take a slow stroll and for the first time, it just feels right, like friends, like unspoken harmony. Like it does with Yuushi, like it does with Oishi. Only, when the door closes behind them, it suddenly smooths into different. Atobe palms a hand on it and pushes it shut and then turns, and Tezuka is there, all brown eyes and urgency. He wraps a hand around the back of his neck and brings Atobe's mouth to his, and it's all Atobe can do to remain standing up. His pride kicks in and he kisses back, then, hard and furious and with Tezuka's face in his hands and they knock things over, trying to trample like a strange two-bodied creature across the room. Atobe palms a hand down to find the bed and he pulls Tezuka down onto it, stopping for a second before it's too much, and then it starts again. There's not much room to roll but they manage it, until Atobe's on top and looking into Tezuka's face and saying,
“What made you-”
“Shut up,” Tezuka says. “Just shut up, and do something. Do something.”
“Now you tell me,” Atobe quips, smirking. “I thought it'd take you fifty years to stop your thinking a-”
“Keigo,” Tezuka says, and it's a warning. “Now.”
If there's anything that riles Atobe up, it's being told what to do — because it irritates him, and when Tezuka does it, it's hot, and that's just as intolerable. So he snarls and pulls Tezuka's t-shirt off, scratching his skin as he does it because he's in the way, always in the way, the stupid bastard with his scrawny shoulderblades and his long arms and the legs that go on forever. Tezuka's hands are working on his trousers and he moves his knees out of them as Tezuka lifts his hips for his own. In a scrabble, with arms and legs going everywhere, they manage to shake all of the clothes onto the floor. Having had such a disaster last time around, Atobe learnt something, sent Yuushi to find some lube because Yuushi would know where to get it, having neither shame about his knowledge nor about where he shopped, and enough discretion not to ask questions. Or, enough psychic ability not to need to. One never knew with Yuushi but it was worth the alarm because he always came through, and tube in hand, Atobe felt like they could work it out. Lying out flat against Tezuka, they were both warm, warm from tennis and the shower, their angles sliding together.
“Bring your knee up,” he said, breathing on Tezuka's neck. Tezuka did so, bringing a pillow down for his neck, then resting on it so that his collarbone was there, all moist and smelling like aftershave. As he ran a hand along the back of his thigh, Atobe mouthed it, tasting tennis and Tezuka. “This is okay?” he asked, eyes finding Tezuka's.
“Yes,” Tezuka said. “Yes, this is okay. No more questions.”
There's no need to check, but Atobe still jumps when Tezuka puts his hand between his legs, and this makes Tezuka smirk. Atobe swats him on the thigh and brings his other leg up, resting between and finding a comfortable position. His hands are sticky and Tezuka makes guttural noises when he uses his fingers, letting his head fall back and making Atobe feel like he's the very king of the universe. Alexander the Great might have missed out on a few worlds left to conquer, he thinks, only he doesn't vocalize the thought because it'd come out in a series of 'unnff's and Atobe prides himself on not sounding like a moronic fool, even in bed. Only Tezuka is 'unnff'ing and, well, what's good for Tezuka is good for him. He's wriggling, and that makes Atobe groan himself, despite himself. He doesn't know when is enough but it doesn't matter, because Tezuka will tell him, tell him when he needs more — probably in that voice that, oh, fuck, like that.
Tezuka's eyes have turned very dark. His voice is very light. The contrast makes Atobe want to hump the duvet. Instead, he moves forward and feels Tezuka's fingers around his cock, a guidance, a clumsy, naïve guidance. The noise he makes when the fingers stroke around his head is echoed in Tezuka when he pushes inside, as both of their faces crumple and their mouths part, slack and needy without the words to say so. He's very still, at first, because it's the least he can do and if he moves, he'll come for sure — only Tezuka starts to take him in and it's so painfully, crushingly, wonderfully good that he has to stop and catch breath. And Tezuka laughs and so Atobe laughs, too, and it's a moment of brilliance because it makes him realise that nothing need be perfect, only real and genuine and that's enough. He slides full to the hilt and stretches himself out, looking right down into Tezuka's face, which is undone and young and carefree, the knots of discomfort working out. The movement is better, the slip and slide. Slowly, he begins to find a rhythm. Tezuka's hands are skittering on his shoulders, nails digging in, his hips starting to move. Atobe thinks he should have known, that neither of them can truly dominate. They're too equal. When he moves forward, Tezuka moves, too. Aggressive and defensive meet in the middle, two slamming die on the board. Tezuka takes him in, full and hot and wild, and takes what he needs, absorbs all of the passion and the urgency, then pushes it back. Reflects it. Lets it take him over. Neither of them are in control. They fuck each other, slowly unwinding and finding white-heat and glorious, glorious intensity.
Both of them are keening, now; Atobe with the pressure, the grip that's so much it almost hurts, and Tezuka with every bump, with every nudge right in the spot that makes his jaw work loose. They look at each other with eyes that are glazing over, sharing breath and heat and the tingling. There are no words — they need none. It is not perfect; limbs need adjusting and there's noises, but they smirk over them or they do not notice, because there's nothing else that really matters, other than this. Atobe has never felt so close to another human being as he does, slipping in and out of the person he's admired for a year and a half, the person who has taught him more about tennis and dignity and passion than anyone else before. It's rough and it's harder, harder than it is with women, and the promise of fingernails and biting kisses make him want this to be more, but it's too much to express in the middle of it so he just gnaws on Tezuka's collarbone, moving around his jaw in little nibbles. He finds his ear and Tezuka cries out, the sensitive spot just behind tingling. Atobe wants that, again and again, so he torments it with the tip of his tongue until Tezuka's arms are shaking and he swats him on the back, growls, “stop that, you bastard,” and it's so unlike him that he has to force himself not to think too hard on it.
The rhythm by the end feels like the last ten laps out of a hundred, like oblivion, like falling into the wind and into the earth. Everything else falls into the background and there is only the chase, the pulse and swell of muscles, the throbbing of head and ears, Atobe's feet slipping on the bedspread and the tug in the back of Tezuka's thighs. Tezuka is the first to speak, to try and utter something befitting of the moment, only he can't and so he just stutters, “fuck, I'm-” and it's fine because Atobe knows what it means, so he reaches down and moves Tezuka's hand away, takes his cock and strokes it in the exact rhythm that's there is his legs, in his hips, in his cock and in his balls. “This is what you feel like on me,” he wants to say, but he can't, can't find the words, and hopes Tezuka's knows. And as if he has, as if he understands, Tezuka unleashes a sound that Atobe knows he may never hear again, and his body is tight and taut and painfully tense, before it unwinds again and falls down to earth like a kite. It's all he needs, all Atobe needs, that call, that sight and his eyes pulse white, white, white and he shouts, once or twice, until his throat burns. He rushes forward onto his hands, his wrists ache, his mouth deep in collarbone and neck and Tezuka's hand on the small of his back. He doesn't surface, not for five minutes, not until he can speak again. Tezuka pats him, and they laugh, as much as their lungs will allow. Then, they look at each other, wet-faced with coiling hair. The kiss is exhausted but it is true, as true as two fists raised over one net.