Summary: Fuji thinks he knows what he wants. Tezuka and Ryoma know better.
Warnings: None, I think
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created by Konomi Takeshi. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
A/N: Happy White Day, misterwalnut! Hopefully I managed to strike the right balance between the characters, and hopefully you'll enjoy this. Also, many thanks to my three lovely beta readers. <3
Fuji has dozens of pictures of Tezuka and Ryoma.
Once in awhile they're looking at the camera, but those pictures are more often the posed pictures, the team pictures, or sometimes the pictures where Ryoma glances over and scowls upon seeing that his picture is going to be taken. In most of the shots, they're looking away, or rather, they're looking toward.
Toward each other, of course, as anyone who knows them would realize.
Fuji likes putting the photos together, one of Ryoma and one of Tezuka, so he can see them looking right at each other. The line of connection between them is almost a tangible thing, real and solid. He envisions two Grecian columns, tied to one another by a thin but unbreakable length of red ribbon.
He enjoys the mental imagery, even though he knows he will never be a part of it.
"So Inui, do you know where Tezuka goes every afternoon?"
Inui consults his notebook, turning page after page. Then he glances up and looks at Tezuka, who's walking away in the wrong direction, the direction that doesn't actually lead to Tezuka's house. "I have a hypothesis which I believe is correct. Thus far I haven't taken time to investigate because the conclusion seems foregone. Why?"
"No reason," says Fuji. He heads off after Tezuka, and naturally, Inui comes with him.
"There is a ninety-four percent chance that Tezuka's destination is Seishun Gakuen junior high school," says Inui, and glances sharply at Fuji. "But you know that already."
"Mm." Fuji is noncommittal. They tail Tezuka all the way to the junior high, which means that both of them had been right.
Inui wants to stand behind a tree to watch what happens. Fuji goes along with this, although he'd just as soon stroll down to the courts without attempting to hide his purpose. Spying is entertaining, though, especially with Inui, who mutters unintelligibly to himself the entire time.
Momoshiro is on one of the courts giving instructions to the new first years, teasing them into better stances, guiding them when they still don't have it right. Kaidoh is swinging his racket right alongside them. He's a good vice-captain, less intimidating than most people might have guessed.
Tezuka isn't watching Momoshiro and Kaidoh, though. He's watching another match, a match being played on A court. Fuji doesn't even have to look to see who's playing. One of the boys on the court is Ryoma.
He's proven right when the match ends, so quickly that Ryoma's probably seen Tezuka and started playing full-out. Ryoma walks off of the court, accepting the towel that another second-year hands to him, and then he goes to Tezuka. They exchange a few words. Ryoma laughs and then ducks his head, pulling the brim of his cap down. Then they head to C court, where another match between regulars is being played.
They walk close to each other, but they don't touch, not even their hands. This is interesting, but not completely unexpected.
"Have you seen what you wanted to see?" Inui asks, possibly having come to the right conclusion, possibly not. He's jotting down facts and figures in his notebook, probably something about the angle at which Tezuka is standing, the length of Ryoma's stride, or something equally relevant to tennis and equally irrelevant to anything else.
"Perhaps," says Fuji, and leaves Inui to his calculations.
A curious thing about pillars: they are strong, straight, proud, reaching for the sky, but they can't lean, not even to touch each other, or else they'll end up falling. Even pillars tied together have difficulty leaning. A clever architect, though, could alter them so they wouldn't fall. It would take time, patience, and various pieces of precision equipment to make sure that the pillars wouldn't break.
Or, Fuji muses to himself, one could simply push them and leave the rest to fate. He smiles at the thought.
"Going back again, Tezuka?" Fuji falls into step beside Tezuka. He has to take exactly one and a half steps for each of Tezuka's longer ones, when Tezuka walks at his usual speed.
Tezuka slows his pace to let Fuji walk more easily beside him. "No."
"I saw you the last time, you know." Fuji disregards Tezuka's denial because what Tezuka says is not important. What Tezuka does is what matters.
"You followed me," says Tezuka, and it's not a question.
"Or I miss junior high as much as you do," says Fuji. "Maybe I go back there every day after school to watch them practice."
"I haven't-" Tezuka begins, and then stops. If he says what he'd been about to say, I haven't seen you there, he would be admitting that he's been there every day.
"A lucky thing that our tennis practice is before school now, isn't it?" Fuji shouldn't goad Tezuka this way, or so Inui and Oishi have both told him, whether subtly or flat-out. He can hardly help it, though. There is no one in high school as interesting as Tezuka, seeing as the one person who fascinates Fuji nearly as much hasn't yet graduated from junior high.
"It doesn't make a difference," says Tezuka, lying. Tezuka is peculiar sometimes; he will lie only if it's a lie of omission, or if the person he's talking to knows that it's a lie. Somehow this satisfies Tezuka's sense of honor.
Fuji is still walking beside Tezuka, and though Tezuka hasn't invited him along, he hasn't told Fuji not to come, either. So Fuji follows Tezuka all the way to their old junior high for the second time in two days.
They're like phantoms out of the past to the first years who have never met them, but have heard of them, have seen their pictures on the walls of the clubroom. Some of the boys stare, and some elbow their staring friends and look pointedly away.
"Hey, Tezuka-bu…Tezuka-senpai, Fuji-senpai!" Momo jogs up to them, wearing a wide grin. Kaidoh is still on one of the courts, ordering the second years to keep up their exercises regardless of which famous former regulars have walked onto the grounds.
"Momoshiro," says Tezuka with a nod. Momo is finally remembering not to call him 'buchou,' and Fuji can tell at a glance that this both pleases and pains Tezuka.
"It looks like the team is doing well, Momo," says Fuji.
"Yeah, they are." Momo looks back at his team, his expression affectionate. "Mamushi's whipping them into shape more than I am, really. Oh, Tezuka-senpai, Echizen's around back of the clubroom. In case you wanted to know," he adds, looking quickly at Fuji, probably wondering if he should have said anything where Fuji could hear.
Tezuka doesn't seem to object. "Thank you." He walks in that direction with Fuji at his side, and Momo leaving them in order to supervise the practice.
Ryoma is playing against a wall, but he has an audience, something he'd usually lacked in his first year. The ones watching him are a mixture of male and female, some on the tennis team, some not. Ryoma's playing easily, almost lazily, until he spots Tezuka and Fuji out of the corner of his eye. He smirks slightly, not enough so that anyone but Tezuka and Fuji would notice.
He steadily picks up the pace of his shots until the ball is a blur, hitting wall-ground-racket-wall and repeating the sequence again. When he catches the ball at last, cradling it on his racket, there is a momentary silence that turns into scattered applause and awed whispers. He ignores those reactions; he's not showing off for the crowd anymore.
"Buchou," says Ryoma casually. "You brought Fuji-senpai."
"Yes, I did," says Tezuka, although he hadn't really. Fuji had brought himself, more than anything, but then Ryoma probably knows that already.
"Hm." Ryoma surveys Fuji. "Play a game with me."
"Oh, no, I've finished with tennis practice for the day," says Fuji airily. "Once is enough."
"Why don't the two of you play?" Fuji suggests. "It's been awhile, hasn't it?" He doesn't know for sure, but he suspects it in the way they interact with each other. It's almost like sexual tension between them, really.
Ryoma looks up at Tezuka, and Tezuka's eyes go from Fuji's face to Ryoma's. They're good at communing silently with each other, and after a moment Tezuka nods. "Fuji. Referee for us."
Fuji is more than happy to acquiesce. He has a good camera angle from the high referee's chair. He brings out his pocket camera before the game starts. He doesn't want to miss anything.
Tezuka and Ryoma are all controlled ferocity on the tennis court. They're in their element here, only the best of both of them showing through, passion, determination, sheer talent that cannot be equaled by many and probably can be surpassed by none.
Fuji feels like a voyeur when he watches them play, not that he minds. A little voyeurism is good for the soul, or for his soul anyway. He takes photo after photo, Ryoma serving, Tezuka returning, fifteen-love, fifteen-thirty, a searing ace to tie the score, deuce, then deuce again. The rest of the tennis team has stopped even pretending to practice. They crowd around the court to gawk and gape, too awed even to whisper amongst themselves. They all know that Ryoma is brilliant, of course, but Ryoma is set off to best advantage when he's across the net from Tezuka.
The bright, clear connection between the two of them shines the most when they're playing each other like this.
Fuji finally calls the final point, announces the winner, but that's not what he'll think of later. The score is unimportant. He'll think of the game's end, when Tezuka and Ryoma had come to the net to clasp hands. They'd stayed there for a long minute, pushing the friendly gesture to the boundaries of mere friendship. Fuji will think of the way Tezuka had given Ryoma his own towel, the way Ryoma had offered Tezuka a sip from his can of Ponta, the way Tezuka had silently accepted.
The pictures from the game itself will go into a photo album, one of the many Fuji keeps in his shelves. The pictures from after the game will go in a place where only Fuji will be able to find them. He's voyeuristic, all right, but he doesn't always like to share.
Ryoma is more difficult to track down than Tezuka is, especially when Ryoma knows that Fuji is behind him. Tezuka will never be stealthy; it's just not in his nature. Ryoma is small, stubborn, and good at blending into crowds.
Fortunately, Fuji knows where he lives, and from there it's not hard to find the places that Ryoma frequents. The café several blocks away seems to be a particular favorite. Fuji waits there after school until Ryoma shows up, and then nonchalantly walks over and opens the door for Ryoma. "Why hello, Echizen."
"Did you follow me here?" Ryoma asks, pausing in the doorway of the café.
"Of course not," says Fuji pleasantly, walking forward until he and Ryoma are almost pressed together. Ryoma holds his ground, glaring up at Fuji and refusing to move. "Perhaps I come to this café often, you never know." He doesn't, of course; this place is twice as far from his house as it is from Ryoma's.
"Che." Ryoma isn't buying it. He turns around, pointedly avoiding even a brush against Fuji's shirt. Fuji follows him to the café counter, where Ryoma sits down and Fuji sits beside him.
"Why are you following me? You already have what you want," Ryoma says, and then places his order, a burger, fries, and an ice cream float made with Ponta instead of root beer. Fuji orders a burger of his own, with ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise, extra pickles, and no meat, just to see the look on the counter girl's face. She gapes satisfyingly at him. Ryoma wrinkles his nose a little, but doesn't react otherwise.
"What makes you think I have what I want?" Fuji asks. "Echizen." He purposely deepens his voice to say Ryoma's name. Eiji is good at mimicry, and Fuji has learned from him how to impersonate Tezuka almost perfectly.
Ryoma looks quickly up at him and then turns away, scowling. "You know what I mean."
"I have him every day, don't I," says Fuji. "For hours at a time. We have the same classes, the same teachers, the same tennis practice. I suppose I'm lucky."
"You are," says Ryoma under his breath, his first direct admission of what Fuji already knows.
The girl brings their food, eyeing Fuji as she sets his plate down in front of him. He smiles at her and picks up his burger, taking a delicate bite of it. Ryoma sips at his ice cream float, picking up the cherry on top of the whipped cream and then putting it down. "I have to make a phone call," he says, sliding off of the high seat and pulling his cell phone out of his pocket.
"I'll make sure no one else eats your food," says Fuji sweetly. Ryoma rolls his eyes and doesn't reply, walking outside to make his call. Possibly he's calling Tezuka, possibly he's calling someone else, or possibly he's lying and he's not going to call anyone. Fuji doesn't really care which.
By the time Ryoma comes back, Fuji has finished his burger. He's also stolen Ryoma's cherry.
"Fuji-senpai." Ryoma stands there and just looks from Fuji to his drink and back again.
"Yes, Echizen?" Fuji runs his tongue over his too-red, cherry-stained lips.
"Nothing," says Ryoma. He sits down to finish his meal. Though Fuji offers to pay for both of them at the end, Ryoma ignores the traditional senpai's treat for once, placing his own money on the counter in front of his plate.
Fuji would have liked to bring Ryoma into his debt, but he'd already known Ryoma wouldn't let it be so simple.
For Valentine's Day this year, Fuji gives Tezuka a box of homemade chocolates. They're not filled with wasabi or Tabasco sauce or horseradish this time; they're filled with grape Ponta.
Tezuka nods and accepts them without a word when Fuji presents him with the white box tied with a red ribbon.
"You'll like these ones," says Fuji.
"I'm sure I will," Tezuka replies.
To the best of Fuji's knowledge, Tezuka never actually eats the chocolates he receives on Valentine's Day. It amuses Fuji to imagine that Tezuka has an entire closet filled with boxes and boxes of candy because he's not going to eat them and he's too polite to throw them away.
Of course, in reality Tezuka is more practical than that. He probably gives the candy to Momo when no one's looking, or to Inui so that they'll be melted down and combined with fish and insects and goodness knows what else.
Fuji gives Ryoma a gift, too. He gives Ryoma an envelope full of pictures of Tezuka's box of chocolates. He makes a special stop at the junior high to deliver the gift in person.
Ryoma opens it, takes the pictures out, looks at them. Then he looks skeptically at Fuji. "What am I supposed to do with them?"
"Anything you like," Fuji says amiably. Ryoma would thank him if he knew the meaning behind the pictures (or not; Ryoma doesn't seem to have a normal person's conception of manners), but the secret is half of the fun.
"But there's a point to them." Ryoma has known Fuji long enough to know that.
"Yes there is," Fuji agrees.
"So are you going to tell me what it is?"
"Hm," says Fuji, pretending to think. "No, probably not." Ryoma might figure it out on his own, or he might ask Tezuka about it, which would be even better as far as accomplishing Fuji's goal is concerned.
"Che." Ryoma shakes his head and pulls his cap down, not at all properly grateful. Then again, Fuji had hardly expected him to be.
Fuji won't let up, because that's clearly the way to push a pair of stubborn pillars together. He shadows one or the other or both everywhere they go, hinting at them, reminding them of each other with a word or a look or a pair of glasses or a can of Ponta.
Ryoma tries to lose him, darting down alleys when Fuji should be least expecting it, going places that he's never gone before. Tezuka, for his part, doesn't comment and doesn't seem to react. He accepts Fuji's presence with an amount of stoicism that might be maddening to someone else. To Fuji, it's Tezuka and so it could never be maddening.
His crowning achievement, his victory comes when he strolls up to Tezuka after school, wearing a white cap with that distinctive red R printed on it. "How was class?" Fuji inquires innocently.
Tezuka glances at him and does his best to conceal his surprise. "You skipped pre-calculus."
"I did, didn't I," says Fuji. "Do you-"
Tezuka reaches into his pocket and brings out a piece of paper. He hands the paper to Fuji. On it are the notes from the class, neatly printed, probably an extra copy made specifically for this purpose.
"Thank you." Fuji smiles up at Tezuka.
"You're welcome," Tezuka replies.
"Here. Hold onto this for me." Fuji takes off the cap and presses it into Tezuka's hand. Then he walks away, never intending to go back and reclaim the hat. Someone else will do that for him.
Fuji waits in a place where he can see but not be seen (one good lesson that comes from spying with Inui), and watches as Ryoma comes running around the corner of the school building. Ryoma is annoyed, there's no doubt about that. He sees Tezuka with the cap and his expression changes. He slows to a walk and then stops in front of Tezuka, says something that Fuji can't hear, holds out his hand.
Tezuka responds, but he doesn't give the cap back yet. Ryoma crosses his arms. Tezuka says something else and puts the cap on his own head. Then Ryoma breaks into a slow grin, and they walk away together. Their hands swing close, close enough this time that they brush against each other with every step.
Fuji thinks that he's satisfied.
He sees Tezuka frequently, even though he's not following him anymore. They're in school together, after all, and on the same tennis team, so the chances of them encountering each other are high. But now their encounters are pure coincidence, no longer purposeful on Fuji's part.
Fuji follows someone else around, someone he doesn't even know, just to remind himself not to walk with Tezuka after tennis practice. The boy he follows goes home, then to the drug store, then out on a date with a very pretty girl. For some reason she reminds Fuji of Ryoma because of her eyes, and then of Tezuka because of her glasses. He takes a picture of her, randomly, and she and her boyfriend see him and stare. He smiles and waves at them through the restaurant's window, and then goes home.
He looks at the picture after developing it the next day and notes that she doesn't really look like either Tezuka or Ryoma at all.
Fuji calls Ryoma after school. Ryoma answers and is less cranky than usual when he says, "Fuji-senpai, I'm at practice."
"I know," says Fuji pleasantly. "So how is it going?"
"How is tennis practice going?"
"If that's the question you'd like to answer."
Ryoma snorts. "I don't want to answer any questions. I'm at practice."
"Oh, hold on, Tezuka's here." Fuji lowers the phone before he can hear Ryoma's reaction.
"I want to talk," says Tezuka.
"With Echizen? Here you are, then." Fuji smiles and holds out the phone.
Tezuka takes the phone, as Fuji had known he would. But then Tezuka presses the End button and hangs up on Ryoma. "Not with Echizen."
"Oh." For once, Fuji can find nothing to say.
Tezuka looks at him, his gaze as intense as ever. "What are you trying to do, Fuji?"
"What am I trying to do?" Fuji echoes him, suddenly amused. "I'm not trying to do anything anymore. Surely you've noticed."
"I have." Tezuka steps closer, into the personal space that he usually avoids. Fuji doesn't step back, and so they're only centimeters away from each other.
"Such a compromising position you've put us in, Tezuka," Fuji comments. "Whatever would Echizen-"
He doesn't find out what Tezuka thinks Ryoma would think. Tezuka leans down and kisses him, arms around Fuji's waist, drawing him in until they're pressed together, lips and chest and hips and legs, all the way down.
He'd never expected Tezuka to make the first move, and this first move, of all things. But Fuji never has been able to beat Tezuka in a match, so he supposes this shouldn't be any different.
Tezuka's kiss isn't wild or fierce, but it is demanding and firm in a way that no one could possibly resist. Fuji lets himself melt against Tezuka, into Tezuka's arms; certainly one thing pillars are good for is holding people up.
"So where did you learn this from?" Fuji asks, withdrawing a little, murmuring against Tezuka's lips and reveling in this newfound feeling. "Atobe? Tachibana?" He pauses and then adds mischievously, "Or from Echizen?"
Tezuka sighs a little. His breath is sweet, tasting of some unidentified fruit flavor, which is surprising. Fuji had always expected Tezuka to be more bitter, like black coffee or strong tea. Maybe Ryoma is the bitter one, which would be wonderfully ironic what with Ryoma's habit of drinking grape-flavored soda. "Fuji…"
"Hm?" Fuji leans his head on Tezuka's chest simply because he can, listening to Tezuka's heartbeat, looking at the fabric of Tezuka's shirt close up, feeling the rise and fall of Tezuka's breath. This is such a novelty, and one he's never been permitted before.
"That is not the first question most people would ask."
"No, I suppose not," says Fuji thoughtfully. "So, more importantly, Tezuka…who did you learn it for?"
Tezuka shakes his head and looks away. Then he meets Fuji's eyes. "Find out for yourself," is all he says, and then releases Fuji and walks away.
Oddly, Fuji gets the feeling that though he's paid attention to every minor detail, he's somehow overlooked something anyway.
On White Day, Fuji doesn't quite expect to receive anything from Tezuka. He passes Tezuka in the hallway and they share a glance and nothing more. Then again, Tezuka doesn't give anything to anyone on White Day, as far as Fuji knows. The same is true today, though Fuji muses that perhaps when Tezuka sees Ryoma after school, he'll give a White Day gift for the first time.
But Ryoma is waiting on Fuji's front porch when Fuji gets home. He must have skipped practice to be at Fuji's house so early, which is more than a little unusual. Ryoma stands and stretches lazily when Fuji approaches.
"Hello, Echizen," says Fuji.
"Fuji-senpai," says Ryoma. "Happy White Day." He hands Fuji an envelope that's heavy with the photos inside.
At first Fuji wonders if Ryoma is giving Fuji's own photos back to him. He knows after looking at the first picture that this isn't the case, though the envelope is the same. There is a different box of chocolates featured in this set of pictures. He glances up at Ryoma, fascinated by this new development. "Well?"
"Che. I shouldn't tell you," says Ryoma, but he's grinning slightly. "Buchou liked the Ponta ones. He missed the wasabi ones, though, so I had to make some for him."
"Hm." Fuji runs his tongue along his lower lip thoughtfully, tasting wasabi, tasting breath mints, tasting nothing at all. "Would you like to come inside?" He doesn't yet know what he'll do if Ryoma accepts, but he doesn't mind. Not knowing has been the most interesting thing in his world in the past weeks.
"No," says Ryoma. "I have a match."
Fuji watches after him until Ryoma is out of sight, and for awhile after that, too. He looks away when his phone beeps, telling him that he has a text message. The number that flashes on the screen is Tezuka's.
Meet us at the courts.
They're waiting for him at the Seigaku tennis courts. The place is empty, strangely enough. Possibly practice had ended early. Possibly Tezuka and Ryoma had arranged it to be that way. Goodness knows that Momo would be more than willing to end practice a bit early in order to accommodate his old captain and one of his best friends.
Ryoma is waiting for him on one side of the court, racket and a ball in hand. Tezuka is in the referee's chair this time. Somehow this whole setup is right, Fuji can sense it, though his mind is still mulling over why it's right.
"You wouldn't play me before," Ryoma calls.
"That's true, I wouldn’t," says Fuji. He has his racket out, too.
"So will you now?"
"Of course I will," Fuji replies, walking onto the court. "Since you asked so nicely." He catches Tezuka's gaze and holds it for a long second. Then he looks back at Ryoma.
Ryoma smirks at him from across the net, ready to play. He doesn't serve yet; he's waiting for Fuji. Tezuka is waiting, too, at the side of the court. He's not just watching Ryoma; he's watching both of them. He has a box of chocolates on his lap, and a camera in his hand.
Fuji sees for the first time that it's not just a straight line between Tezuka and Ryoma. He wants to laugh when he realizes that he's overlooked the obvious, the fact that no matter which of them is on either side of the net, no matter which of them is off of the court, the lines drawn between them are the same. The lines go to all three of them, connecting them and joining them. Fuji isn't a pillar, but he's tied to them just the same.
"Well, Echizen?" he says with a smile.
"If you think you're ready," says Ryoma. "I wouldn't want to start without you." He grins.
"I've been ready," says Fuji, and it's true.
Ryoma serves, and the camera flashes, capturing the moment when Fuji moves to return the ball.
He's looking at the picture later, when it's framed and hanging on his wall. For some reason he'd only been able to see the bonds between the three of them when their roles had been reversed, when he'd been the photographed and one of them the photographer.
Now Fuji sees it clearly, and he's amused by his own lack of perception. He wonders idly if he'd known subconsciously all along, and that it would turn out for the best anyway. Then he dismisses that thought; it wouldn't be so much fun that way. He leans against Tezuka's shoulder. Tezuka is the only one of them who's really doing homework, but he pauses in mid-sentence, rests a hand on Fuji's leg, one of those silent statements that Tezuka is so good at making. Fuji smiles.
"You really didn't notice," says Ryoma. He's lying on his stomach across the bed, playing idly with one of Fuji's cacti. The one he's chosen is the most deceptively innocent-looking, and also the one most likely to draw blood.
Fuji should warn him. He looks at Tezuka, who raises an eyebrow at him. "No, I really didn't," says Fuji. "And I wouldn't do that if I were you."
"Wouldn't do what?" Suddenly Ryoma draws his finger back, examining the blood welling up at the tip. He looks accusingly at Fuji, then at Tezuka. "You should have told me."
"Oh, I don't know," says Fuji. "Some things have to be learned, not taught, don't you think?"
Tezuka nods in agreement, hiding a smile. Ryoma rolls his eyes.
"Let me see it." Fuji reaches out, and Ryoma reluctantly gives him the injured hand. "Mm, it could be serious." Before Ryoma can speak or react, Fuji leans his head down to soothe the finger with his tongue.
Ryoma doesn't pull away, and when Fuji looks up at him, Ryoma is watching, considering. Fuji licks the blood away, and Ryoma shivers involuntarily. His eyes narrow and flicker to Tezuka, who's also watching. "Buchou?"
Fuji looks at Tezuka too, taking his mouth away from Ryoma's finger. "Tezuka?" he says, a question and an invitation.
Tezuka's eyes go from one of them to the other, and then he takes Fuji's hand in his own, the hand of Fuji's that is already holding Ryoma's. Tezuka brings both of their hands up and bends his head to take Ryoma's finger gently between his lips. He makes the gesture so solemn, almost ceremonial, that Fuji wants to laugh.
Instead Fuji leans down again so that his lips meet Tezuka's, so that all of their hands are linked together and Tezuka and Fuji are kissing around Ryoma's finger. Ryoma draws in a quick breath when Fuji slides his tongue out to run it across Tezuka's lips, and Tezuka's tongue meets it after a moment. Their tongues and lips curl around Ryoma's finger, caressing, teasing, exploring and appreciating this newfound privilege.
Both Tezuka and Ryoma are sweet to the taste, and Fuji doesn't know how he'd ever thought they wouldn't be.