Prince of Tennis. Tezuka/Tachibana. PG-13. 350 words.
They sit in silence, watching the moths that had gathered above them while they played.
Shivers of Silence
The hum of the lights is steady, and Tachibana can finally hear the whirr of the timer over the rush of blood in his head.
“Stay a while longer,” he says, and before Tezuka can heft his bag off the bench, Tachibana catches his arm. Tachibana’s fingers skid down until they loop around Tezuka’s bare wrist, and they linger there for a moment, tips pressing light against the pulse hidden between surprisingly slender bones.
Tezuka looks down, his expression as flat and unreadable as it was during their match, and Tachibana releases his hold to wipe his palms down the front of his pants. He stammers an apology, tongue feeling three times as thick as it had only moments ago, and he finds he can’t remember any of the things he wanted to talk about when Tezuka sits down beside him. He says as much, laughing quietly while twisting his fingers together in his lap.
Tezuka doesn’t even crack a smile. But he stays, and stretches his legs out, and his knee comes to rest close enough to Tachibana’s that heat passes between them.
They sit in silence, watching the moths that had gathered above them while they played. There are thousands, pale wings fluttering and dipping, some of them colliding when their desperate, erratic paths cross too close.
“It’s a nice night,” Tezuka says suddenly.
“It is.”
“Your serve has improved.”
Tachibana isn’t quite sure how to take the compliment. It’s not often that Tezuka comments favourably on his game. He glances over, ready to offer a compliment of his own, but it’s then that the timer winds down, and the lights shut off, bathing the courts in darkness. Tachibana stands up, ready to go turn the timer for another ten minutes, but a hand catches his arm, slides down to his wrist.
“Stay,” Tezuka says.
Tachibana sits down, and the fingers around his wrist slide down further, find his palm and thread with his own.
*
End
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