Ryoma’s breath caught and lodged in his throat along with his heart. I’m going to have to run so many laps for this, he thought, and then they were kissing.
Tezuka’s lips, his lips firm and soft, the strange and intoxicating touch of them against his own—they were chapped from the cold and moist from the cider, and Tezuka was kissing him, kissing him, and Ryoma forgot that he was the one who had pushed forward because Tezuka was pushing him back against the doorframe, Tezuka’s hand was in his hair, tangling it, moving through it along with the movement of his mouth against Ryoma’s—
And then, one final quick kiss, one final solid press of their mouths together, reassurance and refusal all at once—and Tezuka stepped back.
His face was flushed and his hair fell into his eyes, and his chest rose and fell the same way Ryoma’s mouth was working, soundless and startled and open and trying for something to say.
“Buchou,” he stuttered.
But Tezuka was backing up, stepping out of the entrance, out of his reach, determinedly oblivious to the voice inside Ryoma that was screaming at him, that wanted him back where he belonged. His eyes darkened, and suddenly he was Tezuka again—composed and sure, as if he had not just had Ryoma backed against a doorway, holding him in place and letting Ryoma know exactly how the press of his body felt against Ryoma’s own.
Tezuka cleared his throat. “They’re waiting for us inside,” he said, and walked down the hallway without waiting for Ryoma to follow.
Ryoma stood under the mistletoe for sometime longer than was absolutely necessary, learning how to breathe again, and how to rewrite the world.
Then, as always, he followed.