title: Jersey
fandom: Prince of Tennis
characters/pairings: Tezuka/Fuji, Captain Yamato, Oishi
rating: Teen
warnings: mutual masturbation
summary: Tezuka doesn't usually lose things.
notes: inspired GREATLY by ep. 174, and partially set post-176, even tho i haven't seen it yet. =p

"Wait just a moment," Tezuka turned, and ran back to the clubhouse. The Kantou tournament, and there was a better than good chance he would play. He'd been preparing for this, of course. The whole point of being on the tennis team was playing - no, winning - but now it was here.

He was a meticulous person, and very rarely had stains on his clothing, but if he was going to represent Seigaku, he was going to have to be perfect. He had left his extra regular's jersey in his locker, in case he needed it, but he had forgotten to put it in his bag. He got to his locker, and he knew precisely where he had put the jersey, but it wasn't there.

This was unthinkable.

He checked the entire locker, not that there was much room for him to have misplaced it there. Not a single stitch of it.

"Tezuka-kun!" Captain Yamato dropped his hand on Tezuka's shoulder, startling him. "Don't tell me you're nervous? C'mon, I'm depending on you!"

"Yes, Captain!" Tezuka straightened up. He would figure this out later. And avoid stains at all costs.

They had a match to win.

"Vice Captain," Oishi smirked. Tezuka did not sigh, but he did turn to face his friend. "I have a question about the regular's jerseys, actually. Do they have to be dry cleaned?"

Tezuka was reasonably certain that Oishi was literate enough to comprehend the washing instructions on the jersey's tag by himself, but, then again, the first time he had gotten his regular's jersey, he'd been rather proud, too.

Turning around again, Tezuka sighed. "Read the instructions."

Oishi snickered. Of course, he wouldn't be acting this way if anyone else were around; he'd stuck behind with Tezuka to help him lock up. "Sorry, sorry... I just can't believe it. But... you know, really, I'm scared, too."

Tezuka turned and raised an eyebrow.

Oishi flushed. "I mean... you're you, so I don't know if you understand this... And Fuji is Fuji. But... I don't want to let anyone down. Least of all, senpai."

It was almost endearing how Oishi was afraid to even say his double partner's name, but it would be more endearing if his senpai was a bit more deserving of Oishi's awe. Tezuka finished dressing quickly, and started to pack up his bag.

"You're still coming over for dinner, right, Tezuka?" Oishi was fretting again.

Tezuka nodded briefly. "Of course. Let me just..." He turned to get one last thing from his locker, but it wasn't there.

"Tezuka?" Oishi was at his elbow looking into his locker as if there might be something terribly wonderful in it.

There had been a dirty jersey in there. There had been. Tezuka hadn't imagined it.

Not again.

Momoshiro was picking up his jerseys at the same time as Tezuka. The second year jumped back, literally, when he saw his captain in line behind him, but Tezuka waited patiently for Momoshiro to be done with his transaction before he went to the counter. Momoshiro was good at making chatter, but he relied too heavily on boasts. It was too easy to undermine his confidence by simple not taking the bait.

He got his jerseys, and nodded to the clerk.

"Captain?" Momoshiro looked genuinely puzzled. "You got three jerseys? I thought we were supposed to order two? Did I mess up?" He bit his lip.

Tezuka looked down at his order. Clearly, he could not tell Momoshiro that he would, invariably, lose one of his jerseys at some point in the year. He cleared his throat. "Your order was fine. You need to be concentrating on recovering from your injury now."

"Yes, Captain!" Momoshiro all but saluted.

Tezuka exited, and stuffed his jerseys into his bag. At least he'd never lost a jacket.

"Captain?" Fuji chuckled quietly. "I don't think this is the direction to the office. Weren't we supposed to be getting markers, or something?"

Tezuka continued to pull Fuji down the halls of Seigaku. The lights were still on, but the school was deadly quiet at this time of day. Tezuka abruptly turned, and dragged Fuji down another hall. Class 1-3, perfect, its windows faced an interior courtyard that wasn't used this time of day, and it would be unlocked. Tezuka ripped open the door, and practically tossed Fuji inside, and then shut the door tightly behind them.

Fuji was standing against the teacher's desk, biting down on his bottom lip, his fingers curled around the edge of the desk. "Captain... What are we doing here? People might wonder where we've gone..."

He had never sweat so hard during a match in his life. Neither had Fuji. They were both dripping with it. During the game, he'd been so completely and totally focused on his opponent... as soon as the last shot was called, all that energy had suddenly... converted...

He took Fuji's face in his hands, and kissed him roughly, pushing him back against the desk. He needed this kiss, needed his hands, his sweaty palms, to cover Fuji's sweaty skin. He tugged up on Fuji's jersey, cursing the buttons that hindered him as he tried to get the fabric out of his way, needed to taste Fuji's skin, this beautiful, perfect skin, and god, the salty tang of it, the way it burned, so hot to the touch, and the shorts, they had to go, Fuji's hands were in his hair, tugging, and his sweat was dripping on Fuji's face, so he licked it clean, his sweat and Fuji's mixed, like potent liquor to his virgin tongue, it went straight to his head.

Fuji laughed, but then, he often did when they... It was a beautiful, musical, low sound, and Tezuka understood it, not because he felt like laughing himself, but that was exactly the point, wasn't it? Their clothes littered the floor all around them, and he was on top of Fuji on top of the desk, and damn it, because naturally, they didn't have anything to use as lube, but there was need, and necessity gave way to nothing.

His heart was going to explode in his chest. Their two hands together on their two cocks, and Fuji's breathy whispers, and their sweat on Tezuka's tongue, a powerful rhythm more effective than a thousand years worth of chanting, it was working magic on him, but not enough, not fast enough, until, finally, desperately, it was too much, too fast, and he sagged on top of Fuji, heaving.

Fuji's fine fingers floated over his skin. "Mmmm, Captain... Tezuka..."

"Syuusuke," He whispered, his throat raw from screaming, though he didn't remember making a sound. He covered Fuji's mouth with his own, and tasted him, deeply.

Phantom shudders echoed through his flesh as Fuji's hands moved up and down his flanks. "That was one hell of a game, wasn't it, 'Mitsu?"

There was no response meaningful enough. He pulled Fuji to a sitting up position, and kissed him, held him, ran his fingers through Fuji's hair and murmured things that, if they were words, would be words that someone his age shouldn't be uttering, but it didn't matter, because they were still true.

Fuji stood up and stretched out, knowing that Tezuka was watching him closely, appreciatively. Tezuka sighed, and stood up, and picked up a sock.

This was stolen time, and it would have to remain stolen time. They weren't free yet.

Somehow, their shirts had fallen on top of each other. Tezuka smiled, and picked them both up. He looked at the tags to see which was which.

"Ah!" Fuji grabbed one of the jerseys. "This one's mine, I think."

Tezuka held on, and continued to stare. They each had the exact same tag. The same. They were the same shirt. "This is... you... you've been wearing my jersey?" He looked at Fuji, honestly surprised.

Fuji blushed, shirtless, and only one sock on; far too adorable for words. And far too...

Tezuka threw the shirts aside, and picked up Fuji, laying him back down on the desk again. His whole body felt like it was a tangle of live wires. Fuji had been wearing his jersey... all along. His. Fuji wore his jersey to play, all the time.

That was the most arousing thing in the universe.

Fuji's laughs melted into sticky, messy groans of pleasure. Outside, it got dark, by degrees, the sky bleeding into black slowly. Long after their bodies had finally cooled, Tezuka was still holding Fuji in his arms, and kissing his lips softly. He didn't care how late they were.

They would steal every second they could.