Excommunication (Prince of Tennis, Atobe/Echizen, Dark #1) Title: Excommunication Pairing/Characters: Atobe Keigo/Echizen Ryoma Theme Set and #: Dark #1 Bell Fandom: Prince of Tennis Rating: PG-13 Disclaimer: Not my characters Word count: 666
"Honestly," he said, "I don't know why you're being so childish about this."
Ryoma's only response was a harshly indrawn breath, then a click before the line went dead. When Keigo tried to call back he didn't get a ring, didn't even get voice mail, just an automated recording declining the call.
It wasn't even a date, he sent. It was business, just a public relations thing. The only reply was a grainy, blurred picture of the kiss. Fucking paparazzi.
It didn't mean anything, he wrote back, uncomfortably aware that while he hadn't broken any specific rules, they did have an unspoken understanding. And so even though he really hadn't done anything to apologize for, he would've added It was just one kiss to his next e-mail, except the previous one bounced back. Repeatedly.
Ridiculous. Absurd. Unbelievable that Ryoma was being such a girl about this. This wasn't how they worked. He was supposed to let Keigo apologize and they could go back to having casual sex whenever Ryoma was in town. He was supposed to be a professional tennis player, a man of the world.
Men of the world, he thought angrily, weren't bothered by trifles like a casual flirtation. In the larger scheme of things, it was nothing.
But apparently it was something when he saw the photo in the sports section a week later; Ryoma and some American sponsor at a charity match, hands clasped over the net, Ryoma giving the American a glowing, intimate smile, a smile Keigo had previously been sure no one but he had ever seen.
He looked up the competition, found out he was even more obscenely wealthy than Keigo himself.
"Mine wasn't even into tennis," he snarled at the photo.
He could have his pick of partners. Men and women, all beautiful, came when he beckoned, sometimes embarrassing in their eagerness. He'd never chased after anyone. He wouldn't start now.
Except, he thought darkly, a certain stubborn little bastard might just decide to take tit for tat one step too far.
He tried not to think about it as he ordered the jet fueled up, as he waited in Customs, as the limo wove through New York traffic to the stadium.
Ryoma was on a practice court warming up. Keigo had planned on waiting until after the match; that is until he saw the how American stood on the sidelines, watching with a soppy look and holding Ryoma's water bottle like it was the grail.
He grabbed a racquet and a ball from Ryoma's bag and looked hard at the back of the American's head, then thought better of it. If Ryoma was still pissed off he'd probably end up having to make two apologies.
Instead he hit a flat shot at Ryoma, wasn't surprised when Ryoma sent it back without looking in his direction. But then he waved off his warm up partner, so Keigo strolled over.
Still not looking at him, Ryoma just said, "Well?"
"I'm sorry I called you childish," Keigo said dutifully.
"And?"
"And you're a better kisser."
"And?"
"Ryoma. I don't even know if she pla- Okay, fine, you're a better tennis player."
That got him a quick look and a flash of a smile. But then, "And?"
You bastard, Keigo thought fondly. "And I'll never do it again. Now get rid of the American."
"Him?" Ryoma blinked. "He's a sponsor. It's just business."
"Ryoma."
"What?"
"You've made your point."
"Hmm," Ryoma said. He had a contemplative look on his face that rarely meant well for anyone, then smiled. "Hey. Come here a second."
"Wha--mmm." He really was a better kisser, Keigo thought, dimly aware of the pop of flash bulbs and the sound of a water bottle hitting the ground.
Then Ryoma did something twisty with his tongue, something he'd never done before, and pulled back to give Keigo an expectant, waiting look.
Keigo growled, "Seriously. Point, set and match. I got it."