Title: Of Distractions and Boxer Shorts
Words: 1,381
Summary: Tezuka suffers from Ryoma's obsession with his clothes.

Ryoma stays over at his house a lot, more than a lot. As many times as he can without Tezuka's parents getting suspicious or Ryoma's father getting ideas. Usually he follows him home after school with only his tennis bag that contains his rackets and training clothes and hastily written homework notes. Tezuka is used to his lack or organizational skills and is no longer surprised to see the boy rummaging through his closet for something that suited his needs. Tezuka always offers to find him the smallest clothes he has, but Ryoma always refuses and chooses to wear a change of clothes that are not so small and hang off his shoulder and slip down his waist.

He claims with a playful grin that he likes being bundled up in the large shirt that is entirely too big for him. The sleeves always slip down pass his wrists even though they are rolled up, the collar hangs off one shoulder, exposing more skin than Tezuka can be comfortable with, and the waistband is long enough to just cover the tennis shorts he wears beneath, where Tezuka realizes for the first time just how incredible short they are.

Tezuka, for what it's worth, tries his best to ignore it. He pretends he can't see the smooth curve of Ryoma's shoulder or more than just a hint of his collarbone, pretends that he isn't staring because staring was rude. He wonders if it's a good idea to walk around without his glasses on but dismisses the thought the moment Ryoma shoots him a knowing smirk.

There are days, though, where Tezuka thinks that perhaps walking around almost blind would have been the smarter option, pride be damned. Never once has he ever mentioned Ryoma's clothes-stealing habits. Tezuka doesn't mind it because it never interferes with his school or tennis any more than Ryoma does.

At least it didn't use to. Now it gets beyond distracting when Ryoma shows up at tennis practice wearing the Seigaku pants that he usually forgoes for his comfortable short black shorts. The pants do not fit, tailored for the seniors that were most likely to make regulars. The legs are too long but he has it rolled up to just above his ankles. The shirt is larger too, bigger, baggier, looser. It is also crooked, hanging off to one side but not enough to expose his whole shoulder. That in itself was a small relief but Tezuka still closes his eyes and tries not to think.

He can't though, because he knows full well that Ryoma's shirt has a tendency to fly up all the time. All Tezuka can see in his mind's eye is his form, sliding up near the net before jumping up to deliver a Drive B, or launching into the air, body twisting around in preparation for the Cyclone Smash, and how it'd be all too easy to see more skin than was acceptable. Tezuka swallows. He wants to tell Ryoma off, but Tezuka is not Ryoma's mother and has no right to tell Ryoma how to dress properly.

Ryoma, though, proves to be more maddening than Tezuka could've guessed. Ryoma reaches behind and pulls the shirt taut across his stomach, twisting it around tightly before slipping it up underneath. Tezuka thinks he should feel relieved, but this only makes it worse. Ryoma's slim and toned torso is more obvious, the shirt is riding up his navel and Tezuka can see his sharp hipbones leading down towards—

Tezuka averts his eyes quickly and turns his back to the door before he starts thinking of things that he shouldn't be thinking when changing into his uniform in a room full of other boys. Tezuka yanks his shirt over his head, the movement knocking his glasses painfully against his face.

He adjusts the rimless frames on his nose. The light streaming through the windows dance off the lenses and draw his attention to his peripheral vision. He casts Ryoma a sidelong glance just as Ryoma tips his hat up with a finger so that he doesn't have to tilt his head back to see him. Tezuka easily makes out the lazy smirk on his face but stubbornly refuses to look at him any longer.

The other members have no such inclination to do the same and are openly gaping. Kikumaru is trying to understand why Ryoma is wearing an oversized uniform, Momoshiro is spluttering around speechlessly, and Kaidoh only hisses from his corner, most likely disapproving of Ryoma's new style because it would be a hindrance.

Further back Horio has his head stuck in one of his shirt holes, being too busy making himself hysterical at Ryoma's sudden inability to dress correctly. Katsuo, very self-conscious of the strange atmosphere in the room, is frantically trying to hush him up while Kachiro is helping Horio put his clothes on properly.

To Tezuka's right Inui is scribbling madly into his note book and Fuji has a knowing smile stretched across his lips. Tezuka looks away immediately, but it's too late because Fuji catches his sideway glance. His smile is impossibly wide and his voice is cheerful when he asks Ryoma, "Did you sleep over at Tezuka's for the weekend?"

The noise abruptly dies down to a hush, and in half a second it stops completely. Though most of the team is aware of their relationship, it is absolutely taboo to bring it up unless Tezuka or Ryoma do so first. He sees many of the tennis club members holding their breath and he is perceptive enough to catch sight of a faint blush on Oishi's cheeks while Kawamura laughs as silently as he can with the racket grasped loosely in his hand.

Tezuka only has hours of daily strenuous tennis practice and mind-conditioning exercises to thank for the self-control to not slam his locker door shut. His brow however twitches ever so faintly in his temple. "Thirty laps all of you." He does not have a valid reason for assigning them so many laps, but he comforts himself with the excuse that the extra training will benefit everyone in the future. Tezuka turns around after closing his locker and heads towards the door, determined to keep his eyes straight ahead.

He fails, however, from keeping his eyes away from Ryoma who is now standing by the door, hands folded behind his back. Tezuka swears he's purposefully doing that to make his shirt slide further up his flat stomach, if the infuriating smirk was anything to go by.

Tezuka narrows his eyes to a glare, the threat evident behind his glasses. Fifty laps. Ryoma merely smirks, eyes arrogant and confident and saying more than spoken words could. Tezuka can literally hear Ryoma's catchphrase ringing loudly in his mind, but Ryoma knows it isn't wise to be disrespectful when his captain is in such an irate mood. Ryoma cockily tips his head to the side and Tezuka can plainly see him saluting in his mind's eye. An additional order of laps is on the tip of Tezuka's tongue but Ryoma spins around on his heels before he can even open his mouth.

The remaining members not out on the court still have not moved from their spots in the clubroom, watching him in either confusion or amusement. Tezuka doesn't bother to tell them off for slacking, because right that moment he's trying to convince himself that he is not staring at how the spin caused the oversized pants to slide a little lower down Ryoma's waist, how an indecent amount of his skin on his back is peaking out from under the shirt, how the Seigaku pants now expose the waistline of the silky boxers beneath.

Tezuka is in denial; he is not, under any circumstances, distracted, staring, or having indecent thoughts of a boy two years his junior, because he has more self-control than that, he's supposed to have more self-control than that.

Either way, Tezuka loses the battle of keeping his eyes off how the shorts hang dangerously low on Ryoma's hips, of how amazingly lavender it appears against the royal blue tennis pants.

With lips thinned into a stern line, Tezuka makes a mental note to never let Ryoma get anywhere near his underwear drawer again.