Title: Breathing Difficulties
Summary: Tezuka doesn't want to be bothered and Ryoma doesn't want to be ignored.
"This paper is due tomorrow." His tone is clipped and unbearably cold. Ryoma opens his mouth to protest, but Tezuka knows him too well, and cuts him off before he can utter a single word. "Don't bother me unless it's an emergency."
A pout makes itself known, but he's stubborn and tries to say something again. Tezuka's eyes flicker up and he gives him the look that never fails to make him want to crawl away into a corner and sulk.
He would have, crawled into a corner that is, but Tezuka's bed is more comfortable.
With a huff, Ryoma wanders towards the bed and collapses onto the springy mattress. He kicks his feet and rolls around onto his back, messing up the neatly folded blankets. Tezuka ignores him, and keeps his eyes glued to neatly inked characters.
Ryoma burrows underneath the blanket, and then reaches forward to the foot of the bed for Tezuka's pajamas. It is expectedly folded into a perfect rectangle, though surprisingly has remained unaffected by Ryoma's earlier flailing. He grabs the lavender set and flaps it out in front of him so that it's no longer unfolded, but spread out wide across his lap. He then tugs off his shirt, struggling all the while to pull it over his head with the buttons still done up. It's a hard battle, but one he wins after a few frustrated growls. He flings his shirt in Tezuka's general vicinity, not daring to aim it at him just yet, lest the older boy's hand slips and causes a large glaring error of red streaked across the neat sheets like he'd done the last time. It hadn't been fun, because Tezuka had started rewriting the paper all over again.
Ryoma huffs again, easily pulling on the oversized pajama top. He doesn't bother to button it up, and reaches underneath the covers for the waistband of his pants. He wriggles out of them and kicks them off. They get entangled around his ankles, but in no time he yanks them free and, after feeling around for them underneath the covers, the heavy oversized jeans follow the path of his shirt. The pants leg flutters ungracefully to Tezuka's left, and brushes against his elbow. Tezuka tenses, but Ryoma pretends not to notice as he tries to find the right hole his leg is supposed to go through in the soft cottony pants now under the blanket.
Once done and satisfied that he's ready for bed (Tezuka has other pajamas folded neatly away in his closet, no need to worry about that) the freshman makes himself comfortable, lying down and fluffing the large pillows around him.
Despite the racket, and most likely the distracting thoughts he'd provided for Tezuka to chew on (and indeed he was, chewing on the red correction pen that is) Tezuka is still ignoring him, keeping his brown eyes focused on the shogunate, daimyo, samurai and god knows what else it was Tezuka's history paper was on. Tezuka, for his part, is determined not to move his eyes away from the fibred loose leaf, to not even cast a fleeting glance towards the clothes strewn around him. If he does, he's afraid he might not be able to concentrate on the alliance between Saigou and Kido, or Emperor Koumei, all of whom had been coincidentally was brought together by Sakamoto Ryoma who is lying in his bed quite possibly naked but Tezuka has no way of know so long as he refuses to turn around and look and– Tezuka barely refrains from slamming his head against his desk, just to knock some sense into his frenzied mind. The only thing stopping him, sadly enough, is that he doesn't want to ruin the third pair of glasses that year.
But then Tezuka doesn't need to do that anymore, because it's suddenly quiet, no rustling noises or muffled screams (as Ryoma has become prone to doing just to vent) from his kouhai, which is always odd when Ryoma is angry at him for paying more attention to homework when he's staying over for the night.
Curious, very curious. The frown on Tezuka's lips drops for a tiny unnoticeable fraction. Ryoma never falls asleep so quickly either. Should he look? Look and risk the chance of not being able to proofread over his paper?
"Ryoma?" he asks tentatively.
The boy doesn't reply to his call and there is silence, awful nerve-racking silence.
Slowly, half hesitant, half torn, Tezuka turns around.
His heart gets lodged in his throat and squeezes through his lungs, painfully constricting his airways as his eyes widen in shock.
"Ryoma!" is his panicked cry, and then he's scurrying frantically across the distance between his table and the bed and cursing it for being so long, and finally, finally, he's at the edge of the mattress, on his knees, yanking the big fluffy pillow off Ryoma's face.
Ryoma has his eyes shut tightly, and his lips are thinned into an unforgiving line.
"What are you doing?" Tezuka barely refrains from shouting and grabbing the boy by the shoulders and shaking him back and forth – his parents and grandfather are sleeping, after all, and the unbuttoned shirt has slid off his shoulders and Tezuka is irrationally afraid of being burned by the bare, smooth portion of glorious naked skin.
He chokes on his breath when inappropriate thoughts swim across his eyes. He quickly shoves it to the back of his mind and focuses on the fact that Ryoma is still not making a noise or breathing but instead is stupidly holding his breath.
Had he been thinking rationally, he'd be able to think up of a quick, efficient method to knock some sense into Ryoma. Instead, Tezuka fails to understand why Ryoma isn't breathing, isn't able to process anything rational through his mind, because instead he's driving himself crazy with panic.
"Ryoma! Stop it!"
Still no response. Tezuka's brow furrows, both in concern and in frustration with Ryoma's lack of response.
No doubt Ryoma is going to die from lack of oxygen if he continues to keep this up. It's been almost a minute, if Tezuka's mental clock is working correctly. Now it's been over a minute.
"Oh for goodness sakes!"
Tezuka grabs his shoulders – and tries not to flinch at the touch of the soft, hot flesh beneath his rough palms – and leans forward to kiss the obstinate boy. He uses his tongue to try and force the thinned lips apart. Ryoma remains unmoving, but Tezuka trails his hand down his bare chest, down to his waist where he knows he's ticklish, and ghosts his fingers lightly around his belly button. That, at least, is something Tezuka'll never forget to do, because it's so ingrained in his memory, half-panicked or not.
If he had been thinking properly he'd have realized that forcing Ryoma into an action that requires more breath than what is usually necessary is probably a bad way of trying to get him to breathe again. In fact, it is probably a way to effectively try to murder the boy. He isn't thinking rationally though, and Ryoma is nothing if not resilient, stubbornly so.
At least it worked, he thinks dimly when Ryoma's mouth opens with a sudden gasping laugh. Tezuka seizes the opportunity to thrust his tongue in for a kiss that is hard, breathtaking and completely unforgiving.
When Tezuka pulls away, Ryoma is breathing hard, small moans echoing from deep in his chest as he tries to regain the breath he'd lost in the past minute. Tezuka glares at him, eyes narrowed dangerously with a look in his eyes that shows he is clearly not at all affected when Ryoma tries to blindside him with cheerful grin.
"What?" Ryoma asks innocently.
And, against his better judgment, all the righteous anger and frustration leaves Tezuka at the infuriatingly heartwarming sight, and Tezuka deflates, burying his face pathetically in Ryoma's stomach. A defeated huff escapes his lips, and Ryoma only laughs at him.
"You said emergency."
Tezuka looks up from his comfortable, firm pillow, clearly not amused. Ryoma, though, knows better, and merely grins back, pulling him up for another kiss before he can even think about going back to reread over his paper.