Today had not been a good day for Tezuka Kunimitsu.
Despite his high level of stoicism, he was subject to the same passions and emotions that affected--some might say plagued--his teammates. He handled them all the same way: a quirk of his eyebrows, a quick cutting with his eyes, and a slight deepening in his habitual frown. This uniform reception of all issues, good and bad, lent him a strong semblance of control and hadn't failed him to date.
Then again, to date Echizen had never worn anything to practice but those ill-fitting shorts.
Tezuka knew something was wrong as soon as he felt his eyes slide over to the freshman and lock there. There was no reason to; everyone else on the team with the exception of Kaidoh wore the long warm-up pants at least once in a while. Besides, he had seen Ryoma's legs before and thought nothing of them. There was absolutely no reason for him to stare at them now that they were covered in softly clinging fleece, practically gift-wrapped.
He averted his eyes.
He was staring again, his eyes sliding over hard calves and slowly kneading a pair of taut hamstrings from behind when Ryuzaki-sensei came over and told him that if he was going to be so obvious, to have some propriety and sit cross-legged.
He closed his legs.
His eyes were crawling inch by deliciously torturous inch up Ryoma's back by the time vice-captain Oishi came over on the pretext of discussing the upcoming tournament line-up and surreptiously tossed a jacket across his lap.
He went for a 20-lap run around the courts.
He stopped on lap 13 to watch Ryoma serve, eyes drinking greedily, when Inui offered him a cup of Special Deluxe Remix Akazu Platinum to "deplete unnecessary vigor." He drank it without looking at his teammate and began running again, cock still insistently hard.
He was watching from the safety of the administrative offices when Ryuzaki-sensei brought practice to a halt and sent everyone to the shower. Then he wandered downstairs slowly, counting the steps as he went. Then a dash back up all five flights. Then down again. Then up again. Then down one more time and into the locker room to drop a towel over his head and let the steam fog up his glasses.. He knew from experience that he had difficulty staying aroused when he was exhausted.
Then again, he hadn't counted on those damned pants.
Thanks to the impromptu workout, he didn't have the energy to respond to the teasing he got from his teammates. Even his standard scowl was affected--Fuji cooed at him and said that he looked pouty. Tezuka glared at him, but Fuji continued to bait him, murmuring, "I heard he had his pants especially tailored. To fit his unique measurements, of course."
Tezuka let out a slow breath.
"Losing control, buchou? Not that I blame you ..."
"Syuusuke."
"Kunimitsu." Fuji's smile grew more intense and oh-so-slightly-warped. "You're not exactly being subtle."
Tezuka let out another slow breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the locker room was empty. Except for a slender body near him, leaning across the benches to reach for lockers that he could have reached simply by walking around. His glasses were beginning to steam again. He didn't bother to wonder why, taking them off.
In response, Ryoma Echizen slid out of his ragged t-shirt. Not that it mattered anyway; it was soaked with sweat, practically transparent. The perpetual smirk on his lips grew slightly, punching Tezuka in the stomach. He exhaled slowly, nerves in tatters as his pants grew uncomfortably warm and tight. Again.
Ryoma's smirk grew bigger, drawing Tezuka's eyes to his lips. What he wouldn't give to see those lips swollen with from rough kisses ... or fingers quickly thrust in and out of his mouth ... or wrapped around him, taunting ...
"Cold fish, ne? Fuji-sempai said it took a lot to draw you out."
The lump in Tezuka's pants shifted.
"He also said you like to ... lose control every now and again. Give yourself over." Ryoma's eyelids lowered slightly, making him look more like a cat than ever. "Is that so?"
A muscle moved in Tezuka's jaw, right above a wildly fluttering vein.
"Tch," Ryoma said, more to himself. "You're probably all show and no go anyway."
Tezuka sat up straight.
"What else could I expect from our totally frigid buchou ..."
The damp towel fell to the floor, unheeded.
"Bet you wouldn't even know what to do with it."
And Tezuka finally lost his famous control, opening his eyes to find that he had cornered Echizen near the linen hamper, his right leg wedged between the boy's arm and body, the left one draped over Ryoma's naked shoulder, effectively trapping him. His left arm pressed against the wall for balance, his right hand holding a handful of dark green hair and tipping back the boy's head at just the right angle. Time to shut that damned mouth of his once and for all. Beneath him, Ryoma squirmed, breathing tiny, excited breaths through the fabric of the warm-up pants as Tezuka's cock strained against the brim of his ball cap. A few dribbles of saliva oozed out of the corner of his mouth. Without thinking, Tezuka wiped it away with his thumb and their eyes met.
"Anything else you wanted to say?" Tezuka asked in a brittle voice.
Ryoma's eyes moved, from the cock stroking his face to the pale gold hairs peeking over the waistband of Tezuka's pants, to the flat stomach, the solid pectorals, the bead of sweat moving down his buchou's jaw, and finally, looked deep into his eyes again.
"Bet Fuji-sempai's is bigger."
And then he didn't say much else for a while.
Tezuka couldn't explain it to himself for days afterwards, and after a while he stopped trying. Echizen didn't wear those pants again, and showed no interest in continuing the relationship beyond its initial, explosive beginning.
In the end, they mutually agreed to place the blame on the tailor, Fuji's uncle.