Title: Careless
Summary: Buchou got careless.

Ryoma washes his hair everyday but he never dries it. He lets the water drip down his neck, trickle down his back and slide onto his jeans where the material absorbs the moisture. This, though, is only when he's just finished with the shower.

Ryoma tends to walk around a bit after that, searching for a shirt in Tezuka's closet or his own clothes strewn across the room. Tezuka usually doesn't mind because more often than not he is too busy to pay any mind to it. Now Tezuka can't help but feel a tiny bit disapproving as he watches Ryoma track water droplets all over the carpet, darkening the creamy pigments.

Tezuka frowns. "You'll catch a cold if you don't dry your hair." There is an underlying sense of authority in that sentence. It is his "buchou voice" and right now he is commanding Ryoma to dry his hair as politely as he deems fit.

Ryoma glances over his shoulder, a thin brow rising slowly. He regards Tezuka for a second and smirks. "Heh. I don't get sick."

Tezuka narrows his eyes. Tezuka dislikes cocky people, yet he is always surrounded by them. Sometimes he wonders why he puts up with Ryoma. The flash of his glasses all but glow with warnings of carelessness as he studies the water sliding down the smooth curve of Ryoma's back.

Ryoma shrugs, grinning for a second before turning back to his raid on Tezuka's closet. With a small sound of triumph he tugs out an oversized sweater and pulls it on.

Tezuka's lips thin into a line as he watches the white material absorb the beads of water. Ryoma's hair continues to drip and the water darkens trail down his back.

By the time Ryoma has pulled on his socks, there is a noticeable darkened patch on his shoulders. Sitting stonily on his bed, Tezuka's disapproval is not hard to miss.

Ryoma catches the negative waves pulsing off his captain and rolls his eyes. "Ne, come on." He runs a hand through his hair, and shakes his head a bit. Tezuka would have compared him to Karupin if that same cold hand had not slid into his own. Tezuka follows without protest, but he tugs down the long sleeve on Ryoma's arm in a unsuccessful attempt to block out the cold.

As Ryoma drags him downstairs and out the door, Tezuka is mindful to grab his scarf and a jacket. Ryoma also has a habit of dressing inappropriately for the weather - a simple windcheater and jeans for the cold winter's day is not suitable. Sometimes Tezuka wonders how Ryoma gets by without him.

A few minutes into their walk Ryoma leans back against Tezuka, resting his head in the crook of Tezuka's neck. His hair is still damp and the fragrance of Tezuka's shampoo drifts easily to his nose.

"You're wet," Tezuka mumbles against the cold wet locks.

"Heeh." Ryoma tilts his head back and ghosts a quick kiss on Tezuka's jaw.

Tezuka frowns briefly, feeling Ryoma shivering against his chest with the sudden gust of wind. Tezuka doesn't mind the cold, or the icy strand of Ryoma's hair, or anything, just that Ryoma is cold and in need of warmer clothes. Tezuka shadows a warm hand over Ryoma's bare neck and Ryoma leans back further into his arms, lazily walking forward with most of his weight on the brunet. Tezuka unwinds his scarf and rewraps it around them both in a futile attempt to keep Ryoma warm. A few drops of water trail it's way down his neck.

Tezuka wakes up abruptly, sneezing. Once, twice, three times. He sniffs delicately as he rubs the sleep out of his eyes. He promptly sneezes again.

A gentle snicker reaches his ears and Tezuka aims a glare at him, unappreciative.

Ryoma coughs lightly, then smiles, making his eyes wider than usual in an attempt to appear innocent.

It clearly isn't working.

"You were careless Buchou – sharing your scarf, really." He shakes his head in mock disappointment. Tezuka would have retorted if not for the irritating need to sneeze.

Then suddenly he can't because Ryoma has placed a finger under his nose. Ryoma grins and Tezuka screws up his face, shuddering.

Tezuka's eyes narrow to slits. "Ryoma."

Ryoma ignores him and crawls onto the mattress. He supports his weight on his arms and legs as he almost straddles Tezuka's waist. "You're sick," he says simply, chuckling when Tezuka deadpans; he never does like it when the obvious is stated. Ryoma didn't either, but with Tezuka it's actually fun. "You need to stay in bed."

"I need—"

"To rest. It's only Saturday."

"It's only a cold."

Ryoma scoffs. "And I'm only a tennis player."

"You—"

Ryoma places a finger on Tezuka's lips and leans forward. They stare at each other for a moment before Ryoma whispers softly. "I'll take care of you, Buchou."

Tezuka's face is blank, but his eyes aren't quite so stern. There is no wrinkle on his forehead at least. Then slowly, he nods.

Ryoma pulls back with a sudden grin. "Great. I'll make you breakfast."

Tezuka closes his eyes momentarily, the signs of the beginning of a twitch on his brow. "I'd rather you not."

Ryoma gasps indignantly and throws his weight on him. Tezuka falls easily onto his pillows, rather comfortably too with the added weight on his chest and legs. Tezuka rolls his eyes, knowing that Ryoma wasn't the least bit affected by the jab at his cooking abilities.

Ryoma leans forward and made sure Tezuka was looking at him. Their faces are extremely close, not uncomfortably so, and Tezuka feels Ryoma's warm breath on his lips.

Against his lips Ryoma says, "Fine. No breakfast."

Tezuka can only bring himself to half-heartedly reprove of the other boy's closeness. "You'll catch a cold."

Ryoma smirks lazily, eyelids lowering. "I told you," he murmurs slowly, "I don't get sick."

And the gap between their lips is nonexistent.