Routine

Midorino Mizu

Disclaimer: Tennis no Ohjisama and all associated characters are the property of Konomi Takeshi.

Author’s Notes: Takes place post high school, when Sanada and Keigo are living together. Features the same black pajama shirt that Keigo stole during Junior Senbatsu their second year of junior high.

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He liked to watch as Keigo got ready for bed.

It always began with a languid stretch, Keigo’s head falling back, and his eyes drifting shut, just for a moment before blinking them lazily open again.

“I’m going to get ready for bed,” he’d murmur, and Sanada would nod absently, as if he weren’t paying attention to Keigo’s every move.

Then Keigo would wander slowly across the room, and Sanada would watch his boyfriend’s fingers quickly release the buttons on his shirt, watch as Keigo dropped it gracefully on the floor of their bedroom. The pants would follow, everything would be carelessly tossed into the hamper, and Sanada would still, his own fingers pausing on the buttons of his pajamas.

Keigo was always beautiful, but never as much as he was when they were alone, and when he didn’t know that Sanada was watching him. Sanada wasn’t exactly sure why this was – whether it was because Keigo didn’t realize he was watching, or whether it was because no one else would ever see him like that, ever.

Sanada would always finish dressing for bed first; his movements quicker and more efficient than Keigo’s, and he’d lean against their bed, watching as Keigo pulled an old black pajama top over his shoulders.

It was old and faded, the buttons had been tightened several times in the years Atobe Keigo had had it, and strands of thread dangled from the hem. Once, Sanada would remember, the hem had nearly reached Keigo’s knees, but now it barely fell to mid-thigh.

Most times, Sanada would remain silent, smiling indulgently as Keigo slowly fastened the buttons, but sometimes he’d speak.

“Why do you still wear that?”

Keigo would tip his head back, slanting a look at Sanada that was vaguely amused – his boyfriend had asked that question before, several times – before pouting and saying, “It’s comfortable. And it’s warm.”

And it reminds me of you. Those words would remain unspoken.

“It’s falling apart.” Sanada would answer. “One of these days, you won’t be able to wear it anymore.”

Keigo would wrinkle his nose at him, and toss his head, and Sanada would chuckle before striding forward, and tugging his boyfriend towards their bed. Usually, that would be the end of it.

But it might be different; Sanada might say something else.

He might tell Keigo, “You should let it go,” and his fingers would slowly slip the buttons on Keigo’s shirt free before he let it fall to the floor. And he’d shrug out of his own shirt – midnight blue, this time, instead of black – before slipping it over his boyfriend’s shoulders and fastening it with quick, efficient motions.

It wouldn’t be as soft as the one Keigo had slept in for almost six years, but it would be warmer, and Keigo would be able to smell Sanada on it, the way he had been able to when he’d first confiscated the black one when they were fourteen and at Junior Senbatsu.

Sanada would finish buttoning the shirt, and he brush his hand over his boyfriend’s tousled hair. He’d smile down into Keigo’s startled blue eyes.

“You can wear this, instead.”