Tease oneshots

Its written in bold letters P.t 1

Spot had thought this would go without saying, but apparently not. "You are not wearing that to the game tonight."

Davey looks down at himself, visibly confused. "Why not?"

Spot points out the obvious problem. "It's green."

"So?"

"Green is Westpoint's color."

Davey looks at him, nonplussed.

"Dave, you can't wear the other team's color to our first home game of the season," Spot explains with a sigh. "Especially not when we're going up against Westpoint."

"But I like this hoodie," Davey says with a pout. "It's comfortable."

Spot shakes his head. "You gotta change into something else. Don't you have anything red?"

"Yeah, sure, in my closet. At home." Davey retorts. "This is all I brought with me, and no," Davey amends quickly when Spot starts to interject, "I can't just wear my t-shirt. It's supposed to be cold later and I am not sitting out on the bleachers all night without at least a jacket."

"You can borrow something of mine," Spot counters.

Davey huffs out a breath, "Do I really have to?"

"Just go upstairs and change," Spot says, shooing Davey towards the stairwell.

"But I'm comfortable," Davey grumbles, but he obediently trudges up the stairs.

"Pick something red!" Spot calls after him. "Oh, and tell Racetrack to move his ass! I've gotta be in the locker room in half an hour and we still have to pick up Crutchie from the library."

"Calm your shit, Spot, I'm coming!" Racetrack shouts back from somewhere above him before Davey can respond. "Give a man a second to piss, will ya!"

Spot rolls his eyes. "Just hurry up!"

He finishes gathering his things together while he waits, grabbing a few bottles of Gatorade and a handful of granola bars and stuffing them into his bag. He's just lacing up his sneakers when he hears footsteps behind him.

"Spot, Katherine's just texted me—she wants to know where we're eating after the game," Davey says as he wanders back into the living room.

"I dunno Davey, anywhere is fine... by..." Spot trails off, suddenly speechless. Davey is wearing his letterman jacket. Davey is wearing his—

Spot's mouth goes dry. It feels like someone's hit him, hard, right between the eyes.

"Spot?" Davey absently prompts when Spot doesn't continue, looking at his phone. "Did you hear what I said?"

Spot doesn't answer, can't answer. His eyes rake over Davey's form: red is a fantastic color on him—it stands out against his dark hair and emphasizes the blue of his eyes. They're nowhere near the same height but Davey isn't as broad as Spot is, so the jacket is just the slightest bit too big for him, hanging down to the tops of his thighs and dwarfing his shoulders.

Davey chooses this moment to notice Spot's staring; a delicious flush of pink blooms across his face. "You said I could wear anything red!" he says defensively. "This is red!"

"You're wearing my letterman jacket," Spot says, and his voice comes out low and raspy.

"You said something red!" Davey insists, somehow mistaking Spot's tone for disapproval, his blush deepening further. "But all you had was t-shirts and I didn't want to be cold and—and Racetrack said you wouldn't mind!"

He fiddles with the sleeves as he rambles, and fucking hell, they're so long on him that only the tips of his fingers are visible. "He said you wouldn't mind, but, uh, I can put on something else if you want me t-"