Just saying now, but I am so so sorry for all the pedos. Everyone wants the booty.

Oblivious in Sheep's Clothing

"This is so unfair," Hiro hissed between his teeth. To the teen's left, Tadashi shot him a pitying look from behind two jocks, but didn't say anything.

"I'm sorry Hiro," the gym teacher said, trying to console the seething 13 year old, "but there were no more size smalls in the boy's uniform. The only ones that would fit were the girls'."

"I could have just used my own clothes or something," the genius huffed, tugging on the hem of his shirt self-consciously. He shifted from foot to foot, nose scrunching at the foreign feeling of his bare thighs rubbing together. The girls' gym shorts were too thin, too tight, and way too short for his liking. A shiver ran up his spine. Apparently he was being stared at too; great, just great. This was utterly humiliating.

"Sorry bud, but this uniform already has your name on it." True to Mizuki-sensei's words, the name 'Hamada, Hiro' was written on the left side of the shirt's chest. Hiro scowled at the embroidered name tag. "Just try not to lose it this time, alright? This was the last one we had in stock." The teacher left it at that, and continued down the line.

"I can't wait until I graduate at the end of this year," Hiro grumbled under his breath once the teacher finished taking attendance and Tadashi wandered over.

"Relax you big baby, we only have the volleyball unit left to do and you won't have to wear the gym uniform anymore." A hand came up to ruffle his hair.

The teen swatted at his brother's arm agitatedly. "Yeah, but the only reason why I'm stuck wearing the girls' uniform in the first place is because some jerks decided it would be fun to rip mine to shreds then flush it down the toilet!"

Tadashi grimaced. It was true. The first time it had happened, Hiro had been found shoved in a locker and his gym uniform had already been thrown into the incinerator at the back of the school; the only evidence left being the burnt sleeve of the shirt which had Hiro's name stitched into the hem (curtesy of Tadashi).

And that hadn't been the end of it.

The next time it happened, Hiro had been eating lunch with Tadashi when someone threw the younger's balled up gym uniform out the school window and into the courtyard. It was run over by an unsuspecting janitor that was driving a lawn mower. Hiro's balled up uniform was eviscerated, and the engine of the lawn mower sputtered once, twice, then died; it had met with an untimely and rather unfortunate end: death by a twelve year-old's gym shorts.

Of course, being the elder brother, Tadashi tried to look out for Hiro as much as he could. Given that Hiro had advanced grades and landed himself in the same year as his sibling (also the fact that they basically took all the same classes), the two were essentially together 24/7.

However, for all that they were glued at the hip, that didn't account for the times when Tadashi was not there with his little brother and watching him with hawk eyes. Such as when one had to go to the bathroom and the other didn't, or when Tadashi had student council business to take care of – even when they split up to go their separate lockers (Hiro's was downstairs and Tadashi's was upstairs). Any reprieve was enough time for the bullies to do their job.

The elder Hamada gave his younger brother a soft smile. "It'll be over before you know it. Promise," he said gently, hand squeezing Hiro's shoulder. "Besides, think of it this way," Tadashi tried, tone turning optimistic, "two more weeks, and you and I will be wearing the graduation gowns with Aunt Cass in the audience taking millions of pictures! No more gym uniforms to be seen."

The mental image of standing beside his brother in a blue-black graduation gown, hands clutching his diploma and fluffy hair sticking out of a grad cap with the tassel hanging in his face made the teen's heart flutter. Then the mental image of Aunt Cass with her camera snapping away came into view. Hiro groaned, palm meeting his face; as good as graduating sounded, having their aunt coddle him for graduating early would be embarrassing – especially in front of all of his peers.

The blowing of the gym teacher's whistle brought him out of his thoughts. "Get into three rows of seven! We're starting warm ups!"

Hiro automatically moved to the front row, his short height disabling him from aiming for anything less than that due to his inability to see past the shoulders of any of the other teens in his class. Tadashi trailed behind, thankfully falling into line one row behind him, a little off to the right – in his peripherals.

The work out music started, and Mizuki-sensei went through the movements of their routine warm up: lunges, calf stretches, hamstring stretching, touching of the toes (Hiro didn't mind this one as much. At least his youth allowed him flexibility beyond what the others could achieve), standing straddle stretch, and others he couldn't remember the names of.

The whistle blew again, and Hiro looked up through his bangs from his half-bent position.

"I shouldn't need to tell you, but this is isn't the time for that!" The teacher yelled above the music, pointed gaze fixed to a spot behind Hiro. "I don't care what you're into, but save it for after class!"

Glancing curiously in Tadashi's direction, Hiro lifted a questioning brow. What he wasn't prepared for though, was the downright nasty look his brother was sending the kid to his left – the guy directly behind Hiro. The teen blinked twice; he'd never seen his older brother look so peeved before (well, at anyone other than him, but that was different – he was the mischievous younger sibling).

When he caught Tadashi's gaze, he mouthed, 'What's up?'

A shake of the head and an annoyed huff was all he got for an answer.

What's got his panties in a bunch? Hiro thought with a frown. It was unlike Tadashi to just brush him off like that.

A sudden offset of snickers went all around the group of teens surrounding Hiro, and the 13 year old straightened before glancing behind him to see the source of the mocking laughter. Somewhere in the back of his head, a little part of him hoped that what the teens behind him were laughing at wasn't him.

It wasn't.

A boy with long blonde hair up to his shoulders blushed red and tilted his head down in embarrassment when they met eyes. Hiro would have felt bad for the chump, but a bigger part of his conscience was debating over the morality of feeling relieved it wasn't him that was being laughed at.

"Alright, that's enough. Let's move onto our volleyball drills!" The gym teacher called out, body disappearing behind the volleyball basket for a second as he turned off the music player. "Today we're working on our spikes and receives."

There was a murmur of excitement that went through the crowd of boys. This was a test of power – a perfect time to flaunt their testosterone. Hiro cringed at the thought. This was going to leave him sore for the rest of the week.

"Split yourselves into two groups; one group of ten, and one of eleven. On one side of the net we'll have our spikers, and the other side will be our receivers. We will switch once everyone has gone through a round!"

Automatically, Hiro went for the spiking side; better for him to preserve his noodle arms' strength for spiking while he still had feeling in them. He was sure that after any attempt at receiving, he would be left numb and mortified of his lack of athletic prowess in volleyball. (The only thing he was actually good at was soccer; his size and speed had an advantage on the lumbering jocks in his class.)

Falling into line behind the people gathering for their turn to spike, Hiro tugged again at the hem of his shirt. It was a bit short for his torso, but it would be fine. What he really had to worry about was whether or not he would be able to clear the ball over that net or not. Calculations ran through his mind: the height of the net, his height (4'11"), his total height including arm length, the approximate height of his jump median, and his speed and inertia…

With all the numbers considered, the teen concluded that he had at best, a 44 percent chance of getting that ball over the net. That still left a whopping 56 percent chance he would miss. Hiro grimaced. Not too bad – look on the bright side, right?

After every blow of the teacher's whistle, the line inched ahead; student after student took their running start, jumped, and then spiked. They made it look simple, but Hiro knew better. Each one who went before him had at least a half a foot on him – he barely reached their shoulders.

The teen's heart stuttered and leapt into his throat when the person in front of him stepped forward, legs bent into a running position as he waited for Mizuki-sensei to blow his bright orange plastic whistle.


The boy in front of Hiro flew into motion, spiking the ball and landing it square over the receiver's – Tadashi's – forearms. When the ball bounced away, Hiro winced at the red patch on his brother's skin. Ouch. That must sting, he thought with a cringe.

Unanimously and without a word, the receivers rotated and Tadashi's familiar face was replaced with the bland, disinterested stare of another classmate. A bowling ball lodged itself in Hiro's chest. From across the net, Tadashi gave him an encouraging nod. The younger Hamada barely remembered to take a breath.

Right, it was his turn. No problem, he had this. The whistle blew and Hiro charged. So far so good – he had gained good speed; now all that was left was the jump and the coordination of his hand to the ball.

Stopping at what he assumed was a good distance from the net, Hiro jumped, his eyes locked onto the ball the teacher had served. The lob was slower than he anticipated, and by the time it had reached Hiro's highest point, Hiro himself was already halfway back to the floor.

Taking a wild swing, the younger Hamada felt the tips of his fingers brush briefly against the volleyball's surface. The resounding sound of the ball hitting the floor sounded like nothing other than the repeated bounce of failure around Hiro's head.

"Sorry, that was a bad toss. Try it again Hiro," Mizuki-sensei said with a smile, picking up another ball from the basket beside him. Swallowing dryly, the teen nodded and returned to the front of the line.

The whistle blew and Hiro started again, chest constricting with the anxiety of missing the spike. Almost as if a miracle came upon him, his hand made solid contact with the ball, if not a little closer to his wrist than the flesh of his palm. I did it! He thought excitedly.

The volleyball hit the net with a muted slap. Spoke too soon, his traitorous mind whispered.

"It's okay. Try one more time Hiro," the gym teacher cheered, holding up the abhorred red-green-white volleyball. "You can do it; just focus on the timing of your jump and really stretch to get that ball."

Hiro returned to starting position with a burn razing his cheeks. "Forty-four percent," the teen murmured under his breath, "forty-four. Not too bad – look at it from another angle."

When the whistle sounded this time, the younger Hamada took off like a rocket, knees coming to a bend before launching him into the air. With a grunt, Hiro stretched his arm on the downward swing, his body twisting in a cat-like turn before he landed on one foot, facing the opposite direction from which he had started. With a small stumble, he righted himself and whipped around to see the outcome.

What he was greeted with, was the stupefied expression of the bland-faced classmate (whose name was on the tip of his tongue – but couldn't be bothered remembering at the moment) as the volleyball bounced harmlessly off his chest and rolled across the court like a tumbleweed in those cheesy Wild West movies he sometimes watched with Aunt Cass.

Awkwardly, Hiro's hands reached up to fiddle with the hem of his shirt- only to find that it had ridden up and was revealing some of his scrawny stomach; the teen hastily corrected his shirt and pulled the edges down to his hips.


Hiro turned to look at his older brother, who held a fist up to his mouth as he cleared his throat. The boy with the blank stare (Remy, the guy's name probably) blinked in surprise, and the receivers shifted again. Tadashi shot Hiro a wide grin and a thumbs-up from behind one of the other seniors. A warm glow settled in the younger's chest.

Standing off to the side with the other people who had already gone ahead of him, Hiro waited for the remaining two people to spike. Once they were finished, the mass of teenage boys moved in a coordinated blob as they switched sides and jostled their friends that they passed on their way to the other side of the net.

Gritting his teeth as he tried to elbow his way through the mass of muscled bodies shoving at each other, the younger Hamada made his way to his older brother, only to get a thorough hair ruffle and a pat on the shoulder.

With a sniffle and a slight wrinkle of his nose, Hiro took his place near the centre of the group of receivers and got into position, knees bending with feet shoulder-width apart, back hunched, his hands clasped and folded into a flat surface as he squatted. He'd already prepared himself for the stupid little shuffle and awkward bounce he would have to do when a low wolf whistle came from behind him.

Deciding not to overthink it (it was probably just a passing girl – they had gym around this time), Hiro directed his attention toward Mizuki-sensei and waited for the spikers to start. When the line finally rotated to his turn, the teen balked at the large, burly, overly-muscled man that was supposed to spike to him.

Tweeeet! Hiro readied himself for the oncoming strike with no little amount of fear. What he was not readying himself for though, was the pain in his ass as something pinched it – hard.

Yelping indignantly, the young genius slapped a hand over the inflicted area. He immediately regretted the decision to look behind him because – ow, that was going to bruise – the volleyball had breached his defenses using the moment of distraction and slipped past his arms to knock straight into his diaphragm. With an unattractive wheeze, the teen doubled over as he clutched an arm around his stomach.

"Hiro!" Tadashi gasped, breaking out of the line of spikers and jogging to his side. "Hey, you okay?"

A steadying hand on his shoulder slowly brought him into an upright stance, and Hiro let a throaty moan slip past his lips as his breath caught up to him with the movement. " 'M good," he managed to punch out.

"Why don't you take a break until this rotation ends, 'kay bud?"

Hiro nodded and allowed his brother to walk him over to the side of the gym before leaning heavily against the glossy brick walls and letting gravity pull him to the cool, tiled floors. So he'd been benched… That is to say- with no bench at all.

Heaving a sigh, the younger Hamada nursed his injury, struggling to breathe shallowly until his torso decided to stop throbbing. It stung – and it was more than a bit sore – but not too bad, Hiro supposed. He'd had worse luck with his inventions and the bullies; especially the inventions.

(The teen shuddered at the long buried memories of his hair getting caught in the amped-up blow dryer that was supposed to dry his hair 10x faster; or that one time his fingers had gotten slammed on by that automatic refrigerator he'd been building for Aunt Cass… Ugh.)

Pulling his legs up, Hiro grimaced at the suddenly exposed feeling. Jeez, was this how girls felt all the time? His thighs were pressing uncomfortably against the cold, gritty gym flooring, and his shorts were riding up on him – giving the teen a distinctly familiar wedgie feeling. Switching to a cross-legged siting position only made it worse; with the tightness of the girls' shorts, his… thing's outline could be seen through the thin material – it was like he was stripped down to only his boxers. Hiro closed his legs and went back to hugging his knees to his chest. Whatever, he could deal with this until the rotation was over.

A shout rang through the air. "Head's up!"

Lifting his eyes from counting the grains of turf he could find on the floor, Hiro flinched as he caught sight of another volleyball hurtling towards him – this time, at his face. By some miracle reflex, Hiro managed to catch the incoming projectile, his fingers wrapping neatly around the curve of the ball on each side; it was so close to his face that his lips could have touched it.

Letting out a nervous breath of relief, Hiro peeked over the edge of the volleyball's surface. Red-faced stares greeted him. The teen began to shrink away, but paused when he noticed that in his panic to catch the ball aimed at his face, he had shifted into a more… awkward position.

Hiro quickly straightened the slumped curve of his spine against the wall and closed his legs when he noticed they were spread in a precarious jumble. Patting down the hair that had clung to the wall when he had slid down its surface, Hiro let out a quiet huff as his heart calmed down from its noisy, staccato beating.

Standing up, the teen threw the ball back to who he assumed had called out the warning, but his brows raised in pseudo-worry when it bounced harmlessly off the guy's shoulder. No one moved.

"Uh… guys?" Hiro mumbled, acutely aware of the eyes boring into his skin.

From the back, Tadashi made his way towards his younger brother. "Oh, would you look at the time! We have to get ready for our next class!"

Tadashi grabbed Hiro's wrist and started leading him towards the locker rooms. As if broken out of a collective trance, Hiro's classmates came back to life, following after the Hamada brothers like a pack of wolves.