Archive of Our Own

Let’s admit, without apology, what we do to each other.
We know who our enemies are. We know.

— Richard Siken, “Detail of the Fire”

NATIONAL TEAM PLAYER KISE RYOUTA TEARS ACHILLES DURING SEMIFINALS MATCH AGAINST TEAM USA
Sports Nippon, September 6th

Starting forward Kise Ryouta collapsed near the end of the third quarter in last night’s FIBA World Cup semifinals match due to a ruptured Achilles, National Team Coach Aida Riko confirmed at the press conference following the match. Unable to cope with the loss of their core player, Team Japan lost to Team USA, and with it their chance to play in the finals. Fans had high hopes for this year’s national team, which has made it further than any other Japanese team to date. Read more.

JAPAN NATIONAL BASKETBALL TEAM WINS BRONZE AT FIBA WORLD CUP 
The Japan Times, September 10th 

Yesterday, the National Basketball Team won their final match against Team Argentina at the FIBA Basketball World Cup, taking bronze for Japan. This marks the first time Team Japan has medaled at the World Cup since its establishment in 1950. The team won the bronze medal match despite the loss of starting forward Kise Ryouta due to an injury in the semifinals game. Read more.

CELTICS POWER FORWARD AOMINE DAIKI ANNOUNCES PLANS FOR RETIREMENT FOLLOWING END OF SEASON
DUNK SHOOT, December Issue

In an unexpected turn of events, starting power forward Aomine Daiki announced his plans to retire after the end of the season during a recent post-match press conference, stating “homesickness” and “unfinished business” as the reason for his premature retirement from the NBA. Although he hasn’t announced any post-retirement plans as of yet, Japanese fans of the former Alvark Tokyo player are speculating about whether he might return to play in Japan’s B.League. Read more.

✧

It’s December again, and the sunflowers on the windowsill are bright yellow and dying. Kise doesn’t remember who sent them. He wants to throw the flowers in their face, or strangle them—the stems are starting to droop, and the petals are scattered across the floor like wilted drops of light, its death enacted in slow motion just to mock him. It doesn’t help that the lights are too bright, or that the apartment is too quiet, or that he can’t feel anything in his left foot. 

Kise has never liked December, but this year’s December has to be one of the worst yet. It’s been nearly three months since his surgery and the cast and the crutches are finally gone, but there is still nowhere for Kise to go, nothing for him to do. The team is always busy playing, or training, and Momoi is away—had gone to Fukuoka on business and won’t be back until Christmas, which seems so far away right now that Kise can barely imagine it. At least say you’ll spend Christmas with me, he had pleaded, even though he knew she couldn’t—had already made plans to spend it with her new girlfriend and her family in Miyagi.   

It’s too bad—Momoi would’ve liked the sunflowers. Kise resolves to throw them out later, or give them to the old lady next door who can never remember his name. He hasn’t seen her in a while—not since before the world cup—and he finds that he’s missed their fleeting interactions, all of them trivial and mundane. It’s nice sometimes, to speak to someone who doesn’t expect anything from him other than tired smiles and morning bedhead and mislabeled packages every now and again. It’s all Kise can live up to right now, anyway. 

But it’s too early for him to go knocking at her door, so he turns on the television to give himself something else to focus on. He flips idly through the channels, variety shows and shampoo commercials flashing past in quick succession, none of them interesting enough to catch his attention. Not even the heartfelt dramas he’d once enjoyed can keep his focus for more than a few minutes, the characters’ melodrama so unreal compared to his own. 

He’s lost count of the channel number when a flash of blue flits through the corner of the screen, lightning fast, and Kise’s thumb stills. He hasn’t watched any basketball games lately—can’t bear to, when all it does is make him want to play. It’s a cruel twist of fate that the first one he sees since the World Cup is Aomine’s, because as soon as he sees him it’s impossible to look away. 

An incredible steal from Aomine! But can he get past the opponents defense? His name sounds wrong on the commentator’s tongue, vowels stretched and distorted; Of course he can, Kise thinks, and lets the rest of the broadcast filter through his consciousness like static. He watches, sunflowers forgotten, as Aomine executes his signature formless shot. Even now, Kise is still transfixed by the way Aomine’s body suspends itself in time and space, the relaxed line from shoulder to elbow to basketball in hand, in air, in ring and net—untouchable and inevitable.

It’s over before Kise can get enough of it. The buzzer sounds; the stadium erupts. Aomine’s team wins 86-78, but when he pumps his fist in the air he’s smiling, alive and incandescent. It’s nearly the same as Kise remembers it, only better worn; happiness seems at home in the crinkle of his eyes in a way that it never had before. As if back then Aomine had only been a star blinking in a midnight sky, and now he’s the sun itself—blazing on the other side of the world where night never falls. 

Kise has his thumb on the power button, ready to extinguish the image of him, when the announcer says something that makes him pause. He squints at the caption in the corner of the screen, eyes widening as he reads— Aomine announced just last week that he plans to retire from the NBA after the end of the season. 

Daylight begins peeking through the blinds. Kise watches, stunned, as a reporter shoves a microphone in Aomine’s face and asks, What do you plan to do after you retire? And instead of walking past, or giving her the middle finger, Aomine stops and looks directly into the camera as if there’s someone he’s addressing on the other side of the lens, and Kise’s heart nearly stops at the words that come out of his mouth. Loud and clear, in accented English that Kise doesn’t need to strain to understand. Five words, sharp as knives, aimed with intent. I’m going back to Japan.

✧

“Did you know?” Kise asks in a whisper turned hiss, fingers curled around his cellphone with a grip firm to crushing. 

The sunflowers are gone from the windowsill, scattered somewhere on a sidewalk sixteen floors down. He imagines the shape of it traced in chalk, arranges a funeral where no one mourns. The lights are still too bright, and needles are starting to climb up the back of his calf. 

There’s a pause before Momoi speaks, but when she does she already knows exactly what Kise’s asking. “ Yes. He told me a few months ago. ”

Kise tries not to think about what that could mean. Someone’s smoke alarm goes off downstairs, or maybe his ears are just ringing. He says nothing until Momoi says his name in a voice she last used on him when he’d showed up at her doorstep five years ago, helpless and shivering in the warm spring rain.  He’s gone, Kise had said in response, even though she must’ve already known. He’d watched the plane take off into the rising sun until it had seemed as if the sun had swallowed it whole, and only then had he turned and left. She’d pulled him into a hug, because there had been no use for words anymore—there wasn’t a word in all the world’s languages combined that could have described the shape of his grief.

Kise says nothing. There are no words now, either. He ends the call before Momoi can ask if he’s alright. 

✧

Kise thought he’d moved past longing to hear those words spoken from Aomine’s lips. 

Time had blunted the strength of his want—dulled it into something silent and dormant, so well-hidden Kise had thought it was no longer there. It wasn’t until he finally heard him say it that he realized how much he still wanted it, even after all these years. In his heart, he feels an ancient ache bloom once more—sharpened to a deadly point, ready to cut.

Kise turns it in on itself. Shreds it to pieces, then wraps the ribbons over his knuckles. He won’t let the same knife cut him twice. 

Still, when he sees Aomine for the first time in five years, it pierces his lungs and leaves him breathless. Partly because he isn’t expecting it, and partly because he is—has been imagining it ever since he first heard that Aomine was coming back. But he always imagined it would be on the court, or in private—never did he think it would be from across a ballroom, gilded in gold, a flute of bubbling champagne balanced between his fingers as Ravel’s string quartet in F major plays in the background.  

It’s June, right in the middle of the off-season. The sports fundraiser they’re at is organized by some rich philanthropist whose name Kise can never remember despite attending every year, but as boring as the man is it’s still good publicity. It’s usually not so bad depending on Kise’s company; this year, he’s here with one of the models at his agency, a tall and bubbly wide-eyed woman named Alisa, whose flowing silver hair contrasts beautifully against his own. 

She’s off somewhere looking for finger food when Kise sees him. The quartet is still in the middle of the first movement; the viola takes over the melody and the music rolls, reaching before it pulls right back, restrained. He doesn’t realize it’s him right away. He’s on the other side of the room, facing the other way. It’s just a familiar silhouette at first—Kise only knows the shape of him through match recordings and magazine covers now, but it’s just close enough to make him wonder, to make his heart ache. And then Aomine turns to look at the person approaching his side, and there’s a flash of electric blue eyes and a frown that spells heartbreak. Recognition dawns, and then it’s subito piano, Kise’s heart catching in his throat as the music charges recklessly towards its zenith. 

Kise doesn’t know if he could ever be ready for it—doesn’t know if he’s ever ready for anything, when it comes to him—but he’d thought that five years would have been enough to steel himself for the blow of Aomine’s reappearance. If anything, it’s weakened him; five years clean of his presence has Kise reeling at the mere sight of him, handsome as ever and twice as sharp.  

He wants to go over to him. He wants to touch him, wants to hold him in his hands and see how much still spills through his fingertips. Wants to tear the excess to pieces and swallow them whole, wants to ruin him and keep him safe and hidden and within his reach. The tide of his desire breaks; his longing pulls him out to sea as his bitter heart pushes him back to shore, a stalemate that ends with Kise rooted to where he stands, head spinning through the riptide. 

Maybe it’s better this way, Kise thinks, taking a gulp of his champagne. If he had been anywhere else, he might’ve already given in and made a scene—might’ve walked up and punched him, or kissed him, or something in between. But the lights are bright and dazzling and unforgiving, and Kise looks too good to lose his composure now—he’s dressed to the nines in an off-white suit and a metallic tie, eyes lined in shadow and gold too expensive to be ruined with tears. There are stars in the shine of his hair, the corners of his eye, at the end of a tassel strung through his left ear. He has a part to play; he bites down on his tongue and holds onto the thread of composure left in him, frayed as it is, because there’s no selling the act without looking the part. 

But all of it’s wasted if Aomine isn’t looking at him, and he’s not—hasn’t even noticed him, much to Kise’s indignation. How dare he, when he’s all that Kise can see, even when he’s not looking. How dare he, when Kise turns all the eyes in the room except his, the ones that, five years later, are still the ones he wants to see most. How dare he, Kise thinks, and laughs a little louder, smiles a little brighter, and gets half the room staring at him before Aomine finally glances his way. 

“Ryouta,” Aomine says as he approaches, and not even five years is enough to diminish the resolve of his stride. Time and space disappear underneath Aomine’s feet until there is nothing but the space between them and the name on the tip of Kise’s tongue. 

He swallows it down; lets it rend him from the inside out. The pause hangs heavy in the air between them before Aomine continues, “It’s been a while.”

His voice is smoother than Kise remembers it. It had been coarse before, abrasive—Kise had skinned himself on it every time he spoke, his knees rubbed perpetually raw. Now, it washes over him, abating, and if it had been five years ago Kise thinks it would’ve been enough to heal all his open wounds. 

Kise throws a haphazard glance his way, not quite meeting his eyes, then levels him with a dazzling smile. “Aomine,” he forces through his teeth, all round vowels and muted nasals in place of the sharp constants that threaten to fall out. “So it has been.” 

It comes out more affected than he means for it to. Aomine’s brow furrows. There’s no How are you doing? or You look good, because Aomine’s never been one for small talk and Kise thinks he’d strangle him if he dared to try. Instead, he goes directly for the point, the way he always has—with intent, and without hesitation.  “Can we talk?” 

He doesn’t even get around to clearing his throat when his date for the night returns with two tiny pastries, pinched between her forefingers in each hand. “Kise-kun,” Alisa calls, voice bright as windchimes, silvery hair like a halo in the light. “Aren’t these adorable?” 

She raises her hand to his lips, and Kise opens his mouth more by instinct than by choice. He feels the heat of Aomine’s gaze on the side of his face as he chews, swallows. He has no idea what it tasted like, or if it was good or not—only knows that it feels like gravel as it goes down his dry and tightening throat.  

At least Alisa seems to be enjoying hers; Kise mirrors her expressions if only to retain some sense of composure, but his heart’s not in it. He’s sure that, if Aomine wanted, he could blow Kise’s cover to pieces with nothing more than a word. 

“Who’s this?” Alisa asks, glancing towards Aomine as she wraps an arm through Kise’s. Kise feels like his heart is going to stop at any moment, but it has nothing to do with Alisa and everything to do with the way Aomine is looking at them, eyes narrowed and discerning. 

Kise sees the assumption Aomine makes in the way the line of his mouth stiffens. He lets the chance to correct it come and go, unseized. Instead, he turns his fake smile on Alisa, who’s appropriately enamored by it but only because she’s never seen a real one. Says, “Aominecchi’s just somebody I used to know.” 

Alisa waits for an introduction that never comes. Kise can’t bear to give it, when she’s blonde-haired and big-chested and bubbly enough to be exactly Aomine’s type; he realizes, bitterly, that he still can’t stand having Aomine’s attention on anyone except himself. If Alisa finds the lapse in decorum odd, she doesn’t comment on it—just leans closer into Kise and says with a giggle, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Aominecchi.”

It’s only when Aomine takes a step back that Kise realizes how close they’d been, the warmth on that side of his body suddenly dissipating with the distance. When Kise looks back at him, he’s scowling; his voice is rough as gravel when he coughs and says, “Right.” 

Kise makes the mistake of meeting Aomine’s gaze, blazing, and for a terrifying moment he finds that he can’t look away. There’s a hint of rage at the edges of blue flames, cold and smooth as silk, like a once jagged rock worn down. It’s been too long since he’s been at the receiving end of that relentless stare—it had been familiar once, but five years had made him nearly a stranger, and weak to its intensity. It weighs on him, judging, and Kise still falls short. 

Kise hates falling short. 

He averts his eyes before Aomine can see through his act. He’s saved once again by Alisa, who seems mildly uncomfortable with Aomine’s hostile demeanor and devises an exit strategy for them both by looking past Aomine's shoulder and saying, “Oh look, isn’t that Kuroo-san over there? I’m going to go say hi. You should come too—I’m sure he’d like to see you again.” 

“Sure,” Kise agrees, because even though he’s not sure if he even wants to talk to Aomine again, he’s sure that if he does, it won’t be here—not under the crystal lights and the prying eyes, glaring and ready to distort Kise’s expressions into something they’re not. 

“It was nice seeing you again, Aominecchi,” Kise says breezily over his shoulder. Aomine opens his mouth to respond, but Kise doesn’t catch what he says. Isn’t sure that he says anything at all. 

✧

There is nothing crueler in the world than falling in love with a boy who is not just a boy. 

Aomine Daiki was never just a boy, after all, no matter how much he’d wanted to be. Kise would be lying if he said he didn’t like that about him—that glint in his eye and that crooked grin, all sharp teeth and jutted chin, half-boy and half-divine. It’s what caught his attention—more than anything else—all those years ago when he’d thought there was nothing more to life than the world that could fit in the palm of his hand. 

He’d been dazzled by how bright he could shine, how far he could reach. It had lit a flame in his hardened heart and made him want to shine, too. He’d been so young then, so eager to please—he remembers zealous challenges and passionate declarations, playing until he was winded and sprawled on the floor and still always begging for just one more. He spent his coming of age chasing after the trail Aomine blazed, deep and wide and lined in fire, until the flames went out and the trail went cold and it occurred to Kise that he might never be able to reach quite as far.

He’d wanted so badly to be what Aomine was for him—a revelation and a renaissance. He’d watched Aomine’s smirk turn mean and his heart grow cold, and still what pained him the most was the desperation in his eyes like a prayer, pleading for something to reach for. It was a look he knew well—had seen it countless times before, in subway ads and magazine spreads and staring back at him, dull and apathetic, in the bathroom mirror. It was the same, and yet at the same time it was not, because it hurt so much more to see it on the face of the boy who had chased his away. 

But in those days, Aomine was less boy and more something else, bitter and jaded and far away. Kise ran himself into the ground trying to catch up, and even then it wasn’t enough. Kise still remembers the day Kaijou lost to Touou—can still feel the pain in his foot that had receded into nothing but distressing numbness, can still feel the fear that had grasped his heart when he’d tried to stand up and found that he couldn’t. He’d never lost so much as he’d lost then, thrice over and calamitous. He hadn’t even known he’d had so much to lose—the game, the feeling in his ankle, the chance to be the star in Aomine’s lightless sky, bright enough to never fit in the palm of his hand. 

But Kise hadn’t shined bright enough, and in the end it was not a star but a fire that rekindled the flame in Aomine’s heart. He told himself that the means didn’t matter, as long as he could love Aomine, and Aomine could love basketball again. It wasn’t until it was already too late that he realized that no matter how much he loved Aomine or how much Aomine loved him, there would always be a part of him stuck at the Komazawa Gymnasium, crashing from the high of a victory lost and kneeling, heartbroken, at Aomine’s feet.

Because in the end, Aomine Daiki isn’t just a man either, and the second time proves crueler than the first.

✧

B.LEAGUE TEAM ALVARK TOKYO SIGNS FORMER NBA ALL-STAR AOMINE DAIKI JUST IN TIME FOR THE START OF THE SEASON
Tokyo Sports, August 12th

Following his retirement from the NBA, power forward Aomine Daiki has returned to Alvark Tokyo, the team that he’d left six years ago in order to pursue a career in the NBA. “We’re happy to have him back,” coach Luka Pavićević expressed last week during the trade announcement. “He’s come back stronger than ever before.” Read more.

EVERYTHING YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT NOT-SO-NEW ALVARK TOKYO POWER FORWARD AOMINE DAIKI
Number, September Issue

Aomine Daiki, former NBA all-star and championship winner, signed on with Alvark Tokyo this summer following his retirement from the NBA. Avid Alvark Tokyo fans will remember that before Aomine entered the NBA six years ago, he played power forward for Alvark Tokyo—and although he’d only spent three years with the team, Alvark Tokyo won the championships all three years he was there. Read more.      

OPINION: CAN THE KAWASAKI BRAVE THUNDERS MANAGE WITHOUT ACE KISE RYOUTA?   
Daily Sports, September 23rd 

Kise Ryouta, core of the Kawasaki Brave Thunders, injured his Achilles’ tendon during historic match against Team Argentina during the FIBA World Cup semifinals last year. According to National Team coach Aida Riko, Kise underwent surgery immediately after the game in order to repair the tendon. The Kawasaki Brave Thunders have announced that Kise will not be playing in matches during the first half of the season in order to prevent placing him under unnecessary strain. Read more. 

✧

Their first game of the season is against Alvark Tokyo. Kise isn’t playing—both a curse and a blessing, because he doesn’t sleep a wink the night before. He can’t—not when all he sees when he closes his eyes is blue hair and blue eyes, unfeeling. In his dreams, he’s on his knees, and Aomine looks down at him with an empty gaze, stone cold and unmoving. He’s not disappointed; Kise almost wishes he was. Doesn’t know which is worse—disappointing him, or being too insignificant to disappoint. Maybe it doesn’t matter—in the end, Aomine always turns his back and leaves. 

He shouldn’t get to come back. Not now. Not when Kise’s already spent six years getting used to the shape of his absence, stifling and ruinous. Not when Kise’s been playing hard and fast and recklessly—his peak already come and likely already gone—all because he’d thought he had nothing left to lose. Not when Kise’s ankle won’t even let him meet Aomine on the court and make him regret ever leaving in the first place. 

It’s raining the night of the game. It turns Tokyo into a thousand drops of crystallized light, blue and yellow and red. Kise walks into the stadium with hair damp from the rain, his shoes squeaking more loudly than usual against the waxed floors.  Kasamatsu greets him with a swift hit to the back of his head and an impassioned lecture on how he needs to sleep properly if he wants to get back in the game; Kise pretends it hurts more than it really does (and it hurts a lot) by draping himself dramatically across Himuro and exclaiming that he’ll never get back in the game if he dies of blunt force trauma first. (Kasamatsu's response is, naturally, to punch him again.)

Kise watches the game from the bench. The Brave Thunders take the lead in the first quarter, albeit a small one. Aomine isn’t playing yet, but Alvark Tokyo is formidable even without him; the gap doesn’t widen at all during the second quarter, no matter how hard Kasamatsu tries to tip the game in their favor. Aomine doesn’t get subbed in until the start of the third quarter, but when he steps onto the court he eclipses everything else. Kise isn’t ready for this, either—six years of watching his every game on TV, the only indulgence he’d ever allowed himself, has done nothing to prepare him for the real thing. As soon as Aomine touches the ball, Kise’s heart is in his throat. Even Himuro’s form, clean and perfect, looks lackluster next to Aomine’s—so natural and free it makes every shot he takes look as easy as walking, as breathing. 

Kise itches to be out there on the court, opposite Aomine. He wants it so badly he doesn’t notice when he bites clean through his lip until he tastes copper on the tip of his tongue. He swallows it; thirsts for blood. Hungers, so acutely he thinks he could play through anything if it’s against Aomine—split lip, broken heart, ruptured Achilles.  

The last shot of the game is Aomine’s. It’s inevitable as soon as he touches the ball; Nebuya doesn’t stand a chance. Not when Aomine moves like not even gravity could stand in his way, then jumps to prove it. Kise already knows how it ends. He can’t bear to watch, but he watches anyway—can’t look away, can’t spare himself the image of Aomine’s hand gripped tight against the rim.   

Alvark Tokyo wins 78-64. Kasamatsu makes them all swear they’ll beat them next time. Next time, Kise utters, softly under his breath, and feels a twisted hope claw its way up from beneath the remains of crushed hopes past, finding a sanctuary in his heart of hearts. 

✧

The coldest December Kise has ever known was the one that came after Aomine turned to him and said, I’m going to America.

Kise had been flipping through some magazine when his hand had stilled, page stuck between his clumsy, gloved fingers and left half-turned, suspended between a spread of Aomine’s greatest games and Kise’s most recent POCARI SWEAT promotion. What? he’d asked, bewildered and praying that he’d heard wrong. But it’d only took one look at Aomine to know that he hadn’t heard wrong, and that Aomine wasn’t joking, either. 

The next thing he’d said was Why? which seems stupid now in retrospect, but he would have said anything to break the unbearable silence that had fallen between them. Aomine had only furrowed his brow and said Why else? as if Kise should’ve already known the answer. And in a way, Kise had, because all the protests that’d come bubbling up his throat died on the tip of his tongue before they’d even lived, and in the end all he’d said was Okay, even though it was anything but. 

Kise had always known that Aomine was destined for great things. Had promised himself that no matter where Aomine went, he would follow—had followed him, through thick and thin, since he first saw him that day in Teiko’s gym, intense and magnificent. But he had been naive then, to think that there was nowhere Aomine could go that he couldn’t follow. Had been naive now, too, for hoping that if he couldn’t follow, then at least Aomine would stay within his reach. 

The distance between them only grew after that. The weather grew warm again, but even as the temperature climbed and the world bloomed into life again, the cold stillness in Kise’s heart refused to thaw. A month before Aomine’s flight, the Kawasaki Brave Thunders lost to the Chiba Jets in the semifinals. It had been close—so close Kise almost couldn’t believe it when the buzzer sounded and he looked up at the scoreboard and saw that they’d lost by just two points. Those two points would haunt Kise for years afterward, twin devils that sat on his shoulder whenever he indulged in wondering about what could have been. Because at the same time, on the other side of the bracket, Alvark Tokyo had won their game against the Ryukyu Golden Kings and secured their place in the finals. All Kise could think about that night, curled into Aomine’s side, was that he’d lost his chance to play against him one last time. And never—not even after Aomine had left for the other side of the world—had Kise felt further away from him.   

✧

Kise doesn’t speak to Aomine after that first game, or the second, or anytime in between. He’s avoiding him, and he’s sure Aomine’s avoiding him, too—hasn’t even so much as glanced Kise’s way since. Kise can’t decide whether he’s furious or relieved that it’s intentional, because it can only be intentional; guesses it when Aomine lines up on the opposite side of the court from where Kise stands, then knows for sure when Momoi calls him afterwards, demanding to know what he said to him. What makes you think I said anything? Kise asked, two seconds away from laughing, or crying. You’re the only one that ever says anything, she retorted, clearly incredulous. Two seconds passed; Kise laughed. Well, not anymore.

Kise has nothing to say to him. The only thing he wants to say is You were wrong to leave, but even he knows that’s not the kind of thing you can say with words. It’s something he has to prove—on the court, and on the scoreboard. Only, Kise rarely ever gets to be on the court anymore. 

The next time Kise sees Aomine, it’s Himuro’s birthday. The team is celebrating at a club in Roppongi, and Kise is almost happy. The night is velvet-draped, the way Kise likes it—a little glamorous, expensive and soft to the touch. Kasamatsu bought them a round of drinks (and made them swear it would be their only drink), and Kise’s dancing with one of the rookies. He’ll be playing in their game against the Sun Rockers in a week, and he’s thrumming with anticipation, a slow heat that spreads up his spine and over his skin like a fever. 

He sees Momoi first—spots a streak of pink hair in the crowd, long and flowing, and just knows it’s her. She’s dancing with a girl wearing black from head to toe, dark hair cut in a sleek bob. They look so good together, Kise can’t help but smile when he approaches, drink in hand, exclaiming, What a happy coincidence! Only Momoi’s expression freezes for a moment when she sees him, and even though it’s only a second before she greets him with a cheerful smile, Kise’s throat tightens with dread. 

“Momocchi,” he forces out, tapping the rim of his drink against hers. “What are you doing here?” 

“Miwa finally opened her own studio earlier today,” she says, smiling, “so we decided to come celebrate.”

Kise congratulates them sincerely; laughs at their bickering and joins in when appropriate and ignores the way that Momoi looks at him a little too closely, as if she knows something that he doesn’t. It’s not hard to guess what it is—there is only one thing it could be, to make Momoi act like this.

“He’s here too, isn’t he?” Kise whispers, after Miwa disappears to get another drink.

Momoi bites her lip and nods, eyes lowered. Kise must let something show in his expression, because Momoi’s mouth hardens as she looks at him, gaze reproaching. “You should talk to him,” she urges, “He’s missed you, you know.” 

Kise scoffs. “Where is he?”

Her eyes shift to the left, and with the way Kise feels like his senses are on fire, it’s more than enough for an answer. He follows her line of sight over his shoulder and towards the wall behind him, where sure enough, Aomine is leaning against the wall with a bored expression.

He’s wearing a loose button-up, unbuttoned over a black t-shirt. Kise knows that Momoi must have been the one to pick it out for him, because it looks expensive and good, the dark blue satin glinting like moonlight over water. Kise doesn’t realize he’s staring until the moment their eyes meet, and then he’s hyper-aware of it—heat rushing to his cheeks at being caught in the act. 

Neither of them get a chance to move before someone comes crashing into Kise’s shoulder. He hears someone say Oh, shit, and then a sugary green liquid is spreading across the front of his shirt with a vengeance. The guy who bumped into him apologizes profusely. Kise barely registers any of it; is only just tearing his gaze away from Aomine when the guy hands him a thousand yen bill and disappears as quickly as he came.  

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” 

Kise looks up to find Aomine at his side. He’s stunned enough that he lets Aomine lead him to the bathroom without protest. It isn’t until the bathroom door slams shut behind them that he realizes the danger of the situation; stuck with Aomine in a enclosed, dimly-lit space and dressed in gin-drenched cotton, Kise doesn’t trust himself not to do anything stupid. 

Aomine reaches for the hem of Kise’s shirt and tugs. Kise smirks, words smooth as honey when he says, “Aominecchi, you know that if you want me to take off my clothes so badly you only have to ask.”

Aomine freezes at that, eyes widening as he lets the material snap back over Kise’s stomach with a wet smack. “Do it yourself then, asshole.” 

Kise revels in the novelty of catching him off guard—whets himself on it, and when Aomine’s surprise fades back into a neutral expression, hungers for more. 

“So, what are you doing here two days before a game?” 

He imagines all the ways he might astonish him as he struggles to pull the shirt over his head. Perhaps he’ll throw his drink in Aomine’s face, or steal a sip from his, or drag him onto the dance floor and make it so he’ll never want to leave. Anything to catch that singular focus, blue and electric and sorely missed. 

“Satsuki dragged me here to babysit them or some shit.”

Kise’s shirt was already tight in the first place—now that it’s wet, it sticks to his skin uncomfortably, tacky with sugar. “I’m surprised you let her.” 

Aomine doesn’t even scowl; just steps forward and helps Kise get his elbow out from underneath the collar. “What are you doing here?” 

Finally freed from the confines of his shirt, Kise shrugs vaguely. “It’s Himuro’s birthday.”  

Aomine doesn’t say anything after that. Kise holds the shirt under the running tap and watches the green liquid swirl down the drain. He shifts nervously, painfully aware of how exposed he is; he’s not usually the self-conscious type, but nothing is usual when Aomine is standing right next to him. Glancing over at him, Kise jokes, “This seems unfair somehow. Maybe you should take off your shirt too, make it even.” 

He doesn’t expect Aomine to actually shrug off his dark-blue button up and offer it to him. His throat goes dry at the gesture; he takes the shirt hesitantly, and tries not to let his hands shake as he buttons it up. Says, in lieu of thanks, “You know, you shouldn’t just offer your clothes to everybody like this—you might never get them back.” 

When he looks back up at Aomine, he has a look on his face like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how to say it—his brows are furrowed and the corners of his mouth are drawn down ever so slightly, not quite a frown. It sets Kise on edge; it’s not like him to mince his words. Deciding that he doesn’t want to hear whatever it is, Kise leans forward and presses his lips to his, hard and reckless. 

Aomine tastes different. Kise doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol or if Aomine no longer uses the same toothpaste he used to, but it’s almost enough to send Kise into a panic—a realization that Aomine is no longer the same person that Kise remembers.  

But then—Aomine kisses him back, and all Kise knows is that he’s missed this, more than he thought he would, and then it’s hard to stop. He’s distantly aware of the bathroom door opening, and a wolf whistle that sounds vaguely like Wakamatsu, but then Aomine presses his hand into the small of his back to pull him in, and Kise never stood a chance.

Kise loses himself in Aomine’s embrace, and for a moment he can almost believe that they’re eighteen again and on fire, burning into each other like twin flames fusing into one. Emotion overwhelms him, coaxed out by the slip of Aomine’s tongue against his.  

“Yo Kise,” Kasamatsu calls, his voice rushing over Kise’s consciousness like a bucket of water, ice cold and extinguishing. “Stop fraternizing with the enemy and get over here.” 

Kise freezes. Remembers the promise that he’d made himself years ago, and knows that Kasamatsu is right—Aomine is nothing more than his enemy now. There is no kiss, no touch, no amount of closeness can make six years disappear; Kise opens his eyes and notices the width of Aomine’s shoulders, the sharpness of his jaw, the roughness of his hands against his back. Realizes that Aomine will never be the same person he remembers, no matter how much he wants him to be. 

Whatever came over him recedes just as quickly as it came, and Kise withdraws his hand from underneath Aomine’s shirt. He looks over his shoulder and pouts at Kasamatsu, saving face. “Don’t be jealous, senpai. Girls don’t like that in a man.” 

Aomine snorts. Kasamatsu scowls, “We’re about to cut the cake, moron.” 

“Right.” Kise looks back at Aomine, but doesn’t discern much of anything because the world is swimming at the edges of his vision. He feels a lot more intoxicated than he really is, and it’s pathetic that after all this time, Aomine still has this effect on him. His only saving grace as he extricates himself from Aomine is the tent in Aomine’s pants and the knowledge that at least he still has the same effect on him, too.

“Sorry Aominecchi.” Kise smiles, and hopes that the strobing lights can make up for what his smile lacks. “I gotta go—duty calls.” 

He’s not sure if he’s imagining it when Aomine tightens his hold before he lets go, hands falling away from his skin so slowly it feels more like a caress than a send-off. As if to say— this isn’t over. As they make their way back toward the rest of the team, Kise can hear Wakamatsu snickering, saying something that sounds suspiciously like Nice shirt. But he can still feel the remnants of Aomine’s warmth in the drape of the satin over his shoulder blades, and a feeling that he can’t quite name blooms in his chest—rose-colored and thorned, ready to rend. 

✧

(It’s not love. Not anymore. Not when he’s already loved and lost and is still— always —losing.) 

✧

The truth is, Kise had lost Aomine before he’d even left. Those four words, spoken in December, grew like a cavern between them, where countless words, left unsaid, met their demise. They’d never talked about it again after that. Aomine made his arrangements alone; Kise pretended it wasn’t happening at all. Even after the season ended and everything was more or less set in stone, Kise kept up his act, flawless and opaque. As if Aomine wasn’t about to fly halfway across the world in less than a month; as if Kise didn't hate himself for being unable to make him stay.

Kise threw a farewell party for Aomine, just a week before his flight. It was held at their apartment, though it was really more like Kise’s apartment at that point—Momoi had already come by the weekend before to pack up all of Aomine’s things into little brown boxes, taped and labeled and headed for America. All that was left of him were a few changes of clothes and his toothbrush and cologne, and Aomine himself. 

Kise hadn’t meant to get drunk, but there was something intolerable about all the people and their idle chatter, so frivolous and irrelevant and unaffected that it made Kise want to scream and cry and demand to know how anybody could just sit there like that, stand there like that. He wasn’t sure what was different about this time that made the act so much harder to bear—had never had a problem keeping it up, before. But as the night went on, his smile cracked and his eyes dimmed, and the only thing that kept the light from going out completely was the sweet glow of the umeshu in his chest.

“Will he come back?” Kasamatsu had asked, when Kise was already past tipsy and well on his way to being drunk. 

“Of course,” Kise had lied through his teeth, his smile too wide. “He’ll miss me too much not to.” 

By the time everyone had left, the bottle of umeshu was half-empty and Kise was swaying on his feet. The only reason he was still standing was because Aomine had confiscated the bottle after Kise’s fifth karaoke rendition of Baka Mitai, to save his dignity— But you always say I have no dignity, Kise had complained, to which Aomine replied, I meant my dignity . 

Aomine was taking down the streamers that Kise had hung on the walls, metallic blue and gold and irrevocably tangled, when Kise felt the final ember dim completely, snuffed out by the sight of Aomine reaching for the ceiling with his back turned towards him. 

“You’re giving up on me,” Kise accused, tears springing in his eyes. It was the first time he’d mentioned it since December; he’d swallowed his words for so long, thinking that if he kept them in the dark for long enough it would make them untrue. But it was all coming up now, with the umeshu and the nausea roiling in his gut, and as soon as he said it he knew it had always been—would only ever be—true. 

“What are you talking about?” Aomine had followed him to the bathroom—was kneeling down next to him on the glazed tiles and smoothing his hair back as he heaved into the toilet bowl. “You’re drunk.”

“Don’t leave, ” Kise begged, the words fragile and worn from all the times he’d said them in his head, a prayer he’d never dared to voice. He knew he had no right to ask—had wanted to take it back, wanted to laugh it off and say, Just kidding, don’t mind me, I’m just a drama queen. But even though Kise was a good liar, he had never been good at lying to Aomine; had only ever wanted to tell him the truth, even if it was sharp and ugly and hurt himself more than it could ever hurt Aomine. “I’ll never forgive you if you leave me.”

“I’m not going anywhere, idiot, ” Aomine said after a second, wiping the tears and the snot from Kise’s face. He filled a cup with water and shoved it into Kise’s hand. “Drink this.”

Kise had known, drunk as he was, that Aomine hadn’t answered what he was really asking. Had known that even if he had, it wouldn’t have made a difference—there was nothing he could say to make Aomine stay. There was nothing more important to either of them than basketball. It had brought them together; it was only right that it would tear them apart. Even if there was something Kise could say that would change Aomine’s mind, he knew he had no right—not when he had failed, over and over again, to make it worth staying. 

Still, he couldn’t help but ask. Still, he couldn’t help but let himself believe, if only for just one night, that Aomine would always be there at his side. 

Aomine’s words lost their meaning a week later when he packed the last of his things and left Kise behind, but Kise had meant what he said that night. Said so, when he dropped Aomine off at the airport, eyes red rimmed and his heart in his throat. “Don’t you dare come back,” he’d said, in between half-stifled sobs. “I mean it, asshole. I don’t want to see you ever again.”

Aomine had wiped the tears out of his eyes—had been doing that a lot, recently—then he’d kissed him, quick and chaste on the corner of his mouth, and said, “Don’t be stupid, I’ll call you when I land. Now stop crying before someone gets the wrong idea and thinks I broke your heart.”

Sometimes, Kise still wonders when Aomine realized that he had broken his heart—had shattered it that freezing winter day, with just four words and a roll of his eyes, oblivious. Was it right after he’d said it, when he’d turned and walked into the airport without ever looking back? Or was it when the plane had already taken off, and the shape of Tokyo had shrunk and shrunk until he couldn’t see it anymore at all? Or maybe it wasn’t until fourteen hours later, when Aomine had called from the other side of the world, and Kise had thrown his phone at the wall and let the pieces ring, and ring, and ring. 

✧

KAWASAKI BRAVE THUNDERS’ KISE RYOUTA SETS RECORD FOR MOST POINTS SCORED IN MATCH AGAINST HIROSHIMA DRAGONFLIES
Sports Nippon, November 17th 

Last night, Kawasaki Brave Thunders’ ace Kise Ryouta scored an all-time record of 57 points in game against Hiroshima Dragonflies, ending the match with a final score of 104-83 and surpassing SeaHorses Mikawa power forward Davante Gardner for most points scored per game this season with an average of just over 26 points per game. Read more.

CELTICS ROOKIE DAIKI AOMINE DRAFTED FOR ALL-STAR GAME
Sports Illustrated, February 

Daiki Aomine, the 22 year-old power forward from Japan, took the NBA by storm after being drafted by the Boston Celtics last summer. He placed sixth overall in the all-star rankings. He joins just 45 other players in the history of the league to be named an all-star in their first year in the league.  Read more.

TWO-TIME B.LEAGUE CHAMPION KISE RYOUTA SAYS NBA IS NOT FOR HIM
Daily Sports, May 28th

Kawasaki Brave Thunders’ power forward and two-time B.League champion, 23 year-old Kise Ryouta, told Number in a recent interview that the NBA was “not for [him].” With skills rivalling that of Aomine Daiki, ex-Alvark Tokyo power forward and current Celtics player, many fans have wondered why Kise hasn’t followed in his friend and rival’s footsteps. When asked why Kise hasn’t set his sights on America, he said, “Basketball in Japan gets better every year. I want to be here when Japan shows the world that we have what it takes to compete at an international level.” Read more.

✧

After Aomine left, Kise threw himself into basketball with a vengeance. It was the only thing that made him feel better, and even then it didn’t, not really. Without Aomine, Kise was left to compete with a ghost of him. That’s all Kise had, after Aomine left—a ghost where there once was a compass, a shadow where there once was a north star. He was an arrow without a target; no win was good enough, no record was high enough. Every victory was haunted by the thought that, if Aomine had still been there, it might have been a loss. 

But Aomine wasn’t there. His absence had illuminated a part of Kise that was twisted and ugly and broken—a part of him that he hadn’t known was there before. For the first time, Kise felt the extent of his own shortcomings with a clarity he’d never experienced before, having been blinded by the halo of Aomine’s brilliance. Every time Kise closed his eyes, he saw the afterimage of those four words, spoken into smoke in the December air; the silhouette of Aomine reaching up, back turned; Aomine’s expression, so unaffected, just before he’d turned and walked into the airport. It had been so easy for Aomine to leave; in other words, it had been so easy to leave Kise behind.

So Kise trained until he couldn’t and then trained some more, never satisfied unless he went to sleep with an ache in his limbs strong enough to distract from the ache in his heart. There was a part of him that thought that if only he could shine bright enough, then maybe Aomine would hear about him, second or third-hand from the other side of the world, and he would realize what he had left behind. There was a part of him that hoped that if he proved himself strong enough, worthy enough, then Aomine would come back. 

You’re going to get hurt, Momoi had warned him once, eyes narrowed at him from across two bowls of steaming ramen. They used to go for okonomiyaki, when Aomine was still around—but it was their third December without him, and Kise still could never finish what Momoi couldn’t. You can’t go on like this, she’d said, and the warmth in Kise’s smile had disappeared in an instant. His voice was a winter gale and his teeth were icicles, frozen sharp, when he’d replied, Watch me. 

She’d been right, of course (though Kise never told her that until she’d watched it happen for herself on TV along with everyone else). Because after he’d won his third championship—a year and a half before the World Cup—the ache in the back of his leg that would flare up every once in a while became an ache that never left, punishment for his hubris. That year, the wounds in his heart scarred over and hardened; Kise no longer yearned for Aomine to come back, no longer wanted him to soothe the pain. Instead, he yearned for something to wield his pain against. So he swore that if Aomine ever came back it would be as his enemy, and nothing more; Kise would wander through the wreckage of his heart and pick out the sharpest pieces, and he would show him the shape of it so thoroughly that in the end, the pain would be Aomine’s as much as it was his. 

✧

November passes in a blur. Kise finally gets to play again sometimes, but never as much as he wants. In December, he gets benched after only five minutes on the court when the opponent tries to draw a foul from him and he trips over his bad leg trying not to get caught in it. I’m not pissed, he insists, when Kasamatsu tells him to go and cool down. Kasamatsu gives him a disbelieving look; he bites his tongue and says, Not at him. There’s a flash of something like pity in the green of his eyes when Kasamatsu says, It would almost be better if you were.

The day after, Aomine shows up at his doorstep with a determined expression that sets off every alarm in Kise’s head. It’s two in the afternoon and Kise’s still in his pajamas, and when he opens the door to find Aomine standing there looking like he has something he wants to say and doesn’t care whether Kise wants to hear it, he slams the door in Aomine’s face. 

“What the fuck, Ryouta?” Aomine yells through the door. “Let me in, it’s cold as hell out here.” 

Kise doesn’t know what he’s thinking when he opens the door again with a basketball in between his hands. It must be half muscle memory and half blind fury, because Kise says, “Play me,” and when Aomine raises a brow he pushes the ball towards Aomine’s chest with more force than necessary. Aomine catches it without a word. 

Kise talks about everything and nothing as they walk toward the court at the high school nearby, desperate to keep Aomine from saying whatever it is that he came to say. Aomine lets him take the lead, never opens his mouth other than to grunt whenever Kise pauses, as if to show that he’s still listening. Kise can’t imagine why—can’t even remember half of what he’s been saying himself.

Neither of them talk when they start playing. They let their bodies talk for them—the push and pull of their movements like a conversation, only here it’s Aomine who dominates. Kise learns all the ways in which Aomine’s changed, and he’s sure Aomine learns him, too—all over again, because almost nothing is the same.     

Aomine wins the first two rounds, but Kise takes the third by two points. Kise doesn’t expect Aomine to adapt so quickly to his differences. He’s barely fazed when Kise copies one of Aomine’s moves and puts his own spin on it, unconsciously favoring his right leg.  

When Kise scores by copying one of Aomine’s newer moves, a perfect pull-back into a seamless fadeaway, Aomine finally breaks their silence to say, “You watched my games.”  

It’s not a question, but there’s a hint of surprise that shows through in the openness of his expression and the abruptness of his voice, a glimpse of an Aomine who Kise still knows better than he knows himself—an Aomine who never hesitates and never holds back, and always says what he thinks as soon as he thinks it. 

Kise feels offended, somehow, at the thought that Aomine might have thought he didn’t. “Of course I did.”

Kise dribbles as he studies him. Aomine’s defense has always been airtight—Kise runs through his options, searching for a hint in Aomine’s eyes—for a blind spot, or a weakness, or an advantage. Kise finds none. Aomine’s already steeled his gaze, his stare piercing, through him and past him and straight towards his heart.   

Kise’s stomach drops when Aomine smirks and says, “I watched yours, too.” 

The confession catches Kise off guard; for a second, he feels bereft of the world—like a kite cut loose or an anchor dropped into the sea, he rises up into the clouds and sinks into the ocean deep. It’s only a second, but a second is all Aomine needs—he steals the ball right out from under Kise, still reeling from the thought of Aomine watching him on TV from the other side of the world. By the time Kise recovers, it’s too late—the ball has already left Aomine’s hands, arcing beautifully, inevitably, toward the hoop. 

The net swishes. It’s Aomine’s eleventh point—his third win. “You did that on purpose,” Kise pouts, when he sees the smug grin on Aomine’s face.    

Aomine lifts the collar of his shirt to wipe the sweat out of his eyes. “Maybe,” he says, eyes covered, a sliver of skin showing from where the hem of his shirt rides up. It’s gone as soon as it appears, the fabric of his shirt dropping back down over the top of his shorts. Aomine arcs an eyebrow, smile turning wicked. “What are you going to do about it?” 

“Again,” Kise demands. Almost nothing is the same, but this, at least, is.  Losing again and again, only to get back up on his weary feet to say, again—“ Again .” 

✧

The nicest thing Aomine has ever said to him also turned out to be the cruelest thing he’s ever said. Kise doubts that Aomine remembers it the same way he does—doubts that Aomine remembers it at all. It all started with a stupid promise that Kise had made off-handedly in the heat of the moment during a one-on-one in the middle of their first year in the league. It wasn’t stupid because he didn’t mean it, but because he did—it was the kind of promise that only people who didn’t know any better dared to make, the antithesis to a self-fulfilling prophecy. I’ll definitely beat you this year, he’d said zealously, because he had still been confident that he would. And that’s a promise.

He hadn’t known then how heavy that promise would come to weigh on him. All he’d known was his indomitable determination, so bright he could see it reflected in Aomine’s eyes when he’d said, I dare you to try. That year had been the first year Kise had gotten all of Aomine to himself—Kagami was still in America, and the rest of the Miracles had long since moved on to other things—and Kise had been high on the feeling of Aomine’s attention, fixed wholly and singularly on him.  

Again— Kise had said that word so many times that year it had become something like a prayer, and Aomine, a god on earth, had granted his wish every time. Even when he’d been dead on his feet and playing with his eyes half-closed, already half-asleep, all it ever took was Kise’s pleading face and a pretty please? for him to pick up the ball again.     

I never break my promises, you know, Kise had said right before the third round of the finals that year. Perhaps if he hadn’t said it, he wouldn’t have broken it immediately after; or perhaps it wouldn’t have mattered what he’d said—would have watched helplessly regardless, screened out outside the three-point line, as Aomine made the final shot. Kise remembers being stunned by the inevitable arc of the ball towards the hoop, towards victory. The buzzer sounded, and even though Kise ended his first season in the league in second place, it still wasn’t enough.     

“Next year,” Kise declared in the taxi on the way home, choking on his tears. “I promise I’m going to beat you next year.”

“Okay, ” Aomine said into the crook of his neck, breath warm and unfaltering. “I’m waiting for you, asshole, so you better do it soon.”

Kise only cried harder, but his resolve, weakened and fraying, had strengthened with Aomine’s unwavering belief. And when Kise had broken that promise too, and the one after that, Aomine had stood firm, and it had been all Kise needed to keep on reaching. But even the tallest trees must fall; even the greatest waves must break. And so in the end, Aomine’s belief faltered—leaving Kise behind with the shards of a hundred and one broken promises, the last of which cut deeper than all of the previous ones combined. 

✧

It’s easier to hate Aomine than it is to hate himself. Kise realizes this when the sun begins to set and he still hasn’t managed to break Aomine’s lead. It had been Kise who’d broken his promise first, after all—if there’s anyone to blame, it should be him. Aomine had waited for him, year after year, and Kise had fallen short, year after year. In a way, Kise doesn’t even blame him; after Alvark Tokyo’s third consecutive championship win, there was no longer anything left for Aomine in Japan.

Kise keeps up, but it’s just that—keeping up. When the sun lights the skyline on fire, the ache in Kise’s Achilles flares, the burden of his power surging up the back of his leg and sparking. 

Aomine blows past him; Kise falls. Aomine takes one look at him, sprawled on the asphalt, and says, “We’re done.”

“No,” Kise protests, fists clenched and teeth grinding as he struggles to stand. “One more time.”  

In his periphery, he sees Aomine’s outstretched hand like an olive branch. Anger surges through him—he slaps it away, burned by the consideration that feels more like condescension from where he kneels, on his knees, always on his knees. "Fuck you, Aomine.” 

And then he’s being dragged to his feet by Aomine’s fist at the front of his shirt. “No, fuck you,” Aomine growls. “What the fuck is your problem? You ignore me for six years and then you jump my bones at the club and now you’re… fuck, I don’t even know what you’re doing. What are you doing? Why are you doing this?”

Aomine’s grip loosens until his fist is just resting on Kise’s chest. There’s a wild glint in his eyes that looks almost like panic, like concern, and it sets Kise adrift.   

“Why did you come back, Aomine?” Kise asks, in between gulping breaths that turn into more of a wheeze against the steady tightening of his throat. “Why now?” 

What Kise doesn’t say: Why only after I already tore my Achilles? Why, when I’ll never be the same player I used to be again? 

“Because I wanted to,” Aomine snaps. “Because I hate American food. Because I missed Japan. Because you never picked up when I called, and I was tired of not knowing what I did wrong.” He pauses, breath heavy, brows furrowed. “Because I missed you.” 

Kise laughs, dry and mirthless. He thinks of how many times he’d imagined those words spoken from Aomine’s lips, and wonders how he’d managed to get it wrong in every iteration. He’d been so naive to think it would make him feel anything but worse. 

“Don’t say that, Aominecchi.” It comes out breathless and too raw for Kise’s liking, so he pitches his voice up into a whine and adds, “Don’t be so mean to me.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Aomine snaps, all reflex. Then—“How am I being mean? It’s the truth.”

Kise looks at Aomine, eyes wet and blurring. Confesses, despite the curling in his gut, because Aomine has always made him want to tell the truth. “Because if you keep saying things like that, I’m going to fall in love with you again.”

Aomine’s inhale comes sharp and fast, but Kise can’t even be pleased with himself for catching him off guard. Taking Aomine by surprise is only fun when Aomine can’t strike back; right now, Kise’s so wide open Aomine could devastate him with less than a single pointed word. 

Instead—five words, softer than autumn leaves. “And what’s wrong with that?”

Kise smiles, fractured; it’s easier to hate Aomine than it is to hate himself. “I don’t know if I can beat you if I do.”

Aomine doesn’t say anything for a moment. Kise feels like he’s sixteen again and laying his heart bare at Aomine’s feet, with nothing but the cicadas to fill the deafening silence between them. 

When Aomine finally moves, running a hand through his sweat-slicked hair, he almost looks relieved. Kise must be seeing things, because he swears his expression softens when he says, “You’re still a fucking idiot, you know that?” 

“Whatever,” Kise sniffs, déjà vu washing over him, cool and gentle as a summer breeze. “If you won’t play me again then take me home, asshole.” 

✧

And so Aomine takes him home. They get a poor excuse for dinner at a convenience store—meat buns and shrimp chips and Pocari Sweat—and when they get to his apartment door, Kise lets him in. Aomine brings him ice for his ankle, then makes him a cup of hot chocolate, thick with foam, the way he likes it best. 

Kise’s almost surprised that he still remembers. The last time he’d done this Kise had gotten caught in the rain three blocks away from home, and by the time he’d made it to their doorstep he’d been drenched from head to toe. He’d refused to enter no matter how much Aomine insisted; had instead demanded that Aomine fetch a towel for him before stripping down to his underwear right there in the hall. Aomine had cursed him to hell and back, but he’d brought him a dry change of clothes and hung the wet ones out on the balcony, and when Kise emerged from the shower he’d pushed a mug of hot chocolate into Kise’s trembling fingers and said, I’m not taking care of you if you get sick, dumbass. And Kise had smiled—because he’d known that despite what Aomine said, he would— and with a mustache made of chocolate foam he’d said, I love you.

Shut up, Aomine had replied, ears red and avoiding Kise’s gaze. The hot chocolate’ll get cold. 

“Aren’t you going to drink it?” Aomine asks, glancing down at the mug in Kise’s frozen hands. “It’ll get cold if you leave it.” 

Kise startles; takes a sip. Licks the chocolate foam off the top of his lip. He doesn’t do anything stupid like saying that he loves him, because he doesn’t, not anymore; it’s easier to hate him than it is to hate himself. But after Aomine leaves and Kise finds a plastic bag on his kitchen counter—thinking that Aomine must have accidentally left it behind—only to find painkillers and salonpas and hot chocolate powder inside, Kise realizes—delicately, devastatingly—that loving Aomine is still the easiest of all. 

✧

The hardest decision Kise ever made wasn’t really a decision at all. Midorima had been blunt about it, the way he had always been about everything. If you keep playing the tendon will only get worse, and if it breaks you may never be able to play again. He’d said it all plainly over a bowl of red bean soup in that straightforward way of his, but Kise was only half-listening. 

It had been inevitable, after all, that one day, sooner rather than later, Kise’s body would give up before he was ready to. He had already known, of course—had been strong-armed by Momoi into seeing a doctor weeks ago, when extra-strength ibuprofen was no longer enough to keep the pain away. But it had been the middle of the season, and Kise wanted to see it through. He would take a break, he promised them, after he’d won his fourth championship. 

“Why do you need a fourth so badly when you already have three?” Midorima asked, unlike Momoi, who hadn’t needed to. Momoi had known the answer the same way she knew the sky was blue and the world was round, intuitively and indubitably.  

“Isn’t it obvious?” Kise gave an exaggerated pout to cover the involuntary wince that slipped past his mask. “Because Aominecchi also has three, and his are consecutive.”

Kise should have known that even then, it still wouldn’t have been enough. He remembers the way he’d stood, limp and lifeless, as Kasamatsu pulled him into a crushing hug, the trophy dangling from one hand. Remembers the smile he’d flashed at the cameras—his best one—practiced and perfect and devoid of passion. Remembers wondering, half-drunk and flirting with hopelessness, if that was how Aomine felt back then before he’d left.

Earlier that year in February, Japan had placed second in the Asian World Cup Qualifiers and earned a place at the World Cup. Kise hadn’t planned on playing in it—had promised Momoi and Midorima, after all, that he would take a break. But it was another thing that Aomine hadn’t done, and so like a dog forever chasing at his own tail, Kise thought that maybe, if he could lead Japan to victory on the world stage, it would finally be enough. 

But he hadn’t been enough, and his Achilles had snapped like a rubber band in the semifinals, stretched to breaking. In the end, Japan won bronze without him, and he was left with nothing but the worst pain he’d ever felt in his life and his four, non-consecutive championships, still not enough. Never quite enough. 

✧

Kise’s coach throws a fit when he shows up at practice the next day with an ice pack taped to the back of his ankle. Kise doesn’t play in the next three games—not even the one against Alvark Tokyo—but it’s okay because he gets to play the one after that, and the one after that, too. He plays the entire second half against the Jets and he’s never felt better; at least, not until he catches a flash of dark skin and blue eyes in the stands, and then he feels indomitable. He goes back out onto the court he wins and he wins and wins again, against everyone except the one that matters most. 

Kise loses to Aomine when they face each other in the last few months of the regular season. It stings just as badly as it used to—stings even more now, with all the medals and the trophies won in his name. He’s already spent by the time the buzzer sounds, but he’s not nearly satisfied; the adrenaline running through his veins burns at the victory lost like a flame without fuel—suffocating, aching to consume. 

So he finds Aomine after his post-game interview and drags him into the empty locker room to kiss him until he feels like he can breathe again, then kisses him some more. Aomine groans into his mouth and Kise swallows it, greedily, unwilling to share with anyone who might be passing by outside. It’s the only revenge Kise can take, so he takes it—leaves Aomine panting underneath him, shorts straining. 

Kise reaches for them. Aomine catches his hand before he can do anything and says, “I’m not going to be your consolation prize.” 

“Mean,” Kise whines, impatient—exacerbated by the memory of a time when neither of them would have held back. Kise tries and fails to pull his hand away, gritting his teeth in frustration. Aomine’s grip on his wrist is hard enough to bruise, and if Kise weren’t so ready to tear right through him he’d be keening at the thought of Aomine’s fingerprints on his skin. “Who says you’re the prize? Maybe I’m the prize.” 

Aomine laughs, disbelieving. Kise kisses him again to prove that he’s serious. Puts his weight into it—lets all the feelings he’s been suppressing rise to the surface, wields them with skilled hands, aiming to win. He’s already lost once tonight; he doesn’t plan on losing again.

He pulls back to study the look in Aomine’s eyes. He feels like he’s seventeen again and playing with fire—a thrill runs up the length of his spine at the spark that he finds staring back, his body thrumming like a live wire. 

“Who says I want a shitty prize like you?”

Kisses down Aomine’s chest, down his abs, up over the tent in his shorts. “You, apparently.”

Aomine only laughs. “So you admit you’re a shitty prize?” 

“Come on,” Kise pleads, falling to his knees as he mouths over Aomine’s crotch. “Let me be a good sport.”

“More like a sore loser,” Aomine says, but lifts his hand to card his fingers through Kise’s still-damp hair, and gives a slight nod right before Kise pulls down his shorts. 

Kise kisses up the inside of his thigh and feels the muscle jump against his cheek, flushed with heat. “C’mon, say you want this.”

Aomine doesn’t hesitate. “I want this. I want you.”

Kise responds by licking a long stripe up the underside of Aomine’s length before sucking the head into his mouth. Aomine groans, hips nearly bucking up, but Kise’s grip is like a vice on his thighs, holding him down. 

“Still such a fucking tease,” Aomine taunts. Kise responds with a glare and a middle finger, then takes him down to the hilt in one smooth motion out of spite.

Aomine curses, and Kise’s eyes flutter closed. The slide of his lips over Aomine’s length is obscene, the noises echoing loudly in the empty locker room. Kise feels himself getting hard when Aomine threads his hand into his hair and pulls, guiding him into a punishing pace. Kise groans, the sound muffled by Aomine’s cock in his mouth, but Aomine still seems to hear it, or maybe he feels it, because he says, “Ryouta,” like he still can’t believe Kise’s real. 

Kise has spit dripping down his chin and along the line of his throat and his knees are starting to ache, but all he can think of is how Aomine used to say his name the same way. For a second, he can almost believe that nothing’s changed; that they’re still twenty-one and too reckless for their own good, that they’re still young and whole and unbroken, that Aomine is still his, his, his. 

“Fuck, Ryouta, look at you,” he breathes. “You look so good like this. Missed this. Missed your mouth, and that fucking tongue of yours. Missed you.”

Kise chokes at that, and a whispered fuck is the only warning he gets before Aomine’s coming, hot and bitter down his throat. 

Kise swallows; licks his lips, then glances up at Aomine from between his lashes. “Daiki,” he starts, then pauses to swallow again, voice raw. “Take me home.” 

Aomine hauls Kise to his feet and calls them a taxi, rattling off Kise’s address to the driver with urgency. Kise shoves him back onto the golden sheets and rides him until his legs shake. Aomine doesn’t make it easy for him—keeps bucking up, unwilling to relinquish control completely. When Kises’s legs finally give out underneath him, Aomine takes his hand to keep him steady—interlaces their fingers so tenderly it makes Kise want to scream—and then he does, when Aomine’s hips drive up once, twice, devastating. It’s a long moment before Kise opens his eyes and pushes himself off of Aomine’s chest, slick with sweat, but when he does, he swears that there won’t be a next time. 

“Liar,” Aomine says in between kisses, too gentle to be fair. “You can’t get enough of me.” 

Kise nearly lets the comment go uncontested, distracted by Aomine’s mouth on the side of his jaw. “You’re the one who’s already hard again,” he points out, petulant.   

“Mhm.” Aomine rolls over on top of him, gathers his hands in his own and presses them into the sheets and then grinds down against Kise’s thigh. “All for you.” 

This time, Kise surrenders the reins. hopes that Aomine doesn’t notice the way he clutches at his shoulders, grip too strong and for a second too long, like if he holds him tight enough he can keep Aomine with him for just a little bit longer.  

✧

Aomine doesn’t leave. Kise doesn’t know if it’s because he’s tired or just inconsiderate; doesn’t want to consider that there could be a third option. He’s pretending to be asleep with his back pressed into the curve of Aomine’s body, but he’s clearly not doing a good enough job of it, because Aomine doesn’t ask him if he’s awake before he asks, “So are you ever going to tell me why you never answered my calls, or am I just supposed to keep on guessing?”

Aomine’s voice falls like bricks next to Kise’s ear, shattering any semblance of pretense between them. Kise’s breath catches in his throat, and if Aomine wasn’t sure that he was awake before then he’s definitely sure of it now—grabs his arm and rolls him onto his other side so that they’re facing each other, the hazy silhouette of Aomine’s face in the dark still as stone and mere inches away from his own.  

“That depends,” Kise starts, slowly, like if he stalls for long enough Aomine might forget about it—but it’s already been five, six years now, and the five seconds of silence that falls between them is like a drop of sea mist in a tsunami, wishful thinking. “How good do you think your guesses are?”

Kise feels Aomine’s frown more than he sees it—senses it in the way he says, “God, Ryouta, I don’t know.” Kise only raises an eyebrow; Aomine snaps. “I hate this game. Just answer the question.” 

There’s an edge in his voice that sounds like frustration, and the air in the room chills, dipping into the negatives. Kise doesn’t shiver, doesn’t blunt the bite in his words when he retorts, “Well I hate this conversation, so why don’t we just drop it?” 

Aomine rolls over, and for a second Kise panics—thinks he’s pulling away to get up and leave, thinks he would deserve it, if he did. He almost opens his mouth to beg him to stay before he’s blinded by the sudden light emanating from the bedside lamp. A wave of relief washes over him, then recedes just as quickly when he sees the storm clouds rolling in across Aomine’s grave expression. 

“Too bad, because we’re having it anyway.” 

The light is harsh on the planes of Aomine’s face, but it softens when Kise sits up, the angles falling easily into place. For a moment, Aomine’s expression is unreadable, something guarded and impenetrable in a way that Kise doesn’t recognize. Kise’s only consolation is that he still notices the moment when the armor cracks—still finds something familiar underneath. 

“Was it because of the distance? I didn’t think you’d be the type to give up so easily.”

A laugh, dry and disbelieving, bubbles up his throat and out of his mouth before he can swallow it down. “I gave up? Is that what you think happened?”

“I don’t fucking know what I think,” Aomine growls, patience worn thin and through. “Why don’t you try telling me what I’m supposed to think, after you leave me on read for five years without a single explanation?” 

The night fractures. The reckoning, long overdue, bursts through the cracks, illuminating. 

“You gave up on me!” And just like that, Kise pulls the final knife out. Turns it back on Aomine to show him the shape of it—how it glints as it rends, reflecting its destruction onto itself—and lets his heart bleed out in the space between them. It’s a surrender as much as it’s a last stand; it reduces him, strips him bare and leaves him with nothing, not even his pain, with which to defend himself. He’s flayed, hollowed, turned inside out when he says, finally, “I wasn’t good enough for you, and you gave up on me.” 

Kise doesn’t mean to cry, but he can’t help it—the tears well without his permission, and no matter how hard he bites his lip it’s not enough to keep gravity away. So the tears fall, one drop at a time and then in streams, and then he’s feeling like a fool for thinking he would ever run out of tears to shed for Aomine. Because he’s a fountain and his tears are an offering, and the well at the bottom of his heart will never run dry, will never run out. 

When Aomine finally speaks, it’s in a voice Kise has never heard from him before, hesitant and uncertain and streaked with hurt. “Is that why you think I left?”

“Why else?” 

Kise still remembers the faraway look in Aomine’s eyes when he’d asked him the same question six years ago—had let it pass over him, judging, and had been sure he knew what the verdict would be. Had accepted it without contest, because he’d already decided it for himself; had never thought to ask Aomine to say it out loud, because he knew he wouldn’t have wanted to hear it. Never, not for even a second, had Kise thought that the answer he’d come up with might have been wrong.

How cruel it would be, to have been wrong all along. How merciful it would be, to be proven wrong. 

How cruel it is, when mercy comes in the form of Aomine, always proving him wrong. 

“Because I was making you miserable!” The confession hits him like a hurricane; Kise’s stomach drops, dreading the words that come next. “You were ruining yourself, and I hated myself for being part of the reason. So I thought that, if there was some distance between us, it would have hurt less.”

Kise has known pain—has known loss and heartbreak and the excruciating agony of tearing the largest tendon in his body fiber by fiber until it came apart—but he has never known a pain quite like this. A pain that heals as much as it hurts, relieves as much as it devastates. A pain that drains him of his tears and then fills the well again, up to the brim—an Escherian waterfall, perpetual and infinite. 

“I was still miserable! I was still ruined! I am still ruined!” Kise cries, words double-edged, “Was six years halfway across the world enough distance for you? You have no idea what it was like, all this time without you.”

“Don’t I?” Aomine snaps back, and Kise falls silent at the flare in his eyes, all anger and anguish mirrored. There was never a need for him to show Aomine the shape of his pain; it had always been Aomine’s as much as it was his own. “I was hurt, too, you moron.”

Kise punches him in the shoulder. It’s pathetically weak, but not because he doesn’t want it to hurt. “You’re the moron, moron! Why didn’t you say something?” he despairs, and oh, how he despairs—mourns all the years he’d spent mourning over something that he’d never really lost. Because it’s clear now that he’d never really lost Aomine—not in the way he thought he had. Aomine had always believed in him. Still believes in him—wouldn’t have come back otherwise—even more than Kise ever believed in himself.

Aomine’s voice strains when he says, “In my defense, I didn’t plan for the part where you ghosted me for five years.”

“I meant before that! Before you left, god, why didn’t you fucking—” 

Aomine grabs his wrist before he can wind up for another hit. Pulls him in and gathers him up in his arms, so that Kise’s face is pressed against his heart when he says, “I thought you knew I was always going to come back.” Kise only sobs harder, because he should’ve known—can hardly believe he didn’t. “Fuck, don’t cry,” Aomine says, and if Kise wasn’t so busy crying his eyes out he would make fun of the way Aomine’s voice cracks when he continues, “I’m sorry. I should have told you. I swear, I was always going to come back.” 

Kise hiccups into Aomine’s chest. “Even though I told you not to?” 

“Like that could stop me.” Kise laughs, ugly and moist with tears and snot. Aomine pulls him up and wipes it all away. Cups his face in his hands, looks into his eyes and says, “Besides, I’m here now, aren’t I?”

And despite everything, he is. 

✧

“So you admit that it was you who gave up on me, ” Aomine says later, when the dust has settled and the tears have dried and Aomine’s still here, always here. Kise pouts and sticks out his tongue, because Shut up, does it even matter anymore? but Aomine doesn’t budge, because, “It seemed to matter a lot, when it was the other way around.”

And it had. It had, but Kise feels stupid and embarrassed and is still so, so mad at Aomine, but really he’s more mad at himself. So he says, petulant, “That was an hour ago—an entire hour, Aominecchi. We get it. I’m the worst. Now let’s let bygones be bygones.” 

And Aomine laughs, and laughs, and says, “Good, because you are the worst. But I forgive you. Because I’m the best.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kise says, just to get the last word in, despite the tears welling in his eyes all over again. “You’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Aomine only grins. “You’re not going to run away after I kick your ass in the playoffs, are you?”

Kise scoffs. He tries not to feel something at Aomine’s casual assumption that the Thunders will make it into the playoffs, because Kise always knew they would. Still, it's nice to hear him say it. Still, Kise feels something warm and magnificent take root in his heart, from the truth he’s always known.  

So he smiles, sharp with foolish ambition, so familiar and yet completely different, too. “Dream on, asshole. That championship is mine.”

✧

KAWASAKI BRAVE THUNDERS WIN AWAY GAME AGAINST RYUKYU GOLDEN KINGS, SECURING SPOT IN THE PLAYOFFS
Sports Nippon, April 25

Despite a rocky start at the beginning of the season, the Kawasaki Brave Thunders have been steadily making a comeback ever since the return of their core player, small forward Kise Ryouta. After an Achilles tendon rupture last September, the Brave Thunders’ ace has only occasionally appeared on the court for a few minutes at a time, usually just to tip the scales in the team’s favor. Yesterday’s game against the Ryukyu Golden Kings was the first time Kise played in all four quarters of a match since his injury. The Brave Thunders won 98-83, ranking third overall in the eastern conference and securing their spot in the playoffs. Read more.

ALVARK TOKYO WINS SEMI-FINALS IN SECOND ROUND 111-94
Tokyo Sports, May 23 

Last night, Alvark Tokyo won their second round against SeaHorses Mikawa 107-94, winning the semifinals and advancing on to the finals. Alvark Tokyo has breezed through the playoffs so far, winning both their quarterfinal and semifinal match-ups in just two rounds. “I’ve got business to finish,” Aomine explained, when asked about the exceptional determination he displayed during the match. “Losing was never an option.” Read more.

‘THE CHAMPIONSHIP IS MINE’: KISE RYOUTA ON FACING OLD RIVAL, ALVARK TOKYO’S AOMINE DAIKI 
Number, May Issue

Although it’s been six years since the last time they faced each other on the court, veteran fans of the Kawasaki Brave Thunders’ ace, Kise Ryouta, haven’t forgotten his rivalry against Alvark Tokyo’s power forward, Aomine Daiki. Following Aomine’s return to the league this season after a five-year career in the NBA, the two aces have clashed just twice in the regular season, resulting in a win for Alvark Tokyo both times. The two teams will be meeting for the last time this season in the championship finals. If the Kawasaki Brave Thunders take the championship this year, Kise will break the record for most B.League championships with a total of five championships under his belt. Read more.

✧

In the last round of the finals, they meet in the same gym where Kise lost to Aomine twice before, all those years ago. The lights shine diamonds in Kise’s eyes, so cold and bright and blinding that he has to squint when he steps onto the glazed court. Kasamatsu says something to him, but Kise doesn’t hear it—can only hear the roar of the crowd, the blood in his veins, the storm in his mind.

It all goes silent when Kise sees spots Aomine from across the court. 

“I won’t lose,” Kise says as he steps into place directly opposite Aomine. 

Aomine smirks. Drawls, knees bent and arms beckoning, “Good, because I won’t either.” 

The whistle blows. The ball goes to Alvark Tokyo, and Aomine scores the first point not even thirty seconds in. Just like that, the pace is set—fast and hard and no room for error, no room for doubts. If Kise were six years younger, he’d match Aomine’s pace with reckless abandon, but he is no longer the same player he used to be—will never be the same player again. The only way to beat Aomine now is to drag it out, but Kise can’t afford that, either. Not unless he wants this to be the last game he ever plays. 

There is only one choice. Kise knows it, and Aomine probably does too, which means it’ll be that much harder to pull off. After all, it's how Aomine managed to beat him over and over when they were younger—because he knew Kise better than anyone else. Because he knew that if Kise couldn’t make the shot, he’d pass the ball. Because for Kise, there was no other choice. Because for Kise, there is no other choice.

The Thunders lag behind up until the second half of the last quarter, when they finally manage to close the gap down to two points. It’s a stalemate, after that; every point they steal the Alvarks manage to steal it right back, stuck in a vicious tug of war as time runs down to the seconds. Kasamatsu steals the ball from Mibuchi, then passes it to Wakamatsu. It’s a mistake, Kise realizes, as soon as he sees Aomine there behind their center. Aomine knows Wakamatsu, but Kise knows Aomine; he’s in position and ready to defend before the ball even touches Aomine’s hands.

“Where do you think you’re going? That’s my ball you’ve got there,” Kise taunts. He doesn’t let his gaze stray from Aomine, but he sees Himuro gesture out of the corner of his eye, and he knows what he has to do.

Aomine comes to a stop in front of him, relaxes the beat of his dribbling. “What are you going to do about it?” 

Kise smiles. Aomine goes for the shot; Kise’s right there by his side, hand reaching for the sky. In the moment before the ball leaves Aomine’s hands, Kise squints. There, high up against the blinding lights, he sees it—the vertigo glare, the golden shot, the numbers on the scoreboard, flashing red. In front of it all, Aomine’s wicked smile and midnight eyes, set ablaze. Inevitable as the sound of the buzzer, the roar of the crowd, the love that brims in the well of his heart, threatening to overflow. For the game, and for Aomine, who is more than just a man but is still here anyway.

And finally, it’s enough. Kise reaches for it. It’s right at his fingertips.