Chapter Text
“Tetsu?” Aomine called, kicking off his shoes. “You here? Your door was unlocked.”
“In here,” came the muffled reply, and Aomine wandered through the dark rooms of Kuroko’s apartment, curious and a little wary. He’d never been here before—they always hung out at his place—and if Kuroko’s text hadn’t been so mysterious (just ‘come over’ and then an address) he probably would have spent a minute snooping around. He wasn’t entirely convinced Kuroko wasn’t a ghost, or some kind of, of alien, with powers that vanished him when he chose and made him—weirdly captivating when he didn’t.
He was curled up in the center of his futon in the dark, and Aomine lingered in the doorway, frowning at him. “Are you okay?”
The only sound was cloth against cloth as Kuroko shifted. He didn’t look at Aomine, or sit up, just flung out a hand in what could have been a beckoning gesture.
Aomine crossed to him, settling as gently as he could on the futon at his side.
“S’my head,” Kuroko said, barely above a whisper. “Migraine, this—happens, sometimes.”
His eyes were closed tight enough to whiten the skin around them. His lashes—darkened, usually, with tricks he got from Kise—were the pale, delicate blue of his hair. Aomine had no idea what to do with his hands.
“This is why you skipped practice?”
Kuroko nodded, and then winced, and then laughed, softly, at himself. “Yeah,” he said. “Too bright.”
Aomine frowned at him. “The gym? It’s no brighter than the rest of school—“
“Not the gym,” Kuroko said, and his lips curled up at the edges. “You.”
Aomine stared at him. “Wh-what do you mean?”
Kuroko’s eyes were still closed, and without them for clues to his expression Aomine found he couldn’t stop watching his mouth—the swell of his lower lip where he’d been biting it, maybe, against the pain; the slow spread of his widening smile before he answered. “Such a shame,” he murmured, “that you’ll never be able to see yourself play. It’s beautiful, Aomine-kun. You burn so bright.”
Aomine swallowed. “O-of course I’ll be able to see myself,” he said, “I’m gonna be the best basketball player in Japan, they’ll never stop showing my games on TV.”
Kuroko reached for him, blindly—touched his knee, his shoulder, before he found his wrist. “Not the same,” he said. He lifted Aomine’s hand and placed it against the bridge of his nose; understanding, Aomine cupped his palm, folding his fingers over his eyes so no light could get in.
Like this, it was even harder to focus on anything but his mouth, see anything but the way his lips parted in relief. He let out a tiny, pleased sigh, and Aomine swallowed hard.
They stayed still, listening to Aomine’s heartbeat—because Kuroko must be able to hear it, slamming away, ricocheting off the walls in the silence, must be able to feel it pulsing in Aomine’s fingertips where they rested lightly on his skin—until Aomine cleared his throat. “Tetsu, do—do you need anything?” he asked, feeling awkward, feeling—not good enough for whatever this was, whatever Kuroko was trusting him with. “Water, or.”
“Nn,” Kuroko said, more a sigh then a word. “It just has to pass.”
“S-so,” said Aomine, “why’d you text me?”
It sounded—ungrateful, like he didn’t want to be here, and Aomine winced at himself, trying to figure out how to soften it, convey some of the—confusing shit he was feeling, about as far away from not wanting to be here as possible. He resettled his hand over Kuroko’s eyes and slid his thumb along his cheekbone, gentle, daring.
Kuroko was silent for a long moment, and then he said, “I didn’t go to practice, but I still wanted to see you.”
Aomine licked his lips, and—in unconscious echo—Kuroko did, too, a quick flicker of tongue. It drew Aomine in and down—the angle was so weird, did he cup his jaw, or. And. He’d, he’d never kissed anyone but Momoi, but, god, he wanted—
“Aomine-kun?” Kuroko asked, thready, nervous, his breath against Aomine’s mouth, and Aomine jolted back too quickly, his hand slipping off Kuroko’s eyes a little. Kuroko made a tiny noise of protest and Aomine gave it up as a bad job altogether, taking his hand away and folding it under his leg and wondering if he’d ever quite forget the heat of Kuroko’s skin, the flutter of his lashes against his palm.
“I,” he said. “I’m glad. That you did. Do.” Fuck, what the hell did he say?
He should have kissed him. He should have—but the moment, somehow, had passed, even though nothing had really changed. Kuroko sighed and curled towards him, pulling a pillow down over his head. “Stupid,” he said softly.
“Yeah,” said Aomine fervently.
“Not you,” said Kuroko, “me.” He swallowed—Aomine saw the bob of his throat. “You don’t have to stay.”
“No, I will!” Aomine snapped, too-loud, and then wanted to punch himself in the face. “I—I want to. Please.”
Kuroko uncurled, just a little—a tiny relaxation of his shoulders—and slid his hand so the backs of his knuckles pressed against Aomine’s knee. “Thanks,” he said.
Aomine nodded, and then rolled his eyes at himself and said, “Yeah.”
He waited, unmoving. After a minute he let his hand rest on his knee, too, his fingertips just brushing the back of Kuroko’s hand.
Eventually Kuroko’s breathing deepened. He stretched further out, his grip on the pillow over his head loosening. Aomine hesitated before lifting it carefully off him, worried that he wouldn’t be able to breathe.
Kuroko’s face was relaxed—his mouth gone slack, the pain line between his eyebrows easing. His hair was damp with sweat the way it was after practice, a little wild around his ears like he’d been tossing and turning. Aomine took a long, silent breath and then smoothed it down. “I’ve never,” Aomine started, and then stopped when Kuroko shifted, turning, a little, toward his hand.
When his heartbeat had slowed again Aomine continued, softer, “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, but. I wanted to see you, too.” He ran the backs of his knuckles down Kuroko’s jaw. “Always do. You gotta—you gotta know that.”
Kuroko breathed in, breathed out, and Aomine stared at the dark.
+
He lay on his back on the roof of Teiko, staring at the sky. “Oi,” he said, “How do you ask someone out?”
Momoi peered down at him, raising her eyebrows. “Maybe not the best person to ask, Dai-chan,” she said mildly.
Aomine sat up as she settled next to him, handing him a drink. “Sure,” he said, “but like—you must know the theory.”
“About as well as you do,” she said tartly. “Ask Kise.”
Aomine shook his head. “I would,” he said slowly, “if I wanted to know how to ask out girls.”
Momoi cocked her head at him. “Deeply ironic, but totally fair.” She watched him for another minute, and then said, “So this is about Kuroko.”
Aomine looked away.
“You could always make him chocolates,” Momoi suggested wickedly. There was something a little weird about her tone, though, and when he glanced at her she wouldn’t quite meet his eyes.
Aomine blinked at her. “Satsuki.”
She brushed her hair behind her ear and gave him a sideways, shifty sort of look, her lip trapped between her teeth.
He poked her in the knee. “You jealous?” The thought was a surprisingly nice one, and he smirked at her.
She rolled her eyes at him. “Not the way you think.” She turned her face upward, closing her eyes against the sun. “I’m jealous of you wanting to date someone. It’s—it’s not gonna happen for me,” she said, “and I was starting to think maybe it wouldn’t happen for you, either, that we could just—keep on like we are.”
He frowned at her. “We can,” he said, knocking their shoulders together.
She took a breath and looked at him. “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe. If Tetsu-chan’s okay with it.” She made a face. “Not sure I like being conditional.”
Aomine scowled harder. “You’re not,” he insisted. “Hell, Satsuki, we don’t even know if he’ll say yes.”
She laughed at him, then, breathless and sad, and he pulled her hard against his side.
+
He decided the best plan was just to be straightforward and direct, met his own eyes in the mirror and repeated hey, you want to go out sometime over and over like every romance movie cliché.
The problem was that Kuroko was never fucking alone. The rest of the Miracles hovered around their sixth man like he was a goddamn mother hen.
Kise was the biggest offender—which made sense; Kuroko was supposed to be his trainer and Kise was so deep in puppy-love with him it made Aomine want to kick him in the head.
Kise was—fucking impressive, mostly. He had the craziest learning curve Aomine had ever seen outside of himself—it was maybe even better than his own, because Kise could actually make Aomine sweat and he’d never even touched a basketball before he came to Teiko. If he’d had Aomine’s raw talent, he might someday surpass him, but his talent lay in copying, not blazing any kind of new trail.
He was also extremely dedicated, extremely annoying, and extremely hot. It was a combination that drove Aomine nuts, because he was always all of those things but he was also all of those things by turns, like he was stepping into a role for the day, and no one could figure out how to get him to switch. On his dedicated days Aomine had nothing but respect and friendship for him—those were the days they could truly match up, the days where—yes, Aomine won, but at least he had to fight for it. On his annoying days he just wanted Kise to go away—stop touching, stop flirting, stop preening and smiling for cameras only he could see. And on his hot days—
On his hot days he was confident as hell, and Aomine didn’t really want him to stop touching and flirting at all.
Today was definitely one of his annoying days, though, and Aomine knew Kuroko knew it, too—saw him try and slip out from under Kise’s arm several times, with varying degrees of success. When Kise lingered with them after practice, Aomine caught the back of his jersey and tugged him away from Kuroko for a minute. “Oi,” he said.
Kise blinked innocently at him. “Aominecchi?”
Aomine scowled at him. “Lay off, will you?”
Kise licked his lips. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Aomine sighed. “I’m serious,” he said, and he saw something in his tone get through to Kise, because his stance shifted a little. “Tetsu won’t tell you to fuck off himself, so. Give him a little space, yeah?”
Kise narrowed his eyes at him. “Same goes for you,” he pointed out.
Aomine almost said, no, it doesn’t, because he wants me here, but it was a little cruel. He just waited, staring, until Kise shifted, until he ran a hand through his hair and sighed, “fine,” until he’d slouched away, pouting, and left the two of them alone.
“Thanks,” said Kuroko from his side, and Aomine jumped and cursed, pressing a fist to his heart. Kuroko grinned at him, delighted with himself, and all of Aomine’s nerves slammed back into his chest. He nodded, feeling his cheeks heat, and ducked Kuroko’s gaze when he looked at him curiously.
“Aomine-kun,” Kuroko said, at the same time that Aomine said, “Tetsu.”
Kuroko crinkled his eyes at him and passed him the basketball he’d been spinning between his hands. “You go.”
Aomine caught the ball. “Okay, um,” he said. “I’ve—been meaning to ask you something.”
He dribbled the ball between his legs, easy, practiced, as Kuroko watched him, stretching. He was already so much more toned than when Aomine had first met him, lean muscle shifting under his skin, but still so small, so graceful. “Oh?” he asked.
Aomine licked his lips. “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe I’m, like. Totally reading the situation wrong, or whatever, but.” He swallowed, and lobbed the ball mostly at random toward the net, all of his attention focused on the boy at his side. “Would you want to go out sometime? Like. On a date.”
The basketball ricocheted off the rim of the hoop. Kuroko blinked at Aomine as it hit the floor. “You missed,” he said, almost absently, though he was drifting closer.
Aomine scowled at him. “I was distracted. Obviously!”
Kuroko shook his head, but there was a happiness in his eyes that Aomine had never seen. “A real ace should make the shot no matter what,” he said, teasing and serious at once, shades of Akashi in his voice. The basketball rolled to his feet, and he picked it up. Close enough, now, he handed it to Aomine. “Try again.”
“Tetsu,” Aomine complained, confused and nervous and annoyed, “you didn’t answer—“
“Try again,” Kuroko repeated, a little shaky, a little commanding, and Aomine took a breath, managed to tear his eyes away from his face enough to take his stance. He raised his hands, let himself sink, a little, into that space where thinking and feeling merged into one atemporal instinct, let his hands tilt with the weight of the ball, and at the very moment he sent the ball into the air there were fingers at the nape of his neck, tugging him down, and Kuroko was kissing him.
There was a split second where Aomine had absolutely no idea what to do, and then he wrapped his arms around Kuroko and dragged him closer, turned the teasing, hopeful press of their mouths into the kind of kiss he’d been practicing with Momoi, the kiss that he’d specifically meant for this moment, only—he always thought he’d initiate, and there’d be a, a date, first, and—damn it, he’d been trying to do this properly.
“Yes,” Kuroko said breathlessly against his mouth, and it was a yes to a date but it felt—it felt also like a yes to them in general, to this easy, laughing, perfect kiss, to the way they fit together. A yes to Aomine himself. Kuroko had looked at him—had seen him as he was, as he was becoming, and. “Yes,” he said again, pulling back a little to smile at him. “I want that very much.”
Aomine tried to smirk, but his lips were trembling. “Good,” he said instead, and then realized he had no idea where to go from here. “I—when? And, like, how—dinner, or—“
Kuroko stepped back from him, his hand sliding down Aomine’s arm until he could tangle their fingers together. “Walk me home,” he said. “Let’s start there.”
Aomine nodded, grinning helplessly, and followed him into the locker room. “Did I make the shot?”
Kuroko turned to look at him, sidelong. “I don’t know,” he said, his lips curling in a half-smile. “I was distracted. Obviously.”
Aomine crowded him into the corner and kissed him again, Kuroko’s hands toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. “Aomine-kun,” Kuroko breathed in his ear, and—and he never dropped the suffix, even when Aomine started called him Tetsu, even now, even teasing and longing and fond. It was endearing as hell and a little intimidating both, a mark of respect that Aomine swore to himself—his hands wandering up under Kuroko’s jersey—he would always earn.
“I’m just helping you change,” he murmured. He waited for Kuroko to laugh and nod against his shoulder before he continued. They’d already fucked up his plan to move slow and—he probably wouldn’t have been able to stick to it anyway, honestly. There was a weird displaced moment where he skimmed his knuckles up Kuroko’s stomach, subconsciously expecting to encounter the heavy curve of breasts only to find more soft skin and hard muscle. He thumbed over Kuroko’s nipple anyway, experimental, and Kuroko didn’t laugh or push him off but he also didn’t shiver the way Momoi did, just twitched a little and stepped back so Aomine could tug his jersey up over his head. Aomine dropped it to one side before doing the same to his own.
It was new and not new at all, to be standing half-naked in the locker room with this boy, this boy that had snuck up and under Aomine’s skin and directly into his heart without ever passing his brain. This boy that made Aomine want to give up everything he’d ever thought was important to him. This boy who in some strange certain way mattered more than anyone Aomine had ever known.
“Aomine-kun,” said Kuroko, and stepped up to him, sliding his hands up Aomine’s sides. His fingers danced along Aomine’s ribs and over the planes of his back, pulling him close so they were pressed skin to skin, heart to beating heart. “I’m very happy,” he said in Aomine’s ear, and Aomine wrapped his arms around him and held him tight.
+
He’d kind of been assuming that he would—lead, in terms of sex with Kuroko. As much as he’d been assuming anything at all about sex with Kuroko. He knew he was a virgin and he’d sort of been—imagining teaching him, opening his eyes to the wonders of his own body or some shit.
And it’s not that he didn’t. Kuroko was unsure, at first, was inexperienced. But he was also smart, and he seemed to somehow—sense what Aomine liked before Aomine even knew he liked it. Aomine was half convinced he was using his misdirection during sex because everything he did was so fucking—surprising, so new and unexpected and awesome. He’d be so distracted by Kuroko’s lips at his throat that when Kuroko’s fingers wrapped around him he’d gasp and shiver as much out of shock as arousal, and then Kuroko would smirk against his skin and all Aomine could do was hold on, was—trust. It was disorienting and overwhelming and incredibly, impossibly freeing.
“Aomine-kun,” Kuroko said one day, naked and face to face with him in Aomine’s bed, his hair mussed, his cheeks flushed. He trailed a hand down Aomine’s side, drawing circles over his hip, the curve of his ass. “I think I’d like to fuck you.”
Aomine swallowed, his mind going a little blank. “Uh,” he said.
Kuroko smiled at him, eyes warm. He ran his nails forward along the crease at the top of Aomie’s thigh, brushed his knuckles lightly along Aomine’s dick. “Would you like that?”
The thing is—Aomine didn’t think he would, if Kuroko were anyone else. Sex was too much like being on the court, and he never wanted anyone else to be controlling the flow of the game. But—that was what Kuroko was for, and it was the natural extension of the way they had sex anyway. He had nothing to prove.
And—he knew Momoi enjoyed it, knew how much pleasure it gave her, and there was a part of him that was deeply, intensely curious.
He nodded, licking his lips, and Kuroko made a pleased noise and squirmed closer to kiss him before sliding away and onto his feet. Aomine raised his eyebrows at him and Kuroko went red. “Condoms,” he asked, his voice a little laughing.
Aomine licked his lips again, running his eyes over Kuroko’s body. “Top drawer,” he said, and then raised his eyebrows, trying to look confidant and not—too scared, or too eager, or. “Lube, too.”
Kuroko ran a hand through his hair, embarrassed, and crossed to Aomine’s dresser. Aomine flopped over onto his back to watch him. He didn’t want to bring it up but he—didn’t want to not have worked it out, more. “Does it bother you?” he asked. “Satsuki and me.”
Kuroko paused, not looking at him, and then slid the drawer open. “I’m jealous,” he admitted, and Aomine’s heart sank. He sat up a little as Kuroko crossed back to him, supplies in hand. He perched at the end of the bed and raised his eyes to Aomine’s. “I’m jealous that she got to make you feel these things first,” he clarified, and then smiled, small and determined. “But it just makes me want to make you feel them better.”
He slid up between Aomine’s legs, and Aomine sighed all his relief against his throat. Kuroko kissed him mercilessly, sucking at his tongue, nipping at his lips, centering Aomine’s whole attention on the amazing wet cleverness of his mouth so that when his slick fingers slid back behind Aomine’s balls Aomine was taken too off-guard to tense up.
“Oh,” said Aomine, disgruntled, because it mostly felt—weird, not good or bad, maybe a little uncomfortable, and Kuroko let out a little sigh through his nose and wriggled back down Aomine’s body. He pressed kisses to his ribs, to his hips, flickered the tip of his tongue against the tip of Aomine’s dick, and Aomine arched, gasping, and Kuroko worked his finger in deeper. He kept up a strange, awkward kind of rhythm, almost-but-never-quite-enough of his mouth on Aomine’s dick, almost-but-never-quite-enough friction, and Aomine fisted his hands in the sheets and snapped, “A-another—“ and the Kuroko was working him open, pressing open-mouthed kisses down his dick, fingers twisting, breath hot against Aomine’s shivering skin, and then his tongue was sliding in beside his fingers, his other hand wrapped around Aomine’s dick and Aomine was—gone.
When he pried open his eyes Kuroko was sitting up between his knees, looking extremely pleased with himself. “Good?” he asked, smug.
“Shut up,” said Aomine, his lips twisting, and reached out to pull him close.
“Your lube tastes terrible,” Kuroko said against his jaw.
“Sorry, your highness,” Aomine muttered back, carding his fingers through Kuroko’s hair. “It’s cherry, Satsuki likes it.”
Kuroko shook his head. “Vanilla, for me,” he mumbled, and yawned.
Aomine’s whole body was warm, was light, was trembling. “Noted,” he murmured, and only Kuroko would know that came out so goddamn fond.
+
It was a weird, living with the knowledge that he was just honestly better than the rest of his team.
Every team had someone like him, he’d figured at the beginning. That’s what an ace was—someone who was good at everything. Better than everyone else at everything. Someone who carried the team to victory.
Only—looking around, most teams didn’t. They had aces, sure, who were powerful, who could play any position. But often their power came from their versatility, and there would be other people on their team who would be better at their individual skill.
Like the Miracles had been at first, before Aomine had learned to—do whatever he could do, turn off his mind completely, sink wholly into his body to the point where thought became movement before it was thought at all.
“It’s called the Zone,” Momoi told him one day over lunch. “It just means you’re reaching your potential before they are, that’s all.”
It sounded simple, when she said it. Just a thing he could do, not what it made him into. Not what it made others think of him. None of the stares, the resentment, the muttered comments behind his back from teammates who had styled themselves his equals, his peers.
He was learning—slowly, maddeningly—that he had no peers at all.
Kise was usually a welcome respite from their snide comments. He was arrogant enough to still count himself as on Aomine’s level, for one thing, which—even though he wasn’t—was still somehow a relief. But Kise was acting off for other reasons, ever since Aomine had sent him away, ever since he’d asked Kuroko out.
Which. Aomine just wanted to shake him, tell him to get over it, go back to being dedicated and obnoxious and hot and not. Sad.
“I would talk to him about it,” he complained, “but what the fuck would I say? I know you have a giant crush on my boyfriend but he’s dating me, so get over it and go back to being my friend?”
Momoi wrinkled her nose at him. She was perched on the end of his bed, tugging on her shoes. “Yeah, I don’t think that’d go over well.”
Aomine sighed. “It sucks,” he said shortly. “It all fucking sucks.”
Momoi rolled her eyes. “Stop being a baby, Dai-chan. Just hang out with him.”
Aomine glared at her. “Fine,” he snapped, and tried.
He did try, but it was always weird—everything would be fine, they’d be getting along well, Kise would be giving him the same sidelong looks he always did, flirting with him the same way he always did, comfortable and real, and then—something would switch off, and he’d retreat behind his eyes, fading away from Aomine like he suddenly didn’t know him at all.
And then one night, after he’d left Aomine’s apartment on some flimsy homework excuse, he texted Aomine a picture.
It was himself, shirtless, his cheeks suspiciously flushed. His eyes were dark behind lowered lashes. He was lying down on a bed, his golden hair spread across the pillow, his lips red and parted. One hand was trailing up his chest to his throat, and Aomine swallowed hard. The text accompanying it said thinking of u.
The text was followed up almost immediately by three more. Aomine glanced at them—OH MY GOD, aomenicchi i’m so sorry that wasn’t for you—and the stab of jealousy he felt at that—who the fuck was it for?—still wasn’t enough to stop his mind from slipping sideways into a reality where it was, where Kise and him had a relationship not unlike his and Momoi’s, where Kise trailed his long fingers up his throat, bit his lips bloody, blinked slow and dark-eyed and seductive for him.
Fuck. He closed his text conversation with Kuroko to slip a hand into his shorts.
He was—admittedly used to thinking about Kise this way. Fantasizing about Kuroko before they were actually dating had always felt kind of improper, but Kise was so—overtly sexual, was so up front with his body, that Aomine felt entirely justified jacking off to him upon occasion. There was even a published photoshoot he could use, if he wanted, but this—this was so much better, this was directed, and he couldn’t stop thinking about Kise following this text up with others, with an artful photo of his abs, his hipbones, those long fingers wrapping around his dick.
Kise’s last text said fuck oh my god, and Aomine was inclined to agree.
When he’d cleaned himself up he texted back fucking hell kise and then you’re an idiot and then who the hell are you trying to send this shit to, because what the fuck, what the fuck.
i have many fans, aominecchi ;)
Stupid goddamn winky face. Aomine shook his head and ran a hand over his face.
The next day Kise was in hot-mode more completely than Aomine had maybe ever seen him, and he was absolutely playing it up. Every time Aomine talked to him about anything Kise would deliberately flick his eyes to his mouth, would make sure to tilt his head so the light hit the long, pale stretch of his throat. Aomine started feeling like maybe it hadn’t been a mistake at all, but a deliberate move—like maybe Kise really actually wanted him, like maybe he could have what he had with Momoi.
He finally cornered Kise in the locker room, and the asshole let him, lingering, teasing him with flashes of his ass and his abs.
Aomine stepped up behind him. “You’re doing this on purpose,” he murmured, rather than shouting it like he wanted to. Two could play at this fucking game.
Kise turned, his eyes widening in mock surprise. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Aomine stepped up into his space and saw Kise swallow, saw him step back, his back hitting the lockers, more responsive than Aomine had expected. “Don’t bullshit me,” Aomine breathed, ducking closer. “You’re a fucking tease and you know it.”
Kise tucked his hands in his pockets in an effort to seem casual, tilted his jaw, challenging. “So,” he said. “You gonna do anything about it?”
Aomine leaned in to brush his lips against the skin under Kise’s ear, his heart pounding, his blood up. “You’d like that, huh?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
Kise jaw tightened further and he was breathing shallowly, like he was trying to keep himself quiet, and, feeling bolder, Aomine took the lobe of his ear between his teeth. He tugged at it, once, and slid his hands under Kise’s jersey to flick his nails over his abs.
Kise gasped, his stomach muscles jumping against Aomine’s palms, and. That was hot as fuck, honestly. Aomine laughed, a little, feeling good, feeling great. “Think how jealous we’ll make Tetsu,” he breathed, because Kuroko jealous of Momoi was incredible in bed. Kuroko jealous of Kise—his trainee, his rival—would be even better.
Kise slid right out from under his hands and into the center of the room, stumbling a little. “Sorry,” he said, his voice weird and loud.
Aomine blinked, surprised, to stare at his hunched back. “Oi,” he said, “it was just a joke, he won’t care—“
Kise turned but still didn’t look at him. “I don’t think that’s true,” he said slowly.
Aomine shrugged, because yeah, it wasn’t, but it also wasn’t a problem that it wasn’t. “Why not?” he asked. “He doesn’t care about me and Momoi.”
Kise twitched like he’d been struck, and Aomine frowned even harder at him.
“It’s different,” he said.
“Why?” Aomine demanded. “Because she’s a girl? Don’t be ridiculous.”
Kise stared hard at the floor for a long moment, and Aomine shifted on his feet, trying desperately to read his face. He looked, he looked furious, and hurt, and then he made a visible effort to smooth all that away, looked up at Aomine with a blank sort of smile. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have gone so far with it, I was just having some fun.”
Aomine licked his lips. “Kise,” he started, but Kise shook his head as if it was nothing.
“I’m gonna go,” he said shortly. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Aominecchi.” His empty smile got a little more real, and he winked at Aomine. “Or perhaps in your dreams.”
Aomine stared after him, confused and turned on and pissed off, and then he packed up his stuff and went to see Momoi.
“Satsukiiii,” he called, rolling his head against her front door. “Let me innnn.”
She opened the door to raise her eyebrows at him. “What’s the matter with you?”
He stepped in past her and dropped his bag on the floor. “Kise’s giving me blue balls, that’s what’s the matter,” he complained.
“No one who has sex as often as you ever needs to worry about blue balls, Dai-chan,” Momoi responded, crossing her arms.
He stepped up to her, running his fingers up her biceps to her jaw, leaned in to kiss her under the ear, right where he’d—right where he’d had Kise, only a train ride before. He blew out a frustrated breath against her skin. “He basically seduced me all day, and then he just left!”
Momoi ran her nails over the nape of his neck. “Why are you here?”
Aomine scowled and bit her on the earlobe. “I just said why.”
“Yeah, but why are you here?” Momoi asked, tilting her head to allow him access. “I’m not your only option anymore, and if you want to work our your frustration with Kise surely Kuroko’s a closer match.”
“Hell no,” said Aomine. He pulled back to glare at her, offended. “I’m not gonna have sex with Tetsu while thinking about anyone but Tetsu, Satsuki, come on.” He’s honestly not sure he could.
“Okay, okay, sorry.” She smirked at him. “But you figured I wouldn’t care, so long as I got fucked, huh?”
Aomine smirked back, skimming his hands up her sides under her shirt. “Was I wrong?”
“Mmh.” She leaned into him as he undid the clasps of her bra and ran his nails over the lines it left on her back. “Not at all.” She shivered, half natural, half calculated, her breath ghosting over his jaw, and he felt—pulled in two directions, because he was still humming with frustration, could still feel the twitch of Kise’s muscles against his palms, could hear the little hitch and hiss of his breath, but Momoi was soft and urgent and he always—wanted to appreciate her body for what it was, for what she was, take his time with her.
She kissed him, her hand curling hard around the back of his neck, her tongue slipping insistently between his lips. Her other hand slipped down to palm him through his jeans and he thought, fuck it, let’s go.
He shoved forward until her back hit the wall and she gasped into his mouth. Aomine closed his eyes, saw Kise against the lockers again, his eyes wide and wanting. He bit down hard on Momoi’s lip and she made a little whining noise, grabbing his ass with both hands and rocking against him. He kept his mouth on the place he’d bitten, gentling it, her flesh swelling a little against his tongue, and then broke off, pulling back to press a hard kiss against her temple. She was breathing hard, tilting her head up so she could nip at his earlobe as she continued to roll her hips against his. “Fuck me,” she breathed, pitching her voice lower in what was a really startlingly good impression of Kise’s cadence. “Fuck me, Aominecchi.”
He swallowed down what was definitely not a moan, fuck you. “Y-you bitch,” he growled, but it came out needy and desperately fond, and she laughed as he slid both hands under her ass and picked her up. He careened a little blindly off walls on the way to the bedroom but he knew this place like the back of his hand and soon he was dropping her onto her bed and peeling himself out of his jeans as she did the same with her shirt, and.
And even with her impression of Kise’s voice in his ears, even with the memory of him fucking displaying himself for Aomine’s gaze, he had to take a minute and just look at her, drink her in.
She leaned back on her hands, shaking her hair loose. She’d started dying it pink the year before—“no one ever believes I’m the manager for you freaks of nature if I have normal hair”—around the same time as they started working out what sex even meant, and the curl and rush of heat in his stomach was inextricable from the feeling of its soft strands against his palms, the startling brilliance of it against his skin, until—until recently, until Kuroko.
The line of it drew his eye down over the curve of her shoulder, across the curl of her collarbone to her breasts, the tips of her hair just beginning to brush her perfect, paler-pink nipples, and he swallowed and palmed himself through his boxers. She chuckled at him, low and knowing, and tucked her hair behind her ear, looking up at him through her lashes. “You want my mouth?” She asked, casual. “Easier to pretend, that way.”
Aomine let his eyes slip closed, let himself imagine the scene in the locker room going a different direction, let himself imagine Kise slipping to his knees. “Shit,” he said, and then there were fingers curling around his wrist, tugging his hand away from his erection, and warm pressure in its place, wet even through the cloth.
Fuck, he hadn’t even heard her move, and he started to open his eyes but she pulled away and said, “no, no. Don’t ruin the fantasy, idiot,” and he slammed them closed again. He still—he still knew her mouth, though, and the jumble of images against his eyelids paired with the knowing, almost smiling way she teased him was playing hell with his head.
He wanted—he wanted to believe this is how it would be with Kise, that the little curl of a smile he felt on her lips would be on his, too, that he’d understand that this, this was just like basketball, they could play off each other and rise to each other and challenge each other. He wanted to believe that someday Kise would know what he liked like Momoi did, would know to tug his boxers down slow and dig his teeth into the line of Aomine’s hipbone, would know to wrap a hand around the base of him when he was too worked up because he loved blowjobs but he loved sex more, loved—showing off, loved giving pleasure while he was getting it, driving someone to their peak even as he reached his.
But also—part of him loved that it was Momoi who knew these things, who had figured these things out with him, loved being here with her, and when she wrapped her lips around him and sucked him down it was her name, not Kise’s, that slipped broken from his mouth.
She pulled off him, lingeringly, and sighed. “Aominecchi,” she chided, still in Kise’s cadence, “it’s no fun if you don’t play along.”
He opened his eyes, looking down at her. She had one long-fingered hand wrapped around him, sitting back on her heels, her eyes dark. Her other hand traced down over the pale perfect skin of her throat and chest to toy absently with a nipple, her lips parting, deliberate and slick with spit.
He slipped a hand under her chin and drew her up, kissing her hard. “S’your own damn fault,” he growled against her. “Nobody’s got a mouth like you.”
She gave a self-satisfied hum at the compliment, her hand still on his cock, and he walked her back to the bed, tasting himself in her mouth. He’d been convinced for a week after learning that some people could give themselves blowjobs that he was gonna be among that number; he was probably awesome at blowjobs and he knew what he liked and he was a fucking athlete, if he told his body to do something it did it.
He’d nearly sprained his back trying, and Satsuki had convinced him that maybe no one could blow him like he could blow himself but she was damn willing to try. And it especially wasn’t fucking worth it to hurt himself over, fucking hell, Dai-chan.
But. Even so, he knew his own taste, and there was something heady and amazing about tasting it on her tongue.
She drew him down onto the bed and he kissed his way down her body, pausing to remind her just how much he loved her tits, and when he pulled the jeans off her long, sleek legs she was already squirming and flushed.
“You getting’ off on thinking about me and Kise?” he asked against her hipbone, his fingers tapping teasingly against the dampness of her underwear.
She slid her nails into his hair and he bit her to keep from shivering as he tugged the underwear down, too. “W-well, he is hot as hell,” she countered, “and it’s not like I can realistically fantasize about him and me—“
“Remind me to show you the picture he sent me,” Aomine said, and licked into her.
After—when he’d fucked her hard enough to jolt her out of her part of the fantasy, too, when her teasing Aominecchi’s turned into breathless Dai-chan’s the way they should be, it wasn’t fucking right for her to be able to keep up the lie if he couldn’t—he did show her, flipping open his phone to the text conversation that had started this whole damn mess.
“Wow,” she breathed, lifting her head from his chest to see better. “He sent you this out of the blue?”
“Yeah,” Aomine grumbled. “Claimed it was a mistake, but then showed off for me all day, and then when I actually confronted him about it he freaked out.”
Momoi raised her eyebrows at him. “What exactly happened?”
Aomine shrugged. “Dunno,” he said shortly, and when she continued to stare he admitted, “I—might have mentioned making Tetsu jealous.”
Momoi rolled her eyes. “Dai-chan.”
“What?” Aomine snapped. “I told him it wasn’t any different from fucking you.”
Momoi ran her hands through her hair, shaking it out over her shoulders. “I imagine he didn’t agree.”
Aomine scowled. “No,” he said, “and I don’t know why. I know he’s like. In love with Tetsu or whatever, but.”
Momoi looked amused. “Kuroko does seem to attract that.” She looked thoughtful. “I think if I could be in love I’d be in love with someone like him, too.”
“Hey,” Aomine objected.
She cocked her head at him. “What?”
“I’m right here,” he pointed out.
She stared at him. “Oh,” she said, and then she laughed. “Oh, Dai-chan, never. I know you too well.”
Aomine shifted, feeling weirdly hurt. “You sayin’ no one who knows me could love me?” He frowned. “You sayin’ Tetsu doesn’t know me?”
Momoi shook her head. “He does,” she said slowly, “but the you he knows is a different one.” She leaned in to kiss him, quick and fond. “I don’t think anyone knows that you but him,” she said, and then pulled away. “It’s late, time to go.”
Aomine got up, ignoring the soreness in his thighs. “Fine,” he said, “but I still don’t understand why Kise thinks it’s so fucking different.”
Momoi shrugged, turning away to fix her sheets. “I don’t know, really,” she said. “But if he insisted, don’t push him. It’ll only go badly for both of you.”
Aomine pulled on his clothes. “It makes no fuckin’ sense,” he muttered.
“Go home, Dai-chan,” Momoi said firmly, so he did.
+
Things were weird with Kise for a few weeks but he didn’t know how to bring it up and Kise seemed dead set against bringing it up himself so he just—ignored it, and after a while he stopped feeling weird anymore.
Mostly because he started feeling weird about basically everything else.
It wasn’t that he stopped having fun playing basketball. Games were fun. Games were fun because he won games, he and Kuroko won games, and usually there was at least a part of the first quarter—before the opposing team realized who they were up against—where they actually tried to put up a fight. But practice did absolutely nothing for him anymore. What was the point of going, if he wasn’t going to get anything out of it? It wasn’t like any of his teammates actually challenged him anymore.
Even Kise, though he came closer than anyone else. (Akashi didn’t count, because Akashi never condescended to shit like one-on-one matches with his teammates, and Aomine was not crazy enough, yet, to test him.)
So he—maybe started to skip more than he should, to nap or eat or wander the city alone. Maybe he started seeking out random games of streetball in the desperate hope he’d find some hidden gem somewhere, someone who would actually match up against him and make him work for it.
He came home from wiping the floor with a group of high schoolers to find Kuroko outside his door, frowning at him.
“Tetsu,” he said, surprised, and stepped up to him.
Kuroko stared him down. “Are you avoiding me, Aomine-kun?”
Aomine blinked at him. “Of course not,” he said, and reached out to cup Kuroko’s jaw. “Why would I—“
Kuroko shrugged off his touch. “You haven’t been coming to practice.”
“So?” Aomine demanded. “We can hang out other times, you’re here now, aren’t you—“
“I’m not staying,” Kuroko said coldly, and Aomine tightened his jaw. Kuroko sighed, his expression softening just a little. “It’s really inconsiderate, you know,” he said.
Aomine frowned at him. “Why?” he asked. “It’s not like I need it, I still hold up my end in games.” He snorted. “More than, I win them for us.”
Kuroko pressed his lips into a thin line. “Basketball’s not about winning on your own,” he said firmly. “You could be working with us, making the rest of us better—“
“Why?” Aomine demanded again, feeling restless and pissed. “They’re all fucking prodigies in their own right, they don’t need me any more than I need them.”
Kuroko stared at him for a long time. Aomine tried to read the expression in his eyes; didn’t like what he found there. Anger, and sorrow, and hurt, and none of it made any sense. “I’m not a prodigy,” Kuroko said, finally. “And I can’t practice properly without you there.”
Aomine sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll go this week.” He smirked and leaned down, raising two fingers to lift Kuroko’s jaw. “Anything for you,” he said softly, only a little bit mocking. “Tetsu—“
Kuroko ghosted away from his kiss. “Good,” he said, and walked away.
Aomine watched him go, all nervous angry energy and nothing at his core.
He did start going to practice again and for a while it was better—catching Kuroko’s passes felt as amazing as always, and if he treated practice as an excuse to just hang out with him and do what they did best he could forget the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach every time someone failed to block his shots. He could grin at his victories anyway and pull Kuroko against his side and take him home, after, lose himself in the taste of his skin.
And then—passing to him at all became a chore. He didn’t have to. Every time he had the ball he knew exactly how to get it into the net, knew that there was no way anyone could stop him, so he started including Kuroko in his plays just for the thrill of playing with him. But it was work and it was risk and he started feeling less and less like it was worth it, like anything at all was worth it.
He never figured out if he was pulling away from Kuroko or if Kuroko was pulling away from him, but his Aomine-kun’s started feeling formal and distancing rather than sweet and endearing. He still kissed Aomine back hard, still teased and tugged at him, like he was trying to draw out something that was buried deep in Aomine’s chest, and Aomine—Aomine wanted so, so badly for him to succeed.
“Tetsu,” he said to the dark one night. Kuroko was curled into his chest in a tight, protective ball, and Aomine carded his hand through his hair. “Hey, Tetsu.”
Kuroko stirred, pulling back a little to look up at him. He blinked sleepily. “Aomine-kun?” he asked, his mouth moving softly over his name, and Aomine couldn’t breathe right, couldn’t get his heart unstuck from his throat. “Thank you,” he managed, and pushed the edges of his mouth up through sheer will. “For trying.”
Kuroko stared up at him, a moon-pale boy close in his arms. His. His. “It’s not enough,” he said. It wasn’t a question, which—wonderfully—meant Aomine didn’t have to answer it.
He nudged Kuroko’s face with his, kissed him softly, and knew he had anyway.
+
It got worse.
It got worse, and he got worse (but he didn’t, he just kept getting better, better and better and more and more monstrous) and he was standing on a riverbed in the rain, furious and hurting—pained, his chest aflame with it— and hurting—lashing out, Kuroko’s eyes wide with shock—and it got so, so much worse.
+
Kuroko wasn’t at practice the next day. Kuroko wasn’t at school at all; Kuroko was gone and Aomine was an anchor cut suddenly free from his ship.
Momoi tried to help him surface. Her first method was taking him out for coffee and yelling at him; he snapped right back without ever once feeling the heat of his own anger. Her second method was ignoring him, which at any other point in his life would have worked, but now—now it felt right that he should be alone. He was alone, alone at the top—no one could beat him but him.
Her third method was pressing him back against the wall, her teeth at his throat; was slipping knowing, teasing fingers down his ribs to his fly. He leaned his head back against the wall but the curl of pleasure in his stomach brought with it a wave of sorrow, of loss, so intense that he fought her off and stumbled to the doorway, catching himself with a hand and struggling to breathe.
Somewhere along the line, sex had gone from something he associated with her to something he associated with Kuroko. And now. Fuck.
“Okay,” she said shakily from behind him. “Okay.”
He turned, halfway, to look at her. “Sorry,” he said. “Satsuki—I’m sorry.”
She raised her eyebrows at him. “Are you?” she asked, and then gave him a tiny smile. “Then that’s something, at least.”
He crossed to her, kissed her without letting himself think, and let himself out.
+
Kuroko’s new team beat Kise, and Aomine let that knowledge roll off his shoulders. Kuroko’s new team beat Midorima, and he called Momoi—told her, and through her Aomine, about a new ace, someone able to handle Kuroko’s passes and use them to surpass the Miracles.
Kagami Taiga. A new light to Kuroko’s shadow. That, Aomine couldn’t let go.
He worked it over in his mind. Maybe Kuroko was so angry with him he’d—he’d latched on to someone, maybe this was revenge, or just. Showing Aomine he was replaceable.
Or maybe—and this was a thought that lit a secret fire in his heart—Kuroko was doing this for him. Maybe he’d left because he knew Aomine just needed someone to beat him, maybe calling this Kagami his light was his way of saying, look, here, I found him. Of saying, I can still help you. Of saying, I still know what you need like no one else does.
The third possibility—that this Kagami shone as he did, that their connection was genuine, that Kuroko had simply found someone else—was one that made Aomine feel sick and angry and dulled, like he’d been throwing himself against the walls of some cage until he lost his edge.
They’d meet on the court soon, but Aomine couldn’t wait that long, needed to test this new light himself, needed to see how he measured up.
He pulled himself up off the floor.
“Where are you going, Aomine-kun?” Momoi asked. It didn’t even hurt, anymore, that she’d stopped calling him Dai-chan. Most things didn’t really hurt, anymore.
“Seirin,” he said, pulling on his shoes. “I’m going to meet Kagami Taiga.”