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I.
For the past year, there is only one person Kise feels for the most. His name is Kuroko, and it is like grasping at straws. Hello, one morning; goodbye, that night.
Kise knows words are solid, stable foundations. He just does not know if they are ever enough.
II.
Past the gardening club's plot is the covered court. Like all good things, it is kept perfectly immaculate; like all bitter victories, it stands proud, erect.
Kise knows spite like a familiar lover; it has followed him for many, many years, from the onset of a natural sharpness of mind to the present waxing and waning of his name, popularity and infamy eager and intertwined, at turns. Ah, how handsome, the girls sigh. Oh, how cold, the next.
Midorima sneers and Aomine elbows him in the hallway, but it is Kuroko Kise turns to. Kuroko stays quiet, disinterested even as a junior steps forward -- a prelude to a confession. "My friend's waiting near the hydrangea," she says, with lips lined with gloss and fingers aching to touch his arm. The movement is aborted, but Kuroko turns his head away.
"Sorry," says Kise, "but I've got practice or Akashi will kick me off the team. Right, Kurokocchi?"
Kuroko nods, and like all half-hearted lies and truths, he is ignored. "Please," says the girl, stepping closer. "It will only be a minute, I swear."
"Sorry," Kise repeats, firmly, this time. He touches the small of Kuroko's back, nudging forward. Kuroko's uniform jacket creases and bunches around Kise's fingertips. "I really gotta go."
They do not stop walking until they reach the stairwell, and even then, it is Kise who turns to look back. Kuroko looks a little lost, a little strange. Like he is trying to make something of Kise, like Kise is something he does not understand.
"What are you stopping for?" Kise asks.
"The hydrangea bushes," says Kuroko, "aren't you going to meet her?"
"Ah, no way," says Kise, scratching the back of his neck. "It's a bother to have to write replies to all those letters when I'm not getting paid to do it, you know?"
Kuroko shrugs, but the line of his shoulders is tense, taut; if Kise touches the ridge of his spine, Kise wonders if he will shrink into himself. People like Aomine snap and fracture; people like Kuroko are malleable, more forgeable under pressure. "You should give her an answer," says Kuroko, off-handedly.
"Aren't you a Casanova," says Kise.
Kuroko does not say anything else, already exhausted of conversation. Sometimes Kuroko surprises Kise, with false starts and almost-phrases, but mostly Kuroko is reticent. There are times when Kise wonders if Kuroko tires of him, but thinking like that is pointless because Kuroko is still here.
"I'll apologize after practice," Kise relents, and grins at Kuroko's slow nod. They go down the staircase and cut through the hallway furthest from the gardening plot. A foot of space separates their arms. Kise counts the beats between each step, tries to match his rhythm with Kuroko's, but it is impossible.
The length of their limbs, the distance of their strides -- they do not match at all. What Kise can do to copy his stance is to stay a bit behind, just to catch the slight shift of Kuroko's calves. The flat of his heel.
Kuroko moves forward, and Kise follows, always a step behind.
III.
What Kise dislikes the most about basketball is that it is easy to learn, easy to handle.
At the back of the shed, he balances a ball on his finger. It takes him a few times to get it right, but after watching Aomine (obsessively, without envy or scorn, only with the small epiphany that he is not, cannot be, the best) he thinks he has mimicked the motions well enough.
Kuroko rummages through the storage closet for a spare mop as Kise complains about practice; Kise never knows if Kuroko listens to him, but he is a sounding board, at best, and Kise appreciates the quiet interspersed with Kuroko's more caustic comments, the rare times he lets some of his more mischievous streak come out.
Out of six days of school and club practice, Kise spends more time with Kuroko than with anyone else. They go to fastfood restaurants and walk home with soda and burgers in hand, Kise talking and Kuroko offering his polite responses. Kise thinks that Kuroko is too stiff, sometimes, too pliant, but closed off to him. Like there are parts Kise cannot breach, parts Kuroko cannot let him in.
Out of six times Kise has seen Kuroko smile, it is always with Aomine. He is smiling now, even, as Aomine comes to yell at them and sneeze at the cobwebs in the shed. Aomine, the golden boy -- his rival, in so many ways. Kise throws the ball at him and Aomine catches it, with ease. Kuroko's expression seems to soften, and Kise averts his eyes.
What Kise likes the most about basketball is that it is never easy to win.
IV.
Kise does not believe in attraction without impulse; there is a chemical basis to it, and 'at first sight' pales its romance as Kise thinks of pheromones while receiving yet another confession.
Apologies are necessary to soothe over abused pride and vanity; if he were anything like Aomine, he would be cruel, in the way only single-minded boys can be, but Kise cannot live like Aomine can. If he were Kuroko, on the other hand, his kindness would leave them pining.
Kise is not unfamiliar to jealousy, to disappointment. It haunts him every hour, even in Kuroko's presence. At times he feels some shame, with the immaturity of it all, and yet...
"Is there anyone else you like?" Girl-of-the-week asks, near tears.
Kise thinks of attraction, of breathing in the smell of Kuroko's hair. His skin, clean from the shower. His fingers sticky with oil and sauce. Fingers white and bony as they thread through his scalp and pass the top of his head. Even when Kise touches him through the fabric of his shirt, he can feel Kuroko's heat, his permanence.
"Yes," he says. "Yes."
V.
Kise kisses Kuroko, once, and never again.
What Kise remembers is the taste of Kuroko's mouth, fresh from brushing his teeth. The mint is strong, tangy, and Kise touches Kuroko's jaw, holding him in place with surprising strength even in his drunkenness. Kise feels his heart beat as he bends forward to deepen the kiss. Kuroko lays still, barely breathing. Thud, thud, Kise's heart sings. Kise closes his eyes.
Cans of beer litter the tatami mats, and their teammates sleep on, lost to the call of fatigue and too much alcohol. Kise thinks he hears Aomine's muffled snoring, but he can only concentrate on the softness of Kuroko's mouth, the hard planes of his bones outlined beneath his fingers, unyielding in his inhibition.
When Kise opens his eyes, finally, Kuroko looks at him, unflinching. Kise drinks in Kuroko's tentative tongue, his eyes like steel. What he would give to understand his contradictions. Sometimes, Kise cannot stand him, even as he likes him to the point of daring, of incoherence, but mostly Kuroko makes him feel like everything is lighter and that he is happy to be in his presence.
Kuroko makes him feel young and reckless, in good ways and bad. If only Kuroko feels something for him in turn.
"Go to sleep," Kuroko whispers into his mouth, touching his bare shoulder. Kise shuts his eyes. Kuroko's warmth, his mouth – they are inescapable even in his dreams.
They do not speak of it in the morning.
VI.
It is not that Kise is unsure of his sexuality. He recognizes, at an early age, that he is a lover of many forms, as long as they strike his interest.
In fifth grade, he goes out with a female classmate, the most popular girl in school. A few weeks later, he stares at his math teacher's throat, the bob of his Adam's apple driving him to distraction. In freshman year of middle school, he kisses a boy, in a karaoke box. When he starts modeling, he gets and gives his first handjob in the backseat of an older man's car, and fucks a college girl in a seedy hotel room afterwards.
In the shower room, he sometimes stares at a bead of water trailing down Midorima's fingers, Murasakibara's back, Akashi's neck, Aomine's brow. He thinks of limbs and skin and hardness, of sweat and the salty aftertaste of come. When he touches himself and works himself to completion, all he can remember is Kuroko.
He mouths Kuroko's name into his hand, clasped over his lips like a prayer.
The next day, he greets him, like always, like nothing has changed.
VII.
Kise is no stranger to pleasure. It is just that half the time, he wonders if Kuroko would meet him halfway.
VIII.
Aomine gets better day by day, and Kise loathes and likes him for it all the more.
If victory is the goal, then Aomine wins, with every game. He racks up points, like they are nothing, like he cannot even fathom the idea of an opponent.
Kise likes the taste of success. He just does not like it when it leaves Kuroko more distant, more self-conscious. He looks at Aomine and cannot bear to smile. Something is strained, impassable. It is an obstacle no one can cross.
Kise knows Aomine and Kuroko's relationship is like a foregone conclusion; the joke is that it is the equivalent of a marriage proposal, the light and shadow business, but when the upperclassmen tell it, Kise cannot bring himself to laugh.
Kuroko is a boy with subpar skills whose only specialty is his misdirection. A perfect fit for Aomine, Akashi likes to say. Kise wants to possess some part of Kuroko so badly that he almost punches Aomine's face.
He catches himself, halfway. Always halfway.
IX.
The truth is, Kise is more like a shadow than Kuroko; shadows are obscure, but perfect imitations of outlines, without depth, without identity. Shadows never support. They can only be you.
Every light dies with its flames. The shadows, though -- they remain.
X.
The hour before their last game together, Kise sees Kuroko in the train station. He calls out to Kuroko, who is seated on the other side of the tracks. Kuroko lifts his head.
Where are you going is a hopeless question; Kise already knows Kuroko has no plans to show up to the game. It is with some effort that he stamps down the urge to make his way to the other side. There are some choices they must make and Kuroko has already made his.
Kuroko, though -- Kise swallows his anxiety, and he stands rooted at his spot. He is smiling at Kise.
Take me with you, Kise wants to say. I want to be with you. Only a brave man's words, and it is unfortunate Kise is a lesser man. He is only a boy, drunk on infatuation and unknowledgeable in the ways of working hard for what he wants.
"Tetsuya," he finally shouts, too familiar, too late. The train comes, hiding Kuroko from his view. He is gone, when the train finally leaves.
This feeling; Kise wonders if it is regret.
XI.
(But it was never like that, wasn't it?
Wasn't it?)
XII.
Kagami is a boy that reminds Kise, briefly, of Aomine. The temperament is the same, only Kagami seems to flare up at the smallest things that Aomine would barely bother with, already bored and jaded.
Kagami, like Aomine, is also a threat.
"Come to our school," says Kise, looking directly at Kuroko. "Let's play basketball together again."
Kuroko's passive face, his eyes that betray nothing to Kise; it is a gamble Kise is always willing to take.
XIII.
"When I kissed you," he later asks, after Kuroko relays his reasons for leaving, "did you feel anything for me?"
Kuroko stays silent, for a beat. Thump, thump, says Kise's heart. Kuroko looks at Kise like he still cannot comprehend him.
"Yes," says Kuroko, finally. "Yes, I think I did."
It is the only answer he can hope for, and the only truth Kuroko can bring himself to say.