Ship: Aomine/Himuro Fandom: Kuroko no Basuke Major Tags: TAGS OMITTED Other Tags: TAGS OMITTED Square: remember me for centuries Word Count: 430
Note: listen this song was used for nhl playoff promo so i had to do hockey au
***
Daiki’s laugh is bright and unforced; he nudges Tatsuya with his elbow and under the table their bare knees knock together. Tatsuya uncurls his finger against Daiki’s thigh; it doesn’t yield at all beneath his shorts (even in the deepest part of summer it only gives ever-so-slightly and Tatsuya has to try).
“Centuries, huh? How many years is it before they remove the ring?”
(Tatsuya had known, once; he’d been able to recite the number of years until they put on a new one and how far back the current one goes but he’d just been a hockey-nut kid dreaming of the Ducks’ next win, and maybe that’s pretty close to what he is now but only in facetiously-broad ways.)
“I think it’s less than a hundred,” says Tatsuya. “But that just means we have to win every year from now on.”
“That’s a tall order,” says the reporter.
Tatsuya smiles, camera-ready; he waits for the shutters to slow and then turns his face toward Daiki. Daiki’s looking at him, like he’s trying to remember Tatsuya hard enough that eight hundred years from now they’ll dig up his corpse and find that image etched on his brain.
“You’ll get plenty of pictures,” Tatsuya says when the reporters turn, distracted, to their next victims; Daiki crosses his arms over his chest.
The miniature caricature of the Stanley Cup printed on the shoulder of Daiki’s sweatshirt tugs Tatsuya’s eyes over. It’s no substitute for the real thing, only a reminder that they’re four wins away (and four losses from getting set back nearly a hundred games before their next shot), but it’s there. They’re here, as close as the Ducks have been since Tatsuya’s childhood. Daiki’s arms loosen; he drops one to cover Tatsuya’s hand on his thigh, the cracks in his palm fitting around Tatsuya’s knuckles. Tatsuya’s fingers curl into a loose approximation of his grip at the top of a stick; his other hand completes the grip where it rests on the table in response. Daiki’s eyes brush over it and Tatsuya can feel Daiki’s whole body smile.
(He doesn’t need to think too hard about the way Daiki flies on the ice, end-to-end rushes and open-ice hits and dekes between the circles; it goes without saying they’ll remember Daiki for centuries if he never wins the Cup.)
Tatsuya snorts, and Daiki taps the C on the chest of his hoodie. It’s a mostly-fair point, and right now Tatsuya’s a little more inclined to believe, so he doesn’t argue.
FILL: TEAM HIMURO TATSUYA/NIJIMURA SHUUZOU, B2, G
Fandom: Kuroko no Basuke
Major Tags: TAGS OMITTED
Other Tags: TAGS OMITTED
Square: remember me for centuries
Word Count: 430
Note: listen this song was used for nhl playoff promo so i had to do hockey au
***
Daiki’s laugh is bright and unforced; he nudges Tatsuya with his elbow and under the table their bare knees knock together. Tatsuya uncurls his finger against Daiki’s thigh; it doesn’t yield at all beneath his shorts (even in the deepest part of summer it only gives ever-so-slightly and Tatsuya has to try).
“Centuries, huh? How many years is it before they remove the ring?”
(Tatsuya had known, once; he’d been able to recite the number of years until they put on a new one and how far back the current one goes but he’d just been a hockey-nut kid dreaming of the Ducks’ next win, and maybe that’s pretty close to what he is now but only in facetiously-broad ways.)
“I think it’s less than a hundred,” says Tatsuya. “But that just means we have to win every year from now on.”
“That’s a tall order,” says the reporter.
Tatsuya smiles, camera-ready; he waits for the shutters to slow and then turns his face toward Daiki. Daiki’s looking at him, like he’s trying to remember Tatsuya hard enough that eight hundred years from now they’ll dig up his corpse and find that image etched on his brain.
“You’ll get plenty of pictures,” Tatsuya says when the reporters turn, distracted, to their next victims; Daiki crosses his arms over his chest.
The miniature caricature of the Stanley Cup printed on the shoulder of Daiki’s sweatshirt tugs Tatsuya’s eyes over. It’s no substitute for the real thing, only a reminder that they’re four wins away (and four losses from getting set back nearly a hundred games before their next shot), but it’s there. They’re here, as close as the Ducks have been since Tatsuya’s childhood. Daiki’s arms loosen; he drops one to cover Tatsuya’s hand on his thigh, the cracks in his palm fitting around Tatsuya’s knuckles. Tatsuya’s fingers curl into a loose approximation of his grip at the top of a stick; his other hand completes the grip where it rests on the table in response. Daiki’s eyes brush over it and Tatsuya can feel Daiki’s whole body smile.
(He doesn’t need to think too hard about the way Daiki flies on the ice, end-to-end rushes and open-ice hits and dekes between the circles; it goes without saying they’ll remember Daiki for centuries if he never wins the Cup.)
“They’re gonna remember you, too,” says Daiki. “So don’t go thinking.”
Tatsuya snorts, and Daiki taps the C on the chest of his hoodie. It’s a mostly-fair point, and right now Tatsuya’s a little more inclined to believe, so he doesn’t argue.