Ship: Aomine/Himuro Fandom: Kuroko no Basuke Major Tags: TAGS OMITTED Other Tags: TAGS OMITTED Square: just one mistake is all it will take Word Count: 635
more hockey au
***
They lose the cup on a bad bounce. That’s what they say, officially; that’s how it goes down in the papers. It’s easy to blame the moment, but it’s more true to say they shouldn’t have let Florida push them to that point in the first place, that they lost the cup when they let Game Six go to overtime and before that when they’d collapsed in Game Five and couldn’t staunch the bleeding (could have gone in with the three-two lead instead of the deficit), when they’d lost the first and fourth games, when they’d let that first Game Four goal in shorthanded, when they’d taken those shitty penalties and overtaxed their PK, when they’d let Arizona take them to seven games in the first round.
“They played better; we lost,” he says to the press, quiet and displeased; he’s not going to pretend to be nice and calm but he’s not going to let them see how fucking furious he is, how he’d wanted to slug the stupid smirk off their stupid agitator’s face in the handshake line but had smiled at him instead, how he wants to go out and do suicides until he can’t feel his legs or his lungs anymore but the winners are celebrating with the cup on his home ice.
He’s not going to let them see it; he takes a normal shower and puts on a normal suit and his fingers don’t shake and he’s doing a damn good job, he thinks.
Their goalie’s still sitting in his stall; the media are circling him like buzzards and Tatsuya shoos them off. He sits down in the next stall; the goalie looks up, his eyes red-rimmed and his face blotchy. Tatsuya claps him on the shoulder.
“You’ll feel better if you take a shower.”
(Not really, but maybe if he believes he will.)
“I’m sorry, Captain.”
“Sorry we left you out to dry,” Tatsuya says.
He offers a smile, fake enough to show that part through, enough of a hint that he feels like shit, too.
“Just give me a minute.”
Tatsuya obliges, pushing up his sleeves. There aren’t nearly enough things to distract him here, teammates consoling each other or swearing it out, half-drowning in the showers, apologizing to the coaching staff. It fucking hurts everyone.
Daiki drops a wet arm around his shoulder; if Tatsuya felt better he’d say something about the suit but it won’t land right now. Daiki leans against him, all of him still wet from the shower (towels aren’t just something you put on to look half-decent for the reporters, something Daiki doesn’t get after however-many years).
“We’ll go soon.”
“Where?” says Tatsuya.
“Dunno,” says Daiki. “Anywhere.”
He squeezes Tatsuya’s upper arm where he hadn’t even noticed it was tense (all of his body is tense, tired and barely sure it’ll hold itself together if it stops trying at a hundred percent), and as he’s pulling himself away brushes a kiss over the side of Tatsuya’s jaw, right under his beard. Grief is always selfish; it’s very likely no one’s noticed. Tatsuya doesn’t feel like batting him away, anyway; he reaches his hand back and oh-so-accidentally hooks his pinky in the edge of the towel low-slung on Daiki’s hips. He hears it fall before it does; Daiki picks it up and snaps it at him and Tatsuya almost feels a little like laughing for the first time since the game had started.
“Five,” Daiki says. “Then we’re out.”
Tatsuya watches his ass and thighs as he walks away; they’ll never get finer than after a hundred-plus games. He tries not to think about the Cup on the other side of the tunnel, out on the ice, and it’s a little easier than before.
FILL: TEAM HIMURO TATSUYA/NIJIMURA SHUUZOU, A3, T
Fandom: Kuroko no Basuke
Major Tags: TAGS OMITTED
Other Tags: TAGS OMITTED
Square: just one mistake is all it will take
Word Count: 635
more hockey au
***
They lose the cup on a bad bounce. That’s what they say, officially; that’s how it goes down in the papers. It’s easy to blame the moment, but it’s more true to say they shouldn’t have let Florida push them to that point in the first place, that they lost the cup when they let Game Six go to overtime and before that when they’d collapsed in Game Five and couldn’t staunch the bleeding (could have gone in with the three-two lead instead of the deficit), when they’d lost the first and fourth games, when they’d let that first Game Four goal in shorthanded, when they’d taken those shitty penalties and overtaxed their PK, when they’d let Arizona take them to seven games in the first round.
“They played better; we lost,” he says to the press, quiet and displeased; he’s not going to pretend to be nice and calm but he’s not going to let them see how fucking furious he is, how he’d wanted to slug the stupid smirk off their stupid agitator’s face in the handshake line but had smiled at him instead, how he wants to go out and do suicides until he can’t feel his legs or his lungs anymore but the winners are celebrating with the cup on his home ice.
He’s not going to let them see it; he takes a normal shower and puts on a normal suit and his fingers don’t shake and he’s doing a damn good job, he thinks.
Their goalie’s still sitting in his stall; the media are circling him like buzzards and Tatsuya shoos them off. He sits down in the next stall; the goalie looks up, his eyes red-rimmed and his face blotchy. Tatsuya claps him on the shoulder.
“You’ll feel better if you take a shower.”
(Not really, but maybe if he believes he will.)
“I’m sorry, Captain.”
“Sorry we left you out to dry,” Tatsuya says.
He offers a smile, fake enough to show that part through, enough of a hint that he feels like shit, too.
“Just give me a minute.”
Tatsuya obliges, pushing up his sleeves. There aren’t nearly enough things to distract him here, teammates consoling each other or swearing it out, half-drowning in the showers, apologizing to the coaching staff. It fucking hurts everyone.
Daiki drops a wet arm around his shoulder; if Tatsuya felt better he’d say something about the suit but it won’t land right now. Daiki leans against him, all of him still wet from the shower (towels aren’t just something you put on to look half-decent for the reporters, something Daiki doesn’t get after however-many years).
“We’ll go soon.”
“Where?” says Tatsuya.
“Dunno,” says Daiki. “Anywhere.”
He squeezes Tatsuya’s upper arm where he hadn’t even noticed it was tense (all of his body is tense, tired and barely sure it’ll hold itself together if it stops trying at a hundred percent), and as he’s pulling himself away brushes a kiss over the side of Tatsuya’s jaw, right under his beard. Grief is always selfish; it’s very likely no one’s noticed. Tatsuya doesn’t feel like batting him away, anyway; he reaches his hand back and oh-so-accidentally hooks his pinky in the edge of the towel low-slung on Daiki’s hips. He hears it fall before it does; Daiki picks it up and snaps it at him and Tatsuya almost feels a little like laughing for the first time since the game had started.
“Five,” Daiki says. “Then we’re out.”
Tatsuya watches his ass and thighs as he walks away; they’ll never get finer than after a hundred-plus games. He tries not to think about the Cup on the other side of the tunnel, out on the ice, and it’s a little easier than before.