Ship: Imayoshi/Hanamiya Fandom: Kuroko no Basuke Major Tags: tags omitted Other Tags: tags omitted Word Count: 530 words
Faux-historical, just an atmospheric piece to match the poem. Alcohol, gambling and tiny mention of nudity.
***
From behind the thin crimson paper shades, the candles cast a crimson light onto the room. It picks out the red veins of drunkenness in Eichi's nose, the pink tinged flush of inebriation on Reo's cheeks and makes the wine in the cups glow a deep, marvellous red. In the truer light of the day, the wine would be the pale pink of immature spring-wine but now deep in the night, it looks as pure and rich as blood.
Hanamiya lifts the cup to his mouth to sip at the wine and Imayoshi watches it slop against his upper lip, leaving his mouth shining wet and glistening. The girls use paint made of crushed safflower, fermented to an iridiscent green that turned red when moistened. Imayoshi has admired their pretty smiles before, thought of them as looking bloody-mouthed as if they feast on their customers, but the natural shape and color of Hanamiya's mouth leaves them all behind. He doesn't have a pert little mouth - his mouth is wide and loose, always holding back a disdainful laugh, but Imayoshi watches it with a hunger he has never felt for anything since.
"Be more circumspect with your bets," he instructs, picking up one of the markers that Hanamiya so carelessly threw down and placing in the folds of Hanamiya's yukata. It drapes over his knee gracefully, tumbling in a waterfall of beaten cotton down to the floor, and Imayoshi's thumb just lightly brushes against Hanamiya's thigh as he returns the marker to Hanamiya.
"Tch," Hanamiya says, his tone annoyed but his eyes glinting a warning. "I know what I'm doing."
Ah. So Hanamiya is out to skin the Rakuzen soldiers of everything except their bones. Imayoshi shrugs philosophically and lets Hanamiya get on with it. He's had enough wine to feel warm and relaxed; rather than bet, he'll stay seated on his cushion and watch Hanamiya slowly take the Rakuzen men for everything they're worth.
When Reo strips out of his yukata and passes it to Hanamiya to pay his bet, Imayoshi feels nothing but a mild stirring of fondness for Hanamiya's ruthlessness even though Reo is as pretty as story says. He focuses on Hanamiya's hands, holding the cup with the bone dice, and lazily commits the long, slender fingers to memory.
The rolling drumbeat sounds like his own heartbeat to Imayoshi at first but Sakurai instantly leaps to his feet from the corner where he'd been asleep.
"Time to ride out, captain" he says, gathering up his armor from where it lay discarded and pulling it on. Hanamiya's gaze slides over to Imayoshi's and Imayoshi reads something that he fancies is true regret.
"Yes," he agrees and holds Hanamiya's gaze as he rises to his feet. Hanamiya looks away first, staring down at the dice, and Imayoshi lets himself wonder what farewell the man might've given them if they'd been alone.
As he leaves the tent, the back of his hand brushes Hanamiya's hair. His skin is still tingling as he mounts his horse and rides away; his blood ebbs away from him, leaving him cold and empty.
All the warmth in him remains in that tent with Hanamiya.
FILL: Team The Prince of Tennis, T
Fandom: Kuroko no Basuke
Major Tags: tags omitted
Other Tags: tags omitted
Word Count: 530 words
Faux-historical, just an atmospheric piece to match the poem. Alcohol, gambling and tiny mention of nudity.
***
From behind the thin crimson paper shades, the candles cast a crimson light onto the room. It picks out the red veins of drunkenness in Eichi's nose, the pink tinged flush of inebriation on Reo's cheeks and makes the wine in the cups glow a deep, marvellous red. In the truer light of the day, the wine would be the pale pink of immature spring-wine but now deep in the night, it looks as pure and rich as blood.
Hanamiya lifts the cup to his mouth to sip at the wine and Imayoshi watches it slop against his upper lip, leaving his mouth shining wet and glistening. The girls use paint made of crushed safflower, fermented to an iridiscent green that turned red when moistened. Imayoshi has admired their pretty smiles before, thought of them as looking bloody-mouthed as if they feast on their customers, but the natural shape and color of Hanamiya's mouth leaves them all behind. He doesn't have a pert little mouth - his mouth is wide and loose, always holding back a disdainful laugh, but Imayoshi watches it with a hunger he has never felt for anything since.
"Be more circumspect with your bets," he instructs, picking up one of the markers that Hanamiya so carelessly threw down and placing in the folds of Hanamiya's yukata. It drapes over his knee gracefully, tumbling in a waterfall of beaten cotton down to the floor, and Imayoshi's thumb just lightly brushes against Hanamiya's thigh as he returns the marker to Hanamiya.
"Tch," Hanamiya says, his tone annoyed but his eyes glinting a warning. "I know what I'm doing."
Ah. So Hanamiya is out to skin the Rakuzen soldiers of everything except their bones. Imayoshi shrugs philosophically and lets Hanamiya get on with it. He's had enough wine to feel warm and relaxed; rather than bet, he'll stay seated on his cushion and watch Hanamiya slowly take the Rakuzen men for everything they're worth.
When Reo strips out of his yukata and passes it to Hanamiya to pay his bet, Imayoshi feels nothing but a mild stirring of fondness for Hanamiya's ruthlessness even though Reo is as pretty as story says. He focuses on Hanamiya's hands, holding the cup with the bone dice, and lazily commits the long, slender fingers to memory.
The rolling drumbeat sounds like his own heartbeat to Imayoshi at first but Sakurai instantly leaps to his feet from the corner where he'd been asleep.
"Time to ride out, captain" he says, gathering up his armor from where it lay discarded and pulling it on. Hanamiya's gaze slides over to Imayoshi's and Imayoshi reads something that he fancies is true regret.
"Yes," he agrees and holds Hanamiya's gaze as he rises to his feet. Hanamiya looks away first, staring down at the dice, and Imayoshi lets himself wonder what farewell the man might've given them if they'd been alone.
As he leaves the tent, the back of his hand brushes Hanamiya's hair. His skin is still tingling as he mounts his horse and rides away; his blood ebbs away from him, leaving him cold and empty.
All the warmth in him remains in that tent with Hanamiya.