Ship: Kagami/Himuro Fandom: Kuroko no Basuke Major Tags: TAGS OMITTED Other Tags: TAGS OMITTED Word Count: 499
***
It’s been a long time since the first time Tatsuya tried to let Taiga go, much less long than when he’d realized that he just can’t, not really. He can verbally loosen any bonds he thinks are there, any way he’s holding Taiga back, any way that Taiga sees. But Taiga never sees them; if they’re holding him he tears right through before he notices them cutting his skin, leaving behind only Tatsuya’s thoughts chained up, his image of Taiga that he’s not able to let go of. Taiga, young, looking at Taiga like he’d just given him the key to a new dimension; Taiga, young and trusting; Taiga, older and betrayed; Taiga, taller than him by far and Tatsuya has to almost crane his neck, asking Tatsuya to kiss him and Tatsuya saying yes; Taiga, asleep next to Tatsuya, the air conditioner broken and the heat wave unbroken outside, the dry heat they’d grown up in together but forgotten.
And then there is Taiga, on the court now, so sure of his own abilities as only he has the right to be, as only he can be. A dunk, a block, a steal, maybe three or four seconds on the shot clock, that insane vertical (the ridiculous deep jumper he’s developed out of nowhere, maybe just because he fucking can), the stat lines people have almost stopped being impressed by because Taiga’s just that good no one is even surprised by the gaudy numbers, the deep playoff runs, the way he hauls his decent squad to a top seed in the east over better-selected, better-developed teams.
It hurts not manning him, but Tatsuya’s not big enough; he’s not strong enough. It hurts to admit is, as critical as he is of his own skills. It hurts to say he’s not good enough to go one-on-one with Taiga in a game like this, that Taiga’s playing on a parallel plane, even without the zone or any type of special thing he has to kick down the door to; it’s more like he’s on the other side of a door that’s closed to Tatsuya, and Tatsuya’s stuck in a place with low ceilings and keeps bumping his head. Taiga is free to spread and stretch his greater size, his amazing wingspan; he could fly ten feet off the ground and stand up straight if he wanted to in the place he is.
“You’re amazing,” Tatsuya whispers, pressing kisses to the side of Taiga’s face; he doesn’t need to mention stats (they don’t talk about stats) or the Bulls’ lopsided win, the three Knicks starters Taiga had dunked on, multiple times, when he’d blown past Tatsuya with the ball, paling in comparison to when Tatsuya had gotten past him, something that had come completely from how well he knows Taiga and a little bit of luck, nothing like superior, overpowering skill.
“You’re amazing, too,” Taiga says, and for some reason Taiga believes it. Tatsuya holds on tighter.
FILL: TEAM HIMURO TATSUYA/NIJIMURA SHUUZOU, T
Fandom: Kuroko no Basuke
Major Tags: TAGS OMITTED
Other Tags: TAGS OMITTED
Word Count: 499
***
It’s been a long time since the first time Tatsuya tried to let Taiga go, much less long than when he’d realized that he just can’t, not really. He can verbally loosen any bonds he thinks are there, any way he’s holding Taiga back, any way that Taiga sees. But Taiga never sees them; if they’re holding him he tears right through before he notices them cutting his skin, leaving behind only Tatsuya’s thoughts chained up, his image of Taiga that he’s not able to let go of. Taiga, young, looking at Taiga like he’d just given him the key to a new dimension; Taiga, young and trusting; Taiga, older and betrayed; Taiga, taller than him by far and Tatsuya has to almost crane his neck, asking Tatsuya to kiss him and Tatsuya saying yes; Taiga, asleep next to Tatsuya, the air conditioner broken and the heat wave unbroken outside, the dry heat they’d grown up in together but forgotten.
And then there is Taiga, on the court now, so sure of his own abilities as only he has the right to be, as only he can be. A dunk, a block, a steal, maybe three or four seconds on the shot clock, that insane vertical (the ridiculous deep jumper he’s developed out of nowhere, maybe just because he fucking can), the stat lines people have almost stopped being impressed by because Taiga’s just that good no one is even surprised by the gaudy numbers, the deep playoff runs, the way he hauls his decent squad to a top seed in the east over better-selected, better-developed teams.
It hurts not manning him, but Tatsuya’s not big enough; he’s not strong enough. It hurts to admit is, as critical as he is of his own skills. It hurts to say he’s not good enough to go one-on-one with Taiga in a game like this, that Taiga’s playing on a parallel plane, even without the zone or any type of special thing he has to kick down the door to; it’s more like he’s on the other side of a door that’s closed to Tatsuya, and Tatsuya’s stuck in a place with low ceilings and keeps bumping his head. Taiga is free to spread and stretch his greater size, his amazing wingspan; he could fly ten feet off the ground and stand up straight if he wanted to in the place he is.
“You’re amazing,” Tatsuya whispers, pressing kisses to the side of Taiga’s face; he doesn’t need to mention stats (they don’t talk about stats) or the Bulls’ lopsided win, the three Knicks starters Taiga had dunked on, multiple times, when he’d blown past Tatsuya with the ball, paling in comparison to when Tatsuya had gotten past him, something that had come completely from how well he knows Taiga and a little bit of luck, nothing like superior, overpowering skill.
“You’re amazing, too,” Taiga says, and for some reason Taiga believes it. Tatsuya holds on tighter.