Ship: midorima/akashi Fandom: kuroko no basuke Major Tags: character death Other Tags: angst, hospital mention Original Work:link by hyalinee Word Count: 485
***
He has always been adept at pretending—that nothing is wrong, that someone is not gone, that his insides don't hurt. This skill has carried him through life, with all its banal cruelties, just fine, and he doesn't expect it to fail him.
So far, it hasn't. So far, normalcy, apart from the obvious gaps, comes easy. So far, he goes through his days with no one the wiser, unless they know him, or them, well enough to have attended the funeral, and that's how he prefers it.
(Always preferred to suffer in private, to shoot hoop after consecutive hoop all alone in an empty gymnasium, acting as if landing the next basket was all that mattered even when his world was caving in.)
And those who know him well don't say a word, however kind or well-meaning, having anticipated its reception. Sympathy still swims in their eyes but he can pretend not to see that either. This way, the earth can still turn, instead of tilting on its axis.
If he were one of his patients, he would have talked his own ear off in reprimand long ago. Ignoring the pain does not mean the injury no longer exists; walking around with an open wound means he'll bleed out sooner rather than later, leaving behind a trail of red on the street.
But how else can he reconcile reality with this absence? This ache, with his every day? He can't. He won't. Not yet.
First, he has an instrument to acquaint himself with, a sound that he's been longing to hear, ever since—
The case of it is untouched, where it's propped up against the wall in the corner of their bedroom. A light coating of dust has settled on the fabric, but he sets it on the clean sheets, reverently, as he unfastens its lock. Inside, an old violin rests, a heirloom with nowhere else to go.
A single regret scratches at the surface of his heart: he never did take the time to learn it, even if Akashi could accompany him on piano, a kindness that did not go both ways.
It's not too late (except that it is) to start.
He knows the basics, just from watching—where he should press down, or how he should hold the bow. He has the fingers for it, he thinks, long and deft, and wonders if it's something he'd thought up on his own, or something someone else once mentioned.
With his eyes closed, he draws the bow over the strings, his fingering tentative but his notes sustained, into a child's practice piece. It's clumsy, like the way he loved; lonely, like the way he misses.
Someday he will manage a nocturne, and make it easier to pretend Akashi is here all the more, but for now his mind merely sings along to the rhyme: little star, how I wonder where you are.
FILL: TEAM HIMURO TATSUYA/NIJIMURA SHUUZOU, G
Fandom: kuroko no basuke
Major Tags: character death
Other Tags: angst, hospital mention
Original Work: link by
Word Count: 485
***
He has always been adept at pretending—that nothing is wrong, that someone is not gone, that his insides don't hurt. This skill has carried him through life, with all its banal cruelties, just fine, and he doesn't expect it to fail him.
So far, it hasn't. So far, normalcy, apart from the obvious gaps, comes easy. So far, he goes through his days with no one the wiser, unless they know him, or them, well enough to have attended the funeral, and that's how he prefers it.
(Always preferred to suffer in private, to shoot hoop after consecutive hoop all alone in an empty gymnasium, acting as if landing the next basket was all that mattered even when his world was caving in.)
And those who know him well don't say a word, however kind or well-meaning, having anticipated its reception. Sympathy still swims in their eyes but he can pretend not to see that either. This way, the earth can still turn, instead of tilting on its axis.
If he were one of his patients, he would have talked his own ear off in reprimand long ago. Ignoring the pain does not mean the injury no longer exists; walking around with an open wound means he'll bleed out sooner rather than later, leaving behind a trail of red on the street.
But how else can he reconcile reality with this absence? This ache, with his every day? He can't. He won't. Not yet.
First, he has an instrument to acquaint himself with, a sound that he's been longing to hear, ever since—
The case of it is untouched, where it's propped up against the wall in the corner of their bedroom. A light coating of dust has settled on the fabric, but he sets it on the clean sheets, reverently, as he unfastens its lock. Inside, an old violin rests, a heirloom with nowhere else to go.
A single regret scratches at the surface of his heart: he never did take the time to learn it, even if Akashi could accompany him on piano, a kindness that did not go both ways.
It's not too late (except that it is) to start.
He knows the basics, just from watching—where he should press down, or how he should hold the bow. He has the fingers for it, he thinks, long and deft, and wonders if it's something he'd thought up on his own, or something someone else once mentioned.
With his eyes closed, he draws the bow over the strings, his fingering tentative but his notes sustained, into a child's practice piece. It's clumsy, like the way he loved; lonely, like the way he misses.
Someday he will manage a nocturne, and make it easier to pretend Akashi is here all the more, but for now his mind merely sings along to the rhyme: little star, how I wonder where you are.