Kuroko had put it best: “Some things are called ‘miracles’, because we are astonished at a thing when observing an effect without knowing the cause.” Akashi’s face settles into a fond sliver of a smile and his hand on Kuroko’s waist is equal parts possessive and, in his own way, gentle.
“Are we the cause?” Kise had asked, lovely, handsome face pulled into a pout. “Or the effect?” And Kuroko made that wonderful face, the one where his laughter lit up his eyes. (And if Kise falls asleep with his head on Kuroko’s lap, Kuroko still reading Aquinas, nobody minds.)
It’s no longer a game. What they have for each other is almost blackmail: there’s a sheer destructive power that goes beyond the realm of middle-school basketball. Akashi guards his own jealously, fiercely--and Kagami is a part of that now. (He burns like Daiki and makes Tetsuya look so much more alive, seem so much less ephemeral than before, with two stars blazing in his sights. If Seijuuro were a weaker man he’d look away. When Daiki and Taiga are together, it is almost like they are soldiers, each fighting a war of attrition for the same side.) Even when they were kids, Akashi had always played seriously, for keeps.
But it’s a different thing: now they are no longer victory in technicolor, no longer in neat roles and bound by murderous strategy. Now Akashi eviscerates suited businessmen and does not come home for weeks, smells like airplanes and sleeps like the dead once home.
Akashi’s schedule rules their behavior as much as Akashi himself: when he’s gone, Murasakibara and Kise miss him and say as much. Aomine is rawer at the edges, Midorima all the more reactive. Kagami watches them all lose focus, just a little, and admits to nobody (well, to Kuroko, once) that the Generation of Miracles seem better when they are all present, together.
And together, they’re a mess--which is not to say that Murasakibara has ever minded clutter. “It’s not hard,” he shrugs, crunching his way through what seems like his fifth bag of potato chips. “Aka-chin makes clear choices. No bargains.” Kuroko’s chest moves steadily, up and down, eyelashes pale against his cheek. “No settling.”
It is his actual fifth bag of chips. But it’s the first time he’s ever had this flavor. So it’s kind of like his first bag. Even if Aka-chin is his first kiss, can’t he have first kisses with everyone? “Kuro-chin is boring when he sleeps,” he grumbles, and folds up the empty packet.
Kagami finds Murasakibara curled up around Kuroko’s frame, mouth blowing a gentle breeze through his hair. Nearly every part of his body remains uncovered by the blanket Kagami unfolds, but Kuroko looks warm.
Kise has a way of looking at people like they’re the only ones who matter to him. Like Kuroko is his whole world, like Aomine will be the death of him--a death that he welcomes with open arms. He’s playful, aware that he was handsome, and a natural tease.
“Midorimacchi,” he says, and his voice is soft and breathy, blush rising on his face like they’re still kids. Oha Asa said that he’d have trouble with blondes today.
Basketball taught them a lot off-court: it gave Midorima a sense of focus like a laser. Kise kisses like he’ll never kiss someone again, tongue swirling soft and wet. Mirror images, Gemini, Kise’s mouth on his; Perfect Copy, in a way, in the breaths they exhale in counterpoint.
It’s almost like overtime: when time stretches out slow and quicksilver all at once, when every second matters and every touch blazes on the skin. Kagami waits for a buzzer that never sounds. (And it really is like a different world, ensconced between multicolor flames. It’s hard to explain to outsiders exactly this: how Kise relies on them all for definition; how Aomine always comes back, to compete, to burn; how Kuroko hums, content and sated, eyes bright and happy; how Midorima’s fingers shake when he touches someone; how Murasakibara seems so much more, how his spirit fills out his body when he sees them all at once, eye taking in every color of the rainbow.)
“Kagami, please come back to bed.” Kuroko’s voice is stifled by the noise of Aomine snoring. Kagami pushes at him lightly, disrupting the noise, and sighs at the drool that Kise leaves on his pillow before nudging aside Midorima. He can spot Akashi’s red hair in the dead center of their little pile of limbs.
Sleep comes easily.
It’s curious to see how something that used to be so destructive can come together to make something unique, something wonderful.
FILL: TEAM AKAASHI KEIJI/BOKUTO KOUTAROU/KUROO TETSUROU, G
790 words
It’s hard to describe what they are to outsiders.
Kuroko had put it best: “Some things are called ‘miracles’, because we are astonished at a thing when observing an effect without knowing the cause.” Akashi’s face settles into a fond sliver of a smile and his hand on Kuroko’s waist is equal parts possessive and, in his own way, gentle.
“Are we the cause?” Kise had asked, lovely, handsome face pulled into a pout. “Or the effect?” And Kuroko made that wonderful face, the one where his laughter lit up his eyes. (And if Kise falls asleep with his head on Kuroko’s lap, Kuroko still reading Aquinas, nobody minds.)
It’s no longer a game. What they have for each other is almost blackmail: there’s a sheer destructive power that goes beyond the realm of middle-school basketball. Akashi guards his own jealously, fiercely--and Kagami is a part of that now. (He burns like Daiki and makes Tetsuya look so much more alive, seem so much less ephemeral than before, with two stars blazing in his sights. If Seijuuro were a weaker man he’d look away. When Daiki and Taiga are together, it is almost like they are soldiers, each fighting a war of attrition for the same side.) Even when they were kids, Akashi had always played seriously, for keeps.
But it’s a different thing: now they are no longer victory in technicolor, no longer in neat roles and bound by murderous strategy. Now Akashi eviscerates suited businessmen and does not come home for weeks, smells like airplanes and sleeps like the dead once home.
Akashi’s schedule rules their behavior as much as Akashi himself: when he’s gone, Murasakibara and Kise miss him and say as much. Aomine is rawer at the edges, Midorima all the more reactive. Kagami watches them all lose focus, just a little, and admits to nobody (well, to Kuroko, once) that the Generation of Miracles seem better when they are all present, together.
And together, they’re a mess--which is not to say that Murasakibara has ever minded clutter. “It’s not hard,” he shrugs, crunching his way through what seems like his fifth bag of potato chips. “Aka-chin makes clear choices. No bargains.” Kuroko’s chest moves steadily, up and down, eyelashes pale against his cheek. “No settling.”
It is his actual fifth bag of chips. But it’s the first time he’s ever had this flavor. So it’s kind of like his first bag. Even if Aka-chin is his first kiss, can’t he have first kisses with everyone? “Kuro-chin is boring when he sleeps,” he grumbles, and folds up the empty packet.
Kagami finds Murasakibara curled up around Kuroko’s frame, mouth blowing a gentle breeze through his hair. Nearly every part of his body remains uncovered by the blanket Kagami unfolds, but Kuroko looks warm.
Kise has a way of looking at people like they’re the only ones who matter to him. Like Kuroko is his whole world, like Aomine will be the death of him--a death that he welcomes with open arms. He’s playful, aware that he was handsome, and a natural tease.
“Midorimacchi,” he says, and his voice is soft and breathy, blush rising on his face like they’re still kids. Oha Asa said that he’d have trouble with blondes today.
Basketball taught them a lot off-court: it gave Midorima a sense of focus like a laser. Kise kisses like he’ll never kiss someone again, tongue swirling soft and wet. Mirror images, Gemini, Kise’s mouth on his; Perfect Copy, in a way, in the breaths they exhale in counterpoint.
It’s almost like overtime: when time stretches out slow and quicksilver all at once, when every second matters and every touch blazes on the skin. Kagami waits for a buzzer that never sounds. (And it really is like a different world, ensconced between multicolor flames. It’s hard to explain to outsiders exactly this: how Kise relies on them all for definition; how Aomine always comes back, to compete, to burn; how Kuroko hums, content and sated, eyes bright and happy; how Midorima’s fingers shake when he touches someone; how Murasakibara seems so much more, how his spirit fills out his body when he sees them all at once, eye taking in every color of the rainbow.)
“Kagami, please come back to bed.” Kuroko’s voice is stifled by the noise of Aomine snoring. Kagami pushes at him lightly, disrupting the noise, and sighs at the drool that Kise leaves on his pillow before nudging aside Midorima. He can spot Akashi’s red hair in the dead center of their little pile of limbs.
Sleep comes easily.
It’s curious to see how something that used to be so destructive can come together to make something unique, something wonderful.