i feel like this didn't necessarily have to be an actual hsm au but like. then it happened and who am i to stop myself from making terrible decisions
mild warnings for language! 1300 wc. because i make terrible decisions ((balls bouncing rhythmically))
“Think about it,” Aomine’s strategically declared “basketball best friend,” Kagami Taiga, begins. “You’re basically standing right between two very clearly drawn out paths and you, you just have to pick one, man. It’s like ripping off a fresh piece of athletic tape.”
Both of them grimace.
Kagami Taiga is, despite how angry his default expression is, the closest thing Aomine has to a level-headed confidant. There aren’t many people on the basketball team, let alone in their high school, that are willing to sit with Aomine in a nearly empty classroom to guide him through his spiritual troubles (re: romance).
“You just have to get your head in the game,” Kagami says, clapping his hand on Aomine’s shoulder and physically turning him so Aomine cannot escape Kagami’s angry forked eyebrows. “Think about it this way. Do you want to spend your life waking up to Kise Ryouta singing Broadway show tunes in the shower? Or do you want to spend your life being chased by paparazzi on the streets because you’re the MVP of the Los Angeles Lakers?”
“I hate the Lakers.”
Kagami stares at him before looking away, gaze angled downward in what Aomine thinks might be pure disappointment. “No wonder you’re getting involved with the wrong crowd. You were never right in the head to start. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Oi,” Aomine says stiffly. “Focus, idiot.”
The disgruntled expression on Kagami’s face defies all reason and becomes even more disgruntled. “It’s not a difficult decision, idiot. You’re a basketball player. You can’t give up your basketballs for theate—”
The door to the classroom opens abruptly and none other than Kise Ryouta is standing in the entryway, looking positively unapologetic about barging in on what Aomine thinks is probably very obviously a private conversation.
“Oh,” Kise says in one breathless sigh. “I thought—I thought Takeuchi-sensei might be here,” he explains with a faint laugh, finished off with a blinding smile that Aomine wants to punch off of his face.
Kise Ryouta is none other than the golden new kid in town. He’s a face everyone already knew prior to his fresh start at their school, recognizable from magazines, from one-episode arcs on now-cancelled daytime soap operas—every drama teacher’s dream (and hence, Taekuchi-sensei’s new favorite student). He’s all of these things while also being the most infuriating presence Aomine has ever had the pleasure of wanting to erase from his life eternally.
“He isn’t here,” Kagami says flatly. He reads the anguish on Aomine’s face and then looks back to Kise, who’s leaning against the doorway, arms crossed against his chest. Kagami Taiga, for all he is dense and actually terrible when it comes to spiritual guidance, is hardly a complete idiot. He rises from his seat with a flourish and clears his throat. “Looks like I have to…wipe some basketballs.”
As he scurries out and Kise wiggles his fingers at him in an annoying farewell, Aomine begins to count the sins he’s committed in his life. At age ten, he remembers ruining Satsuki’s favorite book by “accidentally” using it to save his gum collection in. At age eleven, he remembers ruining Satsuki’s hair by trying to give her a haircut after finding a new place to save his gum collection in. At age twelve—
“Aominecchi,” Kise says, pout evident in his tone alone as he snaps Aomine free from his reverie so the only thing he can really focus on is the fact that Kise is in the desk right next to him, arm propped against the surface with his chin cradled in his hand, golden eyes burning holes right through Aomine’s head.
Dumb nickname, he thinks weakly to himself. There’s no fucking way he’s done anything to warrant this torture.
“Have you considered it?” Kise asks.
“Considered what,” Aomine grumbles back even though he Knows and he Knows that Kise Knows which is probably the worst combination of Knowing ever to exist in Aomine’s futile sixteen years of living.
The pout on Kise’s face grows, lower lip jutting out as he idly kicks Aomine’s shoe (his goddamn favorite pair of Jordans, so fuck you, Kise). Aomine tries to remind himself that he hates pretty boys who know they’re good at everything possible. He tries to remind himself that Kise Ryouta is the picture next to Aomine’s definition of his least favorite type of person. He tries—and he tries in vain—to remind himself that it’s totally, incredibly, wildly unacceptable for him to be contemplating whether Kise’s kisses might taste as sweet as they look and oh, fuck.
“Takeuchi-sensei said our chemistry was off-the-walls! He doesn’t compliment people lightly, you know? So it must mean something. I think—I think it must have been fate! Must have been fate for you to walk in the auditorium that day, at that hour, at—”
How fucking uncool would it be if Kise figured out that the only reason why Aomine stumbled into the auditorium and that day and that hour was because Tetsu happened to be kind enough to divulge that that was where Kise spent his lunch periods. It’s not his fault, in retrospect (or maybe it totally is), that that day and that hour also happened to be auditions for their [Takeuchi-sensei voice] Spring Musicaaaale.
“—are you even listening, Aominecchi?!”
“No,” Aomine says very honestly, suddenly feeling very troubled by how real the concept of self-retribution feels. “Quit calling me that. What kind of a stupid nickname is that anyway?”
Kise sighs.
“And I don’t want to be in your stupid musical so—”
“There’s only one thing stupid between the two of us and that’s you, stuuu~~uupid.” The expression on Kise’s face is positively sullen as he purses his lips together, gaze darting from Aomine’s face to the chalkboard up ahead. “What’s so great about basketball anyway? The uniforms are horrendous.”
“You’re horrendous,” Aomine lies. “The most horrendous.” The least horrendous, probably. The least horrendous, least offensive thing Aomine’s seen his entire life—which is saying a lot, because he’s accidentally seen a lot of things in magazines he technically doesn’t have according to what his mother thinks.
“You’re lying and I can prove it,” Kise says instead of getting offended like he might have any other day. He’s looking at Aomine again, gaze lowered so he’s hardly smiling, just piercing Aomine’s heart and soul with what he’s terrified is a knowing expression. “Just do the callbacks with me, Aominecchi. I just absolutely cannot let Midorimacchi win this leading role. He’s been singing flat all year and the people need my help.”
“Why the fuck would I,” Aomine states, more than inquires, trying his best to look steely and uninterested in the fact that he was most definitely thinking about reaching out to touch Kise’s impossibly golden hair just now.
“Because?”
“Yeah, not convince—”
His words fall short, much like his oxygen supply because before he can finish what he wanted to say, none other than Actual Satan Kise Ryouta is on his feet, torso bent so his face is hovering right in front of Aomine’s, lips only centimeters apart. And really, fuck Kagami for being the worst “basketball best friend” ever and leaving Aomine in this kind of situation because he thinks he might tangibly feel all of his chill leaving him.
“Because,” Kise says slowly, steadily, shifting so his lips are just a half a centimeter away from the lobe of Aomine’s ear, “it might be worth it.”
He is gone as quickly as he came, with that annoyingly twinkly laugh of his lingering in the air as Aomine tries to contemplate what three-digit number to call when it feels like he might actually die.
Aomine Daiki is super cool so fuck the haters who say otherwise but Jesus Christ, he’s starting to wonder if he ever had his head in the game to start.
“Worth it,” he repeats to himself dully, slumping in his seat and staring dully at the ceiling tiles. He will regret this, that much he knows, but he’s already fumbling with his phone to text Kise to ask when the hell callbacks are anyway.
FILL: TEAM IWAIZUMI HAJIME/OIKAWA TOORU, T (borderline g minus language!!)
mild warnings for language!
1300 wc. because i make terrible decisions
((balls bouncing rhythmically))
“Think about it,” Aomine’s strategically declared “basketball best friend,” Kagami Taiga, begins. “You’re basically standing right between two very clearly drawn out paths and you, you just have to pick one, man. It’s like ripping off a fresh piece of athletic tape.”
Both of them grimace.
Kagami Taiga is, despite how angry his default expression is, the closest thing Aomine has to a level-headed confidant. There aren’t many people on the basketball team, let alone in their high school, that are willing to sit with Aomine in a nearly empty classroom to guide him through his spiritual troubles (re: romance).
“You just have to get your head in the game,” Kagami says, clapping his hand on Aomine’s shoulder and physically turning him so Aomine cannot escape Kagami’s angry forked eyebrows. “Think about it this way. Do you want to spend your life waking up to Kise Ryouta singing Broadway show tunes in the shower? Or do you want to spend your life being chased by paparazzi on the streets because you’re the MVP of the Los Angeles Lakers?”
“I hate the Lakers.”
Kagami stares at him before looking away, gaze angled downward in what Aomine thinks might be pure disappointment. “No wonder you’re getting involved with the wrong crowd. You were never right in the head to start. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Oi,” Aomine says stiffly. “Focus, idiot.”
The disgruntled expression on Kagami’s face defies all reason and becomes even more disgruntled. “It’s not a difficult decision, idiot. You’re a basketball player. You can’t give up your basketballs for theate—”
The door to the classroom opens abruptly and none other than Kise Ryouta is standing in the entryway, looking positively unapologetic about barging in on what Aomine thinks is probably very obviously a private conversation.
“Oh,” Kise says in one breathless sigh. “I thought—I thought Takeuchi-sensei might be here,” he explains with a faint laugh, finished off with a blinding smile that Aomine wants to punch off of his face.
Kise Ryouta is none other than the golden new kid in town. He’s a face everyone already knew prior to his fresh start at their school, recognizable from magazines, from one-episode arcs on now-cancelled daytime soap operas—every drama teacher’s dream (and hence, Taekuchi-sensei’s new favorite student). He’s all of these things while also being the most infuriating presence Aomine has ever had the pleasure of wanting to erase from his life eternally.
“He isn’t here,” Kagami says flatly. He reads the anguish on Aomine’s face and then looks back to Kise, who’s leaning against the doorway, arms crossed against his chest. Kagami Taiga, for all he is dense and actually terrible when it comes to spiritual guidance, is hardly a complete idiot. He rises from his seat with a flourish and clears his throat. “Looks like I have to…wipe some basketballs.”
As he scurries out and Kise wiggles his fingers at him in an annoying farewell, Aomine begins to count the sins he’s committed in his life. At age ten, he remembers ruining Satsuki’s favorite book by “accidentally” using it to save his gum collection in. At age eleven, he remembers ruining Satsuki’s hair by trying to give her a haircut after finding a new place to save his gum collection in. At age twelve—
“Aominecchi,” Kise says, pout evident in his tone alone as he snaps Aomine free from his reverie so the only thing he can really focus on is the fact that Kise is in the desk right next to him, arm propped against the surface with his chin cradled in his hand, golden eyes burning holes right through Aomine’s head.
Dumb nickname, he thinks weakly to himself. There’s no fucking way he’s done anything to warrant this torture.
“Have you considered it?” Kise asks.
“Considered what,” Aomine grumbles back even though he Knows and he Knows that Kise Knows which is probably the worst combination of Knowing ever to exist in Aomine’s futile sixteen years of living.
The pout on Kise’s face grows, lower lip jutting out as he idly kicks Aomine’s shoe (his goddamn favorite pair of Jordans, so fuck you, Kise). Aomine tries to remind himself that he hates pretty boys who know they’re good at everything possible. He tries to remind himself that Kise Ryouta is the picture next to Aomine’s definition of his least favorite type of person. He tries—and he tries in vain—to remind himself that it’s totally, incredibly, wildly unacceptable for him to be contemplating whether Kise’s kisses might taste as sweet as they look and oh, fuck.
“Takeuchi-sensei said our chemistry was off-the-walls! He doesn’t compliment people lightly, you know? So it must mean something. I think—I think it must have been fate! Must have been fate for you to walk in the auditorium that day, at that hour, at—”
How fucking uncool would it be if Kise figured out that the only reason why Aomine stumbled into the auditorium and that day and that hour was because Tetsu happened to be kind enough to divulge that that was where Kise spent his lunch periods. It’s not his fault, in retrospect (or maybe it totally is), that that day and that hour also happened to be auditions for their [Takeuchi-sensei voice] Spring Musicaaaale.
“—are you even listening, Aominecchi?!”
“No,” Aomine says very honestly, suddenly feeling very troubled by how real the concept of self-retribution feels. “Quit calling me that. What kind of a stupid nickname is that anyway?”
Kise sighs.
“And I don’t want to be in your stupid musical so—”
“There’s only one thing stupid between the two of us and that’s you, stuuu~~uupid.” The expression on Kise’s face is positively sullen as he purses his lips together, gaze darting from Aomine’s face to the chalkboard up ahead. “What’s so great about basketball anyway? The uniforms are horrendous.”
“You’re horrendous,” Aomine lies. “The most horrendous.” The least horrendous, probably. The least horrendous, least offensive thing Aomine’s seen his entire life—which is saying a lot, because he’s accidentally seen a lot of things in magazines he technically doesn’t have according to what his mother thinks.
“You’re lying and I can prove it,” Kise says instead of getting offended like he might have any other day. He’s looking at Aomine again, gaze lowered so he’s hardly smiling, just piercing Aomine’s heart and soul with what he’s terrified is a knowing expression. “Just do the callbacks with me, Aominecchi. I just absolutely cannot let Midorimacchi win this leading role. He’s been singing flat all year and the people need my help.”
“Why the fuck would I,” Aomine states, more than inquires, trying his best to look steely and uninterested in the fact that he was most definitely thinking about reaching out to touch Kise’s impossibly golden hair just now.
“Because?”
“Yeah, not convince—”
His words fall short, much like his oxygen supply because before he can finish what he wanted to say, none other than Actual Satan Kise Ryouta is on his feet, torso bent so his face is hovering right in front of Aomine’s, lips only centimeters apart. And really, fuck Kagami for being the worst “basketball best friend” ever and leaving Aomine in this kind of situation because he thinks he might tangibly feel all of his chill leaving him.
“Because,” Kise says slowly, steadily, shifting so his lips are just a half a centimeter away from the lobe of Aomine’s ear, “it might be worth it.”
He is gone as quickly as he came, with that annoyingly twinkly laugh of his lingering in the air as Aomine tries to contemplate what three-digit number to call when it feels like he might actually die.
Aomine Daiki is super cool so fuck the haters who say otherwise but Jesus Christ, he’s starting to wonder if he ever had his head in the game to start.
“Worth it,” he repeats to himself dully, slumping in his seat and staring dully at the ceiling tiles. He will regret this, that much he knows, but he’s already fumbling with his phone to text Kise to ask when the hell callbacks are anyway.