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Kise Ryouta is eight when he first discovers that he is different.
There is a fine line that separates fantasy from reality in the world of an eight-year-old, and he isn’t sure which he is living in when he brings his dead golden retriever back to life. It happens on an empty street when the stiff, blood-matted form of his dog nearly crushes his soul. And he cries, wraps his all-too-frail arms around her dirtied fur, and doesn’t breathe, doesn’t dare to.
Until there is a surge of familiar warmth and a rapid heartbeat echoing in his ears, Kise’s breath catches, and—
He is afraid.
.
.
—of himself, more than anything.
.
.
Later that night, Kise learns that nothing comes for free when he pets his best friend, ruffles her saffron fur with affection in his fingertips. He scratches her lovingly until she closes her eyes and falls asleep, breath slowing, heart fading.
And he wonders if he was given this power for a special purpose.
But he soon finds that he is just a normal boy with a terrible gift who is crying into the night for his dog that woke up once and never again.
.
.
Kise Ryouta is sixteen when he falls in love.
He is a boy with pastel hair and moon-kissed skin who seems to disappear like a star in daylight.
“Ouch, I’m so sorry!” The first time he meets him, Kise topples him over into a pile of books at the back of the library.
“It’s alright,” Is his simple reply, and Kise finds he is quite down to earth for someone who walks around with his head in clouds.
“No, really, I’ll make it up to you.” With a crooked grin, he runs a hand through his hair, grabs a fistful of gold. “I’m Kise Ryouta.”
The boy smiles back.
“Kuroko Tetsuya.”
He is all pale lips, eyes like the sea and—
Kise is gone, gone, gone.
.
.
The next day, he returns to the library at the same time and place, but—
Kuroko is not alone.
He is with another boy, caramel-skinned and deep blue hair.
He knows him—Aomine Daiki—and he knows that he is everything Kise has ever wanted to be (and more).
They are smiling and laughing, and Aomine throws an arm around a narrow shoulder, and Kuroko stares back at him with those sea-storm eyes and—
Kise is gone, gone, gone.
.
.
He doesn’t come back the next day or the day after.
.
.
Kise Ryouta is twenty when he sees the star-like boy again.
It happens on an empty street, with no one else around to be seen, and he is slumped over in the passenger seat of a car that has had its front smashed in. The side of his face is dried with the sanguine of blood, lips dried and cracked, and Kise doesn’t think this wretched soul of his could possibly break any further.
But.
He is afraid.
He is afraid because he hasn’t felt this way in twelve damn years, and he doesn’t know what will happen, what he should do, what he shouldn’t do.
But Kuroko is right in front of him after four even longer years, cold and stiff and this isn’t right. Because no matter how dim or how often forgotten, a star belongs in the sky.
But at this rate he’ll be buried six feet under the weight of the world.
And Kise won’t have that.
.
.
He kisses Kuroko for the first and last time.
Moments pass, and those stark, pale eyes stare into his, all muddied hazel. He’s so scarily real and beautiful, it makes Kise wants to forget about everything, about the weight of his actions, and just breathe.
He licks his lips, tastes the blood, and—
.
.
“Are you an angel?”
.
.
“No.” He says, barely above a murmur. “I’m not.”
.
.
He hasn’t forgotten that his power comes with a price.
And so when and Kuroko wordlessly shows up at his doorstep with a duffel bag and Nigou in his arms, Kise hates himself a little more.
“It’s not your fault,” Kuroko offers, calm, too calm. “My mother’s health was already failing. My father, too. That accident was unavoidable.”
It doesn’t make him feel any better.
“Why didn’t you go to Aominecchi?” Kise bites his lips the moment the words fall off his tongue, wishes he hadn’t said that.
Kuroko stills, drops the spoon into his bowl of chicken noodle, half-empty. “He’s just a friend.”
And Kise wonders why he tells him this, wonders why he wants to believe him so badly.
“And I’m not?”
“No.” Kuroko smiles, and there is a glint in his eyes when he says, “You never were.”
.
.
Kise loses track of the days spent together and all the countless times he wishes he could feel Kuroko without the barrier of gloves in the way.
All the urges he has felt to just trace his soft lips with his fingertips, kiss him from the corner of his mouth to his pale collar bones, hold him close, so close.
If he could kiss him, hug him, make a mess of him, Kise wonders what kind of face Kuroko would make, what kind of things he would say.
But.
Other times, he would find himself sinking into a pit of self-loathing, and I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.
Kuroko doesn’t blame him; he never does. He only wraps Kise with the comforter, holds him close, and lets him breathe.
It is never enough.
.
.
“I’m probably the very last person you should be spending your life with, Kurokocchi.”
Kise’s mouth slants, upturned lips bitter.
“Don’t say that. I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for you.”
“I’m also the reason you could die at any moment.”
“If you leave me now, I’ll surely die.”
Kuroko smiles, all pale lips and crescent-shaped eyes (he was always weak to that), and—
Kise is gone, gone, gone.