Chapter Text
*
“Wait. Is this Motomiya at an actual loss for words?”
Daisuke does not bite, another sign.
Takeru leans down, swipes the water bottle he’d left near Daisuke’s court side chair. Sees the fidgeting knee and the deep set scowl, and takes his time rehydrating.
“Daisuke.”
The exaggerated tone he’d used with each syllable does nothing. He tosses the empty bottle at him, only for Daisuke to swerve, grumbling under his breath, narrowed brown eyes fixed across the gym in a hard glare.
Takeru swivels. “Who’re you here for but me?” he asks, then spots his teammate who’s gesturing him back to their huddle, mirroring that million-watt smile with a blue-eyed one of his own. Some of the cheerleaders see him waving and shout his name, and Takeru’s modest enough to pretend to blush. Now coach sees him, too, less pleased with the distraction. Takeru lifts his hand in apology and turns back. “Is your mouth going to work at all tonight, or are you—?”
“What do you want me to say?” bursts Daisuke, so far over the edge he’s in freefall. “It’s not like I can have a conversation over the sound of this ridiculous crowd—who are all for the other team, okay, so let’s check that ego before you try flashing that stupid smile at those girls again—real athletes don’t need cheerleaders, you know—and who you should be talking to is your four, he’s wide the fuck open every time but you apparently can’t see that with how often you send an assist to your little friend instead—like, for all your talk about basketball being some great selfless sport, in football we’re actually looking for each other, yeah? You don’t see me running the field without knowing exactly where mine are, while you, despite playing in this shoebox of a court and still expecting me to believe this game is about endurance, you still can’t figure out how to make an offensive play that isn’t about putting your five in the worst possib—what?” he yells, strangled, because Takeru’s head is rolled back into a bellowing laugh, damp blond hair curling around his head like some damn halo.
“You were paying attention to me.”
“I’m paying attention to the game,” thunders Daisuke, “a game that could use your attention instead of giving it to every dumb guy who’s—,”
He’s nearly off the edge of his seat with how far Takeru’s yanked him up by the collar of his shirt. Lips bruised and breathless. Smelling like sweat, tasting like salt crushed with iron.
“I take it back,” he says after another kiss pressed so hard Daisuke knows he’s adored. Takeru shoves him into the chair again, walking backwards onto the court, grinning. “You should shut up.”
*