Archive of Our Own

“Kuroko!” a boisterous man enthuses, waving as he finds Tetsuya on duty at the counter. “Heard you were still looking to play! How would you like to become a basketball coach?”

Tetsuya watches the man from his neighbourhood fiddling with his cellphone. “A basketball… coach?”

“A school’s just had an opening.” The phone is held out, and on its screen is a text message with a name.

Tetsuya reads it.

Teikou Junior High.

They say memory is fleeting, but Teikou Junior High is every bit the imposing figure out of past memories. The cloudless blue sky is ever-present, an open expanse from which he tumbled out of over a year ago.

“You must be… Kuroko-san?” asks Sanada Naoto. Straight brown hair. Rectangle glasses. Head coach of the Teikou first string. When Tetsuya first met him, Sanada was the assistant head coach under Shirogane Kouzou. Sanada raises an eyebrow, glancing down at Tetsuya’s name and back at his face again. “Is this a joke?”

Tetsuya takes the paper, following the required formalities, then writes an alternate reading above the characters.

“Ah. A foreigner?” Sanada looks at Tetsuya’s hair colour and nods to himself. “Fine. Then to matters. Hotaru, who recommended you, is someone I have known since elementary school, and I do not mean to doubt his recommendation. But… If you’re to replace Shirogane-san in the next school year, I hope you can prove yourself. With the students on the court.”

“Of course.”

They walk through the hallways, one a fraction slower than the other. Teiko’s students peer at this new adult in their midst. Whispers start after Tetsuya passes. They're young and curious, with manners an afterthought.

Through the courtyard and past the football field are the basketball gymnasiums. Students are already at their after-school clubs, their small bodies doing laps around the grounds.

“Incidentally… the kanji in your last name. An unusual combination.” Sanada pauses. “It's the same as one of our first string students. Would you happen to—”

“I know him.”

“Really?”

“Yes. He’s in his second year, I think. Kuroko Tetsuya?”

Sanada examines Tetsuya skeptically. “You’re sure your name is not a joke?”

“I don't think I am,” says Tetsuya, “It's not that funny.”

Kuroko Tetsuya, age 25, has been living in the past for one year and eight months. Technically, that should put him at age 26. That depends if he ever makes it back to his future life—however everything ends up.

It's not as if he's made plans for the kind of career move called falling out of the sky and landing in the past.

It took a while to wrap his head around. That high school teammates turned working-age basketball buddies are now younger than him. How the people who mean something to him are strangers. Shigehiro. His college friends. Seirin High School had no basketball club when he went to visit. Tetsuya had stared at it: the buildings, courtyards, figures of children dressed for other sports, and cherry blossom trees yet to go into bloom.

Then he turned around and found himself a job to afford necessities and rent for a Tokyo apartment. He somehow scraped by with enough English from Taiga to get a job in one of the museums at the city. Being ever-practical, he went about giving tours and earning money and didn’t spend time mulling over how this time travel thing came about, nor about going back.

Until basketball brought him back.

Who knew that joining a neighbourhood casual basketball group would lead to meeting a person with connections to his junior high? Who could have known that, though the basketball group was beginning to disband, Tetsuya made enough of an impact on one of its members that he could be recommended directly to Teikou after their first string head coach fell suddenly ill?

Nobody. Not Seijuurou.

Most certainly not Tetsuya.

Perhaps there’s something here, is all he thinks, when he reaches the first string gym with his former coach, and returns an even look to two dozen middle schoolers openly staring at this light-haired stranger, unabashed. His eyes skip over Murasakibara twice before he finds his younger self fading away behind the others. Tetsuya sees the young Akashi’s eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he identifies this new adult can see Kuroko without being introduced.

None of the others notice.

He reflects that Seijuurou has always been subtly obsessive about having a Phantom Sixth in his ranks.

“In the aftermath of Coach Shirogane’s current condition, we may be bringing in a new assistant. This is Mr. Cox.” Sanada says the mister, as if it's to remind himself the name must be foreign. “He will be here for a short while.”

“I’m just visiting,” says Tetsuya, gathering the attention of two dozen pairs of eyes. “Please treat me well.”

‘Cox’ is a basic name that comes out of reading ‘Kuroko’ as ‘Kokusu’. Seeing no reason to use an alias, twenty-six year old Tetsuya still goes by ‘Kuroko Tetsuya’ in all places. In situations that might be confusing, the other reading is used for the sake of convenience.

Such as now.

Being in a room with another version of himself.

It appears that a group of middle school boys are the opposite of sensible, because three of them have already asked the young Kuroko if he is related to this new Mr. Cox, since they look rather similar? Kuroko has given two of them flat stares and one the response of, “Please stop badgering me, Kise-kun,” and hardly given Tetsuya a third glance before fading into the backdrop.

Tetsuya isn’t sure if the faint fluffy feeling in his chest is embarrassment or amazement.

“What about both?” he hears the remark in his head belonging to one of his college friends. “Do you mind both?”

No. He does not.

Tetsuya is here with a task and it’s not being self-absorbed in his future’s past. He returns to watching the students play their practice match. Momoi appears by his shoulder, updating the scoreboard. It’s not until Tetsuya makes a soft sound that she jumps a foot in the air and squeaks, arms flying up.

He catches her and hears the sound of a basket. She straightens and brushes her skirt. Feeling responsible for her slip, Tetsuya reaches over and marks the point.

Something changes about Aomine’s play after that.

Whether Aomine’s play genuinely changes, or the young Momoi’s antics remind him he should focus… truthfully, Tetsuya isn’t the type of person that can tell the difference.

What matters in the end is that Cox holds up a hand after Aomine’s next shot and everything stops.

“Aomine-kun, isn’t it?” says the visitor.

All five foot eight of Aomine’s brilliant belligerence bristles as he scowls. “Yeah? What?”

“That was sloppy.”

“I made the shot,” the boy defends.

“No,” says the visitor, the displaced time traveller who has seen the man this boy would become. “You could have made a better shot.”

The collective jaws in the room drop.

Tetsuya ignores this reaction, still comparing the young Aomine’s movements with future pro-league Daiki scoring a truly ridiculously talented shot. It comes more naturally than expected since Tetsuya’s basketball has always been more about observing the individual more than anything else. Before he can stop himself, he’s already saying, “How are you going to beat anyone stronger than you if you score like that?”

“Hey! I’m the strongest—”

“For now.”

Aomine gapes. Even Midorima is faintly wide-eyed, the only member of the Generation of Miracles with a burgeoning sense of this foresight. After all, scoring from somewhere untouchable means being able to avoid facing stronger opponents head-on.

In the ensuing pause, Tetsuya figures it out.

“There’s a habit in your instep from compensating for a shorter height,” says Mr. Cox. “If you fix it, you’ll have access to more options.”

Aomine takes a breath to protest—

—and then the look in his face sharpens. What laxness remains in the young dark-skinned boy’s features morphs into determination once he realises that Tetsuya is serious and Tetsuya could be right.

Something in Tetsuya’s chest becomes fond at seeing this spark.

“Pardon my interruption,” Tetsuya murmurs.

He drops his presence to Momoi’s and doesn’t fail to notice six boys observing him.

“The Generation of Miracles is a group with anomalous potential,” is what Sanada says to the headmaster when it comes down to deciding if Teikou will hire this young adult or not. “What they can do is almost impossible to imagine. And finally, we’ll never find another person capable of cultivating that.”

Privately, Tetsuya isn’t sure if he did that much. He’s just a shadow from the future. It’s not like he had any cultivating in mind when he made his remarks.

But that’s how Mr. Cox becomes known as the only person who can see a path for the Generation of Miracles, a phenomenon which will come ever once.

If he’s going to do this, he’ll do it.

If he’s going to do this, he’ll make them the best.

Tetsuya finds those thoughts crossing his head about a week into the new school year. He tucks his hands into his trousers, fiddling with some cherry blossom petals in his right hand while his left hand closes over emptiness. The phrases are more Riko’s philosophy than his. Even now, she’s the coach who influenced him the most.

What a coach is like.

What a coach should do.

What a coach…

“Oi,” young Murasakibara calls out.

Tetsuya stops walking. Half a candy bar is sticking out of the corner of Murasakibara’s mouth.

Somehow, the Murasakibara who spends his time in his own mind finds the newest and youngest Teikou coach more interesting than his sweets and worth the effort of approaching, which is... unheard of.

“Yes?” says Tetsuya, when it seems the middle-schooler is waiting.

“Anything for me?” Murasakibara asks, blunt.

“I don’t have candy on me.”

“No. Idiot.”

Tetsuya raises his brows.

“… Mister.” Murasakibara adds belatedly.

The barely civilised conversation turns into a stare-down; one with no need for answers and the other waiting for the first to make his point.

With tourist season beginning to pick up lately, Tetsuya is doing more museum tours. His habits from work manifest as he takes his hands out of his pockets. He leans forwards a little and makes a small gesture, indicating they should walk together to the gymnasium.

The walk seems to help.

“I want to know,” Murasakibara explains, poking Tetsuya’s scalp.

…

Future Atsushi was like this too, Tetsuya reflects dimly. A college basketball opponent with a tricky pass once made Atsushi angry enough to kidnap Tetsuya for a week to practice.

Somehow, Tetsuya should have realised that the hungriest of Miracles would want a taste after giving them a hint of their futures.

Just like the kids have school assemblies, adults have many meetings.

Tetsuya is tired. A foreigner couple lost their child today.

Mysteriously, every other translator happened to go missing.

“I want to train them against high-schoolers,” Tetsuya contributes, when it’s his turn around the coaches’ circle. The meetings happen late at night, once every few weeks, after practice has ended. Tetsuya’s ears are still ringing. He struggles through a headache. “Murasakibara-kun is too tall to be playing against the others. Aomine-kun would benefit from the challenge. And Kise-kun’s growth is directly proportional to the strength of his opponents.”

“What of Akashi-kun and Midorima-kun?”

“They haven’t hit their limit in the regular practices.”

“You can’t possibly be thinking of three versus a full team of five high schoolers?”

“Four,” says Tetsuya. “I would like to bring Kuroko-kun.”

“Kuroko-kun?” Sanada zeroes in on the name again. “I haven’t seen you interacting with him yet. How do you know…?”

“I know how he plays in matches,” says Tetsuya. His words are sharper than usual, he hears how they sound. He closes his eyes like a grimace. “My apologies. I might have misled. I know that Kuroko-kun’s method of playing in matches is different to what he does in practice. Hence— Hence, he needs to play in practice matches as much as possible to see improvement.”

Sanada seems satisfied with this explanation and nods.

“Coach Shirogane mentioned that option,” says Sanada, “but put bluntly, because he was the one making arrangements, we lost the connections…”

Tetsuya tries to focus. The headache is making it hard to understand what the coach is saying. And then he realises it’s not the headache but a slow, seeping realisation which has taken his skull between immense implications and cracked his head open like a delicate egg shell.

Would the Generation of Miracles have fractured if Coach Shirogane hadn’t disappeared in the original timeline?

“—Mr. Cox?”

“I understand,” says Tetsuya. “Then… to save them, we’ll just need connections to a high school basketball club?”

“Save them?”

The other coaches, older than Tetsuya, glance around the circle. The look in their eyes suggests they’re thinking about how Tetsuya is only in his twenties. What does he mean by ‘saving’ them? Who is this person who came out of nowhere on Sanada’s friend’s recommendation?

At last the response comes to Tetsuya:

“Yes.”

—and Kuroko Tetsuya, twenty-six, who works at a museum while also coaching the Teikou basketball club first string, finds the answer to why he’s here.

None of this is coincidence.

Tetsuya meets the other coaches’ eyes, and says softly, “I might have one.”

Kokubunji Technical High School is about twenty years old, and the buildings show it. Yet compared to the main areas, the gymnasium that Tetsuya and his four boys are directed to looks brand new. The brickwork is fresh and the painted doors are bright in the light. On their approach, they're spotted by an adult in a tie and a button down and combed hair and round glasses.

Nobody could look more like a teacher if they tried.

“Kuroko-san!” The teacher calls. “Thank you for coming!”

All the boys jump, including the younger Kuroko. Confusion emerges when the teacher makes a beeline towards Tetsuya.

Tetsuya realises he probably should have mentioned something when he arranged the practice match.

“Please call me Mr. Cox, Matsuda-san,” says Tetsuya. “That’s how my students know me.”

“Oh, alright. Seeing as you’re doing us a favour, that’s the least I could do. Well, good that you have been able to attend, Mr. Cox. Come, this way.”

“Let’s go,” Tetsuya prompts the middle-schoolers.

As one, they follow.

“Matsuda-san’s girlfriend is one of my co-workers,” says Tetsuya. He wouldn’t offer this information, except the four boys are buzzing in a way that has Tetsuya wondering if this strange introduction is making them distracted. Judging by their suddenly attentive gazes, Tetsuya guessed right. “I helped him with the basketball team for a few weeks last year.”

“What your Mr. Cox means is that he won the neighbourhood basketball group match, and lost the following bet between adults when we went drinking,” Matsuda-san winks.

Mr. Cox suddenly radiates an intense irritation, causing the four boys to ogle. “I did not lose that bet.”

“No, you just didn't win.”

“That's worse. I demand you take that back.”

“No can do, Kuro—Cox.” Matsuda grins. “If you insist, let’s settle it with our students!”

“Then our four versus five from your side, as discussed.”

“Four v five?” Kise exclaims, loudly enough that the sound of sneakers inside the gym fall quiet. “Seriously? Us four against five?”

Cox and Matsuda exchange an adult glance that has their groups separate. Matsuda heads inside the gym and the Teikou guests go around the outside.

“That's right,” Cox agrees.

“Really? Why?” says Murasakibara.

“I’m not sure.”

To Tetsuya’s surprise, it's quiet Kuroko who answers, “That's not very reassuring.”

When they arrive at the change rooms, Tetsuya waits by the door while thinking through his next response. “Believe it or not, I’m not actually a coach—”

“We know,” Aomine mutters, his shirt half-off.

“—on the other hand, Matsuda-san is a good teacher. I don't think he'll put too many third years in.”

“And what if he does?” Kuroko asks.

“Four against five? Third-year high schoolers?” says Kise, clearly hung up on advanced mental mathematics.

Tetsuya scratches his nose. “Well, we have to look up to the next level since there aren’t many middle schools that can run a defence against Teikou Junior High. Aomine-kun, Murasakibara-kun, the two of you are too used to being unstoppable. If we play in lower numbers, they'll have more people to guard. Right?”

“If they put three high-schoolers on one of us…” Kise mutters. “How would you get out?”

Tetsuya points. “That’s what Kuroko-kun is for.”

“Eh?”

“You’ll need to use teamwork.”

“Teamwork,” says Aomine flatly.

“Yes, like passes.”

“I know what teamwork is!” Aomine rolls his eyes. “What I wanna know is—that sensei mentioned you won a game, Cox! Tell me! Are you strong?”

In the ensuing silence, nobody takes a breath. Murasakibara, quietly listening, even stops chewing his chocolate bar to hear the result.

“Strong enough,” answers Tetsuya. “In high school, my team won the Nationals once. Unfortunately we lost our Centre and our Power Forward after that.” Tetsuya meets Aomine's eyes. There’s something unfair about being only a handful of inches shorter than a middle-schooler. “If you challenge me, I would lose. Our positions aren’t the right match.”

“What’s yours?” Kuroko asks.

Tetsuya thinks. “Point Guard, I guess.”

“Oh!” Kise enthuses, “Like Akashicchi!”

“More or less.”

Nothing else is said before Matsuda-san introduces their group to the gymnasium full of high-schoolers. Tetsuya takes one look and realises he might have overlooked how more than height and muscle separates a boy at fourteen and seventeen. Maturity, judgement, experience… By how Matsuda is talking to his club members, he knows that Tetsuya has underestimated them.

Something about Matsuda’s smile ticks him off.

“Well,” Tetsuya says seriously to his group of four. “If you're getting beaten too much, I can be your Point Guard.”

“I’m not sure that's reassuring,” says Kuroko.

“Forget it,” says Murasakibara. “You just don't want the other coaches at school to know you lost.”

“We just have to win, huh?” Kise makes a lazy wink.

Aomine pounds his fist into his palm. “Bring it!”

Everything settles into place. In the face of this ridiculous challenge, this group of middle-schoolers just looks excited.

Can it be this easy to save the Generation of Miracles?

Tetsuya wonders.

“Show them what you’ve got,” he says.

The boys walk onto the court. “All right!”

They play Kokubunji Tech three times the week before the high school interhigh, and Matsuda-san falls over himself thanking Tetsuya for helping his boys with their reflexes. Murasakibara appears to lose interest in whatever taste Tetsuya brought with him to the basketball team and goes back to doing nothing, though Tetsuya has spotted him badgering Aomine once. Aomine seems to have found enough to use Kise as a bouncing board, and Kise alternates between being pleased about something and thoughtfully watching people when he thinks nobody notices him. In the end, Kuroko’s presence goes missing in a way that Tetsuya recognises as the boy deep in attempts to work something out, and Tetsuya doesn't go after him because he's not really a coach and he has no idea how to give advice to himself.

… All this somehow leads Midorima to the conclusion that it’s the right time to approach Mr. Cox.

“Huh?” says Tetsuya. He blinks up at the tall preteen. “What?”

“I don't understand why someone like you is assigned as our coach,” young Midorima repeats, identical in intonation, adjusting his glasses.

Tetsuya stares for another moment, taken aback that this boy is the younger version of the Shintarou who smiled while getting married holding a spatula. It must have been a moment too long because Midorima’s lips scrunch up over his teeth like there’s no difference between talking to Tetsuya and spotting an unsightly bug.

It will take a long time before the young Kuroko interprets that micro-movement as uncertainty in the shooter.

“Sorry,” says Tetsuya, momentarily forgetting that apologising means confirming whatever strange conclusion Midorima reaches. “I mean—you’re correct. I’m not much of a coach, to be honest.”

Midorima’s eyes widen slightly behind his glasses. “You're agreeing with me?”

“I wouldn’t disagree with the truth.”

Midorima closes his mouth.

“I know I’m not a coach,” Tetsuya continues, “but…”

He’s realised some things since understanding his presence in this timeline is not coincidence. Keeping Aomine engaged. Finding ways for Murasakibara to enjoy himself without being afraid of hurting people. Helping Kise find challenges to prove himself against. Forcing his younger self to recognise that a smart enemy will get around his passes by shutting his shooters out with guards…

“I’m just me,” Tetsuya says. “Because of my position, I watch others.”

“Wrong,” says Midorima.

“Eh?”

“I have heard… the story… that you have won some Nationals, and you play as a Point Guard. But surely you don’t believe I can be fooled? You have never once directed any of us from the sidelines.”

Tetsuya considers it. “Ah.”

“You refused to play against Aomine—”

“So everyone knows,” Tetsuya mutters.

“—and I can only think of two possibilities. You are weak. Or you are lying. I cannot accept advice for my basketball from someone who is either, therefore, please do not attempt to direct my growth as you have done with the others.”

“I wasn't planning on it,” Tetsuya admits.

“As I acknowledge your impact, I am informing you now that I will refuse to follo—” Midorima does a double-take. “What?”

“You know what to do already,” Tetsuya points out.

“I—I do. Yes.”

“Nobody will ever become as individually good as a scorer as you, and I have nothing I can say that you can’t work out yourself.”

Midorima closes his open mouth.

“You’re strong,” says Tetsuya. “I didn’t bring you with me to Kokubunji Tech because you don’t need it. Your thinking happens outside of matches, not in them.”

“I underestimated you.”

“Most do.”

Midorima pauses, and then tilts his head to examine Tetsuya from the corner of one eye. “You… you resemble Kuroko, Mr. Cox.”

“I have been told that.”

“But you have a different style.”

“Perhaps,” Tetsuya agrees, “but not dissimilar.”

Midorima mulls.

Tetsuya has become different to the young Kuroko, and waits for Midorima to finish thinking before he makes a disappearance.

“It feels like you know everything about me. I wouldn't want to face you in an official match.”

“Oh,” Tetsuya suddenly remembers—there is one thing. “I have a suggestion.”

“You just said you would not give me advice.”

“I can tell you what you will learn from defeat, without having to experience it.”

Midorima contemplates. “Fine.”

“The ‘fate’ you aim for with the threes that never miss—”

“Impossible. How do you know that?”

“People will find a way to beat it.”

“People cannot avoid fate.”

“On a real court, basketball revolves around the fates of five people,” Tetsuya says instead. “Not one.”

It’s a lifelong fact in every timeline that it's hard to earn money if people never notice you showing up to work. Tetsuya has taught himself to breathe through his teeth, and he wears comfortable insoles which give his gait a sound. He remembers to make small movements when standing still. There is always enough going on in a world which exists in chaos. No one ever notices Tetsuya consciously applying these small workarounds.

“Mr. Cox.”

Tetsuya turns and stares at the young boy who still has not shown signs of developing Emperor Eye.

“Akashi-kun.”

Akashi’s eyes land on Tetsuya from where they hovered slightly too high. Tetsuya is at work, but he’s also taking a break now. Since he’s not making any deliberate noises, he ordinarily expects people to overlook him as they’re passing by.

Did Akashi… did Akashi guess Tetsuya's location somehow?

“You're like a mirage, Mr. Cox,” says Akashi, softly. “When I look at you directly, you seem to vanish in front of my eyes. The exhibits are all far more interesting than you are. Working at this museum must suit you well.”

“Sorry,” says Tetsuya, “I’m not sure I can take that as a compliment.”

“I understand.”

Tetsuya reaches for something nearby when Akashi says nothing else, and gives it to the young middle-schooler who must have come to look around the displays of old regalia.

“What's this?” Akashi takes it.

“A pamphlet.”

“It appears so.” He examines the white text on the red background curiously. “Why give this to me?”

“I like this exhibit.”

“…”

“…”

Tetsuya senses more than sees Akashi turning around to look at where he’s looking: a red suit of armour, shiny beneath overhead lights, gold embellishments gleaming.

Akashi turns back to Tetsuya with a faint crease in his mouth.

“I wanted to ask you something,” says the middle-schooler.

Future Seijuurou stopped using these pleasantries with Tetsuya around the same time the two of them drank Daiki under the table, a brilliant move in an exceedingly well-considered tag team match.

Tetsuya waits for the question with the patience of an adult.

“To be honest,” says young Akashi, “I wonder if I’m falling behind.”

Tetsuya takes one glance at the young Akashi’s expression and tells him to wait outside.

“Come with me,” he says after catching up.

“Huh?” Akashi looks back at the museum’s doors.

“I told them there was an emergency.”

“There's no need—” Akashi follows as Tetsuya starts taking a certain path. “Where—”

“Do you have a train pass?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s play basketball.”

He takes Akashi to his place first. The young boy waits outside until Tetsuya appears from the staircase, basketball under one arm. He seems to have spent the time examining the neighbourhood, glancing at the small office buildings, and watching the owner of a ramen shop conversing with a customer sitting by the door.

“Was it necessary to make this trip?” Akashi asks on seeing the ball.

“There's a street court nearby.”

“The first string gymnasium would be larger.”

Tetsuya doesn't speak aloud the fact that the redhead sought him out of school. Clearly he doesn’t want anyone knowing he’s seeking advice.

Tetsuya isn’t entirely sure what he’s doing. But something about this scenario—where he’s older, more experienced, and offering a personal tutoring opportunity instead of watching Murasakibara call for a public test of the young Akashi’s pride—

“You have to unlock your power yourself, in a one-on-one,” says Tetsuya.

Something feels right.

A group of high-schoolers using the court leave as the two arrive, like scripted coincidence. Tetsuya takes them to the far half, bouncing the ball twice. The ball is caught and passed to Akashi, who catches it. Tetsuya takes a breath and feels the air fortifying his presence. He breathes out, letting the energies flow out of his body and into his aura.

There is a reason why Tetsuya has been able to read the Teikou starters. His Pseudo-Emperor Eye, which works by knowing everything about one’s teammates, has evolved in combat against Ryouta’s Perfect Copy until Tetsuya receives flashes of knowing the Generation of Miracles better than they know themselves—a Miracle Counter. Tetsuya reaches further inside himself as he lowers into a defensive position. The Pseudo-Zone acknowledges his will and sharpens his edges into a perfect shadow.

Akashi stares at the person who used to be a young, ordinary coach, perhaps with unusual foresight, and his lower lip falls slack.

Tetsuya stretches his hands out from the abyss.

“Pass me.”

Akashi learns the ankle breaker in two hours.

“You're smiling,” Akashi observes, looking down at Tetsuya, the setting sun casting his hair in golden light. The boy’s mannerisms have shown no change. He’s done it—unlocked for himself the strength of the complete Emperor Eye.

Tetsuya touches his own face. Huh.

Seeing this, Akashi’s expression shifts to bemusement. He offers a hand. “How did you know, Mr. Cox?”

“Know what?”

“What I was—am—capable of.”

Tetsuya tilts back his head and points up to the clouds. “I came from there.”

“So you did,” Akashi agrees.

“How do you feel?”

“Me? Strong.”

“Whole?”

“Wholly amazed I am capable of—of that.”

“I’m glad.”

Akashi looks at Tetsuya curiously.

Tetsuya says nothing. The other Akashi Seijuurou doesn’t exist in this timeline.

Thinking of the other Akashi, Tetsuya remembers something else.

“Please lend me your power, Akashi-kun.”

The first string is used to their newest coach being weird. He joins them on runs sometimes, arrives at strange times because of his work, and has been caught more than once spinning and catching extra basketballs.

Mr. Cox proposes a practice match on a full court.

“Akashi-kun, and Aomine-kun,” he says clearly, “different teams.”

Momoi asks him about the instruction whilst the boys sort themselves. In a normal situation, Tetsuya tries to limit his interaction with her. He diverts attention to her and from her when she needs it. Otherwise, she's too young in this timeline, and showing favours is inappropriate.

Today won’t be normal.

“I’m going to change the future,” Tetsuya replies.

Momoi radiates confusion over the entire first quarter.

In the second quarter, Tetsuya doubles down on his belief in all his former teammates.

The third quarter comes and goes.

It happens in the fourth. A blur of red and blue. The sound of sneakers slipping across the flooring—

Aomine falls.

“Dai-kun!” Momoi gasps.

Akashi rushes past.

“Score!” Akashi calls to Kise standing beneath the hoop.

The order rips Kise’s eyes off Aomine’s prone form. Kise catches Akashi’s pass and flicks the ball in an easy layup.

Akashi takes his team back and forth across the court like a parade march. The gymnasium changes. Its occupants try to resist to no avail as the atmosphere grows heavy, tinged crimson. All the people in play serve Akashi, subordinate to the enormous power of Emperor Eye.

Tetsuya watches the other starters to see if they’ve worked it out. Aomine tries to out-speed Akashi and falls down every time. Midorima, hovering around the outside of Aomine’s team, figures out the ankle breaker the second time he sees it, and sighs before assigning himself to blocking Kise—which might have worked better before Tetsuya took Kise with him to play against Kokubunji Tech’s third-year lineup. Midorima snaps at Murasakibara to help, but Murasakibara hasn’t moved from beneath the net. His reach is the last defence against the others on Akashi’s team, and he knows it.

Training ends with Akashi surrounded by middle-schoolers, wanting to know more about his new ability. Momoi goes to fetch the boys some drinks. Aomine stubbornly ignores the boost to Akashi’s popularity, staring at the floor, thinking about something.

Kuroko goes up to Aomine and holds a hand out to the friend who rejected fist-bumping him.

Tetsuya turns to answer Sanada when the other coach requests his attention.

Kuroko is not him, and Aomine is not his Daiki.

Soon enough, practice ends. The skies have darkened. Tetsuya leaves. The air is cool under the light of hanging street lamps.

“Oi.” Aomine slips out from behind the front gate. “Play me.”

Tetsuya blinks.

“I know you had something to do with Akashi’s power,” Aomine insists. “You know what it is I’m looking for, don’t you?!”

“Sorry,” says Tetsuya, “but I’m not the right one.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Your rival will appear when you don’t expect.”

“You’re just like Tetsu!”

I am  Tetsu.

He doesn't say it. The moment he does, the first question Aomine would ask is ‘how’, and Tetsuya isn’t the type of person to bring up topics he doesn't know the answer to. Aomine stares at Tetsuya, the fire in his eyes rekindled. Cautious.

This isn’t his Daiki, the one who lost faith in finding a rival and then stopped smiling.

“Fine,” says Tetsuya. “We’ll play. I can’t match you head-on, but I can show you what I did for Akashi-kun.”

Aomine has a ball with him. Tetsuya’s feet turn towards the direction of the closest street court like he’s known it all his life. “First to three points.”

“Alright!”

A particular fact about magic tricks is that the trick itself is not magic. Certain tricks won’t cease to function because an audience understands the illusion. Magic as an expression of wonder comes not from mechanics but from a magician’s ability to connect to their audience. If Misdirection Overflow is the light, revealing his techniques when used, he needs to be both light and shadow. His tricks must still succeed even if his opponents understand the way they operate. He had to become strong enough to fulfill the right requirements. This Kuroko Tetsuya of the future spent months and years crafting a new form of untouchable basketball.

His Pseudo-Zone is the result.

They arrive on the court and wordlessly move into position. Tetsuya sinks out of reach, into deep darkness.

Flash! A cloud catches the moonlight.

Aomine cuts past Tetsuya’s defence and realises his ball is lost.

Tetsuya shoots.

Aomine whirls around.

“One point,” says Tetsuya, as Aomine stares at the hoop like he isn’t sure if the ball went through or not.

“I knew it!” Aomine grins with madness that enters his eyes. “I knew it! You're strong!”

Not strong enough, knows Tetsuya. His moves are still unfamiliar to young Aomine, allowing the second point to go unstopped. On the third point, the boy’s speed and natural adaptability forces Tetsuya to apply misdirection to what would otherwise be a straightforward shot. Aomine’s eyes blow wide as the ball vanishes.

“That’s it,” says Tetsuya. “Three points.”

“Again!” Aomine demands.

“You’ll just win next time.”

“I didn’t win this time!”

Because Aomine still likes to use his old moves, which makes them easier to steal. Tetsuya took advantage of his future knowledge. It’s a matter of time until Aomine overcomes that.

“I can’t play you if you don't come to practice,” Tetsuya points out.

“I don’t have to go.” Aomine gives Tetsuya a look like he knows this is an attempt to bargain with him. “So long as I win in the tournaments, right? You should know, the other coach said so.”

“That explains why I was hired so quickly,” Tetsuya mutters.

“What?”

“Nothing.” In the face of such precociousness, Tetsuya suddenly finds great respect for all middle school teachers. “What about a two-on-two after practice tomorrow? I’ll bring a shooter and you can invite whoever you like.”

“You running away, huh?!”

“I’m not a good match for you.”

Conflict plays out on Aomine’s expression like a series of acts. The boy goes from internal warring to genuine consideration and then lingers on annoyed stubbornness.

At last, he concedes to the terms.

“So I just gotta bring a person?”

Tetsuya speaks with Kise, who is more than happy to try playing more basketball, especially after Tetsuya drops the hint that he needs an ace and some extra help. He doesn’t mention Aomine, except to tell Kise he fully believes that the blond will outshine the rest of the starters. Rather than it being impossible, it’s just a matter of time until Kise is able to copy the rest.

“Really? Do you think so?” Kise says.

“If you’re not afraid of failure,” says Tetsuya.

“I’ve never lost.”

“Then please help me prove how strong you are.” Noticing that Akashi has observed their conversation, Tetsuya gives the captain a small nod and adds, “I’m sure Akashi-kun sees great things in you.”

Kise is so overwhelmed that the ball hits his face during regular practice.

“Do not daydream on the court!” Sanada yells.

“Sorry, sorry!”

Kise hurries after the ball.

After practice, Sanada gives Tetsuya a weird look when he says he will be staying behind a little, but otherwise he leaves him by himself. Tetsuya has already decided he’ll play as Point Guard for these matches, the same way the original Kiyoshi Teppei found him lost in Seirin’s gymnasium in another world. Plus, Daiki and Tetsuya have always been similar, so it might… maybe… work.

Maybe…

He’s switching his shoes when Aomine approaches. Somehow, Tetsuya isn’t surprised by his companion. “Oh, you brought him.”

“Who?” Kise asks.

“Good evening, Mr. Cox, Kise-kun,” Kuroko greets.

Kise jumps. “Kurokocchi! I should have known!”

“You chose him?” Aomine glances between Tetsuya and the chatting blond.

Tetsuya shrugs. “He’s strong.”

“He can’t beat me. The only one who can defeat me is myself.”

Kuroko suddenly looks uncomfortable. Kise falls quiet, his golden eyes darting around as he realises that his opponent is the Aomine he admires.

The enigmatic Mr. Cox smiles.

For some reason, Kise’s adrenaline spikes.

“Um—” Kise starts.

“Let’s work together, Kise-kun,” Mr. Cox says.

“Okay,” Kise answers automatically. A chill goes down his spine, and at three pairs of intense stares, he swallows. “Um. Sure?”

It becomes a regular occurrence. Aomine plays because Tetsuya is playing, Kuroko plays because he likes to play, Kise plays because Tetsuya convinces him to keep playing, and Tetsuya plays because he hates the idea of losing this Aomine to what his Daiki was lost to in middle school.

Tetsuya, however, is not exactly a Point Guard, and he’s not used to syncing with this version of Ryouta who relies on his talent in place of building up his fundamental skills. Every time they lose, he adds more training to Kise’s list. Nobody except Kise complains when Mr. Cox pulls him aside for special treatment.

Somehow, Sanada approves of this.

With every game Aomine wins, Kise gets closer to reaching him. Mr. Cox appears to be taking their losses well—too well, for someone who (quite frankly) isn’t the most inspiring character as a Point Guard beyond his passes, which are second to Akashi’s perfect pinpoint. Then a feeling emerges in the back of Kise’s mind that Mr. Cox’s persuasion starts losing its effectiveness. Sure, Kise is the weakest starter, the least experienced, but he can hold an excellent fight. He already knows he’s amazing, and if he is so strong, why must he be doing all this extra training? Against Aomine, who can’t be defeated by anyone?

One day, Murasakibara and Midorima show up.

“Hullo,” Murasakibara greets, shuffling to Aomine and Kuroko’s side of the court.

Midorima puts on a spare coloured bib. “We’re joining you.”

—That’s when Kise sees a bit more of Mr. Cox’s abilities.

The man vanishes.

Everyone in the Teikou Basketball Club knows the day Murasakibara developed an overwhelmingly powerful dunk, whether they directly witnessed Thor’s Hammer or not. Whoever convinced Murasakibara and Midorima to join them (and Kise has a very good idea of who) must have known the 3-on-3 matchup would turn out like this: A team of Teikou’s most powerful player with Teikou’s fastest player and the Phantom Sixth Man.

Then Kise’s team: His copying, Midorima’s shooting, and—

“Again?” Aomine blurts.

Again? Kise thinks for a quarter second, and then their third member appears past Aomine, travelling at a speed that Aomine should have been able to stop.

The ball soars from the inside to the outside and Midorima shoots.

… What?

Cox slowly dribbles the ball, like the laws of physics were never rewritten and Aomine was not just beaten by a natural phenomenon. Kise watches it. It certainly looks normal.

He catches a pass.

This normal basketball managed to do the impossible against unconquerable Aomine Daiki?

“Kise! Go!” Cox shouts.

…

Kise starts taking practice more seriously after that.

Two things are different about the Nationals in this timeline.

The first difference is that Teikou’s basketball team respects their opponents. Aomine, Kise and Murasakibara don’t incite aggression amongst themselves. Midorima is never affronted enough to steal more shots than he needs to meet his quota. Akashi complements the other team’s efforts as he shakes the losers’ hands.

The second difference is that Kuroko’s finals match is not against Ogiwara.

Tetsuya called Kuroko aside after the entrance ceremony, telling him to get him an extra copy of the bracket from the front counter, and instructed him to take his time. Sanada gave Tetsuya an odd look, to which Tetsuya remarked that surely there is no issue, seeing that Kuroko-kun will be benched for the first two matches regardless.

Kuroko returns to the Teikou congregation halfway through the second match, determined and bright-eyed and forgetting he was originally assigned an errand, and Tetsuya knows he must have run to find his friend after their near-miss at the beginning.

Perhaps something changed due to Tetsuya’s presence in this timeline. Maybe some of the many middle schools played slightly better, slightly worse, or Ogiwara talking with Kuroko had altered Meikou Middle School’s path. Ogiwara’s team loses in the semifinal qualifiers.

Teikou wins the tournament.

Amazing, says the interviewers. The lineup played taller and longer than their age, demonstrated intelligence in ball-handling far beyond any others, and were beautiful as they scored points from the sky.

The students are brought back to school so they can go home by themselves. Tetsuya ends up in the gymnasium belonging to the third string, a basketball bouncing quietly from the fingers in his left hand. He looks up at the basket, examines it. Then he palms the ball before placing it between his toes.

He loosens his collar. His sleeves are rolled and folded up.

He shakes out his shoulders.

He picks up the ball and passes.

Thunk! It hits the backboard a little too wide. Tetsuya frowns and passes it back to the backboard, a practice method he’d used the first time he was in middle school, trying to improve his accuracy before answering Seijuurou’s challenge. Tetsuya is more nimble now than he was in the third string, his arms and legs warming up to the motions, and then he’s hitting the backboard where he intends without catching the ball between each pass. He switches hands. Then he repeats the exercises against the wall. His breathing follows the rhythm set by his footsteps, and…

The ball is lobbed up.

Thunk!

He imagines Daiki, Ryouta, Taiga, any one of the others he’s passed to like this, the rush of success following an alley-oop.

Thunk!

Tetsuya thinks back to being a shadow. Things were easier then. No work, no managing timelines, no responsibility for a group of middle-schoolers that, without him, would surely get in trouble.

Thunk!

Different, but not dissimilar. The Kuroko Tetsuya in this timeline is too talented to be invisible during neighbourhood matches. He can’t rely on his special abilities to win when his teammates are casuals who cannot catch his strongest passes. He has no light to support in this world. His experience is better suited in pick-up teams as a slower-than-usual Point Guard.

Thunk!

As the ball turns, Tetsuya has decided. He takes a step back, watching its arc. Then he makes a trick move that would never work in a match with anyone who’s seen it more than once. He moves and pulls in a curtain of intent. An imaginary team begins to react against Tetsuya’s imaginary Power Forward, misdirected by Tetsuya’s glances, thinking Tetsuya is about to pass. Tetsuya ends up in front of the opponent’s Centre. Viewing angles line up. From a blind spot his palm comes in low under the still-falling ball, and he pushes it over his shoulder. The ball flies up in a high arc.

The hoop flutters after the ball falls through the net and bounces.

It rolls. Tetsuya leaves it. Panting hard, his shirt is soaked with sweat. He closes his eyes when the mental exertion rebounds through his nerves and doesn’t fight the trembling as it happens.

The moon is high in the sky once everything is packed.

What time is it? he wonders, gazing at the moon’s gentle visage against the darkness.

How long has it been since he’s played basketball with a radiant light?

The next day, Coach Sanada finds him before practice.

“When Hotaru told me he met someone who played exactly like our Phantom Sixth Man, I don’t think I believed him.”

Tetsuya stares back. He’s already guessed the stories of his strange passing style led to Teikou’s trust.

What Tetsuya doesn’t know is what the other man might be getting at.

Sanada says, “Something tells me your name isn’t a coincidence, but if you’re anything like that child, you are just as clueless.”

“Sorry, but could you not insult me in front of myself?”

“Every second Sunday is when the coaches’ league runs.”

“Eh?”

“I’m saying,” Sanada speaks slowly, “Most of us middle school coaches also played before we got our different jobs. If you wanted to play basketball, you could have asked.”

Three years of conquest. Teikou Junior High has won the Nationals. The trophy cabinet is as full as it was in Tetsuya’s original timeline.

“Hey, Mr. Coxcchi,” says Kise.

Kise breaks off from the group, having arrived early to practice, his movements faster than they were yesterday. Tetsuya gives Kise a once-over, wondering what happened, and—

“Did you always want to be a coach?” Kise asks.

“Not really,” says Tetsuya, wondering why it’s also hard to speak today.

“That’s a shame!”

Is it?

Tetsuya decides to ask about his observations. “You cut your hair. When did you quit your modelling job?”

“Last week. How did you know?”

“It’s Wednesday.”

Kise gleams. “You really pay attention to us, huh?”

Tetsuya knows the young Kise enough that he doesn’t think that one needs a response. Then his chest grows tight, something he’s never experienced in all the time he’s spent in this timeline. He winces, uncomfortable with an ache deep within his heart.

“I hated basketball once,” Tetsuya mutters.

“Huh?”

Tetsuya rubs at his eyes and stares at the dampness on his fingertips. It’s the same feeling. The Nationals match, with Shigehiro and Meikou Middle School, made him hate basketball.

And the Kuroko in this timeline does not hate the sport he loves.

Before Tetsuya notices, he’s already started crying.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, as the battles come back. Sweat, blood, and tears. Sadness for his former teammates. The joy of being able to see them go back to their old selves after knocking sense into their scrambled heads. Becoming the best in Japan.

Tetsuya has changed all of it.

By saving these children, the future versions of his friends have been erased from existence. His heart tightens as he realises he has no idea what to do from now.

Then the tears keep flowing, and his hands aren’t enough.

“Here, please…”

Momoi offers him a towel, and Tetsuya says, “Thank you, Satsuki,” before he can stop himself.

She gasps and does a double-take. Tetsuya’s mouth goes dry as the overly-familiar manner of address replays itself in his head.

“Excuse me,” says Tetsuya, quickly. “Sorry. You just—Momoi-san, you reminded me of someone…” He exhales. “Thank you for the towel.”

Momoi offers him a strained smile. “That’s no problem, Mr. Cox. Satsuki is a common name, right? I was—surprised.”

Tetsuya nods.

“Y-You can put the towel with the others when you’re done,” Momoi continues, then hesitates. “Um, this Satsuki you know… may I ask a personal question?”

Tetsuya nods.

“Was she important to you?” Momoi asks. “You sound like you really… missed her.”

When his chest grips his heart, Tetsuya figures it out.

“Everyone at Teikou reminds me of my friends,” he admits. “It wasn’t until just—just now, that I realised how much I miss them.”

“Maybe it would be good to…”

“Sorry, Momoi-san. They aren’t around now.” She isn’t his Satsuki. He’s Kuroko Tetsuya, the original shadow, transported to this world after the events of another timeline. He changes the subject. “Where did Kise-kun go?”

She watches him, worry well-hidden. “Coach Sanada has already started practice.”

“I see.”

“Thank you.”

Tetsuya blinks.

She smiles, a little nervous, and explains, “It’s like you could always see who they were going to become.”

For some reason, his chest glows warm. He’s reminded that he can’t ever see his friends again, but he’s… happy. These middle-schoolers will encounter their own struggles, that goes without saying.

Tetsuya has changed their paths away from heartbreak.

He says, “My job is to stand behind people like them, to help them reach greater heights.”

Momoi’s smile widens and Tetsuya remembers flashes of a brilliant mind ensconced by charming beauty which would only become more beautiful over time.

He glances away and changes the subject. “I got invited by Sanada-san to play in the coaches’ league this Sunday. It should be… it should be a nice change of pace.”

“The coaches’ league?”

Tetsuya tells her an abridged version of his journey without the time travel. How Sanada’s friend introduced him to Teikou. And how, for years, he hasn’t played his real basketball.

Akashi finds Tetsuya after the regular 3-on-3 and says, “I must thank you.”

He goes on to explain that he feels fortunate that Tetsuya has taken the time to play with the others. Though he is Captain, he does not have the ability to dedicate hours to extra basketball. He has music lessons before school and long periods of tutoring on weekends. Being Captain means his efforts are reflective of the team’s efforts, and this perceived lack of effort would most certainly have affected the morale of those others in the first string. Without Tetsuya keeping them together, the possibility of the prodigies collapsing under their own brilliance would have been far higher.

“The way in which you play as Point Guard, however…” Akashi continues, thoughtfully, “I hope it doesn’t sound arrogant… your play appears to resemble mine.”

“You are the most amazing Point Guard I know,” Tetsuya replies sincerely.

Akashi’s mouth forms a little smile.

The year ends.

Tetsuya doesn’t remember the graduation ceremony at Teikou Junior High. The first time around, graduation was still synonymous with deep disappointment—of disappointing Shigehiro’s earnest wishes and of their failings as a team. He wore the uniform with all his buttons buttoned, sat and stood in lines with everyone else around him, and sung the school song even though he was sure most of the people around him had forgotten he was there at all.

This year, in this timeline where the future has come to the past, changed everything, and set this world on a diverging path, Tetsuya ponders.

Then he decides he’d rather stay at work. He doesn’t miss the school song that much.

Fingers resting idly on the counter at the information desk, Tetsuya watches time ticking by. Two years have passed. He’s 27 now.

Teikou’s graduation ceremony closes.

Japan is the kind of country where only a select few are ever chosen to go to particular schools. If you’re not in the chosen, you’re competing against everyone else. It will go without question that those called the Generation of Miracles will be scouted. Whether they end up at the same schools as they do in Tetsuya’s future will depend on fate and luck.

But.

The first time Tetsuya mentioned Taiga, after they all graduated from high school, and Taiga sent him an email about how the NBA has welcomed him with wide open arms, a faintly tipsy Ryouta swung an arm around Tetsuya’s shoulders and said, “I told you so,” like he’s always predicted the American teenager and his shadow would walk different paths in life. Tetsuya shoved Ryouta’s own bag in his chest and told him of course they would. Taiga’s intensity for basketball has always been different to Tetsuya’s. It’s not flattering to try and take credit for something like that.

His other friends had similar reactions when he shared the news. They were happy for Taiga. They reminisced on the one time they did the impossible and became the best in Japan.

But.

Tetsuya’s eyes trail back to the clock. Hardly any time has passed.

“Hey.”

At the voice which comes from nowhere, Tetsuya chokes on a yelp and jumps.

Kuroko blinks at him, used to this reaction, with a slash of curiousness in the line of his mouth.

“You can generally see me, Mr. Cox,” says Kuroko. “Sorry. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Tetsuya replies.

Kuroko nods. “Good.”

Tetsuya suddenly becomes very aware that Kuroko is staring at the name pinned on a neat badge on his uniform. It’s also Kuroko’s name. The 27-year-old Kuroko Tetsuya who saw no reason to use an alias finds himself in a weird situation he should have expected.

But. Nobody would think he’s a—

“Are you me?” Kuroko asks, proving he’s a nobody who would think of asking if Tetsuya is a time-traveller.

Somehow the answer comes to Tetsuya without having to think.

“No,” Tetsuya replies. “We might have been the same person once, but we’re different people now.”

Kuroko ponders this with utmost seriousness. If Kuroko believes it, or is humouring him, those clear blue eyes render his thoughts impossible to make out.

Tetsuya turns the implications around. Speaking aloud the fact that their lives have diverged suddenly makes it easier to interact with his younger self.

“But,” says Tetsuya, “If you want to know which high school to go to, I’ll tell you.”

The intensity in clear blue eyes sharpens.

“You won the Nationals, right?” Kuroko asks.

“I did.” Tetsuya pauses. “No. We did. Our team. We proved that all you need to win is teamwork and having fun.”

“Will I meet this team?”

“I think so.”

Kuroko falls silent.

“Ogiwara-kun told me where he’s going,” he says, watching Tetsuya. “I could go to Ogiwara-kun’s high school.”

“I suppose you could,” Tetsuya answers, ignoring a little pang that comes from thinking the Taiga of this timeline might never meet Kuroko. Perhaps Tetsuya can go find the young Kagami next. But, with the Generation of Miracles so strong in this world, Seirin without Kuroko would find it difficult to move up.

Kuroko’s clear gaze continues to connect his past and future with no end in sight.

“You know that if we’re not the same person, you can give advice without giving advice to yourself,” Kuroko points out. “If you’re me, we both hate to lose. I don’t want to lose.”

“Attend Seirin.”

Kuroko frowns. “That new school?”

“Yes.” Tetsuya collects his thoughts. Sharing the future would be collusion, but… hasn’t he changed that? “You’ll make friends there. They’ll get someone strong—a Miracle who did not become one of the Miracles. He’s rough and unpolished. Make him the best and he’ll shine brighter than anyone else.”

“Who is he?”

Tetsuya tells the child about Kagami Taiga, and the brightest light in the universe: Direct Drive Zone.

The new school year begins with cherry blossoms and a group of young hopefuls in the basketball gym.

“Welcome to Teikou Junior High,” says the man running the session. He’s in his thirties, with light hair, and eyes in a deep, knowing shade of blue. “I am your coach. People call me Mr. Cox.”

One boy whispers to the person next to him. There are stories about this coach. They say he taught the Generation of Miracles.

The coach clears his throat and the children fall quiet.

“You are here because the entrance assessment put you in the third string,” says the coach, his lines steady, sincere, practised. “You can’t get anywhere without trying. I can’t promise you’ll make it.

“But I’ll do everything I can as a shadow to help you shine bright.”