Work Text:
It’s not exactly the same thing as getting benched for a first-year, so to speak. He remains an important decision-maker and at least he gets a say during the power plays, the field of formulaic training regimens is still his and he is free to wield a magnifying glass over any roster changes as he pleases. Coach writes him recommendation letters and reminds him that, while other schools in the upper echelons save their important players until the very end, Teikou takes this to a whole new level. So he’s not upset–he hasn’t got any reason to be. With this frame of mind the foundations get filled up faster and he ends up not nearly as bitter as Aomine probably thinks he is. There’s a greater good mixed somewhere in there, and Nijimura has always been curious about playing selflessly.
They underestimate him.
“Since we’re playing the same position, I’ll do my best to fill your shoes,” Aomine tells him.
“That’s dumb,” Nijimura punches him in the shoulder. “Your feet are already way bigger than mine.”
“I’m sorry, buchou,” Aomine looks abashed. “I won’t say that again.”
Nijimura’s already walking past him, dribbling the ball. “Let’s go, Aomine. One-on-one.”
It’s because Aomine means well. Hope is often hot on his heels and he molds potential in his fingers as if he’s the first person to loop around it in the sky, and Nijimura fuels it, pokes at it, laughs when he can because that’s what he’s been put here for. Aomine is an empty canvas, a bullet chamber, three times Nijimura forgets to lock the door to the gym.
Aomine folds in front of him while they play, dips his head down and bends around angles that exclude himself from the rest of the world. He’s methodical in his play structure and erratic where it counts, peels for himself and drives down so hard that the sunlight blows right out of his hair. Nijimura keeps up with him only because he’s taller and his hands are wider and his grip is stronger, but this will surely come to pass.
Keep your eyes on me now, buchou, Aomine seems to say, or you might never catch me again.
So goes Nijimura’s last year at Teikou Junior High. He has his fun and everything develops according to Akashi’s plan, like it’s supposed to. In the same way that he doesn’t mind playing second fiddle to Aomine, he doesn’t mind being used by Akashi. Teikou is a greenhouse, and the glass ceiling over the indoor basketball court only cements this analogy. He sees talent in the garden and he can’t help but want to wait for it to grow.
One day after practice, Aomine kisses him.
The ball goes out-of-bounds in their duel twenty minutes before. Nijimura makes a drive and Aomine blocks it, attempts a steal after Nijimura fakes to the left. The ball taps the ground three times before he snatches it away with one hand mid-bounce, and thereafter he is playing on a different harmonic and Nijimura lets his feet carry him as far as he can go without the effort becoming futile. Aomine’s still smiling, even now. After practice, he kisses Nijimura on the mouth.
Nijimura stops in his tracks, keeps both his hands on Aomine’s shoulders before he pulls back with a frown. “Aomine, I–”
“Don’t say anything,” Aomine blurts out. “I-I mean, I don’t understand it myself, so…” He trails off.
Nijimura shuts his mouth.
“Sorry, I-I’ve gotta go meet up with Tetsu now.”
Sometimes he remembers the senpai that came before him who have cultivated their own talents under the greenhouse; maybe they’d probably be just as amazed and captivated as he is currently. Nobody can blame him for wanting it like he does now. Nobody can blame him for asking for less, as well. It’s not exactly the same thing as getting benched for a first-year, so to speak.
But perhaps he does have an upper-hand.