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His manager calls him after he lands in Sapporo, fresh off the international tour with his pride barely intact, curling around the callousness of losing to some Japanese-American hotshot and rubbing a handful of blisters over the remains of his tarnished success. She’s talking in circles to him, now; something about giving two days’ notice, another something about this empty court off the last leg of Hokkaido University Hospital, more somethings about guys who look like chumps but play like they’ve been conditioned to beat Aomine all their lives.
“Found a hitting partner for you,” she says at the very end when she finally runs out of accusations, and for some reason Aomine swears to god she’s gloating about it, his stubbornness and her logic wrapped up inside one pretty box. It could just be the bad reception. “He’s been a regular on his university team for two years, but you should see his records; this guy could’ve gone pro if he wanted to. His coach said he’d be free later today.”
“And you didn’t bother to ask me if I’m free later today,” says Aomine, “I could be very busy.”
“Staying in your hotel room masturbating to the December issue of Gravure TV is not what I would call very busy, Aomine-kun.”
"I don’t even subscribe to GTV anymore,” Aomine protests, “like come on that stuff is so juvenile, I don't—”
“Four pm, left-side court,” she says, and Aomine wonders if this lack of sympathy will win her any awards, at the rate she’s been shoving her pretty box down his throat. “I mailed you the address two minutes earlier. By the way, I have no time to listen to the excuses of a Japanese pro-circuit veteran who just lost to a 19-year-old nobody. Come on, Aomine-kun, his ATP ranking wasn’t even top 500.”
Aomine wants to remind her that he’s only 22, and that it probably isn’t OK to call anyone who beat him a nobody, that Kagami Taiga’s ATP is probably gonna keep rising on the charts as a result, that maybe she’s being a bit unfair about everything, that it’s not like he wants to be beat by a nobody in the first place, but she’s hung up on him already and now he’s just standing here again at the baggage carousel, rubbing his throat, a handful of blisters over the remains of his tarnished success. The airport PA announces a connection to Sendai, and he walks toward the exit to catch a cab.
He wonders if there’s anything else to do before four pm.
*
It turns out that, among other famous instances of idyllic wintertime utopia, Sapporo is blissfully boring in its own respect. He grabs one of those colorful touristy pamphlets from the hotel lobby and reads down a line of advertisements for parks attractions and museums, flips to the back to see some heavy subliminal message in ostentatious font and wow what do you know, there’s love hotels in Sapporo too. He ends up having lunch early in an oden stall next to a park with an ice sculpture exhibit, and after he takes a cab to the address that his manager had sent him earlier in the day.
It’s 4:06 when he gets there, and there’s a couple people still hitting balls. The left-most court has been reserved, and when he steps around the gate he’s already realized that he’s walked into a complete and utter mistake.
"What are you doing here?”
“I’m currently completing my neurosurgery graduate degree at the hospital.” Midorima adjusts his wristband with a small frown. He leans down to stretch one leg against the bench. “I also play on the university team. For recreational purposes.”
Aomine clears his throat. “Well, I’m meeting a hitting partner here.”
“That would be me,” says Midorima. “And you would be late. Go warm up.”
*
Rallying with Midorima like this brings back memories, most of the sort that Aomine has no business remembering and too many reasons to want to forget. His serves are still the same, precise and controlled, making up in speed what they lacked in power, balance and tension of his moves in perfect sync to the top-spin that he placed on the ball, elegance always an afterthought. Backhands are no different. Patterns are relinquished for the sake of efficiency, cold hint of playful defeat between volleys to reassure Aomine that he had no intention of letting him off easy. Rallying with Midorima like this brings back memories, and maybe he misses it after all.
They finish two sets before Aomine signals for a break. When Midorima walks up to the net to shake hands, Aomine pulls him in by the shirt collar and kisses him hard on the mouth.
*
Midorima draws in his breath quickly, too sudden and too fast. His fingers find purchase on Aomine’s arm, and his nails dig deep into what’s left of Aomine’s tarnished success. They break apart after a minute, and even Aomine can tell that the red on his face isn’t just because of the cold weather. “You said you’d forget about this.”
Aomine grins. “You think I actually would?”
Midorima’s face is two inches away from his, and he doesn’t have to sound pissed off to get his point across. “If losing to Kagami Taiga is any indication of that—”
“Shut up,” he hisses into Midorima’s mouth, watching his breath puff up and fog over Midorima’s glasses. “Shut the fuck up. I’m losing circuit points whenever I kiss you, you know that?”
“Keep doing it, then,” Midorima laughs sharply, and backs off. “Keep doing it. I’ll give you five minutes before you want to stop again.”
“…”
“Not that I care, just so you know, I don’t care very much at a–”
Aomine kisses him again.
“Hey, let’s go somewhere else. I want to fuck you. How many times can I still make you come in my hand, don’t you want to find out again?”
Midorima glares at him, and straightens the collar of his shirt with one hand. “I have lecture in an hour.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“One you’re going to lose.”
Aomine laughs out loud. “Fucking bring it.”