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Night Raven College's basketball games may not be as schoolwide of an event as something like Magift, but Ace likes to think they’re quite entertaining all the same. At least, they seem to be fun, from the handful of games he’s watched — with great, heavy emphasis on watched , what with the way Vargas has yet to let him experience a real match for much longer than a few minutes off the bench.
Today’s game is no different, even if it is only practice — there isn’t any medal they’re gunning for here, only personal victories, or something. Training camp.
Ace has appreciated his time here, learning from other players as good as him (maybe even better , some of them, but his pride won’t allow him to admit that). And, for what it’d been worth, Vargas had offhandedly told Ace that he was going to be their first choice if a substitute was ever needed ingame, which did help soothe his ego somewhat.
Still, no matter the circumstances, Ace grumbles now at the culmination of it all, right before their final playoffs. All this time, and all he has to show for his practice and hard work is the toasty warm spot he’s left on the bench off the sidelines of their gym — not to mention (and perhaps it was the most souring byproduct, more than his pent-up energy or his bruised ego or his wounded pride) that not being on the playing team meant less time spent playing with those who are.
Which then narrowed down, bitterly, to less time shared on the court with Floyd.
“C’mon,” Ace whines, idly shifting the weight of his water bottle back and forth between his hands, “why’s it always you guys and not me?”
Their next game starts soon... ish. Informal as it all is, the players have scattered haphazardly across the gym in wait for their coaches to finish discussion about... well, something. Aimless, antsy, and still just a little bit annoyed, Ace had conveniently tracked Floyd down, sticking himself to his side like a — (haha) — like a leech.
Now, Floyd’s eyes, impassive, slide to meet his.
Wordlessly, he bounces a basketball off the wall, catching it with one hand, before shrugging and tilting his head.
“It’s ‘cause you’re a first-year,” Floyd says. Far too dismissive, too matter-of-fact, for Ace’s liking. He stretches his arms out over his head, his silhouette all long and lithe limbs, before slumping over to face Ace, weight leaning heavily against the wall. “Me ‘n Sea Snake already proved ourselves last year, so you gotta deal with it too. Or else ‘s not fair.”
“Wh—” Ace sits up straighter, already immediately frowning. The offending logic is still putting itself together in his brain, clicking in place slowly, before his mouth has already begun to spout his complaints. “What do you mean!? That’s still not fair even if I am a first-year!!”
“Aaah? Does Crabby really wanna play that bad?” Floyd scratches at the back of his neck, eyes shifting off absently to the side before darting gleefully back to Ace’s. “Heeey, if I pretend to get hurt, d’you think Coach’ll substitute you in for me? I’m booored, anyway, so I —”
“I don’t wanna take your place,” Ace interjects, punctuating the dismissal with a sharp shake of his head. “I wanna be passing balls to you!!”
There is a short pause, as both boys take in his words. Ace feels himself burn up as Floyd throws his head back and cackles horribly at the accidental — and it is accidental, barely even recognisably there if the recipient had been anyone but Floyd! — double entendre.
“Oii, don’t get distracted on me! I-I’m making a point!!!”
As if on cue, Vargas, from across the gymnasium floor, calls for Floyd, waving him over with a great arcing sweep of his arm. Ace watches as Floyd's face falls from its awful laughter, pouts at the attention, lazily turning his gaze from their coach back to Ace — and quirking that pout back into the uptick of a smile, full of mischief and mirth and all the uncertain, giddy things that make Floyd Leech so completely himself.
“Aaah, too bad... Looks like our time’s up~”
He swoops forth, clasping his hands together behind his back. So very pleased with himself, Floyd croons, “And as payment for makin’ me hear your whining, you gotta gimme a kiss good-luck before I go.”
Ace blinks, gapes disbelievingly at him, red colouring his face once again — although for a reason far less comical, and pounding far louder from his heart and in his ears. And yet, it's clear Floyd is completely, utterly serious about his demand despite his lighthearted tone, waiting all too impatiently for Ace to play along (as they both know too well that he will).
Still, Floyd does not make it easy for him; he turns his cheek slightly, offering up a simple target location, but doesn’t bother to bend down to allow for Ace to plant a kiss there with ease. Instead, he forces Ace to rise up onto tiptoe to reach him as intended, which (with embarrassingly delayed realisation) the shorter boy obediently does.
At the last second, Floyd turns his head back so Ace’s intended cheek kiss lands squarely on his lips. The basketball Floyd had been holding onto falls uselessly to the ground behind him as his hands fly forth and grasp Ace’s face firmly instead. Ace startles, gasping breathlessly in surprise, hands coming to clutch at Floyd helplessly as he deepens the kiss — wants and takes to his heart's content.
It feels like eons have passed when Floyd finally loosens his grip, pulling sloppily away from Ace with a big, satisfied smile.
“I’ll win for both of us, ‘kaaay?”
Only half listening (or even caring much at all of what they’d been talking about before), Ace stares up at him — astonished, adoring , head still spinning in a haze. Floyd bends down to steal one more quick, final kiss from him, eyes sparkling as he falls back to the court.
“So stop being all mopey about it, and make sure you’re cheering us on real well!~”