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Midorima Shintarou is not a jealous person. He has always been confident enough to avoid that and, more importantly, he trusts in the other part of the relationship. With Akashi – popular; polite; distant and unreachable– was easy; they were friends first and the captain never got too close to anyone outside the team. During the time it lasted, they were great together.
The situation is different now. Takao, like Akashi, is popular, everyone likes him, and, in more than one occasion, he has clearly heard that, apparently, everyone wants to fuck him. He agrees; after all, Takao Kazunari is funny, smart, full of fire and absolutely gorgeous to the point one can’t look away when he’s in the same room. He is very much aware of the fact that the short little piece of chaos is not his boyfriend and, therefore, can do whatever he wants with whoever he wants, and that it’s what has been eating him alive for the last two months.
In an effort to reduce his anxiety to a manageable level, he suggested a deal after they had sex without protection –ten days ago when his good judgment abandoned him–; an agreement that allows them to keep doing it like that, considering they both enjoyed the aforementioned lack of judgment, in the safest way possible: Do whatever you want but with protection –or I will straight up kill you for being irresponsible–. Takao said yes very, very, very fast. With all that in mind, Midorima is convinced he will die of jealousy any day now.
Takao is far from sweet most of the time, but there are moments, more and more these days, he becomes this beautiful angel that lies on his bed watching movies while only wearing his way-too-big-for-him team’s jersey. There are moments Midorima forgets how to breathe when the other one laughs about something or whispers a dumb secret into his ear like it’s something so private, they are the only ones who can know; and he prays Takao hasn’t notice yet how breath-taking he is, how insane he makes him, how much control over him he has. And the image of those other guys getting anywhere close to him, put their hands all over without any care or consideration, makes his blood boil, a type of anger or, better say, desperation he hates to feel because he knows his friend doesn’t owe him anything and can do whatever he wants but it would be nice if what he wants is only him. He’s not going to tell him, but it would be nice.
“Okay, can someone call Takao and tell him we need him to drag the four-eyed back to reality?”, Miyaji screams to someone.
“I am in reality”, he murmurs in response. “I just got distracted”.
“Don’t get distracted at practice! We have two minutes left! You can do that tomorrow in like…lunch and art class”, the upperclassman growls.
“Don’t disrespect art class, Miyaji. We talked about this”, the coach says, without looking off his notes.
“Sorry”, he apologizes. “Okay, you can get distracted tomorrow at lunch”.
“I will calendarize it”, Midorima exclaims with sarcasm.
Practice is by far his favourite part of the day; the moment he is surrounded by the tall walls of the court is refreshing and relaxing even when all his muscles end up hurting after it. The people there, his teammates, are nicer to him now and more accepting of whatever lucky item he happens to be carrying –A screwdriver today–. Slowly but surely, he became part of something again and, even if it’s not the same as being part of The Generation of Miracles –with his actual friends–; he needed that terribly.
Takao is the reason he belongs in the team now, he knows it; without his extraordinary patience and insane stubbornness Midorima would have stayed in the horrible loneliness he hated so much. Being friends with him is not something easy, he recalls Kise’s efforts to please him and Aomine’s long sighs before letting him borrow one of his jackets as a lucky item, if anything, he only got worse once he graduated, convinced that no one in their right mind would want to be his friend. But Takao Kazunari has never been in his right mind; he exists exclusively between explosions and hurricanes, brings them with him wherever he goes and makes you love it; carries chaos and laughter and fire in the same way Shintarou carries his weirdness around, and he always gets what he wants because he’s the type of person that could charm his way out of hell.
“Taking me home tonight?”, he suddenly hears, making him jump a little.
“Why did you have to sneak on me like a very ugly, endangered animal?”
“I was calling you, actually. You didn’t hear me”, the point guard explains, “But I bet you think I’m spitting lies like an angry llama”, he smirks, raising an eyebrow.
“Don’t quote me”.
“But it’s my favourite insult”, the whining doesn’t bother him as it should, neither his presence as he dutifully practices his shots, having him there, sitting on the floor next to him, looking at his phone doing nothing, is comforting. “The question still stands, though. Are we going to your house or mine?”
“My parents won’t be home tonight, so I will be babysitting my little sister”, the shooter explains. “You can do what you want”.
“What do you want me to do?”, Takao smiles, flirty, and knows perfectly what he’s doing. Looking up with his come-fuck-me eyes; exposing his neck so Midorima can see his own teeth on the pale skin, like he’s asking him to mark him more.
“There is no reason for you to make stupid questions”, he growls, defeated. “And cover that thing, people are going to notice”, it’s not people noticing what bothers him, it’s the need of biting him more running on his body.
“I thought you like it”.
Yes, I do. I like it. I love it. You look gorgeous like that. Nobody should look so glorious with bruises on their necks. But you do. You look beautiful with my teeth on your skin.
“I don’t. You are hallucinating again”.
“Whatever you say, Shin-chan”, he laughs and then goes back to play in his phone.
It’s probably the first time they don’t end up fucking in the locker room after his night practice; they have the tendency to stay there about an hour more or so, sometimes in the showers or against the lockers. Now, Midorima is too much in a hurry for that; his little sister –10 years younger– is waiting for him on a neighbour’s house and he won’t make her stay there more than what it’s strictly necessary.
Minami is a sweet child that stick herself to her brother like her life depends on it, unless Takao is there, of course. Every now and then, she climbs on top of him or asks him to read her a goodnight story because he makes funny voices to make her laugh, a different one for every character; if it was anyone else, the shooting guard would kill his replacement on an instant, but it’s Takao, who looks adorable with Mina-chan hanging from his back when he’s washing the dishes, who gives her ideas for her drawings and makes little cartoons of her big brother as a carrot with glasses; Takao, who does everything with love and care and softness, treating her like he would treat his own sister –if Satomi was younger and not a bitch half of the time–. Midorima loves that about Takao, the sweetness of his actions when the situation requires it; the dream he lets him have is one where this is his life, and it’s pathetic and dumb and impossible, but it’s his dream and he will enjoy it while it lasts.
“…want Shin-chan to cook something for you?”, he comes back to the real world and hears the last part of whatever his friend and his sister are talking about. “Shin-chan? Eh, Shin-chan”, Kazunari snaps his fingers right in front of his face; the loud noise wakes up his senses and looks up, “Where did you go? You were in silence for like…fifteen minutes and ignore all of my excellent carrot’s jokes”.
“I ignored them because they are ridiculous, as it should be perfectly obvious”.
“I think they are funny”, the little girl says shyly.
“See?”
“Your best public is a six years-old kid, congratulations”, he rolls his eyes, and then looks at his watch. “It is well passed her bedtime, why is she still up?”, he picks his sister up, letting her rest her head on his shoulder.
“She said she was hungry, so I was going to give her something or make you do it, but since you were looking into space like trying to guess what Cancer’s rank is going to be tomorrow, I figure making sure you were alive was more relevant”, by the way Takao says that, he can tell he planned the answer in advance; he’s not lying, he just knows him well enough to know exactly what his reactions to things are going to be.
“You know you can’t eat this late, Minami”, he says softly, putting his hand on the top of her head. “, and you shouldn’t be trying to trick Takao, even if it is easy because he is very dumb”.
“Sorry”, she whispers against his shoulder; her brother moves his head giving her a silent instruction. “Sorry, Nari-chan”.
“It’s okay, sweetheart, being hungry isn’t a crime”, that is more for the shooting guard than for the little girl. “Wanna go choose your PJ’s?”
“Yes”, Minami answers, now escaping her brother’s arms and jumping towards Takao, knowing he’s going to catch her.
“I can do that”, Shintarou says, almost insulted.
“Of course you do, Shin-chan”, and the little girl nods with a tiny smile, the same smile his friend has, and he must have infected his expression onto her because for a moment they look exactly the same. “But Shin-chan has a horrible fashion sense, doesn’t he?”, Minami laughs, feeling a little bad for agreeing with it. “So, I’ll do it”.
“Now you are just being a piece of s…”, he stops when he remembers his sister is there, which only happens because Takao opens his eyes wide to make him shut up. “You are being mean”.
“Good saved”, his friend giggles, gets a little closer so he can kiss his sister’s forehead, and then walks out of the living room.
Shintarou spends in his room the twenty minutes that takes putting Minami to bed and wait for her to sleep; taking his friend’s belongings out of the box he hides them in when his father is home to put them back in their normal place –on his bathroom shelf; on his drawer; on his part of the desk–. They are mostly things he keeps there because it’s more convenient than carrying them around every two days: shampoo, soap, perfume, socks, t-shirts, joggers, charger, toothbrush, etc.
Takao invaded his room as fast as he invaded his life; all at once and having little to no consideration for his complaints; it’s not like it matters anymore, and to be honest it’s not like he tried to stop him at any point, he might even facilitated the invasion: “Stop putting your things on my bed, use the other shelf in the bathroom; it’s yours, for the love of God, you are damn disaster”; “Don’t leave your fucking clothes on the floor! I emptied a drawer for you to use it!”; “GET YOUR FUCKING BOOKS OUT OF MY SIDE OF THE DESK! WE ALREADY HAD THIS CONVERSATION!”. Yes, he did facilitate the invasion, but his friend is a mess, and he couldn’t live like that.
He can hear Kazunari reading to his sister from the other side of the hallway, making voices and singing made-up songs for her; Minami laughs and gasps when something intense happens in the story, makes comments the teen has in consideration for the next part of it, and everything ends when the girl starts insisting she wants another one; but Takao never does –something Shintarou himself always failed to do; saying no to his sister feels wrong–, just tenderly tells her it’s too late for another story and she has to go to sleep; which she does very quickly because the point guard drained all the energy out of her. The door closes, and he pretends he didn’t hear anything.
“How did it go?”, he asks him without looking at him, folding clothes and putting them in the drawers.
“She’s such a sweetheart, Shin-chan”, his friend chuckles. “She loves my stories and my songs, it’s adorable. You could be more like her, you know?”
“She is six, of course she likes them. You are a child yourself”.
“Well, it’s good being appreciated once in a while”, he frowns, jokingly.
“I ap…”, Midorima stops himself from finishing that sentence, but it’s too late, Takao noticed and turned around with a jump, eyes open wide and a smile. God knows he won’t let this opportunity go. “You are ridiculous”.
“No, no, no, no”, he shakes his head, still smiling, “that is definitely not what you were going to say”.
“Of course it is”, admitting it would be an humiliation, and he can’t deal with that. “What other thing could I have possibly wanted to say?”
“You were going to say you appreciate me”, the short teen is shaking him by the arms, like he’s trying to make him spit the truth. “Aw, you appreciate me, Shin-chan! So sweet”.
“I absolutely do not. There is nothing to appreciate, specially not in those horrible songs”.
“Come on! You can say it! Say: ‘I appreciate you and I really like your songs, Takao, as it should be perfectly obvious’, it’s not that hard”, he imitates his voice this time.
“Don’t imitate me”, he half-yells, “and I definitely do not like your silly songs”.
“Being nice to me is not going to kill you”, his friend says, sounding a little upset, but Midorima learned the hard way there is nothing that fool takes seriously. Still, when said fool sits on the edge of the bed, arms crossed and with a look that can only be describe as ‘wounded’, he worries. He hates making Takao feel bad or any emotion not related to ‘happy’, ‘entertained, ‘excited’ or ‘horny’.
“Okay”, he sighs, defeated, “Okay, I do. I do like your songs”, in the second he finishes saying that, the point guard jumps off the bed and hugs him, laughing; because Takao Kazunari is never serious enough for something to actually upset him or hurt him, but he must admit someone should give him an Oscar for his acting skills; he falls for it less and less as the time passes, but other people? Other poor, innocent, credulous people? They fall in the mischievous little traps so often that it’s sad. That’s other of Takao’s talents: if he can’t charm his way out of hell, he will guilt-trip his way up. “Get the fuck away from me”.
“I’m sorry”, the horrible human being laughs, “I’m so sorry, it was a joke. I just love when you care about me”.
Midorima is not answering to that. Any answer will tell more than he intended or come out so cold that would make Takao feel, at the very least, uncomfortable. He swallows all his why would I care about you? and I couldn’t care less about you than I already do, and tries to not choke on the I always care about you and the I care about you, I love you. If Takao was less of an asshole, it would be way more difficult to lie; most of the time he’s thankful for the slight cruelness and the recurring malicious jokes his friend tends to make, without them he would have probably already broke down and told him all those things that are trapped in the back of his throat; but without them, he probably wouldn’t love him in the way he does.
He definitely wouldn’t love him in the way he does, because the look on his eyes always screams bad intentions and his smiles always bring terrible news for the poor souls of those stupid enough to fall for them when he’s bored, but somehow, in a way that wouldn’t make sense on anyone else, there is so much good in him, so much gentleness and passion, and caring words when needed. Without the meanness, all the light Kazunari brings to the world would go unnoticed, and what would his life be without it?
Midorima, out of pure instinct and lack of self-control, moves towards him, making him walk backwards with a little smirk he decides to ignore, until he is forced to stop once the desk hits the back of his legs, silver blue eyes fix on him impatiently, and he knows better than keep him waiting. They appear to have the same idea; Takao jumps and sits on the desk at the exact time the shooter closes the distance between them.
He loves making out with him, even more considering they never kiss in a not-sex-related context; moments like this do not exist in their relationship; as a matter of fact, this is just the pre-game of a fuck, but it’s more than usual. Kissing him is a heavenly experience, so he prays and begs to whoever is up there for it to never end, for him to stay here, feeling those long legs around his waist, where he can devore his mouth as rough as he wants. The point guard pulls back, searching for air, and Shintarou can’t help but chase after him in desperation, making him let out a soft giggle against his lips; he grips his hair in retaliation, pulling him closer and trapping him on a hungry kiss. He wishes he could stay like this for the rest of his life, his friend’s hands everywhere, trying to get rid of his clothes but too shaky and anxious to actually do it; starving bodies looking for each other, almost breathless.
“What the fuck is that?”, Takao growls, and Midorima is forced to put his attention in something other than how fucking hot he is. The kettle. The fucking kettle he forgot to turn off. “Tell me, for the love of God, it isn’t the kettle I’m afraid to use because I’m sure it will burst into flames any day now”, his eyes are close, irritated, and ready to kill someone.
“I forgot”, he whispers.
“For fuck’s sake”, the shorter teen jumps off the desk, cussing between his teeth, before going out of the room, he turns to look at him. “We’re not done yet”.
“No, we are not”, he manages to say, trying to recover his breath.
“This is your fault”.
“I know”.
The point guard gets out of the room growling and cussing in whispers –the last thing they need is Minami refusing to go back to sleep–. The old family-heirloom kettle is there, in the fire, and he won’t touch that thing even if his fuck session depends on it; he has been begging his friend to throw it out since the first time he saw it, but something-something-my great great grandmother-something-something.
Midorima serves tea in a very traditional way –which is kind of a turn on–, every movement of his fingers is calculated and precise and has an enormous amount of practice behind it; no matter how unstable and about to break that kettle is, Shintarou will accomplish the goal as intended, without a single drop falling off the cups. He follows that fire hazard with his eyes, only to see every change of position his friend’s hands make; it’s hypnotizing, he lives for it and for all the other things those fingers do so, so well.
“Do you want something to eat?”, the shooting guard asks, interrupting his daydream. “I think there are some of those cookies you like so much”.
“Uuuuh. Yes”, he exclaims, smiling. “I love those things. Mina-chan too, so leave some for her”.
“You have the taste palette of a six-year-old child, that is all I heard”.
“You’re no fun, Shin-chan”, he mutters.
“No?”, the taller one asks, looking at him again with a raised eyebrow. There is a little smirk on his face, and Takao knows what’s coming. “Well, you are always welcome to sleep in the guest room or I can call a taxi for you, if I am so boring”.
“Uuuuh, good threat, Shin-chan, very fast. I’m impressed”, the reward for that are little, almost imperceptible claps. “You didn’t even insult me, I’m very proud. It’s obvious you learned from the best”.
“I learned from a very obnoxious idiot whose tea is getting cold”, is the answers he gets, so he laughs and drinks, letting the warmness fill his body.
“In other news…” Takao starts, and the shooter grumbles in response, “I saw Kuroko the other day”.
“How is that considered news?”
“Oh, I’m not there yet”, a mocking smile forms on his face, because this is going to be hilarious. “I saw Kuroko on a bookstore and…”
“You don’t read”.
“and he told me something interesting”, he continues, ignoring the comment. “It was more of a question, really, or an assumption”.
“Can you get to the point, Takao?”
“Getting there, Shin-chan”, he says, faking a sweet tone. “He asked me, and he was quite blunt about it, it was kinda weird”.
“Takao…”, his friend rushes him.
“Kuroko asked and I quote: ‘You have been fucking Midorima-kun for about a month, right?’, end quote”, he can see his friend straightening his back and looking nervous, not uncomfortable, or surprised, nervous. “So, I was thinking, right? I do that from time to time…and I don’t recall telling him anything about our little extracurricular activities”, he pushes, but not being direct enough to get an actual answer. He loves seeing Midorima’s face in panic. “because I assume it was me, ‘cause I talk so much, right? Maybe it slipped at some point, but I usually remember the things I say, especially being about…well, this”, a smile, a shrug, a questioning/accusatory look, and the shooting guard is slowly going insane. “I don’t know, maybe it was a vibe he caught or something like that; it was probably that, right? Because you would never not tell me about your friend having that kind of information, I am very sure of that”, he can tell his friend is a little ashamed but still resisting to confess. “I mean…that’s the whole point of us, no? We trust each other and don’t lie to each other; there is no way…”
“Stop”, Shintarou finally interrupts him. “I get it, okay? I should have told you, but it wasn’t me, technically”.
“Okay…”, he laughs a little. “Please, elaborate on that”.
“I am not trying to excuse myself for not informed you about it”.
“Of course you don’t”.
“Look, remember in the training camp when we ended up in one of the bathroom stalls?”
“Oh, absolutely”, it’s a great memory, and impossible to forget kind of memory. “You were brutal, it was amazing”.
“Yes, it was”, the shooter agrees with a very serious expression. “Remember our hickeys and the…very deep scratches on my back?”.
“Yeah, we were…it was like…I mean, heat of the moment”, he struggles to say, between little giggles and the fact that remembering it turns him on.
“I went out for my morning run, like always, but I putted on that turtle-neck shirt you hate because otherwise…well, it was the only way to hide the gigantic bitemarks and bruises on my neck”, Midorima explains. “roughly two minutes after I started, Kuroko appeared out of nowhere, as he usually does, and joined me. He kept the pace, which is impressive considering he…”
“Focus”.
“Well, before we ran back to the camp, I went to a store and bought a couple of things, I do not recall what, but I remember asking about waterproof foundation to cover the marks because I was about to have a heatstroke, but there wasn’t any. I got out and the next thing I saw was Kuroko’s hand wiggling a little bottle of it at my face”, he shrugs a little, still confused about it. “I must have touched my neck and moved the shirt, so he saw it. He made conclusions on his own, said it could only be you because…”, he pauses, with an embarrass look on his face.
“Because…?”
“He said it could only be you because I don’t talk to people nor have more friends besides you”, he lets that out so fast Takao almost didn’t hear it correctly. “I did not see a reason to lie, considering he just wouldn’t believe me, so I said yes, and he covered the marks for me saying I could die from the heat if I kept wearing that shirt, and that I had to give it to you afterwards. And that is it, nothing more; he promised not to tell Kagami”.
“I see”.
“I am not lying”.
“I don’t think you’re lying, Shin-chan”.
“Yes, you do”.
“No, I don’t. The thing you interpret as me not believing you is just guilt and paranoia”, Takao says, calmly. His hands are warm for the teacup, and Midorima’s arm is so cold to the touch when he reaches for it. “I believe you”. Reassurance. His friend is all about reassurance and looks less tense as soon as he hears it. “Silly Shin-chan”, he smiles, kind, maybe even sweet, and he hates himself for it, because he doesn’t enjoy the panic on the other’s face like in the beginning. Yes, it’s still a little funny but he just hates seeing Shin-chan, his Shin-chan sad. “There is…other thing”.
“It wasn’t me”.
“I know”, he laughs, giving him a little squeeze in the forearm. “He said ‘You have been fucking Midorima’, right?”
“I suppose…”
“Not ‘with’ Midorima, just…fucking Midorima”.
“I don’t follow”, Shintarou whispers, unsure of what the short teen is talking about.
“Okay…’with’ isn’t associated to any ‘role’ in the action”, his friend nods, letting him know he understands. “if the ‘with’ is not there, the order of the subjects indicates their role in the action”, he is really trying to not laugh or make jokes about this, forcing himself to stay in a relatively neutral language. “So, for example, ‘x is fucking with y” just means they are fucking together”, he pauses, and waits for another nod before keep going. “if it’s phrased like ‘x is fucking y’, implies that…well, x is actively fucking y. x is you in that sentence”.
“I’m not stupid, I understood”, Midorima sighs, annoyed. “Why did he…?”
“Wait!”, Takao stops him with a little laugh. “I told him ‘It’s the other way around, actually’”
“Why on earth did you think you should give him any kind of explanation about what we do?”
“I don’t know. He already knew and I thought he having the wrong information was kinda unfair”, he shrugs. “The thing is…he looked at me with the most confused face I have ever seen, considering Kuroko doesn’t have any expression in general, and said ‘I thought you top’, and I was like ‘Yeah, dude. Me too. Things change’, it was very weird. Hilarious but weird”.
“Why did he think that?”
“I don’t know. I’m a princess when compared to you”, Takao still loves annoying Midorima, that hasn’t change. Thank God. “Maybe, you look like a bottom”.
“I absolutely do not”.
“Maybe you do!”
“I don’t”
“How do you know? Can you tell the difference?”
“I can!”
“When?”, he giggles. “Like…give an example”.
“Okay”, Midorima breaths in and thinks. “Izuki from Seirin is a bottom. Kiyoshi Teppei tops but not all the time, same with Aomine, but I don’t think he counts because we used to be friends. Miyaji the Younger is a top, the Older…not so much, Imayoshi is a top which freaks me out, he is…extremely weird. Hayama Kotarou, from Rakuzan, also known as The Blowjob King, if I remember correctly…tops. Do you need more?”
“Hayama what?!”
“I gave you several examples and you choose to focus on something that is public knowledge?”, he growls. “Do you know how commonly use and known a nickname has to be for me to know it?”
“Okay, okay”, he accepts his defeat with grace. “Maybe it’s because there was a time in my life I would have cut the dick off of anyone who wanted me to bottom”, instantly, he closes his eyes, fully aware that he opened a door to something he has always managed to avoid. He hates talking about it, but knows it’s better not leave that flying around on Shin-chan’s head.
“Why?”
Takao Kazunari is all about secrecy, has always been. He remembers being a small child whispering around like the entire world was spying him; like walls hear and trees talk, and he is too careful to let anyone catch him by surprise. It’s funny because people assume he’s the type of person who shares everything with everyone; physically uncapable of keeping information to himself, vomiting word after word in a naturally charming way and being love by everyone because of it.
He is very good at keeping things inside, to himself, trapped somewhere nobody can possibly find them, between his ribs and lungs, and yes, there are times he feels his secrets are making him breathless, pressing down his organs, causing a tremendous pain and slowly suffocating him; but he doesn’t mind much, he is very used to it, probably because this is the only way he knows how to live, how to survive, how to stay away from the harm the world can cause; following the invisible trails he draws in his head, choosing the safest roads and bridges, avoiding any kind of unnecessary wound. One can never be overly cautious these days, right?
People tend to think he is all soft edges and carefree laughter, and it’s a talent, really. Nobody should be able to lie this convincingly with no remorse; nobody should be capable of distancing themselves from the external world and the dangers that come with it without giving up their social life. It’s a whole trick, to be honest; one he has practice for so long he can do it with his eyes close. He can subtract himself from equations; dig escape tunnels when no one sees him, and leave as fast as he came, vanishing within seconds.
He takes a lot of pride in it. He used to, at least. Now, sometimes he finds himself being ashamed of ghost and memories, being haunted by scars that are no longer there, wondering if the boy sleeping next to him can see them too, and if he does, how disgusted by them is he?
The fact he is capable of doing the things he does, the lies and Oscar-worthy performances, doesn’t mean he enjoys it; during the time he felt proud of his abilities, they were just a precaution in case of anything, he didn’t like it but he’s a scared child deep inside and holding the shield seemed like a better option. In the last two years or so, they became sutures, healing creams and bandages that struggle to keep the still bleeding stab wound always closed and cover, but the thing is that’s not going to happen, because he feels those hands on him and they refuse to leave; the precaution is worthless, the damage is done and he prefers to carry that with him, hidden, only his, and let the act take over. The cheerfulness is real, he swears, he likes jokes and dumb movies and dancing; he is the person he says he is, but he’s sharper and smarter than people think, or what it’s worse, a lot softer.
He must have been in silence for a while because Midorima coffs a little to trying to get his attention.
“Yeah, the thing is…”
“You do not need to tell me, if you don’t want to”, that sounds like magic to Takao, because even in his eternal arrogance and tendency to demand instead of asking, he says exactly the right thing to convince him.
“No, yeah, I’ll tell you. It’s kinda dumb though”, he answers, and breathes in. “My ex-boyfriend, when I was like 14 or so, he…”, there is no way on earth he’s going to give him a full version, specially because he is not quite sure what the full version is. “He was a prick, and I realized that too late”.
“You really do not have to tell me if you are not comfortable”, Shin-chan insists, and it’s Oh so sweet to hear.
“It’s not big deal”, he tries to laugh it off, recover the control over his words. “The thing is…in my 2nd year, we fucked a lot, in general. I know I’m a slut, so don’t make a comment about it”.
“Why would I think that about you?”
“Oh”, Oh indeed. “Whatever. So, one day we were on his room”, that’s a lie, “and we were…you know?”, that’s a lie too, “and he went a little too rough on me. You know I can handle rough because I like it rough, but he kinda…stepped over several lines; I mean…it was fucking awful. Besides he took off the condom and didn’t tell me”, Okay, that part is true. “after that, maybe two or three days later, I quitted the team and I just refused to give anyone the possibility of being a fucking bastard with me, so yeah…top or with girls. That’s why, that’s what happened”.
The silence that follows makes him want to cry; he hates talking about this and it’s precisely for that he never told anyone about it. He can’t handle the silence, or the pity, or whatever other fucking reaction people may have in front of it; he wasn’t even that honest and this is what he gets for having the stupid idea of telling things to someone.
Midorima looks neutral, which is weird because he’s usually something. Annoyed; tired; mean; hot; but never neutral, specially not with him.
So stupid, Nari. You are so fucking stupid. Great fucking job.
“I told you it was silly”, he tries to laugh, uncomfortable. His friend tidles his head, like he’s asking something. “A really dumb reason, so…”
“I understand…”, Midorima finally says, “why you think it’s a dumb reason, but I must say I disagree”.
“Mmh?”
“I think it is a very good reason, actually”, he adds. “I assume you have many arguments to invalidate your own decision, but I do not think you should”.
“I don’t follow”.
“Of course you don’t”, the shooter sighs. “It was an awful thing, and the natural reaction is trying to avoid contexts that might put you on that situation again. Getting away from what we perceive as dangerous or harmful is human nature”.
“If you put it like that…”, he shrugs, and gives him a little smile. “I thought you were going to say I was an idiot for taking an isolated event so seriously”.
“I do think you are an idiot, for a lot of reasons. Now I think you are an idiot because you are second guessing an absolutely rational decision that makes all the sense in the world, invalidating what you felt while at it”.
“No need to destroy me about it, Shin-chan”.
“All I am saying is…there is only one person in what you just told me who did something wrong, and it wasn’t you”.
“Thanks. I appreciate it”, he whispers. His tea is already cold but drinks it anyways.
“What kind of comments did other people make for you to believe…”
“I never told anyone”, he stops him. “You’re the first person to know”.
“I see”, Midorima murmurs, and Takao knows he’s biting his tongue for it. “Why?”
“Why did I tell you?”, his friend nods. “You’re my best friend”, he giggles, still sounding a little sad.
“Me being your best friend is terribly sad and deeply concerning”.
“Aw, you are not that bad”, he pinches his friend’s cheek until the taller teen hits his hand off him. “Look at you being a good friend! I’m so proud!”
“You are a ridiculous fool and I hate you”, Shin-chan keeps quiet for a couple of seconds, but Takao is laughing and doesn’t notice. “Why me?”
“Why are you my best friend?”, the other shakes his head, “then why you what?
“Why do you let me…you know?”
“Why do I let you fuck me?”, he asks, mocking him. His friend rolls his eyes and looks away, pretending not to be embarrassed. “Because it’s you”, he says, like it is the most obvious thing on earth.
“Is that supposed to be an answer?”
“Yeah, kinda”, the point guard tries to focus on the cup, trying to keep his overly-active eyes in one place for longer than two seconds. “We are a team, you and me, right? We work well on the court and out of it, and every pass I send these days is for you and I’m always 100% sure you’ll make a stupidly high and accurate shot, and you’re so unnecessarily hard-working and you do that in every aspect of your life, and you are an absolute prick half the time, but it makes me laugh so it’s okay. And I trust you blindly, and you have never given me a reason not to. So…if I have to put whatever trust I have left in that regard onto someone, who’s better than you? Some guy with an electric guitar and tattoos on his neck? If I can’t trust you, then who I could possibly trust?”
I trust you. I love you. I feel safe with you. You care so much. You are so sweet and attentive. And I am so sorry for fucking us up by loving you. And I kinda confessed just now but I’ll play it cool in case you didn’t notice.
“So, yeah…that’s the answers: It’s you”.
“Us”, Midorima corrects him. “Technically, it’s…it’s us”.
“Yeah, you’re right. Us”.
This. This answer. This reaction is absolutely fucking worse. Midorima, bless him, is being as kind and caring as possible, in the ways he knows how to. A couple of insults here and there; explaining in a very rational, very scientifical kind of way why he is being an idiot when he invalidates himself; questioning other people’s intelligences and reactions to make sure he knows he’s not wrong. This is by far the worst fucking scenario. And he, in his eternal weakness for this horrible guy, said more than what he should; all he had to do was lie and say he thought he was cute and enough trustworthy, and Midorima would’ve believed him. But no, of course not, one look at his pretty, pretty face made him decide this was a good idea.
However, he’s grateful his friend took it with so much kindness, his rectitude did not interfere with their friendship and that’s cool. It would be cooler if Shintarou hasn’t said the last part: Us, he corrected at his own volition, with not pressure from him; putted them together in a single word because he believes that to be the truth. Us got out of his mouth and any calmness Takao still had in his body abandoned the perimeter and threw itself to the fire; and he hopes he meant it, he hopes he’s trying to tell him a secret, and if he’s not, he hopes he didn’t catch the confession in between his answer; he probably didn’t, he’s not very good at taking hints –without the point guard explaining them to him–.
The silence is not as intolerable as the first one; it’s full of softness and understanding support, and isn’t that what their whole relationship is about? Isn’t that what they have built over time?
They both have their arms on the table –Midorima the left, Takao the right–, and for a couple of minutes, their fingertips touch, moving them slightly in some sort of nervous caress; it’s almost like they are reaching for each other, trying to catch the other’s hand without actually doing so. The tenderness breaks his heart, stops his breath, but he can’t bring himself to remove it, not even for his own good, he’s not strong enough for it. Takao chases the warm skin, afraid of it going away, and lets Shintarou do the same pretending this isn’t happening. The green eyes are looking something behind Kazunari, but his are fix on their hands; on every detail in them; every vein adorning the shooting guard’s skin; every curve on his knuckles, every centimetre of his wrist; and he is so weak in front of that mesmerizing living-piece-of-art, so willing to ignore his self-respect; if it means he can stay like this for a little longer, he can deal with the internal humiliation.
Midorima turns his arm a little, making his watch hit the wood; he, out of instinct, lets himself go further than he should. Starting on his wrist, just above the strap, he feels the rapid pulse under his ring finger before going forward; the shorter teen moves his hand, slowly caressing the palm and the middle finger, landing there, near the tip, waiting for something to happen, for the moment to end, and it’s exhausting how insanely fast his heart is beating. He wants to scream when his friend imitates the motion in the back of his hand, carefully touching the curve of his wrist bone and drawing a straight line to his index, grabs it with his and holds it there for a second; his eyes fall on him first, and then on their hands, like he just realized what he is doing.
They have never held hands before, if this can be consider holding hands; not counting the long fingers tangle in his when they’re fucking, it has never happened. They have never kissed before either, he thinks, not without a second intention, at least. They have been very close a couple of times –in the library, back against the shelfs; right after waking up, still in bed; watching a movie, in between laughs–, but they always stop right before doing it, when their lips are brushing, and their breaths mix. The thought of it suddenly makes him feel horribly alone, takes out every wonderful sensation Shintarou’s fingers were giving him; this fantastic moment means nothing, it is nothing, and it’s not even Shin-chan’s fault, because he’s taking what they’re doing how he’s supposed to, because he can’t control what he feels, but it hurts so much, it burns so terribly, and he thinks he might die if he keeps touching him. A second more feeling his soft skin, and he will burst in tears.
He removes his hand in a single, fast movement; smiling, playing dumb, trying to vanish before the wounds are worse than they already are.
“I’m going to take a shower before it gets too cold”, he informs, with a carefully planned smile. “Where did you put my things, Shin-chan?”, seeing the annoyed expression the other teen has makes him feel better, safer.
“They are in their place, as it should be perfectly obvious”, his voice sounds like a bark, an angry bark. “where they are supposed to be at all times, but you are an uncontrollable mess”.
“Oh, come on!”, he laughs. “I’m asking ‘cause you hide them when your dad’s here”.
“He is not here now”, the shooter exclaims, and then sighs. “Everything hygiene related is on your shelf in my bathroom; your pyjamas is clean and in your drawer with all the rest of your clothes, and your towel is folded over the desk”.
“You’re an angel, Shin-chan”, the point guard says, and kisses his cheek dramatically –which he didn’t want to do, but it would be weird if he didn’t–. “You should clean the imaginary dust you see on the furniture while I’m showering, or it will give you a heart attack in the morning”, he turns around, starting to walk towards Midorima’s bedroom, but he doesn’t make it too far.
“Takao”, his friend calls him.
“Mmh?”, he turns around to look at him.
“I…”, there is doubt in his voice, like he’s not sure of what he’s about to say. “I…ehm”, he tries again, and Takao does not pressure him, just waits. “I would never do that to you”, Shintarou finally says, and, even when he’s still doubting his words, he’s more than sure of what he’s saying. “I would never do something…to hurt you”, the taller teen finishes, and he can tell he’s holding his breath and trying to guess his reaction.
“I know”, he whispers, loud enough for the other to hear him, and gives a little smile that seems to relax him. “I know”, he repeats. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise”, it’s the last thing he says before making his way to Shin-chan’s room.
He’s breathless and shaking by the time he gets there; everything hurts and burns, like someone is tearing off his skin. He grabs the towel and basically throw himself inside his friend’s bathroom, closing and locking the door behind him as fast as he can. There are better ways to kill myself, he thinks, less painful, not soul-crushing ways.
His body feels heavy, impossible to move, but he makes an effort and starts taking off his clothes. In many ways, Takao is so accustomed to the marks left behind on his skin that he barely notices them, they have become part of how he looks; however, the image on the mirror now seems to be haunting him, not letting him get away from the boy he loves so much but doesn’t love him back.
The point guard studies his reflexion, counting the marks on his body one by one. Midorima’s teeth are printed in his thigh in the form of a circular bruise, if he gets closer, he can see the separations between each tooth. In his hip bone, a barely perceptible purple-yellowish spot from weeks ago. And two small hickeys on his collarbone and neck. He finds it a little excessive at first, a little too much, too many; but he knows very well how much of a hypocrite that makes him. He's done so much worse to his poor Shin-chan; his wide back is eternally decorated with the long, red lines left behind by his fingernails; there are scratches in the back of his neck, teeth marked on his shoulders and hickeys on his throat.
He can’t say he doesn’t feel a very strange pleasure in it; watching him carefully cover the traces of their little secret before they go to school and pick clothes exclusively for how effectively they will hide everything he needs to hide. He can’t say he doesn’t do it on purpose, that there is no second intention in how hard he bites down; it’s his way of claiming him, say he was there, and he will be there tomorrow. And for a moment, his own desperation looks pathetic for him, reminds him of a time he wishes that never happened, so he closes his eyes and pretends the mirror isn’t there.
Takao sits under the hot water, legs against his chest, and lets it fall over his head, trying to wash off a kind of dirt he can’t get rid of, clean something he simply can’t reach, and he hasn’t thought about it for some time now, but talking about it drag everything back into his mind and he might as well drown in the shower, because there is nothing as bad as having that so fresh in the memory; he almost prefers the burn he feels in his chest when he remembers his Shin-chan doesn’t love him. Almost.
There is steam all over the bathroom and a strong smell of soap and shampoo when he finally regains control over his thoughts, which he does when a loud knock echoes inside.
“Did you find a way to drown yourself in there, idiot?”, he hears behind the door. “You have been there for too long, are you still alive?”, there is concerned on his tone, and sounds like he spent some time deciding if he should talk or no.
“I’m fine!”, Kazunari yells. “The water feels great, that’s all!”, it’s a good excuse and it’s technically true. “5 more minutes, please!”
“You are not the one paying the fucking water bill after this”.
“You won’t do it either, Shin-chan!”, he lets out an honest laugh.
He doesn’t stay there for five more minutes, only three –what it took him to brush his teeth–. The water was so hot that his skin looks a little red now; the cold air of the bedroom makes him shiver as soon as he puts a foot out of the bathroom, and he already hears the long speech Midorima is going to give about pneumonia and death, and his own voice answering in between giggles.
Everything is familiar here, from the six golden basketball medals hanging in the wall to the black notebook on his friend’s hand; the domesticity is warm yet poisonous; all their routines, morning rituals and choosing dinner’s fights bring him an incredible peace, but also a horrible sense of hope he needs to shake off his system as soon as possible.
“The hairdryer is there”, the shooter says without taking his eyes off whatever he’s writing so intensively. “And get dressed, the room is freezing. You are going to catch pneumonia and die”.
“Thanks for the warning”, he knows his voice sounds raspy and tired, so much so he can’t recognize it at first. He coughs, trying to fix it, and starts getting dressed –Shin-chan, bless him, left the clothes on the bed–. The fabric feels warmer than it should but asking too many questions is always a bad idea with Midorima, so he just smiles fondly to himself.
“It was Kise”, Shintarou lets out almost like a sigh, a little too loud. “The other friend…it was Kise”.
“YOU FUCKED WITH A MODEL AND DIDN’T TELL ME ABOUT IT?”
“Shh, lower you voice. If Minami wakes up because of you, I will exterminate you”, he growls. “And I didn’t fuck with a ‘model’, I had sex with my obnoxious and ridiculous friend who happens to be a model”.
“You know what I mean. It’s Kise Ryouta, for fuck’s sake. The guy is one of the most gorgeous, gorgeous things my eyes have seen on earth and famous as fuck”.
“Don’t dehumanize him”.
“You treat him like shit all the time”.
“That is absolutely different”.
“How so?”
“I treat him like shit because he is always being follow by girls screaming, calls me by that ridiculous nickname I hate, has thrown several shoes at me, and tends to yell instead of speaking”, he explains. “I earned the right to be a prick with him because I saw him every day for two years and putted up with his shit all the time. But people always talk about him like the only thing he is, like the only worth he has, is being a pretty boy to fuck, and it is very offensive”.
“Aw, you care”.
“Fuck you”.
“Maybe you should”, Takao smiles, flirting. “But…how could I ever compete with Kise Ryouta? The bar is way too high and, as you say, I am way too short”, Midorima is looking at him, the notebook resting on his lap, and he seems to be considering what to do. So, he bates his eyelashes and waits for his friend to take the hint –or the come-fuck-me eyes he’s giving him–. The shooter scans him up and down before talking.
“Dry your hair and then I’ll consider it”.
“Can you help me with it?”
“Why would I…”, the point guard smiles at him again, and raises an eyebrow. “Sit here”.
He knows this isn’t a good outfit for seduction, but also knows they have fucked on worse conditions. So, he sits where he was told to, between Shintarou’s legs, near the edge of the bed; little drops of water fall from his wet hair, sliding down his neck. The shooting guard puts a hand on his shoulder and lets his thumb touch the expose skin; Takao shakes and removes himself from the contact.
“Your hands are cold”, he informs him.
“Don’t worry”, the other whispers. “They will warm up soon enough”.
The hot air of the hairdryer feels amazing, like he didn’t notice how cold he was until now. Shintarou moves his hair side to side, shakes it with his hand, makes the air mess up its natural form, and he’s doing it on propose. Kazunari might not be able to see or hear him, but he is sure there is a mocking smile on the other teen’s mouth; maybe he finally decided he should look as messy as he is, and if there is something he knows with absolute certainty is that his Shin-chan adores when he’s messy –unless it involves unfolded, fresh clean clothes on the floor–. He giggles, moves on opposite directions, trying to ‘escape’ from the almost hostile warmness, but it doesn’t last long; a strong hand pushes him back to his original position and stops him from wiggling more; holds him there, pressing down his shoulder, as they continue. Slender fingers go upwards from the base of his skull, passing between the hair and making sure everything is being dry equally, but he moves again; the short teen can hear his friend growling under the loud sound, before a big hand grabs him from the back of the head and returns him to his place.
“Stop moving!”, Midorima finally says, irritated. “It is going to take twice as long if you keep wiggling around like a hyperactive dog!”.
“You’re messing up my beautiful, beautiful hair!”
“Your hair is always a mess. Stop whining!”.
“But…”, he starts and tries to turn around to look at him and complain.
“Eyes up front”, his friend forces his head with both hands.
“We could finish drying it later”, he suggests with a fake innocent voice.
“My bed is not going to suffer the consequences of your stupidity”.
“It doesn’t…have to be in bed”, and for a second, the taller teen seems to consider it, letting the tapped fingertips touch his neck; so, he tries to look at him again, but the answer is the same as the last time.
“I said, ‘Eyes up front’”, the movement is aggressive and the way he orders him is rough and kind of hot, especially because he can still feel his touch against his skin. “Bed today”, it is barely a whisper, but Kazunari hears it just fine.
“Okay”, he lets out so low he can barely hear it himself.
Takao stays silent and lets him do what he apparently is so determined to do. Like in everything else, Shintarou takes an awful amount of time to make sure that his whole head is dry evenly, checking every part with excessive dutifulness; and even if the idea was to convince him to fuck before finishing, this is nice, the warmness is relaxing, and the slight pressure those talented fingers put on his shoulder from time to time, almost like their owner is practicing piano against him, is oh so glorious.
There is something magical about feeling like a part of something so beautiful like the music Shintarou makes, it’s like existing in a world in which nothing is human, where nothing is ever real or corporeal, and there are only sounds and ghosts and the wonderful things he writes at night on that black notebook he never lets him see –and he has never been brave enough to read on his own–. Being touch with the same care he knows his friend puts on the keys is hypnotic in a very weird way, because even though he’s fully aware of Shin-chan’s feelings –the lack of them, actually– it is impossible to not entertain the idea that he is more than a friend, that there is a chance, for small as this can be.
Midorima unplugs the hairdryer and puts it over the nightstand, finally content with the result, so he shakes his head slightly and starts standing up, but a strong arm goes around his waist and stops him, pulls him down again, making him sit exactly where he was, between the other teen’s legs. He lets out a small giggle and allows it, his friend’s right-hand travels up his shirt and presses against his belly.
“Still too cold?”.
“No”, he murmurs in response. “Not at all”.
“Good”.
Midorima’s long tapped fingers move up his neck to his mouth in a soft caress, resting one delicately on top of his lips, making no pressure, asking nothing from him, until he opens and invites them in. The familiarity of the rough tape against his tongue makes his heart beat faster in anticipation as it slides in slowly, stopping and retreating only once a small gag escapes from him; his teeth, with trained precision, grab the lower end of it when the shooter offers it to him, and pulls off. The action is repetitive yet so incredibly arousing he isn’t sure he’s breathing until the last finger is done and the now bare hand is around his throat, sliding down as a reward; he moans in response, closing his eyes and throwing his head back, letting it rest on the other’s shoulder.
“Take it off”, Shintarou whispers into his ear.
“Do it for me”, he answers, and smiles without opening his eyes.
“I won’t”, the shooter is still caressing his throat up and down, pressing gently, and sounds out of breath, like he’s trying to control himself. “Take it off”.
Takao obeys this time and starts unbuttoning his shirt without changing his position, feeling his friend’s hands on him, going over his chest and torso, –one on his neck at all times– leaving no part of his skin untouched. He slides it off and tries to stand up but, again, the other teen stops him, pulling him down by the hips to keep him there. The point guard gets the message, cussing himself on the inside for taking too long: Do as I say. Do only what I say.
Shin-chan isn’t particularly dominating in bed, and appears to lack the freakish need to control he has in every other context on his life; usually it’s him the one leading, guiding, stablishing the lines and tempos, and Shin-chan follows –as hard as he asked to go; as deep as he is begged to–, but tonight, for no apparent reason, the shooting guard decided to go the other direction, and Takao isn’t complaining. He likes this, being told what to do and when without feeling he is something to be use but someone to be pleased under specific rules, rules made by a boy who has him between his arms, touching him slowly and gently like he is such a precious thing.
When he lowers his hands to take off his pants, Midorima catches him, grabbing them with only one hand –which is so fucking hot; his hands are so ridiculously big–.
“I…”, he tries to say, but his friend presses down his throat a little harder, trapping his voice in, making him moan again.
Do as I say. Do only what I say.
How could anyone not do what Midorima Shintarou says while feeling that fantastic pressure on their necks?
His friend’s left hand, the talented, miraculous, and unvaluable left hand, travels down his abdomen and into pants so slowly that Takao seriously considers start begging or crying for him to go faster, but this is so fucking hot, so stupidly erotic his head feels dizzy and light, and can’t bring himself to say or do anything other than moaning as the hand closes around his cock and starts jerking him off; his other hand guides him to rest his head on his shoulder again, like saying Relax. Keep your eyes close. I will take care of everything. Enjoy it. So, he does, and Midorima delivers perfectly, as always. He doesn’t even notice when he gets fully naked against his completely dressed Shin-chan, legs open and up the other teen’s knees as he touches his inner tights, squeezing and caressing them carefully, only opening his eyes once the warmth abandons him.
“Don’t…”, he begs, struggling to breathe.
“Shhhh”, the shooter is standing in front of him, unzipping his pants. For a second, he reaches down, raises his chin with his index finger and kisses him as gently and slowly as he has done everything else; the point guard moans into his mouth without breaking the kiss. “Up”, he orders him, pushing his shoulder slightly with the same finger.
Takao climbs to the bed backwards, legs shaking like this was his first time doing anything remotely sexual with someone. He’s half lying there, supporting himself with his forearms, looking directly at him, eyes wide open. From here, Midorima looks even taller than he already is, bigger, and incredibly threatening in a strange, sensual kind of way; the image makes him feel like a prey, like something very small waiting to be inevitably devoured. The whole situation is irrational hot and he’s irrationally hard: Serious, clean and proper Shin-chan being animalistic, looking like a predator in all his glory, while chaotic, flirty and forest fire-like little Takao is incapable of talking, of moving, of thinking any kind of smart, quick response for this.
The once cold room now appears to be on fire, and the shooting guard must know that, taking off his shirt, eyes still on him, as he gets closes and closes, climbing onto the bed slowly. The sudden feeling of being hunt, the sight of Shintarou almost on top of him, makes him shake in arousal; a part of him really wants to laugh, because this must be hilarious from the outside, but can’t bring himself to do it.
The moment his friend’s hand touches his neck is so gentle he thinks he might die, a caress done with the knuckles that carries no threat at all, going from the junction of his collarbones to his chin. He gasps shortly, holding his breath, and the shooting guard sure fucking notices it because he gives him a mocking look before start kissing his shoulder, the curve of his neck, and then his jaw. It’s slow and soft, his hand caressing his arm with unusual calmness, lacking all the desperation and hunger than is so common in them; bites his throat carefully, letting him feel more the teeth passing over the skin than the electrifying pain, and Kazunari throws back his head and groans, making his friend smirk against his warm neck. The long fingers go up and down the side of his torso, never staying in the same place for too long but never moving too quickly, and he is not sure whether this is a torture method or the most erotic thing he has ever experience in his entire life.
The shooter kisses him again, a little rougher this time but barely, before making his way down, kissing his chest. Takao moans, feeling like all the air has disappear, when the other bites softly one of his nipples, and tugs the short hair with one hand, the other pressing his shoulder, begging him to keep doing it; the wet tongue goes in circles in it, sucks and bites over and over again, until he’s almost suffocating trying to contain his voice.
“Shhh”.
Do as I say. Do only what I say.
Midorima kisses all the way down, until he finally settles, putting his legs on his shoulder and bites his inner tights softly.
“Eyes on me”, the shooter whispers, and he shivers under the sound of his voice.
The point guard lets out a small cry when his friend puts his cock inside his mouth, green eyes completely focus on his face, like he’s studying every reaction he has, and it’s so fucking good; every movement he makes is calculated and has been practiced over and over again during the last two months. He grabs Shintarou’s hair with one hand and pulls it, arching his back, letting him know he wants more, he needs more; a slightly stronger pressure on his hips, pushing back, remembers him he should calm down instead of begging for things, but fuck it, the guy must understand he can only be obedient so far.
“Faster”, he begs out of breath, and he can see his friend raising an eyebrow without stopping; Midorima must have really want to kill him, he decides, when the other takes it all inside to then retrieving, doing the most sinful sound he has ever heard and leaves behind a thin thread of saliva. “You’re fucking prick”.
“I thought you considered that to be extremely funny”, the shooter says, kissing his thighs and hips.
“Not in this context. You’re killing me”, he can’t take his eyes off him, he looks so good like this.
“You are exaggerating”, Shintarou is now right in front his face, a hand touching his neck so incredibly slow he is convinced he will explode any minute now, specially when those long fingers get inside his mouth, and he instantly sucks and licks and gets them as wet as he can without the need for the other to ask anything. He lets them out with a small pop. “A little more”, the taller teen indicates him and slides him back in, keeps going as deep as he can, getting in and out just to bother him. “We can always stop if you are not pleased with my performance tonight”, the shooting guard says, getting away slightly, and Takao knows that, even though he would absolutely stop if he asked him to, he doesn’t want to stop, he has no intention to, but a wave of panic invades him all of the sudden and pulls him by the neck towards him, trapping him in a hungry kiss.
“Don’t you fucking dare”, he growls against his lips, desperate, maybe even a little afraid of his friend actually stopping. “Don’t you fucking dare to stop”, the answer he gets is a short chuckle.
“Come here”, Midorima orders, sitting and pulling him by the arm to make him sit on his lap.
He’s accustomed to the heaviness of the bigger body over him, the softness of his skin and the carefulness of his touch. He knows those same hands can go rough, press him hard, lift him up like he weights nothing and undo him under them. Midorima is the epitome of gentleness mixed with toughness; but today there are no hard kisses, no pressure around his neck or teeth biting down his skin until they leave marks in it.
Today Midorima is just softness when he starts preparing him, deep and slow; breath-taking kisses on his throat, and tender, unsteady hands resting on his hips like he’s unsure of what to do with them. It’s not doubt, though, it’s excitement and desire and nervousness, and if Takao was in denial, he would think the look on his eyes means I love you.
The tip of his fingers travels slowly up his back, following the trail of his spine, and he can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything other than stay there, sitting on his lap with one leg on each side, waiting to feel his hair being pull back, but it never happens; the long hand makes its way up to his neck and stops on his cheek, caressing it gently.
He feels the warm breath against his lips and the barely noticeable smell of perfume impregnated on him. The shooting guard holds him closer and puts their forehead together, moving his fingers to his jaw to then land on the back of his neck, gripping tighter; green eyes fix on his and the only thing Takao can think of is how beautiful they are, and how much he wants to kiss him. Pronouncing words seems an impossible task right now, so he parts his lips slightly to let him know, and Midorima laughs softly against them, for less than a second, before kissing him. In the middle of the tender kiss, the sensation of his friend’s leaving and his cock entering him invades his body, slow movements one after the other; electricity running down his back, he tries to pick up the pace but the other won’t let him, holds his hips down, going deeper but not faster. They don’t need to hurry; they have all the time in the world, and no one is going to find them here, behind the lock bedroom door.
Shin-chan, his Shin-chan, lets out a low moan onto his mouth when he digs his fingernails on his back, and cusses under his breath. It’s a heavenly sound and it belongs exclusively to him; it exists only for him, and there is nothing better than that, that the boy he loves so much doesn’t hold anyone else like this. He fucks no one but him.
He rests his head on the other’s shoulder, the warm sweaty skin on his cheek, moaning into the slender neck, still moving his hips at the pace those fantastic hands want him to. Midorima groans next to his ear, breathing heavily, and he can feel the small wet kisses on the curve of his neck, the internal fight the shooter must have with the necessity to bite down; his soft lips touch his ear, closer than before, brushing against his earlobe.
“You are so beautiful”, Shintarou whispers. It’s short and sweet and gentle, quickly followed by more moans and kisses and that talented hand resting on his head, like begging him to stay there; and Takao is convinced he heard correctly. He said: You are, not You look.
He could die like this, here, being fucked slowly and deeply by this gentle boy of his, while those strong arms are around him and his voice is the only thing he can hear. And the last thing he thinks before everything turns white and glorious is that this is how making love must feel like.
Whatever happened after that is a little too blurry, like he just speed ran through the whole cleaning-getting half dressed-get in bed part; and by the time he finally comes back into his senses completely, Midorima is deeply asleep next to him –pyjama pants but no shirt– blessed with the gift of falling sleep as soon as his head touches the bed, the fucking bastard. Takao is still overwhelmed, breathless, too confused and/or fascinated by what happened to close his eyes, scared of the idea that, if he does, the moment they had will disappear. It felt like a dream. It must have been a dream, because there is absolutely no way the tenderness and gentle touches were real, not like that. They just fucked, and he needs to remember that. They fuck, that’s all. Nothing more. Nothing other than the horniness and hunger of two teen boys. He needs to never forget that, or he will go insane.
Shintarou growls, still sleeping, like he can hear his loud thoughts; rolls over and passes his arm around the point guard’s waist, hugging him tighter, and half burying his nose on his shoulder; Kazunari holds his breath in and begs himself to keep his shit together and not start crying.
We fucked. Nothing more. Nothing different. We just fuck, that’s all. It doesn’t mean anything. I don’t mean anything.
Still, with the horrible noise inside his head, his friend’s warm body is like a sedative to him, making him fall sleep on his arms.
The urge to go to the bathroom and the sudden coldness wakes him up at 6 am, because the world fucking hates him apparently. His face feels puffy and his cheek is wet with his own saliva, blinks one eye at a time until he feels emotionally ready to sit on the bed and try to stand up; having the memory of Shin-chan’s arm around him, he instinctively tries to shake him off, only to realize the other teen isn’t there, or anywhere else in the bedroom –the bathroom’s light is also turn off–. Even knowing this is his house and, therefore, won’t leave anywhere, a stroke of anxiety runs through his body, which is silly and unnecessary, but he’s half sleep and in love, it’s not his fault.
From the bathroom, when he finally convinced his body to move and obey the nature’s call, can hear a small, almost imperceptible sound coming from outside, one he could recognize even in his sleep. The piano. Soft and sweet piano music at 6 am like God is calling him from the living room. Takao picks up a shirt –not his, he realizes later–, and puts it on as he walks through the dark hallway; he stops mid-way and opens Minami’s door slightly to make sure she’s still sleeping –She is–, and then keeps going.
Midorima is there, sitting in front of the piano, with his notebook, looking at it from time to time, checking if he’s playing the song correctly; and the point guard can’t really see his face from where he is, so he moves and sits on the couch.
“Did I wake you up?”, the shooter asks lowly when he sees him.
“Not all”, he answers in the same tone, almost whispering. “Would you have apologized if you did?”, a small laugh gets out, and his friend rolls his eyes.
“Why would I?”, and he laughs again, barely hearable.
“Did you write it?”, Kazunari is sure he can identify all the classics Midorima knows, and this one doesn’t sound like one of them.
“I did”, the taller responds, no longer looking at him.
“What is it about?”
“Nothing”.
“That’s not true”, he raises an eyebrow, smirking. “You always talk about how EVERYTHING has something behind and…”
“Not this one”, Shintarou stops him. “Not everything means something”.
“Mmh, I don’t believe you”, Takao changes position, putting his legs on the couch, closer to his chest, and lets his head rest against it.
“How will I live now?”, the other sighs, sarcastically.
“Keep going”.
“Mmh?”
“Keep playing, I like it”, he repeats, and he knows the other teen knows he likes it; they do this same thing almost every time Midorima’s parents aren’t home, silent mornings interrupted by piano songs as he lies there, listening; sometimes he falls sleep until his friend wakes him up pressing keys loudly.
The thing is Midorima looks beautiful in this light, early in the morning in an almost empty house, just the two of them in the living room; sitting in front of the piano shirtless –because Takao is wearing it–, the shooting guard plays a song he does not know; every long finger falling gently on the right keys with perfect precision. So relax, so himself under the pale light of the sky coming from the windows. He looks beautiful like this, when he isn’t pretending to be distant and cold, when he is honest in one of the only ways he knows how to be, allowing Kazunari to see behind every wall he has ever built, letting him hear the wonderful music echoing around them like it was compose for his ears alone.
The complexity of the piece disappears under the hands of the expert he adores to observe; it seems to be so simple to play when Midorima is the one doing it, looking at him without stopping, green eyes fix on his but still fully aware of the melody. And it’s so early, it’s so cold, yet the idea of standing up and going back to sleep feels like an absolute betrayal to this gorgeous creature that is sharing such a personal moment with him, something he wrote in that mysterious black notebook of his; it feels like a sin he is not willing to commit. And no one talks at any point; no one tells the other they should go back to rest for another couple of hours before Minami wakes up, and he hopes that means they are both in this together, equally absorbed by whatever it exists between them.
Closing his eyes, he lets himself be consumed by the music, devoured by his friend’s presence, imagining what it would feel like to be able to walk towards him, sit on his lap with his arms around him as he plays, face bury on the curve of his neck, and fall sleep there, against him, under the spell of the piano.
What a comforting lie he is telling himself. What a wonderful dream this is.
The music stops and a hand gently touches his shoulder, interrupting his internal fantasy, waking him up again. In front of him, Shintarou is almost kneeling to be at the same hight as he is, looking at him with soft eyes behind the glasses.
“Let’s go back to bed”, the shooter whispers, as his fingers travel down the half-sleep teen until they reach his hand. Takao does not answer, does not make a sound, just lets himself be kindly pull back to the bedroom.
The bed is cold when he lies down, but soon after Midorima’s body joins him in, getting closer than necessary, all his shivers disappear, and invites him, without saying a word, to rest his head on his bare chest, arms around his waist, embracing him as the warmness puts both of them back to sleep.
Midorima Shintarou is not sleeping though, not at all. He is there, looking at the ceiling, hearing the soft snores Takao makes; the feeling of having him against him, skin on skin, is far too much for him to take a pause of his internal destruction, too much to even consider closing his eyes. For a moment, he is deeply concerned about having a panic attack because this feels probably the same way; if he thought the little thing with the hands was going to be the end of him, if he thought fucking him in the way he did last night was going to kill him, having him heard the song he wrote about him was so, so, so much worse.
To be honest, he has been writing a lot of songs about him during the last few months and Takao has heard almost all of them, but this one has an even more pathetic tone to it and the sole idea of him noticing makes him want to puke. He must admit that having him there makes him play better, maybe because he’s a show off in general or maybe he’s just trying to say Hey! Look! I’m so cool, right? I play piano so well, and you always say you like it when I play for you –like he’s fucking 13 again–.
The point guard looks so comfortable there, in between his arms, face against his chest, breathing calmly; he looks beautiful and quiet and adorable there, and Midorima will hold that image inside his head like his life depends on it. He runs his tapped fingers over his neck, feeling his pulse and his breathing and the overwhelming warmness, and wonders how could anyone ever do something bad to this gorgeous angel? How could anyone not want to give him everything he wants exactly when he wants it? How could this nameless fucking guy put his hands on him with any intention other than to please him? He has never wanted to kill someone so much, and he knows Takao isn’t giving him the full version, but it was enough for him to really consider investigating around –using Kise to investigate around–, after all, the guy was in the same team, how long would it take to find him? –to Kise, fifteen minutes and a smoothie–. What would he do if he finds him? He has ideas, many ideas. The shorter teen moves a little between his arms, growling something, and he holds him closer against him, pressing his friend onto him like he’s afraid he would vanish if he let him go.
He thinks about the notebook –with the mini-partitures, the tempos, and keys, and detailed instructions for himself–, and the horrific things he has been writing around the songs, travels through all the little personal harm he causes himself and realizes it would be so much humane to put himself out of his misery.
I have you in my bed over and over again, but I can’t hold your hand. | Every time we fuck, I’m making love to you. | The marks I leave on your body are the only way I have to feel you mine. |This is going to kill me.
Your breath against my neck is the closest I have been from being blessed. | My name sounds so sweet when you moan it into my mouth | I want to hear you begging me to touch you for the rest of my life.
You are the best thing that has ever happened to me | I dream about you. I dream about telling you. I dream about having you. | Some nights, I hold you while you sleep and pretend you are in love with me |The first thing I think about in the morning is your eyes. |I am so sorry. I should tell you. Keep the promises I made to you. But I rather spend an eternity burning in hellfire for being a traitor, than risking losing you. | You are going to hate me for this. You are going to hate me for doing this.
His notebook is well hidden in his closet, the part of it that is so high up Kazunari simply can’t reach it without asking him for help. If he didn’t want his friend to see those fucking songs he wrote before –with all those little phrases and lines of thought he uses as a “theme”–, he will straight up jump in front of a moving train if he sees it now; because he’s a pathetic idiot who is torturing himself, knowing perfectly well this isn’t going anywhere, but holds onto their friendship like it’s a really good idea. The thing is, sometimes he thinks he saw a glimpse of love for him in Takao’s beautiful eyes and has to remind himself he is only hallucinating.