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He’s a creature of instinct. An instinct to sleep in rather than go to class is instinct nonetheless, but that doesn’t hold up if he wants to stay on the team.
(It’s basketball > sleep, these days.)
So, the library, surrounded by people who didn't seem as out of place as he did and books that seemed to stare at him from their place on the shelves, like those creepy paintings with eyes that followed you wherever you went. He shrugs it off, because like hell is he gonna let rumors fly that Aomine Daiki spooks easy, and wanders aimlessly between aisles looking for a book the professor insisted they bring to class. Chances are slim that there's even a copy left unborrowed, but he figures luck's always been by his side and sees no reason it wouldn't be now, Midorima's daily horoscopes be damned. After swallowing enough pride to ask for help he stalks towards a particular shelf with purpose, spotting the book as a familiar tingle of victory settles in his gut.
It's a short-lived one. Another hand reaches for it at almost the exact moment, and he's about to snap, call dibs, make some remark about getting there first, but his gaze lands on his newest self-appointed enemy and he stops. He's seen that face before.
"Aomine Daiki," says the not-stranger, quickly, and this was the trouble with having a memorable name and an even more memorable reputation attached to it. Too many people remembered his; how was he supposed to remember all of theirs?
"Uh, yeah," he answers a little lamely, and recovers himself just in time. "Himuro, right?"
Himuro smiles at him at that. A weird kind of smile, one that didn't seem happy or even smug, but looked like it belonged on his face all the same. A default expression, if Aomine had to put it into words, like a scowl was on his own.
"Yes," Himuro finally affirms. "I'm Taiga's—"
"Brother. Yeah, I know." Seeing the ring resting neatly between Himuro's collarbones was what brought his name to the forefront of memory. "You go here?" he asks, beating Satsuki's voice at the back of his head to the punch, ever-present with its insistence that he be nice, for once in his life.
"I do. Majoring in business."
"Huh. Me too." Who would've thought? He adds, "basketball scholarship," by way of explanation, without sparing Himuro the gory details of his plan to pick a random degree and coast along until he gets scouted, which shouldn't take that long. The relative downsizing of his ego from his high school days didn't mean he'd lost his balls, after all.
"I see," says Himuro, his smile malformed into a simple press of the lips. "That's no surprise."
"Hah. Yeah." He's not due to win any awards for small talk, that's for sure, but he's done his share, and thinks he should call attention to why they were there. "So, about the book..."
"You take it," says Himuro, graciously, making Aomine feel like he's doing him a favor far bigger than letting him have a stupid textbook. "You'll probably need it more than me. I was just gonna use it to brush up on few things."
"Okay, well, thanks."
"No problem. It's been a pleasure to see you, Aomine-kun." He smiles as if he'd never stopped, waves at Aomine like they're old friends making plans to meet up again, and then he's gone.
They didn't have to make plans, old friends or not, because they nearly bump into each other in the hallways while Aomine's making a valiant effort to not be late. No telling how long it'll last, but he gives himself props for trying.
"Ah, sorry, I didn't see—oh, it's you, Aomine-kun." Himuro's tone implied the mild surprise that somehow didn't make it to his face. Come to think of it, Aomine hasn't seen the guy make any sort of expression apart from the smile that has him frowning, has him turning over the shape of it in his head. He's a jump in, ask questions later sort of person; solving mysteries isn't his thing.
"It's me," says Aomine dryly, and finds the words flowing out faster with the initial awkward reintroductions out of the way. "Got here early, but class isn't even done yet."
"Looks to be that way, doesn't it?" Himuro glances at the small window in one of the classrooms and clicks his tongue, a quiet sound that at least indicates he's not as detached as he seems. "It also looks like I'll be seeing you quite often from now on."
Pretty sure it's just a coincidence, waits and dissipates on Aomine's tongue as Himuro continues, "our classrooms are right next to each other."
Aomine doesn't know what to make of that, or of the smile that it's delivered with. Thankfully a distraction arrives with the class getting dismissed, and Himuro's swallowed up by the flood of students, disappearing, as he seems to have a habit of doing.
A habit, Aomine realizes, that's accompanied by his reappearances, if ending up beside him in the cafeteria line is anything to go by. Himuro notices not much later afterwards, and actually laughs, as if to assure Aomine that he isn't a complete stick in the mud.
"We have got to stop meeting like this," says Himuro as they, somewhat naturally, ended up opposite each other on the same table. Aomine thinks he's heard the line before, in a movie or some sample dialogue in an English textbook, but Himuro pulls it off, smooth as the leather of a well-worn ball.
He's kind of jealous, kind of impressed. "You could stop stalking me." He smirks as he breaks his chopsticks in two, ready to dig in. Himuro's probably balking, but a little banter here and there never hurt anyone.
Or so he thought. He almost chokes on a piece of fried chicken when Himuro leans forward, chin resting comfortably on his hands, his smile all types of disarming. "Who said I was doing the stalking?"
Aomine guzzles down water before attempting speech again.
"Sure as hell ain't me." He squints, suspicious and ready; he can do this back and forth all day if he has to. Isn't above a fit of immaturity, especially when provoked.
"Alright, alright. Truce," says Himuro, clearly amused.
"Just eat your damn food."
"Don't mind if I do."
That's better. With Himuro's lips occupied, he isn't mouthing off or smiling or doing things with it that keeps catching Aomine off-guard. He's a dumbass for thinking he's off the hook though, because after he's finished eating and laid his chopsticks delicately on his plate, Himuro says, "I was thinking you should give me your number."
Aomine isn't in mid-chew this time, but he still eyes his water bottle warily. "What for?" he says, to stall, as his palms get embarrassingly clammy and his appetite runs away along with the rest of his composure. There's only one reason guys asked for other guys' numbers, isn't there? The prospect is terrifying, because for all his talk and worship of gravure, going out is something he's never actually done. He'd be a wuss if he texted Satsuki for advice in the middle of the conversation.
But the realization that he's inclined to say 'yes' is worse.
It's that smile, he decides, the one that curls up at the corners, losing its neutrality for the mischief that twinkles in Himuro's visible eye. "So you can let me know when I can borrow that book."
Aomine doesn't harbor murderous impulses, usually. He gets the urge to punch people in the face if they deserve it, but Himuro's is too damn pretty for that. Aomine's gonna have to kill him, and he'll be known as the Ikemen Killer, whose first victim isn't Kise, to everyone's shock and disbelief.
"I took it back a couple of days ago," he says, all but stabbing at the remnants of his chicken katsu. "It's all yours."
"How considerate," says Himuro, taking his phone out and sliding it across the table. "Give it to me anyway."
When he walks off, his triumph secured, Aomine has two things on the brain.
One: he has to take revenge, one way or another.
And two: when the hell did he start thinking Himuro was pretty?
to: bakagami
from: Aomine Daiki
your brothers kind of evil
The reply comes less than a minute later, no explanations needed.
to: ahomine
from: Kagami Taiga
tell me about it
Saturday morning finds them on an empty street court not too far from campus because Aomine has, as others called it, a one-track mind, and his idea of vengeance predictably revolved around basketball. Himuro, of course, agrees, because he's a nut about the sport as any of them are, which makes it the perfect arena to take him down a notch. If Aomine called the shots, any and all problems in the world could be solved with a one-on-one.
He brings his Jordans, his attitude, and the ball.
Himuro brings his smile, cool as condensation sliding down a Pocari bottle.
That facade would fool lesser players into complacency, but this is Aomine's territory. He's no Satsuki, with her clipboards and spreadsheets; the log in his head is informal, hastily scribbled in with gut feelings instead of data.
"I can't stay long," is Himuro's greeting, and Aomine sneers as he balances the ball on the tip of his finger.
"Got something better to do?"
"I have to pick up a shift before lunch. Someone called in sick."
Nothing earth-shattering, but enough of a revelation to make Aomine pause, letting the ball tip into his palm. "You work?"
Himuro shrugs as he rolls up his sleeves, one neat fold at a time up to his elbows. "Part-time at a coffee chain, since last year. How else did you think I could afford to move out of the dorms?"
He didn't think it, Aomine will begrudgingly admit. Never even considered where his friends lived, much less an acquaintance. Selfishness had kept his world insular, not seeing a point in meddling with affairs that aren't his, which meant he kept himself out of their lives for longer than he could withstand.
It's lonely at the top; that wasn't an excuse to stay alone.
Most people offered the information willingly, to his simultaneous annoyance and relief, their chatter shooting straight into one ear and out of the next. Himuro, meanwhile, won't make it easy. Aomine's been around him for weeks now, and not one detail about himself has slipped out unless it was necessary. The guy talks a lot, but he doesn't say much of anything.
No way around it, from where Aomine's standing. English isn't his strong suit, but his basketball speaks for itself. One language they're both fluent in.
"Guess we'll have to make it quick," he says, passing the ball over in a one-handed toss without as much as a warning. Himuro catches it reflexively, and Aomine fixates on the way his fingertips cradle the curve of it, as if on autopilot.
The winner of this match is already decided, but Aomine's not so jaded that he can't grin, or tilt his chin to signal a challenge.
"Try and get past me."
If Himuro knows there's no chance for victory, he doesn't show it. He settles into a form, dribbling once, twice, lips ticking upwards as he looks for an opening. "I'll do my best."
He's faster, slicker that Aomine thought he would be, even after brief recollections of seeing him play all those years ago. His first impression then: he's good, better than most that’ve stood on that court.
His second impression, post-game: but he's not as good as us.
His third impression is nonexistent, because the handful of times Touou played Yosen his focus had been entirely on Murasakibara, tough bastard that he is, leaving the outer ring for the rest of his team.
It won't be an exaggeration to say this is his real first time experiencing Himuro, with his clean lines and graceful arches. His drives aren't anything special; the guy might as well be a walking textbook, but those moves are taught for a reason and he's got them down to flawless mastery, without an elbow out of place.
Weird, to play against someone who's his direct opposite—perfect form versus a lack of form at all. There's some kind of saying about opposites, isn't there?
(His brain takes pity on him for once, and doesn't remember it.)
To say that he, in Murasakibara's dictionary, crushes Himuro would be an understatement. Aomine completely annihilates him, accounting for more than half the score, and all of the pride left standing after the ball dropped from the basket for the last time that afternoon. Aomine lets it roll away, shifting his attention to Himuro's bent stature, to the way his shoulders shake as he heaves for breath, the way his hands are balled into fists as he holds onto his knees for support. With his head bowed, his expression is obscured, but just when Aomine thinks he might have finally summoned emotion out of the guy, Himuro straightens up, his hair still maddeningly perfect, though his smile is a notch lower in temperature as it slides back into place.
The hairs on Aomine’s arms alarmingly rise, even if wind hadn't blown by.
"Good game, Aomine-kun," says Himuro. He stretches out his hand even if it isn't an official match, and as Aomine takes it he can't shake the feeling that somehow, it marks an ending. "You've made your point."
I wasn't trying to make any point, thinks Aomine, though that would be a lie. The invitation hadn't been a gesture of friendship, or even as some means to size up future competition. He made it all too clear that Himuro didn't even count as competition, which wouldn't be a lie, this time, but a product of pettiness all the same because he couldn't put up with a little teasing.
A low blow; another Aomine Daiki classic.
"I won't bother you again."
Like Aomine didn't already feel like the dirt under his shoes.
to: bakagami
from: Aomine Daiki
hes dramatic too
The reply comes a bit later, probably after Kagami's cried into a few of his burgers.
to: ahomine
from: Kagami Taiga
good luck fixing whatever you did
The luck that had fueled his sails and stayed faithfully by his side seems to abandon him as punishment for being such an asshole, right when he needs it. And where he needs it is in front of the coffee chain nearest to campus, without an ounce of an idea of what he's even trying to do. He's operating on nothing but a hunch, because Himuro hadn't even mentioned the place or what time he'd be there, but days later Aomine's conscience is still nagging at him and how's he supposed to maintain his scholarship if this is all he can think about?
Guilt is one hell of a motivator, that's for sure. What it gives him isn't courage, but shame, which at least gets him to push open the door and glance over at the counter for a familiar face.
And there it is, unmistakable hairstyle and all, charming the skirt off his most recent customer. Kind of a relief Aomine's not the only one he turns it on for; kind of insulting too.
Aomine falls in line, ducking under the much shorter guy that's ahead of him to not give Himuro a chance to bow out of his shift in case he doesn't feel like looking at Aomine, ever, and with good reason. But Aomine is as stubborn as Kagami when he wants to be, and he won't have this hovering over his head for weeks, or months to come.
Four customers later and it's his turn, and if Himuro is surprised to see him at all he doesn't show it. Before the fact had been irritating, but now it's just frustrating. Aomine’s smile is stiff as he opens his mouth to speak, which is when Himuro sees it fit to interrupt him.
"Good afternoon, may I take your order?"
"About the other day, I—"
"Your order, sir."
Aomine scratches at his nape, the smile slipping easily from his lips to be replaced by none other than a frown. "Ahh, I don't know. Coffee? What else you got here?"
Himuro's answering smile is patient, a patented customer service fake. "You can take a look at the menu behind me, sir."
"Uh," says Aomine, intelligently, peering at the neatly printed letters. "The house brew, special, whatever. Don't put any sugar in. Can you just—"
"That would be ¥300, sir. May I have your name?"
"You know my name, why'd you have to—"
"Your name, sir."
He pulls out the bill as his next words stumble out, clumsy and surprising to his own ears. "I'm sorry if I—"
Himuro nods, practiced fingers handing him change and scribbling something on the cup, after which he motions at Aomine with the marker. "Please step to the side to wait for your order."
"Hey," protests Aomine, before the next guy in line steps in and forces him to the side, as Himuro suggested. The waiting period takes no longer than a minute, which is directly proportional to Aomine's waning patience, and he's about ready to call it quits—he doesn't even like coffee, and what did he care about the feelings of some guy who's only slightly linked to him through high school basketball anyway?—when Himuro sets his order on the counter, eyes ever-unreadable.
"One piping hot house brew, no sugar, for 'I'm sorry.'"
Aomine shakes his head, partly in exasperation, partly in disbelief, wholly in snide. "You're incredible."
"So I've been told. Enjoy your drink, sir."
"Wait." There's a possibility he may be overstepping, that this is grounds for harassment of some kind, but that doesn't stop him from reaching over to grab Himuro's wrist, if only for a second.
Himuro stares at him like he wants nothing more than for Aomine to spontaneously combust. Aomine is unnerved, but undeterred.
"I said wait."
"I'm waiting."
"l—" he starts, but he already apologized, didn't he? And it didn't work, so he changes tactic, putting his quick thinking on the court to good use. "Drop by practice sometime."
Himuro blinks, forgetting that he's supposed to be angry. "And why would I do that?"
"Sometimes coach gets guys from the bleachers to play in practice. Says it keeps us on our toes." Aomine lets go of his wrist, shoulders half-lifted in a shrug as casual as he can manage. "If you come, he might give you a shot."
So come, he doesn't add, trusting that he doesn't need to. When it comes to basketball, he's usually right.
He knows he's got Himuro hooked, even if the bastard puts on a facade of indifference, turning towards the coffee machines without another word. Aomine swipes his cup from the counter, takes a sip, and doesn't even grimace at the bitterness, too caught up in small victories.
It's halfway through the team's next practice that he notices Himuro where Aomine said he should be, and he lets himself smirk as he saunters towards the bleachers during break.
So much for suspense. Contrasting styles aside, seems like he and Himuro aren't too different when it concerns the game.
After a swig of sports drink, arrogance laces his voice when he asks, "couldn't resist?"
Himuro, to his credit, looks at home in the gym, like he's a regular and not an onlooker. Truth be told he'd be of the same caliber as most of the guys if he had kept up his training, more than simply above average. Nowhere near Aomine's level, but then again no one is.
Unfazed, Himuro replies, "you made a tempting offer. I was tempted."
Aomine's smirk doubles in size.
They develop a routine, if it can be called that, since it's closer to being coincidentally and consistently in the same space at the same exact time. Their lunch hours just happen to coincide, and if none of their respective friends or acquaintances share the schedule so that sitting across each other is easier than sitting across a stranger, that's just the luck of the draw too.
Twice a week they wait outside the same hallway, and whenever Himuro's planner allows him he sits in the same gym where the university basketball team holds practice in hopes of being chosen to play.
Sometimes fate smiles at him. Aomine makes certain that none of those times replicate their first disastrous one-on-one.
Inwardly, he knows that what bothered Himuro wasn't losing. Himuro might be a trick question more than he is an unfinished crossword, but Aomine's gone up against simpler guys. It's the same thing that gutted each of his opponents—save for one redheaded idiot—from middle school to high school, when his bad habit reared its ugly head. Defeat tastes bitter, but it isn't as acidly devastating as the knowledge that the enemy had disregarded the match before it had even begun.
He knows all of this, because he may be an idiot, too, but he isn't a stagnant one, and he's grown up from then. He just forgets.
It's easier not to with Himuro there, the memory of his icy smile still sending chills down Aomine's spine. Kagami must be tougher than Aomine takes him for if he's weathered that temper for years. Kind of character building in a way.
"You," he says one day, wiping at the sweat on his brow with his sleeve. Himuro, who is a mere spectator this time, raises an eyebrow. Aomine continues, "still mad at me?"
Now it's Aomine who blinks when suddenly Himuro smiles, a crack in a frozen lake.
"No, Aomine-kun, I'm not mad at you."
Better not be, sits on the tip of Aomine's tongue, because he hasn't tried so hard to earn someone's forgiveness since Tetsu in freshman year, and like hell was it going to waste, but Himuro isn't done.
"If anything, I was mad at myself for letting it get to me. You aren't much of a villain, as much as you'd like others to believe."
"That an insult?" Aomine's tone is challenging, his eyes saying otherwise.
"No," says Himuro, amusement sweetening his words. "It's the truth."
Satsuki drops in to check on him once in a while, something that's been instilled in her since they were younger that neither of them really want to be weaned out. Aomine finds it comforting when it used to be overbearing, her rosy hair and cheerful grin a welcome sight among all the sweaty and exhaustion-delirious faces in the gym. She waves at him from her spot on the bleachers, and though he's not gone so soft that he waves back, he walks towards her instead of her ignoring her for later.
"Yo, Satsuki," he starts, a coil of gratitude unfurling in his chest when she hands him a drink. His favorite flavor too, something she doesn't need her spreadsheets to remember.
"You raised your English scores," she says by way of greeting, and he doesn't need to ask how she knows that either. Satsuki has her ways. "I'm proud of you."
"Yeah, yeah," he says, dismissive in case she's in the mood to spout more embarrassing things. "Coach drilled a hole in my ear about it."
"I'm glad he did. You're not exactly known for your listening skills." She giggles behind her palm, tempting Aomine to splash some of that very drink in her face. He doesn't, though, because her hair's done up extra-nicely today and he's not that much of a jackass.
"You come here to drill a hole in the other one or is there something else?"
"Actually, there is," she says, her voice suddenly somber and low, almost conspiratorial. Her palm shifts to cover the side of her face and the finger she's pointing in that direction. "Number one: why is Yosen's former captain here, and number two: why is he looking at you?"
Aomine's eyes flicker upwards to where the aforementioned stalker is sitting, and sure enough, his gaze is intense as ever, and it's all focused on Aomine.
Three unfortunate things happen simultaneously after that.
First, Himuro decides to smile like he wants to be singlehandedly responsible for melting the ice in the Arctic.
Second, Aomine's ears decide to catch fire in retaliation to the languorous movement of those lips.
Third, Satsuki decides to glance between them in the split-second the exchange takes place, and her eyes widen a fraction with understanding. Aomine realizes, helplessly, that any sort of denial would be useless.
"Oh, Dai-chan."
"Don't."
"All right, all right," says Satsuki, her smile a touch sympathetic. "You'll tell me when you're ready."
Aomine scowls. "You make it sound like I'm constipated."
"Well, aren't you?"
"Don't push it, Satsuki."
They're sitting outside their adjacent classrooms, waiting for the previous class to finish like they always do, when Aomine says, "Got a game this Saturday."
This is out of routine for the simple reason that Himuro isn't the one who spoke first, while Aomine picked at his ear and pretended to listen. Himuro, who has taken it upon himself to be better than Aomine at everything that isn't basketball—at least, that's what it feels like—also proves himself the superior listener by perking up at that, as much as Himuro can perk up without seeming like he'd been abducted by aliens and replaced with a clone.
"Is that so?" he says, with a note of careful disinterest, turning a page in his notes even though it's obvious he's not reading. It pisses Aomine off, makes him go straight to the point.
"Yeah, and I want you to come watch."
This time he gets more of a reaction—Himuro glances at him from the corner of his visible eye, though his expression is as decipherable as a blank piece of paper.
"Now why would I want to do that?"
Aomine nearly groans, and he does, inwardly. He's never met anyone so insufferable, and he's known Midorima Shintarou since he was twelve. "Why wouldn't you?"
"I could be busy."
"You're so full of shit."
"Am I?" Himuro's face poses a dare. Maybe he thinks this will ward Aomine off; maybe he knows it'll have the opposite effect and Aomine is playing right into his hands. Just for today, Aomine isn't going to humor him.
No more going in circles. No more pretending there isn't something between them, no matter how intangible that something may be at present. No more fucking mind games.
"Yeah." He never did claim to possess an ounce of subtlety. "You wanna see me play."
Whether it's to see him win or lose, Himuro hasn't been dropping by practice for nothing.
(But it would be cool, if it's to see him win.)
"Seems you have me all figured out," says Himuro after a long pause, the sudden sharpness of his laughter poking a hole in the tension that's surrounded them.
Aomine shrugs, tipping his head back to lean against the wall. So his gamble paid off. "Knew you wouldn't pass up the chance to see a live match."
You miss it, don't you?
He doesn't say it out loud, but he thinks it, because it's how he'd feel were he in Himuro's position. Streetball doesn't compare to the lights, the crowd, the vastness of a stadium like time has stopped and they're in a world dedicated solely to basketball, if only for forty minutes.
Himuro doesn't disagree, giving up all displays of studying by closing his notes with an audible slam. His voice has traces of teasing when he says, "then I suppose you're just the perk?"
Well, Aomine can take that. He turns his head for the eye contact he'd normally avoid, the seriousness of his tone not matching his response. "I'm just the perk."
Saturday rolls around without word from Himuro, though Aomine is too preoccupied with the upcoming game to notice too blatantly in the days leading up if he's missing from the stands. The important thing is if he's there on the day itself.
And he is.
Right beside Satsuki in the special seat he had reserved for her, with a perfect view of the court to cater to her data gathering. She's not on anyone's team anymore, but she likes to do it as a hobby. Aomine understands, sort of. The game gets into your bloodstream and doesn't leave, even if you want it to.
Himuro is a prime example of that, sitting in the audience with too much energy emanating from him, like he'd rather be on the court than on its sidelines. The sidelines will have to do, for now.
Aomine raises a hand at them—he's still not the waving sort, but it's an acknowledgment as good as any. Satsuki waves back, wearing her excitement and pride like a badge. And Himuro?
Well, he smiles. It's the usual smile, with a hint of surrender, as if to say, well, here I am.
Aomine grins in return. His fingertips are itching to graze rough leather, to touch the metal rim and feel the swish of the net on the way down. He bounces on his heels, unable to contain the static in his legs that just wants to run this very second and score a point.
Winning this will be a breeze.
Turns out that the college circuit is not as easy to dominate as the high school one had been, and he's panting with less than a minute left in the fourth quarter with only a marginal lead over the other team. The tables can turn on them any moment, and though he enjoys the fact that this isn't easy by any means, that his opponents work well as a unit with smooth passes and offensive plays, there isn't one particular player he has his eye on that he can square off against, one-on-one, Zone against Zone. Kagami, the bastard, is still a special case.
Speaking of Kagami, that brother of his remains in Aomine's peripheral no matter how hard he tries to shake him and concentrate, which might be part of why his near-telepathic connection with the ball seems to be suffering from some crossed signals. Cliché, but he'd really like a pat on the back right now.
Maybe something else.
One of his teammates throws the ball right into his palms and like hell is he wasting this opportunity. He doesn't get into position—doesn't need to, he just tosses from the three-point line with his spine near parallel to the floor, and it goes in like it always does. The crowd goes wild as the other team attempts a rebound, but their defense is better and in the end—
In the end—
Himuro sees him win.
Damn if it doesn't feel better than taking the Winter Cup a thousand times over.
Their side of the stadium collectively roars and doesn't stop as their team exchanges celebratory hugs. Aomine endures someone slinging their arm over his shoulder and it isn't so bad, to know that he didn't take it all on his own. When it's time to bow and say thanks, his mind's already elsewhere, fixated on a point in the bleachers.
But before any of that, Satsuki blindsides him with an attack from the side, arms around his waist and feet doing this weird little hop-in-place in thing like she's trying to make him join her.
"Dai-chan, it's your first university win!"
"Yeah, yeah," he says, gently prying her off because he's slick with sweat and she might yell at him for making her smell gross later. "You thought I wouldn't take it?"
"I didn't say that," she says, pouting.
"I assure you, Momoi-san was confident in your abilities." Himuro seems to materialize from absolutely nowhere, sharing secret smiles with Satsuki that don't make Aomine nervous or anything. Anyway, what's with all these people sneaking up on him?
"I learned quite a lot about you today, Aomine-kun," continues Himuro, "she was very thorough."
What did you tell him, asks Aomine non-verbally, his panicked gaze doing all the talking for him.
Nothing he wouldn't find out eventually, is Satsuki's unspoken reply. This whole childhood friends connection had its upsides sometimes.
"Am I interrupting something?" says Himuro, glancing between the two of them. Neither of them gets a chance to reply, because Aomine's team captain comes up to him with an invitation to a victory dinner with the rest of the team.
"You should go," says Satsuki, prodding at his ribs with her elbow, supportive as ever. And it's not as if he isn't considering it; he gets along with his team, as best as someone with his personality can, but.
Maybe they aren't the company he wants around, right now.
"I've got other plans," he says, looking at Himuro, hoping he won't make a liar out of him. The captain doesn't push it, and Satsuki seemed to be half-expecting his answer judging from his expression.
"I have to catch the next train," she says, smoothly making her exit with the simplest excuse in the book. "It was nice meeting you again, Himuro-san." She means it too, looking positively charmed. "Congratulations again, Dai-chan, but don't think this means you can slack off on your studies!"
"All you do is nag," he says as a goodbye, though it's good-natured, and she takes it as it is in a way she wouldn't have before. He's not the only one who's changed.
"So," says Himuro, contemplative as he occupies the entirety of Aomine's attention, "you've got other plans?"
Aomine tugs on his jersey jacket, bag slung over his shoulder. "You said you moved out of the dorms, yeah? Let's go."
If Himuro is taken aback by his forwardness, he doesn't show it. All he does is smile, and lead the way.
Himuro's apartment is not as lavish as Kagami's had been, but it's better furnished, as if he's used to entertaining guests and having people over all the time. It's not as meticulously neat either, with a stray magazine here or an unwashed dish there. Aomine would bet he had dirty magazines too—seriously, what kind of guy their age doesn't?—but he's not as optimistic about finding them. Ever.
"So where's your gravure collection?" Makes for a killer ice breaker though. Smooth.
"Charming," says Himuro, as he takes Aomine's coat to hang it up on the coat rack. He has a coat rack, like a real adult. "I can see why all the girls are lining up."
Sometimes Aomine can't tell when he's being flattered or insulted. This is one of those times, and though he has a comeback waiting on his tongue ("I can see why you're lining up") he doesn't let it drop. He's trying his best, here. At getting a free dinner and... something else.
Which, speaking of—
"You got anything to eat around here?" He makes a beeline for the kitchen, helping himself to the fridge. Not that there's anything ready-to-eat to help himself to, he finds out soon enough.
Himuro, in his peripheral, crosses his arms and drapes his lean form against the wall, casual as he pleases. Aomine hates to admit that it's a good look. "I wasn't exactly given time to prepare anything, was I?"
Aomine also hates to admit that the current emptiness in his stomach is his fault, so he slams the fridge none too gently. "Like I wanna eat anything you make, anyway."
Not exactly true. He can recall at least one get-together in high school where the apparent cooks had been Kagami and Himuro, and he can also recall gorging himself on said food. He doesn't doubt that Himuro had forgotten about that, either, based on the smile he's now wearing as he pushes himself off the wall and turns around. Aomine pointedly doesn't look down past the small of his back.
"I'll order takeout."
"Yeah, good idea."
Himuro walks back to the living room and positions himself on the couch, searching for delivery services on his phone. There's only a slight hesitation before Aomine joins him, the distance between them artfully maintained as platonic.
The glance Aomine gives him, however, is not so much.
It starts, innocently enough, at his wrist. His sweater is about a size too big, and the sleeves hang lower on his arms when he has them raised up like that; his hand is set at a delicate angle, his fingers as swift and graceful on the keypad as they would be on a ball. If Aomine lifts his eyes up and to the side he'd see Himuro's nape, pink until the slope of his ear, and then the curve of his jaw, relaxed, unlike that time they'd faced each other on court.
(These are things Aomine wouldn't notice on any other day, but Satsuki did say that he was extraordinarily observant about things he liked.)
And if he reaches out to sift through the soft hair at the back of Himuro's head and let his fingertips settle on Himuro's cheek, he'd see that Himuro's lips, formerly pursed as he looked at the selection, would part, and that his eyes, sharpness and lashes and all, would flicker up to meet Aomine's in a way that suggests he's been waiting for this for longer than tonight.
So Aomine does just that.
He leaves the hypotheticals in the dust—big word, Daiki—and cements them into reality by leaning in and finally, finally tasting that smile that's been riling him up and pissing him off and getting under his skin and everything else in between. It feels... it feels fucking great, actually, when Himuro's skin warms at his touch, when his eyes close as they fill the gap.
It doesn't feel as great when he pulls back not even ten seconds into the kiss, raising his phone as an excuse. "Let me finish with this, unless you want us both to starve."
Aomine frowns, petulant and hating every moment of it. "Fine." He's not sure if he means, fine, go ahead, or fine, we can starve, but it doesn't really matter when Himuro's already tapping away again. In his defense, his movements are jerkier, as if he's impatient about it too.
At least Aomine's not the only one suffering.
After an agonizing two minutes, Himuro places his phone on the coffee table, subtly out of Aomine's reach—most likely after sensing Aomine's desire to break it in half—and turns his attention back to the matter at hand.
"Where were we?" he says, like he hasn't been waiting for it too, and if Aomine were less reliant on instinct and more of a strategist maybe he'd restrain himself, teach the guy another lesson, but does go with his gut and what is gut is telling him is that he has to put his mouth on Himuro right or the world will fall out of alignment hey, and there goes the rest of the tournament.
"Would you just shut—" he starts, and doesn't get a chance to continue because this time it's Himuro who pulls him in by the collar, pulls him in like this is just another kind of Zone, with all his senses on fire and narrowed down to a singular purpose. His hand finds Himuro's hip just as Himuro's teeth find his bottom lip, and though he's pushing Himuro to the couch, chest to chest, he's the one who feels out of breath anyway.
Have you done this before? would be a stupid question to ask, unless he follows it up with, how many times?
Maybe pretty boy should've been spending more time on the court and less time doing... whatever the hell it is he's doing with his mouth, peppermint-flavored like he carries Mintia around in case something like this happens, which wouldn't be surprising except for how it's more likely that Himuro just smells like a toothpaste commercial all the time. It's unnatural, and annoying, and Aomine can't stop wanting to be annoyed by it.
Can't stop chasing it, even when the delivery guy rings the intercom and they break apart, with Himuro scrambling to the door and leaving Aomine stumped in his seat, wondering how fast they deliver in Tokyo.
His lips are still buzzing when Himuro returns with the food, looking none the worse for wear apart from the swell of his mouth. He hands Aomine a paper bag with Maji Burger's logo on it.
"I didn't know what else to get," says Himuro, and Aomine would say he said it sheepishly if it were anyone else but, well, Himuro.
"You gotta have something in common with Bakagami, I guess," retorts Aomine, regretting it immediately because who brings up someone's brother, at a time like this?
Luckily, Himuro seems too pacified by french fries to hold it against him, licking salt off his fingertips (shit). "Just eat your burger, Aomine-kun."
Aomine would've left it at that, he really would have, except, "drop the '-kun.' It's irritating." And unfamiliar, somehow, for two people who have just had their hands up and under each others' shirts not too long ago.
Himuro, still being the irritant he is, can't seem to go a minute without challenging anyone. "All right. Then should I call you Daiki?"
Aomine pauses in the middle of unwrapping his burger, his head making a sharp turn in Himuro's direction. The smile Himuro's wearing would be a smirk on anyone else's face.
"Whatever." Aomine shrugs, ignoring the heat that sinks into his cheeks by taking an enormous bite. He tries, again, with a more offhand approach, "do whatever you want."
Judging by the smirk that Himuro's smile does evolve into, it's exactly what he wanted to hear.
They don't get enough clothes off, not as much as Aomine would've preferred, but they do end up in Himuro's bedroom at one point, so he considers it his second win of the night. Like the living room and the kitchen, there are objects strewn about where they don't belong, like that sweater on the floor or the opened book at the foot of the mattress, but otherwise things are remarkably where they should be. Aomine, being on Himuro's bed, muses on whether or not he's out of place.
Not that it matters either way. He's earned his spot here.
"Oi." Neither of them seem to be cuddly types—presently, anyway, who knows what'll change in the future?—so they're both just lounging around with their sides pressed together, Himuro on his stomach fiddling with his phone and Aomine with his back against the headboard. The word is punctuated with a jab to Himuro's ribs. "That textbook looks familiar."
"Hm?" hums Himuro, who glances over to the book in question. "Don't tell me you've forgotten already."
"Forgotten? What?"
"You did steal it from me at the library."
It takes Aomine a moment to remember. His eyes narrow when he does. "You gave it to me."
When Himuro sits up, the sheets fall from his shoulders as if in slow motion, and Aomine can't tell if it's that action or his quiet laughter that causes it. "I'm touched. When we met I wasn't sure if you even knew my name."
"I did," says Aomine, defensively. Grimacing, he adds, "not right away, though."
"I can accept that." Himuro leans back beside him, and Aomine supposes he can take back what he said about not being cuddly because Himuro drapes one of his legs over both of Aomine's, and that counts, right? Aomine has only ever had pillows for company before. How's he supposed to know? "How about now?"
"What do you mean 'now?'"
"Would you forget it now?"
Aomine snorts, kicking Himuro's leg off to drape both of his legs over pale ones instead. "Thought you were smarter than that."
He would muse on whether or not he's allowed to kiss Himuro too, but he's a creature of instinct when it comes down to it, and he's done all his thinking for tonight.
to: ahomine
from: Kagami Taiga
wtf??
The fact that Aomine knows exactly what Kagami's talking about can be chalked up to a certain someone's influence.
to: bakagami
from: Aomine Daiki
lol howd you find out
Aomine can practically see Kagami furiously typing it out:
to: ahomine
from: Kagami Taiga
momoi told kise. its kise
Then, before Aomine could reply,
if you hurt him ill hunt you down
Now if that isn't the joke of the century. Aomine sends out his final response then throws his phone at the foot of the bed, leaning back to enjoy the view. Specifically, Himuro tugging on his jeans.
"Don't think Bakagami's taking it well."
"Oh, Taiga knows?"
For an instant, Aomine doesn't answer; Himuro's jeans are slung lower than jeans had any right to be, his hipbone poking out above the belt loops.
"Word got around."
"Your friends are funny," says Himuro, probably having deduced it for himself. "No wonder you get along." He tosses the scattered sock at Aomine's face, also probably having realized what Aomine's gaze had been lingering on this whole time. Aomine scowls, because his mouth had been open then, but his heart's not in it. He balls up the sock and aims for the laundry hamper beside the closet.
"Yeah, well." He shoots, he scores. His third consecutive winning basket within twenty-four hours. "What does that make you?"
Himuro treads the few steps separating them as if he intends to murder someone—namely, Aomine—with his hips. With his track record, Aomine genuinely thinks he might succeed. The theory is proven when Himuro reaches his destination and promptly swings one skinny jeans-clad leg over the bed, straddling Aomine with what seems to be an expertise in the equestrian variety.
Aomine can't recall where he learned the word 'equestrian.' It could've been Tetsu. Could've been Akashi. He could just be distracting himself from the proximity of Himuro's pelvis to his chest.
Himuro, who doesn't take pity and shuffles down until they're face to face, speaks against his mouth in something that isn't quite a kiss.
"Someone with a terrific sense of humor."
Saturday afternoon finds him in the cafe where Himuro works, sipping on a drink far too sweet for his liking so he can save his spot near the counter, where he has a perfect view of the... knot of Himuro's apron, to put it innocently, when he bends over to get a straw or some napkins. The drink is something Himuro made for him because he had given up the house brew, whatever that is, long ago, and they're still figuring out what he likes. So far, no sugar earns a grimace, a dash of syrup equals a trip to the dentist, and any sort of complaint has Himuro calling him a pain, not that he disagrees. When Aomine comments that he might be spending too much time with Murasakibara, Himuro draws a little angry face in marker alongside Aomine's name on the cup.
Later, he'll watch Himuro take off the apron in that overly dramatic way of his, and they'll walk out of the shop with their hands lightly touching. Later, they'll stumble upon an empty court and stay there until the streetlamps are turned on, because having practice together all week isn’t the same as having nothing but a ball and each other for company. Later, Himuro will string him along into the dark corner beside his apartment and pull him down, tasting of peppermint like he always does. Later, Aomine might be invited inside.
But for now, he looks at the little angry face and smirks at how it looks just the slightest bit like him; looks at the kanji beside it and tries to stay composed, because like hell is he gonna let rumors fly that he blushes easy.
It's not his fault that it's a hot day, and that his cup happens to say 'Daiki,' in Himuro's messy returnee penmanship.