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The first day of practice, Kise doesn’t have to try to charm any of his new teammates. He doesn’t need any flashy smiles or bright, enthusiastic cheer. All he has to do is be less of a pain in the ass than Aomine and Touou Gakuen’s basketball team is practically eating out of the palm of his hand.
Wakamatsu says, "So all you can do is copy Aomine a little?" with a sneer, dismissive and ready to write him off. Aomine looks up from his magazine for the first time all day, something expectant on his face, the first sign of interest he’s shown since he and Kise and Momoi walked into the gym.
Kise smiles at Wakamatsu, sweet and harmless, and bounces the ball to him as he steps onto the court.
"A little," Kise says, and Aomine rolls his eyes, sits up and makes himself comfortable to watch the slaughter. It’s like a cat playing with a mouse, letting it think it has half a chance before it gets batted into the wall. On the sidelines, Satsuki hides her mouth behind the shield of her clipboard.
"Holy shit," says Wakamatsu five minutes later. He spends the five minutes after that on his knees, panting for breath while Kise casually crushes the rest of the regulars as a second helping.
Aomine goes back to his magazine, but he’s almost smiling, just a little quirk of his lips, goes back to ogling Horikawa Mai to the tune of the net’s swish as Kise dunks another ball.
*
“No, but really,” someone says, “when is Aomine going to get here?”
The team is gathered in the locker room; their first game of the Interhigh starts in ten minutes and Aomine has yet to send even a text message let alone show his face. Everyone’s getting antsy – except Kise, except Momoi, except Imayoshi, who’s resigned himself to the foibles of their ace.
“You don’t think just me is enough?” Kise says and pouts, actually pouts. Imayoshi looks on with tolerant good cheer. He hasn’t had this much fun since he got to hang around making Hanamiya call him senpai for an entire year.
Aomine never does show up. They win anyway, a difference of double digits only because Coach benches Kise midway through the game to conserve his strength.
*
They play Seirin and Kise spends half the warm up making eyes at Kuroko, loitering by the center line and twittering on at him about their days in middle school. Imayoshi finally has to send Wakamatsu over to drag him away by the back of his jersey, as close as Touou can bear to scruffing the neck of the ace they can actually (usually) count on to behave.
Kise winks as he lets himself be towed away to stretch and calls out an apology, that "Aominecchi was sleeping and will be here later, really, sometimes he's such a jerk, Kurokocchi!"
The way Kise's smile sharpens right before he adds, "but I should be enough, right? At the least you should be able to make me have to be him," makes Kagami grind his teeth even though he’s got no idea what that means.
By the time Aomine wanders in to drape an insouciant arm around Kagami's neck, lazy and so full of himself that Kagami wants to punch his arrogant face in, Kise's improved on Kagami's layup, Hyuuga's three pointers, pulled out a formless shot or two just because he’s gotten bored. Touou has already doubled the score.
Riko is watching Kagami with narrowed eyes – watching his leg, the way it shakes just a little with strain.
Then Aomine steps onto the court and Kagami forgets the pain in his leg, forgets his mounting frustration at having every move stolen, turned back on him. Kagami’s too busy wondering at how he ever thought Kise with his incomplete copy could ever hope to be anything but a pale imitation of Aomine's monstrous strength.
Even before Riko benches him, Kagami knows they’ve lost.
Pity flickers briefly in Kise's eyes as he looks past Touou's celebrations for a glance at Kuroko's face, but it vanishes under the weight of Aomine's discontent, something impotent and howling, not even a flicker of joy in Aomine’s eyes at the win - switches targets, Kagami thinks and doesn't know why. Not yet.
*
Kise plays at Winter Cup like he was born to it, like the ball loves him, twists and shoots like he's never known proper form in his life. Even without Aomine there to play, Haizaki never stands a chance.
Kise plays, moves, breathes like he's Aomine, a mirror reflecting a clearer image the longer the game goes on, the harder he's pushed. He blows past imitation with arrogant ease, looks past Haizaki without seeing him, chasing something else, someone else, a back far ahead of him that he can’t ever reach. Polished glass and Kise's movements get sharper, faster, double the horrible, suffocating pressure of Aomine's style with an easy smile on his face, utterly false.
*
He can’t follow Aomine into the Zone. Can’t copy that, still chasing, and something horrible and bleak breaks across Kise’s face when Kagami blocks Aomine’s shot with a lightning flicker of speed.
Kise tries, though, still desperately reaching, clawing his way closer and closer—
Kise’s leg gives out and for the first time, something other than boredom or wild joy flickers in Aomine’s eyes. He looks away from Kagami, sees Kise on the ground, struggling to push himself back to his feet. Already, he can see Kise’s lips shaping a denial, a plea, I can still play.
“Hey,” Aomine says gruffly, pulling Kise to his feet. He drags Kise over to the bench, shoves him down, pulls Kise’s head up to look him in the eyes. “Hey, you did enough. Leave it to me.”
Kise stares after Aomine wonderingly. Still watching Aomine’s back, but for the first time, it doesn’t feel like he’s stumbling, falling behind.
"Aominecchi lost," Kise says, blank with shock when the final buzzer sounds. "Aominecchi lost," he repeats, and touches fingertips to his cheeks, wet with tears. It’s like a mirror, the way Aomine smiles and the corners of Kise's mouth curve upwards, too.
(Oh, my darling, of course we’ll end, all great things do.
We were stars once, too, and will do as stars are born to do;
burn. )
– p.d.