Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"The hardest part about moving forward is not looking back."

⥬

Leaves fall, fluttering down slowly from the sky in a beautiful dance. The oak and brown colors painted the scenery like a blank canvas that was waiting to be filled with color. 

Kuroko’s eyes stared outside through the big and lengthened windows of the university hallways, taking in how the rich amber color palette filled the sight, waiting for winter’s first touch to sweep it away.

A bag hung off his shoulder, his hands holding firmly but carefully a professional-looking camera. He raised it, putting his eye at the lens’ height, and snapped a picture, the flash breaking through the monotone sound of the endless sea of footsteps from students hurrying from class to class.

He barely glanced at the picture displaying on the camera’s screen before he lowered it once again and started walking, flowing easily with the unstoppable flow of undergraduates, sauntering down the tiled floors and stairs.

No one bothered him when he exited the facility. 

“Hey man, long time no see!”

Kuroko’s eyes remained locked on the ground, observing the fallen leaves of different colors as a tall, slim young man jogged past him, heading toward the main entrance of the building, reuniting with a friend who stood a few feet behind him, not sparing Kuroko a single look. 

He turned a corner and walked down the street at a casual speed, only stopping at a red light and tilting his body to the sides to narrowly avoid people crashing into him. 

It didn’t take too long to get to his destination, a small rented establishment localized only a few streets away from his college district.

He pushed the glass door open with one hand, stepping inside at the same time as he pulled the bag off his shoulder, dropping it over an old clothes rack that was already partially hidden below a couple of layers of long coats and jackets.

“Sorry for the delay,” Kuroko said as he stepped inside. The bell on the door jingled as it swung shut behind him.

He didn’t get a polite greeting—not like he expected it.

“Kuroko… If you keep arriving late I’ll start to lower your salary!” 

A loud voice from the inside greeted him—if the scolding could count as a greeting—, the slightly high-pitched feminine voice reaching his ears just at the same time as his boss exited one of the offices from the establishment’s hallway.

The threat wasn’t new, but it was just as terrifying as the first time he heard it.

“I apologize. Please don’t.” 

Victim to his high rent, Kuroko couldn’t afford to lose a single yen from his paycheck. He was already falling behind on his payments, with the due date looming just days away. Having his landlord knocking at his door and threatening to throw him and his roommate out to the streets was not exactly what he would call pleasant either.

“Then wake up!” Riko scolded, her hands already reaching for his shoulder before she even finished speaking. “We have mountains of work to do, and Furihata is still struggling to carry coffees without spilling them all over the floor.”

His boss started to drag him all the way through the room to his desk, pushing him down into his chair as she pointed at the open laptop. 

“We need to publish this month’s report before tomorrow night, and the main interview hasn’t even been transcribed yet!”

Kuroko could practically feel the pressure radiating from his boss, the sports magazine’s manager. His words were sharp, clipped with stress, and Kuroko instinctively shifted his focus from the photos on his screen to the flurry of disarray around the office. Papers were scattered across desks, the hum of frantic typing and hurried conversations filling the air. The deadline was looming—he could sense the urgency, the collective anxiety as each minute ticked away.

“For now, finish checking all the photos, choose the best one to be published as the cover, and finish editing the last details.”

The college student nodded at the instructions, carefully resting his camera on the desk, near the laptop at his side before his eyes flicked to the screen. He didn’t need to be told twice. With a calm breath, Kuroko turned to his task, fingers already moving across the keyboard.

⥬

If Kuroko were to be completely honest, he’d admit that his work at the sports magazine wavered between monotonous and tedious, alternating between sorting through blurry photos and meticulously editing reports.

It was understandable though, so he didn’t mutter a single complaint. 

He barely joined the business a few months ago, and with Furihata’s entrance to Seirin Sports Media, he was allowed to move on from carrying documents and coffees around the place to sorting through hundreds of blurry pictures or even accompanying Hyuuga, or Teppei to some matches and press conferences.

His head rested on one of his palms as he drummed his finger on the mouse with monotony. Pressing the delete button with almost every passing picture. His index finger pressed on the right arrow and deleted every photo that was either too blurry to fix or too dull to bother with editing—which was the large majority of pictures he was given. 

Through his task, he lost track of time. His mind was blank as he lost himself inside the waves of emotionless pictures.

Hyuuga’s constant complaints and instructions, Koganei’s loud call-managing skills and conversations, and the occasional bad-timed jokes that Izuki cracked every once in a while settled the usual atmosphere of the sports magazine’s workplace.

A handful of coworkers, including Izuki and Koganei, were gathered around the office TV, their eyes glued to the live match. The energetic commentary of the reporter and the roaring crowd filled the room, pulling Kuroko from his quiet focus.

“Damn, look at that dunk! Aomine is killing it out there!” Koganei’s excited exclamation cut through the office chatter.

A brief silence followed. Kuroko didn’t have to look up to know that several pairs of eyes had shifted toward him, hesitant, cautious. With a sigh, he finally lifted his head, meeting their not-so-subtle glances with an unreadable expression.

He already knew what they were thinking.

His history with the former Generation of Miracles was hardly a secret in the office—though no one dared to bring it up outright, it always loomed in the background like an unspoken rule.

“No need to look at me like that,” Kuroko said, voice steady. “Aomine-kun is a great player. There’s nothing wrong with acknowledging his skill.”

Some of the tension eased, though a few still seemed unsure whether they should comment further. Izuki, always one to break awkward moments, cleared his throat.

“Right, right, of course. Just, you know... it’s interesting seeing him play at this level after everything.”

Koganei hummed in agreement, watching the TV with fascination. “I mean, he’s still ridiculous, but he’s even more polished now. Guess pro training really did something.”

He didn’t bother with a response, allowing both of his coworkers to engage in a discussion about Aomine’s plays and actual level. He was only once again distracted when called out shortly after.

“Uhm…Kuroko-kun, do you want some coffee?” 

Furihata’s soft voice snapped him out of his subtle annoyance, succeeding in luring Kuroko’s eyes and focus away from the laptop screen.

He must have had some sort of expression on his face because the worried look in the intern’s eyes was quite concerning. 

Kuroko snapped out of his momentary trance as he nodded his head, taking the cup of coffee that was being offered.

“Oh—, yes, thank you.”

The warmth irradiating from the inside of the cup was welcomed against his almost-asleep hand. The first sips of the drink were refreshing enough to get him to forget about the task he had on his hands. 

Furihata remained standing in front of him, awkwardly staring him down. Through Furihata’s nervous stance and hesitant gaze, Kuroko was able to deduce quickly that there was something he had to say.

“Is everything okay, Furihata-kun?” He asked, the polite tone rolling off his tongue with ease.

“Oh, no, I—” He tripped over his own words, his voice speeding up as he struggled to speak. “Uhm… Just wondering something.”

Kuroko nodded, waiting for the question.

“You were the last intern before me right?”

“Yes, that’s right.” He confirmed. “I entered just a couple of months before you.”

There was a beat of silence before Furihata lunged forward, grabbing his arm in a light grip, and taking Kuroko by surprise. 

“How did you move on from taking coffees around?!” She asked, Tetsuya could have sworn there were even minuscule tears forming at the edge of the brown-haired intern’s eyes. “I can’t stand it! I feel like a waiter at a cave of angry bears… and I’m a terrible waiter on top of that!”

The surprise died down quickly after his words. Kuroko’s hand reached for Furihata’s head and patted the top of it a few times in a reassuring manner.

“You were the one who freed me Furihata-kun, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for an even newer intern… If it even arrives.” 

His words seemed to crush the slim hope he seemed to hold because he clung onto him even further.

“No… No, it can’t be!” He cried out, carefully keeping his voice low so as not to bother anyone else. Kuroko noticed Furihata’s attentive demeanor and attitude; he was quite good with people. “I also want to sort through hundreds of blurry photos!”

No, no you don’t. Kuroko countered mentally.

As the brunet started murmuring, laments, and critics of his job falling from his mouth like water from a waterfall, a set of heavy footsteps interrupted their conversation.

“Fu-ri-ha-ta- kun .” 

Their boss’ voice was heavier than usual.

The forced ‘kun’ that struggled to escape through her lips was enough of a warning for Kuroko to turn back to his laptop and start working again, pretending to ignore the look of helplessness from his friend.

“Are you slacking off again?” She asked, not quite expecting an answer. 

Not like Furihata dared to respond.

In a shorter time than that in a blink of an eye, Kuroko could already see through the corner of his eye how a sulking Furihata was being dragged away by the short-haired woman. 

It was impossible for Kuroko not to compare the sight to that of a chihuahua being dragged off by its mother, her teeth clamped firmly around the scruff of its neck.

He only struggled for an instant before being able to swallow down the chuckle that was threatening to leave his throat. 

After what felt like hours, Kuroko was finally down to his final five photos when he decided it was time to start the editing process before selecting the right one for November’s magazine cover.

His fingers moved with practiced ease, his sharp gaze flickering between the images, assessing each one with scrutiny. Which shot captured the moment best? What adjustments would enhance its impact? These were questions he had learned to answer instinctively.

Fortunately, Kuroko had always possessed a keen eye for this. As a former player himself, he knew exactly what basketball fans would find the most eye-catching—the split-second intensity of a dunk, the raw determination in a player’s eyes, the sheer electricity of movement frozen in time. 

Those elements made a photo stand out, and Kuroko wasn’t about to settle for anything less than perfection.

That’s why, when he sorted through the final photos, jumping from one picture to the other, one stood among the rest. Catching more than just his attention. 

It was a picture of Yukio Kasamatsu, captain and pivotal defense of the Chiba Eagles. His determined expression, the slight focused frown on his face, the basketball hanging on his fingertips—frozen in time. 

Pictures like those were what captured best the essence of the game.

His index finger pressed a button, zooming in on the image as his other hand moved to sharpen the slightly blurred edges when—

"Is this the final choice for the cover?"

"It is," Kuroko replied evenly. "I think it’s the most striking. It fits this month’s theme and will complement well the reports analyzing the national team’s defensive strategies and player interviews."

Hyuga hummed beside him, his larger hand resting on the back of Kuroko’s chair as he scrutinized the laptop screen through his glasses.

"I see... This one was already one of my favorites, so I get why it caught your eye too."

His tone shifted as he leaned in, his fingers moving to the mouse to highlight a specific area.

"Here—adjust the lighting a bit more to emphasize the player's stance and expression. That’s what draws the reader’s attention first."

The shift in Hyuuga’s tone was subtle but unmistakable, his usual casual demeanor giving way to the sharp precision of experience. The moment an editing program appeared on the screen, his years of experience in the industry spoke for him.

Kuroko nodded, his gaze sharpening with interest. "Alright… I see it now."

Kuroko’s fingers hovered over the trackpad as he adjusted the brightness slightly, testing different settings to find the perfect balance.

"Like this?" he asked, glancing at Hyuga for confirmation.

The older man narrowed his eyes behind his glasses, tilting his head slightly before nodding. "Yeah, that works. It brings out the intensity in the player's expression. Makes it feel like you're right there on the court with them."

Kuroko hummed in agreement, making the final tweaks before saving the file.

"Alright, that should be good," he said, stretching his fingers.

Hyuga smirked, crossing his arms. "I swear, you’re getting even faster at this. Pretty soon, we won’t even need a whole graphics team—just you and your magic touch."

Kuroko blinked. "That sounds like overwork."

Before Hyuga could fire back, the entrance door was slammed open—fast enough for the bell to barely jingle. The wooden door trembled, making a noise Kuroko disliked when it collapsed against the wall behind it.

Heads turned. Even Furihata, who had been balancing a tray of coffee precariously in his hands, froze mid-step, his eyes widening in alarm as the cup fell to the floor, making that the third glass broken that week.

“Furihata!!!”

Kagami stood in the doorway, his red hair slightly damp with sweat, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. His heavy breathing suggested he had either sprinted all the way here or just come straight from an intense training session. Judging by the way his shirt clung to his skin, Kuroko guessed it was the latter.

"Oi, Kuroko!" Kagami’s voice cut through the office chatter as he stepped further inside, eyes scanning the room. "Your shift’s over, right? Let’s go."

Hyuga sighed heavily, rubbing his temple. "You could at least try not to give everyone a heart attack every time you show up here, Kagami."

Kuroko, unfazed by the sudden intrusion, finished his last few keystrokes before looking up. "I still have a few things left to do."

Kagami frowned. "You say that every time. If I wait, you’ll keep finding more things to finish."

At that, Kuroko found himself with a lack of arguments in his arsenal. 

The light blue-haired boy turned his head towards Hyuuga who still stood by his side, a silent question in his gaze.

“It’s fine,” The older man murmured with a light shake of his head. “there’s only a little editing left, I can finish it. You can go.”

Hyuuga’s agreement was all that Kuroko needed to hear.

He stood up, the chair making some noise as it scraped the floor. Throwing the capers’s strap over his neck and his bag over his shoulder.

“Thank you for your hard work.” He murmured, politely bowing his head.

Kuroko quickly joined Kagami at his side, watching how he casually waved his coworkers goodbye before turning around and leaving the small offices. 

Kiyoshi waved back with a kind smile from his seat. Mitobe also gave him a farewell nod at the same time as Koganei violently waved his arm above his head and spoke a loud goodbye to the pair.

He gave everyone a last bow before following after him, the door closing slowly behind them.

“Who… was that?” Furihata asked, skepticism laced in his voice.

He was still crouched on the floor, he carefully wiped up the spilled coffee, making sure to avoid burning his fingers.

“Oh, right. You haven’t met Kagami before,” Hyuuga remarked from his spot a few feet away, arms crossed as he glanced toward the now-settling office.

“That was Kagami-kun—Kuroko’s roommate!” Koganei chimed in, barely paying attention as he dialed a number on the office phone. “He’s calmed down now, but back in the day, he used to storm in like this two or three times a week.”

Teppei knelt beside Furihata, grabbing another cloth to help clean up the mess. “I think it’s kinda sweet how he swings by to pick up Kuroko every now and then. They’re good friends.”

“They’re as cute… as a couple.”

Izuki’s voice trailed off, the weight of his own joke sinking in as the office went silent. Every single person turned to look at him with blank expressions, the air so thick with judgment that even he seemed to regret his words. Without another word, he dipped his head back into the mountain of paperwork, pretending to focus.

Riko clapped her hands sharply, snapping everyone back to reality. “Enough gossiping! If any of you have time to speculate on Kuroko’s personal life, then you have time to meet those deadlines!”

A chorus of hurried “Yes, ma’am!”’s echoed through the office as everyone scrambled back to work.

⥬

The soft hum of the city filled the air as Kuroko and Kagami stepped out of the sports magazine office, the autumn breeze nipping lightly at their skin. The streets were lively, the neon glow of store signs flickering to life as the sun dipped below the horizon.

Kagami stretched his arms above his head with a groan. "Man, that was exhausting. Your boss is kinda scary, you know?"

Kuroko tilted his head slightly, hands tucked into his coat pockets. "Riko-san is very efficient at what she does."

"Efficient? That’s a nice way to put it," Kagami muttered, rubbing the back of his head. "Anyway, let’s go. You’re treating me, right?"

"That was the agreement," Kuroko said, his tone dry but his eyes holding a hint of amusement. "Maji Burger, then?"

Kagami grinned. "Of course! Where else would we celebrate my big break?"

The walk was short, their steps falling into an easy rhythm as they made their way toward the familiar fast-food joint. The glowing Maji Burger sign welcomed them like an old friend, and the moment they stepped inside, Kagami’s eyes immediately scanned for a good spot.

"I’ll order," Kuroko said, already making his way to the counter. “Just don’t order enough burgers to make me go completely broke.”

"Make sure you get me the extra-large combo! And don’t forget the coke." Kagami called after him before slumping into a booth, stretching out his legs with a satisfied sigh. His mind still reeled from the past few days—finally getting signed to a professional Tokyo team had been a dream come true, but the reality of it still hadn’t quite settled in.

Kuroko returned moments later, setting a tray stacked with burgers and fries on the table. "You look deep in thought, Kagami-kun."

"Huh?" Kagami blinked, then scoffed as he grabbed a burger. "Just thinking about how crazy everything’s been. I mean, I actually made it."

Kuroko unwrapped his burger carefully, his expression unreadable. "Of course you did. I always believed you would. You are one of the greatest players I’ve seen, Kagami-kun."

Kagami paused mid-bite, his chest tightening at the simple yet sincere statement. He set his burger down and looked at Kuroko seriously. "You know... you’re always saying this cheesy stuff… It’s embarrassing.”

Kuroko met his gaze evenly, but there was the slightest softening around his eyes. "You think so? I just say what I think."

"Tch." Kagami reached out and ruffled Kuroko’s hair, smirking at the faint scowl he received in return. "Yeah, yeah."

Kuroko simply hummed, taking a sip of his vanilla shake.

Their little, arranged celebration continued for an hour or so with their usual bickering—Kagami fighting for the last fries while Kuroko somehow managed to get them before him every time. 

And despite the noise of the restaurant, the busy streets outside, and Kagami’s loud complaints about his career not being 100% basketball, having to even the games with some theoretical and strategy studies… there was something steady and familiar about sitting across from Kagami in their favorite place. 

The moon hung high in the sky, casting a soft glow over the quiet streets as they made their way back to their apartment. The air was crisp, but Kagami’s voice filled the silence—animated yet slightly confusing as he struggled to piece together some memorable moments of his first day with the team.

Kuroko listened, occasionally humming in acknowledgment to let Kagami know he was still listening, his footsteps light against the pavement. Kagami’s words tumbled out in fragments—plays he messed up, a near dunk he barely missed, a senior who took it upon himself to test his endurance. It was chaotic, unfocused, but undeniably Kagami.

As they reached their apartment building, Kagami let out a satisfied sigh, stretching his arms above his head. “Man, I’m full.”

Kuroko glanced up at him, his expression unreadable. “Then you shouldn’t have ordered that tenth burger.”

Kagami groaned, rubbing his stomach. “Don’t remind me.”

The door clicked shut behind them, locking out the rest of the world. For tonight, at least, things felt normal. Just two good friends going back home after another good, memorable day.

Chapter Text

Rain falls violently against the pavement, creating small pounds on the ground and covering the city in a grey cloud-created veil. People rush to different locations as they attempt not to get too soaked. The unfortunate ones who didn’t bring an umbrella with them struggled to cover their head with what they had at hand.

Kuroko could hear the cloud’s cries through his apartment’s thin walls and closed windows. He could not see it as the curtains of his room remained over his room’s window, covering the room in a welcomed dark veil despite already being early morning, but the rain sound was unmistakable. 

It was supposed to be comforting, after all, Kuroko had always been fond of the rain—fond of the feeling of water drops against the top of his head and clothes. He had never been one to mind about how soaked he got after the storm. 

He lies on his bed, the rest of his body hidden under a comfortable messy fort of heavy, thick, and soft blankets. 

In his hands he held his phone, the faint light was the only source of illumination in his small bedroom. He stared at the screen, unflinching, his pupils not missing a single movement from the interview on display, his ears taking in every said word.

His mind was everywhere and nowhere at the same time, his eyes locked on the screen as watched the interview playing on his phone.

It was a press conference held a few days ago. 

Kuroko had been so busy with work and college assignments that he didn’t have the time to watch it live back then. A pang of frustration hit him when he realized he missed it, but there was no remedy.

The camera was focusing on the main protagonists of the conference; Midorima, and Kise, who sat in the middle of the large table with both of their respective teams at their sides. 

Two Miracles playing against each other was already a huge occurrence in Japanese basketball, so the great number of reporters and paparazzi who attended the match was to be expected.

“Kise-kun, Midorima-kun, how was it to play against each other?” 

The first question was a relatively simple one. 

But even if it was common, their fans always loved to hear personal opinions from important figures like both of them. It was a subtle gossipy question but it was well-integrated in the interview, hidden beneath the “basketball-like” questions.

Kuroko watched how a polite—but also cheerful—smile made its way into Kise’s lips with ease. 

He observed how the blonde player enchanted the reporters with his natural charm, waking a wave of photographs and flashes. 

Midorima remained firm in his stance, his lips pursing familiarly as he allowed Kise to answer first. He had the same gesture back then at middle school, Kuroko remembered the way the green-haired would move his lips every time he thought something over. Kuroko’s own head buried further into the pillow.

“Playing against Midorimacchi is always so fun. He is a formidable opponent… And it’s one of the few abilities that are hard for me to adapt to.” Kise answered the question. “But even though we lost this match, it was still enjoyable to play against him and his team.”

The green-haired player at his side nodded.

“It was indeed a good match. But as always, the horoscope was correct when saying today was Cancer’s day.” Of course, it wouldn’t be Midorima if he did not bring Oha-San up to the conversation. However, it seemed the press had started to grow used to its mentions because no one questioned his words. “I may say that Kise put up a good fight even though Geminis were at the bottom of today’s list.”

“I see, that’s good. It was a close match, after all, both teams did an excellent job in fighting with everything they had.”

Kuroko watched the entire one-hour-long interview without skipping a single second. 

It was a habit he had never managed to grow out of, not in the five years since their paths had separated—since he forced their paths to separate. 

Every time the Generation of Miracles appeared on screen, he found himself watching, listening, absorbing every word they said, every expression they made.

He told himself it was just admiration for their skill, an appreciation for the game they once shared. But then there were those moments—certain plays executed with the same practiced ease, certain words spoken with an almost unconscious familiarity—that sent a sharp pull through his chest. 

And no matter how many times he watched, no matter how many times he said he hated them—no matter how many times he believed he hated them—he could never ignore it.

So unfair. 

He didn’t dare to say it out loud. Always keeping his selfish thoughts to himself.

Kuroko let the phone slip from his grasp, letting it rest atop his pillow as the final questions of the interview played on. He listened absentmindedly, the words blurring together, but when a gossip-driven reporter guided the conversation toward their Teiko days—the rise of the Generation of Miracles—his chest tightened.

He was a coward—he had always been—and he couldn’t bring himself to face them. Not yet.

Pulling the blankets over his head, he buried his face into the pillow, his breath warm against the fabric. The voices on the screen continued, distant and muffled beneath the layers of comfort that shielded him. As if hiding from the screen could spare him from the heavy weight on his stomach—could save him from the knot in his throat.

⥬

That afternoon, he walked down the familiar path to his workplace once he gathered the strength to get out of his bed and drag himself to the sports magazine’s place. 

It was a Saturday, meaning no classes, which gave Kuroko the rare chance to arrive on time.

The familiar jingle of the bell greeted him as he pushed open the door. “Good…” His already soft voice was swallowed by the chaos unfolding before him. “…morning.”

The office was in complete disarray—papers scattered, cameras being tossed between hands, frantic voices overlapping as people rushed past him. He barely stepped back in time to avoid colliding with Koganei, who darted by with an armful of photographs.

Kuroko’s gaze swept the room, mild surprise flickering across his face. He had seen the magazine’s office in varying states of chaos before, but never quite like this. Even Mitobe, usually a pillar of quiet calm, looked uncharacteristically tense as he moved with purpose across the room.

Something was definitely going on.

He took a few steps forward, careful not to crash into anyone or make an even bigger mess. He reached Riko’s side after a few seconds, peering over her shoulder to watch her rummaging through a box of Seirin’s workers’ identity cards as reporters.

“Uhm… Excuse me, what’s going on?”

Riko almost jumped on her feet, obviously startled as his question finally allowed his presence to be noticed.

“Kuroko!” She explained, looking at him with both surprise and…relief? “You are finally here! Come on, hurry and help me find your documentation.”

Her hand had already grabbed his wrist and pulled him to his knees on the floor before she finished speaking, forcing Kuroko to start rummaging through the waves of different documentation and ID cards from his co-workers.

 His hands carefully looked through the box, taking out some cards they were not looking for. 

“Is there a press conference today? I didn’t know.” He asked, knowing well that such identification documents were only needed when attending a professional match or a conference.

Kuroko watched as Riko shuffled through the stack of identification cards, tossing aside Hyuuga’s and Izuki’s without a second thought. They weren’t the ones she was searching for.

“There is! Big news, actually. Teppei…” She trailed off, momentarily distracted before perking up. “Ah! Here it is!”

She grabbed Kuroko’s documentation card—the one with his formal photo and basic information—before swiftly sliding it into a card-sized plastic case attached to a red-laced collar. Before Kuroko could even react, she had already looped it around his neck with ease.

Kuroko blinked. “What were you saying about Teppei?”

“Oh, right!” Riko mumbled, throwing the discarded cards back into the cardboard box before pushing it under the table with her foot. Standing up again, she grinned. “Teppei managed to get us a prime spot at the press conference after the Kaijo’ match today! We even get to attend the whole game and take pictures… We’re definitely earning our salaries this week!”

Kuroko stared at her for a moment before glancing down at the ID badge now resting against his chest. The weight of it felt heavier than usual. He blinked down at the ID hanging around his neck, fingers lightly brushing against the plastic case. 

Riko, oblivious to his thoughts, clapped her hands together. “This was a last-minute thing so we are struggling a bit to prepare everything…”

Kuroko tilted his head slightly. “Kaijo?”

“Yep. Kaijo.” She repeated with a grin before leaning in just a little, eyes gleaming mischievously. “Which means…”

Kuroko already knew the answer before she even said it.

“Kise-kun’s team,” he murmured.

Riko nodded enthusiastically. “Yep! We’re covering Ryouta Kise today.”

He understood her enthusiasm. He knew that covering a member of the Generation of Miracles was already a huge feat for any sports magazine like their own—he knew this opportunity was like shining gold at the reach of their hands—and yet he was unable to share the sentiment.

Kuroko’s grip on his ID subtly tightened. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t taken photos of Kise before—he had, plenty of times. But it had always been through a camera lens, from a distance, or if not, they were still on good terms back then. 

Since then, he had never been in a situation where he might have to actually face him.

“Don’t look so stiff, Kuroko,” Riko teased, nudging him lightly. “It’s not like he’s gonna eat you.”

Kuroko didn’t answer right away, simply adjusting the camera strap around his neck.

Maybe not, but facing Kise after all these years…

He didn’t know what to think about it.

He might have looked somber enough—or even outright worried—because Riko’s enthusiastic mood dropped the moment she took in his expression. Her hand settled gently on his shoulder, a rare show of quiet concern.

“I don’t know all the details,” she admitted, her voice softer than before, “but I’m aware of… well, your shared past.”

She sighed, her grip firm but reassuring. “I know this isn’t the ideal situation for you, but it’s a golden opportunity for Seirin. And with everyone else busy, we really need you on this.”

Kuroko snapped out of it, quickly shaking his head, not wanting to give her an even bigger weight than what she seemed concerned about. 

It was silly.

He was just doing his job. Kise-kun was doing his. Nothing more.

Kuroko reprimanded himself. Holding everyone down for some well-buried past… He hated feeling like a hindrance—holding Seirin back—he didn’t like it. Not one bit.

“You’re not backing out on me, are you?” Riko asked—and even though the question could have been taken as a tease, Kuroko quickly identified the lack of it—her eyes locked on him and her hands on her hips as she studied his expression.

Kuroko shook his head, schooling his features into neutrality. “No,” he simply said. “I’m going.”

Because backing out wasn’t an option. He owed her too many favors to be remotely close to being able to refuse, and he didn’t want to act cowardly once again. 

“Great, thanks.” 

Her hand gave him a light touch on his shoulder, probably of encouragement, before walking towards Teppei who was also getting ready a few meters away from where they stood.

Kuroko remained still for a few seconds, watching as Riko and Teppei exchanged a few more words. The steady hum of the office buzzed around him, but it all felt slightly distant—like white noise at the edge of his thoughts.

Then, with a quiet exhale, he finally moved. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he stepped forward to join them.

“Ready or not, Seirin’s on its way to make our best article yet!” Riko declared, her enthusiasm cutting through the lingering tension.

That was all it took to shift the atmosphere.

His co-workers immediately perked up, sending them off with cheers and scattered applause. A few playful ‘don’t mess up!’s were thrown in, followed by knowing grins that Kuroko chose to ignore.

The bell at the door was the final touch to their departure.

⥬

The air outside was thick with the sound of rain, the sky darkening rapidly as droplets hammered against the pavement, creating a dull roar. The clouds had descended heavy and low, casting a grey haze over the city. 

Kuroko tucked his hands deeper into his pockets, the chill creeping up his spine as they made their way toward the gymnasium. The cold of the downpour seemed to intensify the contrast between the outside world and the warmth awaiting them inside.

When they stepped through the entrance of the sports center, the noise of the rain was immediately swallowed by the buzz of the indoor environment. The gym was a sharp contrast—bright lights, the smell of fresh court polish mingling with the faint scent of sweat, and the electric energy of anticipation humming through the crowd as they filled the stands.

Kuroko adjusted his camera strap, the weight of it both grounding and reminding him of the task at hand.

Inside, it was a different world. The sound of basketballs bouncing echoed off the walls, and the shuffle of sneakers on polished floors drowned out the rain's persistent rhythm outside. The gym felt like its own universe—safe, warm, and buzzing with life.

He settled into his seat next to Teppei and Riko, the familiar tension of focus slipping into place. The game was moments away from starting, and the atmosphere was alive with excitement. The contrast between the storm outside and the controlled chaos inside was striking, almost surreal.

Kuroko’s attention was drawn to the court as the players warmed up. 

The intensity in the air was palpable, and as his eyes flickered over the Kise’s movements, the distant, detached observation he had anticipated earlier slipped away. There was something in the way Kise moved—fluid, confident, unrestrained—that pulled Kuroko's focus toward him like a magnetic force.

He had felt it before, Kise’s natural charisma had always been eye-catching—ever since their days back at Teiko. The feeling was familiar—but not quite comfortable like it should have been—but piercing instead. As if it was forcing itself to crawl back out from where Kuroko had buried it long ago. 

He remembered it well, how—since he became Kise’s “mentor” —he had never been able to draw his eyes away from him in his games.

The game began with a blast of energy. 

And alongside the initial whistle, Kuroko forced himself to focus. To detachedly observe the match and do his job.

Kuroko’s camera remained motionless, hanging from his neck, his hands holding it carefully but not making any movement to capture any photos.

He let Teppei do so as he heard Riko mumbling and coming up with some questions for the following press conference that would take place shortly after the game. He occasionally gave her some feedback and a few question suggestions he considered that would be interesting to ask. 

The rain continued to drum against the windows, but the world inside was entirely separate, a place where nothing but the game mattered. The heavy pouring outside was long ignored.

He focused. He forced himself to remain focused. The game was the only thing that mattered, and he had always been good at shutting his own mind out and focusing on the matter at hand, no matter what.

And he had to acknowledge that it wasn’t too hard. Not when the game flow and players were this interesting and easy to keep his eyes on.

Kise was as dazzling as ever, each jump shot or breakaway seeming effortless, but Kuroko’s thoughts drifted away from the game and back to the press conference looming in the near future.

Kuroko wasn’t sure if he was ready to wade through that.

The game was something else entirely. It had the crowd hooked from the very first play, drawing them in with every calculated move and breathtaking moment. 

The sheer coordination of Kaijo made the court look like a stage, their movements a rehearsed performance, and the shuffle of sneakers on the polished wood served as the rhythm to an unspoken melody. 

Every pass, every drive, every dunk had the audience reacting in waves—cheers erupting, gasps filling the air, the tension rising and falling like a perfectly orchestrated symphony.

By the time the third quarter arrived, the Eagles had already secured a commanding lead. A solid twenty points separated them from their opponents, and there was little doubt who the winners would be.

And then there was Kise.

Kuroko didn’t even try to stop himself—to stop the way his eyes naturally followed Kise’s movements more than anyone else’s. It was frustratingly instinctive, something he couldn’t seem to shake. 

Kise played with an almost infuriating ease—every move precise, every shot perfect. He controlled the court effortlessly, weaving through defenders with that same overwhelming presence he had in middle school, only now sharpened by years of experience.

It had been so long since he watched him play in person.

And before he knew it, the final whistle arrived. A wave of claps and celebration flooded the court and audience.

“I’ll be right back,” Riko’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Bathroom. Teppei, you coming?”

Teppei stretched in his seat, rolling his shoulders. “Yeah, why not?”

“Want us to bring you anything?” Riko asked as she stood up.

Kuroko shook his head. “I’m fine.”

With that, the two of them disappeared into the crowd, leaving Kuroko alone in his seat. Not that it made much of a difference—he had been absorbed in his own thoughts long before they left.

His focus returned to the court just in time to catch Kaijo celebrating, each of them hugging and high-fiving each other with obvious exhaustion, but their expressions were bathed with the natural post-game euphoria.

Yet Kuroko’s camera remained untouched, empty.

His fingers hadn’t moved to capture a single shot of the game.

Instead, his gaze drifted until it settled on a single figure standing apart from the celebration. Kise.

The blonde stood in the middle of the court, slightly apart from his teammates, as if caught in his own moment. His usually pristine hair was disheveled, damp strands sticking to his forehead. Sweat glistened on his skin, clinging to the exposed parts of his arms, the aftereffects of a game played at full intensity.

And yet, all of that was secondary to the expression on his face.

Raw, unfiltered happiness.

A wide, toothy grin stretched across his face, pure and clean, directed toward the cheering crowd as if he was showering in the energy they offered.

It was a sight Kuroko hadn’t seen in years.

And before he could stop himself, he moved instinctively. He raised his camera.

Through the lens, everything else blurred away—the noise of the stadium, the movement of the celebrating team…

It was just Kise, standing there with that radiant, unguarded smile, the stadium lights making him almost seem to glow.

A moment. In single moment the camera shutter clicked. 

A single flash in the audience. Then no more.

Engraving the moment in his camera’s empty roll.

⥬

Less than half an hour later, Kuroko already found himself in the room where the press conference would be taking place.

Seirin’s three reporters had been given a spot around the middle of the room, on a small table between countless others from different sports magazines and some more photographers who stood in the first line.

Their presence was drowned by many others similar to theirs.

Kuroko’s camera rested on top of the table, in front of him an empty notebook accompanied by the pencil he held in his hand. Playfully drumming it against the table in a monotone rhythm. Waiting for the press to start.

The players started arriving, sitting on a large table in front of all the awaiting reporters, taking their places, and getting comfortable for the round of questions and pictures.

Shortly after, the room quieted down and a dozen of hands were raised at the same time.

Yukio Kasamatsu, the team’s captain, was the one assigned to choose what question they would answer, slowly satisfying the crowd until the conference’s end.

“I have a question for Kise-kun,” The first question came. “How did you feel after executing the final dunk? How would you describe the feeling of a winning dunk?”

Followed by many others.

“My question is for Wakamatsu-kun. How does it feel after defending the whole game the other team’s offensive pivot? He is known for his fierce attacks, but you defended your net like a professional guardian.”

“For Kasamatsu-kun…”

Even Teppei got to ask a couple of questions here and there as Riko transcribed the player’s answers.

Meanwhile, Kuroko wrote down what he considered important. Unique quotes, some interesting questions… Until he felt like contributing something himself. 

He wrote down a question and passed the notebook to Riko, who sat between Teppei and himself. “Ask this one,” Kuroko murmured, pointing at the written question with his pencil.

Riko’s eyebrow furrowed with focus, her brown eyes reading it over.

“Woah, this one’s deep.” She hummed, deep in thought as she re-read it over again. Then, with a light pat on Kuroko’s shoulder, she raised her hand to ask the proposed question. “It’s quite obvious that you have known Kise-kun for a long time.”

Kuroko didn’t quite like the sound of the sentence, but did not comment on it. Deliberately choosing to keep the contentment feeling from Riko’s approval of the question, rather than her words’ implications.

He rested his face on one of his hands as he took his notebook once again. Watching how Riko got chosen shortly after.

“This one is for Kise-kun,” She started, eyeing Kuroko’s notebook to read the question. “We all know you’re often praised for your adaptability and ability to ‘copy’ moves, but do you feel that has ever overshadowed your own individuality as a player?”

Kise's expression shifted slightly at the question, the usual easy-going charm in his demeanor flickering into something more thoughtful. He paused for a second as if weighing his words carefully.

Then, with a small chuckle—one that didn’t reach his eyes—he answered.  “You know, I used to hate that thought.”

His fingers drummed lightly against the table, a habit from when he was deep in thought. “Back in middle school, when I started playing, I relied so much on copying others that I never really stopped to think about what my own style was. It was always, ‘Kise can do this move because he copied it,’ not because it was his.”

He leaned back slightly on his chair, tilting his head as he let out a soft sigh, his smile still present but tinged with something nostalgic. “For a long time, I wondered if I was just a reflection of other players—never the original, always the imitator. I thought that if you stripped away the moves I copied, there wouldn’t be anything left of me as a player.”

Then, his golden eyes sharpened with something more certain, a quiet confidence that had grown and developed over the years. “But I don’t think that way anymore.”

He met Riko’s gaze directly, the weight of experience behind his words. “The thing is, copying isn’t as simple as just watching and repeating. It’s about understanding, about feeling the move as if it were mine to begin with. And in doing that, I realized that I am the one who chooses what to take, what to refine, what to make my own. That’s not imitation. That’s development.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, more self-assured now. “So to answer your question—maybe at one point, it overshadowed me. But not anymore. If you watch me play now, you’ll see more than just borrowed moves. You’ll see Kise Ryouta.”

His tone was be firm by the end, but there was something almost wistful in the way he glanced off to the side as if recalling just how long it took him to reach that conclusion.

The room was quickly drowned in quiet admiration words, compliments, and the grounding sound of pencils scribbling down the player’s words. Even Kuroko wrote down a few sentences Kise pointed out, quietly taking in his answer.

Even though it was Riko the one who answered the question, it felt as if Kise was talking to him directly. 

Maybe he preferred it that way, Riko’s presence overwriting his own as he sat quietly at her side, voicing out the questions he didn’t dare to.

“That question was like finding a gold mine, Kuroko. Keep it up!” She murmured lowly.

The pleasure lacing off her words was almost palpable. And the blue-haired student could just nod, letting the compliment settle down as the next reporter voiced out their question.

Luckily, he was able to sit through the whole conference unnoticed. 

Only giving Riko one more question to ask, and writing down any interesting points the team made in their answers—saving the quotes or remarked answers to use them for titles or footnotes at the end of their future article.

Teppei and Riko accompanied him to his bus stop as it was already dark outside, before waving goodbye and walking down the street together back to the magazine’s workplace. They did not leave before Riko reminded him to send Hyuuga any photo he took of the match and conference.

“Send it as soon as possible, this article will be published tonight!” Riko’s excited statement echoed the street, accompanying their departure.

He only had one picture to share, and he hadn’t even looked it over, but honestly—he didn’t find himself willing enough to do it. So he subsequently decided to share it and leave any needed editing to his coworkers.

Kuroko waited for the bus quietly, he stood until he arrived at his stop and walked inside his empty apartment. 

Kagami was out, most likely training, so Kuroko didn’t question his absence. 

The student connected his camera to the laptop, watching as the single image transferred onto the screen. Without hesitation, he attached it to an email, typing out the match details in the subject line. His fingers hovered over the keyboard for a second—just a second—before pressing send.

The moment the email disappeared from his outbox, he shut the laptop with a quiet click, leaning back in his chair. No lingering. Just another task completed.

With a sigh, he lowered his head, staring deeply at his wooden desk as his head spun. Thinking about everything but nothing at the same time.

The tension had already been lifted from his shoulders after leaving the match and conference behind—but that didn’t exactly make him feel better.

He exhaled slowly, his gaze unfocused as the faint glow of his laptop screen dimmed into darkness. It had been inevitable, he supposed—running into one of them sooner or later. But that didn’t make it any easier.

Until then, he had only seen Kise, or the others for that matter, through a screen—through another photographer’s pictures. Not directly.

His fingers curled against the edge of the table, knuckles tense, as if grounding himself. The exhaustion wasn’t just physical. It settled in the spaces between his ribs, in the unspoken words that had lingered on his tongue the entire match.

Maybe he had overestimated himself. Maybe five years wasn’t as long as he had convinced himself it was.

Slowly, he leaned forward, crossing his arms on the table and resting his head on top of them. Allowing his eyes to close. Just for a few seconds.

It was a Monday—maybe a Tuesday, Kuroko didn’t remember. 

The gym was nearly empty, save for the lingering faint echo of a basketball bouncing before settling into silence. Practice had ended a while ago, but Kise and Kuroko remained behind. 

Kise was on cleaning duty, and Kuroko as his mentor was expected to wait with him until he finished.

The blonde boy sat on the bench, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the hem of his jersey. Kuroko stood beside him, quiet as ever, his gaze fixed ahead rather than on Kise himself. They had spent the last few minutes in a comfortable silence—until Kuroko finally spoke.

"Kise-kun," his voice was soft but unwavering. "Do you ever feel like copying others overshadows who you really are as a player?"

Kise blinked, caught off guard. He turned to look at Kuroko, who met his gaze with the same unreadable expression he always wore.

"Eh? That’s a weird question, Kurokocchi." Kise let out a lighthearted chuckle, but there was an almost imperceptible shift in his demeanor. He glanced down at the floor, his fingers idly spinning the basketball between his feet.

For a moment, he seemed to consider brushing off the question entirely—turning it into a joke, making a teasing remark—but Kuroko was still watching him, waiting patiently for an answer.

And the raw curiosity that Kise was able to figure out from his mentor’s gaze was enough for Kise to ultimately decide to humor him.

Kise exhaled, resting his elbows on his knees. "I don’t really think about it," he said, though the slight furrow in his brow betrayed his words. "I mean, copying moves is my specialty, right? It’s what makes me strong. As long as I can pull off what others do, I can keep up with them."

Kuroko remained silent. Kise hated that—how Kuroko had a way of forcing people to think it all over, even what they didn’t want to.

After a beat, Kise huffed. "Alright, alright." He leaned back, staring up at the ceiling. "I guess… sometimes, it does bother me."

Kuroko’s head tilted slightly.

"It’s like… no matter how much I practice, how much I improve, people will always say, ‘Oh, that’s Aominecchi’s move,’ or ‘That’s Midorimacchi’s shot.’ I mean, yeah, they’re right, but—" Kise’s fingers curled around the edge of the bench. "—when do I get to hear someone say, ‘That’s Kise Ryouta’s move’?"

Kuroko finally spoke. "Then why don’t you make them your own?"

Kise’s eyes widened slightly, and for once, he was speechless.

Kuroko turned toward him, his gaze steady. "Kise-kun is capable of more than just imitation. You can evolve and refine said moves. If you don’t want to be seen as just a copy, then Kise-kun should stop thinking of himself as one."

Kise swallowed. He had always been told he was a prodigy, that his ability was something to be proud of. 

Kuroko hadn't been able to deduce what Kise truly felt from those words… but he knew that, at least, they seemed to dig deeper than the empty praise Kise was used to receiving.

He wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he simply grinned, though there was a flicker of something else—something unsettled that Kuroko didn’t quite catch—in his expression. "Jeez, Kurokocchi, when did you become so wise? You should start charging for advice!"

Kuroko hummed. "I’ll consider it."

And Kise laughed, the edge of uncertainty long gone from his golden eyes. 

But Kuroko remembered well the feeling of dissatisfaction that grew inside him—as if Kise’s answer hadn’t quite fed his hunger.

⥬

Kuroko had lost track of time.

He must have fallen asleep at some point because the next thing he knew, the door slammed open, and his entire world jolted as someone shook his shoulder with unnecessary force.

A groggy noise escaped his throat as he blinked against the sliver of sunlight peeking through the gap in his curtains. His neck ached, his back stiff from what was clearly a terrible sleeping position.

“Stop that…” he mumbled, sluggishly swatting at the hand gripping his shoulder. “Americans are so violent.”

A scoff followed. “You did this to yourself.”

Kuroko rubbed his eyes, straightening up with a quiet sigh. His gaze settled on Kagami, who was standing over him with a deep frown, hair still slightly messy from sleep. There was a flicker of confusion in his expression—probably at Kuroko’s disheveled bed hair—but neither of them acknowledged it.

Instead, Kagami shoved his phone right in Kuroko’s face, forcing him to lean back to escape the intrusive brightness of the screen.

“Mind telling me why your boss has been blowing up my phone because you won’t answer yours?” Kagami demanded, exasperation evident in his voice.

Kuroko blinked. His brows knit together slightly as he glanced at the screen, trying to process the situation.

He had no idea what Kagami was talking about.

Kuroko blinked at the phone screen, still trying to piece together the situation through the haze of sleep. His mind felt sluggish, his body stiff from sleeping in such an awkward position. He reached for his own phone on the table, only to find it completely dead.

“Ah.” He stared at the black screen for a moment before pressing the power button. No response. He must have forgotten to charge it last night.

Kagami let out a frustrated sigh. “You seriously need to manage your phone battery. Riko’s been blowing up my phone because you won’t pick up.” He waved the device in front of Kuroko’s face again. “She even tried calling me at six in the freaking morning! Do you have any idea how terrifying it is to wake up to that?”

Kuroko merely tilted his head, unimpressed. “You once slept through a fire alarm, so I doubt that.”

Kagami scowled, muttering something under his breath before shoving the phone into Kuroko’s hands. “Just call her back before she hunts you down.”

Kuroko sighed, taking Kagami’s phone and stepping aside to dial the number. The moment Riko picked up, her voice nearly blasted through the speaker.

“Kuroko Tetsuya! Do you have any idea what kind of mess you’ve caused?!” 

Kuroko didn’t even want to ask how Riko knew he was the one calling.

Kuroko pulled the phone slightly away from his ear, unaffected by her tone but still wary of the volume. “Good morning to you too, Coach.”

“Don’t ‘good morning’ me! Do you know what’s happening right now?”

Kuroko glanced at Kagami, who was still rubbing his temples, clearly equally confused. “I just woke up.”

Riko exhaled sharply, and Kuroko could practically feel her glare through the phone. “Check the news, now. ”

That made him pause. His brows furrowed slightly as he grabbed his laptop, opening it up with quick movements. A few clicks later, he was staring at the trending headlines.

And right there, front and center, was his photo—the one he had taken of Kise.

A wave of articles flooded his screen, each one carrying his pseudonym in the credits like an echo he couldn’t escape. T.K. —two simple letters, now scattered across headlines, credits, and social media. Every mention was accompanied by a reference to Seirin Sports Magazine , the original source of the now-viral photograph.

Kuroko’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, his drowsiness vanishing as the weight of realization settled in.

So much for staying under the radar.

For now, at least, he was still just a name —not even a full name—a faceless photographer. That was his only saving grace. As long as he stayed hidden behind the pen name, everything would be fine— He hoped so.

With Kagami leaning over his shoulder and Riko still on the call, they quickly pulled up Kuroko’s social media account. His official photography page—once originally created for a college assignment—had remained comfortably under the radar. He occasionally used it to post photos he particularly liked, nothing more.

Until now.

For years, his follower count had stood firmly around the solid amount of 500—just a small, quiet community of people who appreciated his work. But now… Well, thank god his phone was dead, because there was no way it would have survived the flood of notifications.

The numbers on the screen spoke for themselves. Thousands. Tens of thousands. Settling—cross-current with Kuroko’s comfort—at 23k followers. 

All flooding to @tk’sphotography in a matter of hours. Just overnight. Since Seirin posted the previous day’s match.

Kuroko stared at it in silence.

Kagami let out a low whistle. "Well… guess you’re famous now."

Kuroko didn’t respond immediately, his gaze still fixed on the flood of notifications. His heart thudded in his chest, the reality of it settling in. 

Riko’s voice broke the silence. “Just… come over here as soon as you can, our magazine’s sales and readers have skyrocketed alongside your picture.” Her voice slightly softer now.

Kuroko exhaled slowly, his fingers brushing against the screen. "I’ll deal with it," he muttered, though his voice lacked the certainty he’d hoped for.

With a heavy sigh, he powered the phone off to avoid the temptation of checking it again.

“Guess we better get used to seeing T.K. in the spotlight,” Kagami said, half-joking but not without a hint of admiration.

Kuroko blinked. “Don’t start, Kagami-kun. And get ready or you’ll be late for training.” 

He pushed Kagami out of his room, slamming the door shut in his face before he gave him the opportunity to reply.

His back rested against the wooden door, his mind reeling violently as it hadn’t done in a long, long , time. 

Kuroko took a deep breath, shaking off the remnants of his thoughts. He couldn't afford to linger on them any longer. Time was ticking, and there was work to be done.

He quickly changed into his usual attire—simple, comfortable, but professional enough for his job. He charged his phone and left it at the table, prefering to leave it behind for the time being.

The flood of new followers and articles had settled into the background of his mind for now, pushed aside by the responsibility waiting for him at the magazine.

With a final glance in the mirror, he grabbed his bag and camera, and slipped out of his room. The door clicked shut behind him, and with a steadying exhale, he walked outside—just another step in the whirlwind he had stepped into.

Staying unnoticed was his way of being. And he was dedicated to keeping it that way.

Chapter Text

The subway was crowded, but Kuroko barely registered the press of bodies around him. He stood near the door, one hand gripping the strap of his camera bag while the other held onto a metal pole for balance.

The rhythmic hum of the train filled the silence in his mind, but his thoughts remained restless.

He had spent years staying unnoticed, weaving through life like a ghost, but now his presence was beginning to leave a mark again. The weight of recognition pressed against his back, even if no one around him knew who he really was.

Kuroko exhaled softly, tilting his head back against the cool glass of the subway window.

"Just another day at work," he tried—and failed—to convince himself. Everything about today screamed ‘different’ at his face.

But even as he thought that, a part of him had a bad feeling about all this. As if the weight of something he didn’t want to face was falling onto his shoulders, and he was not strong enough to lift it back up.

The rest of his walk was blurry, he was long lost in his thoughts, his legs moving and taking him to his workplace on their own. His eyes had remained locked on the floor the whole way there.

Kuroko stepped through the entrance of Seirin Sports Media, the familiar jingle of the bell above the door ringing in his ears. Normally, his arrival went unnoticed—just the way he liked it. But today was different.

The moment he crossed the threshold, the entire office seemed to burst into life.

“There he is!” Fukuda practically jumped from his chair, pumping a fist in the air.

“Kuroko! Our rising star!” Koganei grinned, jumping at him and putting a firm arm around his shoulder, nearly knocking over a stack of papers in his excitement.

Even Mitobe, who rarely showed strong reactions, offered a small but approving nod from his desk.

Kuroko blinked, feeling the subtle shift in atmosphere. His coworkers—normally caught up in their own work—were suddenly beaming at him, as if he had just returned from a championship game.

“…Good morning,” he greeted, voice as monotone as ever.

“Good morning, he says,” Riko sighed dramatically, appearing from her office with a stack of folders in her arms. “Kuroko, you really did it this time.”

Kuroko tilted his head, blinking.

“That picture of Kise blew up! Every major sports outlet is buzzing about it!” Fukuda said, shoving a tablet into Kuroko’s hands. The screen displayed multiple articles, all featuring his shot—the frozen moment of Kise basking in the post-game victory, his raw joy immortalized through Kuroko’s lens.

Kuroko stared at it for a few seconds before murmuring, “I know. Riko-san updated me this morning.”

“You know, huh?” Riko pinched the bridge of her nose, then slammed a thick folder onto the nearest desk. “Well, since you know about the situation, then you should also know about this.”

Kuroko glanced down.

Contracts. Several of them.

“I know you’re not one for dramatics, but listen, Kuroko. Seirin Sports Media is not letting you slip away,” Riko declared, pointing a finger at him, way too firmly. “Now that your name—or pen name—is out there, I guarantee you big-name companies are going to come sniffing around, trying to steal you away.”

Kuroko blinked again, then deadpanned, “I think you’re exaggerating, Coach.”

“I am not ! Those companies are like little rascals, always fishing out whatever they consider a diamond in the rough.” She crossed her arms, leaning against the table’s edge. “You’re officially our not-so-secret weapon now.”

Kagami had warned him that this might happen. Kuroko had dismissed it. But looking at the contracts, the expectant faces of his coworkers, and Riko’s determined stance… 

“I don’t plan on going anywhere.” He stated, sighing as he let his eyes read through some lines of the contracts in display.

“Good, because we weren’t planning on letting you go.”

Koganei tightened his grip on Kuroko, pulling him closer as his cheerful voice cut through the air. His grin was wide, eyes practically sparkling with excitement, as if they had just won a major championship. The energy was infectious, and for a brief moment, Kuroko felt the excitement rush through his veins along the blood.

“This is great!” Koganei beamed, his enthusiasm practically radiating off him as he hopped slightly before joining Mitobe’s side. Mitobe gave a small, almost imperceptible smile, a rare sign of approval from the usually reserved man. Koganei’s energy was enough to get even the quietest of them caught up in the excitement.

Fukuda and Furihata, who were lingering nearby, also wore smaller smiles, but Kuroko could easily spot the quiet joy in their expressions. The excitement around the office was palpable.

“It truly is,” Fukuda added, his voice filled with satisfaction as he crossed his arms. “Our sales have skyrocketed since your photo went viral last night. We haven’t made this much profit in like… forever.”

The words registered in Kuroko’s mind, but the weight of the situation didn’t quite hit him just yet. The idea that his photo had caused such a big effect was still surreal. 

He had always been one to hide behind the camera. Remaining unknown. The feeling of being his name the one being talked about was…strange, to say the least. He wasn’t able to put a name to what he felt.

Before he could process any further, Teppei emerged from the back office, his presence steadying the chaotic conversation. The older man’s gaze softened as he caught sight of Kuroko, his usual calm demeanor highlighted by the faint joy in his eyes. He walked over and ruffled Kuroko’s hair with an affectionate but slightly too firm touch.

“Seirin Sports Media has suddenly joined the race for the most popular magazine of the month,” Teppei said, his voice steady and reassuring, as if grounding the excitement that was starting to spill over. “People who have seen Kuroko’s picture have also started looking through our old articles, and they are all being very well-received by the public. This is a big deal.”

Kuroko nodded slowly, not quite knowing how to respond. 

The office was buzzing with excitement, but all he could feel was the faint hum of nervous energy running through him. This wasn’t the attention he had been hoping for—he had always preferred being in the background. 

He believed he liked it that way—believed he wanted it to stay that way.

Teppei looked at him, sensing the slight unease that Kuroko was trying to hide. “It’s a good thing, Kuroko,” Teppei added, his voice warm and encouraging. “You’ve done something amazing here. Don’t doubt it.”

Kuroko wasn’t sure how to respond, but instead of protesting, he simply gave a small, appreciative nod, letting the words sink in.

Riko suddenly spoke again, holding up a clipboard and an almost mischievous glint in her eye. “All right, all right, enough celebrating for now,” she said, a playful yet determined tone in her voice. “We’ve got work to do, and I’ve got a few ideas to make sure we keep riding this wave. Kuroko, get ready. You’re going to be doing a little bit more of outdoor tasks from now on.”

Kuroko blinked. “Outdoor tasks?”

“Yep,” Riko confirmed, “Your name is starting to be recognized, and I’m not letting that attention slip through our fingers. We’re going to need to capitalize on this moment. I’ve already lined up a few things for you.”

Kuroko glanced around at his coworkers, who were still buzzing with energy, and his heart gave a slight, uneasy flutter. 

“Don’t worry,” Riko’s hand rested on his shoulder as she met his eyes. “We just want to put that good talent of yours to its best use.”

⥬

“Uwah!”  

A surprised yelp escaped Kise’s lips as a screen was shoved to his face the moment he stepped into Kaijo’s basketball court. 

His eyes scanned the invasive brightness, not stepping back and whining dramatically like he would have normally done, but staring and taking in what was the device displayed.

His picture filled the screen, his toothy grin beaming back at him, almost as if it could reach through time and pass that happiness onto him once more. And the lighting… just the court lights, nothing more, yet somehow, they fell into place so perfectly. So effortlessly harmonious.

“The picture is amazing!” He exclaimed. His hands had already reached out and yanked the phone from Moriyama’s hands before he finished speaking.  “How come I didn't see it before?”

His teammates stared blankly at how the young basketball prodigy spun around, rising the phone to stare at the picture from below. It almost felt like watching a little kid who had just discovered his new favorite toy.

“It was taken at yesterday’s match.” Hayakawa replied, crossing his arms as his eyes followed Kise’s, setting in the photo in display. “It blew up last night, and I found my phone flooded with articles and people commenting about the picture.”

“Who took it?”

Kise finally lowered the phone, turning toward his team with golden eyes gleaming with curiosity. He tilted his head slightly to the right, a nearly imperceptible motion.

“It was a photographer from Seirin Sports Media,” Yukio answered, wiping sweat from his forehead with the hem of his jersey. “He uses a pseudonym, though, so there’s no real name attached.”

Moriyama shifted his gaze to the team captain, arms crossed. “Seirin Sports Media?” he echoed, intrigued.

“Yeah. It’s a small sports magazine,” Kasamatsu explained. “I looked into it today—turns out it was founded by some former basketball players from a pretty unknown team. They’ve never really been on the radar in the basketball world, so this sudden attention must have caught them off guard too.”

“Well, they certainly have found some good talent around there.” 

When the three of them looked up, Kise was already glued to his phone, typing furiously—so fast it seemed like his life depended on it. His fingers flew across the screen until a small pop signaled the completion of his task.

“Did you share the picture?” Moriyama asked, resting a hand on his hip as he peered over Kise’s shoulder.

“Yep!” the blonde chirped, nodding enthusiastically with a wide grin. “I totally had to share it with my fans! I’m sure they’ll love it just as much as I do—”

Before he could finish, his phone buzzed with a notification. 

That was fast, they all thought in unison.

Kise tapped the screen, his eyes scanning the short message a few times before he suddenly lunged at Kasamatsu, throwing his arms around the captain’s shoulders with exaggerated crocodile tears welling at the corners of his eyes.

“Captain!” he wailed dramatically, shoving the screen into Kasamatsu’s face. “What does it mean when a friend tells you to die just because you shared a picture you liked?!”

Kasamatsu’s eye twitched at the childish display. With a sigh, he placed a firm hand against Kise’s cheek and shoved him away.

“I think it means exactly what it says!”

That only made Kise pout. “Midorimacchi is so rude!”

⥬

In a dimly lit room, the only source of light came from the screen, casting sharp shadows over a face set in quiet focus.

Fingers tightened around the device, knuckles faintly paling from the grip. The screen displayed Kise’s latest photo—the one that had shaken the Japanese basketball world in mere hours.

No words were spoken as he scrolled, his eyes methodically scanning through the article. Searching.

Seconds passed before he reached the bottom of Seirin Sports Media’s feature. His gaze settled on the credits, skimming over the names until it landed on a particular one.

T.K.

The grip on the phone tensed further.

“…So it really is you.”

⥬

Riko hadn’t been lying when she said she had things lined up for him.

From the moment he arrived at Seirin Sports Media a couple of days ago, Kuroko had been moving non stop.

 He had deadlines stacked on top of deadlines—photo edits, article drafts, document more and more matches, meetings he barely had time to acknowledge. The sudden explosion of Kise’s picture had thrown everything into overdrive, flooding the magazine with requests and attention they weren’t prepared for.

Even though it was a good thing, Kuroko believed they weren’t ready. 

They were still a familiar, small magazine, and the amount of calls and new workloads was nowhere close to what they were used to managing. It was certainly draining.

Kuroko worked in silence, slipping through the chaos like a shadow. 

His camera bag was slung over his shoulder, fingers moving instinctively across his laptop’s keyboard as he adjusted the lighting on his latest batch of images. He barely heard Hyuuga barking orders at the newly incorporated interns or Riko rattling off assignments; his focus remained solely on his work.

The impact of the picture’s popularity was immediate. 

Calls poured in from sponsors, sports analysts, and even rival magazines, all wanting to know who was behind the lens. His pseudonym, T.K. , had been whispered across the basketball world in a mere few days. But Kuroko knew better than to acknowledge it.

“It’s Kaijou’s manager again!” Koganei called out from his seat, one hand gripping the work phone while the other scribbled with a pen, writing down details from the other line. “They want to schedule a photoshoot with T.K.”

Kuroko sighed, lowering his head and burying it in the pile of papers stacked on his desk. The weight of it all felt suffocating, and he hoped the mountain of work would somehow shield him from the growing work—work he didn’t want to do—stacking up on his shoulder.

“Kuroko—” Riko spoke from her spot, a mountain of papers stacked in her hands. 

Her brown eyes searched for the photographer. The question lingering on the tip of her tongue was already loud before it was even asked.

“Please, no .” Kuroko shook his head, his voice quiet but firm. “I politely refuse. Tell them I don’t do private photoshoots or anything related to that.”

Riko sighed, letting the stack of documents fall onto the desk with a soft thud. She ran a hand through her short brown hair, her expression a mix of frustration and disbelief.

“It’s such a shame,” she muttered, clearly disheartened. “A photoshoot with Kaijou…”

Kuroko couldn’t help but notice the way her eyes seemed to gleam, her mouth watering and a thin thread of saliva threatening to escape through her lips as she imagined the endless possibilities a photoshoot with Kaijou’s team would bring. But she snapped out of it quickly, shaking her head as if to dismiss the thought.

“It’s no use, then.” Riko turned to Koganei, her voice now calm but with an edge of finality. “Communicate Kuroko’s decision. He won’t do anything he doesn’t want to.”

“Roger that’.”

Kuroko’s shoulder relaxed at that, a small weight lifted from him. 

He gave a small nod in acknowledgment, then flicked his gaze back to the laptop screen. The endless stream of tasks awaited him, and despite the exhaustion gnawing at him, he was determined to meet the deadlines without drowning in caffeine.

Just as he began to settle back into the rhythm of work, Riko’s voice cut through the quiet once more.

“By the way,” she said, her tone nonchalant but with an underlying sharpness. “I’ve assigned you to cover a match tomorrow. It’s between two low-tier teams—nothing too intense. Just get the shots, make it look decent, and we’ll use it for filler content.”

Kuroko’s fingers paused for a moment on the keyboard. Some low-tier teams. He didn’t mind. It was just another match to cover, a rare relaxed task that seemed to make its way between the chaos that had been his recent days.

He sighed, a little satisfied that he would be able to do something calmer. No ex-teammates, no past-friends, no private photoshoots. Just a normal match where he might be able to finally enjoy it without pressure.

“Understood,” he replied softly, his voice as level as ever.

Riko gave a casual wave of her hand. “It’s at the local gym. Not much to worry about. Get the usual shots—the action, the players, maybe a few fan reactions. We’ll make do with whatever you get.”

Kuroko nodded, already mentally running through the basics of his gear. Nothing fancy for a match like this. Just the essentials. A camera, some lenses, spare batteries, and a quiet space to observe the game without drawing attention.

As Riko turned her attention to other matters, Kuroko returned to his work.

The next day—around the same hour, late in the afternoon—Kuroko found himself at the door of a local gym. The sun was already sinking below the horizon, casting long shadows across the pavement as he approached the entrance.

He showed his press pass to the staff, who barely spared him a glance before leading him toward a sectioned-off area reserved for the media. The gym itself was small, nowhere near the grand stadiums he had grown used to covering. The crowd was modest, made up of family members, friends, and a handful of players from both teams. 

The atmosphere was quieter, lacking the intensity of high-profile matches, but there was a rawness to it—a kind of purity that bigger games often lost in the flood of expectations. And Kuroko basked in that feeling of calmness and purity. He was here to see two teams play the sport they liked—nothing more—and that was enough.

Kuroko settled into his spot, setting up his camera with practiced ease. He adjusted the lens, testing the lighting, and scanned the court as the players warmed up. Their movements were rougher, less refined than what he was used to, but there was determination in the way they handled the ball, in the way they spoke to each other. They weren’t excellent professionals, nor rising stars—just players who loved the game.

For the first time in a long while, Kuroko felt something close to peace.

No ex-teammates. No ghosts of the past. No suffocating weight of expectations. Just basketball.

The whistle blew, signaling the start of the match, and Kuroko raised his camera. His fingers hovered over the shutter button as he focused on the players sprinting across the court. The way their sneakers squeaked against the polished wood, the sound of the ball bouncing, the energy of the crowd—he let it all wash over him.

Click.

A steal.

Click.

A fast break.

Click.

A desperate jump shot at the buzzer.

Kuroko barely noticed time passing as he continued snapping pictures, fully immersed in capturing the game’s essence. There was no pressure to find a perfect shot , no need to document someone specific . Just the sport, basketball as it was, as it should be.

And for once, that was enough.

Time flew by, unnoticed, until the final whistle echoed through the gym. The game was over.

Kuroko snapped a few more pictures of the winning team, capturing the way they cheered and huddled together, their exhaustion momentarily forgotten in the rush of victory. He angled his lens to include the clapping audience in the background, framing the last shot of the day—something dynamic yet natural, a fleeting moment frozen in time.

With a quiet exhale, he let the camera hang from his neck and stood up.

The crowd was already dispersing, people strolled toward the exits while the players remained on the court, stretching and cooling down. The gym staff would come in soon to start clearing everything away, but for now, the place still held the lingering energy of the match.

Kuroko walked past the entrance, his footsteps light as he made his way toward the stairs that led up to the rooftop. It was an old habit—a small ritual after long assignments. Something about the open air, the silence above the world, helped him unwind.

The moment he stepped outside, a crisp breeze greeted him, ruffling his hair. The night air was colder than before, carrying the unmistakable bite of the approaching winter. He tugged his jacket closer around him, silently muttering about the forgotten coat he left at the apartment, his breath visible in the dim glow of the streetlights below.

He walked away from the door until he was leaning against the railing. He pulled out his camera once more, this time aiming it at the cityscape. The distant hum of traffic, the faint glow of neon signs, the occasional flicker of a passing train—it was a different kind of movement, one that didn’t demand to be captured, yet Kuroko found himself snapping a picture anyway.

He checked the screen, examining the image. Not perfect, not planned, just a moment. It was more flawed than anything, the bad lighting, the movement of the walking pedestrians captured wrong… But he didn’t mind, not at all.

Just like the game he had watched.

Just like the way basketball used to feel.

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips before fading just as quickly.

For a while, he stayed there, watching the city breathe beneath him, letting the night stretch on in quiet solitude.

Then, he looked up at the night sky. His light blue eyes capturing the way the crescent moon smiled at him, and the edge of his lip curled up—almost demanding for him to smile back at her.

Carefully, he placed a hand on the railing and climbed up the security higher platform where the railing was built on. He leaned dangerously against it, allowing his upper body to lean over it as he searched for the perfect shot and framing to capture the celestial body and little stars playfully shining around it. 

The camera strap hung loosely around Kuroko’s neck as he adjusted the settings, his fingers moving with quiet precision. The rooftop was silent, save for the distant hum of traffic below.

Then some footsteps reached his ears. He noticed a presence almost immediately—not something too difficult to notice with the abysmal silence that previously embraced the quiet rooftop.

Kuroko barely had time to turn before a firm hand wrapped around his wrist—warm, calloused, unyielding.

His breath hitched as he looked up, meeting Aomine’s intense gaze.

The streetlights cast long shadows across his sharp features, his usual lazy expression nowhere to be found. His grip tightened slightly, the warmth of his palm pressing against Kuroko’s cool skin.

“What the hell are you doing up here?” Aomine’s voice was low and steady, but beneath it was something else. Something unsettled that Kuroko was unable to figure out.

Kuroko blinked, expression unreadable. “Taking pictures.”

Aomine exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw clenching. His fingers curled slightly around Kuroko’s wrist.

“Get down.”

Kuroko remained still, making no effort to pull away from Aomine’s grip. His heartbeat stayed steady, unaffected by the thick tension hanging in the air. However, he was keenly aware of his precarious position—one wrong move, even the slightest struggle, and he could easily find himself toppling over the railing, plummeting two floors down in a matter of seconds. 

So he meticulously chose to remain within that position.

“Why do you care?” Kuroko asked, voice as flat as ever, but there was something underlying it. Something fragile.

Aomine scoffed, his fingers twitching slightly against Kuroko’s wrist, but not letting go just yet. “Are you seriously asking me that?” His voice was edged with frustration, but not anger—something else.

Kuroko tilted his head, watching him. There were five years of silence between them. Five years of unsaid words, of unanswered calls, of unfinished conversations, of looking at Aomine only through magazines and television screens.

Tetsuya chose to ignore the rhetorical question as he stared down at Aomine. Probably one of the few times he got to stare him down, considering Aomine had always been taller than him, his head tilted down slightly to meet his eyes as he remained standing in the higher platform. 

“It’s been a while, Aomine-kun.”

“I saw your name on the credits today,” Aomine muttered, drastically ignoring his empty words and changing the topic as he stuffed his hands into his pockets. “T.K., huh?” 

Direct as always , Kuroko wanted to point out.

Kuroko didn’t react, but his grip on the camera tightened.

He exhaled slowly, turning his gaze back to the city skyline. The lights blurred together in the distance, just like memories that never fully settled. The moon remained above them, long forgotten, because the dark blue in Aomine’s gaze will always be more iluring than any celestial body in the sky.

“How did you know?” 

“How did I know what?” Aomine shot back, the warmth of his grip in his wrist remained still. Almost like an anchor, holding him back—or in place. 

With the way Aomine’s hand curled around his wrist, covering it entirely, Kuroko almost felt like he was afraid he would somehow evaporate or disappear. “That you were T.K.? Or that you were going to be here?”

Kuroko’s eyes flicked back to him, narrowing just in the slightest. A gesture he knew Aomine didn’t catch.

“Both.”

There was a beat of silence that Aomine filled with a heavy breath.

“Get down first and let’s talk.” Aomine gave Kuroko’s wrist a firm pull, attempting to get him away from the edge.

But the photographer was quick, stubbornly grabbing onto the railing and bearing the pull from his position. Not budging so easily.

He didn’t even know why was he so stubborn in remaining in his actual position, maybe it simply was to contradict Aomine. Because he certainly disliked the way he talked so calmly, the way he looked as if he had been expecting meeting him there—having this talk—while Kuroko didn’t.

Aomine’s expression didn’t even shift. He just pulled harder the second time, effectively overpowering Kuroko’s grip this time and getting him down from the platform—away from the edge—finally standing on even ground.

Kuroko yelped, he barely had time to process the shift before he found himself standing firmly on the rooftop, Aomine’s grip still locked around his wrist. The warmth of it seeped through his sleeve, grounding him in a way he didn’t entirely welcome.

Aomine didn’t let go. His fingers curled just a fraction tighter before finally releasing Kuroko’s wrist with a slow, deliberate movement. He stepped back, just enough to give them space but not enough to create real distance.

It was at this moment when Kuroko finally took the time to look at him—to really look at him—not through a tv screen or a magazine. He’d grown up for sure, back in middle school Aomine was already a good head taller than him, but he had certainly made more of a difference now. 

He had grown some more muscle, enough to be noticeable through the hoodie that clinged to his tanned skin. 

Kuroko looked up, holding his gaze. He had never been one to avoid ee contact, and he was surely not starting now. He mentally noticed how Aomine’s hair grew a little, enough for his bangs to reach just above his eyes.

“Better,” Aomine muttered, exhaling through his nose. His dark blue eyes studied Kuroko, scanning him in a way that made the photographer bristle slightly. Though he was doing the same thing, and it felt too hypocrite to voice it out.

Kuroko adjusted his sleeve, shaking off the lingering sensation of Aomine’s grip. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Aomine smirked—though there was something off about it, something more tired than amused. “I didn’t.”

Kuroko waited, silent as ever.

Aomine let out a breath, tilting his head back to glance at the sky for a second before looking at him again. “T.K.,” he started, voice almost lazy, but Kuroko didn’t miss the sharp edge beneath it, “You didn’t think I wouldn’t recognize your work?”

He scoffed, almost as if the doubt offended him, something Kuroko didn’t quite understand. “Even if I didn’t… We went to the same class, Tetsu. You used to use the same nickname back then for class projects and stuff. I’m more surprised than you by the fact you didn’t change it.”

Kuroko’s fingers twitched, but he kept his expression neutral. Did he, really? He didn’t remember using such nickname back then… And even if he did, it was more baffling than out of anyone, Aomine was the one to remember such a shallow piece of information.

“Don’t look at me like that.” The taller boy rubbed the back of his head with a hand, a casual gesture. “I don’t think the others know though, we were the only ones going to the same class together those three years.”

“And even so…the way you capture movement, the way your shots feel like they’re part of the game instead of just pictures. It was obvious.” Aomine’s gaze didn’t waver. “At least, to me.”

Kuroko’s lips parted slightly. He wanted to say something, but no words came out.

Aomine continued, his voice quieter now, more certain. “And as for knowing you’d be here…” He shoved his hands into his pockets, his shoulders relaxing just slightly. “That was just a hunch.”

Kuroko narrowed his eyes at him, unimpressed.

Aomine snorted, shaking his head. “Okay, fine . Maybe I had Satsuki look into Seirin Sports Media a little. And checked which games you were going to cover these few days. I figured you’d pull your usual disappearing act afterward and end up somewhere quiet.”

“So Momoi-san knows too… It was to be expected, you still tell each other everything, that’s good to hear. I would feel bad if Aomine-kun had parted ways from Momoi-san.” Kuroko sighed, pressing his fingers against his temple. “You went through all that trouble just to talk?”

Aomine’s smirk faded. His eyes, usually so unreadable, held something else now—something heavier.

“Yeah,” he admitted, voice quieter now. “I did.”

Kuroko blinked.

Aomine exhaled, rubbing the back of his head before meeting his gaze again. “Because I needed to.”

Kuroko looked down, running  ahand through his hair in a rare nervous gesture. 

“I— we , need to talk.” Aomine quickly corrected himself.

To someone else, the small slip-up in Aomine’s words might have seemed insignificant—a mere struggle to articulate his thoughts. But to Kuroko, it was glaring. The slight tension in his stance, the way his fingers curled and uncurled in his pockets, the restless shift of his weight from one foot to the other.

Aomine Daiki, of all people, was anxious.

It wasn’t something Kuroko saw often. Or ever, really.

His silence stretched, allowing the weight of the moment to settle between them. He could see the way Aomine’s jaw tensed, his usual bravado chipping at the edges, as if waiting for Kuroko to call him out on it.

He didn’t. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, his voice quiet but steady. “So talk.”

Aomine had changed, a lot. Kuroko didn’t see the cheerful kid he used to be back then, nor the over-cofident facade and ego he put through his high-school years. His past interviews spoke for him and how full of himself he used to be while Kuroko was gone…

But he didn’t find any of it in the man standing next to him. Kuroko swallowed saliva, his throat tightening and knotting itself. He felt as if he had been stuck in the past for all this years while Aomine—while everyone else but him—moved on with their lives.

Aomine let out a breath, raking a hand through his hair. “Tch. You always make things difficult, you know that?”

Kuroko didn’t respond, just watched him, waiting.

Aomine clicked his tongue, turning his gaze away for a moment before finally speaking. “Why’d you leave?”

Kuroko’s breath caught, barely perceptible, but enough that he felt it.

Kuroko didn’t answer right away. He let Aomine’s words hang in the cold night air, lingering like a question neither of them were fully ready to face.

Aomine wasn’t looking at him anymore. His gaze was locked on the city beyond the rooftop, lips pressed into a thin line, hands still buried in his pockets. He was waiting— really waiting—for an answer. And that, more than anything, told Kuroko how much this mattered to him.

“…I didn’t leave,” Kuroko finally said, his voice quieter than before, but firm.

Aomine let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah? Felt like you did.”

Kuroko’s fingers twitched at his sides. He knew what Aomine meant. Knew that to him, disappearing from their lives without a word might as well have been the same as walking away entirely.

But it hadn’t been that simple.

“You suddenly quit the club. I barely saw you outside of class, this goes down for the rest too.” Aomine continued speaking, not waiting for Kuroko to defend himself—not expecting him to. “Then, after graduation you simply stopped picking calls and answering texts.”

“My phone broke and I changed my number.” He replied quietly, looking up at Aomine again, who’s gaze was more than just expectant. “And everyone had already gone down their own paths, I didn’t feel like asking for your contact information again.”

Aomine scowled, running an anxious hand through his dark hair. “I swear— why are you so extreme in everything you do? You look calm and quiet yet you’ve always been the most radical out of all of us.”

“I needed time,” Kuroko admitted. “I needed distance.”

Aomine’s shoulders tensed. “From us?”

Kuroko hesitated for just a second too long.

Aomine scoffed, shaking his head. “Right. Got it.”

“It wasn’t about you,” Kuroko said, finally stepping closer. “Not just you.”

Aomine turned back to him then, blue eyes sharp with something unreadable. “Then what was it about?”

Kuroko inhaled slowly. “…Basketball.”

That word alone seemed to make something crack in Aomine’s expression.

Kuroko continued before he could stop himself. “The way it changed. The way we changed. Everything we played for, everything we fought for—” He exhaled. “It stopped feeling like something I could be part of.”

Aomine didn’t say anything at first. His gaze flickered, the tension in his shoulders shifting from frustration to something else. Something more careful.

“…So you quit?” His voice wasn’t accusing. Just quiet. Just tired.

“I left the court,” Kuroko corrected. “Not the game.”

Aomine’s eyes narrowed slightly, like he was trying to decipher what that meant. His gaze flickered down to the camera hanging from Kuroko’s neck. Realization settled in slow, but deep.

“…So this is how you stayed,” Aomine murmured.

Kuroko nodded. “It’s different. But it’s still basketball.”

Aomine let out a breath, looking away again. “Still feels like you disappeared, though.”

Kuroko didn’t deny it. Because in a way, he had.

There was a beat of silence between them both. The night’s dark veil enveloping the moment as if to shield it from the rest of the world. Isolating them in the conversation, not allowing them to slip away.

“The gym will close soon. We should leave.” Kuroko murmured, reflexively grabbing the camera that hung from his neck and started walking to the exit of the rooftop.

Aomine was silent but he followed behind him. They walked down the stairs and remained silent until they reached the street. 

It was more noisy than the rooftop, but it still felt distance. As if that noise was ina  different reality that wasn’t theirs.

They stood on the sidewalk, the dim glow of streetlights casting long shadows over the pavement. The night air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of rain that had yet to fall. The world moved around them—cars passing, distant voices from pedestrians—but it all felt muted. Distant.

Kuroko could feel Aomine’s eyes glaring holes through the back of his head, but he pretended not to.

Aomine shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking on his heels as he glanced at Kuroko. “You heading home?”

Kuroko adjusted the strap of his camera bag and nodded. “Yes.”

Aomine made a face, like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how. He clicked his tongue, looking away. “You live in the same place?”

Kuroko hesitated before replying, “No.”

Aomine’s brows furrowed slightly, but he didn’t push. He just nodded, as if that one word was enough to confirm something for himself.

“You don’t live with your grandma anymore?” He asked, an eyebrow raised at him.

Kuroko hesitated, and the unspoken years between them felt any longer than ever before.

“She died a few years ago.”

The statement came colder than he thought it would, because Aomine seemed to freeze on his step. He even stopped walking for a couple of seconds before he looked down, almost embarrassed. 

“I— Sorry.”

Kuroko shook his head as they stopped at a red light. “Don’t be. It was no one’s fault.”

The silence between them stretched again, still uncomfortable, but it was for a different reason this time, so Kuroko didn’t really know what to make of it. 

Kuroko shifted on his feet, glancing at Aomine. “And you?”

Aomine blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Hah?”

“Are you heading home?”

Aomine stared at him for a moment before smirking, stuffing his hands deeper into his pockets. “Tch. What, you worried about me now?”

Kuroko hummed, nonchalant. “Not really.”

Aomine let out a low hum, shaking his head. “You really haven’t changed, I swear I’ve heard that exact response a thousand times before.”

Kuroko didn’t respond to that. Because in a way, he had.

Aomine had only taken a few steps before he suddenly stopped. With an annoyed sigh, he turned back around, rubbing the back of his neck as if debating something.

“Tch. Oi.” His voice cut through the night, drawing Kuroko’s attention back to him. Aomine’s expression was unreadable, but there was something in the way he stood—less guarded, almost hesitant.

Kuroko waited.

Aomine clicked his tongue, then exhaled sharply. “Your number. Gimme your phone number.”

Kuroko blinked, caught slightly off guard. He hadn’t expected that.

Aomine scowled at his silence. “What? Don’t look at me like that. We just ran into each other after how many years? I don’t want to lose track of you again.”

Kuroko’s fingers instinctively curled around the strap of his camera bag. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet but firm. “No.”

Aomine’s brows furrowed. “Hah?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Aomine stared at him, mouth opening slightly before snapping shut. A small, frustrated breath left him, and for a moment, it looked like he might argue.

Instead, his gaze dropped, his usual bravado dimming. “Damn,” he muttered. “You really don’t want anything to do with me anymore, huh?”

Kuroko’s grip on his bag tightened. That wasn’t it. Not exactly.

Aomine let out a forced chuckle, shaking his head. “Guess I can’t blame you for that.”

Kuroko frowned, sensing the shift in Aomine’s tone before the words even left his mouth.

“Listen, I…” Aomine exhaled, his voice dropping lower. “About everything back then, I—”

“No.”

Aomine blinked, caught off guard by the sudden interruption.

“Don’t be stubborn.” Aomine countered, his voice firm as he took a step closer. “That night, I said stuff I shouldn’t have. I was just—.”

Kuroko shook his head, interrupting him again. “I don’t want to hear it.” His voice wasn’t harsh, but it was resolute.

Aomine took a small step back, his expression unreadable. “…Seriously?”

Kuroko met his gaze evenly. “Yes.”

Aomine didn’t speak for a long moment. His fingers twitched at his sides, hands clenching and unclenching as if fighting the urge to say something anyway.

“It wasn’t Aomine-kun’s fault, so he doesn’t need to apologize.”

“Wasn’t?—” The player’s voice sounded more irritated next time. “I spouted nonsense, Tetsu. I was frustrated, and I took it all out on you.”

“I’ts fine.” Tetsuya’s voice was firm. His gaze calm as he held Aomine-kun’s eyes. “Really.”

But in the end, he just sighed, running a hand through his hair before stuffing it back into his pocket. “Fine,” he muttered, voice oddly empty.

Kuroko said nothing.

Aomine clicked his tongue, rolling his shoulders before turning away again. “I already have some information about your whereabouts, so I’ll definitely find you if you think of evaporating into thin air again.” 

“See ya, T.K.” He muttered over his shoulder, the name carrying a bite of something Kuroko couldn’t quite place.

And this time, he didn’t stop walking.

From behind, Kuroko could almost feel the weight of overlapping memories. A younger Aomine walking away, leaving him standing alone by the stream near Teiko’s middle school—a place they had visited countless times. But after that day, Kuroko never found the strength to go back.

⥬

Kuroko pushed the door open to his apartment, the familiar scent of wood and fabric greeting him. His steps were slower than usual as he walked in, his mind still tangled in the conversation with Aomine. The weight of it all settled in his chest, but he didn’t know how to unravel it.

Kuroko entered the apartment, the familiar sound of the door clicking shut behind him. The low hum of the apartment’s quietness felt strangely deafening, but his mind was elsewhere—drifting back to the brief but heavy conversation with Aomine.

Kagami was sprawled on the couch, half-focused on his phone, the other half on a snack he was munching on. He didn’t look up when Kuroko walked in, but he did grunt in acknowledgment. "Yo, you're back early."

Kuroko paused just inside the entryway, the words he wanted to say stuck in his throat for a moment. Finally, he exhaled and spoke, his voice as calm as ever. “I ran into Aomine-kun.”

Kagami’s head shot up, his brow furrowing slightly. “Aomine? The hell was he doing here?”

Kuroko shrugged, his gaze briefly flicking to the floor as he processed how much he was willing to share. “He’s… fine. We talked. That’s all.”

Kagami stared at him for a moment, sensing that there was more to the story but not wanting to press. “You sure? You look kinda—”

“I’m fine,” Kuroko interrupted, his tone a little sharper than usual. He didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to explain the knot in his chest that had formed during their conversation. He didn’t want to drag Kagami into it, not when it felt like something so personal. Something from a past he wasn’t ready to revisit fully.

Kagami didn’t push, though there was a flicker of concern in his eyes. He nodded slowly. “Alright, if you say so. Come out talk it out when you are ready.”

Without another word, Kuroko made his way to his room. The weight of the conversation with Aomine hung heavily in his mind, but he wasn’t ready to unpack it. Not yet. He closed the door behind him and locked it, retreating into the quiet of his space as the world outside seemed to fade into the background.

He sat on the edge of his bed, the stillness of the room pressing down on him, and for the first time in a long time, Kuroko felt lonely. As lonely as he felt back then.

Chapter Text

The quiet hum of the apartment filled the space as Kuroko sat on the edge of his bed, his gaze fixed on the blank wall ahead. His fingers lightly grazed the edges of his phone, the screen still dark from where he had left it the night before. The darkness of the room covered any other thing to stare at, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

He exhaled slowly, eyes closing for a moment as the weight of last night’s conversation with Aomine lingered in the silence. The knots in his chest hadn’t loosened, but he knew he couldn’t stay like this forever.

With a quiet shift, Kuroko stood, stretching his stiff limbs. 

It hasn’t been long since he got home and locked himself inside his room, a little less since he changed clothes and sat still on his bed. His eyes were not focused on anything at all, just an unfocused gaze on the floor as he remained pensive. 

The conversation from just a couple of hours ago still weighed heavily on his mind. 

Kuroko couldn’t stop himself from replaying it over and over, hearing certain words in Aomine’s voice that left a bitter taste in his mouth. Maybe it wasn’t even the words themselves—they just clung to him, refusing to let go, leaving him unable to relax or even attempt to sleep.

Did he really need time away from them, like Aomine asked him? Maybe that was it. 

He’d denied it so firmly on the rooftop, but now Kuroko wasn’t sure what he felt about them anymore. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was selfish enough to slowly drift away and convince himself it was somehow their fault, when it had been his all along.

The thought was enough to make him feel sick.

Seeing Aomine’s face, hearing his voice, listening to his questions—his accusations—had brought back memories Kuroko thought he’d long since buried. It irritated him. Though that irritation always seemed to dissolve into the quiet, melancholic sadness that grew on him a few moments later.

He was irritated, then sad—after a few seconds, nostalgic, and then, just as quickly, utterly exhausted. 

The fast, relentless roller coaster of feelings only served to fuel his growing annoyance. An annoyance he couldn’t even properly aim at anyone or anything. Maybe it was directed to Aomine. Maybe to the rest of them. Perhaps even at himself.

With a quiet sigh, his body went limp, falling back onto the mattress. The ceiling above greeted him with the same empty, indifferent darkness that always seemed to settle heavier on nights like this.

The soft creak of the apartment door broke the silence. Kuroko didn’t move.

He heard the familiar shuffle of Kagami’s heavy footsteps through the hallway. For a moment, there was nothing but the hum of the fridge.

Then, a knock reached his ears. Not loud, not hesitant—just his roommate’s usual, half-meant tapping against the doorframe.

“You still awake?”

Kuroko didn’t answer, but the pause in his movement was probably enough of a reply.

Kagami stepped inside, the dim light from the hallway outlining his tall frame. In his hand was a canned coffee and a plate with a few onigiris, which he wordlessly set on the small nightstand beside the bed.

“…Brought you this. Thought you might still be up.”

The ‘you stay up late every time you have too much in your mind’ , went unsaid. 

Kuroko was well aware of Kagami’s habits by now, living together gave them a lot of time to spend together and get to know each other more, he shouldn’t have been suprised at the little detail picking-habit being mutual—but even though he was—it was a nice surprise, for a change.

The scent of the warm rice hit him before the words did. And somehow, it made the tightness in his chest tighten a little more, like a twisting knife.

Instead, Kagami let out a sigh and rubbed a hand over his face. 

“I don’t know what happened with him,” he started, voice rough, unsure, “but I can guess.”

Kuroko’s gaze stayed fixed on the ceiling.

“You don’t have to act like it’s fine,” Kagami added after a second, his tone softer now. “I mean… you can be pissed. Or sad. Or whatever it is you’re trying to swallow right now.”

That tugged something loose in Kuroko’s chest, but he kept his voice quiet. “It’s complicated.”

“Yeah. No shit.” Kagami huffed, giving a short, humorless laugh. “It’s always complicated with them.”

Kuroko’s eyes finally shifted toward him, catching the way Kagami’s brow was furrowed, frustrated, maybe a little worried.

“You told me a bit about your shared past,” He continued, avoiding Kuroko’s gaze. It somehow felt heavier that night. “I don’t know all the exact details, but I’m quite sure I can imagine pretty well how it all went. Especially with him .”

“I thought I was over it,” Kuroko admitted, voice thin. “Over them. Over… Teiko, over everything maybe. But seeing him, hearing him talk like that… As if he could just come here and demand answers…it—”

He broke off, fingers curling against the sheets. “I hated it.”

Kagami let that sit in the air a moment before answering. “You should hate it,” he said, surprisingly steady. “It’s okay to hate it. Your past together was rough. They don’t get to screw you up and still act like they didn’t.”

Kuroko blinked at him. Kagami didn’t usually speak like this. Not with this kind of sharpness.

“I swear that Aomine-guy… so freaking full of himself.”

He listened carefully to Kagami’s voice, letting it settle in the silence that followed. But he couldn’t untangle the conflicting emotions churning inside him—not enough to name them, let alone voice them or dare put them into words.

They coursed through his veins like opposing currents: one quietly agreeing with everything Kagami had said, eager to pin the blame on them , to finally exhale after years of holding it in.

And the other—a slightly stronger, icy-cold tide—whispered that he was wrong. That he was selfish. That the distance between them was his fault.

“…It’s not like that,” he said at last, barely above a murmur. “Not entirely, at least.”

He shifted forward, sitting up on the edge of the bed. His hand reached for the onigiri, slow and hesitant. The rice was still warm. The heat against his palm grounded him more than he expected.

“It’s true that they— he , has no right to just show up like that,” he continued quietly. “The way he acted… It annoyed me. Like nothing ever happened. As if he could just— suddenly —show up and casually ask about my life like we didn’t fall apart.”

Kagami didn’t speak. He just watched him, serious, steady—a kind of stillness that wasn’t overbearing, just present.

It was that look. That stupid look.

The one that didn’t wait for him, pushed him to continue, making him feel seen anyway.

Kuroko hesitated.

His pale blue eyes flicked toward Kagami’s and then away, reluctant. Something in his chest gave a little under the weight of it.

Kuroko Tetsuya—the boy who’d mastered the art of silence, who’d grown up making himself small and invisible so as not to cause trouble, who swallowed every fear and insecurity so he wouldn’t worry his grandmother—found the words caught like knots in his throat.

It was hard. The saliva wasn’t even going down at his poor attempt at swallowing.

He wasn’t used to sharing like this. Not really. He hated the feeling.

Not the opening up itself—but the vulnerability that came hand in hand with it. 

The rawness. The exposure. Being seen like this, cracked open, feeling like standing under a spotlight he’d spent his entire life avoiding.

And yet, for some reason… he kept going. Because he somehow needed that push that no one other than Kagami gave him. 

They let him— allowed him—to continue hiding in his own little shell… Kagami didn’t .

“I didn’t leave because I hated them,” he said. “I left because I didn’t know who I was around them anymore. Because I became someone I didn’t like. And maybe… maybe I thought it’d be easier for everyone if I just disappeared.”

Kagami’s jaw tensed slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

“No… That take is way too selfish.” He suddenly stated, tripping over his own words clumsily as he shook his head. “I distanced myself because it was easier for me . I believed I would be more satisfied with myself if I went back to the way of being before I met them.”

Kuroko finally looked up at him again, voice softer now.

“But now they show up like—, like me leaving didn’t mean a thing when it meant the world to me… I don’t know what to think.”

There. He said it.

The words hung in the air between them, fragile and true.

Kagami leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. His voice, when it came, was low but certain.

“It’s not selfish to want to protect yourself,” he said. “And it’s not wrong to walk away from people who made you feel bad—even if they didn’t mean to.”

Kuroko’s fingers curled tighter around the onigiri.

“…I wanted them to see me,” he admitted. “That’s all I ever wanted. To be seen and feel like I was one of them. But back then, the only way they noticed me was when I played. And even that… felt like it stopped being enough.”

Tetsuya made a small pause. “Maybe I just wanted to feel like we were friends rather than just teammates, but… I guess I just wasn’t doing enough.”

Kagami looked at him for a long moment, eyes steady.

“Well, I see you,” he said simply. “Literally, metaphorically and in any other way you can think of.” 

That made Kuroko’s breath hitch. No dramatic moment. No big speech. Just… those three words. Enough to press against something buried deep inside him.

A pause. Then Kagami stood, stretching his back with a soft groan.

“I’m heating up some miso soup,” he said, already moving toward the door. “Come out if you want some. If not, I’m leaving the pot on the stove.”

He stepped out without waiting for a reply.

Kuroko sat in the quiet again. But this time, it wasn’t empty. It felt a little fuller, a little warmer.

He looked down at the onigiri in his hand—half-eaten now—and exhaled, slowly.

“…Thank you, Kagami-kun.”

The words were meant for the silence, but somehow, he had a feeling Kagami heard them anyway.

Kagami missed it—by a sole, quick instant—the soft smile that braced Kuroko’s thin lips. Faint, almost imperceptible, like the first trace of warmth breaking through after a long, cold night.

⥬

“Snap out of it.”

The sharp hit of a basketball colliding with the back of his head hit Aomine faster than the actual voice behind it.

“Oi—what the hell?” Aomine groaned, rubbing the sore spot as he turned, his dark blue eyes narrowing in annoyance.

Midorima stood there, arms crossed, that same rigid, unreadable expression glued to his face. The look always got under Aomine’s skin—not because it was cold, but because it carried this silent, irritating air of I know better than you.

The green-haired shooter caught the ball effortlessly as it bounced once on the polished floor, the familiar background hum of squeaking sneakers and bouncing balls filling the gym around them. Their team's warm-ups carried on, but in that moment, it felt like the two of them were cut off in a quiet, invisible bubble.

“You’re unfocused,” Midorima stated flatly, like it wasn’t up for debate. “It’s pathetic. Keep this up and your team’s going to lose. Badly.”

“Tch. Keep dreaming—”

Smack.

Another hit—this time right on his forehead, a little lighter, but annoying all the same.

“The one who missed three free throws during warm-up doesn’t get to talk back.”

“You damn triple-freak,” Aomine grumbled, closing the distance between them with a glare and a lazy attempt to swat the ball out of Midorima’s hands. Predictably, he missed, and the ball struck him a third time for his trouble.

“Cut it out, bastard—”

Midorima didn’t even flinch, just adjusted his glasses with that same maddening calm.

“I’d say I’m helping. Clearly, you need it.”

Aomine opened his mouth to snap back, but hesitated for half a second—because deep down, he knew Midorima wasn’t wrong. His head hadn’t been in it since that run-in with Kuroko a few days ago. Since those words, those damn eyes, dug up things he hadn’t wanted to think about.

He clicked his tongue, turning away.

“I’m fine,” Aomine muttered, grabbing a nearby ball and starting a lazy dribble. “Worry about yourself, Shin-chan .”

Midorima’s gaze lingered for a moment longer.

“You’re lying to yourself, Aomine.”

And with that, he turned, heading back to his side of the court—leaving Aomine standing there, a sour taste in his mouth and the echo of those words sitting heavy on his shoulders.

“I—, I met someone a few days ago.” 

The words escaped through the tight opening between his lips before Aomine could really process what he was saying. His eyes locked on the back of the other shooter who stopped in his tracks.

Midorima just silently turned his head back, those green eyes patiently waiting for him to continue talking. Expecting him to finish what he had to say.

And Aomine could just tighten his grip on the basketball as he mentally cursed his big mouth and inability to keep things to himself. 

It had always been that way.

Aomine had never been the type to keep things bottled up. As a kid, he’d shouted his problems, his frustrations, his feelings to the world without a second thought. Sure, he’d grown up since then—learned to keep certain things to himself, to pick his moments, to hold back the louder parts of who he was.

But when something gnawed at him, scratching at the back of his mind like a restless itch—like that conversation he had with Kuroko—he couldn’t just let it sit there, locked up and ignored. He wasn’t built for silence.

Even now, it pressed against his chest, heavy and unwelcome.

And he hated it.

He hated how a few words, a couple of glances, could still get under his skin after all this time. That Kuroko, of all people, still had that kind of pull on him—without even trying.

Aomine grit his teeth, bouncing the ball hard against the polished court as if that might help drown the noise in his head.

He wasn’t the quiet type. Never had been.

And the more he pretended it wasn’t there, the louder it got.

“ Met someone? ” Midorima repeated, arching a brow behind his glasses. The reluctance practically radiating off of Aomine wasn’t subtle, not to someone like him. Much less when it was that rare in him.

Midorima gave him a light, deliberate push with the ball against his shoulder. Not enough to be aggressive, but just enough to nudge at that wall Aomine had attempted to put up.

“Tch, it’s nothing,” Aomine muttered, waving him off with the kind of lazy dismissal that only made Midorima narrow his eyes more.

“It doesn’t look like nothing,” Midorima pointed out flatly, his voice calm but unrelenting. “Your game’s a mess, your head’s somewhere else, and now you’re avoiding eye contact like a child.”

Aomine let out a dry chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck.

Screw him actually. Screw Midorima and the way that no matter how stoic and a pain in the ass he could be, he always seemed to make himself reliable and trustworthy. 

Screw him for not only making himself seen that way, but actually being it. 

“It was just… a conversation that had a long way coming. And I don’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed by the outcome.”

After a few beats, Midorima hummed, his green eyes analyzing every single gesture or twitch in Aomine’s face. Making Daiki feel studied, like a guinea pig to the best shooter of the prefecture’s eyes. 

“I see…” His words were just enough. And that was fine.

Aomine didn’t want a long, clinical analysis breaking down the situation like Akashi would’ve done. He also didn’t want a wave of endless questions digging for every tiny detail like Kise, who always built his interrogations like he was chasing gossip rather than answers. Even Murasakibara’s quiet indifference would’ve pissed him off right now.

What he appreciated—though he’d never admit it out loud—was the way Midorima just heard him. Not necessarily understood him, but gave him space to speak without forcing anything out of him. A silent, steady presence that didn’t suffocate, didn’t demand.

Aomine knew better than anyone that if the situation truly called for it, Midorima could push. He could press for answers, throw facts in his face, drag the truth out by sheer stubbornness. But not now. 

Now, he just quietly waited—giving Aomine the room to say whatever the hell he wanted… or nothing at all.

And maybe that was what made it easier to breathe.

When it seemed obvious Aomine wasn’t ready to say anything else, Midorima adjusted his glasses with his middle finger, bouncing the ball in a steady rhythm.

“Burn your frustration over the game, then , you’ll have your time to figure things out.”

And with that said, the shooter turned his back to him and returned to his team to continue the warm-up before the match that would take place shortly after.

The match was long over, the echo of cheers still faintly ringing in the back of Aomine’s head. 

His body had visibly relaxed after the tight victory they had somewhat stolen from Shutoku’s grip tight. Barely a difference made by a few points, those matches were the most interesting—when it was both, no one’s and everyone’s game at the same time.

The sun was already sinking, tainting the sky in soft shades of orange and violet by the time Aomine finally stepped out of the stadium, scrolling mindlessly through his phone. The match had taken place that morning but he had stayed around all day to watch the rest of the games alongside his team, and now, with evening settling in and the sun dipping behind the horizon, the latest article from Seirin Sports Media was already out.

Quick as always, he thought.

Ever since his little discovery, he couldn’t stop himself from checking the small sports magazine’s website—once a day, then a few times, until it quietly became a habit. Just to see the newest article. If he was lucky, it might be about him, or one of the other Generation of Miracles. And maybe, just maybe, there’d be another outstanding photo—the kind that would leave even professionals speechless. It was a quiet routine he’d fallen into over the past week… and one he knew would probably stick around a while longer.

His black jersey stuck damply to his skin, the afterglow of adrenaline replaced with that low, restless hum he had grown so fond of through his whole history with the sport. The scent of sweat, resin, and disinfectant lingered in the air. 

Aomine’s thumb paused mid-scroll.

The screen showed a well-taken snapshot from the earlier’s match—Midorima was captured mid-jump, posture perfect, eyes locked on the hoop as the ball soared from his fingertips. The photo was a close-up of his face, effectively capturing the luring determination in his green eyes and the perfect contrast of the ball and his jersey’s color. 

It wasn’t just a good photo; it was clean, timed to perfection. Balanced composition, sharp contrast—even the motion blur worked in its favor. It looked like it had been taken by a pro. Well , the small, almost unnoticeable signature of ‘tk’ at the bottom of the picture proved damn right that it had been taken by a pro.

The comments complementing or sharing opinions about the picture didn’t take too long to flood his screen.

Aomine’s jaw tensed for a split second.

“Tetsu’s at it again…” he muttered under his breath, the words slipping out before he could stop them—low, almost fond.

And of course.

“ Tetsu’s , at it again?” came Midorima’s voice from behind him, calm but unmistakably sharp as he echoed his words. “So it was him.”

Aomine flinched the slightest bit as Midorima stepped around him, towel draped over his shoulders, already dressed in his clean casual clothes. He moved with purpose, like always.

Touo’s ace didn’t need to watch him twice to know that he was already tying all the knots together, just like he did on the court in every single play.

Midorima remained quiet for a moment, staring at his own phone before turning it around to show Aomine his own picture, the one he had been staring for the past minutes since it quickly traveled around every social media.

“It wasn’t even that hard to guess.” He muttered, accommodating his glasses once again before turning off the device. “Kise’s picture, as well as mine, seemed way too familiar. Kuroko already liked taking pictures back then.”

Aomine’s eyes flickered to the ground, clicking his tongue at Midorima’s calm tone. He really sounded as if he was one step ahead of anyone or anything—or maybe just Aomine. 

He remembered it well—no, screw that, he remembered it perfectly . Kuroko’s little photography hobby, the quiet way he’d linger behind with a camera in hand, capturing moments no one else paid attention to. Aomine had been his best friend back then, after all. All those afternoons they spent together after practice weren’t something he could just brush off or forget.

He even remembered the camera—a small, pastel blue, slightly worn-out model that Kuroko’s grandma had given him for his 13th birthday. Aomine could still picture it clearly, dangling from Kuroko’s wrist like it belonged there.

He recalled the times he had to wait for Kuroko to snap a good shot of the sunset before they could head home. Or those moments during practice when a quick camera flash caught his eye—Kuroko silently capturing plays, dunks, or little details that had caught his quiet interest. Even then, Kuroko had a way of enjoying little things and small moments no one else bothered to notice.

Aomine remembered thinking, even back then, that it suited him. That a camera just… fit Kuroko. Those quiet, pale blue eyes of his were always watching, always catching things nobody else did. If anyone in the world could’ve had mind-reading powers, it would’ve been Kuroko—no doubt about it.

Because sometimes, Daiki swore it felt like his little friend was staring right through him. Like Kuroko could see every thought, every crack, every storm hiding behind the cocky grin Aomine threw at the world.

But in reality, he didn’t read his mind, he rather preferred to capture his plays in photos and show them to Aomine later, complementing his style with his gentle and always-so-proper speech.

It made him happy. After all, who didn’t enjoy being admired? But there was something different about it when it came from Kuroko. Being flattered by someone as blunt and straightforward as him—someone who could either call him a genius or tear down his awful grades with the exact same flat tone and expression—meant more. 

It was oddly more satisfying than the empty claps, praises, and decorated pretty words from his classmates or other players. Because with Kuroko, he knew it was real. 

He would praise exactly the move, not a word more, not a word less. No exaggeration to make his compliments sound grander, just enough to be honest. And somehow, that made his compliments hit harder than any overblown praise ever could.

“Tk, Tetsuya Kuroko.” Shintaro murmured, his voice slightly lower, as if he was testing the sound rather than speaking out loud. “It was quite obvious, I feel a bit dumb for not realizing it sooner… or maybe just because I realized after you.”

Aomine’s eyebrow twitched at the pointed look the green-haired player gave him along with his not-so-subtly hidden insult.

“ Oi—. ”

“…It feels nostalgic somehow,” Midorima’s voice cut through his words and thoughts, pulling Aomine out of the flood of memories racing through his head.

“Looking at that picture… It felt like we were back in our second year of middle school. Kuroko had just shown me a shot he took while I was mid-shot. He always had a knack for capturing those moments during games. Especially of us. I remember how oddly satisfied he looked whenever Akashi or even Murasakibara told him they liked his photos… or even asked him to send them so they could keep them.”

A muffled chuckle escaped through Aomine’s lips at the other’s melancholic tone.

“Don’t play so coy, Shin-chan,” Aomine chuckled, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “I remember you liked his pictures too. You even asked him to send you a couple more than once.”

Midorima adjusted his glasses with a quiet, familiar flick of his fingers, refusing to meet Aomine’s smug grin as his cheeks were colored with a tint of pale pink, almost unnoticeable. “I only appreciated the technical quality. Kuroko had a good sense of timing… that’s all.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Aomine smirked, leaning back against the wall, eyes glancing up at the evening sky. “You were just as soft about it as the rest of us. You just didn’t show it.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke, memories hanging thick in the air between them. 

The laughter, the games, Kuroko’s quiet presence always lingering at the edges of every scene. It felt like another lifetime even though all those memories were just a few years away from where they stood now.

Midorima coughed a few times, drowning the silence that had settled between them. “So… Now, I guess it’s safe to assume that person you met was Kuroko.”

Aomine rubbed the back of his head in an awkward manner, looking away as if he was searching for some support from anything he could find in the street. 

“Yeah,” he finally answered. “Though the conversation didn’t exactly take the direction I wanted.”

“Well, Kuroko’s always been difficult that way,” Midorima said. His words weren’t exactly comforting, but somehow, they were more grounding than anything else Aomine could’ve asked for, because they came from someone who knew Kuroko almost as well as he did.

“If there’s one thing certain with him, it’s that the conversation won’t be easy… but it’ll be honest. Plain, and real.”

Aomine glanced back at him, and for just a fleeting second, he caught it—a flicker of uncertainty, maybe even curiosity, in Midorima’s practiced stoicism. It was gone almost as quickly as it appeared though, buried beneath that composed, unreadable mask, the unspoken questions neatly swallowed before they could slip out.

Aomine smirked faintly, recognizing it for what it was. “What? You wanna ask, don’t you?”

Midorima adjusted his glasses, looking away. “It’s not my place. You’ll talk when you’re ready… or when you’re too annoyed to keep it in.”

That made Aomine huff a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Tch. You really haven’t changed, huh?”

Neither of them said it out loud—but in that silence, the weight of old friendships, unresolved things, and the familiar ache of missing someone neither of them wanted to admit they missed settled between them.

“How… How is he?” The question slipped through Midorima’s lips quietly—almost shily—the sun’s reflection of his glasses keeping Aomine from seeing the look in his eyes.

Aomine’s smirk softened into something less sharp, more tired. He let out a low scoff, running a hand through his dark blue hair. 

“He’s fine. Of course he is. It’s Tetsu, y’know? He’s always been stubborn like that—does whatever the hell he wants, won’t budge for anything he doesn’t care about.” Aomine muttered, rubbing awkwardly the back of his head. “Still quiet. Still stubborn. Still knows exactly how to piss you off without raising his voice.”

For a moment, the air felt heavier, neither of them wanting to put the words about it’s reason.

“But…” Aomine added, quieter this time, gaze drifting toward the horizon, “I dunno, man. Even when he’s looking at me with that same plain, blank look, it feels like there’s a whole lot he’s not saying. Guess… some things never change.”

Midorima gave a small, barely audible hum, arms crossed, his posture stiff but thoughtful.

Aomine paused, his voice lowering just a little, more to himself than to Midorima. “Same stubborn idiot as always… just a little further away now than in middle school.”

Midorima’s reply came softly, almost reluctant to peak his thoughts outloud. “It wouldn’t be Kuroko without slipping through our fingers every time.”

“...damn right.”

⥬

Midorima Shintaro was not a curious person.

At least, not in the way people often mistook curiosity for nosiness. When something went wrong, he’d calmly gather the facts, ask the necessary questions, and deliver the most logical, efficient solution. He wasn’t one to pry, only stepping in when reason demanded it.

He’d even lend Takao his shoulder when one of his many half-serious flings predictably crashed and burned—which, frankly, was most of the time. And though Midorima would grumble about it later, complaining about Takao’s tears and snot messing up his clothes, he never once pushed him away.

That was the kind of person he was; steady, reliable, unflinching. 

That’s why if someone asked him why he was patrolling around Seirin Sports Media’s workplace in a normal Saturday morning with his best costume on, he would simply reply that it had absolutely nothing to do with his latest discovery.

He was… worried . That’s it. Worried about his past teammate’s well-being after suddenly dissapearing years ago. Simply concerned about how he was doing.

Some passersby gave him odd looks, but Midorima couldn’t have cared less. He wasn’t doing anything suspicious—just standing outside a quiet little building, squinting through the glass window, trying to see if there was someone inside. That was all.

He adjusted his glasses and leaned slightly closer.

“What are you doing, Midorimacchi?”

The familiar voice struck him harder than expected. He turned swiftly, caught off guard, only to meet Kise’s puzzled stare.

“Kise—” he said plainly, straightening up as if to erase any sign of guilt from his posture. “How did you know it was me?

“Huh…?” the blonde’s even more puzzled look gave away his answer better than any word. “Just because you put some sunglasses on does not make you unrecognizable, Midorimacchi.”

At Midorima’s embarrassed look Kise tilted his head, the way he always did when trying to read someone. “You stalking someone now?” he teased, but there was little humor in his voice. 

Midorima pushed his glasses up with a sigh. “Don’t be ridiculous. I was just… checking something.”

The tension in the air softened a little as Kise’s light chuckle brushed against Midorima’s ears. The blond ruffled his hair absentmindedly, the strands falling right back into place without effort. He stepped closer, raising a hand and giving a quick, casual knock on the door.

“ You —wait!” Midorima's voice cracked out, a little too sharp, a little too fast, but not quite quick enough to stop him.

His heart kicked up for a moment, a flicker of anxiousness tightening in his chest when Kise made their presence known… only to fade again when nothing came from inside.

No footsteps.

No voice. 

Not even the soft noise of someone approaching.

Kise gave a small, disappointed sigh. “Hah… how disappointing,” he murmured, his expression folding into an exaggerated pout. The childlike face tugged at the edges of his adult features, smoothing them out into something younger, softer—a look Midorima knew all too well from their middle school days.

“I also wanted to visit them,” Kise added, his voice quieter now, as if it wasn’t really meant for Midorima’s ears.

After the tension successfully left Midorima’s body like sweat dripping from his fingers, Midorima stepped closer. Casually crossing his arms as he spoke. “Wanted to visit someone in specific?”

“Yeah, that photographer—Kt or Tk, I don’t remember.”

Those words alone made Midorima's grip tighten slightly on the strap of his bag. Kise’s cluelessness might’ve been a blessing in disguise, but it didn’t make the knot in his stomach loosen any. It was obvious Kise had no idea the elusive photographer he kept whining about was Kuroko himself.

Midorima let out a barely audible sigh as Kise went on, his voice swinging wildly from disappointment to irritation, before settling into full-blown exasperation.

“My manager’s been calling them non-stop, but they keep refusing every photoshoot proposal…” Kise pouted, dramatically tossing his head back as his hands landed on his hips. “Do you know how great it’d be if a photographer of that caliber took photos of me for a campaign? It would be amazing! Both for me and for them! But nooo —they’re way too stubborn, always sticking to those small-time magazine usual tasks.”

“I can imagine,” Midorima replied dryly, expression unreadable as ever.

“But it looks like they’re closed today… jeez, what a shame.” Kise sighed, stretching his arms lazily as if the conversation itself had physically tired him out.

“Let’s go,” Midorima muttered, already turning toward the street. The last thing he wanted was to linger around any longer.

Unfortunately, stepping back out meant walking into a group of fans—a small but loud group of girls immediately spotting them with gleaming eyes and phones ready.

“Midorima-san! Kise-san! Over here!”

“Look, it’s them! Can I get a photo?”

Not in the mood to deal with them, Midorima moved quickly.

“Tch,” He clicked his tongue and adjusted his sunglasses, grabbing Kise by the wrist and pulling him down the sidewalk before things could escalate.

“Eh? Eh?! Wait—Midori—Hey, the fans, the fans !” Kise stumbled after him.

“Deal with them another time.”

They slipped into the next street and ducked into a small café, the bell above the door jingling softly. It was the kind of place that felt untouched by the noise outside—all muted colors, soft lighting, and the faint scent of roasted coffee beans.

Midorima released Kise’s wrist once they were inside. “Sit down. You’re being too loud.”

“I wasn’t that loud—”

But Midorima was already heading toward a quiet table by the window.

Kise grumbled, brushing off his sleeves and looking around the café while they waited. His gaze swept over a few occupied tables… until it landed on a familiar shock of bright red hair.

“Oi—wait a second…” Kise blinked, leaning slightly forward, his eyes narrowing. “That’s… Kagamicchi, isn’t it? From that new team.”

Midorima’s brow rose. “Kagami?”

“Yeah, over there—” Kise pointed discreetly, lowering his voice now. “We played against eachother last Friday, I’m gonna go say hi.”

Without waiting, Kise crossed the room, his usual grin slipping back into place. Midorima wasn’t quick enough to stop him, and to avoid being left alone awkwardly in one of the tables he decided to trail behind. Muttering complaints under his breath.

“Kagamicchi!” Kise called out, waving his hand over his head as he approached the table. Getting the attention, not only of the redhead, but the few people hanging around them, though they returned to their own businesses fast enough.

Kagami set down his drink, the mug making a soft clink against the table. He blinked up at the approaching figures—one grinning awkwardly, the other looking as if he'd rather be anywhere else in the world.

It looked… weird, to say the least.

Kise and Midorima felt completely out of place. This quiet little café, with its scent of cinnamon and fresh pastries, soft indie tunes humming in the background, and worn wooden furniture... They stuck out like bright, polished ornaments in a room meant for soft, familiar things—like two glossy pages carelessly slipped into a weathered, worn out book.

“…Uh, Kise, Midorima,” Kagami muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, glancing between the two. “What’re you guys doing here?”

Kise’s grin was tight, not quite reaching his eyes. “Would you believe me if I said it was a coincidence?”

Kagami’s brow twitched. “Not really.”

Midorima sighed, adjusting his glasses in a practiced motion. “We were nearby. That’s all.”

“Midorimacchi decided it was a good time to run away from a horde of fans and dragged me along with him… This place looked small enough to go unnoticed,” Kise explained, his voice light, though the dramatic way he rubbed his wrist made Midorima shoot him a cold glare.

“We saw you sitting here, so I figured I’d drop by and say hi!” Kise grinned, his expression brightening as he reached for the empty chair across from Kagami. Without breaking eye contact with the redhead, he casually tugged it backward.

But the chair didn’t move as smoothly as it should have—it felt heavier, like it wasn’t empty at all. Kise blinked, confused, lowering his gaze… and found a pair of calm, familiar light blue eyes staring up at him.

“…It’s been a while, Kise-kun, Midorima-kun,” Kuroko said softly, his voice steady, untouched by surprise.

Chapter Text

Ever since that unexpected run-in with Aomine, Kuroko's had what he could only describe as an unusually quiet week. No surprise encounters, no arguments with ghosts from his past, and not even a particularly taxing schedule at college.

Well—there had been that one game he’d been asked to photograph. The shot he’d captured of Midorima had blown up online too, but it hadn’t made quite the same splash as Kise’s. Seirin had also been better prepared for the second sudden wave of popularity, being able to afford accepting a few more interns and hiring a couple more editors and redactors this time.

Now, walking down the hallways to his class, he refreshed his social media feed one last time before locking his phone. The screen had shown 39k followers—and counting. Ever since Kise’s photo went viral, the numbers hadn’t stopped climbing. Midorima’s had brought another surge, but it hadn’t carried the same intensity Kise’s had.

Still, it was strange. Kuroko couldn’t quite follow how quickly things could shift from silence to noise.

Kuroko stepped into the lecture hall just as the old wall clock hit 10:00 a.m. sharp. He moved quietly, slipping into his usual seat near the middle row—close enough to hear the professor clearly, far enough to avoid being directly called on.

He set down his bag with a quiet thump, pulled out a notebook, and blinked once at the faintly flickering projector screen.

The room hummed with quiet chatter. Some students were still waking up, while others typed noisily, halfway through projects. Kuroko sat down, half-listening, half-zoning out, watching the clouds shift over the university courtyard.

Professor Yaguchi entered a moment later, all brisk steps and sharp glasses. She was the kind of teacher who could slice through the buzz of a room just by existing. Conversations fizzled out. She dropped her leather binder onto the front desk with a soft thud and scanned the room.

“Morning,” she said flatly. “Let’s not waste time.”

She clicked her remote, and the projector screen flickered to life. A bold slide was projected:

-Human Interest in Sports Journalism.
-Narrative Framing & Voice in Athlete Profiles.

Kuroko sipped his coffee. Still not quite alert.

Professor Yaguchi launched into the day’s topic. “This week, we’re discussing voice. That balance between fact and emotion, professionalism and empathy. Because when you’re writing about people—not stats, people —you have to care enough to dig deeper.”

She started playing a clip of a post-game interview from a recent Olympic event, asking the class to analyze tone and subtext.

Kuroko took notes. Sort of. His pen moved, but his mind was beginning to drift.

“…and remember,” the professor said sharply, pausing the video, “this all ties directly into your profile piece assignments—which, as a reminder, are due this Sunday. That means—”

Something in Kuroko’s brain clicked.

The words profile piece echoed with the weight of a hammer strike. The steady scratching of pens and the low hum of the projector became distant.

Oh. 

“As explained back in the day, this assignment counts for thirty-five percent of your final grade. I expect depth. I expect hard work. This is your chance to show you can write like journalists , not just students. We want voice. We want character, conflict, ideas and detail.”

Kuroko felt the world tilt slightly.

Assignment? Thirty-five percent?

His stomach sank.

The words on the screen swam into focus like they’d just emerged from a fog. A dense, terrible fog.

The assignment. The assignment.

He knew that phrase. He’d seen it before—in his planner, three weeks ago. He even remembered highlighting it in blue.

And then… nothing. Silence. Lost to the shuffle of campus life, part-time work, and everything else that had been crashing into him lately. He’d forgotten completely.

And now—today was Friday . 

That gave him less than two days to complete the assignment and submit it.

Kuroko sat perfectly still, his face calm, expression unreadable as always. But he could feel his brain going into a full chaos mood, his brain’s sectors setting fire to each other as the teacher continued speaking, dulling out her voice completely.

He flipped open his planner, and there it was, too easy to see, his hand-writing was even bigger than usual as if his past-self had known he would be forgetting about the task and tried to avoid it but it ended up happening anyways.

DECEMBER 1: “PROFILE PIECE: MODERN ATHLETE” DUE.

He hadn’t even chosen a subject yet.

He had no notes. No interviews. No draft. 

And the absolute worse: No time.

Kuroko stared at the nearly blank assignment page on his planner, the document header blinking at him with mild judgment.

“It’s fine,” he told himself.

He exhaled softly through his nose. The panic was there—muffled, as always—but it pressed at the back of his throat.

“I still have time,” he murmured aloud, mostly to reassure himself. “It’s fine. I have Kagami.”

Kagami would say yes. He always did. He grumbled, complained, rolled his eyes—but he never said no. And with Kagami came the rest of his team—someone would help, someone would talk. Kuroko was sure someone, if not Kagami, would agree to help him out.

So he closed the laptop, ignoring the background explanation of his teacher. It’s fine. I have Kagami.

⥬

The tiny café smelled like over-roasted beans and fresh toast. Kuroko sat with his laptop inside his bag, notebook and pencil ready, camera bag at his side. He stirred his drink with the slow, absent-minded motions of someone trying not to feel rushed.

Across from him, Kagami inhaled half a sandwich before even starting his sentence. He looked tired, duffel bag at his feet, a rolled jersey half-sticking out.

“Oh, right—about the thing you texted me last night.” Kagami wiped his mouth with his wrist. “Yeah, sorry, it’s impossible.”

Kuroko blinked once. “What?”

“We’re leaving in like an hour. Out-of-city game. Coach just added a surprise match with a pro team’s B-squad. It’s a big deal—might even get some press coverage. I can’t skip.”

Kuroko stared at him, expression blank but eyes quietly panicked.

“But I—”

“You said it was for your class, right?” Kagami winced. “Dude, if you told me earlier, I could’ve helped. Like… last week. But today? I seriously can’t. Neither can anyone from the team—we’re all going.”

Kuroko’s hand slowly closed around his cup, knuckles paling just slightly. He nodded once. “I understand.”

“Shit…” Kagami looked guilty. “You okay?”

Kuroko was silent for a moment, then nodded again. “Yes. I’ll figure something out. It’s my own fault for forgetting about it, after all.”

Then, the light jingle of the door’s bell hauled him out of the windwhirl of his thoughts.

“…It’s been a while, Kise-kun, Midorima-kun.”

The soft voice hit them harder than what they believed a whisper could do. Midorima braced himself because—he should have been expecting it when he came looking around his workplace—, but Kise took the whole blow, surprise kicking him hard on the guts.

“Hmph.” Midorima mumbled with closed lips, adjusting his glasses with his middle finger in an absent-minded motion. “You should let your presence known earlier.”

“Huh? Huh…?— Huh?! ” Kise’s eyes widened—enough for for Kagami and Kuroko to think that they were going to roll out of their socket—and his voice could only mutter surprise and confused noises. “Kuro—Kagami—, huh?! Kurokocchi!”

Kuroko’s lips remained in a thin line, only slightly—almost unnoticeable—a side of his lips tugged upwards in a fantom of a smile, showing the slightest hint of amusement at the reaction, but it was quickly weighed down by the heavy glances resting on him.

“Jeez… You two sure are noisy.” Kagami butted in, rubbing the back of his head casually as he finished his own coffee.

Kise was about to say something again but a firm wave of “shh”s interrupted his overflowing thoughts and words. Then, the blonde player who was being the loudest could just lower his head and apologize to the other customers with some embarrassment. 

“How about you two order something and sit down?” Kuroko suggested. “We can then talk calmly instead of making an scene in the middle of the café.”

The table had turned quite… extravagant , to say the least. 

Kagami had already left, excusing himself with the excuse of his bus leaving early, abandoning Kuroko with two members of the Generation of Miracles whisper-shouting at each other in front of him.

"You already knew?" Kise asked, turning slightly toward Midorima.

His voice wasn’t loud this time. It was quiet, most accurately accusing. Kuroko paused halfway through stirring his tea.

Midorima didn’t look at him right away. He focused instead on removing the lid of his drink—green tea, no sugar—before answering with the barest nod.

“I started suspecting when I saw your photo in the magazine.” He replied blankly. “And Aomine ended up confirming my suspicion.”

“Wait, wait, wait —, Aominecchi too?” Kise’s expression soured. “Why am I the last one to know about all this? And you didn’t say anything?”

“Because you are too slow realizing things,” Midorima replied flatly, finally looking at him. “And it wasn’t my place to reveal something Kuroko clearly didn’t want to be known.”

Kise opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then frowned deeper.

 “…Still. I would’ve liked to know. I—I thought he was just busy or something, maybe even out of town. Not… hiding.” He looked at Kuroko now. “You could’ve told me, Kurokocchi.”

Kuroko sipped from his tea with that same unreadable face. “I wasn’t exactly hiding . I just didn’t reach out.”

"That’s… basically the same thing!" Kise’s voice cracked with frustration. "You vanished for five years after our last year at Teikō without a single word—then suddenly show up out of nowhere, snapping god-tier photos of us, and you just sit there like nothing ever happened?!"

Kise huffed, running a hand through his hair, blond strands falling over his forehead.

“And now you’re asking us to help with this profile project?” he asked, tone shifting between betrayed and exasperated. “Is that why you invited us to sit with you?”

Kuroko didn’t deny it.

“I need it for a journalism class. I have less than twenty-four hours left. I wasn’t planning to ask either of you, but the people I had in mind aren’t available.”

“And we’re the emergency backup,” Midorima said, voice dry, but not cruel.

“Not backups—, you… You two just appeared at the right time.” Kuroko looked between them. “You’re also just the right profiles for the task. You’re complicated. And real. And the project requires honesty.”

Kise blinked. “Complicated?”

“You,” Kuroko pointed at Kise, “are the definition of a modern athlete: model, pro player, media figure, all while being expected to be likable every second.”

Kise froze.

“And you,” he turned to Midorima, “you evolved in the court. You don’t just play the game, you started thinking it on another level. You analyze it, break it down, and read it like a book. You understand it better than anyone else I know.”

Midorima glanced away quietly.

Kuroko leaned back on his chair, his light blue eyes locked firmly in both players in front of him. “I didn’t ask because I want to make things uncomfortable, but because I really need your help. And now… I want to ask properly. Will you let me tell your stories?”

Silence sat with them for a long second. Then another.

Kise finally let out a breath, his yellow eyes drifting to the cup of coffee in front of him.

 “…Only if you promise I’ll look cool in the photos.”

Midorima gave him a sharp glare, but then sighed. “Fine. But I expect accuracy, not sensationalism.”

Kuroko nodded, a small relieved smile was drawn over his lips. “Of course.”

⥬

In less than half an hour—after finishing their drinks and one-sided argument of Kise not allowing Kuroko to pay for them—they found themselves at a quiet park tucked behind the café and not far from Kuroko’s workplace. 

The morning sun was bright, filtering through the leaves above in strong flickers of gold. Even though the sky was clear of clouds, winter clung to the air; the park—and the whole city—was tucked gently into a cold blanket of low temperatures. The noise of the city felt distant here—muffled by trees, benches, and worn-down walking paths.

Kuroko was kneeling on the grass near an old picnic table, focused and efficient as he set everything into place: his camera balanced on a stabilizer, phone synced for reference, and laptop rested beside it, already open to a blank document where he would start writing.

A few meters away, Midorima and Kise stood under the shade of a tree, quietly chatting as they waited. Or rather, awkwardly awaiting for the call in their own ways; Midorima stood still with his arms crossed over his chest, and Kise kept shifting his weight from foot to foot, restless energy rolling off him in waves.

“I feel kinda used, y’know?” Kise muttered, not exactly angry—more like he wanted to be, but the emotion didn’t fully commit. “He ghosts us for years, reappears out of nowhere when he needs help, and now he’s got us playing model in the middle of a park.”

Midorima hummed, unreadable behind the faint glare of his glasses.

But then Kise looked over—carefully—and fell quiet.

Kuroko was crouched now, checking a setting on the lens, sleeves rolled up slightly, the wind gently lifting the fringe of his hair. He didn’t notice them watching. There was something fragile in the way he moved; focused, deliberate, and distant all at once. Like he was trying so hard to stay composed that it hurt to look at him for too long.

Kise’s expression softened.

“…But then he looks like that, and I remember,” he murmured. “This is just how he is, isn’t it? Quiet one second, then hitting you in the chest without even trying the next.”

Midorima gave a short nod. “He never asked for attention. Even when he deserved it.”

“Not just attention, he never asked for anything.” Kise quickly chipped in. “The fact that he’s acting for our help is enough to make me feel weird.”

There was a silence between them. Not awkward—just heavy with the weight of the years of unanswered questions neither of them had the language to ask.

Kuroko stood, brushing off his knees, and turned toward them. His expression was unreadable, as always, but there was a gentleness in his eyes—something tentative and unspoken.

“We can start whenever you’re ready,” he said simply.

Kise walked over first, dragging a hand through his hair with a deep breath, and offered the smallest grin.

“Okay, Kurokocchi. Hit me with your best shot!”

Kuroko adjusted the lens and nodded once, camera rising.

“Smile like you mean it, Kise-kun.”

Kuroko took his time with the shots—not because anything was going wrong, but rather because everything was going too right. The way the morning sun filtered through the leaves softly, drawing shadows across Kise’s features, blending warmth and light in a way that made every frame look like it belonged on a magazine cover.

Kise was a natural.

Of course he was. Kuroko shouldn’t have been surprised. Kise had been modeling since middle school, already turning heads and booking serious gigs before he even turned fifteen. 

Back then, it was impressive. Now, it was almost ridiculous. 

No matter the angle, the lighting, whether Kuroko gave him a heads-up or caught him off-guard—Kise’s presence translated effortlessly through the lens.

And it wasn’t like he had come prepared for a shoot. He wasn’t even dressed for it—just a light hoodie, loose jeans, and sneakers, his hair slightly tousled from the breeze. Yet somehow, it worked. It worked too well. 

Kuroko hadn’t even noticed the exact moment Kise managed to snatch Midorima’s sunglasses and slip them on—but of course, they suited him perfectly too.

The casual aesthetic fit the vibe of Kuroko’s project better than anything he could’ve staged. Which, in a way, was frustrating. Instinctively frustrating. Like Kise didn’t even need to try, and everything would still fall into place around him.

“You’re staring too seriously, Kurokocchi,” Kise said suddenly, shifting his pose to lean against the tree with an easy grin. “You’re making me nervous—none of my photographers ever look at me like they’re trying to see straight through my soul.”

Kuroko lowered his camera slightly, unblinking. “I’m just thinking about how annoyingly perfect you are for this.”

Kise laughed, throwing his head back. “Aw, you’re making me blush!”

Kuroko clicked the shutter again, capturing the motion. He didn’t smile, but the corners of his eyes softened.

"Don't move," he said quietly. "That expression—I liked it."

Kise blinked, a little caught off guard. “You think so?”

Kuroko nodded once, adjusting the focus. “Yes. You’re usually too aware of the camera. That one wasn’t practiced and felt more natural.”

A beat of silence passed before Kise looked away, a hand brushing the back of his neck. “That’s kind of unfair, you know. You always catch the moments I don’t mean to show.”

Kuroko raised the camera again. “That’s the point.”

Midorima stood silently behind Kuroko, occasionally leaning forward to glance through the viewfinder, as if trying to understand exactly what Kuroko was capturing. His eyes narrowed in concentration, studying Kise from behind the lens—searching for the subtle magic that made the photos more than just pretty frames.

“You’re doing a good job,” he said quietly, in his usual blunt tone. “Kise actually looks like a normal person in your pictures.”

“Meanie!” Kise protested immediately, overhearing him. “What does that even mean?! I am a normal person!”

Midorima adjusted his glasses, unbothered. “Debatable.”

Kise groaned, dramatically flopping against the tree like he’d been wounded. “See what I’ve been dealing with these past years, Kurokocchi? I give him my best angles, and he still acts like I’m some kind of alien.”

Kuroko didn’t look up from the camera, still adjusting the focus. “That’s because you usually pose like you’re trying to sell cologne.”

Kise gasped. “You too, Kurokocchi?!”

“Just keep that expression,” Kuroko said, taking one last photo as Kise pouted exaggeratedly. “That one’s good.”

Midorima gave a small hum, arms crossed. “He’s more tolerable when you catch him off guard.”

Kise puffed his cheeks. “You guys are the worst supportive team ever.”

“You’re welcome.” Midorima replied flatly.

Kuroko turned his head slightly, tilting it just enough to meet Midorima’s gaze. His posture remained calm, composed as ever. With a subtle nod in Kise’s direction, he gestured him to move forward.

“The photos I’ve taken should be more than enough,” he murmured. “You can go next, Midorima-kun. Then we can proceed with the interview.”

Midorima’s brows lifted faintly behind his glasses. “You finished quickly.”

Kuroko blinked, expression unreadable. “Kise made it easy.”

From where he stood, Kise lit up. “Aw, see? Kurokocchi appreciates me! Unlike some people who think I look like an alien!”

“You still do,” Midorima said dryly as he stepped forward, already loosening the cuffs of his sleeves. “Just... slightly less in his photos.”

Kise huffed, arms crossed, muttering something about a friend’s betrayal under his breath as he stepped aside. Kuroko calmly adjusted the camera settings while Midorima took position, already looking stiff in contrast to Kise’s effortless posture.

“You can relax, Midorima-kun,” Kuroko said, peering through the lens. “I don’t bite.”

“I’m not worried about you biting,” Midorima replied, adjusting his stance. “I’m worried about looking ridiculous.”

“You always look ridiculous,” Kise chirped from the side, grinning.

“Shut up, Kise.”

Kuroko clicked the shutter once, the camera capturing the faintest twitch of Midorima’s brow.

“That one was good,” he said, voice soft. “You should frown more often.”

As Kuroko adjusted the angle for another shot, a sharp click of the tongue sounded beside him.

“Don’t encourage him like that, Kurokocchi,” Kise sighed dramatically. “He already frowns enough. You should see him in the changing rooms and press conferences—he always looks like someone has just insulted his horoscope.”

Kuroko’s fingers moved steadily over the camera, snapping a few more shots while Midorima stood in awkward silence, visibly trying to hold a natural pose under their combined scrutiny. His shoulders were too rigid, his posture too forced. Every shift felt mechanical, like he was bracing for judgment more than participating in a shoot.

Kise, ever the meddler, leaned in closer. He rested casually against Kuroko’s back, peeking over his shoulder to look through the camera’s screen.

“Try to relax, Midorimacchi,” he said, voice lilting with amusement. “You’re too stiff—you look like someone glued your spine in place.”

Kuroko’s eye twitched as he felt Kise’s breath warm against the side of his neck. A faint shiver ran down his spine, uninvited and unwelcome. His brows drew together slightly, and without looking away from the camera, he muttered with a low, flat voice:

“Don’t breathe on me.”

Kise blinked, pulling back with both hands raised in mock surrender. “Touchy. Got it.”

Midorima, still attempting to pose with dignity, grumbled under his breath. “Serves you right.”

“I was just trying to help,” Kise pouted, stepping away to flop dramatically onto the grass nearby.

“It’s fine, Kise-kun just gave me an idea.” He murmured, lowering his camera from his eye level. “Do you have your lucky item around? Try posing with it.”

Kuroko took another photo just as Midorima shifted his stance, his expression briefly relaxing in the moment of distraction when he reached for his bag held a stapler in his hands.

“That one worked,” Kuroko said simply.

Midorima looked mildly suspicious. “Which one?”

“The one where you stopped thinking about the camera.”

Kise snorted with laughter in the background. “Told you, Midorimacchi—modeling is all about the vibes !”

Midorima looked like he was reconsidering his entire decision to show up.

They finished with the made-up photoshoot fairly quickly. Even though Midorima’s part took longer than Kise’s it turned out to be equally likeable in Kuroko’s opinion. The pictures captured both of their essences like he had hoped—Kise’s vibrant charm and Midorima’s sharp, quiet intensity. 

Different energies, but equally striking. Their contrast just made them feel even more real.

After a quick skim through the photo previews on his camera, Kuroko made his way over to the nearby picnic table, where their coats and bags had been tossed aside earlier. Midorima and Kise were already seated, still half-engaged in their usual rhythm of passive-aggressive bickering. Kuroko paid them no mind. 

They decided to take a small break as they ate lunch. Kise had made an order from a nearby shop where he had bought three sandwiches which laid half-eaten on the table.

Kuroko sat down, pulled out his laptop, and with a few practiced clicks, opened the writing app where he had drafted the interview questions the night before.

Originally, the questions were for Kagami. But with a few light adjustments—dates, references, and a stat or two—they’d suit his former teammates just fine.

He cleared his throat softly, drawing their attention.

“I’ll start now,” Kuroko said. “Try not to argue in the middle of it.”

Kise smiled brightly. “I would never —”

Midorima cut in. “You would, and you will.”

Kuroko ignored them and began reading.

“First question,” he said, eyes on the screen. “What was the most difficult part of transitioning from middle school basketball at Teikō to high school teams with completely different dynamics?”

Kise leaned forward, clearly eager. “ Oooh , that’s a good one! For me, it was learning how to not rely on people who already knew how I moved. Back at Teikō, we were all so used to each other that I barely needed to say a word on court. But at Kaijō, it was different. I had to explain my rhythm—and adjust to theirs, too.”

Kuroko nodded slightly and typed a few notes. “Midorima-kun?”

Midorima adjusted his glasses. “The expectations. At Teikō, excellence was the standard. Everyone worked toward the same goal with ruthless precision. But at Shūtoku, while the team was strong, that mentality wasn’t immediately present. I had to temper myself and learn to guide others—less with control and more with... cooperation.”

Kise gave a dramatic gasp. “Midorimacchi, was that an emotional answer?”

“It was a factual answer.”

Kuroko continued before they could spiral again. “Second question: If you could go back and give your younger self one piece of advice during your time at Teikō, what would it be?”

There was a beat of quiet. Midorima’s fingers tapped once against the wooden table. Kise’s smile faded slightly, replaced with a contemplative look.

Kise spoke first, softer this time. “I’d tell myself to enjoy it more. To stop treating every win like it was a paycheck. We were just kids, but we played like it was war. I think I forgot to be happy about it. Forgot that basketball was supposed to be a game, a hobby at the end of the day, back then.”

Kuroko looked up at him for a moment, expression unreadable. Then he nodded once, gently, typing his words into his laptop.

Midorima followed, voice more subdued. “I’d tell myself to listen more. Not just to stats or strategy—but to people. I focused too much on data and forgot that we were still growing, still figuring things out. I think I underestimated how much that mattered.”

Another pause, quiet but full. Kuroko typed a little slower this time.

Then he looked up again.

“What do you think people misunderstand most about your generation—the Generation of Miracles?”

Kise let out a short breath. “That we were perfect. That we are perfect. People look at our records and stats and think we just had it easy. But we broke to get those numbers. We sacrificed a lot. It wasn’t all talent and glory—it was pressure, loneliness, ego. People don’t see that part.”

Midorima’s voice came steady. “That we were a team in name only. People think we hated each other, or that we only worked together because we had to. But... despite everything, we understood each other in ways no one else ever could.”

Kuroko didn’t type that one down.

He just looked at them, quiet, as a breeze rustled the trees overhead and the sun shifted ever so slightly, softening the edge of the moment.

Kuroko’s fingers hovered above the keyboard for a moment as the quiet settled in again, the light tap of Midorima’s fingers against the table having stopped. Kise leaned back with a sigh, watching the sun filter through the leaves. Kuroko glanced at his screen, scrolling down to the next line of text.

“We’ll continue,” he said simply. “Next question.”

The click of a key sounded as he read it aloud.

“Is there a specific match or moment during our Teikō days that still sticks with you—for better or worse?”

This time, it was Midorima who responded first, eyes narrowing behind his glasses, not with annoyance but with focus.

“There was a match in second year,” he said slowly, “against a school we completely outclassed. The score was... embarrassing. For them. I remember looking up at the scoreboard and wondering why I didn’t feel anything. No satisfaction. No challenge. It was the first time I realized we were beginning to break something—not just the opponents, but the game itself.”

Kuroko didn’t react much, but Kise shifted uncomfortably beside him, his fingers threading through his hair.

“For me...” Kise started, then paused. “It was a practice match. Not even a real game. I missed a shot. Just one. And Aomine told me it was a waste of time to even try if I couldn’t handle it. I remember laughing it off, but that night I went home and stared at the ceiling for hours. It’s funny, huh? One miss. That’s all it took to unravel my confidence for a while.”

There was a beat of silence. Kuroko kept typing, but slower now. Thoughtful.

“Next question,” he murmured, keeping his eyes on the screen. He didn’t allow much time to pass in-between questions, he was almost afraid to wonder about them too much. “How do you handle the pressure of expectations now, compared to back then?”

Kise answered without hesitation. “Now? I try to separate who I am from what people want me to be. Back then, I didn’t know how to do that. I thought being the best meant being exactly what people expected. These days, I remind myself I’m more than a perfect photo or a flawless shot.”

Midorima’s reply was more measured. “I rely on structure. On preparation. I’ve always believed that being consistent is more valuable than being flashy. Back then, I let pressure define my worth. Pressure exists, I acknowledge it, but I also understand that there are things out of my control. I believe that the most valuable thing I’ve learned is to let go of what I can’t reach.”

Kuroko paused again.

He scrolled down to the last line he’d typed. But instead of reading it, he let the cursor blink there for a second longer than necessary.

Kise leaned slightly forward, watching him—not impatient, but curious. Midorima didn’t speak, simply adjusted his glasses and waited with the same stillness he brought to a freethrow line.

Kuroko finally said, “Final question.” There was no flourish, no dramatic lead-in. Just the next quiet step. “What does basketball mean to you now?”

Kise blinked, caught off guard by the simplicity of the question. He sat back slowly, eyes turning skyward as he thought.

“It’s still everything,” he said, “but in a different way. Not like before—when it felt like my whole world would fall apart if I couldn’t keep up with the rest of you. Now, it’s more like... something that lives in me, even when I’m not on the court. It’s not about winning anymore. It’s about how I feel when I’m moving. When I’m playing. I don’t need to prove anything—just to love the sport the way I used to, before it got complicated.”

Midorima tapped his fingers against the wooden table for a few seconds before answering.

“It remains a constant,” he said finally. “When things change, when everything else becomes unpredictable—basketball doesn’t. The court, the rules, the rhythm. It’s still a place I can return to and know who I am.”

Kuroko listened. He didn’t type immediately, letting the silence breathe. The wind rustled through the trees again, brushing through their scarves where they’d left them. Somewhere nearby, the distant sound of someone dribbling a ball echoed faintly—someone else, on some other court, probably unaware of the weight those words carried.

He nodded once, small but certain.

“That’s all,” Kuroko said, closing his laptop with a soft click. “Thank you for answering.”

Kise stretched with a groan, arms behind his head. “Man, you didn’t have to make it so emotional, Kurokocchi. Now I’m gonna reflect on my life all day.”

Midorima stood and adjusted his coat with a huff. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

Kise stuck out his tongue.

Kuroko remained seated for a moment longer, his eyes still on the laptop cover.

He hadn't planned to ask that last question. It wasn’t even written down on his draft. Yet he felt the satisfaction of his curiosity being satiated, even if it was just for the time being.

Kuroko stood from the bench, quietly sliding his laptop back into his bag with practiced care. His scarf was still draped over the side of the table, but he didn’t reach for it immediately. Instead, he gathered his camera with both hands, checking the lens cap, adjusting the strap, his fingers moving with the kind of calm precision he always carried.

He was already turning to leave, fully prepared to complete the rest of his report at home—alone, like usual—when something stopped him.

A hand wrapped gently but firmly around his wrist.

Kuroko blinked.

It was Kise.

And though the grip wasn’t forceful, it didn’t allow for easy escape either.

Kuroko turned slightly to meet him, expression unreadable as always. But Kise wasn’t smiling.

Behind him, Midorima had paused, half-turned toward them, adjusting his glasses slowly. Watching. Silent, but present. Present enough to make it clear that whatever was about to happen—it wasn’t just from Kise alone.

“You asked all the questions,” Kise said softly, his usual lightness dulled into something quieter. “You’re really good at making people open up, Kurokocchi. Too good.”

His eyes were sharp now—still golden, still warm, but heavy in a way that made Kuroko’s throat go dry.

“Don’t you think it’s fair if you answer a few of ours too?”

Kuroko didn’t answer right away.

“Don’t be rude, Kise—”

“No,” The blonde quickly cut down Midorima’s intervention. “Let me be selfish. Let yourself be selfish for a few minutes. I think we deserve it.”

Kuroko’s eyes lowered slightly, thoughtful. Calm. As if he was already flipping through a hundred quiet denials and re-routings in his head—ways to deflect, to retreat back into the soft invisibility he wore so well.

But the grip on his wrist held. Not tighter, but it remained in place.

Kuroko stood still, his gaze flicking between Kise’s earnest expression and the silent, watching figure of Midorima. A brief wave of uncertainty rippled through him, though it wasn’t enough to show on his face. The grip on his wrist was light, but it was enough to pull him back from the edge of his decision to retreat. To fade away like he usually did.

Kise’s eyes were searching him—looking for something behind the mask Kuroko so expertly maintained.

“Come on, Kurokocchi,” Kise urged, his voice quieter than Kuroko had ever heard it. “We played along for you, can’t you just humor me? Can’t you humor us this time in return?”

There it was—the unspoken challenge. Kuroko didn’t flinch. But it was there, the faintest ripple of something vulnerable, something unspoken, laid bare in Kise’s words.

Kuroko’s fingers tightened around his camera strap, but he didn’t pull away. His thoughts were drifting, piecing together memories from the countless questions he’d faced in his life—the endless interviews and assignments that had always been about them , never about him .

His expression softened, just barely. He glanced briefly at Midorima—still standing there, silent and watchful, waiting. The weight of his presence was steady, grounded.

Kuroko exhaled quietly. “I don’t think it’s necessary.”

Kise didn’t let go. “That’s not what I asked.”

There was something in the way Kise’s words hovered between them, something deeper than the usual playful insistence.

Kuroko hesitated. The hands on his wrist were gentle—more like an invitation than a restraint. He looked down at Kise’s fingers wrapped around him, then back to his face, where the usual teasing glint was gone, replaced by a quiet determination that he hadn’t seen before. Not from Kise. Not like this.

“Kurokocchi…” Kise murmured, his voice almost tentative now. “You don't have to say everything. Just… a little.”

Midorima, who had been waiting for a while, shifted his position, resting his arms on top of the wooden picnic table, the background noises suddenly tuning out from Kuroko’s mind. 

There was no scorn in Midorima’s gaze—only understanding. He, too, was waiting for Kuroko to make a decision, as if whatever happened next was just another step in a long, unspoken bond that had never truly been buried all those years ago.

Kuroko’s gaze softened just a fraction as he nodded slowly. He finally released his grip on the camera strap, his hands now at his sides. It wasn’t an easy decision. It never was.

“Alright,” Kuroko finally said, his voice steady but low. “Ask away.”

Kise smiled, a genuine, relieved curve of his lips, though it didn't reach the usual playful energy he was known for. 

His hand remained around Kuroko’s wrist for a moment longer, not with any intent to hold him captive, but more as a reassurance—more to himself than Kuroko—, as if he was still grounding himself to the person who had been absent for so long. 

Slowly, his fingers loosened, withdrawing only once Kuroko had settled back onto the bench, his posture once again calm but thoughtful.

Kuroko’s eyes, however, lingered on Kise’s retreating hand, tracking its movement.. It was a subtle action, but the hesitance in Kise’s touch made Kuroko pause—it felt as if the blonde was afraid of him suddenly vanishijng into thin air. It was ridiculous. Kuroko did certainly not possess such an ability.

The moment passed quickly. Kise was back to his usual self, though his eyes still held something Kuroko couldn’t quite place.

“Then… I really just have one question I truly want an answer to,” Kise said, his tone softer, almost unsure in a way that was completely unlike him. 

Kuroko caught it instantly, the stutter too subtle to be a mistake. To anyone else, it might have gone unnoticed, but Kuroko prided himself on noticing the smallest details.

Midorima, ever the silent observer, shifted his gaze from Kuroko to Kise for a brief moment before returning his eyes to him. The quiet understanding passed between them, unspoken, but undeniable. It was as if they both knew this moment was coming, and now that it was here, it was something neither of them could avoid.

“Why— why did you leave?”

Kuroko's heart skipped. He had known it was coming, had felt it hovering in the air since their first encounter hours ago. He had seen the way Kise’s eyes lingered a little longer than necessary during the photoshoots, the subtle pauses between pictures, the unsaid questions hanging in the air.

But hearing it out loud was different. It hit harder than he anticipated. 

It was like someone had thrown a bucket of ice-cold water over him, the shock rushing through him and freezing everything in its path. For a moment, he couldn’t bring himself to speak. His mouth felt dry, the words tangled in his throat. It wasn’t an easy thing to explain. Not to them. Not after everything.

“I mean—” Kise tried to fill the silence, his voice faltering for the first time since this conversation had begun. He fidgeted with his hands, a clear sign of discomfort that Kuroko rarely saw from him.

Midorima, thankfully, came to his rescue, his voice calm and measured, as it always was. 

“We barely got an explanation from Aomine back in the day.” He glanced at Kuroko, a faint trace of frustration in his gaze, though it wasn’t directed at him. “He told us you two had an argument before leaving mid-training. And since that day, you both started showing up less and less. Everything went downhill from there until most of us ended up training solo for the rest of the league.”

The words were like a crack in the surface of something Kuroko had long kept buried. 

He had never fully processed what had happened that day, let alone the aftermath. The argument with Aomine, the feeling of being pushed away, of being discarded before he had even realized what was happening. It had all happened so fast, too fast for him to catch up.

Kuroko exhaled slowly, trying to regain control of himself. He hadn’t expected Midorima’s bluntness, but it only made the situation feel more real, more urgent. And he was aware couldn’t keep avoiding it.

For a moment, the world felt unbearably still. 

Kise's gaze was soft, waiting, patient. He hadn’t spoken since the question was asked, but his silence was heavy with an understanding Kuroko wasn’t sure he could trust just yet. It made Kuroko feel vulnerable in a way he wasn’t accustomed to.

But Midorima’s words had done more than just stir memories; they had broken the dam he’d carefully built around himself for all these years. The flood was coming, and he wasn’t sure if he was ready to let it wash over him.

“I never wanted any of that,” Kuroko murmured, the words slipping out before he had a chance to censor them. His voice was quiet, distant, as if speaking them aloud would make the truth too real. “I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to disappear like that.”

He paused, gathering his thoughts, but the words seemed to tumble out regardless, his usual calm faltering. “But everything felt like it was falling apart. And... I wanted it to stop, but I wasn’t sure how to actually stop it. I thought that maybe if I left, it would give everyone space to breathe. To figure things out.”

His eyes flickered to Kise, whose expression had softened, the usual mischievous glint replaced with something more introspective. Kuroko could feel the weight of his stare, but he couldn’t bring himself to meet it directly for long.

“I didn’t realize... how messed up things were back then. And I didn’t want to figure it our.” Kuroko’s voice was barely a whisper now. “I thought I was doing the right thing by staying away… But at the end I think I just protected myself by running away.”

There was a brief, bitter laugh that left Kuroko’s throat, but it wasn’t one of humor. “I couldn’t face it then. I wasn’t strong enough to stand there and watch everything fall apart, so I left. I left because it felt easier than staying.”

Kise leaned forward slightly, his tone gentler now, a stark contrast to the usual teasing. “Kurokocchi, it wasn’t just… Everything just got too complicated for any of us to truly understand what was happening back then. And we were way too immersed in ourselves to figure it out as a team.”

“We were all part of Teiko’s team ending.” Midorima, who had been quiet for most of the conversation, gave a small, understanding nod. “It was…”

“It was disfortunate. But I don’t consider it a bad thing.” Kuroko quickly chipped in, trying to make them understand his pint of view. “I firmly believe it was just a reality check that it was necessary to push us in the right ways. In Teiko… we weren’t made to stand in the same stage.”

“Kurokocchi.”

Kuroko’s name fell softly from Kise’s lips, barely more than a breath, but it carried the weight of years—of regret, of confusion, of everything left unsaid between them. The way he said it made Kuroko look up, made him finally meet Kise’s eyes fully for the first time in what felt like forever.

“I mean it,” Kuroko said, quietly but with conviction. “We were strong… incredibly strong. But we weren’t right. Not then. Not as we were.”

Midorima crossed his arms, thoughtful. “We were children given power without purpose. No one taught us how to handle it—not the coaches, not the system. They just let us burn ourselves out.” He glanced off to the side, as if reliving some of those difficult memories. “You’re not wrong, Kuroko. That time was unsustainable.”

“I think…” Kuroko started, choosing his words carefully. “We were meant to break apart. That was inevitable. The damage had already taken root.”

Kise’s voice was quieter now, more vulnerable. “But it didn’t have to end like that, did it? Without closure. Without even a goodbye.”

“No,” Kuroko admitted. “It didn’t. And for that, I’m sorry.”

The silence that settled between them after that wasn’t heavy—it was reflective. A silence filled with the sound of things finally falling into place, of old wounds being acknowledged, if not yet healed. Kuroko’s apology had come softly, but its sincerity was undeniable.

Kise’s gaze dropped for a moment, lashes casting faint shadows against his cheekbones. He looked younger like this, less polished, less put together. Just a boy who had once believed in something too big to hold.

“Back then… I think I kept hoping you’d come back,” Kise admitted, voice raw. “Even when Aominecchi stopped showing up, even when Akashicchi and Murasakibaracchi crashed every other time, even when the team became nothing but silence and winning for winning’s sake—We… me at least, I kept looking for you. I thought maybe you just needed time.”

Kuroko didn’t speak. Couldn’t. His hands curled slightly in his lap, guilt sinking in deeper than he cared to admit.

Midorima, seated more rigidly, finally exhaled. “We all had different ways of coping with it. Some of us buried ourselves in routine. Others… cracked under the weight of their own pride.” He adjusted his glasses, eyes glinting behind the lenses. “It’s strange, how things that feel so permanent at the time end up being nothing more than a lesson.”

Kuroko looked at him, surprised by the unexpected softness in the usually rigid tone of his voice.

“I didn’t think anyone would understand, I don’t expect you to.” Kuroko said slowly. “I didn’t know how to explain that leaving felt like the only way to keep what little of myself I still recognized.”

Memories surged up before he could stop them—fragmented, half-formed, like brief flashes of light in a pitch-black room. It had all happened so fast back then, too fast for him to hold onto anything clearly. All he could recall were scattered images: Ogiwara’s devastated face turning away from him, the cold silence that followed, and the quiet, worsening decline of his grandmother’s health. The details blurred together into a fog he never wanted to walk through again.

Kuroko's expression shifted. For a moment, traces of emotion flickered across his face—pain, regret, something raw and unspoken—but then just as quickly, it all vanished. His usual neutral mask slipped back into place, pale blue eyes dropping to the table as he stood, moving as if pulled by some invisible weight.

This time, Kise didn’t reach out to stop him. He only watched, uncertain, something unreadable in his eyes.

“I heard about it from Aomine the other day,” Midorima said at last, his voice cutting through the silence that had grown too familiar in Kuroko’s life these days. There was a pause, almost as if the words had cost him something. “I’m... I'm sorry for your loss.”

Kuroko swallowed thickly, closing his eyes for a moment.

“Huh?” Kise blinked, confused. “Wait, someone passed away?”

“Thank you, Midorima-kun,” Kuroko murmured, finally lifting his gaze to meet theirs. His voice was quiet, even. “It was my grandmother. But… it happened a long time ago.”

“What—Really?!” Kise’s voice cracked in disbelief. “When?”

Midorima adjusted his glasses solemnly. “She was a kind woman. I'd like to pay my respects personally if the opportunity allows.”

The sincerity in his tone was unmistakable, and Kuroko knew it came from a place of genuine reverence. After all, they had all known her. She had cheered for them, fed them, smiled as if they were her own grandsons. And yet, the thought of digging too deep into those memories—today of all days—felt too much.

Kuroko bit the inside of his cheek before answering.

“It was during the winter of our third year at Teikō,” he said at last, voice low. “3th of December.”

Silence fell again, but this one felt different. He didn’t need to explain further. The timing alone said everything.

Right after the team had splintered. Right after he and Aomine had fallen out. Right after everything had started to crumble.

Back then, it had felt like the world was ending. In the span of a few weeks, Kuroko had lost nearly everything—his place on the team, his closest friend, and the woman who had always been his greatest source of comfort.

Even now, five years later, he wasn’t sure he’d finished mourning any of it.

The room held a thick silence after Kuroko’s words. It was the kind of quiet that seemed to hold everything they weren’t saying. Kise shifted uncomfortably in his seat, glancing between Kuroko and Midorima, sensing the weight of things that still lingered.

Midorima was the first to break the silence, clearing his throat. “I didn’t realize it was that recent,” he murmured, his usual bluntness softened by the situation. He reached up to adjust his glasses, though the movement was more of a nervous habit now than anything. “I understand why you’ve kept your distance.”

Kise nodded slowly, his usual teasing completely gone. There was rough honesty in his gaze as he looked at Kuroko. “I’m really sorry, Kurokocchi. I didn’t know.”

Kuroko blinked, the faintest flicker of surprise in his eyes. He hadn’t expected their sympathy—not like this. 

It had been so long since he’d opened up to any of them… And the crack between them couldn’t help but feel heavier than ever.

Kise reached across the table, resting his hand lightly on Kuroko’s. It wasn’t an overbearing gesture, just a quiet reassurance. “We’re all messed up, Kurokocchi. None of us knew what we were doing back then.”

Midorima gave a short nod of agreement. “We were just kids, caught in something much bigger than us.”

Kuroko looked down at Kise’s hand on his, then up at both of them. His heart tightened at the thought of opening up, of letting the past come to the surface. But there was something different in their eyes now—something soft, something that Kuroko didn't gather enough strength to truly give it the time to truly process or understand.

“I-, I'm sorry. I really need to go.” Kuroko whispered, the words feeling heavy on his mouth.

He moved his hands out of Kise’s reach, grabbing his coat to put it on and throw his bag over his shoulder. His movements feeling rushed as he felt the sudden urge to leave, to take a moment for himself—to breath, to finally be able to relax like he hasn’t done since they entered the cafeteria.

“I need to finish this assignment tonight. I’m very grateful for your help.” He politely nodded his head, bowing slightly before turning around and walking away, not wanting to wait for their responses or goodbye’s.

He was able to hear Kise’s loud ‘See you soon!’ between his own footsteps in the humid ground of the park.

Chapter Text

The clock hit 9:30 just at the same time as the microwave started beeping, informing that Kuroko’s pre-made bought dinner was also ready.

He reached for the bowl and rushed to the small living room of the shared apartment, dropping it on the table before his hands suffered some relevant burn wounds. And with a few more travels, he prepared some water and snacks waiting to be eaten.

The moon shone brightly in the night sky, long ignored by Kuroko who was more focused on finding the sports tv channel where Kagami’s game would be broadcasted live. His thumb pressed repeatedly the remote’s buttons until the familiar sight of the court and players welcomed his sight, the first quarter had barely started.

With a short, tired sigh he plopped himself down on the old couch. 

He sank into the cushions, feeling them give under his weight like familiar arms pulling him into a quiet embrace. The laptop settled comfortably on his lap as he opened his writing app, eyes drifting to the screen just in time to catch the first play of the match. Kagami, true to himself, finished it with a flashy dunk that sent the crowd into a frenzy, their cheers erupting barely a minute into the game, and the score moving to a solid 2-0.

With the familiar melodies of sneakers against polished grounds, and practiced choreographies of dunks and triples, Kuroko’s mind was finally able to settle. Allowing him to focus on transcribing Kise’s and Midorima’s interview into the required format of the assignment.

He filled the profile files, giving the basic information of the interviewed players, as well as assigning a small portfolio of the photoshoot with the pictures he liked best. 

After placing all of that into one submittable document, he proceeded to write over their answers. Crafting responses with a melodic rhythm—clear in meaning yet rich in tone—wasn’t just encouraged; it was mandatory. 

In his journalism course, learning to make answers seem like dancers in the reader’s eyes without losing their truth was a non-negotiable skill for anyone aiming to become a journalist.

First question: “What was the most difficult part of transitioning from middle school basketball at Teikō to high school teams with completely different dynamics?”

Kise Ryota: For me, it was learning how to not rely on people who already knew how I moved. Back at Teikō, we were all so used to each other that I barely needed to say a word on court. But at Kaijō, it was different. I had to explain my rhythm—and adjust to theirs, too. 

The first answer was copied practically word by word. 

Kuroko aimed to make only a few adjustments—replace some things with synonyms and throw a few more words in to make the response look longer—trying to keep Kise’s personal touch and point of view palpable through the quotes.

Kuroko excelled at keeping his reports sharp and objective—clinical, almost. But it was the assignments that called for emotion, that demanded his voice and perspective, where he often struggled.

Personal reflections didn’t come naturally to him. Not because he lacked feeling, but because putting those feelings into words felt like exposing something too private that should be reserved for himself.

He stared at the blinking cursor on the screen, the almost-empty page mirroring the quiet swirl of thoughts he refused to pin down. He took refuge in the thought that this task wasn’t about him —it was about Kise and Midorima—and he had always been good at making others shine brighter than they could even hope to.

The crowd on the livestream roared as the game picked up pace, Kagami’s dunk replayed in slow motion as the commentator shouted praise. Kuroko's fingers hovered over the keyboard, just for a fleeting moment, before they returned to their monotone melody of crushing keypads.

The teams that were currently on court weren’t exactly well-known names—not among the average basketball crowd in Japan, at least. In a scene where schools like Tōō, Kaijō, and Rakuzan dominated headlines and tournament’s top brackets, smaller or lesser-known teams were often left to wrestle quietly for space at the bottom of the lists.

Kuroko hadn’t heard much about Kagami’s new team before the announcement of his transfer, but it quickly became clear that the redhead’s presence had tipped the scales in his new team’s favor.

Attention followed Kagami wherever he went. It wasn’t just the height or the raw power behind each dunk—it was his presence. Flashy plays, fierce comebacks, gravity-defying jumps… Kagami wasn’t just playing basketball; he was performing. And audiences, naturally, loved a good show.

Kuroko adjusted the angle of his laptop, fingers poised above the keyboard again. He let his eyes drift to the screen, watching as Kagami weaved past two defenders like they were nothing more than shadows. The crowd erupted once more.

When he realized he was dozing off too much and forgetting completely about the task at hand he shook his head, slightly more violently than usual, as if he was trying to get his brain to wake up and focus once again. 

He lightly slapped both his cheeks before he forced himself to pry his eyes away from Kagami and the tv. 

Fortunately, the questions and responses he’d gathered throughout the day were more than enough to complete the profile assignment. With just a few finishing touches and minor edits, the article was ready to go—just in time, as the fourth quarter of the game neared its half.

He downloaded the document and attached it to the folder containing the profile photos and reference materials he’d already prepared. A few clicks later, he hovered over the “send” button for only a second before finally pressing it.

A soft chime confirmed the submission. And just to be safe, he refreshed the page and double-checked the confirmation receipt. The professor had received it.

Only then did Kuroko close the laptop and set it back on the table, his shoulders easing with the quiet satisfaction of a task completed. 

It had been a bit rushed, and the fact that he had only worked with the materials he had gathered in a day may make the task feel shorter or lacking, but right now, that was the least of his concerns.

His focus drifted quietly from the assignment and looming college worries to the match playing on the TV.

Without realizing it, his body sank deeper into the couch, limbs loosening as the cushions seemed to swallow him whole, soft, warm, as if they might eventually pull him under and let him vanish into the fluff and silence.

The room was dark, save for the intrusive—but—welcomed—light from the screen that embraced the room, luring Kuroko into a deep, almost enchanted watch of the game. The fluid plays and background commentary captured Kuroko’s attention with a tighter grip, forcing him to keep his eyes glued on the screen, preventing him from drifting them away for a second too long.

He reached for a blanket just at the same time as one of Kagami’s teammates aced a triple shot. 

He moved with practiced precision, executing just the right movements until he wrapped himself up until he started looking like a cocoon from the outside—a well-wrapped cocoon—coddled and covered in a warm, heavy blanket, temporarily isolated from the rest of the world by the extra layers. Just how he has always liked it. 

Kuroko didn’t notice exactly when he began to drift off.

Maybe it was right after the final whistle, marking Kagami’s team’s overwhelming victory. His eyelids had started to grow heavy as the broadcast showed their celebration—players hugging, jumping, shouting in pure elation.

The high-quality cameras captured every detail; the raw, but true, joy on their faces, the way sweat made their skin glow under the court lights, and how their damp jerseys clung awkwardly to their bodies.

Or maybe it was during the commercial break, when his mind had finally taken in enough of the game, the noise, the emotion, and exhaustion gently pulled him under.

The TV's low hum and flickering sounds became a lullaby, carrying him into sleep.

⥬

Footsteps dragged across the cold tile floor. His legs moved on autopilot, carrying him through the hospital’s maze of chaos—slipping through narrow gaps between rushing nurses, doctors, and an occasional dazed patient.

Fragments of conversation floated around him, meaningless in his ears as he couldn’t make any sense of the pure crumbles he managed to catch on the air. He didn’t stop to listen. 

Kuroko clenched his small fists until his fingernails pricked his palms. He did it harder the next second, chasing the steady sting, trying to drown out the icy fear crawling through his veins.

He forced himself forward, step by step, toward a specific room—his destination as clear as it was terrifying.

A couple of nurses that were talking by the door didn’t notice him slipping by, opening the door and reaching another hallway without a sound and closing it behind him with the precision only a shadow casting over an object could possess.

His steps were light and soundless—not because he made them so consciously, but by habit. His body had already learned, and adapted, to shift his weight onto the balls of his feet, reducing the noise of each footstep to the lightest whisper.

It was as if, instinctively, he had adapted to go unnoticed—every part of him revolved around the quiet need to go unnoticed.

He walked through the corridor that connected to a few hospital rooms, with beds where some patients lay silently. Their breathing covered the few noises that could be picked up if paid enough attention. 

Kuroko took a long breath, one he didn’t know he was holding until his lungs were filled once again with oxygen to work with. His eyes worked quickly, assessing the room’s numbers until he reached the one his mind had been playing in repeat since the last day.

“Tetsuya.” The soft voice of his grandmother reached him before he even finished opening the door. She recognized him instantly—before he’d set a single foot inside the room.

“You shouldn’t be here, sweetie,” she said gently, a trace of concern in her tone. “I thought they made kids wait in the main hall unless they were accompanied.”

Kuroko hesitated in the doorway, fingers still curled around the edge of the doorframe. For a moment, he couldn't answer. Taking in the sanitary scent of disinfectant mixed with different medicines. It wrapped around him, strangely comforting and deeply wrong all at once.

“I… I wanted to see you,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the floor.

She smiled, tired but warm. “I’m glad you came. But this place isn’t kind to little ones. Even ones as quiet as you.”

He finally stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him. The room felt too big for how small she looked in the hospital bed—like the world had started to grow but she remained small, her presence felt as if it was shrinking, little by little.

“You’ve been here the whole night,” he murmured softly as he reached the bedside.

He looked down at her, only to find her kind, blue eyes already watching him—those same blue eyes passed down to his mother, and then to him. A quiet inheritance that had stayed in place through some generations.

“I didn’t like how empty the house felt,” he admitted, his voice barely more than a whisper. “My parents are out of town and can’t return until Friday.”

His grandmother's expression softened, the lines on her face deepening with something between affection and guilt. “Oh, Tetsuya…” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “I didn’t mean to leave you alone.”

“You didn’t,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “Not really. I just… wanted to be where you were.”

He remembered perfectly how bright her smile was in contrast with her fragile, worsening body. 

She reached forward, and a cold ran down Kuroko’s spine as her icy-cold hand cupped his cheek. Kuroko’s eyes widened slightly as the contrasting temperature blurred her next words. “My sweet boy— ”

Kuroko almost choked in his own breath. 

His eyes snapped open as he started coughing and gasping for air at the same time as the vivid images dissipated in a few instants—just like how easily they appeared.

He wiped the corners of his mouth with the edge of the blanket, unsure if the dampness was from sleep or the aftermath of coughing. He also wiped out the birth of a tear that had grown in the edge of his eyes, killing it before it could even threaten to fall down his cheeks.

The image of the hospital blurried, blending in until they transformed back into the apartment’s cozy living room. For a few moments, he stayed still—stunned, frozen in place—before finally reaching for the remote and turning off the TV.

It had been on all night.

He’d have to start thinking about how much that would affect the electric bill… and how much that small sting would cost him from his own pocket.

He wanted to groan, to let out some sound to ground himself—but nothing came out.

The memories, tangled into dreams, had left him utterly speechless. Thoughtless too, his mind remained blank for some more seconds until he was finally able to drag himself out of the small trance and back into real life.

For a fleeting moment, it had felt like he was back there, back in that winter, back to being fifteen years old and painfully naive, caught in a version of himself that he wished he could have erased from memory.

He moved out of the mess of blankets and cushions with sloppy moves. Resting his weight against the table for a moment, making sure his legs didn’t tremble or betray him mid-step.

It had been a while since he’d last had a nightmare like that.

For years, that hospital room had haunted him—its sterile smell, the quiet beeping machines, the low temperature that got under his skin. Eventually, he’d learned to live with it, or so he thought. Learned to let the memory settle instead of letting it consume him.

He wondered if seeing Midorima and Kise again had stirred something loose, shaken memories he'd carefully tucked away in the back of his mind. The past had a habit of resurfacing when anyone least expected it—soft at first, like a whisper, before it crashed in like a wave.

He pressed a hand to his face, dragging his palm down slowly as if he could wipe away the remnants of the dream.

It was morning now, or close to it—the pale light slipping through the curtains said as much. He’d guess it was around 8, if not earlier. And with it came—and stayed—the quiet memories he meticulously ignored as he made his way toward a specific piece of furniture of the room.

The drawer made an ugly noise as he slid it open. Not even completely as the drawer refused to budge any further. But luckily, Kuroko’s hand was small enough to make its way through the small gap that had been opened and grabbed what was inside.

When he retrieved his hand, he was greeted by the familiar sight of a packet of cigarettes and a small lighter. 

It had been a while since he last lit a cigarette.

Long enough for Kagami to assume he’d forgotten where he even kept them. 

Kagami’s scoldings used to be a daily occurrence back in their highschool years, they seemingly relaxed once Kuroko got to college as he had more tasks piling up his desk, and less time to light cigarettes. 

But here he was, walking down the small path from where he stood to the apartment’s small terrace where he particularly liked to take a few drags.

Kagami didn’t understand the quiet, persistent itch in the back of his mind—the low hum of want that never really left. That familiar urge to calm his nerves with the curl of smoke in his lungs, even if he never gave in to it.

Kuroko had sworn to leave the habit behind. 

He knew exactly how harmful it was—he always had. Back then, he’d been the first to scold any of his friends for even thinking about touching a cigarette. 

He used to frown every time Ogiwara so much as mentioned cigarettes during their weekly calls, and he’d snatch the lighter right out of Aomine’s hand whenever the taller boy dared try lighting one in front of him.

There was even a faint memory of Aomine sneaking a few drags with Kise when they thought they were safely out of range of Kuroko’s gaze—well-buried in the back of his mind.

He’d long since lost track of Ogiwara, but he was fairly certain Aomine had kicked the habit too. Life as a professional athlete had stripped away most of Aomine’s old vices—training, discipline, and media pressure left little room for anything else.

Now it was Kuroko standing on his apartment terrace, a cigarette between his fingers, while Aomine trained and played beneath stadium lights and camera flashes.

Funny how the tables turn. The one who used to scold, now quietly indulging. The one who used to rebel, now thriving in structure.

He also remembered clearly how disgusting he found the smell of smoke that clung to the walls of his grandmother’s living room. And couldn’t even attempt to start counting how many times he’d told her to drop the habit. It was dangerous, more to a woman her age and her increasing fragility.

And yet, now, the sensation of breathing in that same smoke didn’t feel like a warning anymore. It felt like a memory of her.

Not pleasant, not clean—but familiar. A ghost he could hold in his lungs, just for a few moments before having to let it go.

He rested both arms on the metallic railing, he felt a cold run down his spine as the icy-cold metallic temperature braced his elbows, but he didn’t move, leaning even forward, as if searching for the cold temperature to anchor him for a change.

His thumb moved with practiced ease, flipping open the packet. He slid a cigarette out and tucked it between his parted lips, the motion almost automatic. With the same quiet efficiency, he slipped the box back into his pocket and reached for the lighter.

The click of the metal echoed softly in the still morning air. A small flame flared, briefly illuminating the weariness in his eyes before it met the end of the cigarette. He inhaled slowly, the tip glowing faintly as smoke filled his lungs.

Kuroko exhaled a slow stream of smoke, watching it dissolve into the morning light. The quietness of the moment almost made him forget the weight of his memories—the ones that still lingered, just out of reach, waiting for their turn to resurface.

His fingers absently traced the sides of the lighter which he kept holding onto, but his thoughts kept drifting back to the faint blurry images of other people in his life doing the very same action in the past.

He had long stopped caring about feeling like a hypocrite.

A soft sigh escaped him as he took another drag.

He wasn’t sure if he was seeking comfort or simply running—running from the silence, from the memories, from himself. And that uncertainty, that dull ache of not knowing, scraped at his heart with quiet persistence. It never stopped—just circled back again and again, like a whisper that wouldn't fade.

But he never let himself dig too deep. Never tried to truly unravel it.

The thought of facing it head-on felt too close to weakness.

A few minutes passed—two, maybe five—but as Kuroko let the cigarette burn away between his lips, it felt as if he was frozen in time.

The world seemed to move around him in slow motion, the soft hiss of the smoke rising into the air the only sound in the otherwise still morning. His thoughts, once chaotic and scattered, had quieted to a dull hum, almost drowned out by the slow rhythm of his breath and the steady pull of the cigarette.

In this moment, everything felt distant, like he was watching his own life from a place far removed—an observer, not a participant.

His fingers gently tapped the side of the cigarette, letting the ashes fall to the ground below. He was half-aware of the quiet around him, the faint sounds of the city beginning to wake, but they felt miles away.

He glanced down at the almost-finished cigarette, the last bit of it burning low. It will be gone soon. 

He, then, took the time to look below his terrace, prying his eyes from the distant sky into the city beneath him, observing the few people who were walking through the street at such an early hour. 

He watched how a man in a suit practically ran down the street, clearly in a hurry to reach his workplace. And observed how a few seconds later, a delivery boy barely succeeded in dodging a car with his bike, the contents inside of his bag tilting dangerously close to falling out, but somehow managed to hang on for dear life as he turned a corner.

He took it all with a quiet, observant gaze. Allowing his body to relax, and his mind to stop thinking.

His quiet rest was interrupted by the soft chime of the doorbell, its high-pitched tone cutting through the stillness like an unwelcome intrusion. Kuroko's eyes fluttered open, his thoughts disrupted as he looked over at the door, feeling the sudden jolt of awareness.

He exhaled slowly, flicking the dying cigarette into the ashtray before straightening up.

"Kagami-kun, answer the door." he called out instinctively, slightly louder than usual to make his voice heard even from where he stood outside, but his words trailed off when he remembered. 

Kagami was out of town, and by default, not home. He let out a tired huff at the realization, shaking off the automatic response.

The doorbell rang again, more insistently this time. 

Kuroko made his way inside. The rhythmic thumping of his steps filled the silence as he reached for the handle.

He pulled the door open, bracing himself for whoever might be standing there—expecting a delivery, maybe a neighbor. 

“How can I help—” When he looked up, the surprise made him go quiet. “...you?”

Standing on his doorstep, smiling weakly with a clear look of worry she didn’t bother trying to conceal, was Momoi.

Kuroko’s heart stuttered in his chest as he stared down at her. The weak smile on Momoi’s lips didn’t reach her eyes—those earnest, deep-pink orbs brimming with concern.

“Momoi-san…” he whispered, stepping back to give her room to step inside. His voice sounded small in the sudden quiet.

She hesitated for the barest moment, then crossed the threshold. The door thudded shut behind her, and the soft click seemed impossibly loud. Kuroko swallowed, fumbling to pocket the cigarette and lighter before turning to offer her a seat.

“Would you like some tea?” he managed, voice a fraction steadier.

Momoi gave a curt nod and perched on the edge of the couch, her hands twisting the strap of her bag. Kuroko made his way to the small kitchen, heart still hammering as he filled the kettle and set it to boil.

He kept glancing over his shoulder, trying to gauge her mood. Finally, the kettle’s hum broke the tension, and Kuroko carried two steaming mugs back to the living room. He sat opposite her, the space between them charged.

Momoi’s fingers curled around her mug as she took a breath. 

“How did you know—” The words stuck in his throat, struggling to break through the invisible barrier.

In the end, they died down before he voiced them, he didn’t even want to know how the girl managed to find his apartment. Ever since middle school she’d had her way in too many fields.

Kuroko’s throat went dry. He had expected many visitors—delivery drivers, concerned neighbors—but certainly not the pink haired girl. He sank back into the couch, the weight of her words settling around him.

“I…” he said, voice tight. He paused, then met her gaze. “How have you been doing, Momoi-san?”

“I’ve been doing well…”

If Kuroko recalled correctly, Satsuki was now part of Tōō’s management team—more than just a figure on the sidelines, she was a mind behind the curtain.

Over the years, Kuroko had watched enough of their games to recognize her touch. Some of the plays, the rhythm of their offense, even the subtle shifts in defense—it was all too precise, too calculated. Classic Momoi.

Players were positioned like chess pieces, every movement intentional. She built strategies that left no room for weakness, no vulnerable corners. It was control in its purest form—her way of protecting the team from loss, from uncertainty.

Momoi nodded, her brows knitting together. “I’d love to sit down and chat calmly but… I need your help, Tetsu-kun.” she admitted, voice low. “Please help me!”

Across the gulf of the coffee table, Kuroko straightened. The ache in his chest shifted from memory to something new—curiosity, and a hint of dread. “With what?” he asked.

Momoi glanced away for a moment, as if gathering her thoughts, then took a slow breath. When she looked back at him, there was something raw in her expression—frustration, worry, and something close to desperation.

“It’s Dai-chan,” she said quietly. “He got into another—into a fight.”

Kuroko’s eyes narrowed slightly. He didn’t speak—he simply waited, letting her continue at her own pace.

“I think it was bad,” Momoi murmured. “Worse than what I first believed. Not just a shouting match or some shoving on the court. He got into it with some guys after his last match. I don’t know the details—but I heard he didn’t walk away unscathed. I went to check on him earlier, but…”

She trailed off and looked down at her hands, fingers twisting in her lap.

“He wouldn’t let me in,” she admitted. “Told me to leave. Didn’t even show his face to me. He sounded—Tetsu-kun, he sounded like he was trying not to let me hear how bad it was.”

Kuroko’s face remained unreadable, but his silence had changed; it wasn’t indifference, it was sharp focus. He already knew what she was going to ask before she said it.

“I thought maybe…” she hesitated, voice faltering. “Maybe he’d let you in. Maybe he’d listen to you. I’m not stupid—I know how Dai-chan gets when he’s angry, when he’s spiraling. But he’s not going to get better by shutting me out, shutting everyone out, and pretending he’s fine.”

She looked him in the eye again, something pleading behind her usual composure. “Please, Tetsu-kun. Just go to his place. Talk to him. Help him clean up, or at least… just be there. I can’t reach him right now. I heard about your meeting and… I—I think he’ll listen if it’s you.”

Kuroko sat still for a long moment. The seconds ticked by with only the soft hum of the room’s ambient noise filling the quiet. 

And then, a quiet—almost imperceptible—sigh.

⥬

He should have known better. He should have.

Putting distance between all of them had been Kuroko’s decision—his alone. He had slipped away from the old team, one quiet step at a time, like water draining from a cracked glass. No drama, no fights. Just absence. Ghosting, some would call it. But it was cleaner that way—or so he told himself.

And yet here he was, walking down a wide residential street in the rising light of early morning, clutching a slip of paper with Aomine’s address scribbled in Momoi’s elegant handwriting.

He hadn’t even tried to say no. The moment she asked, something in him had already caved.

It wasn’t concern. At least, not only concern.

Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was the way her voice had broken, or the image of Aomine—cocky, brilliant, infuriating Aomine—curled up in some apartment, nursing wounds and choking on his own silence. That picture didn't sit right. 

Twenty minutes later, he was at a modern low-rise apartment complex. He climbed the couple stairs and paused at the main door, from where he could see the stairs leading up to the other floors.

Kuroko looked down at the paper, as if to make sure of the floor before ringing the third, and top floor. His fingers curled slightly at his sides at the same time as the monotone, repeated beeping pulled at his nerves. That feeling—tight and indescribable—pulled at him again. 

He was given a few seconds margin where he seriously contemplated his chance of leaving. But before he could ultimately decide to do so, a hoarse voice replied from the other side of the mailvoice.

“Satsuki, if it’s you again… I told you I was fine and that I was—”

Kuroko picked on the breathy undertone immediately, his speech slightly slurred and the rasp curling at the edge of each syllable. Aomine’s voice was rough— too rough. Not the casual growl of someone woken up or annoyed, but frayed and winded, like he’d been talking too little and pushing himself too hard. 

Kuroko didn’t reply. He stood still, gaze fixed on the little security device outside the apartment door. The moment the tiny white light blinked on, he knew Aomine had turned on the video function.

And he knew that the player was holding his gaze from his apartment.

Then Aomine exhaled, not quite a sigh, more like a quiet, broken laugh dragged across his torn-up throat.

“...busy training,” he finished lamely, the words flat and unraveling.

Kuroko didn’t smile. He didn’t move. He simply stood there, steady and silent, letting the seconds stretch.

They didn’t share any more words. But not even three seconds passed before Kuroko heard the sharp mechanical click of the lock disengaging, a short, low sound that echoed loud enough. The white light on the security panel blinked off.

He pushed the door open the rest of the way and stepped inside, moving quietly as he climbed the three flights of stairs. His footsteps barely echoed, each one measured, steady, as if he were trying not to disturb the imposing silence of the modern-looking building.

At the top, the stairs ended—and there he was.

Aomine stood in the open doorway, arms crossed loosely over his chest, leaning against the frame. His expression was unreadable for a moment—eyes slightly narrowed, brows furrowed, his confused expression was enough to pick up where his thoughts wandered to.

Kuroko had never needed to be too sharp to get a clue about Aomine’s feelings most of the time.

They stared at each other in silence for a few seconds. Aomine’s blue eyes followed Kuroko until he walked the few steps he had from the stairs to his door.

“You were not the visitor I was expecting at 9 am.” 

“Good morning, Aomine-kun.”

Kuroko’s voice didn’t waver, neither did his stance as he easily held the taller man’s gaze. He watched how he tilted his head before groaning lightly.

Aomine took a step back, making a swift movement with his head to let Kuroko know that he was being invited inside.

He stood in place for a few more moments until Aomine repeated the gesture a second time, it almost felt as if he was assuring him that he did not read the situation wrongly.

“Sorry for the intrusion,” Kuroko murmured politely as he stepped inside, taking note on hos the cold tiles from the lobby were replaced by warmer parquet flooring. “Did I interrupt something?”

“Not really. I was training but I follow my own routine and pace so it's fine.” Aomine closed the door behind him, walking past Kuroko in a couple of big steps and guided him inside.

Kuroko followed. Allowing himself to take in the interior of the apartment, just a quiet glance, definitely not lingering. And he couldn’t help but mentally compare. It was so different from Aomine’s family house he got to visit a few times back in the past that it certainly felt out of place. 

The place wasn’t messy, exactly. Just… unattended . Lived-in without the sense of someone truly living. A low table in the living room was littered with unopened energy drink cans, a half-folded towel along with a couple of crumpled protein bar wrappers. The TV still glowed faintly, paused on a game replay, sound off. Nearby, a pair of basketball shoes sat abandoned, their laces half-undone like Aomine had kicked them off mid-step.

The air smelled faintly of sweat and antiseptic—clean, but only on the surface. Kuroko caught sight of a wastebasket in the corner, nearly full of used bandages, athletic tape, and the corner of a crushed ice pack.

They passed by the kitchen—a sleek, modern design, barely touched. The counter held a half-eaten convenience store meal, chopsticks balanced loosely on top. The fridge hummed softly, magnets crooked and a single note stuck to the door in Momoi’s handwriting: “Rest properly, idiot. You’re not invincible.”

Kuroko didn’t smile. He just kept walking after him.

Aomine opened a door near the end of the hall and gestured silently. Kuroko stepped in.

“Momoi-san was worried about you.” He stated, his eyes locked on the back of Aomine’s head.

“That isn't news.”

The personal gym behind the open door was compact but functional. The kind of space built for focus, not flash. Weight racks lined the wall, a mat in the center stained faintly from repeated use. A single basketball sat near the corner, still rolling slightly as if it had just been dropped. The mirror along the far wall reflected them both—Aomine’s slouched frame and Kuroko’s still, straight posture.

“She told me you got involved in a fight and didn’t let her in.” He continued as Aomine finally turned around, looking down Kuroko’s eyes as he wiped some sweat off his forehead with the hem of his shirt. “She believed it was because you got physically hurt and didn’t want her to see.”

Aomine scoffed under his breath, the sound short and humorless. He let the fabric of his shirt fall back into place and leaned slightly against the wall, arms falling to his sides, fingers twitching like he wanted to cross them but didn’t have the energy to pretend at indifference.

“So she sent you instead?” he asked, voice still hoarse, but quieter now. Not exactly mocking. “Thought maybe you’d guilt me into opening the damn door?”

Kuroko didn’t flinch. “No. She hoped I’d be the one you would listen to.”

That hit a nerve.

Aomine’s jaw shifted, teeth pressing together behind tight lips. He turned slightly, as if to escape the weight of the mirror, of Kuroko’s gaze. His shadow cut across the mat like a wound.

“She worries too much,” he muttered. “I didn’t even get hurt. I just… needed a few hours to get my thoughts straight.”

“Is that so?” 

Kuroko’s question didn’t came of as mocking, simply as a way to make sure he got Aomine’s point straight. 

The only response he got was a side-long glance from the dark-haired boy before Aomine reached for a half-filled water bottle and stepped closer, pressing it into Kuroko’s smaller hands.

“Drink something. You look so damn pale,” Aomine said, eyes locked onto him, waiting for compliance.

“Did you get tired walking all the way from your home to this place?” His voice carried that familiar teasing edge, but the smirk tugging at his lips softened the mockery just enough to be almost sincere.

Kuroko ignored the challenge entirely. Instead, he flipped the bottle cap open with his thumb and took a few short, careful sips, letting the cool water settle in his throat. The silence stretched between them, heavy but not uncomfortable.

“I’d like to let you know that I’m in top shape.” Kuroko said quietly, eyes still fixed on the water bottle as he set it down gently on the bench.

Aomine raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Top shape, huh? Then why’re you looking like you just ran a marathon?”

Kuroko’s gaze flicked up, meeting Aomine’s with that same calm steadiness. “Maybe I’m just not a professional athlete like you.”

A soft chuckle escaped Aomine, the first real sound he’d made since Kuroko arrived. It was a brief crack in the rough exterior he put up.

“Alright, alright,” Aomine said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I get it. You’re tougher than you look.”

“I’ve always been,” Kuroko replied smoothly, eyes narrowing just a little in mock offense.

“It’s just hard to believe when you barely grew since middle school,” Aomine shot back, smirk returning full force now, sharp but familiar.

Kuroko exhaled through his nose—too subtle to be called a sigh, too controlled to be annoyance.

“Oh? Did I get you angry?” Aomine grinned, clearly enjoying himself more than he should have—especially considering the circumstances. There was a spark in his eyes, something dangerous and familiar, like the ghost of an old game they used to play.

More so because they both knew exactly why Kuroko had shown up at his doorstep.

“C’mon,” Aomine said, nodding toward the rack with a tilt of his chin, his tone half-teasing, half-challenging. “How about you show me with the weights?”

Kuroko raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “You wanna counter my argument by throwing a challenge you know well I can’t do?”

“That’s one way to put it.”

Kuroko gave him a flat look, but Aomine was already walking over to the bench, adjusting the bar like this was just another day at practice—not the aftermath of a fight he refused to talk about.

“Lie down,” Aomine said, patting the bench. “I’ll spot you.”

Kuroko hesitated. “If I drop this on my face, it will be your fault and I’ll have you pay for medical expenses.”

“Please,” Aomine scoffed, crouching to adjust the plates. “This is, like, a warm-up set for me.”

Kuroko narrowed his eyes. “You added too much.”

“Nah,” Aomine said casually, locking the collars into place. “You’ve definitely gotten stronger since then, right?”

Kuroko slid onto the bench with quiet skepticism, hands tightening around the bar. “How much did you put on?”

“Not much.”

Kuroko’s eyes didn’t leave him. “How much?”

“…Eighty.”

Kuroko blinked. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Aomine grinned and stepped behind the bench, standing tall at the head, arms crossed— but not really . His stance was braced, feet planted just right. He wasn’t taking any chances. Kuroko could feel it even before lifting: the quiet readiness in the way Aomine hovered, not saying it, but there, in case his arms gave out.

Kuroko took a breath, steadying himself, and unracked the bar.

It was definitely way less than eighty.

His arms trembled by the second rep, but he didn’t complain. Aomine didn’t tease—just watched closely, silently, like he was seeing more than weight being lifted.

It was by the fifth rep that his limited physical strength came to an end, the arms bending under the weight. Aomine, thankfully, did his spotter job properly and caught the weigh before it fell on Kuroko’s face and smashed him. 

Kuroko was breathing heavily by the time he watched how effortlessly Aomine lifted the weigh and placed it back onto place. His other arm reaching to help him incorporate.

It was then when Aomine caught a faint scent riding the air—something smoky, subtle but unmistakable. His eyes narrowed slightly.

“You smoke?” He asked under his breath, an eyebrow raised pointedly at him.

“Occassionally.” 

Kuroko’s answer was curt, but enough. Not the one to deflect answers or lie, he was way better to downplaying things. More so when he wanted to avoid something—like Aomine calling him a hypocrite.

“You are such a hypocrite sometimes.”

Ouch.  

Kuroko huffed, standing up from the bench as he stretched his arms over his head. The sudden exercising was not exactly contributing to work on his mood.

Aomine watched him rise, jaw tight. Kuroko’s silence spoke volumes, and somehow, that only made it worse.

“You used to glare at me every time I lit up after practice,” Aomine muttered, shaking his head. “Now you’re the one walking around smelling like a damn ashtray?”

“I don’t walk around like that,” Kuroko said calmly, but the clipped edge in his voice betrayed him. “I keep it to myself.”

“Oh, because that makes it so much better.” Aomine’s laugh was hollow, not amused anymore. “What, you think that makes you different from every other self-destructive idiot out there?”

“I remember that one time you literally snatched the lighter out of my hand. I never got that one back.”

Kuroko turned to face him, arms still hanging loose at his sides. His expression didn’t shift much, but something in his eyes darkened.

“I didn’t come here to be lectured.”

“And yet here you are—lecturing me about getting into fights, like you haven’t been burning yourself out in whatever hole you’ve been hiding in.”

Silence stretched between them again, tighter this time. Not the comfortable kind.

Kuroko looked away first, gaze drifting to the scuffed corner of the mat. “You weren’t supposed to notice that.”

Aomine scoffed. “Yeah, well. You weren’t supposed to disappear either.”

Kuroko’s jaw tightened. Making enough force to feel his own teeth crashing into one another, his fists clenching at his sides at the pointed words. Because that last sentence felt more like a personal attack than nothing more.

“You disappeared first.”

“Excuse me?” Aomine raised an eyebrow—his expression took a sharper turn. 

He took a step forward, almost as if daring Kuroko to say that to his face again. “I’m not the one who went radio silence for 5 years.”

“And I’m not the first one who ghosted my friends.” Kuroko shot back, his eyes narrowing slightly, meeting Aomine’s gaze. “Since the argument you basically stopped showing up. And you were the first one who stopped answering my every text and call. Even if you like so much to hold that one argument against me.”

“I did not—”

“ You did .”

Kuroko hated—despised it with all his heart—the way how his and Aomine’s last encounters always turned into a fight or an argument. It was exhausting.

Aomine’s mouth opened, breath sharp through his teeth. “I apologized,” he bit out. “You were the one rejecting my apologies at the rooftop.”

Kuroko’s expression didn’t waver, but his voice dropped—quiet, low, frayed at the edges.

“I didn’t want your apology for that argument. I couldn’t care less about it,” Kuroko said, the words tight, his breath catching at the end. His fists curled so hard his knuckles whitened, nails digging into his skin as if to ground himself.

“I didn’t care about the fight.” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “I would’ve taken you yelling at me. Hell, even hitting me, if that’s what it took to get it out of your system. Anything but silence.”

He swallowed hard, then stepped forward, hand lifting with rare intensity to press a finger against Aomine’s chest.

“I hate being ignored more than anything,” he said, his voice shaking but steady in its conviction. “Especially by you.”

His gaze burned, unblinking. “You were supposed to be my best friend.”

That stopped Aomine cold.

The silence that followed wasn’t like the ones before—it was heavier, drenched in everything they hadn’t said in years.

Kuroko’s shoulders were taut, like he was holding himself together by sheer will. But he didn’t look away this time. He stared right at Aomine, daring him to dismiss it. Daring him to pretend it didn’t matter.

Aomine didn’t speak at first. His jaw flexed, and he ran a hand over his face like he was trying to scrub the guilt out of it.

“I didn’t know what to say to you—or anyone of the team for that matter,” he admitted finally, voice low. “After that fight… I didn’t trust myself not to make it worse.”

“That was never your decision to make,” Kuroko stated firmly. “You left me to deal with it alone. You chose for me too, and that’s what I hated the most.”

The air between them simmered—regret, anger, grief—all unspoken for too long. And now it was all spilling out in pieces, sharp and uneven.

Silence was the thick wall Kuroko collided against.

His pale eyes narrowed, sharp and cold, before he drew in a slow, controlled breath. Without another word, his hands moved in practiced precision—swinging his bag over one shoulder as he turned on his heel.

“I came here because Momoi-san asked me to make sure you were okay,” he said flatly, already walking toward the door.

He didn’t look back, each step clipped and quick, as if the distance between them couldn’t be closed fast enough. “I’ve done that. So I’ll leave now and won’t bother you any further—”

But just as his fingers wrapped around the doorknob and cracked the door open a few inches, it slammed shut again with a dull thud .

Aomine’s hand was above his head, palm pressed against the door with quiet force. The heat of him settled at Kuroko’s back, his tall frame casting a shadow over him, silent but unmoving.

Kuroko tried the handle again, once—twice—both hands this time. The door didn’t budge and Aomine didn’t move.

The silence stretched, thick with tension, the only sound the faint rustle of Kuroko’s bag and his restrained frustration.

Then, finally, Aomine spoke. 

“Don’t leave like that.” A pause. “Stay.”

Chapter Text

Ever since Kuroko met Aomine in his first year of middle school, he had grown used to being at ease around him. 

Not because they spent too much together—which they gradually started to do—but because something about Aomine’s presence made him fee… relaxed. He felt at ease every single time they shared the same space without fault. 

He wouldn’t call it trust. Not exactly. Especially since the feeling had started the moment they first met—and Kuroko wasn’t someone who trusted easily, let alone right away. It was more like… his body had simply relaxed beside him that day, sitting together in the quiet, empty Third String gym at Teiko. As they talked, something in his mind quietly adjusted, as if it had already decided he was safe.

Perhaps it simply was because Aomine was an easygoing person. Or maybe because he saw a glimpse of vulnerability when his first impression of Aomine was the boy crouched down with his hands over his ears, praying to all the gods above for Kuroko not to be a ghost haunting the basketball court.

It was something that remained imprinted on Kuroko. 

Even through their third year when they grew apart. Even through the 5 years where their only contact was (one-sidedly) observing matches and press conferences through a screen.

Kuroko was a wary person by nature. He had to be. When you were usually overlooked, underestimated, doubted or physically small, being wary was a natural trait that eventually grew on you. 

Since he was a child, he has always had to pay special attention to avoid accidental bumps or elbows to the face. He’d grown used to staying quiet, remaining unnoticed until needed or until he particularly wished to be seen. He had even had to look after himself more than others because being smaller or weaker than most made him look like an easy target, and Kuroko was well aware that he looked like a candy for any thief or problem-looking person.

It was why being around Aomine felt like both, a blessing and a curse at the same time.

When you spent all your life alert of every little thing around you, being able to relax was somewhat replenishing. Like a moment of rest. Being around Aomine was like a good night sleep after a week of sleepless nights. Then, having someone who makes you lower your guard automatically was also dangerous. Dangerous because he became less alert of the threats around him, less alert of what he thought and said outloud—it would not be the first time something that shouldn’t have slipped through his lips—and eventually, being around him made him feel more exposed. More vulnerable.

And for someone like Kuroko, whose entire life has been about building walls around himself, being around Aomine felt like stepping in unsteady ground. It made him feel as if he was being swallowed by moving sands and not knowing whether or not he would be able to find his way out.

But even when he felt unsure, with Aomine the feeling of comfort had always been slightly stronger than the one of wariness.

Perhaps that was the reason he stayed. 

Even when Aomine’s breath hit the back of his neck—making a chill run down his spine—and blocked his only way of escape, instead of pushing the athlete away and making a run for it (running away from both the past and his own emotions—weaknesses), Kuroko chose to stay.

They somehow came to a silent agreement.

That’s why he was now awkwardly sitting on a cushioned armchair Aomine had—for some reason—in his house’s gym. At some point he’d lost track of time and he didn’t feel like reaching for his phone that remained inside his bag that was now resting somewhere on the floor. 

His pale eyes simply followed Aomine as he continued his workout routine. They didn’t speak, much less hold a conversation. The dark haired boy was now benching much more weight that Kuroko could ever aspire to. His eyes remained locked on the ceiling. Both of them pretending the other wasn’t in the room, even when one tried to flee and the other asked them to stay with a glimpse of vulnerability that never wished to be seen.

The situation remained the same for a long time. Aomine doing exercise and Kuroko lazily following him with his eyes; from the press bench to the treadmill to the floor where he started doing his push-ups reps. 

It was awkward to say the least, yet somehow—it felt better than running away without looking back. It felt like Kuroko had made the right decision for a change, something that was rare nowadays.

At some point between the silence and the monotone and repeated grunts from Aomine, his mind had drifted off. His eyes unfocused as he disconnected, looking at something and nothing at the same time. He only came back to his senses once a figure overshadowed him, blocking the sunlight that creeped through the window. 

He looked up only to see Aomine standing right in front of his seat, breathing heavily from the exercise he’d just done. 

Their eyes met briefly, staring into each other like both of them were trying to see straight through the other. A distant memory of past staring contests they used to do back in Teiko flashed through his mind, yet he quickly brushed it off in order to speak up.

“Are you done?”

His voice came dry. Blank, but not exactly unkind.

Kuroko watched him nod and wipe the sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt, exposing a glimpse of toned skin beneath. He kept watching—intently, steadily—because Kuroko was not the type to look away. That was precisely why Aomine used to lose every single one of their old staring contests. He always broke first, always blinked, always gave in under the weight of Kuroko’s calm, unwavering gaze.

He lost again this time.

Kuroko didn’t do anything special. He just looked at him. Not accusingly, not expectantly—but there was something heavy behind his stare today, something almost too quiet to name. Aomine shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, then let out a long, guttural groan. It could’ve been a stretch. It could’ve been frustration. But to Kuroko, it sounded like Aomine admitting he didn’t know how to respond, that he didn’t quite trust himself to speak when it mattered.

“I’m starving,” Aomine muttered, eyes flicking back down to him. “Let’s go eat.”

Kuroko didn’t ask why he was included—not out loud. But it lingered in the air between them all the same. Still, he didn’t argue. He didn’t feel like resisting, and if he was being honest, the low rumble in his own stomach reminded him he was hungry too. So he rose without a word, walked over to the corner where he’d left his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and quietly trailed after Aomine.

They exited the room in silence, stepping into the hallway that led toward the kitchen. The  sunlight that was allowed in through the windows light up the apartment perfectly, making it look brighter than what it really was. Their steps were light and—for once since he had arrived—the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. Not really. It was just… thick. Familiar.

Kuroko’s gaze lingered on the back of Aomine’s head as they walked, watching the way his shoulders moved with each step, watching the slope of his neck and the faint tension still clinging to him like sweat. 

They reached the kitchen, and Aomine opened the fridge with an aimless sort of energy, peering inside like something worthwhile might’ve appeared since the last time he checked. He leaned in, scanned the shelves, then sighed. He closed the door, but didn’t step back right away. Instead, he stayed there with one hand resting against the handle, fingers tapping lightly.

Kuroko tilted his head. “There’s nothing inside?”

“There is,” Aomine muttered. “But…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he turned halfway, glanced at Kuroko, then toward the window over the sink. The sun was dipping high, brightly. It made even Aomine’s usually sharp profile seem gentler, like he was backlit by something warmer than just daylight.

“I don’t feel like staying in,” he said eventually, closing the fridge completely this time. “Let’s eat outside.”

Kuroko blinked. “You’re the one who brought us to the kitchen.”

“I changed my mind,” Aomine said, already heading toward the door. “You coming or what?”

It wasn’t a question so much as an assumption. And again, Kuroko didn’t argue. He fell into step beside him. 

He waited in the living room without a complaint, letting him take a shower and change into some clean clothes. He used the time to check his phone. Taking a quick glance at his photography account that seemed to have settled for now—he was still getting used to receiving a couple thousand of likes in the pictures he occassionally posted every now and then.

He also checked the messages, texting a congratulations text to Kagami before finally turning it off.

Kuroko let himself sink back, the cushions yielding beneath him like dense clouds—soft, luxurious, probably far too expensive for someone who always claimed not to care about appearances. He stared up at the ceiling in silence, the hush of the room broken only by the faint sound of running water in the distance. It was a domestic sound, too familiar and too strange all at once.

Everything felt… off . Not bad, necessarily. Just unfamiliar in a way that made his skin feel a little too tight over his bones. Being here—at Aomine’s apartment, after all this time—was not a scenario he had envisioned for himself anytime soon, and definitely not under such quiet terms.

What unsettled him the most wasn’t the couch, or the silence, or even Aomine’s presence. It was the fact that he didn’t know how to feel about any of it.

He didn’t know if the strange pull in his chest was comfort or regret. If he liked the atmosphere, or hated how easily it soothed him. Part of him wanted to melt into it. Another part wanted to recoil and never come back.

The worst part was not knowing which side was stronger.

His eyes followed a faint crack in the ceiling, as if it might offer an answer—or a distraction. But his thoughts kept drifting, circling back to the same place like a compass needle that refused to settle. The familiarity of Aomine’s presence, the way his scent still lingered faintly in the cushions, the echo of an old rhythm that his body recognized even if his mind didn’t want to.

A door creaked in the distance. Footsteps padded softly against the hardwood floor. Kuroko didn’t move, didn’t speak, just listened as Aomine returned—his presence heavy even before he reentered the room. When he did, he was holding two bottled drinks, tossing one lazily in Kuroko’s direction without warning.

Kuroko caught it with minimal effort, barely flicking his wrist.

“Still got it,” Aomine muttered, standing in front of him, his own drink already half-opened by the time he reached the coach.

Kuroko glanced at the label. “You remembered.”

“Course I did, you used to buy them daily.” Aomine said, leaning his head down, eyes half-lidded. “You still like milkshakes, right?”

Kuroko hummed softly in response but didn’t answer. He cracked the bottle open and took a sip, more to fill the silence than out of actual thirst.

The quiet that followed wasn’t tense—but it wasn’t relaxed either. It hovered in the middle, suspended between two people who used to know each other down to the breath, but now weren’t sure where to stand.

He rose to his feet, following Aomine’s lead to the door, taking a few more sips of his drink as the athlete fished the keys out of a small table. 

In less than a few minutes, they were already out of the complex, walking down the street. Their feet against the pavement was the only noise keeping the street alive—save from some occasional passing cars.

“Where do you want to go?” Aomine asked after a long pause, glancing down at Kuroko who walked at his side.

Kuroko blinked, glancing around with calm detachment, though there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. He studied the storefronts they passed—restaurants, cafés, bars—each with unfamiliar names. None of them sparked recognition, and the longer he searched for something that felt right, the more displaced he felt. This wasn't his usual part of town, and nothing stood out in a way that made the decision easier.

“You can choose,” he muttered eventually, tone as mild as ever. “I’m not familiar with the neighborhood.”

Aomine let out a low hum, lifting a hand to run through his hair—messing it up even more than it already was, though he didn’t seem to care. Strands stuck out in odd directions afterward, but he didn’t bother fixing them.

“Let’s go to my favorite then,” he said simply.

He didn’t wait for a response. His pace picked up a little, turning a corner with easy familiarity. Kuroko followed, falling into step beside him again. A car passed by with a growl, the engine a little too loud for the quiet street, and Aomine’s eyes flicked toward it.

Without breaking stride, he reached out and rested a hand on Kuroko’s shoulder. The pressure was light, but firm, nudging him subtly closer to the buildings as Aomine shifted his own position to walk roadside. It was done so naturally, without a word or change in expression, like a habit he didn’t think twice about.

Kuroko tilted his head slightly, glancing up at him. His expression was unreadable, but there was the faintest crease between his brows, like he was silently trying to decide whether or not to comment. In the end, he didn’t say anything. He just looked at him for a moment longer, then let his gaze return to the path ahead.

Aomine didn’t seem to notice the scrutiny—or if he did, he didn’t acknowledge it. His hand had already fallen away, shoved casually back into his pocket.

The words didn’t come easily. And as Kuroko was never one to start empty conversations—Aomine seemed to take the same approach—they spent the rest of their walk to Aomine’s chosen place in a thick silence.

They rounded the final corner and Aomine slowed in front of a narrow doorway tucked between two larger buildings—a modest izakaya with a lantern swaying gently above the threshold. The wooden sign read “Tokage” in weathered kanji, and the warm light spilling onto the pavement felt like an invitation.

Aomine pushed the door open with a soft creak. Inside, the low hum of conversation and the gentle clatter of dishes greeted them. The air was rich with the scent of grilled skewers and savory broth. He slid onto a worn stool at the counter and motioned for Kuroko to join him.

Kuroko hesitated only a heartbeat before settling onto the stool beside him. The counter’s varnish had long since dulled from years of elbows and spills, but Aomine seemed unfazed—already scanning the menu scrawled on the wall.

They sat side by side, shoulders almost touching. Neither reached for the laminated menu handed to them. Aomine simply caught the eye of the chef and called out his order in a tone that suggested he’d been coming here for years. Kuroko listened to the familiar exchange—Aomine’s easy confidence, the chef’s gruff acknowledgment—and something in him unclenched.

“What do you want?” Aomine turned to him after the chef made his way back into the kitchen.

Kuroko looked up, momentarily startled as he was dragged out of his head. His eyes darted around quickly, trying to at least mimicry an attempt of choosing something.

“I’m alright,” he muttered after a few seconds. “I didn’t bring any money with me. I’ll eat something when I go back home.”

Kuroko watched Aomine frown, his expression making it clear he did not like his answer. He found it interesting almost, how expressive Aomine was. He couldn’t hide what he thought because his face always twitched before his instinct to conceal it. Throughout their middle school years Kuroko had grown to pick some of Aomine’s most common reactions; how he narrowed his eyes when hearing something he disliked, how he scrunched his nose every time he was startled or annoyed… It felt like picking at a puzzle. 

For Kuroko himself who was aware and consciously avoided showing too much, Aomine’s expressiveness felt like a breeze of fresh air. The freedom he never really allowed himself to have.

“Don’t be stupid,” he retorted, grabbing the menu from the table and pushing it into Kuroko’s hands. “This one’s on me.”

Kuroko hesitated. He took the menu but his eyes remained locked on the athlete in fron of him. Unmoving. Unflinching.

“The menu isn’t gonna read itself, you know?”

“I’m aware.”

Aomine arched an eyebrow, not knowing whether to feel amused or irritated. He leaned back on his seat, crossing his arms as he gave him an expectant look, one that needed no words to let Kuroko know he was asking for him to choose something.

His pale fingers tightened on the menu’s side, just slightly before sighing. His eyes casted downward to read over the food the place offered.

“Some ramen soup then.” He finally decided after a minute of silent reading. He closed the menu handing it back to Aomine who grabbed it back with a hum, raising to his feet and approaching the chef once again.

Kuroko remained sat awkwardly. He didn’t know whether to shift or remain still. His eyes darted around the place instinctively. The local was more on the small side, with only a few tables and stools near the counter. It looked like the kind of place that was always full yet still saved a seat or two for regulars like Aomine.

It felt kind of familiar. Not exactly the heartwarming nostalgia, but the feeling that makes you remember the emptiness a part of your past left when leaving.

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table and clasping his hands together. There was a lingering warmth in the seat across from him, a ghost of presence where Aomine had just stood. It made the silence feel less oppressive.

Kuroko closed his eyes briefly. He shouldn’t have come. Or maybe he should’ve prepared himself better for being around someone like Aomine again—someone who had known him before . Back when things had been different. Simpler. Before the silence between them had stretched so far it felt like a wound.

The chair scraped softly as Aomine returned, flopping back into his seat with a lazy sigh. “Told the guy not to be stingy with the broth,” he said, stretching his arms behind his head with that careless confidence that Kuroko remembered so well. “You always liked it when it tasted more like home-cooked stuff.”

Kuroko blinked at him, taken aback. “You remember that?”

Aomine shrugged, but he didn’t look at him. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”

There was a moment where neither spoke. The sounds of the kitchen—the clatter of pans, the hiss of boiling water—filled the space between them.

“You remember weird things, Aomine-kun.” Kuroko lowered his gaze, studying the wood grain of the table. “I didn’t think you paid that much attention back then.”

Aomine scoffed, the sound low and a little bitter. “You think just because we stopped talking, I stopped knowing you?”

His words were rough, but not cruel. Not angry. Just… real.

Kuroko didn’t know how to answer that. His chest tightened slightly, something old and aching stirring inside.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said softly.

“Sure you didn’t.” Aomine leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. 

At the lack of response from his part, Aomine looked at him for a long moment. Then he leaned back again with a sigh, breaking the tension. “Soup better be good,” he muttered, not quite meeting Kuroko’s eyes.

Kuroko smiled faintly, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It probably will be. You have good taste.”

A flicker of something passed over Aomine’s face—amusement, maybe, or relief—but he didn’t respond.

The food arrived a few minutes later, steaming and fragrant. The chef placed the bowl in front of Kuroko with a small nod before returning behind the counter. Kuroko murmured a quiet thank you, fingers wrapping around the warmth of the bowl as he stared down into it.

Aomine watched him for a second, then picked up his drink and took a long sip before speaking again.

“You still take forever to eat?” he asked, casually.

Kuroko looked up. “I don’t take forever. I just don’t rush.”

“Same thing,” Aomine snorted. “Back in middle school, I used to finish my lunch, take a nap, and you’d still be chewing like you were savoring a damn five-star meal.”

“That’s an exaggeration,” Kuroko replied, his tone flat, but there was a faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

Aomine grinned, visibly relaxing. “Not really.”

Kuroko gave a small hum of acknowledgment as he raised his chopsticks. The soup was good—flavorful, hot, comforting in a way that bypassed logic and sank straight into his chest.

Aomine filled the space with idle talk, mostly nonsense—complaints about practice, a story about a stubborn rookie on his current team, some offhanded gossip about Momoi that Kuroko knew better than to believe. It was strangely easy to listen. The familiarity of Aomine’s voice made the silence feel less sharp, less intrusive. It made the ache of the past a little easier to carry.

Kuroko had just started on the noodles when his phone buzzed on the table.

He blinked down at the screen. Kagami.

“Excuse me,” he murmured, picking up the call and pressing the phone to his ear. “Kagami-kun?”

“Kuroko, hey—” Kagami’s voice came through, slightly distorted but unmistakably irritated. “I’m really sorry, man. We hit something on the road and now the tire’s flat. I tried calling the tow service, but they’re saying at least an hour. It’s getting dark, and we’ve got the gear in the back, I don’t wanna leave it here.”

“Are you alright?” Kuroko asked immediately, already pushing his bowl aside.

“Yeah, we’re fine. Just stuck.” From beyond Kagami’s voice he could make some other voices. Probably his teammate’s in the same predicament at him, asking family members or friend to help them out.

Kuroko hesitated, then glanced toward Aomine, who had paused mid-drink, clearly listening. Face resting on one hand as he gave him a look, probably trying to decipher what was saying the other person through the other side of the call.

“…Do you need someone to pick you up?” He asked after a couple of seconds.

“If that’s possible, yeah, that’d be great. I’d ask you but I know you don’t drive.”

Kuroko nodded, though Kagami couldn’t see it. “Send me your location, I’ll find someone. I can ask Teppei-kun, or Hyuga-kun.”

“Thanks, man. Seriously. I owe you.” The call ended with a click.

Kuroko looked up at Aomine, who had already put his drink down and was taking a bite from his own serve of meat. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Kuroko murmured, dropping his fork to start scrolling through his phone, searching his contacts. “Just my roommate. It seems he got stuck in the road.”

“Your roommate?” He retorted, arching a brow as he stared down at the boy in front of him. “Since when do you have roommate?”

His pale blue eyes moved forward, holding Aomine’s curious glance, catching how his head tilted just slightly to the side. “I—We moved together mid-high school. We found a good apartment and the rent was somewhat acceptable.”

After an awkward moment of silence Aomine hummed again, leaning back. “You say he got stuck in the road?”

Kuroko nodded. “Something punctured their vehicle’s tyres, and the services are taking too long so he asked to go get him.”

“Do you have a car?”

“No. I don’t drive.” He answered blankly. His focus returning to his phone, thumb hovering over the call button un Hyuga’s contact. “I’ll ask some co-worker to help me.”

“I’ll take you,” Aomine said simply, looking at him lazily.

Kuroko blinked.

“You don’t have to—”

“Yeah, I do.” His tone left no room for argument. “It’s not like I’ve got better plans, and if he’s stuck on the road, it’s safer to go as soon as possible.”

Kuroko hesitated. Then gave a small nod, turning his phone off and standing up to follow. “Thank you.”

Aomine grinned over his shoulder. “You can repay me by finishing your damn soup when we get back.”

As he gathered his things, sliding his own jacket on and grabbed his bag he watched how Aomine left some cash on the table, paying the meal for both of them before walking out. Kuroko followed after.

The drive started in a comfortable sort of quiet. The car—a black sedan with a slightly worn dashboard and the smell of old sports gear lingering faintly in the back—rumbled softly as Aomine pulled onto the main road. The windows were cracked open just enough to let in the early evening breeze, the sky outside stained in darkening shades of purple and blue.

Kuroko sat in the passenger seat, his bag tucked neatly at his feet, hands folded over his phone in his lap.

About five minutes into the drive, his screen lit up with a new message.

>> Hey—would it be okay if you brought a friend of mine too? He was playing here too. Actually, two. Long story. They’re nice. I promise.

Kuroko stared at the message a moment before showing the screen to Aomine without a word.

Aomine glanced down quickly as he drove, then snorted. “Guy multiplies when he’s stranded, huh.”

“Apparently,” Kuroko said, expression unchanged but voice ever so faintly amused. “Is it alright?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Aomine waved it off with one hand on the wheel. “I guess they come in pack with your roommate. The car got space so it’s fine.”

Kuroko turned back to his phonem. And then typed,

>> That’s okay. We’re on our way. Send location again just in case.

Almost immediately, a pin dropped in his messages, along with another line from Kagami.

>> Thanks, man. You’re the best.

“Sounds like he’s grateful,” Aomine muttered as Kuroko locked his phone again. “I mean, I would be too if I had to wait around with other people and no food in the middle of nowhere.”

“You’d complain more than him.”

Aomine smirked. “You’re not wrong.”

The rest of the drive was peppered with light chatter—mostly Aomine poking at memories of middle school or tossing sarcastic comments about how Kuroko still barely talked and yet somehow managed to get through every situation. Kuroko offered deadpan responses that Aomine took with exaggerated offense, and the rhythm between them was so oddly natural it made Kuroko forget, for a moment, how long they’d been out of sync.

It wasn’t long before the headlights caught movement ahead—Kagami, standing beside a beat-up bus that was being examined by what seemed the driver and some other expert. There were more people around him, Kuroko managed to identify some of his teammates. Two other figures stood near him—one a tall man with dark short hair, the bangs covered one of his eyes, but the rest of his face was quite pleasant to look at. Pretty.

Aomine pulled to a smooth stop just behind the bus.

“Is that your roommate?” he asked, unbuckling his seatbelt.

Kuroko opened the door quietly. “And his friend.”

The sound of the car must’ve reached them because Kagami was already striding up, grinning sheepishly.

“Man, you're a lifesaver," Kagami said, clapping a hand on Kuroko’s shoulder before leaning forward to get a look at the driver. His eyes widened. “Wait—is that Aomine?”

“Unfortunately,” Aomine replied flatly, not even trying to sound polite. He pushed the door open and stepped out, eyeing Kagami with thinly veiled skepticism. After a beat, he wrinkled his nose. “Seriously, Tetsu? You're living with this guy? I heard you say Kagami earlier but I didn’t think it was this one…”

Kagami’s brows shot up, clearly caught off guard, but his expression quickly soured. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know each other?” Kuroko cut in, looking between them with mild interest, as if observing two animals in a zoo enclosure.

“No,” they both answered—simultaneously, and with equal sharpness.

Yet despite the denial, the tension between them was palpable. The way they stared at each other was more than coincidence—like two predators sizing each other up with unspoken challenges simmering beneath the surface.

“We just ran into each other at a game a while back,” Kagami finally muttered, rubbing the back of his neck with an irritated sigh. “That’s all.”

“Right,” Aomine drawled, crossing his arms. “Just a game.”

Kuroko blinked slowly, looking from one to the other, unconvinced.

Kuroko exhaled through his nose, deadpan. “Please don’t fight in front of the guests.”

That earned a quiet snort from the boy standing nearby. He was now right by Kagami’s side, tilting his head slightly to look at Kuroko.

“Kuroko, right?” the newcomer asked, voice warm as he stepped closer. His smile widened when Kuroko gave a small nod in response. “Nice to meet you. I’m Himuro Tatsuya. I’ve heard a lot about you from Taiga.”

“Hey!” Kagami barked, instantly elbowing Himuro in the side. His focus shifted from glaring at Aomine to glaring at his friend instead. “You talk too much.”

Himuro only chuckled, clearly unbothered. A glint of mischief flashed in his eyes. “Can you blame me? I had to hear all your stories about him back in L.A. You made it sound like he was some kind of ghost.”

“Shut up,” Kagami mumbled, clearly flustered.

“Jeez—whatever,” Aomine muttered, raking a hand through his hair as he stepped back toward the car, breaking the awkward tension that lingered between glares. “Are we ready to go? I’m not really in the mood to keep standing around in the middle of nowhere wasting my time like you guys have been.”

“Then why the hell did you come?” Kagami snapped, never one to back down.

Aomine turned to stare down at him, clearly unimpressed. “To help Tetsu , not you.”

Kagami scoffed under his breath but didn’t have a proper comeback. His pride was bruised, sure, but he couldn’t argue with the honesty of that answer.

“We’re actually still missing someone…” Himuro interjected smoothly, turning around to scan the dim road behind them. “He went to check if the vending machine down the hill had anything edible, but… he should’ve been back by now.”

“Muro-chin.”

The voice, light and almost sing-song in tone, drifted toward them before the person himself came into view. From the edge of the trees lining the roadside, a tall figure emerged, balancing two bottled drinks and a half-eaten rice ball in one hand.

Kuroko blinked, momentarily frozen in place as he recognized that voice. Kagami looked away with a huff.

“You never wait for me,” the boy complained, pouting slightly as he approached. His straight, purple hair was tied back in a loose bun, a plastic wrapper sticking out from his jacket pocket. “And I nearly tripped over a raccoon. A real one.”

“Oh, here you are,” Himuro said, smiling with quiet fondness as a tall shadow emerged behind him. “Atsushi, this is—”

“Eh… It’s Mine-chin,” Murasakibara interrupted lazily, his deep voice dragging through the syllables like molasses. He strolled closer, towering over the others until he stopped beside Himuro, still chewing slowly on a half-eaten rice ball that looked dwarfed in his hand.

Himuro blinked, surprised. “You two know each other?”

Murasakibara gave a low hum, talking between bites without a shred of concern for manners—some grains of rice sticking to his chin and falling to the gravel below. “Mine-chin played in Teiko with me… Have I not told you? I must have forgotten…”

“You always forget to tell me everything,” Himuro sighed, crossing his arms as he closed his eyes, clearly more exasperated than truly annoyed. His posture radiated long-suffering patience. “And what about Kuroko?”

Murasakibara’s chewing slowed, almost theatrically. He stopped mid-bite, lips still parted as he turned his head toward Himuro, blinking once. Then his eyes scanned the group lazily, until they landed on Kuroko—silent, still, and very much trying to avoid being noticed.

Kuroko’s fingers twitched slightly at his sides.

A beat passed. Aomine, next to him, shifted his weight and crossed his arms with a sigh, already looking away like he knew what was coming.

There had been distance—intentional, quiet, and left unspoken—between Kuroko and the Generation of Miracles for a long time. The way it had been with Aomine, it had been with Murasakibara too. And not knowing what kind of reaction awaited him now made Kuroko’s pulse tick up, just barely.

Murasakibara stared at him.

“Kuro-chin,” he finally said.

His tone was unreadable—neutral, maybe a bit flat—and his expression didn’t shift much. Then, without warning, he took one last bite of the rice ball, chewed it slowly… and held the other half out toward Kuroko like a peace offering.

“You want?”

Everyone blinked.

Kuroko, unblinking, stared up at the outstretched rice ball and then slowly raised a hand in polite refusal. “No, thank you. I’ve just ate.”

Murasakibara shrugged and popped the rest into his mouth.

“Kinda weird,” he muttered, though there was no malice in his voice. “But I guess it’s kinda nice you’re here too.”

Aomine let out a low breath that sounded suspiciously like a suppressed laugh, while Kagami whispered to Himuro, “Just why are they so awkward?”

The boy simply shrugged.

The car ride back was quieter than expected—well, mostly quiet.

Aomine grumbled under his breath about ‘too many damn passengers’ while Kagami and Himuro talked about their last holiday in America in the back, their voices rising and falling like waves. 

Himuro sat between them with the patience of a saint, occasionally stepping in when Atsushi took too much space. Murasakibara had somehow squeezed into the back corner seat, legs folded awkwardly, his knees pressing against the seat in front of him. He didn’t complain though—he just kept chewing. From somewhere , he had pulled out another snack bag.

Kuroko sat in the passenger seat beside Aomine, head turned toward the window. The passing scenery blurred with the streetlights, and the familiar quiet of the night wrapped around him like a loose thread. He didn’t speak—didn’t need to. It was the kind of silence he had long since grown used to, both in the company of others and in the absence of it.

“Kuro-chin, you’re smaller than I remember,” Murasakibara said. “Have you shrunk?”

The voice came from his left, low and sluggish, as if the big man had been stewing on the thought for miles before finally letting it slip out.

Kuroko blinked and turned slightly, looking up.

“That’s impossible,” he replied simply. “You’ve simply grown.”

Murasakibara hummed. “Mm. Maybe. You don’t look like you changed at all, though.”

Kuroko didn’t answer that. He wasn’t sure how to. He didn’t feel the same as back then, but maybe to Murasakibara—and maybe to the rest of them too—he did. An unchanged shadow.

Murasakibara leaned his head against the window, cheek squishing against the cold glass. His purple eyes half-lidded, staring down at the seat in front of him.

“I didn’t like it,” he said after a while.

Kuroko turned back to him again, slower this time. “…Didn’t like what?”

“That you disappeared.” He blinked, slow and heavy. “You didn’t say anything.”

Kuroko’s hands curled slightly in his lap.

“I couldn’t,” he said, voice so soft the hum of the tires almost drowned it out.

Murasakibara didn’t respond right away. Then, “Still. It sucked.”

Kuroko let out a quiet breath. “I know.”

A long pause. Just the sound of the road and Kise’s voice going on about his hair routine. Then Murasakibara broke the silence once again, purple eyes looking out of the window as he muttered, “I saved a pack of caramel corn for you.”

Kuroko blinked, startled. “…You did?”

“Mm.” Murasakibara closed his eyes, lips twitching. “Then I ate it. Got mad. And ate another.”

Kuroko didn’t quite smile. But something small, soft, tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“…Thank you.”

Murasakibara yawned and leaned back, resting his heavy head against the window, his body instinctively relaxing. As if he’d just got out of his system all he had wanted to say for a long time.

Kagami, still mid-sentence, blinked and glanced over. “Is he—oh wow, he’s asleep . That’s fast.”

Kuroko didn’t move. Just let the weight settle there.

“I guess he’s tired,” he murmured.

By the time they pulled up in front of Kuroko and Kagami’s apartment complex, the city was bathed in the dusky blue of evening, neon signs and streetlights flickering to life one by one. The car ride had quieted considerably—no more bickering, no more teasing. Just the soft hum of tires over asphalt and the sound of Murasakibara’s slow, even breathing as he rested against the window.

Aomine put the car in park and exhaled. “We’re here.”

“Thanks for dropping us by,” Kuroko said to Aomine, who simply looked away with a huff at the sight of the grateful smile that was drawn on Kuroko’s lips.

Kagami was the first to stir, already reaching for the handle. “Finally,” he muttered, pushing the door open with a creak and stepping out to stretch.

Himuro followed more calmly, pausing as he stepped onto the sidewalk, his gaze lifting to the building. “Nice place. The area is quieter than I expected for someone like Taiga…”

Inside the car, Murasakibara was still sleeping, and it seemed unanimously decided that Kuroko was the one in charge of waking him up.

“Murasakibara-kun,” he said gently, shaking his shoulder. “We’ve arrived.”

The taller boy mumbled something unintelligible before slowly sitting up, blinking sluggishly as his long arms stretched forward. “ Mmm … slept too little…”

“You slept most of the way,” Kuroko said quietly, slipping out of the car.

Outside, the air was cool and crisp, the kind of afternoon breeze that brushed against your face like a reminder to slow down. Kuroko stepped onto the sidewalk, watching Aomine slam the driver’s door closed with a bit more force than necessary.

“You could’ve left him in the car,” Aomine muttered, jerking his chin toward Murasakibara, who was now shuffling behind Kuroko like a sleepwalker.

“He didn’t look comfortable,” Kuroko replied plainly. “And I’m sure Himuro-kun also wants to go home.”

Aomine huffed. “‘Guess so.”

Murasakibara stopped near the door, staring at the building in front of him with vague disinterest. He gave a half-yawn, then looked down at Kuroko with heavy-lidded eyes.

“You’re really staying here, Kuro-chin?” he asked.

“Yes,” Kuroko answered. “I’m dividing the rent with Kagami-kun.”

“Hmph.” Murasakibara kicked at a loose stone by the curb, the movement sluggish and lazy. “Guess I’ll come over sometimes.”

Kuroko tilted his head slightly. “I wouldn’t mind.” He turned to Aomine who was standing right besides him. “You can come by if you want… Momoi-san has already done so.”

He watched the athlete scoff, running a hand through his hair. “That girl…”

There was a pause. Then Murasakibara gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “Can’t have you disappearing again…”

That tugged at something in Kuroko’s chest—subtle, but there. He glanced up, meeting the other’s gaze for a moment.

“I won’t,” he said. “There’s not really a reason for me to leave this time, is there?”

Murasakibara didn’t answer right away, but the tension in his shoulders eased. He looked away, then added, almost offhandedly, “I’ll bring snacks.”

Kuroko’s words hung quietly between them, fragile but unwavering. “I’ll be waiting.” His voice was softer now—less the ghostly whisper he often carried, and more a steady, sincere promise. The night air seemed to still around him for a moment, as if even the city paused to listen.

From behind, Aomine let out a low, irritated grunt, breaking the delicate atmosphere. “You guys are sappy as hell,” he muttered, his tone rough but not unkind, the kind of protest that came from a place too stubborn to admit anything warmer.

Himuro, standing by the door with an amused smile, chuckled lightly as he pushed the entrance open for Kuroko. “I think it’s sweet,” he said, his voice calm, the contrast to Aomine’s gruffness filling the space like a gentle breeze.

Inside, Kagami’s voice echoed back, sharp and impatient. “Oi! Are you coming in or not?”

Kuroko spared a brief glance toward the opening door, then gave the other three boys a small, almost imperceptible nod. Without hesitation, he stepped forward to follow the others into the warm glow of the lobby.

Just as he was about to cross the threshold, a familiar, lazy drawl drifted softly from behind him. A hand resting on the top of his head, messing with his hair. “I’ll crush you if you leave again.”

Kuroko’s footsteps pause, waiting for a couple of seconds for Murasakibara to move away, but when it was obvious that he was not moving on his own, he lightly swatted his hand away. 

The words settled deep inside him, anchoring a quiet resolve. His pace resumed with a newfound steadiness.

“I won’t,” he answered, his voice low but certain. 

He gave them all a light wave of the hand before following Kagami inside, letting the building’s door close as the other three returned back to the car.