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Akashi Seijuurou could see the future.
He could picture the horror that gleaned across his opponents' eyes when he rendered their limbs useless; hear their startled gasps always followed by the loud thud of them sinking to the cold court floor; taste their helplessness and panic – all before it even begins to happen.
He immobilised each and every player in his way, easing the ball into the basket with a lay-up so fluid it was almost a work of art to those watching. The hall was silent save for the scuffling sounds of Rakuzan High hastening back for defense, but Seijuurou could easily have told that their efforts were in vain. The opposing team's #7, sprawled out on the court floor, chanced a glance up at him. Almost immediately he lowered his gaze, crushed, defeated, scorched by the intensity of the fire in Seijuurou's eyes. His five opponents might've donned fierce red jerseys, but their once-piercing scarlet was now no more than fading passion, a flickering flame.
The spectators were flummoxed at best. Quiet whispers of admiration and fear, wonder and resignation, echoed off the walls. Even Rakuzan's own supporters found breath escaping them, but they snapped themselves out of it and delivered their loudest cheers yet.
When the fourth quarter buzzer rang loud and clear throughout the stadium, nobody was surprised at the double-digit win.
Victory, it seemed, was a given. They were, after all, the Emperors.
"Before Akashi, no defense is permitted to stand," somebody on the bench praised.
"He has the Emperor's Eye! You can't even move," chimed an equally bright-eyed boy.
Three years ago, Seijuurou would've said they were right.
There remained still one person who had slipped past him, and Seijuurou could say with confidence that he did not walk, stride, or run – he danced. His defense had been breached so gently, so gracefully, that even now, the movement existed as little more than a memory of what once was.
(A memory that haunted him still, in both his waking and sleeping dreams.)
Seijuurou ran for class president in his first year ("Akashi-kun, I've heard nothing but compliments about you from your elementary school teachers!"). As he took his place by the blackboard, he could see several eager hopefuls, eyes brimming with promise, almost leaping out from behind their desks in excitement. He swept them all in his gaze, and even though no words escaped his lips, each of their hands withdrew from their positions in the air.
Even at thirteen, they could tell Seijuurou was no class president.
He was an emperor of old, trapped in the vessel of a child, exuding authority and finality.
He was not someone who would lead them at assembly or volunteer to solve an equation just because nobody else was listening.
He was someone who could create, mould, build with his bare hands, an empire and a legacy that will be remembered for years to come.
He was not someone who earned respect.
He commanded it, as a given, as a fixed variable, as his natural right.
The elected vice-president was a bespectacled boy, stern both in presence and expression. (But for the life of him, Seijuurou couldn't even begin to figure out why he was holding a small bonsai plant.) The flyaway strands of his hair – as green as grass would be in an alternate realm where spring reigned all year round and winter was a phenomenon unheard of – were fluttering lightly along with the cream classroom curtains. His glasses did nothing to conceal the depth of his eyes, and if anything, Seijuurou felt it enhanced them. This was a thinker, both analytical and philosophical.
If anything at all, he looked uptight, nondescript, unapproachable.
Forest green met glowing red; they shook hands. "Midorima Shintarou," the boy says, pushing his glasses a little up the bridge of his nose, "I look forward to working with you this year."
(It might have been the breeze toying with his hair, the sun aligning its rays to fall exactly on his sharp jawline, the glasses that only served to accentuate his defined features, the way his tie and collar were fastened so perfect it looked like he fell right out of the students' handbook – any one of these, and maybe much else.
Seijuurou was as likely to admit this as he was to quit pretending like it never happened.
For the first time in his life, Akashi Seijuurou was caught off balance.)
The first meeting of the basketball team finally came around a week and a half after club registrations ended. It was a Wednesday, warmer than normal days in the fall, the sun playing a cheeky game of hide-and-seek, occasionally emerging from its clever hiding place behind a soft bundle of cloud. The first-years were all to gather in the third gym, normally reserved for players of the lowest string, for a practice match that would sort them into their respective groups.
Frankly, Seijuurou was surprised when he saw Shintarou along with the rest of the freshmen, standing a carefree four inches taller than your average middle schooler. "Shintarou," he greeted, rather out of a lack of words to say than anything else. He realised that he should've at least expected this; Midorima, an ace student who could do his class quizzes backwards if you made him, would of course also excel in sports.
Seijuurou never believed in fairness. If you held a right to be gifted, then you would be, through and through.
Shintarou, it seemed, was no less surprised. "I didn't know you played basketball, Akashi."
Truthfully, Seijuurou felt it depended on how that statement was interpreted. 'Playing' turned out to be ending up in the same team as Shintarou because they were 'both the nerds from 1-A' and leaving the court crushed in their wake. They alone proved fearsome enough, for the seniors lost their will to fight somewhere along the sixth minute of the game. Seijuurou took command of the inside, dashing past his opponents so quick it seemed to them that he wasn't even truly there; Shintarou settled for outside offense, and all present could only watch as the point difference widened predominantly in threes.
In the end, the juniors won with triple the opposing score.
The coach himself came to the gymnasiums the very next day and announced a change in lineup, and Seijuurou knew Teikou had never seen anything quite like it.
"These four freshmen will be promoted to first string, effective immediately. Your new captain," it was as if time itself had stilled inside the courts; none dared to breathe in the face of such an upturn, "is Akashi Seijuurou."
From the corner of his eye, Seijuurou saw a tan boy with a smile twinkling as brightly as the sparkle in his eyes, and next to him, possibly the biggest person he'd ever seen in his life.
(More than anything, Seijuurou could see the appalled faces of his seniors, those who cried tears of blood and sweat and grit to be able to earn themselves a spot in the first string, never mind the regulars they replaced – fury, disappointment, jealousy, a distasteful concoction brewing in their eyes.
Seijuurou turned his back on them and motioned for Shintarou to pass him a ball.
He was the strongest. That was all there was to it.)
Six months was enough time to heal the scabs he so brutally tore open to the wind. The unrest settled back into place, and Teikou's basketball team strived to new heights with their new captain. By then, fall had long since passed Seijuurou by, and winter was already easing into spring. The coming of a new season was heralded by the blooming of cherry blossoms lining the school courtyard, pink and peach and white, a sight to behold. As quickly as the snow was melting, spring was coming, and preparations for the summer championships, undoubtedly the most coveted title in high school basketball, were already going on at full steam.
Six months was enough time for Seijuurou to convince every single member of the team who hadn't yet left in defeat or terror that under his guidance, Teikou Junior High would rise to a level unseen for decades.
Six months was enough time for Seijuurou to learn their names – Daiki and Atsushi – both stars that were clearly born for this, each with their individual style of play that both mesmerised and instilled fear that rooted deep in their opponents' hearts.
Six months was a long time, and should be enough for a great many things.
Six months, however, was not enough time for Seijuurou to watch Shintarou's basketball in full. Evening after evening, he watched Shintarou shoot his flawless three-pointers that never miss, not even offering the hoop the grace of being touched by the ball.
This Tuesday evening was not any different. Seijuurou stood by, his eyes following Shintarou's every movement, from the flexing of his muscles when he aims to the tightening of his stomach as he jumps. Shoot, whoosh; shoot, whoosh; it was a rhythm that served as their practice melody. Quiet, graceful, perfect – exactly what basketball should be.
"Ninety-nine," he heard Shintarou murmur, reaching for his last ball.
Seijuurou stepped forward then, and the very movement of his shoes against the court floor stilled Shintarou's hand. "Shintarou, show me," he commanded.
They never needed elaboration, explanation, fancy words. That was what Seijuurou liked best about Shintarou's basketball. Shintarou didn't need to say anything for him to know what he was thinking. On the courts, they've crushed a fair number of opponents like this. It was chemistry, a silent understanding that encompassed even the limitations of teamwork.
Shintarou stood at the opposite end of the court, aimed, took his shot. The ball soared high into the air, a great arc that curved perfectly at its apex, fell like a missile and dived noiselessly through the net. Seijuurou turned to meet Shintarou's gaze, nodded, and left.
That was also what Seijuurou liked best about Shintarou.
He was quiet, graceful, perfect.
His second year will always be the one he remembered best.
Tetsuya had joined their ranks late in his freshman year, and Ryouta easily upped Haizaki for his rightful spot alongside the regulars. Needless to say, Seijuurou's presidency was renewed for another year. He was kept busier than ever balancing his regulatory coursework with his extra-curricular commitments, but he still managed to finish top in his class. He usurped the favoured candidate for student council president, a boy with cash to blow and friends to spare; for the first time in Teikou history, a second-year took up central command of the school.
Seijuurou never burdened himself or his regulars with extra practice sessions – why bother? Their team was already sweeping every title laid out before them; Seijuurou would lead them to victory again and again and again. Nonetheless, he was pleased with the progress of his teammates.
That same year, Shintarou became vice-president of the Teikou student council and basketball team. But of course, that was but a title, and Seijuurou was not one to fawn over such petty things. Shintarou proved himself wholly capable of running organisations alongside him, and if anything at all, Seijuurou acknowledged him as one who could stand as an equal.
Seijuurou was becoming – if he wasn't already – almost bored with the meetings the school had made compulsory for captains and vice-captains to hold. Shintarou suggested they play shogi instead of whiling the hours away when they've long since gotten the preliminary yearly paperwork over and done with. Shogi and basketball truthfully weren't much different to Seijuurou, and he took them the same way – calm, calculated, all-seeing, victorious.
So they spent a great many quiet evenings in the clubroom, just the two of them, a large table and a shogi board. Seijuurou liked the windows open. No matter the season, there would always only be a gentle breeze brushing against their faces. It was as if even the wind knew not to anger the Emperor. Seijuurou had watched the afternoon sun give way to the delicate hues of evening more times than he could count, and sometimes they would stay till the first signs of night roused them.
The soft clack, clack of wood against wood softly shook the silence in the room. "One, two, three; rise," Seijuurou leaned back in his chair, watching his opponent closely. "Shintarou, I quite believe your time in this game is up."
Shintarou didn't answer; he never does when he knows he lost a game.
Seijuurou counted to ten while Shintarou drove holes through the board with his eyes, searching for something Seijuurou knew he would never find. His Emperor's Eye surpassed any and all. He was never wrong. "Come, Shintarou, we're leaving," he said, standing up and slinging his bag over his shoulder in one swift motion.
Seijuurou allowed him a frustrated sigh. "I surrender. But keep in mind, I will be victorious next week, Akashi," Shintarou promised, the same vow he made meeting after meeting (loss after loss).
This was one promise Seijuurou would never hold him to.
The small grin Seijuurou shot in his direction was never meant to be consolation; Shintarou would never accept it if it was. Even after two years, Seijuurou had yet to figure out what it was supposed to be.
He, who was all-knowing, will always emerge victorious.
He would always win.
"What—A-Akashi, that hurts," Shintarou groused, taken aback by the grip on his wrist, tight and strong enough to leave a mark. He spun around – pivoting on his left foot, of course – but stopped short of saying anything else. Seijuurou let his fingers trail the fabric of Shintarou's tie, past the emblazoned Teikou badge on his blazer, finally resting them on his prim and proper collar.
Seijuurou was, by no means, a rash person, but already he found his patience wearing haphazardly thin. He didn't even give Shintarou time to recompose himself, instead only pulled hard, one quick, confident tug, and caught Shintarou by the lips.
Oh.
(Shintarou had caught him by the heart.)
Seijuurou realised only too late that his defense had been breached.
The screams of the crowd, the bouncing of the ball against the court, the panting of the point guard in front of him, the final buzzer – too many sounds were still ringing in Seijuurou's ear for his liking.
The last of the spectators were already leaving the stadium and the maintenance crew was finished cleaning up. This would make headlines tomorrow, the day after and maybe even the day after that, but this era was coming to an end. Teikou Junior High's Generation of Miracles had swept their last Nationals. People will learn to let go, to forget, and to embrace a new team.
"We're going to have a short meeting when we get back. Get your things," Seijuurou ordered, without so much as looking up. He inhaled, slowly lifting his head when he knew everybody had left (save one). "Shintarou," was all he said, or rather, was all he needed to say.
A moment of silence passed between them. Glimpses hit him with the force of a raging ocean – the quiet evenings they spent playing shogi, the study sessions they had in the library, the walks home with Daiki and Tetsuya and Ryouta and Atsushi till they reached the crossroad where they had to part, the first time they kissed.
"Thank you for everything," came Shintarou's voice, softer than ever, as he bent into a perfect 90-degree bow. "I enjoyed my time at Teikou."
Seijuurou watched the way his sleeves were just slightly short of his wrists, the way his jacket fit around his angled shoulders, the way his #7 burned in deep blue flame against the white canvas of his jersey. He nodded, but ultimately said nothing.
(As the saying goes, silence says a lot of words.
"The next time we meet will be on different benches, Akashi."
"I look forward to it, Shintarou."
Goodbye.)
In truth, there were many things Seijuurou cared enough to remember, and even more that he didn't. At the core of things, there will always be certain things people can't forget – can't bring themselves to, can't find a way to (were they really that different?) – no matter how hard they try.
That was one of nature's most unrelenting, absolute laws.
Things end. Memories don't really.