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Kise Ryouta would like to think that he remembers his first love. If he closes his eyes tightly and thinks really hard, he’s sure he can remember the sunny day in July when he was walking down to the park, gripping tightly onto Mrs. Sato’s hand. He wasn’t the same outgoing guy at age five that he is now, and if the comforting warmth of his nanny’s large hand clasped around his little one gave him the push he needed to socialise, he wasn't about to complain. The details got a little distorted here because he wasn’t sure what was real and what was manufactured to fill in the gaps in recollection from a memory that was formed so many years ago. But he thought that the scraping sound of wheels on concrete must have been a part of the real memory. He remembered suddenly slipping away from his housekeeper and running towards the older kids as she chased behind him, yelling for him to slow down. He thought he remembered the feeling of his heart pounding as he reached the stairs leading into the park and saw some older kids with helmets and kneepads. He knew he was starstruck then — Mrs. Sato would corroborate that — when he saw the older kids with their skateboards, doing kickturns and heelflips so effortlessly.
Kise Ryouta’s first love was skateboarding.
He chuckled now as he thought about this while rummaging through the almost empty hot foods section of his local 24/7 provisions store. It was almost midnight, and his favourite cheese toasties were all gone, so he settled for the onion and cheese one that he liked second best. Of course, his first love was skateboarding. You could count on him to find something extremely embarrassing. It was completely in line with the emo phase he went through later, when all he listened to was Linkin Park, and thought that his middle school life was the epitome of existential dread.
He moved on to grab himself some oat milk now as he thought back to that memory. After an entire week of begging and tantrums, his parents had finally agreed to get him a skateboard. This was back when they were still present just enough to say no to the slightly dangerous requests he made because what if you broke a bone or hurt your pretty nose Ryouta? Those days were long gone by the end of high school when he could cut his coke into neat little lines with his mother’s credit card on her dresser, and she wouldn’t be around to notice.
But his love for skateboarding was pure and innocent and very, very fleeting. After all, Ryouta hadn’t always been good at picking up skills like he was now. So when he broke his left hand two months into his skating adventures, his parents had Mrs. Sato pack the skates and helmet into a little box to be given away to some other child who could have their own shot at breaking a couple of limbs. But no more skating for Ryouta — he was their golden boy after all, and he had beauty pageants to win, and clothes to model for his local store so that his parents could keep up the Asian tradition of bragging to their friends about how much better their kid was.
He fell in love many times after that. His second love, which he discovered in elementary school, was badminton. He played with a passion. Mrs. Sato would joke that he would become an Olympic badminton player, and in 2004, he watched the recently added Olympic sport on TV with bright eyes and fire in his heart. He remembered his elder sister nagging him for the remote because badminton was boring; and Dragon Ball was so much better. Mrs. Sato had her hands full that season, breaking up their fights when it got nasty. He’d joined the school’s badminton team soon afterwards and improved at a rate much faster than kids his age until they had him playing singles with the older kids.
And then one day, badminton lost its shine.
He found comfort in the sweet pull of swimming then. Learning to float was simple enough. Learning freestyle was easy too, once another guy in his school showed him the correct form. He copied it immediately. Backstroke and breaststroke were a breeze as well, and though butterfly posed a bit more of a challenge, it wasn’t something he couldn’t figure out after a week of practice. He spent a few months engaged in swimming before the fire went out again.
By now, his parents had him pegged as a jack of all trades and a master of none, which was true in some respects. Sure, he was no Olympian, and had he stuck around and trained long enough, he would definitely meet giants in the field who would outclass him in every way. But the thing was that there was no immediate threat to him when he picked up a new sport. It wasn’t hard to copy the moves of all the people around him and even surpass them. So nothing stuck. And suddenly it was like someone had poured a bucket of cold water over him, and whatever love he felt for any sport was gone.
Standing at the checkout of the grocery store now, he remembered how it was around 2012 that his parents decided to move their entire existence from Tokushima to Kanagawa. For a few months in the first year of Teiko Middle School he played soccer. This time around, it wasn’t so much love, but more a matter of convenience. He simply wanted an easy A in his gym class, and kissing up to the coach by being a good player was the quickest way to do it. It wasn’t like his grades in the rest of his classes were all that great around this time. His parents were mostly overseas; one of his sisters had already gotten married and moved out, while the other one was busy preparing for college entrance exams. Mrs. Sato didn’t follow them from Tokushima to Kanagawa, so there wasn’t really anyone to keep his ass in line when his grades started tanking. The teachers threatened to call his parents. Good luck trying to reach them, he thought. But gym class was child’s play for him. And making money with modelling was easy too, so he kept at it. And he can't say he didn’t enjoy the attention.
Then soccer soon lost its shine. He was all alone again. He thought he’d try to find comfort in the arms of his first love, one that he hadn’t left but had been forced to part with. He never tried skating again though because he knew that his first love would lose its shine too. Instead, he spent his time feeling numb and lying on his bed listening to the static filled sounds of his earphones playing songs that reminded him of his puppy love for skateboarding.
After a few months of feeling like he was reliving the same day over and over again, he was just quietly walking down the hallway of his school when he was whacked across the back of his head with a stray basketball. He scowled and turned around to see a tanned guy in a black jersey, drenched to the bone. The guy waved at him, not looking the least bit sorry for assaulting him with a basketball, even as throwaway apologies left his lips.
“You’re that model, Kise, ain’t ya?” the guy had said as Kise had passed the ball back to him. Curiosity had gotten the best of him as he watched the guy run back to the court. Ryouta followed him, only to watch the tanned guy easily pass two other players and do a flashy dunk against the final opponent. His moves were so agile and effortless, as if he were made for basketball. Or maybe basketball was specifically crafted for this one man. And Ryouta felt that spark in his chest again, wondering if he could ever copy those moves. He knew that he had found someone amazing whom he wanted to play with.
He didn’t know then whether it was basketball that he fell in love with, or the blinding sun that was Aomine Daiki, but he knew that this love would eventually betray him too.
Ryouta smiled at the memory as he walked home holding his small bag of groceries, shivering because of the slight chill in the night air. On nights like this, the sweet pull of nicotine was hard to resist, and what reason did he really have to resist it anymore? It wasn’t like he was playing ball anymore, it wasn’t like there were one-on-ones to be had with the boy that looked like the sun, it wasn’t like his captain was going to ruffle his hair and congratulate him on a good game— he cut that line of thinking before it spiralled into something he didn’t want to remember. He was past this phase, and he still had his career to look forward to. And many things to live for.
He dug into his pocket and grabbed a haribo straw from the packet to keep his mouth busy. It wasn’t ideal since it was so packed with sugar. But he honestly preferred it to gum which turned into a bland blob after the first few minutes of chewing until he felt like he’d rather just smoke a cigarette. He was lost in his head as he walked down the street towards his apartment in the West Ridge area, which was why he didn’t notice all 200lbs of Aomine Daiki running straight at him.
“What the fuck? Kise?”
As much as this was the last person that Ryouta wanted to see, he couldn’t deny that it felt good to hear his native tongue after so long.
“Aominecchi,” the familiar nickname slipped out before his brain could catch up to his mouth, but it must have been what Aomine wanted to hear since the guy cracked a small smile. “Hi.”
“Didn’t think I’d bump into you here,” said Aomine looking almost confused, and Ryouta just nodded along dumbly, taking in the details of the guy he hadn’t seen in the last five years. He seemed to have grown even taller than before, though Ryouta himself wasn’t too far behind — just an inch shorter, unable to ever close that gap. In terms of muscle though, the gap was much wider than in high school. Aomine was a professional basketball player, after all. And from the looks of his joggers and sweaty compression tee, it seemed like he was out for a midnight run.
“You look good. Didn’t realise you were in the US,” Aomine said after a beat of awkward silence. Of course he wouldn’t. Ryouta had blocked him on all socials years ago. He tried not to think about that. He knew it was a risk coming to Chicago since this was Aomine’s home turf now that he was with the Bulls, but Ryouta had honestly thought that there would be no chance he’d bump into the guy. After all, what NBA player would be enough of a plebian to be running on the streets instead of in an expensive gym, right?
“Yeah,” mumbled Ryouta, a moment of awkward silence passing before it was so unbearable that he decided to make small talk about Aomine’s life. “So, how’s the NBA? The Bulls been treating you good?”
“Yeah. Yeah, they have,” said Aomine, looking pleasantly surprised. “Didn’t know you’d kept up with what I’ve been doing.”
“Kind of impossible not to when your face is the one plastered on the TV and on billboards now,” he said, not ignorant of this role reversal between the two of them from the time they were in high school.
“Yeah, I suppose,” Aomine said with a small smirk, a hint of pride in his voice. And why shouldn’t he be proud; he had accomplished what he’d always wanted to do, what he was destined to do since he first touched a basketball. “What about you? Have you been good? What are you doing in the States anyway?”
Good? He hadn’t been good. But Ryouta twisted his face into something he hoped resembled a smile and answered, “It’s been great. Just the same old. Fashion designing mostly, but the occasional modeling gig.” Truth be told, he had grown overconfident modeling in Kanagawa where he could outshine his peers simply because he had a pretty face. But once he came to the US, the competition in the industry was cruel and ruthless and the fire he had just faded into the background without so much as even a flicker. Since then he had been slowly transitioning to more and more things that required him to be behind the camera rather than in front of it. He liked the creativity and the freedom, he reassured himself.
“That’s nice. I could show you around sometime if you’d like. Just so you get a hang of the ropes,” said Aomine, shifting his weight from foot to foot, making Ryouta wonder if he was in a hurry to rush off after some quick small talk.
“I’m good. I think I know the city pretty well,” said Ryouta dryly.
Aomine furrowed a brow at that. “I thought you’d need some help adjusting after just moving here.”
This wasn’t a conversation that he wanted to have, but it was just a ticking time bomb waiting to happen since he had the misfortune of getting caught by Aomine in the middle of the street in Chicago. All because he was distracted and took a different route from his usual haunts near his house. “Ah. I’ve been here for a year, Aominecchi.”
The silence that followed could only be described as tense, as Aomine’s lips cinched, shoulders pulled tight while he processed this information. Ryouta wondered what was going through the guy’s head. Was he going to ask why he hadn’t met up with Aomine if he had been in Chicago this whole time? Was he going to chide him for not even bothering to drop a text announcing his move? Was he going to scream and demand to know why Ryouta hadn’t even fucking kept in touch for the last few years? But the fire that appeared in Aomine’s eyes for a split second was snuffed immediately, shoulders slumping with a quiet reticence. Ryouta imagined that a younger Aomine would have blown his top and demanded to know why, but this quieter, mature version just gave him a small sigh.
“Right. The offer still stands though. We could hang out sometime, you know? Like old times.”
Despite everything he’d told himself about keeping his distance over the last five years, Ryouta found himself nodding, just because it meant that he would get to see the lazy smile on Aomine’s face that materialised whenever something went his way. “Okay,” he agreed. It was one thing to ignore Aomine and live his own life separately when he didn’t have to face the guy, but it was a whole different ball game to try not to get sucked into the guy’s orbit when he was right in front of him. And call him weak, but when it came to Aomine, Ryouta was no better than some space dust trapped in Saturn’s orbit, meant to circle around forever, never reaching close enough to touch.
“Sweet. We can meet this weekend. If you’re free. Pop your number into my phone,” said Aomine, digging around for his phone in his pocket. It slipped out of his grip and he dropped it on the ground smashing it to bits.
“Fuck. Sweaty palms,” he said as he reached down to grab the device which was now a useless hunk of metal with a shattered, glitching screen. “Ah fuck,” he cursed again, frowning at the device like it was the phone’s fault. Aomine pinched the bridge of his nose before gazing at Ryouta. “I guess I can put my number into your phone then.”
“Careful with my phone, butter fingers,” Ryouta couldn't help saying as he passed his phone over to the other, who rolled his eyes. He didn’t know why he said it; couldn’t resist the pull of the familiar playful banter he once had with the other man.
“We can plan something for this weekend. You’ll call, right?” said Aomine, as he passed the phone back.
“Of course,” Kise murmured, not looking at the man smiling across from him anymore. This older version of Aomine didn't quite grin like he used to in Teiko – hadn’t done that ever since he started high school – but even his small smiles made Kise want to avert his eyes because it felt too much like staring into the blinding sun.
Predictably, a month passed by, and he never called the number saved on his phone.
---------
It was one of those days where working in this industry honestly didn’t seem worth it, especially with most people in the field getting laid off every 5-6 years. Not to mention that Ryouta had accidentally overslept and was late to come into his work, making him his manager’s target for the day. She was piling him with unnecessary tasks that could easily be delegated to an intern, all of which had deadlines this week. The egregious amounts of caffeine in his body was doing a good job of keeping him awake for now but its side effect meant that every cell in his body was vibrating with the urge to run away from this nightmare scenario.
Because what the hell was Aomine doing here in his company’s studio?
“Hey,” Aomine called out, walking up to Ryouta with his hands shoved into the pockets of his acid washed jeans.
“What are you doing here?” It sounded almost snappy coming from Ryouta’s mouth but he didn’t want to see Aomine at his place of work. He honestly could do without seeing Aomine ever again; because after their chance encounter last month, the guy kept invading his thoughts like he was an annoying tumour that refused to go into complete remission.
“I’m just here for a shoot. I’m launching my own brand of basketball shoes,” Aomine said with a shrug, motioning behind him where a few members of the studio were setting up some of the products for pictures.
“Right,” said Ryouta, grabbing the files and props he needed from this studio so he could leave quickly, but Aomine just fell into step with him, following him out. He gave the guy an incredulous look. “Don’t you have to be there for the shoot?”
Aomine just shrugged. “They’re doing macro shots of each shoe. Not like they need me for that. We’re not doing any shots with models today.” He paused. “Speaking of which, I’m looking for models.”
“I’m sure you could ask around in the company and they’ll recommend some models to you,” Ryouta deflected, because he knew what Aomine was asking. He hurried over to his desk, frowning as Aomine followed him over to the cluttered workspace full of drawings and paperwork, picking up one of his designs and looking at them. Of course the guy still had no qualms about touching things that weren’t his and poking around in other people’s business. Ryouta remembered how Aomine would visit his house when they were in middle school and just rummage around in his fridge or borrow his magazines to stare at the swimsuit models without asking for permission.
“Actually, I was hoping you would model. For my shoes,” said Aomine in his rich bass voice that used to make Ryouta's knees weak, but now it only triggered his fight or flight.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he mumbled hastily, rolling his chair back from his desk and sitting down on it.
“Why not?”
“Why not? I think the massive fucking surgical scar on my ankle would have something to do with it Aominecchi? Or did that conveniently slip your mind?” Ryouta couldn’t help himself from snapping, which made Aomine’s mouth pop shut. The muscles in his jaw clenched as he glared back at the blonde, but like the last time they met, he doused the fire in his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“You can wear longer socks,” he offered lamely instead of replying with a snarky remark. “It won’t show.”
Ryouta didn't have time for this so he just rolled his eyes and turned his laptop on, editing a project that he was working on.
“Come on,” Aomine said, his voice close to Ryouta’s ear as he leaned to look at the screen, invading his personal space. He grabbed the back of Ryouta’s chair, angling him to make eye contact. No fucking concept of keeping his hands to himself. “I wanted you to model for it. How about I take you out for lunch and we can discuss everything over a meal?”
Perhaps it was because it was a bad day from the start, or maybe this was just the effect that Aomine’s presence had on him now, but he felt drained.
“Please. I really don’t have time for this. I’m busy and I’m stressed and I don’t want to deal with this right now.” He stared at Aomine, feeling like he’d had a few years of his lifespan shaved off in the course of this conversation. Something about his tired tone must have told the guy to back off.
“Right. Wasn’t trying to be an ass,” Aomine mumbled apologetically, raising his hands in surrender and leaving Ryouta to stew over his work in peace.
He spent the day chasing down various people from the office for different projects, helping with a few shoots, meeting clients, and taking his scheduled 2PM menty-b time in a bathroom cubicle where he tried not to pull all his hair out. Then, after getting yelled at by his manager for not meeting a project deadline, he returned to his desk to find a cheese toastie and some strawberries with a note in Japanese that simply said ‘Lunch’.
It was easy enough to identify that it was from Aomine, given the lack of Japanese people in Ryouta’s company who could have possibly written him that note. Not to mention that Aomine’s lazy scrawl was still the same as back in Teiko — the guy really needed handwriting lessons. Running his thumb over the note for a few seconds, Ryouta wondered why Aomine Daiki was trying to barrel back into his life when he tried so hard to push the guy away. Why was it that one minute, he was a pushy idiot and the other, he was going out of his way to buy food for Ryouta. He contemplated not eating any of the things left on his desk. He didn’t want Aomine’s pity or charity or whatever this was, but the rumble in his stomach protested against the moral argument being made by his brain. Besides, it wasn’t good to waste food, was it?
He didn’t want to admit it, but eating did make his day a touch more bearable as opposed to his usual routine of skipping lunch, and by the evening he wasn’t as drained after work as he was every other day. I should thank him, Ryouta thought to himself, to be polite. After all, he did snap at the guy earlier because he was irritated and hangry. When he made his way down to the studio though, it seemed like Aomine and his team had cleared off because the shoot had ended a while ago. All that was left was an empty room with white walls, no trace of any activity as if Aomine had never even been there. Something akin to disappointment made its way into Ryouta’s heart and settled heavily in his body despite how much he tried to deny it, because it felt too much like being back in high school and watching Aomine’s back grow more and more distant until it was out of sight. As his legs carried him out of the building, he couldn’t help but tell himself that it was better this way. He was better off distancing himself like he had been the past few years. He had gotten so good at it too. Nowadays when he entered the room, his eyes didn’t automatically search for tanned skin and long limbs–
“Earth to Kise,”
He was ripped out of his thoughts by the familiar rumbling voice of Aomine Daiki, and the metallic jangle of a key spinning on the keyring as he twirled it around.
“Aomincchi? Didn’t the shoot end?”
“It ended a while back. I was going for a drive, if you wanted to join. I could drop you home after,” Aomine shrugged lazily. “Unless you’ve got a car parked around here somewhere.”
He was giving Ryouta an out, which was something so unlike a younger Aomine who used to be frank to the point of being rude. Honestly, after the day he’d just had, it didn’t sound half bad to be driven around for a bit.
“Fine. Let’s go,” he agreed, following Aomine into his Classic 1970 Dodge Charger which he definitely got because of his obsession with The Fast & The Furious franchise. When they were all teens, they used to have movie marathons geeking out over all the cool cars — especially Toretto’s Dodge Charger. Most of them idolised Toretto but Ryouta’s favourite used to be Letty, though he wouldn’t admit that to a bunch of teenage boys. He chuckled now thinking about it.
“What are you chuckling about?” Aomine asked as they sailed through the highway with the windows down.
“Just about how we used to fanboy over Dom when we were kids,” he hummed. “Isn’t that why you got this car?”
“Guilty as charged,” Aomine chuckled as he drove around aimlessly for a bit, trying his best to avoid the city traffic while Ryouta stared at the skyline. They drove in silence for a while until Aomine stopped at the pay-and-park at Montrose beach, getting out of the car and grabbing his jacket from the back, motioning for Ryouta to follow him. “Nothing better than some fresh tamales from the vendor here, and a nice lemonade,” he said as the two walked down the sandy beach. There were a few families walking with their dogs, and some teenagers scattered about roughhousing with each other. While it wasn’t exactly the same, the scene reminded him so dearly of sitting by the canal back home and skipping stones with all the guys after school, of feeding the fish swimming in there and watching in fascination as hordes of them suddenly swam up from the bottom of the river. Ryouta hadn’t been doing much outside of work lately, and the scene of happy families and teenagers hanging about in the golden glow of the dipping sun hit him with a nostalgia and homesickness so hard that he thought his heart might explode into a million pieces inside his chest.
“Sit,” Aomine said gruffly, tossing his jacket onto the sand. Ryouta eyed it hesitantly because it looked too expensive and nice of a jacket to just carelessly toss into the sand, but then money probably didn’t mean anything to Aomine anymore. He saw Aomine frowning at his indecision and sat down, leaving some space for the other guy. Instead of sitting next to him on the jacket, Aomine just plopped himself down into the sand, kicking off his shoes and munching on the tamales.
“So, I saw those designs you were making. The ones on your desk,” he says as he looks over. “They looked pretty nice.”
“I suppose,” Ryouta shrugged, sipping on his lemonade. “It’s just a little personal project on the side. Not really sure my manager would give me the green light to go ahead with something like that.”
“Hmm,” Aomine hummed as they watched the waves, and Ryouta could see the gears in his head turning. He was as unreadable as always. Aomine Daiki had always been an impenetrable wall and Ryouta would never be able to decipher his thoughts.
“I just wish she would give me a chance and let me make some of the designs I wanted to make, you know? I honestly joined the industry because I thought it’d let me be creative, let me explore something new and different,” he didn’t know why he was saying all this. But once the word vomit was out, he couldn't stop it. Stop it, stop it, he doesn’t need to hear this. "I came to the States because I thought that it would open up new doors for me. But all it's done is made me realise that no matter how hard I try, there’s going to be someone out there doing better than me. And that in the grand scheme of things, no matter what I do or what I create, it will just be completely insignificant. I’m just so sick of it all,” he said as he pulled his knees to his chest and rested his chest against it, sucking in a sharp breath. “Sorry. I got carried away and ranted.”
Aomine glanced at him from the corner of his eye, though he didn’t say anything as the waves crashed onto the beach. Ryouta forced his eyes ahead, watching the waves fling themselves against the shore endlessly, and he let the wind carry away the embarrassment of having laid himself bare. A particularly big wave pushed the water all the way up to where they were sitting. He could feel the water lapping at the tips of his shoes, slightly dampening the front. He watched in confusion as Aomine leaned over, and scooped some of the receding seawater into his palm then whipped it straight at Ryouta’s face.
“What the– you– I’m pouring my heart out here!” he said, lemonade and half-eaten tamales forgotten as he began to stand up. He kicked his shoes and socks off, hot on Aomine’s heels as he ran towards the sea. “Get your ass back here, asshole,” Ryouta shrieked as a laugh rumbled in Aomine’s chest, the two of them trudging deeper and deeper into the water.
“We can’t swim here after 7PM! It said so on the board outside,” Ryouta shouted as he gave chase, trying to hold back a smile. Aomine snorted at him.
“Do you see anyone about to stop us?” the NBA player taunted, kicking some water at him.
“Aominecchi, I swear if you get us arrested or—”
“Jeez, chill will ya? That rod that’s been up your ass for the last couple of years — you really need to take it out,” Aomine said, nose scrunched up. Kise kicked some water back at him in response, praying to Jesus, Allah, Shiva or anyone up there with some spare time, to please make Aomine fall on his face and eat dirt.
As he got chased around, Ryouta didn't try to fight the smile that was creeping onto his face, and focused on running. The two kept splashing each other with seawater until the sun started to disappear. Once the waves took a turn for the worse, it was time to call it quits. Unfortunately Aomine turned out to be too agile in the end, so Ryouta’s wish to see the guy eat dirt didn’t come true. When they walked back to the shore, Ryouta grimaced at the sensation of sand lodging itself between his toes where it would inexplicably remain for the next few days no matter how much he scrubbed them clean. He was about to turn around and crack a joke when he noticed Aomine’s eyes studying his ankle, eyeing the vertical surgical scar near his achilles tendon. The scar, which should have faded over the years, had instead turned into something resembling a curling rope due to the keloid nature of his skin. Red hot anger coiled inside his gut as Aomine’s eyes slowly dragged back up, and he thought that he would lose his mind if the guy looked guilty or apologised. Instead Aomine met his gaze with a cool arrogance, saying, “Loser’s buying ice cream,” before sprinting off.
Ryouta was thrown off kilter, chasing after him as he struggled to catch up as usual. Aomine was always like this whether it was basketball or life in general — completely pulling the rug out from under Ryouta’s feet, just when he thought he finally had a grasp on the other’s rhythm. Ryouta didn’t even feel like a sore loser as he handed over his money for two soft serve ice creams, and walked over to where Aomine was laying on the hood of his car, joining him. He wished he could make out the twinkling stars in the sky clearly, though the surrounding light from the city made it impossible. Still, his imagination could help him fill the blanks in reality as he stared up at the sparsely filled sky, his ice cream melting and leaking onto the crook between his thumb and index finger. He licked the bit of ice cream that was running off the side of the cone and charting a path of its own. He felt Aomine turning his head to look at him, though he continued to keep his own gaze pointed straight at the sky.
“Sure you won’t model for the shoes?” Aomine asked in a low voice.
“Are you doing this because you feel guilty?” Kise asked quietly instead of answering.
There was a moment of silence before he heard Aomine sigh and turn his head away, staring up at the stars as well. “Do you want me to say I don’t feel guilty, Kise? How could I not feel guilty?” he said wryly.
“It’s not your fault,” Kise exclaimed, propping himself up on his elbows, a drop of the ice cream falling onto his white shirt where it would definitely leave a mark. He grimaced, because this was his favourite shirt.
“How am I supposed to think it’s not my fault when you were playing against me? If I- I hadn’t been playing so aggressively, maybe you wouldn’t have ruptured the tendons in your ankle,” he said, getting worked up. “So yes, I do feel guilty.”
“It was just a freak accident waiting to happen. I should have taken better care of the ankle when I injured it during first year,” he replied, his face twisted in pain when he thought of Aomine carrying guilt over this for all these years. “It’s not Aominecchi’s fault.” He lay back down on the hood of the car, finishing his ice cream quickly since it had turned into a runny liquid inside the cone. “Seriously. Not your fault. I wouldn’t have forgiven you if you went easy on me, you know that,” he said again, hearing Aomine huff and turn away.
“Perhaps. But you wouldn’t resent me forever if I had gone easy that one time.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Ryouta said sharply, eyebrows pinching together. “I don’t resent you.”
“Aren’t you? I’m living your dream. The dream that we talked about every single day in Teiko, Kise. And you can’t tell me that you don’t resent me at all — that you haven’t resented me every single day of your life for the last five years seeing me standing alone on that court when you should have been there next to me,” said Aomine, voice thick with emotion. “So yes, I’d rather that you had been mad at me for going easy on you that one time than be here with you not talking to me for the last five years.”
Aomine wasn’t known for being a talkative guy and that was probably the most he’d heard from him since middle school but it seemed that he had really needed to get that across to Ryouta. And the man wasn’t wrong; somewhere deep down, he knew he resented Aomine, even though the injury wasn’t anyone’s fault. He didn’t blame Aomine for it, nor did he blame himself because he meant it when he said it was a freak accident. Mistakes happen when you’re playing a sport, and this had just been one of those mistakes. He didn’t wish ill on Aomine — he was so fucking proud of how far the guy had come. But on the nights when he watched NBA highlights alone in his apartment, when his ankle ached in the cold, when he cried himself to sleep thinking why me, why me, why me, he did resent Aomine.
The silence stretched uncomfortably until Ryouta found the need to break it because it was suffocating him. He didn’t know how he could get Aomine to understand that it wasn’t his fault, but he also couldn’t find it within himself to let go of his resentment for the pro player.
“I’m not really ready to talk about this with you. Can you please just- just drop me home, okay?” he found himself saying with a sigh.
Aomine looked like he wanted to argue, but he just clenched his jaw and gave Ryouta a hard look before getting up and unlocking the car. They drove towards Ryouta’s apartment in a tense silence that was only kept at bay by the blues music playing from the car’s speakers. That night when Ryouta got dropped off home, the weight in his chest felt worse than it had in years, and he found himself tossing and turning in his bed. However, for a split second before the sweet pull of sleep whisked his troubles away, he recalled the rhythmic splashing of the waves against the shore, the taste of fresh tamales and the sound of basketball shoes scraping against a court from a time far, far away.
---------
He should have expected this. Letting Aomine Daiki back into his life was a terrible idea. He felt a migraine coming on as he stared at the envelope that had been stuffed into his apartment letter box with the bastard’s name printed in bold letters. Ryouta snatched it, not caring that it got crushed in his hold as he dragged his feet up the stairs to the third floor where he lived.
Once every couple of months, one of his parents called him up and forced him to endure the most stilted and awkward phone call imaginable, and today had been that day. He didn’t know how it turned out this way; when he stopped being the golden child of the house and became…this. Maybe his family had always been this uncaring, dysfunctional mess, but the presence of his nanny, Mrs Sato, had filled the hole left by his parents. He still kept in touch with her occasionally, texting her to ask about her children and her family, though with every passing year their bond grew weaker. Whatever, at least he had his sisters.
Today hadn’t been good at all. His father had been the one to call this time around, vaguely mentioning that he was in Singapore, which was more his home base now than Japan. He’d enquired about the projects Ryouta was working on, why he hadn’t been modelling, why he hadn’t been seeing a nice girl, when he was planning to get married—
Ryouta had to cut off that conversation before the mild existential dread turned into a full on panic attack. He felt like his nerves were fried, but as Ryouta reached the door of his apartment, he wiped the exhaustion off his face and plastered a smile instead. “Hi,” he said, walking in to greet his sister, since she’d arrived last night and was staying over at his place for a couple of days.
“You’re back awfully late,” said Rika, as she lay sprawled on his couch like she owned the place, even though she was just making a pit stop in Chicago before heading south for a conference. Ryouta scrunched his nose at her, plopping himself down on her feet and causing her to yowl in pain. “You ass!” she scolded him as he chuckled tiredly.
“Got caught up at work,” he said, yawning as he tossed his bag and the letter aside. The nosy woman’s eyes immediately landed on it and she snatched it, examining the name on it closely.
“Aomine?” she mumbles, wondering where she had heard the name before. "Wasn't that the name of that angry looking teammate of yours from Teiko? The one with shit for brains?” she asked, trying to pry it open.
Ryouta earned himself a kick in the stomach as he tried to snatch the letter back, and he curled up on the couch overdramatically, clutching his tummy. She pried open the envelope and gasped in surprise at two courtside tickets to the Bulls vs Pistons game.
“What– Courtside tickets?! To the game tomorrow?” she exclaimed, her eyes shining in delight. “This shit costs like $3000! Holy fuck, are you going?”
“What are you talking about?” Ryouta said, snatching the tickets from her and gasping, because why the hell had Aomine sent him this? Did he expect Ryouta to what — forget about the conversation they’d had on the beach a week ago and look him in the face again? Was he supposed to just smile and go to Aomine’s game like he didn’t resent the guy; like he hadn’t spent the last few years purposely avoiding Aomine’s matches because it hurt too much to watch him play?
“I’m not going to this match,” he said, stuffing the tickets back into the envelope.
“What do you mean you’re not going? Ryou, these are courtside seats we’re talking about,” she whined. “Come on Ryou, if you’ve got two tickets, I want to go too. It’ll be so much fun. Plus the tickets must’ve definitely cost a fortune.”
Ryouta pressed his lips together and wished she would just stop talking. “Yeah, but Aominecchi sent them. He’s asking me to come and watch him play. And I’m not ready for basketball again.”
“What? That little brat plays in the NBA now?” exclaimed Rika, because she’d only seen a fifteen year old Aomine who would occasionally come over to the Kise residence for a sleepover; though even at age fifteen he wasn’t little by any means, and had already grown taller than a university-going Rika. Ryouta has enough self preservation to not point this out and make the mistake of inviting all the wrath of his sister’s Napoleon complex in his direction.
Ryouta buries his face into the couch cushions. “Aominecchi’s been playing for the Bulls for a couple of years now. And I told you, I don’t want to go,” Ryouta murmurs, letting his bleach blonde hair splay out onto the fabric covering the cushions. He felt the exhaustion wash over him, dropping the upbeat act he’d tried to keep, to save face in front of his sister. The migraine was coming back as he closed his eyes. He felt his sister combing her hand through his hair, patting his head.
“Why don’t you want to go? Is it because of your leg?” she asked softly this time.
“It’s not– I don’t know. I guess,” he said with a sigh, letting her fingers scratch at his scalp and relax his body.
“I thought you’d want to go,” she hummed as she listened to what he said. “I remember how you really used to love basketball.”
“I still love basketball,” Ryouta protested, eyes flying open.
She gave him a questioning look. “Really? Because I don’t think you’re supposed to avoid the things you love.”
He shot a defiant glare at her which she returned with her own stubborn one, but the magical powers of being an elder sibling (coupled with the sharp pinch of her nails against his ear) defeated him, and he gave in.
“Fine. I’ll take you to the stupid game,” he said, cursing Aomine out in his head for ever sending those damned courtside tickets.
---------
Ryouta felt a sense of apprehension building in his gut as he sat under the glow of the stadium lights, squinting at the players clad in red. His eyes wasted no time in finding the familiar number on the jersey — jacket unzipped and signature frown in place as the player walked alongside his team and took his spot on the bench. One by one, the announcer called the players’ names, letting them have their moment of glory, and when the name Aomine Daiki was said, the man stood up with his signature bored look, walking onto the court and warming up as the crowd cheered. To everyone else, he was probably the picture of arrogance and overconfidence, but Ryouta could see that Aomine had changed. Yes, he was still arrogant — why wouldn’t he be when he had those skills — but he was also watching the other team carefully. He was looking at their plays, taking the time to actually warm up with his team and listening to his coach’s strategy, albeit begrudgingly. It seemed that somehow Aomine Daiki had actually become a team player.
The crowd sitting in the bleachers and the courtside seats were buzzing about with excitement, and Ryouta could hear snippets of conversation making predictions about how the game would go. Being in a stadium again after so many years was overstimulating, and instead of the buzz that he would feel before games, Ryouta recalled the last time he was ever in a stadium. He remembered the rush of adrenaline, the sound of cheers as he jumped up to block the dunk, a flash of jersey number 5, the unstable landing, and the sound of something popping that only he seemed to be able to hear. He tried to focus his attention back on the present, watching as the basketball commentators took their place in front of the camera and spoke to a live audience. He wanted to listen in but there was a deafening buzzing in his ears. The grip of his sister’s long nails on his forearm as she excitedly gushed about the Bulls felt like a thousand ants under his skin. He shivered at the unpleasant prickle of goosebumps rising on the nape of his neck as he turned his head and looked in his sister's direction. She was pointing at something or someone, but his brain was unable to comprehend it as if she was speaking in a language he didn’t know. The lights in the stadium felt like they were needles piercing his cornea as he tried to turn his head in the direction that she was pointing at. He dragged his gaze, but everything felt slow and choppy like his vision was at 4FPS.
With great effort he forced his eyes to the players, catching sight of jersey number 5. Head pounding, he looked up to see two grey eyes looking right back at him.
Ryouta blinked, not breaking the stare as the unpleasant buzzing in his ears ebbed away. He was surprised to find Aomine looking in his direction right before the tip-off. Not much changed in the player’s expression, other than the slightest hint of arrogance in his eyes and a smirk pulling at his lips before he focused his eyes back on the ball. There was a fire in his eyes, almost as if he was saying watch me.
Ryouta’s eyes were glued to him as the tip-off happened. He was aware that his sister was saying something to him about how excited she was for the game and his head nodded along on autopilot. When Aomine ran past three players and dunked the ball in a flashy show of his skills within the first minute, Ryouta was transported back to his first meeting with the boy that lived and breathed basketball. As the game progressed, everything around Ryouta fell away — the cheers of the crowd, the commentary on the loudspeaker, the feel of his sister’s hand gripping his shoulder when the game got intense — none of it mattered. He was on a different astral plane altogether where he was the sole spectator and Aomine was the only player on the court.
If basketball was a goddess, Aomine Daiki was her magnum opus, and she had crafted him in her image to show him off to the world.
Ryouta could feel that familiar thrum of excitement vibrating deep in his bones, begging him to go out onto a court right now. To copy those moves. He felt excited, even as he knew that anything he or anyone else attempted would simply be a cheap imitation of a phenomenon that was impossible to recreate. Did the people watching the game know that they were watching history being written? Did they know that this man was basketball’s very own muse; that every game he played would always dance to his tune, bend to his will, be prey to his whims — that it was impossible to recreate him, even for a copycat as skilled as Ryouta?
Ryouta didn’t know where the court ended and where his body began. Inside this stadium, everything was timeless and no matter whether it was the interval or the game, his eyes followed number 5. He had been sitting here for years on end and for barely a few minutes — it felt like eternity, but it was also not long enough. When Aomine’s eyes met his again right after he made the winning shot, he felt his body moving on its own, standing upright as the buzzer rang out. The cheering of the crowd was deafening, the flash of the cameras blinding. It was a sprawl of limbs as people patted each other on the back, spoke into the mic, congratulated each other on a good game and shook the other team’s hands.
All Ryouta could do was stand and watch, frozen in his spot. But the moment the celebrations were over, Ryouta’s feet had a mind of their own. A stab of guilt hit him when he gazed at his sister still sitting on the seat, but she had a grin plastered on her face.
“Go on then,” she said, chuckling at him and he passed her the keys to his car. Feeling grateful, he reached for his phone. He ran outside, dialling the new number that had been saved on his phone but never used.
“Play a one-on-one with me?” he found himself saying as soon as he heard the call connect and was greeted by the sound of an airy laugh. He could hear the chatter of a locker room of champions in the background.
“So eager after watching me play once,” said the voice on the phone. “You know I’ve got to attend celebrations with the team right? What makes you think I’m passing up booze and beautiful women?”
“As if you’d say no to this,” Ryouta found himself saying. As if he’d say no to basketball. That earned him another airy chuckle.
He heard Aomine say something to his teammates, followed by the sounds of groans and protests in the background before the man spoke again on the phone. “There’s a streetball court a couple of kilometres away. I’ll send you the address.”
The cab ride to the streetball court passed by in a blur, and Ryouta found himself pacing in anticipation when he heard the door at the edge of the chainlink fence open. Aomine was there, having swapped the sweaty jersey for a plain black one, but still retaining the original shorts. He tossed a pair of basketball shoes at Ryouta’s feet.
“Change. They’re my spares. We’re still the same size, right?” Aomine said, and Ryouta examined the shoes, nodding.
In record time, he changed into them, playing Aomine again as if they were back in Teiko and this was an everyday routine. They fell into a rhythm immediately, despite the fact that Ryouta was rusty after not playing for years, and Aomine was tired after having played an entire professional match. He was back in that liminal space again, where it was just the two of them and the court. Except, unlike earlier, Ryouta wasn’t a spectator anymore, he was a player. Little by little, he felt his muscles waking up again, every atom in his body screaming to reach for the ball, to defend the dunk, to block the crossover, to copy those formless shots he had seen during the match earlier. He was losing; of course he was losing against a professional basketball player but his mind felt more alive than it had in years. This is what he was built for, this was what Ryouta was meant to do all along; where he was meant to be all along.
He could see the irony of this situation. The last time he played Aomine in high school, it was so obvious that basketball didn’t love him back. Fate had cruelly stolen from him, injuring his leg and making him unable to follow Aomine down the path he had taken. Yet here they were on the same court again, years later, bonding over the very thing that drove them away. It was exhilarating.
Aomine’s eyes widened when Ryouta copied his move from earlier in the game and made the basket. A familiar grin found its way onto Aomine’s face, eyes shining with a challenge in them. Like he was saying so that’s how it is? He wasn’t going easy on Ryouta and the gap between their points was widening, but Ryouta could feel his own cheeks hurting from smiling. It was pure bliss, devoid of conversations. They didn’t need words to talk here.
When it ended, Ryouta couldn’t help himself from saying, “Another one,” and Aomine chuckled at the intense nostalgia of it all.
He had no concept of time as he kept playing, his ankle throbbing slightly. He knew it was protesting at the strain, the rest of his muscles joining it in screaming against so much activity after years of disuse, but he kept pushing through it. He didn’t know how long they played under the yellow streetlight illuminating the court, the world growing quiet around them as people went to bed. He had never understood it before, when people said that they wanted to be stuck in a particular moment of time forever, but he got it now. He wasn’t religious, but if there was such a thing as the afterlife, he prayed he got to spend it stuck in a loop of playing a one-on-one with Aomine Daiki over and over again for all eternity.
After a few games, his ankle was begging for a break, and Aomine seemed completely beat too. They flopped down onto their backs, leaving imprints of their sweat on the court like the snow angels they made during the winter trip to Hokkaido with the rest of the team. Ryouta glanced out of the corner of his eyes, the image of the current Aomine almost overlapping with his smiling 15-year-old self that made snow angels with him, lay on the roof of the school with him, and slept in the futon next to him on school trips. Though Aomine would probably never return to that blissfully happy middle school version of himself, he was also not the cruel boy from his high school years anymore. He was somewhere in between — still retaining that old arrogance, but with the passion for basketball rekindled — the thing that caused Ryouta to look up to him in the first place.
“I’ll model for your shoes.”
Aomine’s head snapped in his direction immediately. “You’re serious?” he asked, propping himself up on his elbows and staring in surprise.
Ryouta turned his body towards the man, wanting to joke about taking back his words, but found that he couldn’t destroy the small smile threatening to break out on Aomine’s face. “Dead serious,” he said, then added, “You better pay me well.”
Aomine dropped back onto his back, staring up at one of the flickering streetlights which was doing a poor job of illuminating the streetball court. “Nahh, consider this payment for the previous Maji Burger trip.”
“That was years ago!” Ryouta screeched, remembering how the last time they’d ever gone to Maji Burger together was when they were eighteen, right before his accident at the Winter Cup. He had forgotten his wallet, forcing Aomine to pay for his share of burgers.
“And? You still ain’t paid me back. You’ve built up seven years of interest on that loan, Kise,” Aomine snickered, and Ryouta shook his head at the idiot.
“You’re such a stingy bastard. The NBA not paying you well? Do you have to rip off an up-and-coming model?” Ryouta said, kicking Aomine’s shin.
“Up-and-coming model my ass. Kise, you’ve been modeling since you came out of the womb. Hell, I think you must’ve been modeling in the ultrasound images they took of you as a fetus,” Aomine said, clutching his stomach as he chuckled.
Ryouta couldn’t help but smile alongside him, chest feeling light and cheeks hurting from the pull of his lips. He stood up, dusting his trousers as he extended a hand to the man lying on the court. The warm hand clasped his, and he pulled him up.
“I’ve got to go now,” Ryouta said, not really wanting to. “Text me about the gig, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Aomine agreed, squeezing his hand before dropping it. They started to walk in opposite directions, Ryouta towards the street to get a cab, and Aomine to the parking, when the tanned player turned back. “Oi Kise,” he shouted, cupping hands around his mouth. “You’d better play me again next week.”
Ryouta turned back, grin splitting his cheeks. “You got it!”
Nothing could disrupt the high from his game for the next few days — not his angry ankle that was painful to walk on, not his terrible manager that kept piling on projects to his workload, and not even the gloomy weather as seasons changed.
---------
A couple of days after their one-on-one, he was meeting Aomine again to model for the shoes. Despite all the contract related paperwork and clashing schedules with Aomine having to fly out of the state for a match, they managed to agree on an evening to do the shoot. The shoot itself wasn’t too interesting, consisting mostly of still photography with a couple of action shots of Aomine playing against him. He got to wear long socks as promised so the scar wasn’t on display.
They couldn’t go all out while playing each other for the action shots though, since they were supposed to be focusing on making the product look good. Unsurprisingly Ryouta was dissatisfied and wanted to play Aomine, but the man looked at him and said, “Hell no.”
“What the- why?!” Ryouta whined in protest.
“I ain’t stupid. I can tell you’re favouring your left leg after we played,” said Aomine, crossing his arms over his chest. He must have noticed Ryouta was about to protest because he stopped him with a wave of his hand. “Cool it, I ain’t saying I’m not gonna play you ever, just that I ain’t doing it today, moron.”
“Fine, have it your way then,” grumbled Ryouta, having looked forward to playing him all day. He followed Aomine out of the court after the two bid goodbye to the photographer and other staff. Ryouta grumbled the whole way through about wanting to play ball.
“What the hell are we even supposed to do? We don’t have anything we like doing except basketball,” he said to Aomine, who gave him an incredulous look.
“What in the world are you on about?” said Aomine, stopping to glare at him in exasperation.
“I mean- we always just play ball,” said Ryouta, shrugging and feeling a bit awkward for being put on the spot. “We don’t have anything else in common.”
“You’re kidding me. Holy shit, I knew that you were stupid, but you must be stupider than I thought,” said Aomine, who had no problems speaking to him like they were buddies and not people who had spent the last seven years apart. “Do you even have a brain? For someone with such a nice face, you sure have no lights on in the house.”
“What are you on about?” Ryouta groaned.
“Nothing in common? Do you think I spent years hanging around you because of basketball alone? What about the times we had sleepovers and spent all night gaming at your house, hm? What about when I snuck out with you during camp because you wanted to make snow angels? Do you think I watched all of the Fast and the Furious films with you like fifteen times because we have nothing in common?” Aomine was almost offended.
Ryouta was embarrassed, because why hadn’t he realised this, so he just scratched his neck. “I guess I always just thought you hung around me because of basketball, ya know?”
“Hell no. That’s all you making up unnecessary shit in your head like always,” he responded, rolling his eyes as he fumbled around in his pocket for keys, forehead creasing.
“I suppose it is. I guess I got caught up in my head,” said Ryouta, letting out an awkward chuckle and catching the keys that Aomine threw at him, wanting him to drive. Ryouta looked around for Aomine’s Dodge Charger in the parking lot and found it parked under a light that had turned on seconds ago; the sky a deep orange as the sun started to dip. He unlocked the car, getting into the driver’s seat. He wasn’t sure where Aomine wanted him to take them, but he started the car anyway, driving down the street aimlessly.
“I’m sorry. I always thought you just wanted to play ball,” he said, keeping his eyes on the street, one arm resting on the steering wheel. “You were so obsessed with it and I assumed it was all you wanted to do. So I kept trying to get better at it. I liked playing with you. Always wanted to get to your level though I never did manage to catch up.”
“Are you kidding me?” Aomine scoffed. “You played basketball for what– A couple of years and you got that good? You would have beat me eventually, you know.”
After a moment of silence, Ryouta noticed Aomine turning towards him in his peripheral vision. “You weren’t at my level Kise, you were better. You were literally made for basketball.”
Ryouta shook his head as he drove. “Doesn’t matter. I couldn’t ever beat you in this life with my shitty leg now.”
Aomine scoffed at that, giving him an intense look that he couldn’t decipher before crossing his arms and turning to stare ahead. “Guess that just means we’re going to have to continue our rivalry in the next life then.”
“What?”
“And in the life after that. And then the one after that,” Aomine murmured. “So what if it got a bit messed up this time around? You know you’re meant to play basketball with me in every lifetime.”
Ryouta’s throat tightened and he couldn’t help but let out a chuckle at the absurdity of what the other man said. But he wanted to believe in it. “Is that so?”
“Hell yeah. So you better find me and challenge me to a one-on-one in the next life. I’ll be waiting,” Aomine said. “And in the meantime, you can get your practice playing me in this life whenever your ankle isn’t giving you grief.”
Letting out a shuddering breath, Ryouta nodded, unknowingly driving to the beach they went to last time. “Tamales and lemonade?” he questioned, tilting his head at his best friend.
“Sounds like a sweet deal,” Aomine responded as they got out of the car.
“Loser’s buying,” shouted Ryouta, catching the other off guard and using the element of surprise to reach the vendor first. Aomine jokingly grumbled about paying, despite having enough money to offer Ryouta a lifetime supply of tamales. They walked to the same spot as last time to enjoy the golden hour view.
A sense of deja vu hit him as Aomine tossed his jacket on the sand, motioning for Kise to sit down on it. The only difference was that this time Aomine sat next to him on the jacket. Ryouta could feel the heat from the man’s skin seeping into his, where their shoulders touched. He couldn’t help but remember the countless nights spent together with all the boys from Teiko, watching films side by side. He missed the sensation of sitting together like this after long days spent playing basketball under the sun. He couldn't help but turn his head to the man next to him, comforted by his familiar scent which hadn’t changed despite the countless years spent apart. His mind was invaded with the scent of their childhood classroom, of the manga collection in the corner of Aomine’s room that he loved to borrow, of the wooden walls of their school’s basketball court after a rainy day, of his new jersey that he was really excited to get once he joined the first string, of Momoi’s perfume as she hugged him after a game, of the aftershave in Aomine’s bathroom.
“I think I fucked up somewhere,” Ryouta found his mouth spilling his vulnerable secrets despite how much he wished to guard them, “I wish I could go back and change everything,” he struggled to whisper past the lump in his throat. He wanted a second chance — a do over — so that he wouldn’t make the same mistakes again.
Aomine hummed in response, looking ahead and watching the sun dip halfway into the sea. “Well, the best time to make a change was back then, almost a decade ago” he said, the warm glow of the setting sun making his dark skin appear like liquid gold. “But we haven't quite figured out time travel, so the second best time is now. So how about a do over starting today?”
“That…sounds good. As long as you’re there,” he responds, wincing when his voice wavers. Aomine doesn’t point it out.
“Of course I’m there. Told you, this is practice for the next life, right? So you can kick my butt?”
“Of course,” Ryouta responds, holding out his plastic glass of lemonade towards Aomine. “Cheers to our next life?”
“Cheers.”
---------
Kise Ryouta’s last love was one in a million. It was a love like no other — the ones before it didn’t even compare. He had tried everything to make this love answer him in kind; he had trained every day in high school, done drills, watched games on repeat, ate right, slept well and practiced combos with his team. The sharp pain in his ankle after the match that ended with him in a doctor’s office was enough to tell him that his love was unrequited. The pain that returned on cold nights or when he watched NBA matches on TV was enough to remind him years later that no matter how much he called out to his love, it wasn’t enough. Time didn’t heal old wounds.
The loss of this love was like losing a very part of his soul. It made everything feel more bleak, laying his empty life bare in front of him. He turned to other things to fill the hole it had left; from skipping classes in school, to engaging in reckless use of drugs in university, to chasing a high from a new hookup every night after work. Nothing helped. When the opportunity for a distraction presented itself — a job in Chicago, away from the worried eyes of his old teammates and his sisters — he didn’t hesitate to take it. The struggles of adapting to a new city with a new language did nothing to deter the grief that threatened to take over him. Before he knew it, his days blended together until he fell into a rut that he couldn’t break himself out of. The love he grieved was like a whirlpool, and he was helplessly getting sucked in, unable to swim against the current. It was like the quicksand out of his childhood fears that he was perpetually worried about falling into, and he didn't have a lifeline to pull him back out. As days turned into weeks turned into years, the grief in his heart had enveloped his very being and become him.
But now, sitting on the beach with his eyes finally adjusting to the once-blinding sun — now a soft, golden glow he could meet without flinching — he no longer felt like was chasing the echo of a love that never called back.
It was right there beside him, and had been staring him in the face all along.