Chapter Text
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“Don't use that brush or you'll collapse the lines together and create a mess.” Niibashi Juuya ripped the paintbrush from the hands of a first year student who looked ready to pounce on his task master, until he met eyes with the brazen third year. His mouth shut, his knees buckled back down to the cloth draped below him, and he accepted the new painting instrument thrust toward him. “Wash that.” Niibashi instructed another boy who was walking by with a bucket of black paint. He also paused in surprise, but quickly acquiesced when Niibashi glanced up with a look that demanded attention.
If he was going to be here, Niibashi had told Kagiura Akira, he needed a group of pliable minds that would do as they were told and not offer complaints. This was a favor.
It was exhausting having a best friend and being asked for help and feeling this gutting urge making it impossible to say ‘no’. It was only because of that unexplainable guilt, which needled its way under Niibashi’s skin when Kagiura looked up from where he laid on his desk with pleading eyes and soft smile and genuine camaraderie, that he found himself hanging around in the gym after school, listening to the squeaking of rubber on wood as the Fujisawa South Second High basketball team ran drills.
Kagiura had looked like his life had ended, dragging his feet into class the day before. The problem had only been a matter of having a tattered old sign that the basketball team used when hosting a significant game. Easily replaceable. An unremarkable job that anyone could have taken on, but not everyone had a friend who oozed ‘help me’ with every elongated sigh.
It was surprising what small hiccups in his daily life could throw Kagiura off. Niibashi was sure the problem was instead going to be about Kagiura’s boyfriend telling him they had to reschedule a date or that he’d stained some shirt that he’d bought him the previous year so now all those memories were lost and he’d cry ‘Niibashi, we’ll never have that moment in our lives again!’ like the lovesick romantic he was.
The way that Kagiura loved was a mystery to Niibashi. He gave his whole heart unabashedly. He somehow knew from the very moment he’d seen Hirano Taiga that he wanted no one else but him. He yearned for him daily like a pining suitor wooing an eligible bachelor, as if they weren’t already together and they hadn’t already declared that they wanted no one but each other.
Was love always that way?
The only person that Niibashi ever felt indebted to was Kagiura, but not even in the slightest of romantic inklings. It was just a need to make sure he was fed and well and didn’t die of a broken heart because Niibashi didn’t know how to pick up those pieces; he liked his best friend in tact, thank you very much. He knew that Kagiura would be there for him, so he had to be there for Kagiura.
It was simple.
It made sense.
Love, Niibashi Juuya had decided, didn’t make much sense at all.
Neither did basketball.
He sat down at the head of the banner where he’d begun the process of outlining the lion-dog that would rest at the top of the piece. He glanced up occasionally at the practice that the first years, who he’d been allowed to dole out the menial labor of painting in lettering to, weren’t participating in. He supposed they weren’t the ones that were fending for their lives in this game that was so important to his friend. It was the third years’ last shot. While the drills seemed pointless as they didn’t actually practice the literal playing of the game, gaining scholarships and being scouted for collegiate positions, did made sense to Niibashi. Still, the way they went about preparing left him raising his eyebrows and wondering if they wouldn’t all have been served better by running a scrimmage match against another school that wasn’t competing against them.
Still, the athleticism was apparent. The work they’d put in was palpable. They cared, with every skid of their shoe as they ran back and forth, passing the ball to one another before shooting it from various areas on the court. He had seen them throughout his first and second year. Kagiura had convinced him to go to at least a couple of games each year because it meant something to him and he looked like he might cry if Niibashi hadn’t attended at least one. This was his friend’s passion. It was like inviting Kagiura to the art showcases for his club. That mattered to him, and Kagiura cared, so Niibashi had to at least sort of care about basketball.
It was what any friend would do.
While he may have still been confused by the majority of rules and regulations of the game, Niibashi did notice how much faster and more precise some of the members of the team had gotten in their third year. He paused after filling in a line here or there to see why the squeaks had gotten louder or why there was a hearty slap of appreciation as the players high-fived one another. There was Kagiura, obviously, who was the star of the team. Niibashi watched him direct some of the other players around as they approached the basketball. Hashimoto had grown to no longer hesitate at the basket, but charge toward it like a hungry lion. It was also interesting to see Takeda changing his death grip on the ball, which he used to squeeze like he’d never get another chance to hold it, instead letting go and trusting his teammates more than himself.
Niibashi found his eye drawn toward a player who had casually become as strong as Kagiura, though he didn’t call out or stampede around the court like the others whose energy exploded after bottling it up all day, just to release it here. Shirahama Kyouji had always been pretty reserved when Niibashi had watched the games, which was one of the reasons he stood out.
He wanted to be there, he clearly enjoyed the sport, and it came to him with an ease that it didn’t for some of the others. His growth was far subtler. There was a smile on his lips that Niibashi couldn’t recall having ever witnessed. It wasn’t as wide or all encompassing like Kagiura’s was, who bled orange and black, through the rubber in his hands, from his praise and leadership of his companions, straight to the court. Yet, it was there. It lingered after a layup and caught itself under his long gray bangs that clung to his forehead and hid the way it moved up to his eyes.
When the light from the open door slid across the court and caught Shirahama’s hair and the laugh that was barely audible among the movement of the players as they practiced, Niibashi wondered if he’d remember it long enough to sketch when he got home. Where was he standing? How much of the light spread across his cheek? How much silver did his hair have in opposition to the muted gray where it had faded against the bleach?
Where were his eyes focused before he noticed Niibashi looking at him?
As Shirahama’s head tilted further to look over at Niibashi, the volunteer artist knew he'd been caught in his reverie. His eyes widened and he looked back down at the brush that had sunk down into the paint tray, forgotten as Niibashi had wondered about the pose of a player in movement and the subtle lines that would tell a story about passion and dedication.
As he rummaged around for a scrap cloth to clean the handle of his brush, Niibashi heard a few quick squeaks and someone shout, ‘Pay attention, Kyo!’ before a few laughs covered the stumble. Niibashi’s eyes slid up through the curtain of pink that fell across his face as his hair parted from his plain view hiding position. Shirahama was taking in a strained breath, pulling back a ball from his chest and rubbing it, clearly having taken a direct hit. Another player patted him on the shoulder good naturedly, good sportsmanship overwhelmingly present in the room.
He still had that smile, too, even when he’d been sucker punched.
Lines Niibashi inexplicably wanted to trace.
The ball spun between Shirahama's palms, rewinding the moment until it paused, and he looked over the curves of orange and black to the boy with a paintbrush while he walked backward towards the beckoning players jogging down the court.
Niibashi truly didn’t understand basketball.
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