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“Midorima,” Seijuurou’s voice hits Shintarou’s ears like a stampede, and the same magnitude of emotions washes over him when he turns around to meet the familiarly intimidating eyes that put him in his place all those years back.
“Akashi,” Shintarou says in return.
“Kise and Aomine are…?”
“Not here yet.” Shintarou checks his watch.
The generation of miracles is not known for punctuality, especially with Daiki’s unnaturally lethargic sleeping habits and Ryouta’s impossibly busy schedule.
“I suppose we’re the first ones here, as usual.” Seijuurou lets out an easy smile, Shintarou’s expression doesn’t change to reciprocate.
Daiki’s and Ryouta’s tardiness is nothing new, and Shintarou knows it. He foresaw this awkward reunion with Seijuurou. No matter how much he prepared himself for this moment, Shintarou still finds himself at a loss for words. He opens his mouth to say something, then clenches his jaw.
Seijuurou blinks twice before crossing his arms. “Midorima, it’s me.” He uses a more aggressive pronoun to refer to himself. Shintarou knows very well that his old personality long faded away, but he still looks away. His collar feels unbearable all of a sudden.
“Welcome back,” is all he can say.
“Yes… it’s good to be back.”
---
Dribble. Pass. Sprint. Screen. Sprint. Assess. Shoot.
Every biological being works in an organized system, and Shintarou is no exception. No matter what team, no matter what circumstance, he believed that if he stuck with his way of doing things, victory would be assured. Each step is calculated and systematically analyzed, every breath is accounted for; trust was never a variable in this formula he measured for success.
That is, until Kazunari came along. Through him, Shintarou opened his eyes to trust—to the possibility that victory wasn’t everything. The two practiced hard every day, building trust upon one another, until they were completely in sync. They were unstoppable.
In this team, however, Kazunari is not the starting point guard.
“Midorima.” Seijuurou briefly makes eye contact with him before deftly passing the ball. It whizzes into Shintarou’s hands point blank, who instinctively gets into position and effortlessly sinks in another three. His teammates yell and cheer, while Seijuurou jogs to the other side of the court.
“Wonderful shot, Midorima.” he murmurs as he runs past him. Something flutters inside Shintarou’s stomach. “Perhaps we can be this team’s light and shadow.”
Though Seijuurou is the starting point guard, Shintarou finds himself trusting him all over again despite the nagging voice in the back of his mind—he might come back; he might discard you again.
“Being a shadow never suited you, Akashi.” He says to nobody in particular.
---
“Shin-chan,” Kazunari whines during the water break, “I can’t believe you’re replacing me.”
“What is there to replace?” Shintarou says, raising his water bottle to his lips. Kazunari huffs.
“That is the worst thing to say!” he exaggeratingly pokes Shintarou’s side until the latter chokes on his water. “I can’t believe you’re replacing me and you’re not even acknowledging our relationship!”
“Takao!” Shintarou splutters, “This is a breach of personal space!”
“What space? You’re all muscle and ego!”
“That doesn’t even make any sense!”
“You don’t make sense, nanodayo.”
"Stop cackling, you fool!"
In the heat of the bickering, Shintarou unconsciously looks at Seijuurou a few feet away. Seijuurou’s unreadable eyes meet his, and Shintarou cannot read anything from his unwavering gaze.
---
“Midorima.” Seijuurou calls out from across the court after a play.
Midorima jogs over. “Yes?”
“I was thinking.”
“And?”
“We should try what you did during our match last year in the Winter Cup preliminaries.”
Seijuurou’s eyes are blank as he suggests this, no action betraying any emotion or intention. Midorima straightens his back. “It isn’t guaranteed it will work out.” He says, looking away.
Seijuurou’s eyes narrow ever so slightly, and his easy smile tightens. Shintarou remembers this look—the subtle nuances that suggest that Seijuurou is Not Happy.
“It never hurts to experiment.” Seijuurou says, passing him the ball. The ball cleanly enters the space between Shintarou’s hands. “Do you not trust me?”
“I do.” Shintarou says in a heartbeat. He sees his reflection in Seijuurou’s eyes; his own ferocious conviction stares back. The two keep eye contact, and for a moment, it feels like the quiet gym in Teikou hours after team practice. Shintarou’s heart beats painfully in his chest. “You know I—“
“Akashi! Midorima!” Coach Kagetora yells from the other end of the court. “There is a game going on here!”
Shintarou turns back to face Seijuurou, and Seijuurou’s face slips into something more expectant.
“Well?”
Shintarou’s arms twitch in anticipation. The nagging voice in his mind raises its metaphoric fists in protest, but Shintarou pays it no mind.
“It never hurts to try.”
---
“God, you’re so shameless Shin-chan.” Kazunari sighs as Seijuurou once again passes the ball into Shintarou’s hands with electric speed, already mid-jump for the three-pointer. The ball launches high into the air and sinks into the hoop. The two had already scored 12 points in the last 30 seconds, which is a record. Probably in history.
Nevertheless, Kazunari smiles in spite of himself. The air is filled with heavy breathing and sweat, but Seijuurou and Shintarou’s smiles grow by the minute. By the third quarter, the two have broken out into wide grins every time they score a point. Oh boy, Shintarou’s grin is infectious.
“You’re a legend.” Seijuurou says.
“Only thanks to you.” Shintarou replies.
“Yo!” Taiga howls from the other side, waving his arms wildly. “Can you pass me the ball at least once, you frickin’ lovebirds?!”
---
After practice, Coach Kagetora calls the two over, much to their puzzlement. “I have a favor to ask of you guys.” He says seriously as the other members of Team Vorpal Swords shuffle out of the gym.
The two wait expectantly.
Kagetora’s face is sheepish, while scratching his neck. “Y’see, we don’t have uniforms for this weekend’s match…”
“No worries,” Seijuurou promptly says in reply. “I’m sure my father has a subcontractor in our conglomerate that handles textiles; I can easily contact them.”
Kagetora nods. “All’s fine and dandy for finances then.” He frowns. “However, we also need a design… and I’m not particularly that good in fashion.”
“Neither are we.” Shintarou says.
“We can try.” Seijuurou says.
Shintarou looks at him.
“Well,” Kagetora says, clapping his hands together. “Glad we could sort that out, thanks for the effort.”
Seijuurou smiles and parts with a quick ‘no worries,’ then beckons Shintarou to walk with him back home. Shintarou promptly goes to his side, and the two walk the familiar road down to one of the wealthier parts of Tokyo.
“Akashi…” Shintarou says slowly. “Do you know how to design uniforms?”
“I can’t say I’ve tried.” Seijuurou admits. “But a member of the Akashi family attains excellence in all aspects, so I suppose fashion can be a subset.”
“In theory.” Shintarou adds.
“You forget I had excellent marks in art back in Teikou.”
“We made popsicle-stick houses back then, Akashi.”
“We also drew things, surely a basketball uniform isn’t as monumental as drawing a human figure.”
Shintarou hums in agreement. Soon, the sounds of their shoes scraping the sidewalk fill the rest of the conversation. Shintarou’s sweat stained shirt suddenly feels like the standard Teikou PE uniform, and they are back in middle school once again. Back then, Shintarou vaguely remembers, their height difference was of 16 centimeters before, and now it’s grown to 22.
The years haven’t made Shintarou feel taller in the very least.
If he closes his eyes, Shintarou can hear Seijuurou’s breathing. Behind closed eyes, Shintarou sees Seijuurou, young and melancholic. His cheeks are round with baby fat, and his bangs slightly past his eyes, poorly concealing the perpetual hollowness that Seijuurou tries to hide. He turns his sanguine eyes towards Shintarou and smiles softly, dimples doting at his left cheek.
Suddenly, Seijuurou ages, and his smile twists sadistically and his left eye flashes yellow.
He opens his eyes again and glances at the present day Seijuurou, who is looking at him with furrowed brows.
“Is there anything on your mind?” Seijuurou asks.
“Just reminiscing.” Midorima says, looking away. He can never seem to look at him straight, can he?
“It has been a while since we got to walk together like this.”
Shintarou hums in agreement, preferring to listen to the gravel scraping his leather shoes.
“Midorima, there is something you want to tell me, isn’t there.”
Shintarou bites his lip. “Not particularly.”
“Shintarou.”
“Is there anything you want to tell me?”
Shintarou let that last statement out accidentally, resentment and discomfort simmering into a boil. He has forgiven Seijuurou, has acknowledged that the one who committed all the cruel crimes was not him, but another side. A defense mechanism. He does not, however, discount the handshake left out to dry after their match, and the frigid and distant looks he got back in Teikou when he offered a fist bump after their nth successful play.
It wasn’t fair. Shintarou did not tolerate injustice. No matter what he did, these lingering feelings still persistently hung above him, refusing to be swatted away.
His collar feels like a nuisance again, and Shintarou absentmindedly tugs at it while waiting for a response. Seijuurou falls silent.
“I’m certain you know I do.” he says, slumping his shoulders slightly. His eyes turn downcast. “But we both know no words I can offer will make up for my mistakes.”
Silence again. After some time, they both reach the familiar crossroad that branches into their respective houses. Shintarou clears his throat.
“Well,” he says, turning to face him. “I suppose actions can speak louder than words, no?”
Seijuurou looks up, his eyes recovering a faint glimmer of realization. “If my actions can still be received graciously, I suppose they can.” He says, a smile growing that makes Shintarou’s poor heart skip a beat yet again.
“It takes time,” Shintarou mumbles, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “But I am sure others will be open to such actions.”
Seijuurou extends a hand. “Well then, will you be open to this one?”
Shintarou’s heart swells in his ribcage, and takes Seijuurou’s hand in his own. Seijuurou’s hand is warm and calloused, and it feels like what it did all those years ago.
“My house?” Seijuurou offers.
“We need a design as soon as possible.” Shintarou agrees, heading left towards the Akashi estate. “…Seijuurou.”
They don’t let go of their hands until Shintarou feels the sweat forming and Seijuurou has to calm him down before he started palpitating.
(“Okay, who designed the jersey—everyone looks like a complete ass in it except for Akashi and Midorima.” Daiki grumbles the next day.
“I look pretty okay in it.”
“Shut up, Kagami.”)
---
Seijuurou wakes up one Friday morning before the match. He does his routine—brushes his teeth, takes a cold shower, and puts on his uniform freshly pressed. At six o’clock sharp, his phone beeps.
Fr: Midorima Shintarou
To: Akashi Seijuurou
See you in training later. Would you want to watch something afterwards? For old times’ sake.
Fr: Akashi Seijuurou
To: Midorima Shintarou
You already know my answer.