Ship/Character: Kise Ryouta/Kasamatsu Yukio Fandom: Kuroko no Basuke Major Tags: None Other Tags: attempts at flirting, way too many italics, Kasa is such a tsundere Word Count: 2,927 Remix Permission: This one is fair game!
A/N: I love these two so much, which is the main reason this got so out of hand. ^^; Thank you so much for this opportunity to write for them!!
***
Kasamatsu always takes the longer way home because it goes past the park.
He’s tried for several months now to convince himself that this isn’t the reason: the exercise is good for him after sitting at a desk or pacing at the front of a lecture hall all day, the route also takes him past the conbini with the best discount bentos, the train is too crowded at the end of a long day. Plenty of other reasons besides the tidy little park dropped in among the urban sprawl.
The park...has a basketball court.
It’s one of those minimal concrete ones, set up like an afterthought at the edge of the park’s boundaries, and it always seems so tiny to him even though technically it is a full-court. It’s true that concrete just doesn’t echo like parquet, and there’s no dome of a ceiling above to magnify the squeal of rubber soles and the rhythmic heartbeat of a dribbled ball.
Not that he spends much time thinking about it.
There’s not that many kids in this neighborhood, so even on days like today when Kasamatsu manages to finish grading papers early and head home mid-afternoon, the court is more likely to be empty than occupied. Sometimes he’ll walk a little slower (to give his feet a rest) if there’s a pickup game going on, listening to the scuffle and shout of voices tearing up and down that concrete rectangle.
But today, as Kasamatsu approaches the low brick wall and stand of trees that mark the park’s border, he doesn’t hear either deserted silence or the good-natured shouts and curses of teenagers. He hears...well, it sounds like a full on mob.
There’s a whole horde of people crammed in around the court, it looks like, and his first thought is that there’s a fight going on and he’s going to have to try to remember where the nearest police box is. But the majority of the voices making up the clamor sound distinctly female, and as he gets closer it’s clear the crowd’s energy is all wrong for a fight.
Then he sees the camera equipment and it all clicks. So they’re filming here for something, then--a drama or a documentary, or maybe a music video.
In spite of himself, Kasamatsu can’t help lifting up onto the balls of his feet a little as he skirts the park, trying to catch a glimpse through the gaps between shoulders and arms. He’s not quite as sensitive about his height now that he doesn’t spend his days shouting up at ridiculously tall people, but in times like these it was still mildly irritating to have to crane his neck to see over a crowd--it’s kind of ruining the apathetic passerby persona he’d been trying to cultivate. Aside from the crowd itself, there doesn’t seem to be a lot of movement going on on the court, although if it’s a quieter TV drama scene…
And then it’s like a tunnel briefly opens up, a line of sight for his eyes only, and he sees a flash of bright blue and the sun catching on blond hair, gold hair--
Kasamatsu can’t breathe, for a moment, like something has simultaneously kicked him in the chest and dragged him backwards in time by the scruff of the neck. They’re just colors, just two colors, but for a moment he’s back inside a gym, and the afternoon sun is the floodlights and the concrete is parquet and all around him is blue. Blue...and that one spot of gold.
His fingertips itch with the memory, the imperative, of passing the ball.
He starts walking again, needing to get past the park before anyone sees him over here having some kind of--episode--over a stupid sense memory from years ago. Over some blond foreign actor in a blue shirt who’s probably just filming for a TV episode.
But before the court is out of sight, before the crowd’s murmur fades away, Kasamatsu can’t stop himself from looking back one more time. Just...to check.
The angle is different, from further down the sidewalk, and he can see much better now. He can see the spidery black camera stands, the backdrops hung on steel skeletons. A woman with such a bright dyed pink streak in her hair that he can see it all the way from over here, pointing at various things with authority.
And he can see it’s not a blond foreigner filming for TV.
He doesn’t think it’s possible that Kise has gotten taller, so he’s forced to chalk the fact that it takes him by surprise all over again up to the four years since the last time they saw each other. He still moves the same way, with the obvious excitement and energy in his limbs tamed down into competent grace.
And he’s wearing what Kasamatsu is pretty sure is a blue basketball jersey, and it makes him dig his nails so hard into his palms that they sting.
He’s too far away for more details than that, too far away for Kasamatsu to be anything other than certain of who he’s looking at.
Far enough away to keep walking, if he wanted.
His feet are already carrying him back before he can consciously make that decision. So much for being an apathetic passerby.
It’s so dangerous to join the fringes of the crowd, so dangerous to be this close. He’s practically asking to be seen, to be recognized. On one level Kasamatsu knows this, and on the other he sort of feels like giving the finger to fate right now. You made me go home this way today. You put him here, in this park. You made me see him.
Now finish what you started, you bastard.
There are still a few people crowded around, but at some point it looks like the woman with the dyed hair had managed to disperse them somewhat, so Kasamatsu doesn’t need to crane his neck quite as much to see over the crowd’s shoulders.
For a moment, Kasamatsu’s stomach feels hollow at the realization that Kise is not actually wearing a Kaijou jersey, and then he feels like giving himself one of his own patented kicks for thinking something so ridiculous. Kise probably hadn’t even kept his high school jersey, and if he had, he certainly wouldn’t be allowed to bring it out to wear for a photoshoot.
He’s holding a basketball in the crook of one arm, the fingers of that hand idly brushing the fabric of the basketball shorts settled low on his hips. His other hand keeps changing position between shots: now resting at his waist, now outstretched like he was motioning to a teammate, now raking through his gold hair (Kasamatsu had to find somewhere else to rest his gaze during that shot). There’s something half-artistic, half-athletic about how easily Kise shifts between stances like they were basketball drills. It’s actually disgustingly unfair, in Kasamatsu’s opinion.
Then Kise changes angles, and in doing so turns to face the crowd more (to the squealed glee of the remaining onlookers). It also means that Kasamatsu is now directly in his line of sight.
There’s a beat between the moment their gazes lock and the moment recognition hits, and then the lazy, cocky model smirk drops off Kise’s face just as the stuttering click of the cameras go off for the next shot.
He looks so young like that, wide-eyed and startled, like he used to look when Kasamatsu had just snagged the ball out of his hands when he wasn’t paying attention during practice.
Kasamatsu watches Kise’s lips silently form the word ‘senpai?’ and oh. Oh, that’s--
Shit.
“Kise! What the hell kind of face was that?” cries the pink-streak woman impatiently, snapping her fingers at the cameramen to reset the shot. “Focus, the light’s starting to change and we’re not going to be able to make this deadline if we don’t wrap today!”
Kise pulls himself back together with such clearly visible effort that it makes Kasamatsu’s chest feel tight and warm. His left hand settles back on his hip, near the waistband of the loose basketball shorts, his other one going to his shoulder like he’s casually rubbing a kink out of his neck, loose and languid. He puts the model face back on, but Kasamatsu swears Kise’s eyes dart back to his once more before they refocus on the camera.
They keep going with the shoot from there, and after every shot, every pose change, Kasamatsu swears he’ll leave after the next one.
And then suddenly it’s over and he’s still standing there, as the camera crew starts breaking down the equipment and backdrops. And the pink-streak woman (his manager?) is talking to Kise now, but he just keeps glancing over her head at Kasamatsu like he’s making sure Kasamatsu is still there, probably not listening to a word.
Kasamatsu swallows hard. He could still leave, now, while they haven’t yet spoken--he hasn’t yet passed the point of no return. But he is wearing his nice dress clothes today; it would look kind of strange for a man in a suit jacket and slacks to go tearing out of the park at this point.
And Kise’s edging past his manager now, nodding rapidly to whatever she’s saying even as he’s jogging straight across the court toward Kasamatsu. It really does seem small now, with the way Kise’s stupidly long strides eat up that distance in seconds, and he’s not even fooling himself anymore, not really.
He’d passed the point of no return a long time ago, maybe even years before today.
FILL: TEAM GRANDSTAND, G
Fandom: Kuroko no Basuke
Major Tags: None
Other Tags: attempts at flirting, way too many italics, Kasa is such a tsundere
Word Count: 2,927
Remix Permission: This one is fair game!
A/N: I love these two so much, which is the main reason this got so out of hand. ^^; Thank you so much for this opportunity to write for them!!
***
Kasamatsu always takes the longer way home because it goes past the park.
He’s tried for several months now to convince himself that this isn’t the reason: the exercise is good for him after sitting at a desk or pacing at the front of a lecture hall all day, the route also takes him past the conbini with the best discount bentos, the train is too crowded at the end of a long day. Plenty of other reasons besides the tidy little park dropped in among the urban sprawl.
The park...has a basketball court.
It’s one of those minimal concrete ones, set up like an afterthought at the edge of the park’s boundaries, and it always seems so tiny to him even though technically it is a full-court. It’s true that concrete just doesn’t echo like parquet, and there’s no dome of a ceiling above to magnify the squeal of rubber soles and the rhythmic heartbeat of a dribbled ball.
Not that he spends much time thinking about it.
There’s not that many kids in this neighborhood, so even on days like today when Kasamatsu manages to finish grading papers early and head home mid-afternoon, the court is more likely to be empty than occupied. Sometimes he’ll walk a little slower (to give his feet a rest) if there’s a pickup game going on, listening to the scuffle and shout of voices tearing up and down that concrete rectangle.
But today, as Kasamatsu approaches the low brick wall and stand of trees that mark the park’s border, he doesn’t hear either deserted silence or the good-natured shouts and curses of teenagers. He hears...well, it sounds like a full on mob.
There’s a whole horde of people crammed in around the court, it looks like, and his first thought is that there’s a fight going on and he’s going to have to try to remember where the nearest police box is. But the majority of the voices making up the clamor sound distinctly female, and as he gets closer it’s clear the crowd’s energy is all wrong for a fight.
Then he sees the camera equipment and it all clicks. So they’re filming here for something, then--a drama or a documentary, or maybe a music video.
In spite of himself, Kasamatsu can’t help lifting up onto the balls of his feet a little as he skirts the park, trying to catch a glimpse through the gaps between shoulders and arms. He’s not quite as sensitive about his height now that he doesn’t spend his days shouting up at ridiculously tall people, but in times like these it was still mildly irritating to have to crane his neck to see over a crowd--it’s kind of ruining the apathetic passerby persona he’d been trying to cultivate. Aside from the crowd itself, there doesn’t seem to be a lot of movement going on on the court, although if it’s a quieter TV drama scene…
And then it’s like a tunnel briefly opens up, a line of sight for his eyes only, and he sees a flash of bright blue and the sun catching on blond hair, gold hair--
Kasamatsu can’t breathe, for a moment, like something has simultaneously kicked him in the chest and dragged him backwards in time by the scruff of the neck. They’re just colors, just two colors, but for a moment he’s back inside a gym, and the afternoon sun is the floodlights and the concrete is parquet and all around him is blue. Blue...and that one spot of gold.
His fingertips itch with the memory, the imperative, of passing the ball.
He starts walking again, needing to get past the park before anyone sees him over here having some kind of--episode--over a stupid sense memory from years ago. Over some blond foreign actor in a blue shirt who’s probably just filming for a TV episode.
But before the court is out of sight, before the crowd’s murmur fades away, Kasamatsu can’t stop himself from looking back one more time. Just...to check.
The angle is different, from further down the sidewalk, and he can see much better now. He can see the spidery black camera stands, the backdrops hung on steel skeletons. A woman with such a bright dyed pink streak in her hair that he can see it all the way from over here, pointing at various things with authority.
And he can see it’s not a blond foreigner filming for TV.
He doesn’t think it’s possible that Kise has gotten taller, so he’s forced to chalk the fact that it takes him by surprise all over again up to the four years since the last time they saw each other. He still moves the same way, with the obvious excitement and energy in his limbs tamed down into competent grace.
And he’s wearing what Kasamatsu is pretty sure is a blue basketball jersey, and it makes him dig his nails so hard into his palms that they sting.
He’s too far away for more details than that, too far away for Kasamatsu to be anything other than certain of who he’s looking at.
Far enough away to keep walking, if he wanted.
His feet are already carrying him back before he can consciously make that decision. So much for being an apathetic passerby.
It’s so dangerous to join the fringes of the crowd, so dangerous to be this close. He’s practically asking to be seen, to be recognized. On one level Kasamatsu knows this, and on the other he sort of feels like giving the finger to fate right now. You made me go home this way today. You put him here, in this park. You made me see him.
Now finish what you started, you bastard.
There are still a few people crowded around, but at some point it looks like the woman with the dyed hair had managed to disperse them somewhat, so Kasamatsu doesn’t need to crane his neck quite as much to see over the crowd’s shoulders.
For a moment, Kasamatsu’s stomach feels hollow at the realization that Kise is not actually wearing a Kaijou jersey, and then he feels like giving himself one of his own patented kicks for thinking something so ridiculous. Kise probably hadn’t even kept his high school jersey, and if he had, he certainly wouldn’t be allowed to bring it out to wear for a photoshoot.
He’s holding a basketball in the crook of one arm, the fingers of that hand idly brushing the fabric of the basketball shorts settled low on his hips. His other hand keeps changing position between shots: now resting at his waist, now outstretched like he was motioning to a teammate, now raking through his gold hair (Kasamatsu had to find somewhere else to rest his gaze during that shot). There’s something half-artistic, half-athletic about how easily Kise shifts between stances like they were basketball drills. It’s actually disgustingly unfair, in Kasamatsu’s opinion.
Then Kise changes angles, and in doing so turns to face the crowd more (to the squealed glee of the remaining onlookers). It also means that Kasamatsu is now directly in his line of sight.
There’s a beat between the moment their gazes lock and the moment recognition hits, and then the lazy, cocky model smirk drops off Kise’s face just as the stuttering click of the cameras go off for the next shot.
He looks so young like that, wide-eyed and startled, like he used to look when Kasamatsu had just snagged the ball out of his hands when he wasn’t paying attention during practice.
Kasamatsu watches Kise’s lips silently form the word ‘senpai?’ and oh. Oh, that’s--
Shit.
“Kise! What the hell kind of face was that?” cries the pink-streak woman impatiently, snapping her fingers at the cameramen to reset the shot. “Focus, the light’s starting to change and we’re not going to be able to make this deadline if we don’t wrap today!”
Kise pulls himself back together with such clearly visible effort that it makes Kasamatsu’s chest feel tight and warm. His left hand settles back on his hip, near the waistband of the loose basketball shorts, his other one going to his shoulder like he’s casually rubbing a kink out of his neck, loose and languid. He puts the model face back on, but Kasamatsu swears Kise’s eyes dart back to his once more before they refocus on the camera.
They keep going with the shoot from there, and after every shot, every pose change, Kasamatsu swears he’ll leave after the next one.
And then suddenly it’s over and he’s still standing there, as the camera crew starts breaking down the equipment and backdrops. And the pink-streak woman (his manager?) is talking to Kise now, but he just keeps glancing over her head at Kasamatsu like he’s making sure Kasamatsu is still there, probably not listening to a word.
Kasamatsu swallows hard. He could still leave, now, while they haven’t yet spoken--he hasn’t yet passed the point of no return. But he is wearing his nice dress clothes today; it would look kind of strange for a man in a suit jacket and slacks to go tearing out of the park at this point.
And Kise’s edging past his manager now, nodding rapidly to whatever she’s saying even as he’s jogging straight across the court toward Kasamatsu. It really does seem small now, with the way Kise’s stupidly long strides eat up that distance in seconds, and he’s not even fooling himself anymore, not really.
He’d passed the point of no return a long time ago, maybe even years before today.
CONTINUED