#i think what we have maybe all forgotten is that minnesota is very much still a midwestern state. with all the tornadoes that come with that

[adammilligan]

me spending way too much time researching tornado outbreaks in minnesota all for the purpose of giving adam some backstory in this fic i’m writing in what little free time i have is just proof that i am so so normal about him. i am not insane

[chosenimagines]

Move in love (Kendall Knight)

Universe: (D) Big Time Rush Summary: Reader moves to L.A. to become a famous actress and lives with her big brother and his friends Used Prompts: - Warnings: - Language: English

Request: Yes/No

Requested by JulzLovDraco4Eva (from Wattpad) The request was so long that I don’t want to put you guys through this.

Requests [Open]

A/N: My requests are open on Wattpad and Tumblr

🖊️    🖊️    🖊️  

️____________________________________________

The conversations of the people passing by mixed into a single, loud noise. I pulled my suitcase over the dirty floor of the airport. Tired and totally annoyed, I walked myself and my luggage through the free space between the travelers. It had taken six hours instead of three and a half hours to fly from Minnesota to L.A. I had been on the road for nine damn hours and I just couldn't do it anymore! I always found travelling to be incredibly strenuous. In Minnesota it was already 9 pm, but not in stupid L.A! 

It was 7 pm - theoretically time for dinner. That's why I wouldn't escape the hustle and bustle that I would be exposed to as soon as I found my brother in this hustle and bustle. After all, it was "too early" to lay down. Once again I stopped moaning. That had become my signature move today! Searching, I looked around - without result. Where was he? He had promised me that he would pick me up directly in the entrance hall as soon as I landed. Well... Maybe he had forgotten me! I picked up my travel bag again, took the handle of my suitcase and continued my way through the hall. Probably my brother was chilling with his friends - or his so called second family - by the pool. I couldn't blame him! It was quite hot in Los Angeles today, which you could only endure in the water. I would be alone- "Hey, little sister!" "LOGAN!" A dull bang accompanies my scream. I had dropped my travel bag. Logan embraced me. "You didn't seriously think I had forgotten you!" he chuckled softly. But the accusation resonated in his voice. "Maybe for a tiny moment...", I murmured. "You are unbelievable! That I missed you, Stupid.", Logan indignantly said, and I grinned at him as I gave him a slap in the back of the head. "And how he missed you! Logan has counted the days until you move!" Involuntarily, my fingers clawed into Logan's shirt. Kendall! Kendall Knight was here. At the airport. To pick me up. Mein Herz beat at an incredible speed. God help me! Why does this happen every time? every. cursed. be. I hated it! I hated that feeling because they were connected to a thought! He didn't feel the same... I quickly pushed this thought aside, because tears rose in my eyes. Today was not a day to cry, because today began a new phase of my life, which I was already incredibly looking forward to!

"Don't look so angry! I promise you will like the surprise." Who believes it! I rolled my eyes. "The last time you told me that, I was doused with paint and ended up in the newspaper, James.", I replied. James shook his head laughing. "You should get over it! Plus, we've all planned it, so you don't have to be afraid of color." Suspiciously, I look around and changed the subject. "What do we do in a park?", I demanded to know. "Because we picnic, stupid!" I would recognize this voice among thousands. "Katie, I missed you the most of all!" I said as I embraced her during the boys' protests. "Not true! You missed Kendall more." Inconspicuously, I cuddled them. Her big brother was not far from us. Katie knew about my feelings, but she liked to play on risk, whereby it was only calculable risks. I gave her a brief, evil eye, while she just grinned at me. Katie liked that I liked Kendall and she dropped obvious clues before Kendall. "Sit down, Y/N!", Mrs Knight offered me. We took a seat on the ceiling and started to whose. I got a feeling of homeliness! It was almost like we were in Minnesota.

"Too early...", I murmured. I rubbed my eyes. "Way too early!" Tired, I leaned against Carlos. James and Logan giggled softly while Carlos clumsy patted my head. "If you want to work as an actress, you should get used to earlier times of the day. You can ask Camille!" said Logan. He grinned broadly at me. "Who is Camille?", I nuzzled as I broke away from Carlos' shoulder and the five of us entered Roque Records. I threw at Logan a quick glance. I could have sworn that his cheeks turned pink. "She's my girlfriend!", he said quickly. His pace also accelerated, causing trouble for us to keep up with him. I may had hit a nerve! Now I decided to stick with that, but it was far from over! Logan could be sure that I wanted to know everything about Camille and wanted to know him. He hadn't mentioned a girl he liked. According to his reaction, she had to be special- "Who is she, what does she want here AND WHY IS THERE A STRANGER IN MY STUDIO?!" That had to be Gustavo Roque and the guys hadn't exaggerated! But Gustavo really had to be experienced for yourself. An unique personality... "Gustavo, don't get upset, because she's not a stranger!", Kendall began cautiously. His attempt to appease him had no effect. But nothing changed in the facial expressions of the producer. I would probably have to leave, sooner than I thought. "WHO is she then?!" "My little sister.", Logan interfered. At first Gustavo got the words stuck in his throat. Then Gustavo's assistant Kelly interfered, if I hopefully remembered the name correctly. "And of course your sister can stay here today!", she promised with a certain tone. Then she shook my hand. "I'm looking forward to meeting you! I'm Kelly." I smiled. "Y/N." After a short handshake, Kelly shied away from the four of them into the studio. "We have to start now!" Startled, the boys ran away. This made me laugh and I followed Kelly to listen to the rehearsal.

Someone behind me cleared their throat. Frightened, I winced and whirled around. Kendall! I didn't expect him. I had believed that he had gone with Logan, James and Carlos. Without saying a word, I stared at him. I had to look stupid! Still, I couldn't move. Kendall had a strange effect on me! It was like that to have feelings for someone. "Sorry, Y/N! I didn't mean to scare you. But..." Kendall's voice was lost. Again he cleared himself. "Can we talk for a moment?", he wanted to know. I nodded incapacitated to put out a single word. Kendall pulled out a stool from under the sound mixer and told me to sit down. "Thank you!" He himself took a seat on the black leather couch opposite me. "I noticed that you were watching me during the rehearsal and I want to know why? Did I sing crooked or was I not in time? Was I that bad?" Horrified, I opened my eyes. How did Kendall come up with the idea?! That was completely absurd! Simply absurd! I loved nothing more than listening to Big Time Rush sing. I really couldn't think of anything better than listening to these four guys sing! Especially Kendall. Kendall's voice was the most beautiful of all. "Are you serious? Please tell me this is a joke! If so, it wasn't funny. You were in time and your voice is just beautiful! How did you come up with this idiotic idea?", it burst out of me. "You looked at me all the time and I thought it was because I'm so bad." "Even if you were bad, I wouldn't even notice it because you're the most perfect person I know and my feelings for you romanticize everything about you anyway!" Silence. The room was filled with silence. Only in my head there was noise! The thoughts overturned and tried to drown each other out. The voices agreed on one thing! I immediately wanted to sink into the ground. "And I already believed you can't stand me. But that makes everything easier, because I like you too. And very much so!" Were my ears broken? "Come again?" Now Kendall seemed to be unsettled. Nevertheless, he repeated what had told me. "Thank God! I already thought I had to leave the country", I said. Kendall laughed. "Please, don't do that! Otherwise, it might make the following a little more difficult." Confused, I looked at him. What did that mean? "Y/N Mitchell, do you want to be my girlfriend?" "Stupid question, Knight! What girl wouldn't like that to be?" Again he laughed. "There is only one who gets this opportunity." When had we come so close to each other? There was no longer any space between us. Kendall's fingers gently brushed over my heated cheeks. "And I really hope she says yes but I am still waiting for an answer. Slowly I'm scared!" I stood on the tips of my toes and breathed a kiss on his cheek. "You don't have to be afraid, because I say yes."

[hockeyboysiguess]

driver’s license | b. boeser

a/n: so i was listening to driver’s license on repeat and this happened out of the blue in the last 2 hours. @brockadoodles, hope you like this surprise!

word count: 2,027

wine pairing recommendation: an old favorite, something you love and trust.

warnings: a couple swear words. 

You let out a long breath that lingered in the winter air inhabiting your car and cranked it slowly. The engine turned over a couple of times and you cursed a little under your breath. Your brother was supposed to have driven it while you were away, but he always said he forgot which was just his way of saying he hated your car. But she was Old Faithful for a reason and the engine turned on anyway. You breathed out a sigh of relief that turned into a groan as a familiar sound floated through your car of a voice you knew all too well saying your name softly. You slammed the button on the sound system to switch to the radio as your heart pounded in your chest. You didn’t need to hear that today. You weren’t sure you ever needed to hear that CD again. 

You didn’t even consider ejecting it from its permanent home in the otherwise unused CD slot. It lived there in your car that felt like a relic from a past life, a life in which the voice on that CD had a starring role in. That life wasn’t yours anymore, but we all keep tokens from the past, even from our lowest of years, because we can’t bear to part with things that once were our most prized possessions. 

You really should have paid attention to the radio station you had last played, but you didn’t and you paid the price for that decision. 

“Brock Boeser and the Vancouver Canucks were in town tonight and absolutely destroyed the Wild in a 3-0 shutout, with two goals from local Minnesotan Boeser. Remember his draft year? The Wild passed on him and I don’t think he’s ever forgotten it. He really feels like the one that got away for Minnesota, doesn’t he?” 

You switched radio stations, but the damage was already done and tears were clouding your vision. His name, just his name, was enough to do it sitting in this godforsaken car, the car he’d named, the car whose flat tires he’d changed at least five times, the car he’d jumped into the second after you’d gotten your license, the car you had driven aimlessly around his neighborhood once he left. But they had to say the one that got away, didn’t they? The radio show hosts had to be in cahoots with The Universe, who really wanted to pull the old scars over your heart apart with careless word choices and reminders of days that were so infinitely happier than the ones you were living now. 

Some dull pop song was flowing through your speakers now and you tried to focus on the entirely mediocre lyrics that matched the dull beat to center yourself in the mediocrity of it all. The opposite of your pain wasn’t happiness; it was the absolute middle between the two, the void where emotions didn’t inhabit. The problem was Brock Boeser hung over every inch of this car, every inch of this town, every inch of who you used to be. That emotionless void was entirely inaccessible to you in this moment. All you had was the ache in your chest with the terrible option to bury it under artificial joy. The pain you felt when you thought about him bled through your forced smile. It was too real, too raw still years later, the wound still somehow made fresh again by being back here to be covered. 

All you had was your pain, shitty pop music, and a passenger seat that somehow still belonged to Brock and it fucking sucked. 

You put the car in drive and turned right out of your driveway even though all your problems came with you anyway. The chill of the Minnesota winter was slowly dissipating as you drove mindlessly. Except no one ever really drove mindlessly. You made a series of lefts and rights without thinking, which meant your mind was really driving a path it knew so well you didn’t need to think about it as you did it. Minds, even when people thought they were being thoughtless, really weren’t all that random at all. You found yourself in Brock’s old neighborhood and you let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob that shook your aching chest. Of course your mind would bring you here when he was the only thing on it. 

The first time you drove through these suburban streets on your own was so long ago now, but you took the same path you were taking now. This was the first place you’d gone after getting your license, freshy and shiny and new, burning a hole in your wallet and the only place you’d wanted to go was to Brock’s. It hadn’t surprised your mother when you’d pulled up at your house fresh off your driver’s test and hadn’t even reached for the keys. She knew with one look where you wanted to go, and she waved you off as she got out. You’d had the biggest smile on your face as you drove these streets for the first time alone, heading straight for the person who had been the most excited for you to get your license. You had barely remembered to put the car in park before running to hug him and kiss him as words of pride spilled from his lips. He climbed into your passenger seat, where he practically lived that whole summer, where he told you he wanted to be with you forever, forever be in your passenger seat watching you achieve your dreams. 

Forever for Brock Boeser didn’t last past October of that year when he was in North Dakota and you were still here, driving the same goddamn streets you were driving now, driving through memories of your time together in your mind as you rolled through familiar intersections from your past. Years had gone by, and still a piece of Brock lived in a part of your heart like his voice lived on the mixtape still living in the CD slot of your car. You could go weeks, months even, without knowing he was there, especially when you weren’t in town, but something would always remind you of him. You’d see his face in a crowd, hear his name on the radio, drive past a road with the same name as one in his familiar neighborhood and you’d be reminded of him and the love for him that was embedded in your heart. That piece of him was so deep in your heart it couldn’t be surgically removed. There weren’t enough dates to go on, alcohol bottles to find the bottom of, enough love to try to create with other people, that would expel that piece of him you still carried in your heart. You hadn’t found anything that had even come close to him and the love you had for him. So your love for him stayed exactly where he’d left it in your heart and on a poorly burned CD in your car. 

Your friends had to hate you for him now, how you always compared everyone to him. They didn’t understand why you did and honestly, neither did you. You and Brock were young and reckless and stupid, but the love you shared was real and raw and clumsy and fucking beautiful. You knew what a sunset made of blood reds, vibrant oranges, sharp yellows and deep purples looked like; one that was just shades of yellow wouldn’t do. You couldn’t forget what loving him felt like, but as far as you could tell, he had forgotten what loving you was like. Maybe he just never felt about you like you’d felt out him, otherwise, how could he have moved on like he had? He had this whole life, this whole other world, in Vancouver you’d only heard about in poorly remembered stories from people with several degrees of separation between them and him. He sounded like he was doing fucking swell without you and all you could think was that forever apparently left you driving through his streets alone with only memories of him and red lights to keep you company. 

You hesitated before doing it because you knew what it would do, but you were already starting to cry again. All you wanted was to hear his voice again, hear the way it used to sound like when he talked about you sitting in this car, driving through these streets. You switched back to the CD and pressed play. 

“Hey baby, I hope this works? I don’t really know what I’m doing, but you got your license and I’m so proud of you. I can’t always be bugging you in your passenger seat, being the best DJ ever, so I figured I’d make you a little CD so you can have my amazing DJ talents with you wherever and whenever you go. I love you!”

The tears were flowing now. Hearing the way he told you he loved you, the way the words were somehow heard directly in your heart and made it twist in your chest, made you remember why it hadn’t worked out with anyone else. The way Brock told you he loved you was better than how anyone else had ever tried. You walked down sidewalks holding other people’s hands and remembered the way his hand used to feel in yours when you walked down the same sidewalks in this neighborhood you were in now, past the same front yards you were passing now. The way he loved you clouded every moment you had ever tried to deny that he wasn’t your one great love. He was the person you had envisioned your future with, a future that included buying the blue house at the end of the street you were on now and pulling into that very driveway every night, sliding into bed with him, living with him, loving him forever. 

Instead of that ideal forever, you were turning onto his street alone in the waning sunlight with tear-stained cheeks, remembering how much simpler and better everything was with him. The street was practically empty but as you got close to the house you knew as well as your own, your breath hitched in your throat with worry that someone would be there. Of all the empty houses, someone being in the driveway at Brock’s would be your luck. You came over the hill and exhaled upon seeing the driveway empty, before checking your rearview mirror and letting your car slow to a crawl. You could practically see him there, all the times he’d run out that front door and into the passenger seat, off to the lake, to your favorite dinner, to the fourth best but still your favorite park around, to even just driving around these same neighborhood streets when he needed to breathe and forget the weight he carried in that house. 

You slowed to almost a stop in front of his house, letting your car roll forward as you tried to will the memories to sit more comfortably on your mind and in your chest to no avail. You didn’t notice someone appear in the driveway until it was too late, until they had already seen you. Blonde hair peaked out the back of a blue hat that sat backwards on his head. An old beat up North Dakota sweatshirt covered his broad chest, broader now that it had been when he had been yours, gray sweatpants, and sneakers he had thrown on to do some mundane task, probably to get the mail for his dad. There he was, standing in the driveway, looking at you and for a second, you thought he was thinking the same things you were, longing for them in the same way you were. 

He mouthed your name, disbelief written on his face, and started walking toward your car. You shifted it into park, because after all this time, all the pain, all the broken promises of forever, he was still Brock Boeser and you couldn’t leave him hanging when he called your name.

[zmediaoutlet]

I've always felt very strongly that there is a serious lack of touch-starved Sam fic in this fandom.

(read on AO3)

For a hundred and fifty miles of midmorning blacktop outside of Kearney, Missouri, Dean won’t look at Sam. Sam figures he’s got a convenient excuse—traffic, threatening rain—but he doesn’t really need the excuse, does he. Everything they could say they’ve said and now Sam’s just got to sit here, his elbow on the door and his hand braced over his mouth so he won’t say more. Furious for a few miles and just—dragged-out empty, for a few miles after. It cycles. He wants coffee very badly but after the fight they had he doesn’t want to ask for a thing.

He sat there and let Garth wipe up his face. It wasn’t anything he couldn’t have done himself but he didn’t want to go into the bathroom, not with Dean trying to get the black ectoplasmic goo out of his ear, off his skin. Garth gave him a worried smile before he left with Dean and Sam didn’t return it, and Dean didn’t look at him before the motel room door closed, either. It was left to Sam to try to clean up the room. Not the first time. Glass shards swept up as best he could, broken furniture piled on top as a warning to the maid. Dean tips pretty well, whenever this happens, and so Sam tucked a fifty under an unbroken coffee mug and then sat there with his bags packed and his hands over the back of his neck and thinking, god, where did it go this wrong? Why did they let it?

The blinker tick is the only warning before Dean pulls off at an exit. Sam refocuses. Des Moines, coming up through the windshield, and here an exit with the usual suspects: gas, fast food, motel. He didn’t actually drive all that much, in the last year, and it’s a surprise still how often the car needs gas. Another itching burr, reminding him: the responsibilities he should’ve had. What he ignored, and what the costs of ignoring it were.

A Shell station. Sam opens his door first, before the car’s even in park. “How much on the pump?” he says, and Dean’s hand pauses on the gearshift but he actually answers.

“Fifty.” He half-reaches for the inside of his jacket. “You’ve got—?” he starts, and Sam interrupts and says, “I got it,” kind of sharp, and then wishes he hadn’t said it sharp. Last few miles he’s been more scraped-out than mad. Go figure.

Dean glances at him, at least. Still greyish outside, the clouds thicker the more they drive north, and his face looks white. “Get caffeine, too,” he says, and it’s not sharp. It’s not—anything.

Two coffees, granola bars. A Snickers, since Dean likes Snickers. Olive branch or bribe, Sam doesn’t know, and then for thinking it he rolls his eyes. He gets a Payday, instead, and waits for the old guy in front of him to cash out and then gets the fifty, on the pump, and then stands at the lone hightop by the window with old coffee rings and spilled Equal and watches while Dean crouches to get the gas in the car and then leans against the rear bumper, head sinking between his shoulders. Sam can’t tell from here if his eyes are open or closed. He looks tired. Sam sips his coffee, sugary with the fake hazelnut creamer. Well, they’re both tired.

That argument. He barely slept, last night, and when he did he had a dream of the day Dean came back. Different to how it really happened. In the dream he was the one waiting, in the cabin with the light coming through the dirty windows, and he was so happy, heart-sore, his pulse thudding thick in his throat—and that’s true, at least, that’s how it was when he was coming through the door on that day, thinking it couldn’t possibly be true—but in the dream, when Dean came through the door, he came with black streaming from his ears and nose and the corners of his mouth and instead of eyes he had dark holes and he knocked Sam down to the ground and got his hands around Sam’s throat and he leaned down and said—well, when Sam woke up with his heart thudding sick in his mouth, he couldn’t remember what the Dean in the dream had said. He woke up because the bathroom door had closed and there was a light seeping through the cracks but he couldn’t hear what Dean was doing in there. It wasn’t a subtle dream. He lay there awake, nauseated and sorry, because he was too exhausted to be angry, and he doesn’t remember when he fell asleep again but the next thing it was morning, and the alarm on his phone was sounding, and Dean was sitting up on the far side of his bed with his shoulders hunched up high and his back all tension, and he’d said shut it off, jesus, his voice so raw it sounded like he’d been yelling all night. Sam shut it off and went and took a shower, and that was it, pretty much. That was what they had had to say to each other, today.

Dean accepts the coffee with a nod, and the Payday with a strange twitch of his eyebrows. Sam eats a granola bar in a few efficient bites, tosses the wrapper before they leave, and sips slow at the rest of his own coffee as they drive out of the gas station and back up onto the highway and on through Iowa, wondering if Dean thought he’d actually forgotten or if Dean thought it was carelessness or if Dean—

He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t be wondering. He should be angry, and he is angry. His hands curl in cringing reflex whenever he remembers shaking Benny’s lukewarm monstrous hand and seeing the slight smugness of his look and seeing Dean’s expression, just behind, warning, saying no. Saying that Sam didn’t get a say, here. Like after all these weeks of lying, of turning away from any real conversation Sam tried to have, of him being jagged-sharp and furious and—and not-Sam’s—this was just another something Sam wasn’t allowed to touch.

There’s a lot of Iowa and a lot of quiet. They stop again for a piss and burgers and Dean says, “Get mine with extra cheese,” and Sam, jesus. Sam does. Extra cheese and onions, too, and they eat at the bar with college football on the television and Sam watches Stanford absolutely cream Arizona and he expects Dean to say something cutting, something snide, but he doesn’t get that, either. Dean just shakes his head as the reporter runs up to Arizona’s quarterback who can’t be more than twenty years old and asks breathlessly what they did wrong, and Dean says, “Should be a law against that,” and signals the bartender for the check, and Sam watches the poor kid struggle to maintain his composure for the cameras and thinks, yeah. Yeah, there oughta be a law.

Dean doesn’t turn west for Sioux Falls like Sam expects. Instead there’s more road and more north and more clouded sky, and more quiet, and it’s a dimming twilight when they pull into St. Cloud, Minnesota, after a full day of nothing, and Dean says, finally, “Think it’s gonna rain,” and roughly one minute later it is. A steady sifting-down kind of rain, the kind that’ll keep going for a week if it goes for an hour.

A motel. Dean goes in to get the room. End of the low building and actual real keys and two queens, like it’s been since Dean got back. Sam drops his bag on his bed and folds the key into his hand until it hurts. “I’m not hungry, you?” Dean says, and rolls on without actually waiting for Sam to say anything. “Figure we can look around for a job here in the morning. Still waiting for word on whatever else.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, looking at the bedspread. Mottled green-and-pink, ugly. Whatever else, said all neutral. Like there’s not a river of blame running through it. “Yeah,” he says, again, and then looks up and says, “Give me the keys.”

Dean’s got his gun in his hand, his bag unzipped and his shit already spilling out across the other bed. Dirty shirts, a tie. What he wore yesterday when he tried to kill Sam. He frowns. “What?”

Sam ignores the gun. “I want dinner,” he says. “Give me the keys.”

A tightness around Dean’s eyes but what is he going to say? No? Sam wants to dare him to. Dean looks down at his bag and then digs in his pocket. It's a clean underhand arc, meant to be easy for Sam to catch, and Sam turns and goes without another word, and when he's behind the wheel he looks at the muted pinkish light of the window coming from behind the thick curtains and he—closes his eyes, and turns on the car, and finds a bar.

It wasn't two beds. Not at first. Not that very, very first day, in the cabin, with the light coming in and Dean strangely tan, all blinding grin and quick manic movement and his hands strong—gripping Sam's shoulders, sliding up under his shirt, bright and hot and dizzying. He'd tackled Sam to the floorboards and cut him and splashed Borax over his skin and then when Sam was still gasping and unprepared he leaned down, right down, and gripped into Sam's hair and said breathless fuck, I missed you so much, and kissed Sam bruising, and Sam could hardly keep up. They barely made it to the bunk in the corner, the one that creaked so bad under their weight Sam thought it would collapse, but it held together somehow. It was so fast it sits in Sam's memory in strange little snatches—Dean's lips smearing across his throat, and the way his head hit the wall and Dean laughed delighted and rolled over on top, and for some reason the very moment of sliding his hand down into Dean's barely-opened jeans and feeling the crisp roughness of his pubes before anything else. That particular feeling.

It was only afterwards that it fell apart. Sam should've lied. He's thought about it a lot, these past weeks. Months. Or maybe he should've told Dean everything: every single second of panic, terror, misery. Every failed summoning and every fruitless hour of research in Bobby's remaining books. Every moment where he thought if he's dead, then I—how every second of living felt like failure, like betrayal, how no matter he what he did he was letting his brother down, so what was the point of counting it—but they didn't lay that on each other. They knew what those days felt like. At least he thought they both did. Maybe it was different, for Dean. Sam wouldn't have thought so, but. Maybe it was.

The bar's mid-sized, kind of friendly feeling. A girl in her twenties pulling beer who's mastered the line between welcoming and actually-flirtatious, and Sam's set up with a beer at the far end by the bathrooms in record time, and he looks into it and thinks, fuck, why not, and drains it fast, and says, "Another, thanks," and the girl's very shaped eyebrows knot a little but she sets him up, so. Big tip for her, later. She smiles, eyes dipping to his chest, and there's a little sway as she walks back down to the couple at the other end. Maybe over the line to flirtatious, then.

A girl. Sam looks down at his beer. He's not sure he ever heard Dean's voice with that much venom in it. Not even—back then, with Ruby. Like this was a worse betrayal than that. He chews the inside of his cheek and shakes his head, tries to focus on—hockey, on the television, but Sam doesn't know anything about hockey, and he can't get it out of his head.

A girl. Like that was the worst part. Like Sam's year of emptiness could be summed up with the fact that he fucked someone else, for a little while. Even if it didn't work out. Even if they ended up more as friends, at either end of a falling-down motel with a shared visitation for a dog, and Sam spent most nights in bed alone watching the blue-and-red neon sign blink through the blinds, and he couldn't— No. And where did Dean get off, anyway? Being that furious, that betrayed, when he was the one who—with Benny— He finishes that beer and orders a bourbon, instead, and settles in. Fuck it. He's watching hockey.

The bartender cuts him off, at some point, but she's very nice about it. Sam knows he's too big to threaten and he tries to be nice back but he's not sure it's working, from her face. "Why don't you drink some water," she says, sweet but with her eyebrows high, and he takes the glass in both hands just to make her feel better. "Can I call you a cab?"

"Can't leave the car," he says and it comes out—oh. So. It's been a few hours and he… that burger was a while ago, wasn't it. Still, this part is important. He has to make sure she gets it. "I can't. Car's special."

"Okay," she says, drawing it out. The hockey's over and there's a too-colorful gameshow on the television. Sam puts his head down on the bar, which is better. Old-people music playing on the sound system. Sam grinds his forehead back and forth on the wet wood. Old-people music is what Amelia called it. Sam just thought it was what his life sounded like. "Okay," she says again, muffled, "I'm just gonna—" and then the glass gets removed from his hand, and she says, "All right, you can't sleep here, we close in thirty. Who should I call?"

Good question. Sam folds his hands over the back of his neck and tries to think of a good answer. Some time passes while he tries to figure it out.

He hasn't been drunk in—he doesn't know. A year. When Dean was gone and Sam didn't save him. Now Dean's here and Sam wants to be anywhere else because Dean doesn't—Dean won't—

"All right," he hears again, but it's a different voice this time. Hard hand on his arm, tugging, and he sighs against the bartop and says Dean, or thinks he does. He lets himself be pulled upright but doesn't open his eyes—that's gonna be bad, he knows that for sure—and so he lets his weight sway, sink, and the hands are still hard but they're holding him up, so that's something, anyway. His head drops back—hard bone, muffle of leather—Dean. "Jesus," he hears, in some tone he can't interpret, and he turns his head in and there's a scrape of stubble against his nose, and he sighs and feels boneless, for once, his body just melted away where it won't cause any more trouble.

"Dean," he says, definitely out loud because Dean says, "Yeah, that's me," kind of annoyed but quiet, and then louder, "Is he cashed out?"

Some answer. Sam's drunker than he thought. He can't remember if he tipped well, hopes he did. His head doesn't hurt yet, like his face doesn't hurt even though Dean was trying to kill him, yesterday, and that's funny kinda, that there aren't repercussions, for anything. Here they are no matter what. He smiles and says Dean's name again and gets steadied, pushed upright a little more. He grasps for Dean's jacket so he can't get away and says, "I love this song," because he knows it at least and likes it fine, and because when Dean talks about music he's happy. Sam wants him happy.

"Yeah, Sam, everyone likes Sinatra," Dean says, and Sam finally opens his eyes to find himself swiveled around on the barstool and Dean in front of him, with unhappy tired lines at his eyes and mouth and looking just—Sam reaches for his face and Dean kind of jerks, like he didn't expect it, but grasps Sam's hand and pulls, says, "C'mon, Jolly Green," not annoyed anymore. Sam slides off to stand with his weight half in his boots and half steadied against Dean's shoulder, and Dean's arm goes around his back and this, this is the most Dean's touched him, since that day, that last day.

Difficult walk in the spattering rain. Propped against the car, and Dean going through his pockets, warm familiar touches. The passenger seat, poured in, and he slumps into the corner between the door and the seat-back and Dean's mouth is in the amber light from the parking lot lights, scattered and blurry from the water, and Sam licks his mouth clean of that same water and wants. He isn't allowed to ask. Driving, then, the car's rumble and sway, and Sam spends the whole drive watching strange flashes of Dean's face appear in turning headlights and fluorescent storefronts and gleaming wet red in brakes and thinking that he dreamed this, more or less this, so many nights, that year in Texas. Dean's cheekbones and lips and freckles and ears and the bump where his nose got broken, way back when they were teenagers, here in the car, where Sam could almost touch him. He wishes he could touch him.

He jerks when they get to wherever they're going. "Last stop, everyone off," Dean mutters. His door opens and shuts while Sam's still blinking, his mouth dry. The rain's still falling and Sam listens to it drumming the roof, the glass. Imagines laying out in it. Feeling it on his skin.

He almost falls when his door opens. "Christ, how drunk are you?" His shoulders were caught but they're out in the rain—cold, on his face, and he closes his eyes and tips and feels it. "Sam. C'mon. Sammy, you're too big, I ain't carrying you. You gotta get your feet under you, man." But there's no good reason for that, Sam thinks. He's just going to fall, and then Dean'll see that he can't do even that, and then what's to stop Dean from just leaving him here? A squeeze at his shoulder and Dean's voice is softer. "Jeez, you're getting soaked. C'mere." His hair's pushed back from his forehead. He reaches for Dean's hand but misses, and his wrist gets caught, and he's pulled back—Dean's body, warm behind his—and his weight tips so far that he has to scramble, lurching, and Dean says: "Hey, there he is. Okay, Gumby, now we gotta do one foot in front of the other—" and hey, it turns out that Sam didn't fall down, and he sways swimming and heavy-skulled from the rain to the chilly concrete walkway to the cool slick polyester comforter, under his back, the room warm and that same pinkish light seeping in behind his eyelids, his wrist still caught in Dean's grip, his jacket heavy-wet and water trickling into his ear. He tips his head, trying to get the rain out.

"You're a mess," Dean says. He lets go and Sam's hand drops to the bed, heavy too. "What were you thinking?" Oh, you know, Sam thinks, but doesn't say. He stretches his legs out, his bootheels dragging on the carpet, and there's a sigh, and then Dean's warmth up against his knee, his voice quiet. "Yeah, I know. Just can't do anything right, huh?"

"Yeah," Sam says, and slits his eyes open. Wet, eyelashes and mouth and his hair soaking the blanket. Dean's splintery up above him, confusing, and Sam turns his head toward the window, the heavy pink curtains blocking out the night. Raining harder. "Yeah," Sam says, again, to someone, his voice sore.

A touch to his jaw, soft. He hasn't shaved for a few days. Dean's fingers drag along the bone, prickling through the stubble, and he scrunches his eyes closed, feeling it. A touch on his chin, on the dip under his mouth. Pausing there, warm. Sam's lips part and Dean's finger brushes the bottom one and Sam drags in air. It feels—he can't quantify it. The touch dips down to his neck, to his collar, where his damp shirt's clinging, to press against the bone there in a way that almost hurts but it feels so good, too, that Sam doesn't want it ever to stop.

"Sammy, I'm—" Dean says, or starts to say, because Sam says louder: "You never touch me."

He reaches up and manages to get Dean's hand. He presses it down, harder. The feel of him, a little damp but the heat of his skin, and the closeness. Sam turns his head and looks up through the shattered light, blinking, trying to get Dean's face. "Right? It's been—no one ever does."

Dean's frowning, when Sam can focus. "Hey, we both got hugs from Garth," he says. Sort of light. "Can't believe you're forgetting that. I still gotta shower off the patchouli."

Like Garth counts. Sam grips Dean's wrist and reaches for his jacket, pulls, and Dean resists for a second but then sits by Sam's hip and even that, the warmth there, that feels good. Right. Sam sighs. "There," he says. Dean's thumb drags along his collarbone. "Missed this part."

Dean's face is so pretty in this kind of light. This golden motel light, with the yellow bulbs that aren't environmentally friendly but are cheap, with the night seeping in behind him so he stands out against the dark. His freckles showing and parts of him shadowed. "What part?" Dean says, after a second. Sam almost forgot what he said and blinks, feels heavy. "Sam?"

"Oh," Sam says, and tries to remember. He smiles at Dean, shrugging against the bed. "Just—when you used to—last time I slept beside someone was… I don't even know. A long time. It was so good when you came back. Forgot how good it was."

It is. Dean's frowning at him but he's still just the best thing Sam's ever seen. Dean's hand slides up his throat, fits his jaw. Slides up, cupping his cheek, and Sam tips into it, all the air going out of him. "Jesus, Sam," Dean says, quiet.

Dean doesn't want this, Sam knows. Not since that very first day. Dean had someone else, has someone else, someone better, someone who doesn't fuck up, and Sam—god, he fucked up. So bad. He's selfish, though, he thinks—he gets to be selfish, today at least if on no other day, because Dean tried to kill him and even if Sam maybe deserved it or something like it then surely at least today Sam gets one thing he wants, and Sam says, blurry, "Could you just sleep here, just so I can—so you'll be here, and I'll know," and Dean says miserable-sounding, "Come on, Sasquatch," and leans down, and his lips land soft on Sam's cheek and then Dean turns his head and his lips find Sam's and Sam breathes through it, not sure, letting Dean kiss him, trying to remember what Dean kissing him could mean.

"Sam," Dean murmurs, and Sam grips his shoulders and lifts into it, spinning. Hand on his jaw, another slipping to his waist, digging in at his side. Dean kisses him and Sam's jaw drops and Dean licks inside and Sam thinks, yes—Sam thinks, finally—aching—and Dean shifts, leaning over, his thigh alongside Sam's thigh and his other leg spilling over Sam's lap and Sam touches him, doesn't dare let go.

God, he's drunk. He's dizzy, laying here on the bed with his eyes closed, Dean's weight over his chest. "What are you doing?" he manages, when Dean pulls back from his mouth, and Dean huffs hot against his chin and says, "Shit if I know—you want me to stop?" and Sam says no and grips his jaw and pulls him back in, not doing much to help but open, grasping, wanting anything Dean'll give, anything he has. The world's spinning lazily with its axis right in Sam's hindbrain, it feels like, but Dean's hand is skimming up his stomach under his t-shirt and Sam's fine if the planet just tumbles away, a skipped marble flashing out of sight.

The touch of Dean's skin is—Sam's been high, Sam's been cracked-open. This feels more than that did. Dean pulls at him, urging, and Sam moves on the bed somehow but the wheeling world's centered right on where Dean's hand is braced there, on his ribs just below one pec, and Sam grips his shirt, pulls him down, keeps him. Fingers at his belt, in his jeans, slipping against his skin, soft and the nails dragging and the shocking warmth of them—"Hey," Dean says, picking his head up, "are you not—" and Sam shakes his head, says, "Don't worry, I—I just want—"—and lifts and gets Dean's uncertain mouth against his jaw, gets his hand around where Dean's thick, filling up his palm, heat and pressure through the denim. "Shit," Dean says, lifting up a little, but Sam won't let him, desperate for the feel of him, the weight. The knowing that he's here. The salt-taste of his throat, and the smell here under his ear where he hasn't showered all day and he smells like—the car, the guns. Beer. Sam's whole life, right here.

Dean has to help, with the belt, the zip. He sighs against Sam's hair when he's free and Sam touches—there, crisp-dry hair and the stiff resistance at the root and the smooth thick pole of it, curving up sweet, enough to get his hand around, familiar in every way. Dean's thigh between his legs, his breath in Sam's ear. "Not fair," Dean says, strain in it. Sam licks his lips, squeezes, and Dean huffs. "I'm getting all the fun, here."

"No, you're not," Sam says, and pulls, and Dean surges against his hand, hot. God, he's hot. Sam couldn't ever match it against anyone else. He's uncoordinated but he wants it, he wants to feel it—"Help," he says, selfish, and Dean half-laughs but there's a rearrangement—Dean half-tipped to one side, his fingers brushing Sam's, knocking them out of the way a little, taking over. Sam touches his nuts instead, careful because he remembers, clearly, some other drunk laughing day when he sucked Dean's dick and then sucked in his balls and Dean yelped, shook, too sensitive—and he doesn't think that's changed but Dean just groans for it, now, and Sam tips into him and mouths at Dean's throat, at the peek of shoulder where his t-shirt's pulled away, feels the smooth jerking pump of his arm, trapped between them. The strong present meat of him, the hardness of his bones. Sam bites and Dean jerks under him, says fuck, says louder, "Sammy, for god's sake," and Sam says back, "Let me feel it," because that's what he wants, that's all he wants. He wants Dean pulsing-present, loud, furious, jealous, hurting—as long as he's here—and Dean says low, "That's it, huh? You want to feel it?" and Sam nods and grips at Dean's t-shirt and pulls him in, and Dean's dick presses up firm against Sam's stomach and Dean pulls Sam's shirt up out of the way and grinds in close and—ah, ah, there. That thick twitch, the heat. Sam turns his face and Dean's there, breathing hard, and Sam kisses him and it takes a second but Dean kisses back, softer. His teeth drag against Sam's lip. Sam drags his cheek along Dean's cheek and can't let go. He's not going to let go.

"I've got to," Dean says, at some other point. Sam blinks, muzzy. Dean's pulling and Sam grabs at his hip, keeping him. "Dude. Enough with the octopus routine."

Quiet. Sam tucks his head down and Dean smells like sweat, now, and there's the smell of come. He drags at the edge of his shirt and his stomach's a mess, and Dean sighs. Touches there, too, and Sam squints down into the shadows between them, and Dean's hand looks somehow like a stranger's but he's careful, dabbing at Sam's skin. His dick's tucked away and Sam misses it. Wishes he weren't so drunk that sucking it was a viable option. Wishes he were less drunk, generally, and that's, he thinks, a sign that he's sobering up. Too soon.

"Sure I can't get you off?" Dean says, after a few seconds. Almost polite. Sam closes his eyes, tips away. "Feels kinda messed up."

"It is pretty messed up, Dean," Sam says, tired now, and Dean sits up—away from him—and Sam thinks, well, that's it.

Dean doesn't disappear. There's a space—the rain louder outside, audible now that Sam's not focused on every breath from his brother—the damp mugginess of his wet jacket, and the way his stomach's starting to complain—and then Dean's fingers, at the waist of Sam's jeans, tracing along the low bared part of his belly, soft. Sam drags in air, feels his stomach suck in, and Dean pauses, but then there's his thumb, pushing against the trail of hair, careful.

"You're gonna be so pissed," Dean says, quiet. "In the morning. Shit, in like, three hours."

Sam tips his head. The clock says two. "I'm pissed now," he says, and it's so not true that he doesn't know why Dean doesn't just laugh at him, call him a liar, say, oh sure, princess.

There's a faint shadow of Dean on the far wall, from the lamp by the door. A big blown-up silhouette over the other bed, his head bent and his details impossible to see. Sam wants another drink and won't have one. Probably not for a little while. Unfair, for both of them, when it doesn't fix anything.

"It wasn't supposed to be this screwed up," Dean says. His fingers drag across to Sam's hip and then away. Sam misses them instantly. "I don't know. It just went wrong somehow."

"Yeah, somehow," Sam says. Dean sighs, and then the bed shifts, and before Sam knows it Dean's standing up, turning away, and Sam lifts on one elbow and says, "Wait."

"Gotta clean up," Dean says. He waited, though, is waiting, standing by the bed with his belt still undone and his ears pink and his eyes hard to read.

Sam's head swims, still a little too drunk for this. "It doesn't fix anything," Sam says, trying to follow the thread. Dean's eyes tighten. "Stay."

"Getting real mixed signals here, Sammy," Dean says, but he steps closer, and Sam reaches out and gets Dean's belt-loop and pulls, and Dean looks down, frowning. His mouth's a low curve. "Darlin', you've got to let me know."

A song? Sam shakes his head. He pulls, and Dean sits, by Sam's hip again, and Sam slides his hand up from the belt to Dean's side, to his back. His skin, warm.

Dean touches the hollow of his throat, soft. Thrilling. "What are you doing?" he says. Almost sorry.

"I don't know," Sam says, clinging to the last bit of whiskey, "but let me."

It's still dark, a quiet carved out bit of black rainy morning. There's tomorrow to remember to be mad. Dean lets him.

[potatosoldier]

Are you still there? /Part 6/

I sat quietly in our barrack in Camp Shanks, New York City. It was so surreal that tomorrow we would be going to set our foot out from our home country. It made all of this so sickeningly real 

Skip who had just been laughing with Penk and Don, decided to plop next to me onto my bunk.

 “Ahh!”

And in the process bump me onto the floor. The shocked look on his face was too hilarious. “Sorry, sorry, fuck sorry Bambi”, he mutters as he scurries up and helps me once again to plop next to him.

I giggle softly and shake my head. “Don’t worry Skip”,I pat his head gently as he too chuckles. Then he turns more serious and makes it clear that he wants to have a more private conversation. We both turn so that we are on our sides facing each other, with our hands under our heads like sleeping children. Luckily being private wasn’t that hard in the noise the men were making. 

“you seemed pretty bummed about getting the pass to the city”, he starts softly. “I mean you don’t drink, and you usually spend the free time in the base anyway. I’m just curious to what was so special now?”, He finishes. I sigh. I could lie to him and make up a believable story about how I wanted to see the city before stepping out, or then I could be true to him the way he has always been to me. 

“I was going to spend time with my husband”, I whisper. His eyes widen at my confession. “He’s here?”, he whispers urgently. I nod, my heart racing so hard it feels like it’s on run to my mouth. I gulp and reach into my shirt where lies a ring on a chain with my cross. And on the ring there is a small engraving of my husbands name. 

I gently take the chain off and pass the ring to him. He takes a little time to inspect it and get his eyes work in the bad lighting. Then his eyes widen and mouth opens. I quickly jump up and slam my hand onto his mouth. 

“What the hell are you two doing?”, comes the voice of George Luz. I turn sharply and grab my ring away from Skip. “Talking”, I answer quickly. He just raises his brows and blows out some smoke. Then makes a face and nods. I turn back to Skip with a serious expression and mouth: “No ONE”

He just grins and smiles. “Not gonna have my Bambi thrown to the wolves”, he says tenderly and boops my nose. I breath out and smile back. It felt good to let it out. Skip was so dear to me, it always felt so wrong to keep lying to him. 

It also felt very odd to be sleeping with the men. I was now officially put into their barracks. Sink’s orders: “You’re familiar now, safe to start blending in.” And it was true, I felt more in touch with the men now. Even if Bill laughed at me because I was too scared to come down from the top bed of a bunk bed. Which lead to Bull gently lifting me down:

“There we go ma’am safely on the ground”

“Please, if I ever get a daughter, let them marry a gentleman with your manners”

I take a hold of Don’s watch and see it’s already 7.30. Shoot, I need to find Joe. “Joe!”, I shout and in my turn plop down onto his bed, like the true lady I am sitting with my posture perfect and ankles crossed. 

“Ye ready to go, Bambi?”, he asks and I nod. He slowly gets up and stretches his back. “Well off with us then”. And so he starts singing once again. A strangely pleasant and soothing sound.

I had asked Joe to escort me to the officers barracks tonight. I wanted to see Dick before we leave. If this was the last time I saw him, I didn’t want it to be just a brief tender moment. 

Once we made it to Dick’s barrack, he was already sitting on the steps with his garrison cap on and the dress greens too. I was still in my skirt, but the cap and the hobby jacket were long forgotten. 

“Thank you, Joe”, Dick nods to Joe as a dismissal. “My pleasure lieutenant”, Joe smiles and takes off. I turn to my husband with a tender grin. 

“I’ve missed you”, I whisper and put my hand on his abdomen. Just to soothe me that he’s actually there. 

“We’ve been together most of the day”; he chuckles. I shake my head still smiling. “Not like we used to be”, I whisper a little strained. His brows furrow as he brushes my hair behind me ear. He then sighs and cups my face kissing me longingly. 

His lips are always so, so warm and soft. The warmth and softness wasn’t the concrete feeling maybe, but it was the feeling that brushed my heart. I didn’t notice the tears streaming down my face before he pulled back. My hands were still around his waist, and his now cupping my neck. 

“Don’t cry, darling, not right now”, he whispers and kisses my tears away gently. “We should probably go a little further, someone could walk here any minute”, he then adds. 

I nod and give him a small kiss onto his adam’s apple, before moving to grasp his arm. Moments like this reminded me so much of our first meeting, well first time we actually got the words out of our mouths. 

3rd of May 1936

It was an early morning as Sonja Savolainen was smiling and singing in front of a group of young girls who were singing along with her. They all had their hymnals and catechisms out and smiles on their faces.

Sonja was only 18 and now substituting her aunt as a Sunday school teacher. She was a young, timid girl with a sharp head on her shoulders. Teaching the small girls during the Sunday service was something she thrived on. She was always very lonely with the people her age, not really having the will to socialize, the courage chat and having a strange accent to go and to top that a strong interest in education and research, had quickly left her the odd one out. 

Her mother had always said that she is too curious for her own good, but Sonja never saw it as a flaw. She wanted to learn more about everything, and she dreamed of a husband who would support her and be ready to built a whole corner of the world just for them. 

She was as pure and proper as a young lady could be. She worked hard in her parents farm, she rarely cursed and tutored children. All in all, she was a kind human being. But with the standards she set for herself, she ended up being self-destructive. 

“Alright, alright, children. We can sing more next week, I will still be here. Ms. Miller will come back soon, I promise”, she grins. All the eight girls were so sweet, and such dedicated little things. There was this one girl Lena, who had hard time reading, but Sonja promised to tutor her on Friday nights while she still was in Lancaster. In a months time she would be going back to Ham Lake, Minnesota. 

Slowly the girls get picked up by their parents. Sonja getting numerous hugs from the children and thanks from grateful mothers and fathers. And bless Lena’s mother who had brought her a small piece of raisin bread as thanks for her teaching. 

Now only ones left in the room were Sonja and small six-year-old Ann Winters. “Ann, darling, isn’t your mother picking you up?”,Sonja asks softly and kneels next to the still brightly smiling girl. Ann cutely shows her teeth as she giggles. “No, Ms.Sonja. my big brother will come though, he’s probybly lost.” Sonja smiles and almost giggles at the way the girl pronounces probably. 

“Well we shall wait for him, I’ll stay with you until he finds his way. Maybe you can draw him a map for the next time?”,she chuckles. 

“ohh, It can be like a treasure map, ‘cept the treasure is me”, Ann giggles making Sonja’s heart warm with her adorable little idea. 

“What a sweet treasure you are”, she says and taps the little girls nose. Their chat is interrupted by a knock on the door. Sonja quickly rises and goes to open it. 

“Hello, you...m-must be Ann’s brother”, Sonja almost whispers the last part as she looks at the man before her. There stands a tall, red-headed man with the softest blue eyes. Sonja bites her lip, he was stunning. 

Richard almost as red as his hair, as he looks at the woman. He was never the most confident with girls and he hadn’t expected his sister’s Sunday school teacher to be a pretty young lady. 

“I-I am, ma’am. Richard Winters”, he says and offers his hand. Sonja takes it smiling softly “Sonja Savolainen, please come in”, she almost whispers again. His hand is so warm and big, in contrast to her own small and as her brother said it, delicate, but chubby hands. 

Ann almost screams as she sees Richard. Richard grins and helps his sister get dressed and takes her catechism for safety keeping. “Dick, imma make you a big big map, and you will find big big me!”, she giggles enthusiastically. Sonja’s heart pumps so fast as she looks at the man. He is so calm so soothing, at least from the five seconds she’s interacted with him. 

“Forgive me ma’am for keeping you waiting, is there anything I could help with?”, he asks as he takes Ann’s hand and tries to keep her from jumping to the roof. Sonja really can’t stop her heart from jumping like Ann. 

“oh, no no , Ann is a very well behaved girl. It was a pleasure”,she says and starts to gather her own things. “off you two go, I can manage”, she finishes. Richard smiles at her softly. His own heart beating so fast that he cannot get the words to of “thank you, truly” out from his mouth. 

“Goo’bye Ms.Sonja!” Ann says and waves. Richard smiles and offers his free hand to shake again. “Thank you ma’am, we-we will probably see each other again”, he gulps. Sonja bites her lip again and takes his hand. 

“Lets hope so”, she says and then blushes blood red. Why did she have to say that. My god, why did she have to be so forward. Richard takes one look at her warm chocolate eyes again, nods and then takes off with his little sister. 

The moment their eyes had met, their souls were bound. 

Present

I grin stupidly at the memory. We finally find a dark corner where we can sit and talk in peace. We take a seat on this big rock with our arms still wrapped together. 

“You alright?”, he whispers as he looks at my grin. I nod and cup his cheek with my free hand. “You seem to be awfully in your head tonight”, he then adds. 

“Just thinking of you”, I answer and giggle as he still after all this years manages to blush. “Do you think that the lot we were looking at could be free in a couple years?”, I suddenly ask. He shrugs.

“If we get enough money from here, we can start making an offer”, he says quietly. “But we still need some money to built the house, so we’d still have to live in the barn.” I can see the pain in his eyes as he says those words. 

I smile at him tenderly now stroking his brow and take his garrison cap off. “I don’t really care, the barracks are even more uncomfortable. And in the barn I’ll have you”, I try to soothe. He smiles a little strained as he seems too to be deep in thought. 

“I did carry you over that threshold”, he says. I give him a sound kiss. “yes, you did”, I grin. 

Then his face turns grim. “And next time I carried you we were both covered in your blood”, he swallows. My grin fades and the tears try to gather again. I shake my head and kiss him softly again. I leave my face so close to his that our noses are touching. “I’m still here, Richie, and no one is taking me away”, I whisper. He presses his forehead against mine strongly and closes his eyes. 

He then presses his lips to mine with urgency. He maneuvers me so that I’m sitting sideways on his lap, his hands firmly supporting my waist. I deepen the kiss and press as close to him as physically possible with our clothing on. His other hand goes to cup the back of my head as I tangle my hands into his fire red hair. 

It feels so good to kiss him, to feel his arms around me. But it’s torture, because I want him, I need him. And this was only stoking the already existing fire. 

 When he pulls away I can see his pained face. 

“I-I need you, but I can’t do this. Not like this”, he says his voice rough, his bedroom voice. I can feel him against me. It all makes me so needy that I almost feel ashamed. It would, if I didn’t love this man as a part of my soul. 

And that’s how we sit. For an hour and a half. Trying to calm ourselves, softly talking, kissing and praying. 

@iilovemusic12us​

[pbandjesse]

I am feeling like. Stupid tired right now. It sucks. I couldnt sleep last night, didnt get to sleep until almost 3. I woke up miserably exhausted. But I really did try my best. I was just not feeling great. Which was a theme of this very grey day. I tried to shake it but man was it hard. 

James had to leave for work soon after I got up. I took a shower and washed my hair. Tried to shake off the feelings and the grossness I was feeling. I washed my hair again. I need to stop trying to wash my hair while I take a bath, it never works, and it just makes my life harder. 

I made a burrito for brunch. And I watched some videos. I did do some sewing today, but I was cold the entire day so I didnt do as much as I had wanted. I also did some photos for the store and a little bit of claywork. But it wasnt like a super productive day. I played around with videos some more, with mixed results. I for sure get better video on my phone but I have to delete them as soon as they are backed up because I have such little space. For sure something Im going to have to consider going forward. 

I was going to be meeting up at the park with Gaby and Lane around 3, which ended up being closer to 330. So for the afternoon I played some animal crossing and read. I was still sort of on edge about being on time so I left to early. They texted me to let me know they would be closer to 330. Which was alright, I drove around the park a little, went towards the zoo. Saw a deer! And then went to walgreens. The line was crazy inside but I got my psoriasis shampoo I had forgotten to pick up and still beat the girls getting to the park. 

I waited for them in the small pavilion. It was a little damp inside, and very rainy outside of it, but it was so nice to be out there. And it was extra nice seeing my friends. 

I gave Lane the butterflies I had for her, and Gaby the things she bought from my store. And we spent like an hour and a half talking about fanfiction and jobs and travel and life. It was excellent and made me feel so much better. 

But man was it cold! The rain would come and go, but it was cold. They both had jean jackets on which looked freezing, I had my brown jacket and then a raincoat on top of it and I was still so cold. And then I went to text James and my phone just turned off from being to cold! That hasnt happened to me since I lived in minnesota! So Lane texted James were we were so he could come say hi.

It was nice to all hang out for a few minutes, but James was wet from biking and we were all cold, so we made plans to do an animal crossing tour, and we all headed out. 

I got home and was just, cold down to my bones and very hungry. James put a pizza in the oven while I put jammies on. But I couldnt warm up. Im still cold honestly, but my legs were cold to the touch for hours. I think that zapped a lot of my energy. 

After we ate I read for a little, and tried to work on art, but I just wasnt feeling motivated or inspired. I made one little clay thing before calling it a night and laying in the ravioli and trying to feel warmer. It only sort of worked. 

I am sitting with James now. Im going to wash my face and just try to sleep. I feel so beat up. 

I dont know what tomorrow brings. I am going to work on the lesson plans I started for the Y. And hopefully have a chat with Lana for some more direction and maybe some idea of if I will have a new placement or they will just have me working on other stuff. Who knows. 

I just hope I can sleep. I hope you all sleep okay tonight. Take care of yourselves. Goodnight!

[aubreyweston]

When: Today, late morning, into early evening

Where: Sebastian’s room in the frathouse

Who: Aubrey and @smythenyu

Warnings: drinking, panic attack, i think that’s all

Word Count: 7,446 

Sebastian had been having the strangest fucking week since he'd kissed Aubrey Weston in spin the bottle at Santana's party. The moment their lips had touched he'd felt it as if lightning was coursing through every nerve end in his body, and despite all his arguments against it, he knew in that split second that the other boy was his soulmate. Whether there was any weight in the prospect still remained unsure, but he couldn't deny what had happened last weekend. He'd kissed his soulmate. His soulmate who just so turned out to be Aubrey of all people. Yet that still wasn't the weirdest part. He didn't know what had been going on with Aubrey, as the boy had scarpered off to Minnesota before Sebastian could stop him, but he figured that he had to have something to do with the bruises forming on his knuckles, the sharp headaches he'd been getting late at night, the sniffy nose, and the constant slight ache in his chest. For now, he was sat on his bed scrolling mindlessly through twitter on his phone, trying to do anything to get his mind off the myriad of  texts that he'd sent to Aubrey with no reply. He'd put on a playlist on his bluetooth speaker, and was dressed casually in sweats and a black tight fitted t shirt, biting at his bottom lip as he sighed to himself. He didn't know what he'd say when he eventually (hopefully) got to speak to Aubrey, but he knew that this week had been a real confusing time for him, and he imagined it was the same for the other.

Aubrey had been feeling the worst he'd felt in years in the week since what had felt like the nicest moment of his life. That stupid spin the bottle kiss at Santana's birthday had felt euphoric and that fact alone had terrified him so deeply that he'd literally dumped his meagre savings on an emergency flight to Minnesota so he could lose his mind in the safety of his childhood bedroom and without Chet, Tanner, and Kyle bothering him or trying to inquire why their normally stone-cold sober housemate was suddenly drinking enough to bankrupt a liquor store. So what if he'd broken a few dishes, punched a couple holes in the wall, yelled at his pharmacist so much that she started crying, and somehow managed to catch a cold all in the span of a week? That was just the kind of dumpster fire he'd been suppressing all along. Still, he'd needed to eventually come back to New York. He couldn't miss finals, and he also knew he couldn't keep putting off the inevitable so he'd finally summoned up enough courage (and downed enough liquor) to show up at Sebastian's frathouse after dropping off his luggage at his place. He'd been let in and navigated his way to the room he remembered from when they'd hooked up, the thought of that day making him feel both hot all over and violently queasy. He didn't even care if he looked like he'd been hit by a truck, hair sticking up at odd angles, bags under his eyes so deep they were starting to look gray, and face drawn as if he'd been ill for months not a week. He wasn't here to look sexy. He wasn't here for him and Sebastian to decide to be boyfriends because apparently the universe had willed it so. No. He was just here to set a few things straight and then he was going to go back to him room to break some more things and get even more drunk. He sucked in a breath, raised his fist, and knocked twice, and then waited.

Sebastian jumped at the knock to his door, dropping his phone down on the bed beside him and jumping up. He didn’t think anyone was visiting him tonight, and any of the other boys in the house wouldn’t have bothered knocking, so he didn’t know what to expect. He crossed his room and to the door without hesitating long, he’d been going a little antsy from lounging around so much that a distraction seemed kind of welcome. He opened it smoothly and froze as he saw Aubrey on the other side. His chest ached at the sight of him, clearly disheveled and looking like he’d definitely had a worse week than Sebastian. He hesitated then, lips parted, not sure what to say. Every part of him longed to reach out and touch him, but all he managed was a mumbled, “Oh, hi.”

When the door opened, Aubrey wasn't sure what he'd been expecting. He'd done a lot of reading into the soulmate phenomenon both before and after the spin the bottle incident, but most of the descriptions had been rather vague and hard to fully understand. But the feeling he was feeling was definitely hard to articulate. Part of him wanted to lash out, to hit Sebastian to yell at him for being the one to cause all this even though the rational part of him knew that that instinct didn't make any sense and that the other was probably just as blindsided as he was. A bigger part of him just wanted to collapse against him and soak up some warmth. Instead he did neither of those things, wrapping his arms around himself to keep from moving. "You texted," he said by way of explanation.

Sebastian curled his hand around the side of the door, despite the fact that his knuckles were still throbbing a little. He breathed out slowly, nodding, “Yeah, and you never replied,” he said quietly, before sighing and stepping back. “Come in, you look like you need a sit down,” he murmured, sniffling slightly and hating that he’d somehow managed to contract a cold throughout all of this. He didn’t get ill often and he hated it.

Aubrey walked inside, curling in on himself and then going over to the desk chair he'd sat in last time they'd been here. "I was busy at home," he said, leaning back into the chair, and then reaching to grab a tissue off the desk to wipe at his nose, before shutting his eyes for a moment, his head throbbing. Maybe he'd had more to drink than he should've for this conversation. He opened them again. "You sent me like a billion," he groused, only slurring his words a little. "I don't answer to you just 'cause we kissed and it was magic or whatever."

Sebastian closed the door behind him and turned to walk back over, sitting on the edge of the bed nearest Aubrey, watching as the other took the tissue. “Yeah, well. It’s been a weird week,” he mumbled, running a hand through his hair. “For one, my knuckles are bruised to shit even though I haven’t to my knowledge done anything to cause it... Wait, are you drunk?” He hadn’t noticed at first, but the longer he looked at Aubrey the more obvious it was. Sebastian knew very well what a drunk person looked like by now, he lived in a frat for christ sake.

Sebastian's comment about his knuckles stirred something in him, like he should've been connecting dots or realizing something significant. Instead, he just giggled at the question, shooting him a wide grin. "Dude, I am blitzed," he said, spinning in the desk chair, before grimacing once the movement made him dizzy. "I don't know why I ever stopped. This is awesome," he said. He sniffled again, wiping at his nose with his hoodie sleeve, having completely forgotten the tissue he'd just grabbed.

Sebastian frowned at that. He’d never once seen Aubrey drunk in the years he had known him. Was he really this upset at finding out Sebastian was his soulmate? “You’re that pissed off the universe landed you with me that you broke your sobriety and-“ he reached to gently lift up one of Aubrey’s hands, “and what? Beat up a wall?” He paused though, because just that simple touch of their hands had him feeling a swelling of warmth within him. His frowned softened and his shoulders relaxed, as if Aubrey’s touch had somehow soothed him briefly.

Aubrey felt something swell in him, a ball of something he couldn't quite name. It was like a mix of fear and anger. "Not everything is about you," he insisted, side-stepping the questions about his drinking and his knuckles. "It's not you," he repeated stubbornly, glancing down at their hands so he wouldn't have to look at Sebastian's eyes and acknowledge the way they made his heart beat faster. "It's me. 'n this whole s-soulmate thing. I'm not compatible with it."

Sebastian clenched his jaw slightly, watching Aubrey’s face carefully. “No, it’s not all about me. It’s fucking clearly about both of us. Aubrey, have you looked at our fucking hands?” He turned his hands over then, showing his knuckles and hoping it’d get through to him. Sebastian had already figured the bruises appearing out of nowhere had to be because of the kiss, there was no other logical explanation, and he knew all kinds of freaky shit happened when people supposedly met their soulmates.

Aubrey frowned when he realized Sebastian's knuckles were just as bruised as his were. He couldn't help but reach out and run a finger across them as if to confirm they were real and that he wasn't hallucinating. "I don't understand," he whispered, even though he understood well enough under the alcohol and mountains of denial that this surely had to do with their newfound connection. He pulled his hands back, as if he'd been burned, and stuck them into his hoodie pocket as though hiding the bruises would hide the truth.

Sebastian watched the flash of recognition in Aubrey’s eyes, but his shoulders shrank as the other pulled his hands back and away, already missing the contact. Sebastian ducked his head, “I get you don’t like me,” he murmured, pulling back his hands and wrapping his arms around himself. “But what- what happened this week? Why did you-“ he trailed off but glanced up to meet his eyes, his own wide and sad. “Look, even I thought at least part of this was all bullshit but its clearly not. You don’t have to tell me what’s going on in your head. But I guess what I’m saying is if you want to, you can.”

Aubrey felt like he was some kind of animal stuck in a hunter's trap. He was on the verge of a panic attack and wouldn't that be something for Sebastian to witness. His perfect, universe-chosen soulmate losing his fucking mind in the middle of his bedroom. "It's not you," he said, repeating what he'd tried to articulate earlier. Stupid, beautiful Sebastian wasn't the problem. Aubrey was the problem and the fact that Sebastian couldn't see that was dangerous for him.  "I shouldn't be anyone's soulmate," he choked out, his breath speeding up despite himself as he fought to suck enough air into his lungs. "I — I — I can't," he couldn't talk, his breath strangling him, and he had to hunch over and hide his face in his knees, block everything out so that he could focus on regulating his breathing.

Sebastian watched on with wide eyes, not realising he was moving til he was kneeling on the floor in front of him and once again reaching for Aubrey’s hands. It was like his body had reacted without prior thought or instruction. “Hey no,” he said softly but firmly, entwining their fingers and gently squeezing his hands. “That’s not true. Just focus on breathing okay, I’m here, hold onto me and just keep taking deep breaths, in and out, in and out...”

Aubrey breathed in-and-out and after a few minutes realized he'd been following along to Sebastian's instructions, relying on the steady drone of his voice to pull himself back to reality. Eventually he was able to breathe properly again, though his chest ached from the double-duty strain of both his cold and the sudden onslaught of his panic attack. "Thanks," he said quietly, finally looking back up to meet his eyes again. "Sorry."

Sebastian held his hands tightly through it, looking up to meet his eyes and managing a slight smile. “Don’t apologise. My Mom gets panic attacks. I get it,” he murmured quietly, running the pads of his thumbs gently over the back of Aubrey’s hand. “I didn’t mean to panic you though, I’m sorry.”

Aubrey thunked his head back against the chair. The panic attack had somehow diluted some of the alcohol but not all of it. He was still feeling loose-lipped but was thinking a smidge more clearly. Mostly he just felt exhausted. "Nothing different than the rest of this week," he admitted. "Nothing for you to be sorry for."

“Do you want to lie down?” Sebastian asked softly, not sure where this side of him had come from, although it was a lot like how he acted with his mom when she was struggling. The only difference being that he felt a physical ache at Aubrey’s pain and a soothing comfort from his touch. “You need to rest. And before you protest I promise on my mother’s life no funny business. I wouldn’t- I wouldn’t try anything like that.”

"Yeah," he said, though he wasn't sure where that'd come from. His brain had been telling him to say no but he supposed the combination of his intoxication and exhaustion made the rest of him ignore his brain. "That... sounds good." He slid off the chair and then flopped onto the bed. The pillow and sheets smelled nice, and his stomach twisted when he realized they smelled like Sebastian. He sucked in a breath. "Take out your phone," he demanded suddenly. He needed to somehow put an end to this.

Sebastian helped him up and then pulled back the covers as Aubrey moved to lie down. He stood to cross to the mini fridge, grabbing a bottle of water and moving back to hold it out for him. He raised an eyebrow at the question, sitting down on the edge of the bed beside him. “Why?” he asked but pulled it out of his pocket anyway.

Aubrey took the water, sitting up slightly so he could take a few gulps without choking, before he snuggled back under them. His eyes were fixed on Sebastian now, almost eerily focused, showing nothing of the avoidance he'd had only moments earlier. "Google 'Nathaniel Weston'," he said, his voice emotionless. Sebastian needed to see. Needed to understand. Aubrey was a monster like his father and even someone like Sebastian deserved miles better.

Sebastian frowned at that, looking at Aubrey for a moment before back down to his phone to search for the name. A few articles popped up and he clenched his jaw slightly as he read through one. None of this was pretty. After a few moments he looked back up and met Aubrey’s eyes. “Is this your dad?” he asked softly.

Aubrey watched in silence as Sebastian did as he asked, cataloguing every microshift in the other male's expression as he read whatever horrifyingly detailed news stories had popped up. "Yuuuup," he said, dragging the word out and popping the P. He smiled, but it was empty. "He gets fanmail in prison, did you know that? Women all over sending him letters about how he did nothing wrong and how they'd be so lucky to have a soulmate who'd do anything for them."

Sebastian’s eyebrows furrowed slightly as he looked back at Aubrey, placing his phone aside. “That’s fucked up,” he murmured in response. “I’m sorry- I’m sorry that he’s your dad. I’m sorry for what you must have been through.” He had never been particularly good at comforting friends, always usually too uninterested in other’s problems to give enough of a damn. But he moved closer and reached again for Aubrey’s hand, quickly entwining their fingers, the warmth and comfort it provided feeling addictive already. “Can I ask why you’re telling me all this now?”

Aubrey wanted to pull his hand away but he felt like all his limbs were suddenly made of lead. He blinked instead, shifting his gaze to stare at the ceiling. "Don't you get it?" He whispered. "I'm broken. I'm not exactly like him. But I'm not different enough for it to matter. I'm still a monster," he said. "I've already hurt you and I wasn't even in the same state as you. This is just the beginning. I can't be anyone's soulmate. It's a sick joke for the universe to assign me to anyone. No one deserves to be saddled with this."

“You’re not him,” Sebastian said firmly, squeezing Aubrey’s hands before shifting slightly closer, eyes wide. “You’re not your dad, Aubrey. You’re not a monster.” He felt his heart aching at the confession from him, and he slowly moved to lie down facing him, keeping a small distance between them. “You can’t really think that." He paused, his chest aching, "You're not a monster. You're just human," he murmured.

Aubrey could feel Sebastian moving closer but he couldn't turn to look at him, didn't want to see the pity in his eyes. Instead he kept talking. He needed to keep talking so Sebastian would understand. "I almost got expelled in high school. Got into too many fights. Hurt too many people." He clenched and then unclenched his free hand, the burning in his knuckles reminding him of why he was doing this. "I'm not a good person. I really tried to be. But, one bad week and I'm already back to hitting things."

Sebastian settled on his side, resting his head on one of the pillows as he looked across at him, still keeping a hold of his hand. "Things not people, right? It's not like you've hurt anyone, Aubrey." He shifted closer again, "You're your own person, and you can't let whatever your dad did define you. You're not him. I was even more of a pretentious brat in high school. but I grew up, kinda."

"That's not the same thing," he said quietly, before sighing. He wished, fiercely, that he had more alcohol all of a sudden, but he didn't think mentioning that would do him any favours. "I don't want to talk about this anymore. It's all bullshit anyway," he said, finally finding it in him to tug his hand away so that he could curl it tightly against his chest and shift onto his side, away from Sebastian.

Sebastian bit his lip as Aubrey pulled away, “No, it’s not but that’s not the point.” He paused a moment as the other turned away from him, hating how his chest ached at the action. What was happening to him? “But okay,” he said quietly. He lay there silent for another while before shifting closer so his chest was against Aubrey’s back, his arm winding around him carefully. He had never been one for physical affection, it was reserved for his mom and Santana only, but he felt the need to be close to the other boy and he only hoped it was as comforting for Aubrey as it was for him.

Aubrey wanted to shove him off but he was tired, and they'd already kissed and fucked. It's not like a hand around his waist was going to make things worse. "'m sleepy," he mumbled. "Sorry about your hand."

“You can sleep,” Sebastian murmured, curling closer around him and letting his own eyes closer. “And that’s okay. Makes me look tough, right?” he teased softly.

"Guess so," Aubrey mumbled, snuffling a bit until he was comfortable and warm, before he let his eyes fall shut, exhaustion finally taking him.

Sebastian smiled sadly, relaxing against him, “Sleep well, Aubrey,” he murmured, letting himself drift off too.

Sebastian stirred awake, shifting closer to the warm body in his arms, snuggling his face into Aubrey’s neck before blinking open his eyes and realising who it was he was spooning.

Aubrey didn't know how long it'd been since he'd fallen asleep but he woke up feeling both comfortable and awful at the same time. His head was pounding, but he was warm in someone — Sebastian's — arms. He jerked up when he realized. "Fuck," he muttered. "Shit. I need to go."

Sebastian let his arm drop from around Aubrey as the other woke, chewing at his bottom lip and running his hand through his hair. "Why do you have to go? It's Sunday."

"I have to go because this —" he gestured wildly between them " — can't happen. I don't fucking care what the stupid universe says. Sorry about your hand. I'll be more careful, but coming here was a bad, drunk decision. I shouldn't have done it."

Sebastian sat up, frowning slightly, "What? What can't happen, Aubrey?" he shot back, "Are we just going to do what Jesse and Rachel did and pretend it doesn't matter? Pretend we never kissed and live happily ever after? You think it doesn't matter that apparently we both got this stupid cold and when you punched the wall or whatever it bruised my hands too? Because first off, what kind of fucked up manifestation is that?"

Aubrey felt his temper flare, and he clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms so that he wouldn't do anything he'd regret. "No. Because they were terrible at that. It lasted what... a week? I doubt they tried at all," he fired back. His head was throbbing, and the idea that Sebastian was feeling it too was deeply unsettling. "Yeah. It's fucked up, you said it yourself. What's even the point of this besides making us both miserable? If that's not a bad omen I don't know what is."

"Ow," Sebastian yelped, glancing down at his hands as his palms stung slightly, frowning and looking back up at Aubrey wide eyed. He reached out to gently uncurl his fingers, taking his hands and meeting his eyes. "Careful," he murmured, kind of disregarding what Aubrey had been arguing back because this manifestation thing was turning out to be really fucking weird. Did this translate for every form of injury?

Aubrey wretched his hands out of Sebastian's hands again. "Stop! Stop it! Fuck." He yelled, crossing his arms instead, hoping that would have the same effect as digging his nails in without the pain to the other. "How is this a good thing? How could you possibly think this could be anything other than a curse for both of us?" He demanded. "We could barely be in the same room as each other two weeks ago and now we're stuck feeling every little boo boo that the other person has? It's bullshit. None of this is good. None of this is romantic or — or — worth encouraging or pursuing or whatever you want to call it."

Sebastian felt his words hitting harder than he expected. Aubrey was right, so why did it hurt so much to hear the other saying it out loud? "I don't know," he said quietly, kneeling beside him on the bed and ducking his head, dropping his hands to his thighs. "I just-" he trailed off, thinking about the kiss and the way it had felt to have Aubrey in his arms, thinking about how Santana had encouraged him to give him a chance, but Aubrey blatantly didn't want any of that. Typical that Sebastian's soulmate would be the one person who didn't want jack shit to do with him. Fitting really. "Please just don't leave yet."

He listened when Sebastian asked him not to leave, but he scooted back on the bed, trying to put more distance between them just to keep himself sane. "I just don't see what the point in drawing this out is... it's just going to make it worse," he said, deflating all of a sudden and trying to ignore the guilt gnawing at him because of the look on Sebastian's face. "Look, soulmates being ridiculous was the one thing we could always agree on. Just because the universe has decided to shove these feelings and I dunno, pheromones or whatever onto us doesn't mean we need to cave. This pain thing is just... an inconvenience. But we can work around it. We just need to be careful."

"Make it worse?" he murmured, sighing and shaking his head, running his hands through his hair. "Why did you come here then? Why did you come to me if you think this is all a load of bullshit that we should just ignore?" He challenged, meeting Aubrey's eyes now, despite the distance between them on the bed. "You were thinking about the kiss, right? Because I know I wasn't the only one who felt that."

Why had he? It was a good question. "I don't know. I was drunk. You wouldn't stop texting," he said, biting his lip. He'd been tipsy when he'd started reading the texts once he got off the plane, and downright smashed by the time he'd arrived at Sebastian's frathouse. "It was a mistake." The mention of the kiss had something in him twisting. He wanted to forget it more than anything and he hated that he couldn't. "It doesn't matter what we felt. We wouldn't have even thought about dating before it. Just because it felt good doesn't mean I'm going to forget about all the reasons we didn't want to date before. Or fuck. Or whatever. You're not even a dating guy, you said it yourself when we literally met."

"Why won't you just admit that you hate me, or whatever it is. You're disgusted by me, you judged me from that very first moment we met in freshman year," he said, frowning now but his eyes mainly showing hurt. He wasn't good with rejection, he wasn't used to it, and all along it was all he'd received from Aubrey. "You're pissed off because it turns out this shit is real, as am I, and for some reason, the universe seems to think it hilarious to put us together. But you can't deny that there's always been something. Even when we fucked, we didn't even kiss, but it was the best sex I'd had in ages."

Aubrey bit on his lip, but then released it, realizing that Sebastian would feel the prick of pain and fuck if this wasn't the most annoying manifestation they could've possibly had. Why couldn't it have been something stupidly innocuous? "Why do you care?" He asked instead of replying. "Even then, why did you care that I didn't like you? You could have anyone you want, and you just had to keep hitting on me. The one person who can't be in a relationship. And it's bruised your ego ever since. I didn't hate you then, I didn't hate you now, but you still can't seem to see that it doesn't fucking matter who got saddled with being my soulmate. I'd do the same with them. No one should be with me," he said fiercely. He ran a hand through his hair, stressed, though Sebastian's next words did give him pause, his cheeks pinking a bit at the memory. The only person he had to compare Sebastian to had been Quinn, and he'd told himself the reason Sebastian had been better was because he'd been sober for it... but if Sebastian with all his experience was saying the same, that was significant. And another strike in favour of this whole blasted soulmate thing.

Sebastian looked at him with wide eyes. “Maybe I was annoyed because you were the person I wanted,” he found himself admitting, trying his best to keep his gaze with the other. “Maybe-“ he started again but trailed off, sighing and rubbing his hands over his face. “And you’re wrong. This certainty you have that you’re meant to be alone, or whatever, it’s not true. No one is- no one is meant to be alone. Why do you think despite me and Santana both being blatantly against monogamy that we got so attached? Because we needed each other. Everyone does.”

"How could you possibly know?" Aubrey asked almost desperately. "Doesn't that bother you? That all of this is pre-determined and we had no say in it at all?" He fiddled with his hoodie sleeve, looking away from Sebastian's wide eyes, the look in them feeling painful. "So stick with Santana. Or — or find a new Santana if she's decided to shack it up with Finn," he insisted. "Some people are better off alone. I'm one of them."

"Of course it bothers me, this whole stupid soulmate thing has always fucking bothered me. But exactly, how did I know? Maybe it was because before it all, before the kiss, even the fucking,  there was something about you that made me want to know more," he said, shifting closer on the bed but keeping distance between them still, his eyes wide. "I don't believe that," he said determinedly, "I think you're scared to let me in, and believe me I'm scared too, but I've been thinking a lot this week, and talking with Santana, and there's a reason I sent you so many texts, Aubrey. I'm not fucking around. I - I can't just sit here and pretend I don't want you."

Aubrey pulled his knees up to his chest, and set his chin onto them, feeling what felt like 85 thousand layers of devastation crash down onto him. "But was that you or just — just — the universe or whatever, poking you in that direction. If something made you feel like you were making a choice but in the end you weren't actually making any choices at all, you were just a chess piece being moved on a board that you can't see, that'd be awful," he said, his shoulders slumping, making him look more and more like ball. He was looking up again, suddenly at Sebastian's confession, hating the way the words made his heart speed up. He didn't know what it was like to feel wanted. He didn't think he'd ever want to know, but the words had something in him shaking loose, a tiny small, suppressed part of him that ached to let someone in. "Then you're an idiot," he whispered, but there was no heat in it, only sadness.

Sebastian felt his heart breaking as he watched Aubrey curl in on himself. He could see the boy's defences, and all he wanted was a chance to be let in. "Maybe it is, maybe that's awful," he murmured, ducking his head to stare at the bedsheets, sighing heavily. "But what if it's not?" He paused again, glancing up and doing his best to hold himself back from this urge he had to be closer to the boy. "Everyone knows I'm an idiot," Sebastian teased softly, "But I don't care if you think that."

"But what if it's not?" Aubrey repeated thoughtfully. Now that was an idea. It was one he had a hard time reconciling with his thoughts. But... maybe this whole thing was the other way around. That somehow, as insane as it sounded, he and Sebastian would've found their way together no matter what and the universe was just keeping an eye on something that would've happened regardless. That made even less sense to him. But it wasn't like there was anything to disprove it. "I mean you shouldn't. I've been thinking it for three years," he said, though for once, the barb was entirely teasing, and if Sebastian really concentrated he probably would've noticed the corners of his lips tilting up a hint.

Sebastian's lips tilted up into a soft smile at that, his eyes on Aubrey's. He couldn't help himself from shifting closer again, reaching out his hand and just brushing his fingers against the other's, "Santana told me... Santana told me that you were a virgin," he said quietly, "I thought I should say. She asked and so I told her that we slept together and the pieces got put together... I - I guess what I'm saying is I hope I didn't ruin that first experience for you."

This time, Aubrey didn't move back, instead he scrunched up his nose at Sebastian's words. "Of course she did," he said, though he wasn't angry or particularly surprised that she'd told him. "You didn't. It was really good," he said honestly. "And it's not like... I wasn't saving it for The One or whatever. I just... didn't prioritize it. Kind of wanted to get it over with and you offered and... I don't know why I said yes but I didn't regret it."

Sebastian slowly curled his fingers around Aubrey's when he didn't pull back, just gently holding his hand in his, still sat a little away. "Yeah? You really had fun?" he said, not in a flirtatious manner but more genuinely curious and relieved to know it had been mutually enjoyed. "But you really don't realise how gorgeous you are, do you?" he continued, running his thumb over the back of Aubrey's hand now. "I thought about you for so long after we slept together."

Aubrey snorted, at the genuine curiosity. It felt like he was in some alternate universe, for Sebastian to want validation about his abilities in bed from him of all people. "Yes, Sebastian, I had fun," he said, his cheeks getting redder. "I kept asking Santana dumb questions about her first time, trying to figure out what was normal or not." The touch at his wrist was soothing and even though his mind told him to pull his hand away, his heart just wanted to have that one moment of calm before he had to snap back to reality. "Shut up, no you did not," he insisted, the flush moving up to the tips of his ears. He didn't think he was ugly or anything but his looks were very low on the list of things Aubrey liked about himself.

Sebastian shifted closer again, still holding his hand and running his thumb over his wrist, "What was normal or not? What were you comparing?" he murmured, raising his eyebrows slightly. "And I did, I kinda still do sometimes. It was good. Really good."

Aubrey blinked, staring down at his knees. "I couldn't stop thinking about it either. So I wanted to know if that was just what happened after everyone had sex for the first time," he admitted. "I didn't want to think what happened between us was special or something. I'd done it just so I could check 'lose v-card' off the list."

Sebastian grinned softly, gently tugging on Aubrey's hand, wanting him to drop his knees and move closer but still wanting to be polite and not push. "But then it was that good," he murmured, his eyes sparkling a little now. "Yeah, it's why I tried so hard to convince you to do it again. But I figured you just couldn't get over your intense dislike of me or something."

Aubrey sighed and finally acquiesced, stretching his legs back out, and turning to look at Sebastian. "It was, yeah," he said. "It was more... I didn't want it to mean anything because I didn't want to get attached. To you or anyone."

Sebastian squeezed Aubrey’s hand, “And you still don’t wanna get attached,” he murmured, shifting so they were sat beside each other, “You’re not meant to be alone, Aubrey.”

It was hard to hear something like that spoken so plainly, but here Sebastian was, saying it anyway. "I... can you just give me some time? I really need to think about things."

Sebastian paused, ducking his head and nodding, "Okay, yeah," he murmured, before glancing back up. "Can I ask you something though?"

Part of Aubrey wanted to snipe that he already had, but a bigger part of him just appreciated that Sebastian was getting permission in the first place. "Go ahead."

“Can I kiss you?” he murmured quietly, meeting Aubrey’s eyes and squeezing his hand, looking sincere. “Please?”

"I —" Aubrey felt his throat dry up. His eyes were wide. He wanted to say something but he didn't even know how to respond. He should say no but he was wavering. A kiss would make things even more complicated. "I don't know."

Sebastian bit his lip and nodded, “Okay... can I ask you another question?” he murmured softly.

"What is it?" Aubrey asked, biting his lip in response to the twinge from Sebastian doing the same. His nerves were getting the best of him.

"Can I take you out?" he asked, a little bold perhaps but Sebastian had never been shy. He was tired of pretending he didn't want him. "On a date."

Aubrey's pulse jumped. Fuck if Sebastian wasn't making things impossible. "Time... please?" He practically begged, looking at him with pleading eyes. "If... I can wrap my head around this..." he hesitated but then forced himself to carry on. "Then you can."

Sebastian ducked his head, breathing out but nodding again. Not really the response he'd been hoping for. God, he had to get better at dealing with rejection. "Right, sure... Still an I don't know on that kiss?" he murmured, glancing back up to capture Aubrey's gaze.

Aubrey felt like the guilt was strangling him. He wasn't being fair. It wasn't Sebastian's fault that he was stuck with a broken soulmate. "I... okay. One kiss," he said, hoping that it'd be enough to tide the other male over without being too much for him.

Sebastian bit his lip as he smiled then, raising his eyebrows, "Yeah? Really?" he murmured, shifting closer again, his eyes sparkling a little.

Aubrey nodded, quick and short, not wanting his nerves to get the better of him now that he'd finally made a decision. He tilted his head up as Sebastian moved closer, his heartbeat loud in his own ears.

Sebastian smiled fully then, settling in front of Aubrey and lifting a hand to cup his jaw, brushing his thumb over his cheek before he couldn't help himself any longer. He leant in and kissed him softly, feeling once again like his heart was about to jump out of his chest from the moment that their lips brushed. He wrapped his other arm around the boy, tilting his head and deepening the kiss as he felt that overwhelming warmth that had taken over him last time.

Aubrey melted into the kiss, despite trying to steel himself before their lips touched. It was ridiculous, this whole concept. It went against his better judgement entirely and yet it felt so good. The gentle hand on his face, the insistent yet comforting press of Sebastian's lips on his own, the entire thing made him feel dizzy and blissful all at once.

Sebastian couldn't help himself from pressing closer, losing himself in the kiss. His hand pressed gently against the small of Aubrey's back as the other cupped his cheek still, brushing his thumb over the skin gently. Sebastian couldn't believe it still felt this incredible. It was only a kiss, yet it felt so perfect.

Aubrey's mind went pleasantly blank and he just concentrated on sinking into that feeling of nothing and everything. He didn't want to pull back, which had been why he'd been apprehensive in the first place, but there was a small part of him that had hoped somehow this kiss would confirm that he'd just been confused before, that nothing had changed, their similar injuries were all just coincidences. The kiss did none of those things. Instead it solidified the truth in an inescapable way.

Sebastian didn't want to pull back. There was too much uncertainty to deal with when he did. Aubrey might decide not to give him this chance, and it broke his heart a little because he couldn't imagine not getting to kiss him like this again. It was all very confusing, and Sebastian still felt conflicted over the 'soulmates' part of this. He just had to hold onto the idea that he wanted Aubrey anyway. He gasped as he finally did pull back, having to catch his breath but not moving back, resting their foreheads together as he kept his eyes closed for a moment. "Please don't run away this time? Not just yet?" he whispered.

Aubrey stayed still once Sebastian pulled back, just catching his breath and trying to parse through the mountain of complicated feelings that suddenly rushed back. He didn't respond to the question, not knowing what he'd say if he tried to reply, worried that he'd either be too honest or say something he'd regret, so instead all he did was not move, allowing Sebastian to keep on holding him.

Sebastian pressed another soft kiss to Aubrey’s lips before pulling back again and opening his eyes, his thumb stroking over his cheek as he smiled softly. “Pretty crazy, right?”

Aubrey let his head drop, resting it against Sebastian's shoulder. "Yeah," he said, voice muffled. "It sucks. I hate it." He knew his honesty was probably not the most conductive thing right now, but he meant it. He didn't hate Sebastian. He never had. But the situation was terrible. "I just wish I could know if any of this is real."

“Then give me a chance,” Sebastian murmured quietly, lifting his hand to the back of Aubrey’s head, running his fingers through his hair. “We can find out if it’s real or not.”

Aubrey shivered a bit at the soothing touch. He felt painfully exposed, especially with the revelations his drunk self had decided to unceremoniously make. "I'm going to think about it. I... I'm not totally dismissing it, I swear."

Sebastian nodded, pressing a kiss to Aubrey's temple and pulling back slightly. "Okay, sorry. I- I just- I was a fucking mess this week, Aubrey. And when I realised what the bruises meant I was really fucking worried."

"Sorry. I — sorry. I didn't know we were... that you'd feel it too," Aubrey muttered, guilt gnawing at him again. "I'll be more careful. Ignoring you wasn't... it wasn't fair either though. I should've at least replied to ask for space."

"It's okay. I just didn't know what was happening to you," he murmured, "And I know that we don't even really know each other but it scared me, y'know?" He sighed softly, "I'm sorry I sent so many texts. I'm not very good at this, clearly."

Aubrey snorted. "Yeah, because clearly I'm an expert," he said, dryly. "I won't go full silence again, though. And I'll tell you when I'm ready to... to give you an answer or something."

Sebastian smiled just slightly at that, nodding and dropping his hand from Aubrey's hair. "Okay. I'll wait until you're ready," he said, but leant in a little as he bit at his bottom lip. "One more kiss?" he asked almost bashfully, genuinely never having been so nervous around someone like this.

"Thank you," Aubrey murmured. He was torn. He felt a phantom pain his lip as Sebastian bit his, and impulsively dragged his tongue across the spot. "I don't know if I'd be able to leave if I said yes," he admitted. "Trying to think with my brain."

Sebastian nodded, his eyes dropping to Aubrey’s lips but forcing himself to pull back from him, instantly missing the touch. “Okay. Uhm, I guess just let me know,” he murmured, trying not too feel to dejected by this all. He had gotten a kiss, and it had been incredible.

Aubrey reached out hesitantly, the first time he'd initiated anything, and cupped his neck. "Thank you," he said sweetly, feeling genuinely relieved that he'd agreed. "I will. Promise."

Sebastian couldn’t help the smile that pulled at his lips because of the soft touch of Aubrey’s hand against his neck.  “It’s okay if you want to go now,” he said softly, lifting to place his hand over Aubrey’s. “I get it.”

Aubrey nodded. "Thank you," he said again, giving his neck a soft squeeze, before he stood up, shifting his hoodie and pulling the sleeves down, before he headed for the door. "I'll talk to you later, okay?"

Sebastian sat up straighter, nodding as Aubrey pulled away and trying to ignore the ache in his chest. “Talk to you later, Aubrey,” he said softly, managing a small smile. “Take care of yourself.”

"You too," Aubrey said, shooting him a tiny smile in return, before he slipped out the door and then the frathouse and headed for his apartment.

[eidetective]

(wip preview of something based on this.)

“How many confessions so far?”

“Twelve dozen, last I checked,” Crawford said, shifting papers on his desk in that sort of way people do things when they want something to do with their hands but can’t think of anything productive. “None of them had any details. Until this morning. Then they all had details.”

“Freddie Lounds?” Dr. Graham said—hissed, more like it—and didn’t turn away from the wall of photos. He hadn’t since he’d come into the office; Chiyoh had heard stories of him, of that thing he did, whispered like an urban legend among trainees and faculty alike. She wondered what she saw in the eight eerily similar faces of dead girls a scant ten years her junior. She wondered what he would have seen had he been there in Elise Nichols’ bedroom, Crawford at his shoulder and real FBI making cracks about spooking easily.

Crawford nodded. “Some genius in Duluth P.D.—took photos of Elise Nichols’ body with his cell phone, showed it to his friends. This morning it was front page news on Tattlecrime.com.”

“Tasteless,” Graham muttered, as though Freddie Lounds’ mere existence was a personal slight against him. Chiyoh had heard that name as well, plenty. Not a legend but a cautionary tale. An unscrupulous, ambulance-chasing tabloid reporter who spelled trouble for anyone she set her sights on.

“I agree.” She had read a few articles once, and felt they’d made her stupider. Graham glanced at her over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. At once she felt pinned like a moth to cardstock, awkward in her ill-fitting polo, though his eyes, intense behind his glasses, focused slightly off to the side of her face. “—I have trouble with taste.”

“We have that in common,” Graham said, trailing a finger along one of the strings pinned to the corkboard. Then, in a sudden motion, he was sitting at Crawford’s desk, holding out a thermos Chiyoh only just realized was his in offer. “My thoughts aren’t often tasty.”

Chiyoh considered that.

“We have that in common.”

“No effective barriers.” He poured out a cup of what turned out to be very strong coffee, and Chiyoh took it gratefully. The coffee wasn’t very good, a little too watery and slightly burnt. Aunt Murasaki would have considered it unworthy of the word. Chiyoh would have preferred tea, but the taste was an acceptable sacrifice to have the caffeine and a hot cup in her hands. “But we build forts, don’t we? Or what we see colors everything else we know.”

“Are you talking about me or about yourself, Dr. Graham?”

Graham stared down into his own cup of coffee and smiled. He was undoubtedly handsome, but something about the expression didn’t suit him, made him less attractive.

“You tell me. Associations come quickly, don’t they, Fujiwara?”

He pronounced her name well, almost the same as she had when she introduced herself. Not the way Crawford did, too long on the “wa” with a hard R.

“As you say.” She smiled thinly. “We build forts.”

Graham looked up at her and blinked several times. Chiyoh had the peculiar feeling he was looking through her, past her.

“You have to,” he said. His voice had changed, but she couldn’t put her finger on how. “You’d never last in the FBI without them. You walk into a crime scene and it speaks to you with noise and clarity, whispering those associations that are an affront to the values and sense of morality you pride yourself in. But it didn’t start with the Academy, did it? You heard those whispers long before you found your way to the FBI. No amount of forts can protect you from that. On some level you know that, but you’ve been building them for so long you’ve forgotten how to stop.”

Chiyoh put down her cup far more forcefully than she meant to, nearly spilling the coffee. Crawford was staring at Graham like he’d grown a second head; Chiyoh suspected she was looking at him much the same way.

“Who are you meant to be psychoanalyzing?” The words came out in a near whisper, though in the moment she’d thought before she’d spoken, she’d pictured herself shouting. Graham met her eyes properly for the first time at that, naked curiosity on his face, and Chiyoh turned away, looking to Crawford for backup. “Agent Crawford, this is—”

“That wasn’t psychoanalysis,” Graham interrupted. “That was empathy. You didn’t tell her very much about me, did you, Jack?”

“Get back to class, Fujiwara,” Crawford said, grim gaze still fixed firmly on Graham. He didn’t have to tell her twice; at once Chiyoh collected her bag, and though she would never call it such, she fled the room.

———

Chiyoh was woken up before six the following Monday morning by a call on her cell and the nagging beginnings of a migraine.

“Number nine,” Crawford said the moment she picked up, and he gave her the gate number for a seven AM flight. Chiyoh took two Aspirin and emailed her professors her excuses; at least the understanding that they could take their concerns to the head of Behavioral Science if they had an issue with her absences had kept her marks intact.

She knew it must be different before she even got to the airport. There was a certain amount of vindication in knowing she was right, that the pattern would change—he had taken the next girl soon, after all—but there was more to it than that. It had changed too much. It was too soon. Her instincts told her that the killer would have escalated gradually, that he wouldn’t have been able to bear replacing Elise until he felt secure, until he’d assuaged whatever guilt he felt over his failure.

What was waiting for her in the field was more than different. It was surreal.

She stared at the mounted body in mute shock, watching crime scene techs chasing away crows from the dead girl’s pale form, draped elegantly over the trophy stag whose antlers were piercing her mutilated torso in a near-identical pattern to the holes in Elise Nichols’ chest and stomach.

The girl had dark auburn hair, and blue eyes stared fish-like and lifeless from her pale, freckled face.

The scene was appalling in both its beauty and its cruelty. A scene born from nightmares. Chiyoh shivered through her heavy coat.

“Minneapolis PD’s already put out a statement,” Crawford said. “They’re calling him the Minnesota Shrike.”

“The butcher bird,” Chiyoh heard herself say.

“Impales its prey on branches or barbed wire,” Agent Price explained; Chiyoh saw he knew it was for the others’ benefit rather than hers. “Rips their organs right out of their bodies. Keeps them in a little birdy pantry and eats them later.”

Mozu no hayanie. Chiyoh moved closer to look at the horrible incision down the middle of the girl’s chest. Agent Zeller was doing the same, a penlight in his gloved hand.

“She was still alive when he put her here,” he said, hoarsely. “And he took her heart.”

At once she could see it. Prying open the girl’s ribs. A knife under the sternum, blade pointed up. Familiarity with butchering animals, but she knew how to butcher animals too, and that—she’d never do that to an animal.

Zeller must have seen something on her face, because he forced a smile.

“I thought you said you didn’t spook easily.” It would have had more bite to it if he didn’t sound so nauseated.

“Is this what you consider easily, Agent Zeller?” Chiyoh replied, and turned to see Crawford watching her, arms crossed over his chest.

“I’m not sure if it’s sloppy or shrewd,” he said.

“He wanted her to be found.” There was no other reason for it. This was so obvious it was almost petulant. “As if he’s mocking her. Or perhaps he’s mocking us.”

Crawford leaned over the body, eyes dark and face drawn.

“Where did all his love go?”

Love. That struck her, then—pieces fitting together all too easily now that what she was witnessing could fill in the blanks. There was no love here, there was—art. Performance. This girl’s killer had had little sympathy for her and certainly had no love. He had taken her heart as if to drive the point home, as if he were standing here telling them as much. She was little more than material to him.

“The man who tucked Elise Nichols into bed couldn’t have done this,” Chiyoh said. “He loves these women. He shows them what he thinks is kindness, and he consumes them so he can keep part of them inside himself after their deaths. This would offend him. He would never have disgraced her like this.”

“You think this is a copycat?” Crawford was incredulous.

“This is indifferent,” Chiyoh insisted. “This girl’s killer didn’t care about her. Her death would have been slow and painful. He didn’t torture her, but he paid no consideration to how much she suffered. He had so little love for her that he cut her heart out of her chest as soon as it stopped beating. Our cannibal is not so unfeeling, and he would never leave a body to the scavengers like this. He’d have no reason to. He took Elise Nichols home to her family, and every other girl has vanished completely. He has somewhere to do his work, somewhere with an antler room.”

Crawford exchanged looks with his fellow agents, but at least seemed curious to hear what she had to say. Chiyoh turned back to the body, looking at the once-pretty face with renewed interest.

“The intended target must be someone close to him. I think it would have to be a daughter or—maybe a sister who fits the same profile. He has a protectiveness toward them, all of them—whoever she is, he’s terrified to lose her.”

“What about the copycat?”

Chiyoh shook her head.

“Perhaps you should ask Dr. Graham,” she said. “Isn’t he supposed to have a knack for the monsters?”

———

She dreamed of a black stag that night, the animal that had borne the burden of the body that had been identified as Cassie Boyle given new life cloaked in the feathers of the crows that had perched upon that scene of horror.

Her dreams were not often so esoteric, but nor were the cases she’d ever studied in a classroom. It still frustrated her to wake in a cold sweat like a child having nightmares, a sharp pain hammering behind her right eyebrow. She needed to be sharp—Crawford wanted her doing some legwork today, investigating the lead from the shred of metal Agent Katz had turned up. It was going to be a long day and she was off to a poor start.

She took a couple Aspirin and as long a shower as she could justify to herself, as though she could wash away the anxiety that clung to her like the dead, glassy eyes of the crow-stag were still watching her.

There was a knock at the door while she was still half-dressed and toweling off her hair. Mood blackening further, she hastily pulled on a cardigan and pajama pants, expecting Crawford ready to chastise her for being unprepared.

Instead she was met with Will Graham, dressed in a sharp gray overcoat for the brisk October morning and carrying a plastic shopping bag and his thermos.

“Good morning,” he said. He wasn’t wearing the thick-framed glasses he was in Crawford’s office, giving her an unobstructed view of his eyes, and he looked entirely too awake for anyone to be before eight in the morning.

“Good morning,” propriety demanded she reply. “Where’s Agent Crawford?”

“Deposed in court.” Dr. Graham still wasn’t meeting her eyes, but the simple absence of the glasses made his face seem much more open to her. “It’s been years since I worked for the FBI, but this isn’t my first rodeo. He asked me to escort you.”

“I see.”

The moment dragged. The chill in the air was thoroughly uncomfortable, underdressed for it with her hair still damp, but Chiyoh knew it would be rude to close the door on him without pretense, and he clearly hadn’t come here just to tell her that. Graham caught on quickly, opened the shopping bag enough that she could see a few Tupperware inside.

“I brought breakfast,” he said. “Would you mind if I came in?”

“A bit,” Chiyoh said, but stepped out of the way to let him inside anyway. “You cook?”

“Here and there.” The contents of the Tupperware turned out to be cornbread pancakes and thick, slightly overcooked breakfast sausages, which Graham doled out onto a couple of plates, pouring out what Chiyoh was surprised to see was green tea from the thermos, as though he had somehow divined what she was thinking the last time they shared a drink. The food was still warm, the tea was hot, and Graham had, vaguely endearingly, brought a few plastic packets of maple syrup that Chiyoh suspected must have been pilfered from a diner. “I used to only cook for my dogs, but I had more free time once I opened my own practice. Picked up the habit.”

He was humanizing himself to her, she recognized that. Offering personal information as an invitation for her to engage with him, ask him about himself. Informing her he has pets to present a more sympathetic personality.

She simply nodded and took a bite of sausage, taken off guard at how delicious it was. It was clearly homemade, which she hadn’t been expecting—juicy, well-seasoned, a bit spicy. Even the slight char didn’t detract from the flavor, though the texture was a bit tougher than she’d have expected. The pancakes, too, turned out to be well-made, if slightly soggy from the time spent steaming in the Tupperware. The sickly-sweet syrup was balanced out by the bitterness of the tea. Mismatched as the flavors were, she found herself enjoying it immensely.

“This is very good,” she said, and Graham, who had been watching her eat with the slightly unsettling intensity Chiyoh had realized was his resting expression, brightened.

“Thank you.” He speared a piece of sausage with his fork. “I would say I owe you an apology for ambushing you, but if I’m apologizing to you constantly it’s going to get tedious. I can’t exactly turn it off.”

“The—ambushing?”

“The observing. I imagine you can’t, either.”

Chiyoh nodded, thoughtful. “I noticed you avoid eye contact.”

“Eyes are distracting,” Graham said, and immediately met Chiyoh’s eyes, holding her gaze, not fleetingly, but with every bit of that intensity. Making a point. “You see too much. You don’t see enough. And it’s hard to focus, thinking—those whites are really white, or he must have hepatitis, or is that a burst vein?”

Chiyoh smiled around a bite of pancake, and she was the one to look away first. To her embarrassment, Graham seemed to find that amusing, but he didn’t press it.

“I would think your patients would consider that rude.”

“Some of them do.” Graham shrugged one shoulder. “Some of them find it comforting that their psychiatrist doesn’t quite think like everybody else, either. Albeit something more in line with Asperger’s and autism than narcissists and antisocials.”

“But you can think like narcissists and antisocials,” Chiyoh said. Graham raised an eyebrow. “There’s quite a bit of talk about you at the Bureau. About—”

“About the specific way I think.”

Chiyoh nodded.

“I can think like anybody. Call it an active imagination.” He took a long sip of his tea. “What about you? Top five percent in your class, a Master’s in criminal justice, Bachelor’s in Psychology…”

“It sounds like you’ve been investigating me.”

“Not at all. But I’m curious.” Graham set down his cup and looked at her frankly. “Jack lost a trainee in the field before. Another young woman, in fact. I’m curious what it is about you that inspired him to take you out of your classroom when the last time he did that, his trainee was—most likely—killed.”

He had a remarkable ability to turn conversations on their head, leaving her feeling defensive and off balance. She tapped her fork against her plate, taking a few seconds to breathe.

“I believe this qualifies as another ambush, Dr. Graham.”

“That’s exactly what I meant about apologies getting tedious.”

“One would be nice.”

Graham leaned back in his chair.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and despite all odds, it actually sounded genuine. Chiyoh sighed, dabbing up the last of the syrup off her plate with one final bite of pancake.

“Perhaps Agent Crawford has more faith in me than you do,” she said.

“I doubt that,” Graham replied. “I doubt that very much.”

Before Chiyoh could process if that was a compliment or an insult, Graham pushed on.

“Jack tells me you think the girl in the field was killed by a copycat,” he said. “The devil is in the details?”

“Exactly so.”

“What gave it away?”

“Everything.” Chiyoh shook her head. “It was a perfect negative. Almost as if it were deliberate—as if he wanted to show me the inverse so I could see the Shrike in its reflection. There couldn’t have been a more perfect crime scene if I had asked for it.”

Graham seemed to consider this as he sipped his tea.

“Different pathology, same design?”

“Perhaps. Did Agent Crawford ask you to profile the copycat?”

“He asked me to profile the Minnesota Shrike,” Graham replied. “To supervise you profiling the Minnesota Shrike. So—yes, he did, insofar as the existence of this copycat is relevant to the profile of our cannibal.”

“And does your role as supervisor allow you to tell me whether you agree with my profile?”

“I do.” Graham nodded. “You have excellent insight. You’ll be an asset to the FBI when you graduate.”

It was franker than Chiyoh was expecting.

“Thank you.”

“Of course.”

She paused for a moment, watching him sip his tea, looking satisfied with himself at catching her off guard with a simple compliment.

“Have you been reconstructing the copycat’s thinking?”

“Yes,” Graham said; he sounded unconcerned by it. “His and the Shrike’s. The Shrike is an interesting one, there’s no doubt about that, but the copycat—an intelligent psychopath, a sadist, is very hard to catch. There’ll be no traceable motive, no patterns. He may never kill this way again.”

“Hmm.” Chiyoh leaned forward in her seat, seeking Graham’s eyes. “I don’t think the copycat is a sadist.”

Graham raised his eyebrows. “What do you make of him, then? The mutilation, removal of organs? Cannibalism itself is considered by most to be particularly sadistic.”

“I believe he’s killed before, and causing unnecessary suffering isn’t what excites him. He wanted it to be obvious he wasn’t the Minnesota Shrike.” A message. A killer’s methods turned into an unparalleled means of expression. It sounded vaguely paranoid, but everything about the scene had been so targeted. “He may not be a cannibal, either. He’d have no reason; cutting her heart out of her chest painted a clear picture already.”

One corner of Graham’s mouth tugged upward.

“Interesting. I’ll recommend Jack takes your insights into account, Chiyoh.” Graham stood, gathering up the Tupperware and dishes to leave them to soak in the kitchenette’s small sink. “You should get ready. This is going to be a long day.”

Chiyoh blinked. She had expected him to say something—do you mind if I call you Chiyoh, something to that effect. He didn’t; he seemed to take it as a given that they were on acceptable terms for him to address her by her given name now.

And, more peculiarly, she realized that that didn’t bother her.

[spectralarchers]

Pietro as a ghost visits Clint after events of IW to ask what happened to his sister, because he no longer can feel Wanda in the world of living, but also she didn't join him in death.

(also on Ao3)

It’s been a long couple of days. Nights, too.

Clint hasn’t slept for at least a week - he’s been able to get a minute here and there, but never more than absolutely necessary for his body. Whenever he catches himself dozing off, he wakes up again, because he can’t allow himself to rest. He just can’t. Not after-

He doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to think about the smell of ashes in his nose, the feeling of her hands falling apart, of her presence just disappearing as if she had never existed. He’s afraid that if he closes his eyes, he’ll wake up and have forgotten about her.

About them.

He struggles for a moment, pulling out the used and scratched picture of his family he keeps in his vest. He hates himself that it’s been folded so many times, because now there’s a line across Laura’s face and there’s one across Lila’s face, and the top of Cooper’s head too. He’s afraid he’ll forget how they looked if he- if he allows himself to stop, even if just for a second.

It had all happened so fast - they’d been watching the news, making breakfast, as everyone did, when the battle over Wakanda had broken out. With the time difference, what was broad daylight in Wakanda was still early morning and Clint had been busy beating the pancake dough.

There had been news, and even his SHIELD pager had made a sound. He’d heard it from the kitchen, because he knew that high pitched noise from anywhere - it was different from the mosquito repellents, and all the other loud sounds there were in his home. The loud screech of the television when the plug wasn’t entirely pushed in, the mosquito repellent device, the sound of electricity around the neon light in his office. No, his SHIELD pager vibrated at a loud frequency enough that he heard it.

But he ignored it. They got this, he had thought to himself, as he’d continued beating the dough, waiting for his kids to wake up, so they could go to school. He’d spent the morning folding clothes that had been thrown all over the floor, and he’d set a wash over, so he could hang the clothes out to airdry as soon as it was done.

Laura had come down, fresh and pretty from the shower and after applying make-up, followed by Cooper who was wearing a hideous Walmart Spider-Man themed hoodie, and Lila, in a pretty floral dress, with her two front teeth still missing, but a smile that could melt anyone’s heart. 

Nathaniel had been sitting by Clint’s feet, on his plaid, laid out with his favorite toys, and playing as he listened to the sounds of the kitchen. 

Picking up Nathaniel, Clint had picked his youngest up and sat him down in his high chair, before quickly applying a kiss to Lila’s forehead and one to Laura’s lipstick clad lips. She was going into town to meet with the bank about Nathaniel’s college fund, there had been a deposit and Clint suspected it was Stark meddling, but he didn’t want to go look for himself. He was never good with the big words and the small writing at the back of contracts, so Laura would be the one to go.

The news were muted, so Clint didn’t realize what was happening. He had been pulling Laura in for a hug, grabbing her from behind and putting his hands on her belly, as he kissed the crook of her neck and told her how pretty she looked and how good she smelled, was that his perfume? He’d asked with a smile nestled on his face, and she’d laughed and Clint had thought that it was the most beautiful morning he could wish for.

Right up until he’d looked down when she had tensed. 

Right up until the scar on his chest had flared up, burning across his body, as if the mind stone itself was burning its way through his body yet again. 

She’d said his name. Then Lila had too. And, before Clint knew it, they had gone. Blown apart, into tiny little particles, gone from where they stood. Cooper took a second to take it all in, looking paler than usual, asking his dad what was going on, before the spoon he’d been holding fell into the bowl of cereal too loud, dropped from where his hand had been moments before.

Clint looks up. He remembers it clearly. He’d looked around, at a loss for words, and before he knew it, he’d gone to check the pager. Something was wrong. Fury had activated the Marvel protocol, and that meant things were wrong. Oh so very wrong.

He’s stopped alongside a road, in the middle of nowhere Minnesota. He’s on his way to New York, to commandeer one of Stark’s jets. He has to get to Wakanda. He has to- he has to figure out what’s going on. Why his- why-

He looks over at Nathaniel who’s sleeping in the portable crib he’s secured him in and Clint sighs. At least his youngest is still here. At least he’s- at least none of it was a dream. He’d packed the car with a his bows, his guns, his swords and his knives, and all the toddler things he could think of. He’d found his stash of cash, American currencies, Euros, kroners, pounds and all of it. He had no idea what was going on, and in the early hours of the following morning, he’d set out.

The world had been chaos: whatever happened to Laura, Lila and Cooper had happened here too. People had disappeared, he found out, in the middle of their tasks: trains had crashed when the drivers had gone, planes had fallen from the skies when the pilots disappeared, ships had sunk, and everywhere around the country, people were in a survival frenzy. Employees around Nuclear Power Plants were trying to shut them down to keep them from going into a reaction, the military had found itself halved down with planes, ships and helicopters grounded because pilots had gone and staff and-

It was chaos. He’d had to fight off a mob when he’d reached the city, at Walmart, to get some food. Everyone was biting, hitting, and someone even brought a gun to the supermarket. Clint had wrestled the shooter out of it, and gotten smacked in the back of the head by one of the school teachers who had been out for as many cigarettes as she could.

Clint had made it back to the car bleeding and bruised, but he’d handed Nathaniel an apple juice box and had sat behind the wheel, contemplating the barrels of extra fuel he always kept under the backseats of the truck. He’d never thought his plan for world collapse would ever come into action.

He’s fallen asleep, and he knows he’s sleeping because the world is bluer, darker, grayer. He knows because ever since Loki, he can tell when he’s dreaming and when he’s awake because there’s a blue edge to everything. 

He’s learned to control it over time, but now he isn’t entirely sure what it means. He can’t force himself to wake up. Maybe his body finally gave it, and he fell asleep in the car, next to Nathaniel.

He opens his eyes in the dream world and looks around - it looks familiar, but he it takes him a couple of minutes to recognize the place. It’s the old church, from Sokovia. Where the core of Ultron’s machine was. Where he’d fought off sentient robots, side by side with the Earth’s Mightiest Heroes. He frowns, and pushes himself up - there is no dust on his hand when he pushes away from the floor. He turns around when he hears footsteps and goes for a punch.

His fist only meets the empty air, as his eyes lock on the figure.

“You didn’t see that coming?”

“Pietro?” Clint exclaims, as he takes a deep breath, looking around. There is no sign of anyone else, and Clint closes his eyes. “Am I dead?”

“No, you are not,” Pietro Maximoff replies, in that accent of his Clint first had hated, and then come to love when he had gotten to know Wanda. Wanda? Clint looks around as Pietro bites his lips. He looks older, and his hair is silver in the moonlight that is travelling down from above. 

“You are in my world,” the Sokovian boy replies and after a couple of minutes, Clint finds himself hugging Pietro. With his whole body. It is so nice to see him, even if this world- this dreamworld isn’t real. He hasn’t dreamt of Pietro in months. So he takes this as a nice sign of destiny.

“Why am I here?” Clint asks as he lets go of Pietro, and watches the young man. He looks so good. He looks alive and well. Clint feels a bit jealous, but he doesn’t let it show.

Pietro sighs, before pursing his lips. “What happened in the real world?” he asks, and Clint frowns. “I cannot see- I cannot see beyond the horizon, and- and-” He pauses again, and takes a deep breath. Clint looks to where Pietro was looking, and recognized the edge of the rock Ultron had sent flying. A peaceful moon and sky light up the universe, and he understands the quiet Pietro found here.

“I cannot feel Wanda anymore,” Pietro finally admits. “She is not dead, for she is not here,” he comments, and the look he gives Clint makes Clint want to cry. “I could always feel her, and she me,” Pietro explains. “Even in death I could sense my sister,” he goes on, before he frowns, looking worried, looking so much like Clint would when he was worried.

“What happened?”

Clint purses his lips, unsure of what to answer. The truth is, he doesn’t know. 

“I don’t know,” he starts, and he has to take a moment to find the words. “There was a- there was a fight, in Wakanda. Wanda was there. I think- I think we lost,” Clint admits, and looks over at Pietro.

Pietro doesn’t look surprised, and Clint wonders if Pietro knew. He wonders if this is a test, and if this is a way for him to accept what happened, but then Pietro motions for him to follow him and Clint does. They walk among the rubble, the remnants of the Battle of Sokovia, as Clint had fought side by side with Wanda and Pietro, protecting them as much as he had could. 

He gazes over at Pietro and realizes Pietro still wears the same clothes as the day he died, and that his wounds are still visible. Pietro brings Clint all the way over to the edge of the island, of the rock, of the meteorite and shows Clint. All around them, there are lights. Different worlds and universes, Clint understands. 

“The dead come here,” Pietro explains, quietly, as if afraid of waking up the spirits around them. “They come here when their time in your world is done, like mine was.” Pietro points to a soul, not too long from there, shrouded in purple and anger. “This one came from Wakanda,” he explains. Clint looks, and knows in his heart. Killmonger.

“But my sister has not come here. And your wife and children have not come either,” Pietro says.

Clint looks over the edge, and thinks about what it means. He looks at Pietro, his eyes trying to figure out what the meaning of this dream is.

“You will find no answers here,” Pietro finally admits, as he pushes Clint over the edge. Clint doesn’t scream. He doesn’t say a single sound as he falls, surrounded by lights, near and far. He falls for an eternity, as he thinks about what Pietro said. 

Clint wakes up with a jolt. There’s a bobcat on the hood of the car, sleeping in the morning sun. The mist is clearing around them, so it must be early morning. Nathaniel is still sleeping.

Laura isn’t dead. Lila isn’t dead. Cooper isn’t dead. 

Clint knows this, in his heart. He pulls his shirt up, and looks down at the mark Loki’s scepter left. The mind stone. The one that Vision had held on his forehead. The mark glows a slight blue, as if confirming whatever it was that Clint had just realized. 

Wanda wasn’t dead either.

Pietro had shown him the world of the dead, and his family wasn’t there.

And if they weren’t dead, it meant they could be saved. 

[gaybitchloki]

in which loki makes mistakes

In retrospect, the fact that American colleges would have American parties at their American fraternities should not be as surprising as it is, and yet Loki’s already-low expectations are somehow only shattered further when he crosses the beer-spattered threshold into the house of ΣΚΥΛΑ or whatever it was called. The theme is something fittingly asinine — Hawaiian safari, or Steve Irwin the Crocodile Hunter, or some other hot-weather excuse for the women to wear literal fishnets as wrap dresses and for the men to wear visors and cut-off shorts — and normally, Loki would rather quite literally die than attend something of this calibre, but reclusive international student beggars cannot be choosers, and a party is a party.

However, while Loki may have lost his dignity the very first time he attended a frat party (barely a week ago, practically his first stop upon deplaning at Logan International), he still maintains his pride, and so he has come in disguise: between the face-swallowing dark sunglasses, the pale green satiny vest, and the ambiguously sporty baseball cap on his head, he is entirely unrecognizable. The sunglasses also afford him the luxury of observing freely, one of the many reasons he frequently chooses to adorn himself with a pair even when indoors, and so his expression behind said sunglasses (which cost approximately as much as a half-semester at this university) is one of unadulterated disdain as he beholds the utter hedonism occurring before him.

No wonder Thor would choose such a place to attend. Just the inadvertent thought of his name makes Loki’s lip curl instinctively, but before he can let that blossom into a full-on sneer, he heads for what appears to be the kitchen so as to procure some alcohol.

Yes, Thor is here somewhere. Not here, literally, not at this party, but somewhere on this campus. Presumably, he has friends, paramours, confidantes, and he’s forgotten entirely about Loki, just as Loki wanted. This place is perfect for him; it is loud, obnoxious, a shameless display of brainlessness and wanton pleasure, and while Loki would never decry wanton pleasure, it is the brainlessness with which he takes issue. In the living room, he can see someone being used as a human target for Nerf gun practice, and on the front lawn, there had been a young man wearing a full-body alligator costume, with cut-outs over his nipples. Truly the peak of intellectualism and community organization, or whatever nonsense fraternities attempt to say in self-defense when criticized.

Loki is faced with several options: Mystery Punch (Pink), bagged wine (red), Mystery Punch 2 (orange), and beer (beige). He decides on Mystery Punch 2, thinking all the while that he should really make some connections with the theater community on-campus. They probably have absinthe at their parties. Which reminds Loki that he needs to add himself to the campus occult society’s listhost, and he pulls out his phone to do just that as he sips his Mystery Punch 2 and begins heading out of the kitchen again to see what else there is to do.

He walks into a wall.

The wall smells appallingly, devastatingly familiar and something near Loki’s anterior cruciate ligament trembles. No. Not here, not now, this can’t be happening. He didn’t even tell Thor where he’d applied, let alone where he’d gotten into or was going; he’d instructed Odin and Frigga to do the same, and they’d never questioned him. His intention had been to avoid Thor for the next four years, as impossible as that now seemed, not to run face-first into him while wearing a seafoam-green vest at a frat party.

Thor’s hands, of course they’re Thor’s hands, come up to grip Loki by the shoulders and steady him. Loki can barely even see — he’s pressed quite snugly against Thor’s chest — but he knows it’s him. Only Thor would wear khaki hot pants and a tits-out tank top and make it look haute couture instead of trashy. It’s appalling. Loki, breath stuck in his throat and half his drink spilled down Thor’s front, instinctively pushes Thor’s hands off of him and stumbles backwards. He hasn’t seen him in— fuck, it’s been more than a year at this point, but Thor looks nothing like how he did the last time Loki saw him face-to-face. That tragic, sad-eyed smile and “If that’s what you really want, brother” expression is entirely gone, replaced with drunken good-natured mirth, and Loki feels sick.

“Easy there,” Thor booms, reaching out to touch Loki again. He doesn’t recognize him. Either he’s really spectacularly drunk or Loki’s disguise is just that good; in all honesty, it’s probably both. Loki is so stunned by this realization that he doesn’t push Thor away this time, which only makes the stupid smile on Thor’s awful face spread. “You alright?”

Loki nods, careful to keep his head tilted down just so, not wanting Thor to look at him too closely. This turns out to be a bad move, since Thor leans in to follow him, ducking down to catch his eye.

“Have I seen you before?” Thor asks, something like wonder in his tone, and Loki shakes his head very minutely.

“Don’t think so,” Loki mumbles, American accent convincing enough, especially since Thor’s drunk. “Sorry.”

“Wish I had,” Thor says, which is the most confusing thing Loki’s ever heard, but then Thor’s making everything worse by leaning in closer, something very strange in his smile. Loki’s seen it before, but not directed at him, only ever from a distance, and— “I’m Thor, what’s your name?”

Loki’s brain goes blank. “…Kevin,” he says.

“Kevin,” Thor repeats as though it’s the best thing he’s ever heard. “What a beautiful name.”

Is it? What it is is a difficult name to pronounce with an American accent when one is Norwegian, but it’s too late to take it back. Loki nods faintly again and lifts his drink to his mouth, hoping Thor will leave him alone so Loki can make his escape. This is another bad move, since it reminds Thor that Loki had spilled his drink all over him, but instead of saying something about how now his shirt was ruined, he takes Loki’s cup from him and pushes his way through the kitchen to get Loki a refill. As he goes, girls practically fall over themselves to smile at him and guys clap him on the shoulder or back and Thor greets each one of them with equal effusiveness and equal warmth, but the one he comes back to is Loki, a full cup in hand. “Here,” he says, returning it to him. Loki hadn’t moved a muscle since Thor had turned away, too stunned to do otherwise. Thor is smiling at him like that again, eyes warm, eyelashes downcast, and Loki takes a small sip of his drink (the fucking dumbass had poured him a top-up of Mystery Punch 1, not 2, and the flavor combination is dreadful) for lack of anything better to do.

“Thanks,” Loki says, and tries to leave.

Thor’s faster than him, though, a hitherto unsuspected ability that emerges only when he’s drunk, and catches Loki around the shoulders, leaning in to try and see him closer. “You look very familiar,” he declares, and Loki shakes his head once again, remembering to slip his phone into his pocket before Thor can notice any identifying features about it (such as the 24k gold inlay around the home button and the engraving of the Laufeysen family crest on the back).

Loki shrugs, figuring Kevin is a mousy type that isn’t used to receiving attention from huge godlike fraternity brothers at parties. “Dunno why.”

“You have a very charming speaking voice,” Thor continues, and Loki bites the inside of his cheek in self-reprimand; evidently, his American accent hasn’t passed muster. “Where are you from? California? Illinois? Mis-si-ssi-ppi?” He over-enunciates each syllable, and Loki knows that all he’s doing is showing off how many states he knows, so he pays it no particular attention.

That being said, Thor is expecting an answer, and Loki panics and says, “Minnesota,” yet another word difficult to pronounce sans accent.

“Minnesota,” Thor repeats thoughtfully. His arm is still around Loki’s shoulders, weighing heavily on Loki’s slender frame. “I am from Norway. Du er veldig søt!”

Loki realizes very abruptly what’s going on and chokes on the sip of Mystery Punch Swirl he’d just taken. While he splutters, Thor coos over him and pats him with an impossibly gentle, impossibly huge hand on the back. Thor is flirting with him, with his own adopted brother, long-lost and prodigal and all kinds of wicked, and were Thor to see Kevin with his sunglasses and hat and vest off he’d likely be so disappointed and ashamed, and yet Loki does not unmask himself, does not reveal that he knows exactly what Thor just said, he just stays where he is. “Um, what?” he says, mouth moving before his brain can catch up. Kevin took French in high school, not anything Scandinavian, so there’s no reason for him to speak Norwegian.

“Ah, nothing,” Thor says, that secretive, warm smile taking over his features again. One of his hands starts coming up and heading for Loki’s sunglasses, and Loki shies away very quickly, making Thor make a mournful, questioning noise. “I wish to see you, Kevin! You really do look very familiar.”

“We haven’t met before,” Loki mumbles, taking a quick sip of punch. “And my eyes are, like, super dilated right now, it’s bright as fuhck in here.”

It works. Thor straightens up once more but makes no move to leave Loki’s side. “What do you study, Kevin?”

Kevin is a maths major, so Loki says, “Maths,” then remembers that Americans don’t pluralize mathematics and quickly continues, “…’s what I’m studying.”

“Fascinating,” Thor says, seeming genuinely fascinated. “Is this your first time here? Shall I give you a tour?”

“Okay,” Loki says before he can stop himself. Maybe he’ll transfer to Harvard and never have to deal with this again; he’ll begin an application tomorrow morning, first thing. For now, he abandons his drink on a kitchen counter and lets Thor tug him along through the sweaty masses of partygoers.

“Have you ever been to Norway?” Thor is asking as they go, somehow managing to make time to smile at everyone who smiles at him as they pass. Loki keeps his head down, eyes fixed on the swell of Thor’s bicep. “It’s such a beautiful place, you’d really love it. I’m from Oslo— well, near Oslo, but it’s near enough that it may as well be.”

American college has rotted Thor’s brain. Prior to coming here, he’d have never associated Bærum with Oslo, and Loki huffs quietly to himself under his breath as he follows after him. “No,” he says, since Thor had asked a question. Kevin isn’t very well-travelled, after all.

“Oh, you simply must go, you’ll love it,” Thor says, drunk enough to repeat himself and flirt with his brother. “This is the living room!”

Loki could see that for himself perfectly well without Thor’s narration. “Oh,” he says.

“Kevin,” Thor says, suddenly altogether too close, his voice dropping lower in both pitch and volume. “Is it so loud in here. Can we go somewhere quieter to talk? You seem to have so many interesting things to say.”

That catches Loki and Kevin both off-guard. He’s seen Thor flirtatious, of course, he’s thought of practically nothing else for the past five or six or ten years, but he’d somehow expected more of him, not the standard douchebag lines. How disappointing. How bland. Thor should be embarrassed, honestly, that his flirting is so weak, so easy to see through, and— “Okay,” Loki’s mouth says before Loki’s brain can run away with this any further, and Thor’s smile lights up his whole body with its force and brilliance as he tugs Loki down the hall to ‘somewhere quieter.’

“This is the media room,” Thor introduces, sounding absurdly proud of a space with whose creation he presumably had nothing to do.

Loki looks around. It’s a decently-sized space with two decently-sized televisions currently being used for a racing game, but Thor isn’t leading him over to play, he’s walking them both to a couch of dubious character and sitting down, sprawling out, thighs spread and leaving Loki barely any room to sit next to him. Loki’s narrow, though, so he makes it work, sliding in by his side and trying to get comfortable. He hasn’t sat this close to Thor in years, if ever, and certainly not ever in this context, Thor so warm and affectionate and undeniably romantically interested.

“What do you think?” Thor asks. Loki’s visceral reaction to the sincerity in his voice isn’t one he can help, but he can disguise it, turning his face away to conceal the way his mouth twists bitterly as if he’s looking around to better see the space.

“It’s cool,” Loki says. His voice sounds less Kevin-esque in the quieter room, so he’ll have to keep talking to a minimum. Somehow, though, he’s starting to get the sense that Thor isn’t all that interested in talking, since Thor is moving closer already, and Loki can feel his eyes on him like a prickle on the back of his neck.

“Kevin,” Thor says, softer, lower still, and Loki turns to look at him. Thor lifts a hand as if to take Loki’s hat off, then thinks better of it and settles his hand on the side of Loki’s neck. A shiver runs down Loki’s spine, unbidden, unexpected. He should stop this. He should tell Thor— he should take off his glasses— or he could just leave, that’d be easier, get up from this couch and go straight out the door and not look back— he can’t move, he’s helpless, he’s wanted this too badly and for too long and finally, finally Thor is talking to him and looking at him like Loki’s always wanted for him to and Loki, selfish, cruel Loki, can’t do anything to stop him. “Jeg vil gjerne kysse deg.”

Loki’s stomach flips over and he almost moves forward to close what little distance remains between them, but he hesitates, remembers that Kevin wouldn’t understand. “What?” he breathes, eyes darting down to Thor’s mouth, his mouth which is so soft, which is so kind, which deserves better than this.

“I want to—”

Before Thor can even finish speaking Loki has straddled his lap and claimed him, arms winding around his broad, strong shoulders, his mouth pressing to Thor’s with all the sharpness and cruelty he is best known for. Thor makes a surprised noise and melts, meets him there, his hands taking Loki by the waist. Even though Thor is drunk, he kisses back hard, not letting Loki take any more ground than he already has; it’s a clash of teeth and tongues, hot gasps of air the only thing between them when Loki turns his head the other way and kisses him deeper.

Care goes out the window, and Loki fumbles to take off his sunglasses and baseball hat so there won’t be anything in the way, nothing at all, nothing disrupting his one and only chance to have Thor in his grasp like this. He is kissing Thor wholly, deeply, licking into his mouth and biting on his lip and dragging his fingers through Thor’s hair, kissing him like he’s dying for it, like he’s been starving for it, and he has. Thor will never know the extent to which he has. For some reason, though, Thor is kissing him back the exact same way, his grip tightening on Loki’s waist to drag him closer in his lap and a strong arm finally winding around his back to keep him there.

Loki knows he needs to stop this, needs to stop himself, but he’s incapable. Nothing remains but Thor’s mouth, the hot slip of his tongue, his golden skin under Loki’s palms, pulse beating hard when Loki presses a thumb under his jaw to keep his head tilted up. When Loki bites at him and pulls back, Thor hisses a low breath and pulls Loki in again, going in practically tongue-first for a kiss that leaves Loki shuddering, reduced to a thing that wants Thor, hungry for the weight of Thor’s body against his own. Thor wants him, too, and the certainty of it is blinding, making Loki gasp against Thor’s mouth. Thor echoes him with a low, throaty noise that’s almost animal, and Loki’s dizzy, losing it completely, and if he doesn’t stop now, he never will, and there’ll be no going back after that.

What can it be but a testament to how deeply Loki loves Thor that he stops himself then? The amount of effort it takes is one that Loki hadn’t known himself capable of producing. He wants, he needs, but he knows Thor wouldn’t want this. If he did, he wouldn’t want it like this. Loki loves him more than he is selfish, and he pushes Thor away, gasping, “I have to go, I’m sorry.”

“Wha— Kevin,” Thor says, breathless and dismayed. Loki shakes his head, hair falling over his face, and slips out of his tight grasp and out of his lap. Thor starts to sit up, starts to reach out for him, but his hand freezes in mid-air and in the split second before Loki turns to go, he sees a hint of recognition on Thor’s face in his darkened blue eyes, above his red wet mouth.

Loki flees. Thor doesn’t go after him, and Loki doesn’t look back over his shoulder. On his way out of the room, Loki bumps shoulders with some square-faced dirty blond guy who looks very confused, but Loki doesn’t have time to do damage control on everyone who might have seen his face; he just needs to get out of there.

Compared to the heavy, humid air inside the frat house, the early September chill comes as a much-needed shock to Loki’s system, and he stands on the lawn for a brief moment to inhale deep lungfuls of it before pulling out his phone and heading down the block, waiting to call an UberBlack until he’s a safe distance away from the house and there’ll be no chance of Thor coming after him.

What has he done? How could he do that? And yet he’s still not sure if he regrets it or not, considering it was his only chance and, more likely than not, Thor will never find out. Even if Thor finds out Loki’s here, he still wouldn’t believe Loki would go to a frat party in disguise and make out with him, since the concept of Loki going to a frat party is utterly alien as it is. Loki saw no one he knew, and his face was hidden to Thor for the entirety of the affair save for the last moment, but Thor will likely attribute the brief glimpse of Loki’s face to something like wishful thinking. Loki will burn this vest, and he left the hat and glasses there with Thor. There will be nothing tying him to this event or this night, and Thor will never have to find out.

Loki cries in the Uber back to his dorm. The driver, an immensely wrinkled old man whom the Uber app had described merely as ‘Stan,’ politely says nothing, but when Loki starts stepping out of the car upon arrival, he says, in his wrinkly old voice, “Chin up, kid. It’ll work itself out. These things usually do.”

Loki sniffs, neither grateful nor ungrateful, closes the door behind himself, and goes up to his cold and impersonal dorm room to collapse into fitful, dreamless sleep. He’ll deal with this never, he decides. Thor will never find out, and Loki will never tell him, and they’ll likely never see each other again, and that’ll be that. Either way, it won’t go anywhere. There’s no chance of them looking for apartments together, or kissing passionately on top of a table in a library study room, and certainly not of them taking all of Thor’s dreadful friends to summer with them back home in Norway. No chance of any of that at all. It ends here.

[minniekirra]

That’s What I’ve Got You For

A little Thanksgiving fluff with some fake dating! :)

“I can’t believe you talked me into driving with you across two states to visit your mom and step-dad for Thanksgiving.” Bellamy’s brow turned down as he sulked. “And it’s so cold!”

Clarke huffed. “It was colder in Minnesota. Stop being such a baby!” But she shifted closer to him as much for warmth as to alleviate the strong pull that always dragged her to him.

“Maybe we should ring the doorbell again?” Bellamy asked. They had been waiting on her mom and Kane’s poarch for five minutes.

“Yeah, but they’re either listening to really loud music or they’re not here. Either way it won’t do much good.”

“Neither will freezing our butt’s off out here.”

Clarke sighed. He was right. She just didn’t want to consider the option that Kane and her mom had forgotten about them. Then she perked up. “Wait! I think I hear someone!” Clarke grabbed Bellamy’s hand. “Quick! Hold my hand!”

“Ummm…” Bellamy looked amused. “I already am.”

Clarke blushed. “Sorry! I know this whole fake dating thing sucks but I don’t know if my mom and Kane would have let me bring a friend.”

“I know.” Bellamy gave her hand a squeeze. Clarke’s heart tightened. He knew just how worried she was for her first Thanksgiving with her new step-dad. He always knew how she was feeling, except about the one thing that should be so obvious.

Then the door opened and they were ushered into the house to the warm kitchen with apologies and welcome. The music was just so loud, they were making pies for tomorrow, and Kane was such a spectacular dancer that they were had been too occupied to think about the door until now. They were very excited that Clarke could visit and bring Bellamy too!

Clarke let it all wash over her. She knew that Kane was a good man and she was truly happy for them. It was just so odd to see someone else in her childhood home. But she also saw the picture on the mantle of her, her mom, and her dad. He wasn’t forgotten.

The real problem was how supportive Bellamy was being and how awkward it made her feel. Not that Bellamy was never supportive; he was a great friend (except for that brief period of time when they had hated each other). Now, whenever Kane brought up a new memory made with Abby, or her mom hinted that she was getting older and settling down might be nice, she would feel Bellamy’s arm slide around her waist and squeeze ever so slightly. She knew it was all for sow, but her stomach still clenched every time. And Clarke found herself handing him his wineglass with a kiss on the cheek or putting a hand on his knee when they sat on the couch. It was so natural, but made her feel so terrible that this mini vacation would have to end.

The hardest part was when they finally made their way up the stairs to her old room.

“Do you have everything you need sweetie?” Abby called up after them. “Remember extra blankets and towels are in the closet!”

“Yes, thank you Mom!” Clarke called. “Goodnight!”

“Goodnight darling!”

Clarke closed the door and leaned back against it with her eyes closed. She took a deep breath. “Thank you.”

Bellamy scoffed. Clarke opened her eyes to see Bellamy’s unreadable face a lot closer than she thought.

“For what?” He asked. She watched his chest rise and fall slightly faster than normal.

“For being there for me, boyfriend or not.” Clarke gave him a small smile. “And for knowing exactly when I need it.”

Bellamy stepped closer so that he was the only thing she could see.

“Anytime.” He looked at her through his long lashes. “Seriously.” He started turning red. “We should try being together again. For real.”

Clarke tried to shrug around the pumping of her heart. “Well, there’s always tomorrow?” she asked shyly.

Bellamy leaned in to place a kiss on her forehead. “I would love that.”

Clarke beamed and laced their fingers together.

“But for now could you just show me all the embarrassing pictures of you playing soccer in braces? I would love that too.” Bellamy smirked.

Clarke responded by smacking his arm. “You really know how to set the mood don’t you?” She huffed. “It’s no wonder we didn’t get together sooner.”

“Nah,” Bellamy shrugged. “That’s not me. That’s what I’ve got you for.”

She really couldn’t resist him. She’d never has a chance. Clarke laughed and pointed him towards the pictures.The pull that had dragged her to him had finally stopped tugging. Now it just buzzed happily and let them fall in love in their own time. She should have taken him home with her years ago.

[mayquita]

See That Devilishly Handsome Guy? He's My Husband

Since my muse has not yet abandoned me, I asked @saraswans for a prompt to help me continue practicing with my writing. And that's what happened. Prompt: Emma boasts about her husband in public.

Ffnet / Ao3

( Unbeta’d, This came in an instant, so I apologize for all the mistakes)

Emma writhed in her seat, unable to remain still. She was stuck at a bar in the damn Minnesota while she waited for her husband to return from the hotel where they were staying.

It was all his fault, she thought, letting out a sigh of annoyance. If she hadn't accepted his stupid idea... She cursed under her breath, the first traces of regret beginning to appear. Because it all started like this, with a wild idea, in the best style of her husband. As she waited, her mind traveled two weeks back, remembering when this trip was just a project.

After their wedding and the final battle, there was nothing to stop her from being happy. But all happiness comes with a price, at least this was her case. Hers came in the form of her ghosts of the past resurfacing after a long time hidden in a deep corner of her mind.

She wasn’t alone this time, though. Killian came up with a suggestion on how to beat the damn ghosts once and for all. "I've been thinking..." He began to talk casually, downplaying what he was about to say. "Since our honeymoon was rather short and Storybrooke seems to be going through a long period of calm, maybe you and I could embark on another trip."   She tilted her head slightly, an inquiring look on her face, wanting to know what he had in mind this time. "A trip, eh? And what would be our destination? Some idyllic place, set apart from the rest of the world, I hope." He narrowed one eye and wrinkled his nose as he scratched behind his ear. "Actually, I had thought of something more instructive. Maybe it would be a good idea for us to make a route to the places where you've lived so that we could replace your bad memories of those places by creating new memories on our own." His tentative and somewhat unconcerned tone didn't match his eyes, which couldn't conceal the true meaning of his words. She refused it, of course. She didn't want to think about walking again the streets of Phoenix or Minnesota or even less Portland. — No way, thank you very much.— But she was tired of struggling and trying to hide her bad experiences, so little by little, Killian's suggestion settled in her head until she finally made the decision. If she could face a damn dragon or countless monsters and villains she could also face her own ghosts from the past.

And that's how they ended up in their first destination. Minnesota. They hadn't even spent one day there and her state of nervousness had already generated, among other things, that Emma had forgotten her cell phone in the hotel bedroom. Killian had kindly offered to fetch it, since, how could he not? He was a gentleman after all. So here she was, waiting for his return in a bar, with a drink in her hand, anxiously watching the time on her watch.

"Emma? Emma Swan?"

She lifted her head, confused to hear her name in a random bar in a city where she hadn't been for an eternity. Following the direction of the sound, she turned her head to meet two women about the same age as her, who were looking at her with surprise expressions.

"Yeah?" She replied still confused.

"Oh my God, so are you!" Both women approached. The moment she could see their features more closely, reality hit her. She knew these two women. Somewhere in her brain, there was a memory of them, although it still appeared rather diffuse.

"I'm Brittany and this is my sister Betsy." The woman who looked older offered her hand, while they both smiled gently. Emma shook their hands in a somewhat hesitant gesture, not yet sure of what was happening. It took her a few seconds to process the information, but after hearing their names, her brain clicked and she finally remembered. They had been schoolmates in the brief time she had lived in the city.

In case she had any doubts, Brittany helped bring back her memories. "Do you remember? We were in the same class for a while, while you lived with that woman. Ingrid was her name?"

Emma froze at that name, but she recovered instantly, nodding, a small smile on her face. The purpose of the trip had been to confront her bad memories of the past, and this would be her first test.

They chatted for a while. The two sisters seemed to have a genuine curiosity about what had been of her life in recent years. Emma found herself quite comfortable talking about her past and pleasantly surprised by the treatment the two women were giving her. In her teenage years, she hadn't bonded with anyone, except perhaps with Lily. She remembered that although these two girls hadn't been close friends, at least they had treated her with respect, something unusual at that time.

A few minutes later, the front door opened, giving way to Killian, finally. She couldn't keep the corners of her lips from rising, drawing a wide smile as she recreated herself for a few seconds in his magnificent appearance before he detected her.

"Oh my god!" Brittany hummed beside her. "The night has just gotten even more interesting. Guys, have you seen that man?"

They turned their gaze to Killian,  their faces brightened as they gave him dreamy glances, while both licked their lips in anticipation. She repressed a chuckle as she saw the effect her husband had on other women. Far from feeling jealous, tough, a wave of pride washed over her. That was her man.

"Do you mean that devilishly handsome guy? The one with the leather jacket, looking like a bad boy but with an adorable gaze?" She smiled wickedly just as Killian noticed her. His face lit up the moment their eyes met, his glittering gaze and wide smile directed only at her as he walked, shortening the distance between them.

The two women turned their heads towards her, with a gesture of confusion on their faces. "Do you know him?" Betsy asked, pointing to him.

"Yeah, I'm her boss. I'm the sheriff of a small town and he's my deputy. He happens to be my husband as well." She confessed with poorly concealed pride, her gaze alternating between the two sisters and Killian as he approached.

It was almost comical, the form so similar in which the two sisters reacted. Their eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed, showing a hint of jealousy and finally, they widened again, matching the wide smiles that appeared on their faces. "Oh, man, you are such a lucky girl."

"I know." Just then Killian came to her side and she couldn't resist, welcoming him with a tender kiss. Then she introduced him to the two women. "Hey, Killian, these are Brittany and Betsy. They're old acquaintances of my time in Minnesota, we went to the same high school."

Killian tensed at her side, giving her a scrutinizing glance, trying to decide whether she was okay or whether the encounter with them had caused her some trouble. She smiled back at him, causing him to relax instantly.

The four held a lively chat for a while longer, Killian attentive to any anecdote that the two women could tell about her. The sisters weren't able to hide the expressions of awe each time they addressed him, causing her heart to swell more and more in her chest. They said goodbye a little later, not before sharing their phone numbers and promising that they would be in touch.

As they walked toward the exit, Killian wrapped his arm around her waist, pushing her toward him. "I deduce that your first confrontation with the past has gone well."

She nodded, her nerves gone for the first time since they began their journey. This unexpected encounter had been the easy part. She knew she would still have to deal with much more painful memories. But one thing was certain, with Kilian at her side everything seemed much more bearable. She felt capable of defeating any obstacle that got in the way of her happiness.

[pbandjesse]

After I finish writing this up I’m going to go we pack my bag for Minnesota for about the 50th time. Because I hate carrying things. And I always assume I can pack less things. Even though I British or I’m at the bare minimum amount of stuff. Maybe I can get rid of one or two more things. And make a little bit more room.

Today is really good though. I was exhausted for most of the day. So that wasn’t very fun. But it was still a very good day. It was beautiful out. I had a lot of trouble sleeping last night. But I woke up around 8 and got dressed and felt okay. For how horrible my hair fell it look pretty cute. I have that out of here and got to work a couple minutes early. I’m getting better at timing how long it will take me to get there. It was me and Frank today. And I always enjoy that. But he was also exhausted and burned out. So we were both a little grumpy. So it was nice just grump back and forth at each other.

I was annoyed because I had forgotten to pick up my test yesterday. So I had to email Amy and have her bring over. Which is fine but I hate inconveniencing people. So knowing that she was bringing it was a load off my mind. But I had no idea when I can get all the way over to Taney. And it’s a very long test. More than twice as long as the last one. And so much more vocab. I spent the morning getting quizzed verbally by some of upper management. And doing a terrible job. Because I have absorbed so much submarine information I forgot and everything about the constellation. So that is annoying. And I spent a lot more time going through my book about it and trying to remember what things mean and where things go.

But I think I’m going to do just fine. Retaining that information of the whole nother matter.

It was a relatively slow day. Not a lot of people came in. But we did have some interesting things like a group of Mennonites and a naval ceremony on board. The table ceremony was most interesting. It was this guy who was taking some kind of oath to become active duty military? I’m not entirely clear. But he was wearing all white and was very nice and respectful. I always find it fascinating when guys who were or are in the military salute our flag. Well I’m not very patriotic or supportive of the government it is still fascinating to me how people who do serve or did serve Act. And I would never give them shit about it obviously. But I am fascinated. I actually asked him a couple questions for my test and he didn’t even know them. So I thought that was very funny.

Besides working on my test I did a bunch of embroidery. And that was really nice. It was so beautiful out. So when I was up on the ship I just sat and sewed. And I talk to a lot of really nice people. It was really nice just being outside. I’m sure the summer going to be a little rough on me. But I’m really enjoying the weather right now. I do need to get new shirts because the shop I work today is a little see-through in a little low cut. But for now is fine.

That my lunch break I went bought a pretzel and I sat on the dock. I fed a duck. And honestly the afternoon went really fast. Frank let me sit and ask him questions. And then we did a mini tour. Of the ship and the food and the guns. I got to see another firing. I got to see the food in the Navy talk. And then I went down to the desk. I read for a little while. I worked on the test. I talk to people. I was very tired but it was a nice day.

We had a lot of people still on the boat after 5. Which is fine because well the doors lock at 5 the boat stays open until about 5:45. But is it the first day I had to deal with people still on the ship then. Not a big deal but out of the ordinary for me. Finally they left and I wouldn’t change. But then I couldn’t find Frank. And I accidentally locked myself out of the building. Eventually someone let me in. And I was able to go change. I finished cleaning up and did a walk-through of the boat. And then I went home.

Except I didn’t go home I want to Shake Shack. Which was awesome and I’m very glad I went. But I was very tired. And I have things I really need to do before I leave for my trip tomorrow. So I biked home.

When I got here I checked the mail and I told guy I bought months and months ago finally showed up. Which is very funny. And felt mom had purchased for me also came. Thank you Mom! As well as a couple of new pairs of socks. Awesome. I didn’t have any black socks and now I do. I packed my bag and that’s when I discovered that I did not like how much stuff I have. But I have other things we need to do including laundry.

So I did laundry and fed sweet pea. I washed my hair and ended up falling asleep around 8. But not for very long. When I went down to grab my clothes from the dryer I ran into my next door neighbor. And told him I was going on a trip. So he’s going to keep an eye out keep an eye out for me. Sabrina will be too. She’s going to watch sweet p. I’m going to miss him very much. He’s right here staring at me with very sad eyes. Probably because he bit me earlier and he’s trying to apologize.

I am really tired though. So I’m going to repack my bag one more time. And get ready to go to sleep. I have to be at the airport at 10 a.m. So I’m going to take the light rail and that takes about 45 minutes. And I want to clean up my apartment before I leave. There’s not much to do but just things like take out the trash. I don’t want to be gross in here when I come back. I’m very much looking forward to this trip and I hope it is fun and restful and cool. After taking a pole class with Ashlyn tomorrow night which is crazy to me. And I’m really just looking forward to seeing Minneapolis again. I hope you all have a really good night. Sleep well sweet dreams.

[moonchris6]

The American Family

This story is fictional. It contains sexual situations between members of the same sex, opposite sex, and within the same family. Love, moonchris. The American Family Chapter 1: Baseball Mitch threw his baseball glove hard into the back seat as he climbed into the car. “I hate baseball!” he said, trying to hold back tears. “Honey, you’re 9 years old. You can’t expect to play baseball and never make a mistake.” said Shawna, his mom, as she pulled out of the ball field parking lot. She had signed him up last month at his own insistence. He was so excited to be playing ball with all the other kids, but his struggles, and the way he reacted to them, were starting to worry her more and more. “Mom! I struck out twice, and when the ball was hit to me it went by me every time. I play in right field. I’m the WORST kid on the whole stupid team!” She caressed the back of his neck. “Baby, there was that one time that you hit the ball. You’re getting better, you really are!” “Yeah, right to the pitcher. I’m an easy out every time” “You know what? I’m going to send you to be with your uncle Ivan. He played minor league baseball for 3 years. He’ll get you hitting the ball and catching it too.” Shawna said this before really giving it too much thought. Her brother Ivan’s lifestyle was mysterious to her and it caused her great worry thinking of her son there. He always talked about nudism as a teenager. She never knew if he was serious about it. Then he met his wife, Alanna, and she thought he’d settle down some. Only then they were always going to these weekend retreats all over Minnesota, Illinois and other areas in the midwest. Even after having the twins, Becca and Melanie, they don’t seem to have settled down much. Twins whom, by the way, don’t really look much like Ivan. Not to mention that twins didn’t run in their family. Were they nudists? Were they… more than nudists? Like an open marriage?

“I can really go live with uncle Ivan and aunt Alanna?” Mitch said, his mood suddenly brightening. “For how long?” “Let me talk to you father. Maybe a couple weeks. That will let your sister off the hook from watching you.” Mitch was sick of his sister, Erin, watching him. She didn’t really “watch” him. At 13, she was always on the phone, watching tv, using her iPad, just about anything but watching him. He usually told her he was going to a friend’s house, she’d nod, and then he’d leave for the day. They arrived home, Shawna happy that her little boy had cheered up on the short drive from the ball park. “Run upstairs and get ready for dinner. Go shower, you’re all dusty.” she said. Mitch grabbed his glove and bat and headed upstairs. His baseball failures forgotten, he was thinking about the idea of living with uncle Ivan and aunt Alanna. He once spent the weekend there over the winter, and walked in on them having sex. Fucking it was called. They were doing it in the den, and Ivan heard him walk in and turned his head and their eyes met. Uncle Ivan just smiled and went back to fucking Aunt Alanna, who didn’t even know he’d walked in on them. Mitch remembered Ivan’s strong muscular ass cheeks and the balls and the bottom part of his dick shaft as it drilled into his aunt. His own dick had started to get hard, which had only happened a couple times before that, but ever since then, it’s been happening every day. Mitch was still thinking about his Uncle and Aunt fucking when he got to the bathroom door, which was just a couple inches ajar. That’s odd, he thought. It’s usually either opened or closed. He paused before entering, and heard his sister Erin on the phone. He cracked open the door and could see her bare legs as she sat on the toilet. “... I know, Sherri!” (Ah, she was talking to her friend with the bigger boobs, whose nipples were always sticking out of her shirt). “No, I’m telling you, he saw me do it! We were laying in the perfect spot on the beach. He was on his stomach down closer to the water, and you and I were on our back further up. I looked down and saw him looking at us. So I pulled aside my bikini bottoms to show him my pussy, and I’m telling you, his head jerked up. He had on the sunglasses, but he definitely saw my pussy. He probably even saw the juices. I was so wet!” Who was she talking about? Who saw her? He quietly pushed the door open a couple more inches and saw thighs and bare ass on the toilet. He could just see her pussy, right below her flat tummy, not a hair on it (some of his friends already had hairs on their dicks -- so why doesn’t Erin? She’s 4 years older). She had two fingers rubbing up and down on her pussy, and her hips were slowly moving back and forth on the toilet seat. “Just thinking about it now Sherri, I’m playing with my pussy. It’s really wet again. I so want to lose my cherry. I would love for Todd to do it…” Todd! Could it be Todd Baker? He’s a senior in high school, linebacker on the football team! He’s 18 years old! Mitch’s dick had swelled watching his sister touch her pussy and listening to her talk about Todd. “I can’t believe how tight his body is and those muscles! I wonder how big his dick is?” Silence. “You did? Your dad’s? Oh my god, I love your dad, he is so sexy for an older guy! What did it look like?” Mitch pushed the door open a bit more, but this time it squeaked. He froze, but Erin heard it, and looked over. “Mitch! What the fuck!!” Mitch bolted back into his bedroom and slammed the door behind him. His dick had gone soft as he thought of the trouble he would be in. He couldn’t get the image of his sister out of his head. Her tan skin, thin thighs, and red pussy lips. He wondered what her boobs looked like. They were small, way smaller than her friend Sherri’s. He started thinking about what her nipples must look like--- Bang! Bang! Fists on his door. “Mitch, open the door! NOW!”

He unlocked it and she came in and closed it behind her. “What the fuck were you doing? What did you see?” “I didn’t see hardly anything! I was supposed to take a shower, Mom told me to.” “Hardly nothing huh?” Erin stared at him for a few seconds and no words were spoken. Then a different look came over her face. “Mitch, what do you know about girls? Have you seen a pussy? Do you even know what a pussy is?” “Gross! I don’t care what it is, just get out of my room.” She sat on his bed next to him and seemed to be considering something. “Mitch, I know dad hasn’t given you The Talk yet. So I’m going to, and now is a good time.” Mitch was a little scared about what was happening now, but his thoughts kept going back to seeing Erin on the toilet, seeing her play with her pussy. He’d never seen a pussy that close before. “Listen,” Erin continued. “We’re going to have a talk about stuff. You can NEVER tell mom or dad, or they’d kill us both! I will show you a few things, but you can’t touch me.” With that, she stood up and motioned for him to do the same. “Take off your shirt, little bro”. He paused, then realizing she was not mad or tricking him, he relaxed and took it off. “You have small nipples. Most guys do. Have you ever played with them?” He shook his head. “Let’s start with that. But just to be fair, I’m going to take off my shirt and bra. Remember, you cannot touch me, but I will probably touch you to teach you.” She slowly unbuttoned her shirt, staring at his eyes, which were staring at her chest. His dick was rock hard in his baseball pants again. Her shirt came off and the tiny training bra was all that covered her little boobs. She grabbed the bottom of it and pulled it over her head. And there they were. Mitch’s first look at real tits up close. They were small, cone shaped with nipples that covered most of the boob. They reminded him of mountains that you see in paintings with the snow that covers about half way down. Only these were much much smaller! She continued. “Now Mitch, nipples on a girl are usually very sensitive. Sometimes they are for a guy too. Let’s find out for you.” She stepped close to him and with her fingers gently rubbed over and around his nipples. Shots of electricity went from his nipples to his little dick, down to his feet and back up again. His knees got weak. She laughed. “I see they are sensitive for you too! That’s great!” She bent down and flicked her tongue on his nipples, causing a sensation in Mitch unlike any he ever thought possible. He felt butterflies in his stomach and a swirling in his dick, like he had to pee, only he knew he didn’t. Without thinking, he reached up and squeezed one of her nipples with his thumb and 2 fingers.

“Mitch! I said you cannot touch me!” He put his hands down, and she went back to swirling his nipples with her tongue. Looking down, she said, “I see from your dick that you are really enjoying this. Do you have any questions?” “Why does it feel so good? What is happening to my dick? It feels really funny and kinda hurts, but feels good at the same time!” “Everybody loves being touched,” she said. “Your body is enjoying the attention I’m giving it. Let’s continue with our education session.” Her formality made Mitch smile. He also smelled something strange in the air, but couldn’t place it. She knelt down before him and started to undo his baseball pants. Startled, he stepped back. “You’re going to see my thi-- I mean, my dick. I can’t let you see that!” “Okay,” she said and got up. “I’ll see you at dinner then.” “No wait, I guess it’s ok. Please don’t stop. I’m just a little scared.” he said. She walked over to him and put her hands on his shoulders. “Listen Mitch,” she said, all serious. “I know we fight a lot. All brothers and sisters do. But when push comes to shove, I really do love you. I’ll protect you when anybody picks on you, and I’ll take care of you if you need me to. You’re my baby brother. I’ve always thought you were adorable, since you were a little baby. I used to play with your little wee wee. That’s what we called it. Once when you were 3, and mom wasn’t looking, I licked it. Anyway, that’s another story. The point is, I’m not going to hurt you. Try to not be scared. Everybody goes through this when they first learn stuff.” “How do you know so much about all this?” he asked. “The internet! Dork. Me and Sherri have seen lots of stuff. Plus Unc---” she stopped herself. “Well, the internet is where I learned just about everything.” With that, she gave him a hug, and he felt her bare boobs against his upper chest. His dick was like steel now, and he felt dizzy. She gave him a kiss on the cheek and went back down to her knees. Picking up where she left off, she slowly inched his tight baseball pants down, first one side, then the other, back and forth. They came down to his ankles finally, and he stood there with his underwear tightly covering his hard dick. She looked up into his eyes as she hooked her fingers under the waistband and slowly pulled down. When they were lowered, his little dick sprung back up and slapped against his belly. She sat back on her heels and just stared at it. He picked up a sense of awe on her part. Had she ever seen one? What happened between her and….. Uncle Ivan? He didn’t dare break the spell of the moment by asking any questions. “This here is your dick,” she said without touching him. “Or your cock. I like the word dick. Cock is gross and reminds me of roosters. That’s stupid. I don’t know many other names for it, but I guess there are a bunch. Below your dick are your balls.” Here she paused for a long moment. It was like she was willing up the courage to continue. “I’m going to touch you now,” she said, and simultaneously slid one hand into her own skirt while grasping his tiny dick with thumb and forefinger. She started rubbing her pussy, just like she did in the bathroom. “You’re small now, but don’t worry, you’ll grow bigger when you’re older.” Mitch barely heard this, the effect of her fingers on his dick were overwhelming. His eyes rolled back into the back of his head and he started to moan loudly. “Quiet!” she said. “You don’t want Mom walking in on us!” He somehow got his vocals under control but was still breathing unsteadily and hard. His voice emitted the occasional grunt, as though he were the quietest Santa Claus in the world “ho…. uh… ho…” “Erin.” he said shakily. “What…. about…. you?” Erin didn’t appear to hear him, her eyes so focused on his little 4 inch dick. “Erin?”

Finally her head snapped up. “Oh yes,” she said. “That’s right. Fair is fair.” She reluctantly let go of his cocklet and stood up. She unzipped her skirt in the back and quickly slid it down, more quickly than he wanted her to. She was there in her little girl panties. She looked at his eyes, smiled, and pulled them down just as quickly. Mitch’s jaw dropped open as he stared at her hairless slit. Her legs were together so it looked like an artist had simply drawn a little line on her body just above where her legs met her hips, and the line continued out of sight between her legs. Something inside him wanted to beg her to spread her legs so he could see more. But he just stared, dumbfounded at this new treasure before him. She broke his reverie. “Let’s get on the bed, Mitch. Here, I want us to sit cross legs, like indian style.” “We don’t call it that anymore.” She rolled her eyes as they got into position, knees an inch apart on either side of them, facing each other. “Now here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to try and give you an orgasm. I’ve, um, never done this before, not like this anyhow, but I don’t know if you’re old enough to have one.” “Orgasm?” “Yes, it’s when you cum. Your body tightens up and it’s the best feeling in the world. You’ll see.” “Do girls have them too?” he asked. “Oh yes, we definitely do! They’re the best thing ever!”

With that she grasped his dick with 2 fingers again, and started to stroke it up and down, pulling the skin up and almost over his cock head, which was difficult as it was very tight. The reaction was immediate. Mitch’s body stiffened and felt better than he ever had before. The electricity ran through him up and down his body. He wiggled his ass and pumped his hips, causing his entire body to shift slightly toward her, and their knees touched. She stopped briefly but then continued. “Oh god,” he panted, his eyes squeezing shut. “You’re allowed to swear with me,” she said. “It usually makes it even better.” “Oh. Okay. … Fu- Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” This was new, as he tried it on for size. “Ohhh, fuck fuck fuckfuckfuckity fuck!” She grinned. “I’m not sure you even know that word means,” but he was not listening anymore. Suddenly, both his hands reached forward and grabbed her legs just above the knee. She stopped stroking him, and he quickly lifted his hands, opened his eyes, and she stroked him some more. After a second, he put his hands back on her legs and this time she didn’t stop. He was entering another world, one in which his dick was in complete control, where his entire body revolved around his dick, and the feelings there, like the planets around the sun. It felt like a volcano must feel when the lava starts to make its way to the top. His fingers alternately squeezed and relaxed, eventually causing his hands to inch their way up Erin’s slim smooth thighs. He opened his eyes to look where they were and saw her rubbing her own pussy, almost violently. He thought, how can I be so wrapped in my feelings and ignore looking at her pussy!?? So he stared at it, again his fingers reflexively tightening like a kitten as it sucks the milk from the mother cat’s teat. Slowly inching closer and closer to those flaming red pussy lips. Meanwhile, his own body was starting to feel different somehow. Something was happening.

Erin said, “Mitch, watch your hands, remember you can’t tou-- Ohhhh fuuuuuck...” He didn’t know why she stopped speaking, but looking down he saw her grab his hand and pull it onto her wet leaking pussy, her own hand covering his and holding it tightly against her mound. This drove Mitch to the stratosphere, and seemed to have the same effect on her, as he watched her entire body tense up. Her grip on his dick tightened and he somehow knew he was passing a threshold never before experienced. A gutteral groan came from Erins body and his at the same time. She found two of his fingers and shoved them into her pussy while pressing down his hand onto her mound, almost to the point of causing him pain, if he weren’t so focused on his own feelings. This was the “orgasm” she mentioned, he knew it had to be. His entire body went stiff and started to shudder as his eyes squeezed tight. Together brother and sister shook as one as his hand caused jolts to her pussy, which caused her jerking hand to jolt on his cock and the cycle continued. After what seemed like a near death experience, they both exhaled loudly and collapsed forward, each forehead hitting it’s siblings shoulder. Panting heavily, they were silent. Each had a hand on the other’s genitals still, and each subtle movement they made caused the other to experience another jolt. Finally she looked at his eyes and said, “Just as I thought. No cum.”

“Cum?” he said? “Another time, baby bro. We’ll talk about that another time. Are you hungry? Cuz mom’s calling for us.” “Starving,” he said. “Fucking starving.”

Chapter 2 coming soon...

[unfair-sports]

The OSG Fantasy Report

Special shoutout to our OSG for these fantasy tips:

Pittsburgh -5.5 at Cleveland (46.5) I’m always a fan of stacking Big Ben and Antonio Brown. But do not confuse Cleveland’s record last season with having a bad defense. The Steelers have not gone into Cleveland and hung big numbers on their division rival. So the price you have to pay for the combo doesn’t come at a low price. However they are so good that they can break any matchup any week. ✅. So Antonio Brown is an excellent play and I can’t talk you off of him✅. They have years of a working relationship and will have very little kinks to work out. If Antonio is priced too high, pivot to JuJu Smith-Schuster. ✅James Connor✅ in the backfield can be some value with Bell missing week 1. Again, Cleveland was one of the best run defenses last season although they struggled with pass catching backs. So if he is a plug and play in Bell’s role with the price and machine that Pittsburgh is, he could present some value. There are other value backs gaining traction so he could go over looked as I usually do not enjoy playing offenses in division games. They know each other well.  Cleveland is a mystery to me for week 1. Yes Josh Gordon can go wild. Yes Jarvis Landry can get 8-10 targets. I just think they are a little risky which sets up for great tournament plays of course. ✅With a new QB in place I always approach these week 1s with caution. Though I love David Njoku ✅at tight end. Mainly because of their new QB whom loved to throw to Charles Clay in Buffalo. Tyrod Taylor ✅checks in as an excellent play in all formats. His ability to throw with better weapons than he’s ever had mixed with his run ablilty has had him consistently hitting value for his price. Although I hate division games this isn’t the Steel Curtain he’s facing. Add him to your player pool.  Cincinnati at Indy -3 (46.5) If there is one team I’ve stacked too much it’s the Cincinnati Bengals. How long can Andy Dalton play with a guy like AJ Green and be mediocre? I guess I should say I play Green too much. It’s not him that has failed me. It’s Dalton’s inability to get him the ball downfield.  With that said any combo of AJ Green with Dalton or second year WR John Ross should be ok against one of the worst secondaries from a year ago inside of a dome. However I prefer AJ Green without the Dalton stack ✅. If Joe Mixon✅ is going to be a bell cow he too can be depended on to be in a position to run for 80-100 yards and see the end zone. If you a PPR site player Gio Bernard can add some value and a potential pass catching TD for a running back.  If Andrew Luck is healthy and gets blocked for, TY Hilton ✅could enjoy success Sunday. 8-10 targets. A potential 100 yard game, and maybe 2TDs inside of his home dome where he is so much more effective. While I believe Marlon Mack is the guy, you could see a committee out of the backfield. This is a stay away from me.  —both tight ends here can be of value. Tyler Eifert while he is still healthy. And Jack Doyle. ✅He played almost all of Lucks snaps in the preseason. And can be forgotten about.  SF at Minn-6 (46) Finally some Jimmy G in my life again. However he comes out of the gate as a road dog against one of the better pass defenses from last season. Again, however this game is in a dome and once Jimmy G took over last season, the 49ers were at the top each week in plays per game. They moved at face pace and the game could shoot out. Jimmy G to Goodwin ✅can be a boom or bust stack but I’m thinking boom this week. Throw in Garçon ✅whom looked good last year with below average quarterbacks. Pairing him with George Kittle ✅for red zone TDS could pay off as well. I’m not a fan of Carlos Hyde and Matt Breida. But this is a well coached team with an excellent old school player and analyst turn GM. They will run the ball inside the 5. If you guess right between the two then kudos. But I am fading that situation.  Minnesota will probably gain more ownership being 6 point favorites at home. And rightfully so. The faster SF plays the more chances Minnesota gets. My only hesitation is Kirk Cousins still needing to work on timing with Diggs and Thielen. Cousins enjoys pushing the ball up field. And this is usually only a week 1-2 issue for me. New QBs in a new system with new weapons. It just takes time. If you’re not worried about that then a full stack across multiple lineups are recommended.✅ Cousins-Diggs. Cousins-Diggs. Kyle Rudolph on his own to fill in TE. Even Dalvin Cook who was off to a great start before tearing his ACL last season.  But Latavius Murray may split carries with him.  Maybe even goal line work to ease Cook back. Splits are hard to roster. You’re guessing 50/50 Houston at New England -7 (51) Finally a 50 over/under. Deshaun Watson was lights out and I expect that to continue week 1. Can he be that efficient? Probably not. But I’m going to take a chance. ✅Deandre Hopkins can have a college QB and he still gets 10-12 targets or more and I will have Watson-Hopkins stacks ✅. Will fuller is a boom or bust play. But the biggest surprise is how much Lamar Miller was so much more effective with Watson in. He should see goal line work IF and that’s a big if Houston moves the ball upfield. New England’s pass defense grades out much better than their run D.  New England is the for the first time in a long time bringing off season drama into week 1. That could fire up Tom Brady in a fast pace 50 over game. He’s priced high but “guaranteed” to have success. I just always see this with New England. They come out slow in September. ✅Everybody downs them and then they pick it up as the season progresses and eases into the top of a weak AFC East. Buffalo. The jets. Miami. Easy street. I would normally love Rex Burkhead as New England runs the ball inside the 5 and is an excellent value play. ✅ Chris Hogan is WR1 and is dirt cheap. He could see 10-12 targets.✅ Gronk is priced high and is like a WR. He went 8/89, 1TD here last season so by all means play Gronk✅. I’m not into the fringe play of Sony Michel this week as he is banged up. But it is Billichek. Anybody can catch or run a TD. Anytime.  Tennessee -1 at Miami (45.5) Maybe I’m wrong but I’m fading Tennessee as I frequently did last season. I will say this however. They have a new coach. New pass catching back with Dion Lewis and with no Demarco Murray, Derrick Henry steps in as a RB1. But I’m not sure how they split these two backs. Until Mariotta shows me something in week 1 I’m off of this offense until I can figure them out. We should note that Mariotta is efficient once in the red zone and can get it done on the ground and get in the end zone. That’s why I would rather have him alone as oppose to a stack. But give my Tyrod Taylor over him all day.  Miami is almost as unappealing. There’s always a butt. There was some weeks that But-Cutler was relevant to fantasy. And if you can work with cutler you can work with Ryan Tannehill. Landry is gone and Parker may miss week 1 which would firmly place a cheap Danny Amendola✅ high on the list in cash games and tournaments. He’s determined to make a statement after leaving New England. And could be placed in a large role and Tennessee’s pass defense is not the best although not the worst. For the price and volume you can take a chance if you believe Miami can move the ball and score 2-3 touchdowns. And if you believe that you can say the same argument for Kenyan Drake ✅who is being touted in the Pre season and was very usable in fantasy last season. I will have shares of Drake. But I don’t see a reason to chance it with Tannehill.  Tampa Bay at New Orleans -9.5 (49.5) It would be hard for me to roster Evans and Godwin even with Famous Jameis. Now he’s suspended for the first four games. And we add a true back up. They will be playing from behind and could lead to some garbage time touchdowns.  New Orleans is the spot to target starting with Drew Brees. He could spread the ball around and you have to place Michael Thomas and Ted Ginn, Jr. for the Big play capability. “They” say Alvin Kamara is due for negative regression when it comes to effiency. But sometimes “they” are wrong. If they get a lead, Mike Gillislee (while Mark Ingram is suspended) could take some carries. But the reason for the lead is going to be Brees-Kamara-Thomas-Gin✅ somehow. They are on a positive side of a 49 over under in the dome at home where they have been explosive.  Jax -3 at NYG (44) This game has a low total. The cheap WR for Jacksonville may be chalk. I would rather take the guaranteed load of Leonard Fournette as oppose to the pass game. I’ve lived and died on Blake Bortles more than I would like to admit.  This game is one of the lower totals. But I could see myself taking a shot on Dede Westbrook over Keenan Cole.  While the Giants prospect may be better this year. I will not jump on that train vs The Jax defense. While I like the Barkley addition and Evan Engram to get better this is not an ideal offense to target. From a game theory perspective however, Jalen Ramsey may shadow Odell Beckham which could funnel targets to the tight as happened last season. My exposure will not go past Engram and Barkley.  Buffalo at Baltimore -7 (41) If you can name the starting QB in Buffalo here then you can play him.  The total is very low here. Long term we may have interest in Crabteee and John Brown in the future but maybe not here. But we do love Alex Collins✅. He is at a great price point to garner 100 yards and a touchdown or two. He’s a touchdown favorite at home vs. a bad team.  KC at LA Chargers -3.5 (47.5) I’m very excited about the Chiefs this year. Hunt and Hill should be targets for big plays all season. Hill is risky this week vs a very very good Chargers secondary. He does feel that Mahomes can hit him in strides and this makes for the big play. One 80 yard TD strike along with 2-4 catches for 20 a more yards is decent. But if that’s what you’re banking on then maybe not. We want efficiency in fantasy and this is a defense you do not want to target. Hunt could also see plenty of work and is my preferred target here this week.  The Chargers on the other hand we can target. KC projects to be one of the worst defenses this season and will be a target spot all year. ✅Play Melvin Gordon here while he is healthy for sure. He will get pass work. Goal line work and in between the 20 work. 20-25 touches. 1-2 touchdown upside is what we search for and this could be a prime spot for it. I’m less excited about Phillip Rivers as I never get him right. Kills me in excellent matchups, thrives when I fade him in tough spots. Regardless he to Keenan Cole is an excellent stack.  -speaking of stacking. ✅ Sometimes you want to run a stack back with an opposing team. If you think the chargers have a lead maybe it forces mahomes to throw more. So you either target him and hill or hunt for garbage TDS or the Chargers defense for Turnovers if he throws too much.  Im siding with the Chargers defense. ✅ Seattle at Denver -2.5 (42) Seattle is still not a team I like to target. I used to do the Wilson Baldwin connection. But until they show me something I’m off of this team. Especially as road dogs in the altitude vs a good defense.  I may enjoy Denver’s long term success but with a very low over of 42 this isn’t ideal. If you’re forced into it on an afternoon slate Emanuel Sanders was a target monster with well below average QB play. So with an upgrade in QB with Case Keenum, whom also loves to target the slot, you can make a case for their stack. I would avoid the split RB situation until we see definite results.  Washington at Arizona (even) (44) Don’t you just love games with no favorite. That’s Vegas saying “I give up” Washington got check down Charlie I mean Alex Smith in the off-season. I’m interested in seeing how this offense shakes out. I targeted Washington a lot the past two years. I successfully placed in tournaments with Kirk Cousins and Jordan Reed. With smith there who loves to check down, this week could be a Jordan Reed week ✅. If he’s fully healthy, and can find a connection with Smith, he has 80 yard 1-2 TD upside similar to Gronk but with a lighter price. I’m also interested to see if Adrian Peterson can cut thru holes behind a decent offensive line. But he will split with Chris Thompson and Fat Rob Kelley.  I’m not interested in AZ much more. Always a butt. Larry Fitzgerald will have a plus matchup in the slot with Sam Bradford back in our lives. If you want to target older players you do it early in the season while everybody is healthy and fresh. David Johnson however is young and back and is an excellent play in all formats✅. He runs. He catches. He scores! Dallas at Carolina Dallas used to be a favorite target of mine with Dak and Zeek. This is because we know where the offense is coming from. I would not target any pass catchers here. Dak is playable but this will be a slow paced game. Dallas plays slow and run the ball. Carolina plays slow. Probably so Cam won’t have to throw so much 🤔. However Ezekiel Elliott is playable in all formats ✅week in and week out until further notice. Rumors say he is expected to get more pass game work. Which is now more than ever needed without Dez or Whitten.  Carolina will be appealing for two things this week. Legs. The legs of Cam should provide fantasy upside ✅and is a great tournament play this week. Christian McCaffrey is expected to be more of a runner this year and not just a pass catching player. The likely chance that McCaffrey catches a TD pass and runs one could make the Cam-McCaffrey stack viable✅. Funchess or Olsen is more likely to catch a TD from Cam than Allen Hurns. But Cam is the kind of WB you don’t have to stack.

[stephanericherthanyou]

title: until it all runs dry fandom: knb pairing: aohimu word count: 27653 summary: “i think i have another year left in me.” notes: old!aohimuxnba essentially ao3

*

“I think I’ve got another year left in me.”

Daiki resists the urge to lean forward on the table when he says it; it would bring his face close and level with the GM’s but a million of Satsuki’s reprimands (don’t slouch; don’t look like you can’t sit up straight; it makes you seem old or weak or injured or less serious—always supposedly given from her perspective as his agent and not as his best friend) stop him prematurely. He flicks his eyes over to her, next to him, sitting up straight with paperwork steady in her hands.

“Daiki,” says the GM, and then pauses.

This can’t be good.

“We understand where you’re coming from, but given your injuries the past few years, you must understand we’re simply being cautious. We need a roster full of players we know can play for a full season and aren’t risking their long-term health. I know how much you’ve given the franchise the past nineteen years, Daiki, and we’re very grateful, but I think all of us need to move on.”

The words are hitting Daiki like a million tiny needles, piercing his skin bloodlessly.

“Of course, we’d still be interested in having you as part of the franchise. We have an open assistant general manager position and if you’re interested, I’ve had a contract drawn up that you and Ms. Momoi can go over it at your leisure.”

Daiki almost opens his mouth, then looks at Satsuki again. She’s staring straight ahead, betraying nothing.

“Please take some time to think about it,” says the GM, almost fucking pleasantly. “We really hope you’ll consider moving onward and upward with us.”

“I’ve thought,” says Daiki. “I want to play. If you’re not offering that, we have nothing else to discuss.”

He looks at Satsuki; she’s poised to go. The GM says nothing; the president next to him, silent this whole fucking time, says nothing. Daiki places his hands on the table and pushes his way up into a standing position.

“We’ll hold the offer,” says the president. “In case you don’t like what you find on the open market.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” says Daiki, and that’s more polite than those condescending fuckers deserve. “I’ll take my talents elsewhere.”

Daiki doesn’t wait for Satsuki, but she’s almost ahead of him, the clack of her heels sharp and menacing on the GM’s wax floor. He doesn’t look back; he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to look down at the carpet, either; the miniature Cavs logos all over seem to be taunting him with how much they don’t want him.

He and Satsuki don’t speak until they’re in the car, Daiki reclining the passenger’s seat all the way back and slipping his feet out of those stupid loafers that pinch his feet no matter how many sizes too big he buys them. He looks at his hand, the scar raised and stark white against his palm. It still twinges every now and then, but he’d started rehabbing as soon as possible and he’s back to form, better than he’d been the last half of last season and better than the first half, too, maybe. He should have said that; he shouldn’t have just gone with whatever impulsive shit wanted to pop itself into his mind.

“Dai-chan,” says Satsuki once she’s pulled the car out of the space. “I’m sorry.”

For a second he wants to lash out—but it’s not that kind of pitying, throwing-in-the-towel apology. Satsuki doesn’t make those. It’s as much for her as it is for him, as much about how much she thinks she’d failed him as it is about the result.

“Did you tell them I’d take a pay cut?”

She nods.

“Did you stress my veteran presence? Community service? Good health? Whatever bullshit?”

She nods again.

“Then you’ve got nothing to be sorry about. You did your job.”

She doesn’t reply, keeps her eyes on the road until the silence is loud enough for Daiki to flip on the radio and they both pretend to listen to the traffic report. They stop for lunch at the café they went to when they’d celebrated Daiki’s last contract extension two years ago. Daiki doesn’t remember what he’d ordered then; he’d only been thinking about bringing the team back up to respectability, another ring, finishing his career here.

“You did the right thing,” says Satsuki, once they’ve ordered.

“Did I?”

“Yeah,” says Satsuki. “They’re the ones who didn’t even offer a workout or some lowball offer. They’re the ones who have been running this franchise into the ground. You’re too good for them.”

“Well, I want them. I like it here,” says Daiki.

Satsuki stirs the ice in her water with the straw and sighs, so quietly Daiki almost misses it. Whether it’s at his obstinacy, the size of the parking lot, or the (admittedly sad) state of the franchise, he’s not going to ask. Yeah, they’ve been fourth in the division for three years running; the last time they’d made the playoffs was the year Daiki had dragged them all the way to the finals and they’d gotten swept, the year he’d thought he’d blown out his knee (and the scars from that surgery aren’t all that faded, either), five years ago. They’ve avoided full-on tank mode, but all of their good young players have walked away to friendlier situations, teams that have plans and directions. And even a team like that thinks they can’t use the services of an old franchise player, apparently. (And yeah, the executives don’t deserve him if they’re going to treat him like shit, but the team still does. The fans still do.)

“Well,” says Satsuki, finally. “If you were serious about taking your talents elsewhere, I’ll look into it. Anywhere in particular?”

Daiki shrugs. He can speak callously about the situation all he wants but he really doesn’t want to think about leaving; he’d said it to make them want to regret it, phrased it like that to make them reconsider. He doesn’t really want to go to South Beach or Minnesota or Brooklyn or Dallas or, well, anywhere really. He’s lived here half his life; leaving has never been a real option and he hasn’t even half-seriously considered it in years. Playing in the NBA and playing in Cleveland go hand in hand, because that’s just how it’s always been for him.

“Anywhere you don’t want to be?”

Daiki shrugs again. It’s all the same to him at this point.

Satsuki drops him off at home afterwards with a promise to let him know if she hears anything back. Daiki turns up the ringer on his phone before she’s turned the corner and waits.

He’s still waiting on a silent phone a week later. They don’t call him; they don’t call Satsuki to call him. Daiki practices, at the gym with his trainer and on the street courts after hours. He feels good; he’s playing well, like he’s gained back half a step after spending the past few years feeling like he’s lost one or two (or even three on his worst days). It’s not a real game, but he’d been feeling sluggish and off in practices, too. It’s not like he’s going to go out and keep up with the young kids and their boundless energy, their new trick shots that he knows he’d only embarrass himself attempting (even though he would have nailed them ten or fifteen years back). But he can still shoot; even if he can’t throw down as many dunks or pretty fadeaways he gets the ball in the net. Even if he has to stick to something close to a form, watch his own videos late at night and find the flaws, he’ll do it because it’s already paying off.

And they still don’t call. It’s a little like basketball itself has been chewing on him and spit him back out like a wad of used gum. It’s like being fifteen all over again, but in reverse, but it doesn’t really matter because the result’s the same. Daiki’s still been left alone, on the other side of some arbitrary barrier, unable to reach what he’d just had, taking it all for granted all over again. But he’s not going to walk away; he can’t when he still has something left to give up to basketball. Maybe it’s stupid, but it can’t be the stupidest thing he’s ever done.

A couple more weeks pass in silence. The Cavs call again, reminding Daiki of the front office offer; he thinks about hanging up on them but half-politely defers instead. Satsuki’s other clients, bright young things and veterans who aren’t quite as old (but definitely just as injured) as Daiki, all get signed to good deals. Daiki thinks about texting her, but he knows she hasn’t forgotten about his situation. He’s trying not to get his hopes up about a huge deal in the works, but the only other reason she hasn’t called is that there’s been nothing at all.

Then, finally, miraculously, she does—not a real offer, but something that could lead to one, and while it’s less than he deserves it’s more than he has.

*

Regardless of the outcome, working out for the Clippers has a built-in advantage, and that’s Taiga. Daiki figures he can hang out, kick Taiga’s retired ass at basketball, eat his cooking, and generally feel better for a few days until he hears the result. The Clippers’ staff had seemed noncommittal at best, so Daiki’s trying to keep that out of his mind for now. He knows he’d aced a lot of the physical tests they’d expected him to fail, and he knows he’d sunk a couple of really nice baskets. He’s just not sure where he’d fit in on a team like that; they already have veterans and bench players and what they really need is a shutdown defender, probably bigger and faster than Daiki.

They’re probably not calling him back so soon (they’ll probably just go through Satsuki when they do anyway) but he’s checked his phone maybe a hundred times since getting back.

He shoves it back into his pocket, and Taiga crosses his arms. As oblivious as he is and as much as he’s multitasking, he’s still noticed it. They haven’t talked much about the tryout at all, other than Daiki saying why he’d be in town and a very short exchange right after Daiki had gotten back about how the it had gone.

“You know, retirement’s not so bad,” says Taiga.

“The meat’s burning,” says Daiki.

Taiga swears under his breath and jobs back to the grill to flip the steaks, giving Daiki a few moments to prepare for him to try and do whatever he’s going to do.

“It really isn’t,” says Taiga when he gets back. “Eat what you want, work out what you want. You can still play ball every day but, you know. You don’t have to wear yourself out.”

But Daiki’s not wearing himself out with this, not really. Yeah, his body is a lot less shy about protesting jet-lag and some of the strength and conditioning exercises. Yeah, it’s tough when he’s stiff and sore most of the time, when he’s capable of less but has to do more. It’s still a small price to pay for playing the best basketball of his life against the best players in the world. It’s not much of a question; he’d put up with way worse just to keep doing it.  

“I got the rest of my life to be retired,” says Daiki. “I’m doing this until I can’t anymore.”

“What if you only get D-league offers?”

“Then I put on a show and get called up one game later.”

Taiga snorts. “I admire your confidence.”

“It’s true. I could take you anytime, old man.”

Taiga snaps the tongs at him. “You’ll be thirty-eight at the end of the month, too.”

“Shut up,” says Daiki.

*

The Clippers don’t call him back the next day; neither does Satsuki. Maybe no news is good news. None of the press outlets have picked up on his workout; the NBA news is dry and dead, full of tumbleweeds like some kind of ghost town in one of the shitty TCM movies Daiki used to fall asleep to in hotel rooms.

He’s watching ESPN in Taiga���s living room and half-drifting into a nap while the announcers talk about the NFL preseason (boring), when he hears something about basketball and snaps back into being awake. It’s not a false alarm; they keep referring to the Knicks and their annoying young forward. Daiki’s already refreshing social media; the kid’s name is the number one trend on twitter.

He scrolls past angry tweets describing colorful means of punishment, reaction gifs, and tag spams, and there it is, from one of the major news outlets: “Knicks Lose Two Forwards”.

According to the article, the annoying young forward has decided to break his contract in the year he stands to make the most money in order to go back to Lithuania and play for his hometown team. One of their other forwards, an older guy who had played half a season on the Cavs a while back, has apparently shattered his hip in a car accident and is out indefinitely. Daiki flips through his contacts and sends him a quick text of well wishes, and then slumps back against the couch, trying to stop his heart from thumping as wildly as it is in his chest.

“The Knicks’ already-weak forward corps has just been decimated,” one of the ESPN reporters is saying. “Decimated. This was a weak free agent class to begin with, but at this point in the offseason there’s no one left at replacement level. They’re going to have to make a trade or two, and they’re not in a good position right now.”

“They’ve still got Vaughn—”

“Who barely cracked the starting lineup on two teams last year?”

“True, but he’s still, you know, there.”

Daiki lets their voices fade out again; their pointless debates don’t matter now. This is it, one way or the other. The Knicks will call, or they’ll make a trade and someone else will make another trade and someone somewhere will need a forward and they’ll call. Or no one will call and he’ll have to—what? Beg the Clippers to give him another chance? Go to Europe? Ask Satsuki to beg a D-league team to give him a shot? Daiki sighs, running a hand through his hair. It’s no use thinking about this with any kind of finality. He’s good enough to get a shot, and someone’s going to give it to him at some point.

It had just better be fucking soon.

*

Daiki’s phone rings in the middle of the night; the obnoxious factory-default ringtone practically bounces off the walls. He has to grope for it, shutting his eyes against the glare of the screen, not bothering to look at the caller ID.

“Yeah?”

“Dai-chan!”

“Satsuki?”

His first thought is that things aren’t okay, that something had happened—her father’s heart issue, something with her wife—but she sounds excited, not stressed.

“The Knicks called. One year, four million.”

“One year, four million,” Daiki repeats, stifling a yawn—that’s barely above the veteran minimum for as many years of service as he’s logged. “There a bonus?”

“Extra half a million if you play sixty-five.”

He could pretend to consider, or he could just give in and go back to sleep (half his mind is screaming that it’s a contract and the other half is telling that half to fucking chill and winning). It’s a contract; it’s a team low on forwards and that means he’ll get more time on the court and screw it.

“Done,” he says, and he’s back to sleep before Satsuki hangs up.

It seems like a dream in the morning; maybe it is; it can’t be that easy and that’s way past the end of the business day in New York, but whatever. Daiki heads downstairs in his pajamas to eat breakfast; he and Taiga are going to some yoga studio later and he might as well get ready for that. Taiga’s already at the counter eating an apple; he looks up like he’s about to say something but doesn’t.

“I think I signed with the Knicks,” says Daiki.

“I know you did,” says Taiga. “Pending physical. I saw it on ESPN.”

“Told you I’d get signed,” says Daiki (he’d actually said no such thing, but it’s the spirit of the issue).

“Congratulations, though,” says Taiga. “But I guess this means you’re leaving early.”

“Huh?”

“Uh, the physical? The press conference?”

Oh, right. The physical’s not going to be a formality with him, and he’s heard of players flunking before, dealt at the deadline only to stop before they get to the airport or inking a fresh deal and having it torn up before the ink can dry because of some lingering issue. He’s never needed a physical as more than an easily-passed formality, not since draft day; the Cavs’ team doctors had always known where he was medically when he’d signed whichever extension and at the beginning of every training camp; they haven’t checked him out in that kind of depth since draft day. Daiki sighs; his phone’s probably full. When he gets back to his room to check it there’s a few emails from Satsuki with contract, physical exam, press conference and flight details (she’d already booked him for the redeye tonight and a very nice hotel, though that one’s courtesy of the team), a voice message from the Knicks’ GM, and a couple of texts from players he sort of knows on the Knicks welcoming him to the team.

“Anyway,” says Taiga. “Do you know how long you’ll be there?”

“A few days,” says Daiki. “After that I have to pay for the hotel myself.”

“Oh,” says Taiga.

He scrunches up his face, like there’s something he wants to ask. Daiki waits, shoveling cereal into his mouth.

“Can you do me a favor?”

“What’s the favor?”

“Can you check up on Tatsuya?”

Daiki blinks. “Sure.”

It’s an odd request; Taiga and Tatsuya are still close as far as Daiki knows, and Daiki hasn’t spoken to Tatsuya without Taiga there in years (other than brief on-court exchanges). Daiki would say things are amicable between them, but there’s nothing he, as Tatsuya’s ex-boyfriend, has access to that Taiga, as Tatsuya’s best friend, does not.

“We had a fight. At the beginning of the summer.”

Now this is interesting.

“I told him the same thing I told you, that he should retire.”

Daiki snorts. Even without knowing about the fight he would have guessed that hadn’t gone over too well.

“He’s…I guess, he’s in kind of a similar situation as you, so,” says Taiga. “He might, I don’t know, tell you more?”

“What do you want to know?” says Daiki. “I’m pretty sure a lot of this isn’t any of my business.”

“Just…I want to know he’s really doing okay. With everything.”

“Okay,” says Daiki. “I’ll do that.”

*

The physical is apparently mostly a formality; they’d seen some tape of his summer workouts (apparently his trainer is friends with one of the Knicks’ scouts) and that’s allayed most of their concerns so it’s mostly heart rate stuff, checking his knee against old x-rays, and prodding his hand to check if that bothers him. They’re satisfied, and the contract’s made completely official. Daiki’s in the hotel room dressing for the press conference, fixing his cufflinks, when it starts to seem almost real. He’s about to step out, talk about how excited he is to join the team, stand next to a GM and coach he’s barely met, cycle through canned phrases before discarding them when he gets bored. It almost feels like Draft Day, waiting for his name to be called, waiting to seal his future. This time he’s alone, though; he’s not waiting with his friends; he’s not worried about speaking English in front of a crowd; the whole thing doesn’t seem as meaningful. And, really, it’s not; it’s not like he’s going to spend nineteen years playing here.

He and Satsuki make small talk with the executives while they wait (well, Satsuki makes small talk and Daiki pretends to listen) and then the GM slips off to introduce him. Satsuki squeezes his hand.

“Good luck.”

“Thanks,” he says.

The curtain parts.

“And here he is, Daiki Aomine!”

The flashbulbs start before he’s out; Daiki ducks and puts his hand up (it’s a well-lit room for fuck’s sake) and then focuses his face on the GM, smiling widely at him and holding out a jersey. Daiki doesn’t even have time to look at the number on it before pulling it over his head, on top of his shirt and tie. He looks down while he tugs it over his hips, and there’s the familiar number five. It looks so weird, so out of place on his body with the orange and blue, but he forces himself to look up.

“Thanks for coming out today,” he says. “It’s, uh. It’s an honor to be here, and I’m really excited to be a New York Knick, to become a member of a storied franchise in a great city like this, and to get the opportunity to play in front of such great fans.”

He pauses, and then thanks the GM and the president and the owner and Satsuki, runs over the list Satsuki had made for him to read that he’d said he’d ignore but actually looked at and, well, it’s better than his own thoughts at the moment. He’s not going to give the Cavs the satisfaction of thinking he’d rather be in Cleveland announcing one more year, no matter how much he wants to say it or how true it is. The press gives him a lot of softball questions (“Was it hard to leave Cleveland?” and “What made you choose New York?” and “Did you think about retiring?”) and the last one is probably that, too, but Daiki’s going to say the answer like he means it because he does.

“What’s your goal for this year? Play all eighty-two games?”

“I wouldn’t mind that,” says Daiki. “Make that all ninety-eight, though. My only goal’s a championship.”

“Gonna sweep everybody?”

“Why not?” says Daiki. “I think this team can do it.”

He smiles for the flashbulbs for a while longer and then it’s all over. He’s still got enough time for a nap before dinner with Tatsuya, and now the press conference is done he can actually look forward to it.

Tatsuya had suggested some bar on the upper west side Daiki’s never heard of, but has apparently been around since before he was born. There’s still so much of the city he doesn’t know, and so much that’s changed since he spent two summers in a row here with Tatsuya (even in midtown by the hotel there are so many new buildings, so many repurposed and decked out so they’re unrecognizable until Daiki looks at them for a few minutes). How much of it is he going to get used to in a year? How much of it will compare unfavorably to Cleveland? How much can he close his eyes and pretend he’s back in Tokyo instead and avoid that topic entirely?

Daiki gets there a few minutes early, for once overestimating the likelihood of MTA delays. The sun is sinking in the sky; it’s still hot and humid and dirty in mid-August and the city won’t let go of summer even though the earth is orbiting away and the days are shorter. Considering how people here barely seem to notice when the sky turns dark because of how bright their artificial lights are, maybe it doesn’t even matter to them. His face is still turned up at the clouds when he hears the sound of a clearing throat, and he turns around.

There’s Tatsuya, smiling so bright Daiki’s glad he’s already wearing sunglasses. Daiki’s not sure what to do but Tatsuya solves that problem for him; he pulls Daiki into a brief hug.

“Hey,” Daiki says.

“Hey,” says Tatsuya. “Congratulations on the contract, by the way.”

“Thanks,” says Daiki.

They sit outside and order drinks; Daiki gets a chocolate stout (it’s his cheat day, okay) and Tatsuya orders a vodka soda. They sit in silence for a while, Daiki taking quick looks at Tatsuya’s face over the top of the menu. He looks good; he looks almost the same as he always has and he could probably pass for much younger. His face is mostly free from lines; he has gentle crow’s feet at the corner of his eye that disappear into his bangs, but that’s it. And his hair doesn’t look thinner or greyer, still falls across his face as it always has. His skin is still clear and tight; there are a few more moles on his bare arm across the table but that’s the only notable difference Daiki can see. He looks a little bit more worn around the edges, tired but not faded, like a well-kept photograph. Daiki looks back at the menu again, but the waiter’s already there to hand them their drinks and take their food orders. Daiki takes a sip for courage, and then leans forward on the table.

“I talked to Taiga. He wants to know how you’re doing.”

Tatsuya laughs. “I figured it was something like that.”

“That’s not all of it,” says Daiki. “I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t want to see you.”

Tatsuya sips his drink. “How much did he tell you?”

“Not much. That you guys fought.”

“Yeah,” says Tatsuya. “We did. I told him I was trying to find a playing job; he told me I wouldn’t mind retirement, and I disagreed. Part of that was me being overly sensitive and taking it the wrong way, but I don’t like other people telling me what I would and wouldn’t like, even when they’re right, so I had an extra reason to be contrary.”

Tatsuya is nothing if not self-aware.

“And I’m a bit worried that he might be right.”

Tatsuya’s voice is getting lower and lower with every passing word; for a second Daiki wants to reach over and grab his hand, tell him Taiga’s wrong, but they’re not dating anymore. Tatsuya had never been this frank with him when they had been, anyway (and that’s one of the reasons they’d broken up in the first place). But thing is, Taiga definitely is wrong about Tatsuya, the same way he’d been wrong about Daiki. Tatsuya’s incredibly stubborn and incredibly attached to basketball, in a way that Taiga doesn’t completely get. And even without that, Tatsuya’s last year had been more than serviceable, split between the Bucks and Wizards. He’d done fine in limited minutes; he hadn’t even been injured.

“He’s not,” says Daiki, and Tatsuya throws a half-smile at his drink.

“Even if he is, I don’t want to go just yet,” says Tatsuya. “I can’t, not when I’ve been given this chance to play here in the first place—I can’t leave until it runs completely dry.”

And that’s it; that’s the way Daiki feels but expressed with more clarity. It makes sense, given how much longer Tatsuya’s had to think about it, and at that realization Daiki feels a rush of indignation.

“Got any offers yet?”

Tatsuya shrugs. “The Knicks gave me an invite to training camp. I’m not holding my breath for more. Everyone knows it’s a young man’s game now; guys like us are on the wrong side of the trend.”

Trend or no, they’re good enough; they’ve paid their dues. There should be a place for them; there ought to be. But Daiki’s not going to say it; he can already hear Tatsuya’s response about how unfair life can be echoing in his head. He’ll tell Taiga Tatsuya’s fine; he’s at least as fine as Daiki is.

The conversation switches to league gossip, baseball, politics, people they know; the meal is pleasant and Daiki starts to wonder why they’ve never done this before. It’s been more than a decade since they’d broken up, time enough for both of them to move on with their lives and be okay with this. But there’s no use dwelling on that; they’ll be living in the same city now and have plenty of time to catch up and try to be friends (if that’s what Tatsuya wants, too).

“Do you have a place to stay here?” Tatsuya says as they leave.

Daiki pulls a face; he hadn’t even thought about that. What the hell is he going to do about all his stuff back in Ohio, his house? Should he just sell it? What about his car? He’s not going to make any attempt to drive in the city, but commuting in from the suburbs is not an appealing prospect either. And all of that’s way less relevant than the fact that he has to actually figure out how to rent or buy and deal with real estate people for the first time since he bought his house sixteen years ago (which had been taken care of by his old agent, anyway—there’s no way Satsuki’s going to do this part for him).

“Um,” says Daiki. “How long do you think I can get the team to put me up in a hotel?”

Tatsuya laughs, clear and bright in the summer air. “I can hook you up with a real estate agent.”

“Thanks,” says Daiki. “I’m probably going to have to stay in Cleveland until training camp, though. Pack and stuff.”

Daiki really doesn’t want to just choose a place without setting foot in it, although if it’s going to be impersonal anyway he might as well let go and pick whatever’s got the best price. And either way he doesn’t want to just end up in an apartment with a one-year lease and half-packed boxes strewn all over, only to get traded somewhere else at the deadline (he’s been to teammate’s temporary residences before, and unless they’d packed up and moved their families that’s what they always were), but maybe that’s unavoidable.

“You can crash at my place for a while,” says Tatsuya. “It’s a lot to think about at once. You still have a key, right?”

“Yeah,” says Daiki, half-automatically.

(He’d never turn Tatsuya down—is it okay? It doesn’t sound like a courtesy invite, and Tatsuya’s not the kind of guy to make those, especially not to him. And there’s something, not really good or bad or weird but just something, like seeing movement out of the corner of his eye and then turning around and everything is still, about Tatsuya not having changed the locks after all these years.)

“Great,” says Tatsuya.

His voice is almost a little bit relieved, but maybe that’s just Daiki projecting his own feelings all over again.

*

Training camp is a little ways upstate, secluded enough even with the packs of reporters and extended roster. Everything about the situation feels weird, like some kind of alternate universe on the other side of Daiki’s reflection in a store window, cracked and faded. It’s weird not knowing any of the beat writers or the trainers, and only a few of his teammates. It’s weird that all around him is orange and blue instead of maroon and gold (it’s no less weird than it had been at the press conference staring down and seeing those colors on his body). It’s not like an international tournament or an all-star game; he’s going to have to get really used to wearing this for an entire season.

“It’s strange, right?” says Tatsuya.

“Yeah,” says Daiki. “A little bit. For you, too?”

“Nah,” says Tatsuya.

Tatsuya’s a fucking liar but he knows Daiki’s probably not going to call him on it. He’s back after seven years away; how many of these guys did he play with? Any of them? The number on his locker is 35 instead of the 21 he’s worn nearly his entire career (because that number now belongs to the Knicks’ hotshot young point guard). The ancient coaching staff Daiki still remembers from the early days (and he’s sure Tatsuya remembers better) has been entirely replaced with people closer to Daiki and Tatsuya’s age than some of their teammates—one of the assistants is a couple of months younger than Tatsuya, even.

The kids themselves still seem younger every year; Daiki’s lost count of how long it’s been since they’d started sidling up to him nervously (and trying to play it cool and tough) not because of his ability now but because he was one of their favorites when they were kids. A couple of them still do that; a couple of them were even Cavs fans. Watching them flip around from that barely-disguised starry-eyed naivete into jumping like they’re wearing moon shoes and taking trick shots without worrying about twisting their elbows makes Daiki feel way too old for this in a very self-conscious way. He pulls at his shirt, trying to hide the way it clings to the half-pronounced wrinkles on his body, stuck with the pouring sweat he would have barely broken fifteen years ago. He adjusts his headband again, hoping it hides his (slightly, okay!) receding hairline more than ever and all too soon it’s his turn to do the drill again. Didn’t it used to seem like time was crawling between iterations, and he couldn’t wait to go again?

All in all, he still feels good; it’s fun playing with the kids and especially with Tatsuya, because Tatsuya doesn’t quit. Some of the kids are overweight or under-muscled; Tatsuya’s at peak condition and he’s already hitting everything hard; he’s not dallying on the sidelines or goofing off or skimping out the way everyone else does at first. By the end of the first day, they’ve all noticed and they’re all going harder just to meet Tatsuya halfway. If Daiki hadn’t known him for so long, he’d say from the way he plays Tatsuya was in his early thirties instead of a year away from forty. He doesn’t hit the same peaks Tatsuya used to consistently stick to at that age, but he’s still so polished and prepared. He makes the easy shots; he makes a lot of the hard ones; his form is clear and rust-free, almost the same as it’s always been; he makes up for his lowered speed and stamina by squeezing a little more out of every dribble and pass and steal—he’s not elite, but he’s still damn good.

If Daiki’s not careful he’s going to fall for Tatsuya all over again, let the physical attraction and admiration and mutual love of basketball and similarity in situation pitch him forward until he’s right back where he’d been at twenty-seven, mopey and belligerent all the time because it’s obvious they’re not going to get back together, and that’s going to fuck up everything.

He resolves to distract himself by working out a little extra (as penance for the two gyros he’d had for lunch, one last time before leaving Cleveland), and chatting with the coaches a bit. He’s popped his headphones back into his ears but hasn’t turned on his MP3 yet when the coaches start talking as if he’s not there. Daiki’s not that interested; they’re mostly talking about the fringe players, young guys who they’re planning on sending to the D-League (and how long they should wait to do that).

“I’m glad Himuro’s here,” says one of the assistants. “He’s kicking the rookies into higher gear. It’s good to have him around to motivate them.”

Daiki feels like he’s been punched in the gut. Is this why they’d invited Tatsuya at all? Is it less a bonus benefit and more the entire reason? Once the kids are sufficiently competitive with each other, are they just going to cut him? He deserves to be here; right now he’s playing better than any of their glut of backup guards. There’s cap room for another veteran salary, even a big and bonus-laden one. The coaches will probably see past their bias if that’s the case; Daiki repeats that to himself over and over and turns on the music. He doesn’t want to hear any more talk.

Tatsuya digs it out of him within an hour of getting back to their room, when they’re supposed to be asleep but Tatsuya’s watching tape from this morning and Daiki’s trying to figure out what he sees. Tatsuya has a way of knowing when something’s up, and Daiki doesn’t want him to be blindsided no matter how much it hurts to say it.

Tatsuya nudges him, pausing the video and waiting until Daiki meets his gaze. “I’d figured that was the case. They know me; they know how I operate, and they don’t need an old guard.”

“Oh,” says Daiki.

“They haven’t cut me yet,” says Tatsuya.

They haven’t cut anyone yet; it’s still the first day. Daiki doesn’t say that.

“I’m just going to have to work a little harder. Don’t worry about me.”

It’s not that fucking simple and they both know it. But it never is with Tatsuya, and Daiki’s not going to push the issue when it’s only going to make both of them feel worse (neither of them needs that on top of the preseason). Still, Daiki wishes it was just that clear-cut. At the very least, he’d rest easier.

*

Tatsuya makes it easily past the first round of cuts and into the early preseason games, the ones where everyone’s floor time is uneven and they’re only supposed to care about trying new things and looking less rusty than everyone else. They’re more about competing with each other than competing with the other team, but Tatsuya (being who he is) manages to fit both on his plate like giant entrees. It’s clearer than freshly-shaved ice from where Daiki sits, a DNP tonight with around half the current roster, shoved onto awkward courtside seats. He’s acting even more attentive than he always is with the coaches, making every adjustment they tell him to and sticking to their plans, doing his damn best to make even the ridiculous shit work and sometimes pulling it off. He’s aching for more minutes; he comes off when he’s told but the minute he gets sent over to stretch and get ready to go back he brightens up like a computer screen when the sun comes out. Tatsuya couldn’t make it more obvious how fucking much he wants this roster spot, and Daiki can’t blame him. The coaches pay lip service to “the one who wins is the one who shows he wants it more” all the time and either it comes from a place of genuine belief or they’ve said it so many times they’ve ended up convincing themselves somewhat (no matter how untrue it is, unless, of course, it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy like this).

The longer Tatsuya stays the more the press start investing in him, dragging up moments from the earlier collective consciousness about his glory days, the championship ring, the all-star game and the two all-defensive teams, the sixty-point game. Daiki gets dragged into it when they start running out of stories and republish old pictures of the so-called reunited friends, pictures from the first summer they were dating and went around the city to see and occasionally be seen. And then they start writing about how old Daiki and Tatsuya are, how they’re the only two left playing pro ball from “the greatest basketball generation in Japan” and how they’re still such good friends, rooming together during training camp and all.

They can’t save all their fluff stories for that, though; they have to stir up some drama and pester Daiki about the Cavs when they get bored or need a few extra quotes. Daiki tries his best to remain noncommittal, sticking to the story that it’s just a different opinion. No one buys it. Daiki tries not to read his own press, but he ends up following links on social media about rumors that the talks between him and the Cavs had been what they were, him pushing for a contract and management trying to push him somewhere else, and rumors that there weren’t any talks at all. After all, why would a franchise player leave after 19 seasons? There’s only one reason they ever do. Daiki’s still angry, especially when he thinks about it, the carelessness and contempt with which the executives had spoken to him, as if all he’d done really wasn’t worth shit at the end of the day.

“It’s a business,” Daiki tells the reporters. “I’m here because I want to help the Knicks win games.”

It’s still a non-answer, the type Tatsuya can get away with better, the type Daiki used to try not to give. But sometimes it’s better to deflect and disengage, and it’s hard to forget with the glut of unfamiliar faces shoving recording devices at him that he doesn’t know these people at all. They’re not the same press he’s spent years building a relationship with, who give him some leeway here and there. And so Daiki takes the opportunities as they come to mug for the cameras when he’s sick of faking nice with the reporters, to pull Tatsuya into his interviews when he gets tired of answering questions. Tatsuya knows what he’s doing and always shoots him a look before politely charming the press with his stock of easily-empty phrases until he wriggles out but the press have another reason to write his name down with something nice (and maybe it doesn’t mean shit, but the chance that it does garner some sort of public goodwill that might result in pressure on the front office to sign Tatsuya are greater than zero and that’s enough).

*

Satsuki calls to check in before the final game of the preseason; he tells her he’s feeling good and the Knicks have been good to him (it’s all true so far).

“Where are you staying? Have you found a place yet?”

“I’m staying with Tatsuya for now.”

“Oh, Dai-chan…still? After training camp?”

“It’s fine,” he says. “We’re both over it.”

“Are you?”

“Yeah. We’re both adults. We know how to be friends.”

“I know,” says Satsuki.

They drop the subject, but Daiki’s still thinking about it when Tatsuya gets back. He’s drenched in sweat; his face is flushed. It’s like practice but without the constant odor of floor wax and the fluorescent lights overhead and Tatsuya looks gorgeous just standing in the doorframe, and Daiki can keep those thoughts to himself. He’s not going to hit on his ex as a guest in his house.

“Hey,” says Tatsuya. “Can we talk in a bit?”

“Sure,” says Daiki.

Tatsuya disappears, probably off to take a shower. Daiki exhales. Is he being obvious? He hadn’t thought he was, but maybe Tatsuya knows anyway. Or maybe this is about overstaying his welcome; maybe Tatsuya’s going to hand him a pile of real estate fliers (it’s not his style, but Daiki can imagine it anyway). When Tatsuya sits down on the couch next to him, wet hair dripping all over, his hands are empty.

“Daiki,” says Tatsuya. “If I don’t make the team, will you stay here?”

“If you don’t?”

“Yeah,” says Tatsuya. “I got a couple of offers from teams in Italy and China; I’ll probably go over there. It would be nice if you could stay, housesit, water the plants…that kind of thing. You don’t have to; there’s no pressure, but…just so you know, the offer’s there.”

“Yeah,” says Daiki. “I can do that.”

No new furniture, no renter’s insurance, no boxes of crap he’d shipped out from the storage facility in Ohio where all his stuff is, an apartment in a neighborhood he sort-of knows by memory still. No Tatsuya, though.

“Thanks,” says Tatsuya.

“Thank you,” says Daiki. “Saving me some work finding a place.”

The sentence lands flatter than a player taking a dive after an incidental brushback under the hoop, both of them too aware of what that’s contingent on, neither of them willing to bring up the possibility of Tatsuya making the team either. Daiki almost falls asleep on the couch, head lolling toward Tatsuya’s shoulder, before Tatsuya makes him get up and go to bed. Daiki wants to wish him luck but superstition (his or Tatsuya’s?) makes him bite his tongue.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he says instead.

“Sleep well,” says Tatsuya.

*

They call all the non-roster invitees into the coach’s room after the last practice. Daiki hangs around, redoing his shoelaces and texting some of the guys back in Cleveland. He’s not really prepared to say anything either way—it’ll be easy enough if Tatsuya gets the contract he deserves, but if he doesn’t then that’s just going to be a clusterfuck. Tatsuya probably won’t want him to, and he probably won’t want Daiki’s sympathy or disappointment, but either way it’s no use speculating. He deserves it, and he’s going to get it.

Daiki’s phone buzzes. Tatsuya’s texted him; he says not to wait. Daiki’s shoulders clench. Is it a good not-to-wait? A bad not-to-wait? Is he going to stay in order to say goodbye to this place, or to sign a contract? A few of the other bubble players start to trickle in, some to grab their shit and some to wait it out a bit; Daiki could ask but he doesn’t. No one says anything to him, or seems to even notice really. Daiki texts Tatsuya back that he’ll be there, a lie that he’d forgotten his keys.

They’re all gone before Tatsuya gets in; Daiki’s leaning back in the locker and thinking about how this is going to probably fuck up his back and leave him sore tomorrow, but he forgets all that when he sees Tatsuya’s face. He’s smiling, softly like he physically can’t stop himself.

“Congratulations,” says Daiki.

That manages to get Tatsuya to kind of twist his expression into something else, already formulate some way to downplay his achievement.

“Tatsuya,” says Daiki. “I mean it. Yeah, you were already there but you made them see it and that’s something to celebrate, okay?”

At that, the smile’s back, and Daiki exhales.

“Shall we?” says Tatsuya.

He takes a long look at his name and the number 35 above his locker, right next to Daiki’s.

“Let me take you out,” says Daiki.

“Nowhere that’s off our meal plan,” says Tatsuya (and Daiki snorts at the mock-concern in his voice).

They end up at a second-tier steakhouse, an out-of-the-way spot where they used to go, one Daiki wasn’t sure still existed. Even without a reservation they can get in and sit at the familiar table at the back, and Daiki wonders if Tatsuya still goes here often, if he’s brought other dates here. It kind of makes him jealous for a second, but not really. Tatsuya’s definitely not seeing anyone else here, and Daiki’s the one he’s with right now, the one he’s looking at over the menu steadily.

The table’s too big for their feet to knock by accident, but they used to pretend to play it off that way, leaning over the table for the same side dish, fingers brushing fingers before handing over serving spoons. Daiki lets himself miss it, for a second or two, and then lets it sink back down in his memory like a leaf soaking with water that finally drops below the surface of a pond. They broke up for a collection of very good reasons; it’s not like they’d just randomly decided they shouldn’t stay together. Even within the memories of cool nights in the city, Tatsuya’s voice low in his ear, non-incidental physical contact, there are still so many stupid fights that carried on too long because they’d both been too stubborn to admit they were wrong and until there was calculated malice in Tatsuya’s words and impulsive malice in Daiki’s, both raw and real and well-aimed to cut each other down. It’s a good thing they’re no longer those same stupid kids playing footsie in a nice restaurant; it’s good to be here now, with all its context. It’s exciting to think about playing with Tatsuya every night. As the roster had thinned out they’d gotten more minutes together, and the games had started resembling realistic competitions with realistic strategies and it’s everything he’d thought playing with Tatsuya in the NBA would be. Daiki’s been able to rely on him as a guard, both offensively and defensively; he’s been able to trust his passes and trust him with the ball when he’s open. And now they’re going to get a whole year of that.

Tatsuya already seems so much freer now that he’s not worrying over his place on the team; his movements are a little looser and his face is brighter. It’s not in a totally tangible way, and if Daiki didn’t know how subtle Tatsuya could be he’d say he was imagining it, because who wouldn’t be happy? (Daiki would, instinctively, say Tatsuya; he would but he’s not sure that’s right anymore. He’s of course still disciplined, still partially trying to figure out how to climb up the depth chart, but he’s letting his happiness unfold, still guarded but not playing it close to the chest until it goes away like he used to.)

Tatsuya lets Daiki pay but insists on picking up the cab fare (it’ll probably end up ten percent of the price of dinner, if that, so whatever) and sits close to him in the backseat. They go up the highway, the distant trees in the park above them just starting to turn red and brown. Daiki’s about to say they should do this more often, but won’t things change when he moves out? He’s going to have to find a new place and leave and he can’t keep pushing that decision out into the future any longer.

“You still want to stay?”

It’s offered more as a statement than a question, Tatsuya’s words curling up at the end like an afterthought, like meat left too long on the skillet. Their thoughts are in the same place, apparently.

“Yeah,” says Daiki.

He could self-justify, say he doesn’t want to deal with having to rent something but it’s not the whole truth and it would probably come off too much like a deflection he doesn’t want to make.

“Okay,” says Tatsuya. “I won’t kick you out.”

There’s an easiness to the smile he flashes at Daiki before turning back to the window, the empty baseball field behind him apparently a far more interesting sight. Daiki grins at him from the other side, and neither of them has to do anything for Daiki to know it’s absolutely getting through to him.

*

There’s something running through Daiki’s veins, in his blood and pumped through his heart, when he’s waiting for the long and dragged-out ceremony before their opener against Miami starts. He’s not the only impatient one; their starting rookie center is flexing his hands in anticipation and some of the other guys keep wiping off more and more sweat. But it’s not just about starting this night; it’s not even really about wearing this uniform and calling MSG (part five) home. It’s that he’s ready for it, all of it. He’s ready to take the ball and do what he can, crowd out the other team and keep them from scoring; he’s ready to do it in a real game that counts for something in the standings and he’s ready to make this crowd of strangers cheer for him. This new team (if it really is new anymore) is just another challenge, the kind that wants him to rise to it, and he’s almost forgotten how good that is. It’s not insurmountable, pushing his body over injuries that are just going to strike him back down; it’s not trying to fight against the will of some so-called business decision. It’s just basketball, and Daiki knows how to do that.

He’s grinning at the tipoff, waiting just a few moments more for it to start, for everything to fall into place and then it does. He barely touches the ball on the first few possessions, one wild defensive swing to force an errant pass when his fingers brush the outside and one quick pass to him before he sees the open man on the outside and swings the ball over there for him to make a no-contest three. It still feels like he’s with the ball on every play, though; he sees where it’s going and follows it, takes his place in the play until he gets tired of waiting and strikes. The Heat’s power forward is young and easily-intimidated; he pulls back and Daiki can see the flash of his plastic mouth guard as he pursues, move-for-move. He’s about to go out of bounds, dribbles slower; Daiki swipes the ball out of his hand and rolls down the court. The only other guy back is their point guard, breathing hard (still hasn’t gotten his stamina up), so fuck it. Daiki dunks.

The crowd roars as he lands on his feet, bouncing on his soles as his teammates come in to pat him on the back. It’s enough of a statement; they’re here to win and make fools out of the Heat. He doesn’t need to show off much more unless they loosen their grip, but everyone’s fired up. It’s a good thing, because Daiki’s not going to try and lay down five dunks in a quarter again (he probably could, but it’s definitely a bad idea for his body).

Tatsuya switches in two possessions later, there for the sole purpose of hitting a three and a layup before he comes out again. He doesn’t fight it; he seems almost okay with it when Daiki comes out (and even the adrenaline can’t stop him from feeling the hard minutes right off the bat). They lean together over the clipboard, Tatsuya playfully shoving Daiki back when he gets his sweat on Tatsuya’s towel and Daiki bumping his shoulder in return.

They always have control, even when the Heat start to catch up and briefly overtake them in the third. It’s never something that feels like it’s slipping away, more like a cat letting a mouse dart away before slamming its paw down. A free throw, an alley-oop, and a few layups later they’re back on top, grinding on Miami’s tails beneath their claws. Tatsuya’s up to eleven points in limited minutes by now; Daiki’s still on the bench when he gets thrown back into it the next time and he leans forward.

They put him at the point since their three-point specialist is on the wing; he runs the first play by the book and they get the easy two and then it’s back the other way. The Miami guard passes to their big man, all alone out back, and he takes a stupidly long three before anyone can get to him or set up a play, but it somehow gets in. And then Tatsuya has the ball back, dribbling down the court; the other point guard is in his face jawing at him and then—the ball slips out of his hand; he lunges but it lands in the wrong spot and they’re going back again, too quick for Tatsuya to catch up and steal it back.

Daiki’s leaning even farther forward; how angry is Tatsuya going to get? He can see the way Tatsuya’s shoulders are up and tight, but the back of his head’s to the Knicks’ bench until he gets to the half court line. His gaze is sharp and hard, his face braced against something like that, but instead of doing something dumb or overly-cautious he drives right by his defender, straight in toward the net, and passes down low. Daiki doesn’t see the ball through the mass of bodies but his suspicion is confirmed when, rising into a perfect j, is their three-point specialist in the corner. The three goes in with nothing but net, and Tatsuya’s posture is much more relaxed as they head back down.

Apparently somewhere along the road Tatsuya had started paying more than lip service to keeping a cool head and not letting the opposition get to him, not worrying too much or taking stupid risks. He’d known all along the pass was going to connect; he’d known exactly where their two was going to be; he’d kept it in focus instead of worrying about himself and his own game even after making a big, dumb mistake that’s showing up on an official scoresheet.

Daiki slaps him on the back when he comes back to the bench, harder than he has to, and Tatsuya looks at him a little bit challengingly, a little bit questioningly. Daiki’s not going to say it when both of them know and he’s coming back in soon, so he just leans back in his chair, and Tatsuya apparently finds that satisfactory.

They win by a comfortable margin; it’s only the first game but it’s a damn nice way to start the season, until Daiki wakes up stiff the next morning and feels like he can barely roll over. Tatsuya’s in the kitchen, acting like he’s not sore at all except for the tiny hitch in the way he walks (that Daiki probably only sees because he’s looking for it).

“Want to go for a run before practice?” Tatsuya says.

He’s wearing that particular smile, and the answer is no, Daiki does not want to, thank you very much.

“Sure,” he says.

Tatsuya puts extra cream in his coffee, and Daiki supposes that’s a fair trade.

*

Starting the season with three straight wins feels damn good. They’re not flukes, the result of someone on the other team airballing the three that would have sent the game to overtime or beating teams who are still rusty or predicted bottom-feeders (though all of those would have still counted in the win column regardless). It’s a small sample size, not even a streak yet, but they’re already playing better than any team Daiki’s played on in years. It’s enough to almost forget the impending cold weather, the stiffness hovering in the air around them in the mornings, the feeling of waking up and not wanting to move but needing to slam the damn window shut.

It's a little harder to forget when Tatsuya skypes Taiga back in LA when they’re hanging out in the living room together. Taiga’s skin’s still glowing with a summery tan, his face still fresh and bright; it makes him look like he’s gotten younger instead of older, damn him.

“The surf was great this morning,” he’s saying, glancing out the window because it’s still barely light out over there. “Most of the tourists are gone and the kids are in school. Just me and a few other people, and it was, you know.”

Daiki doesn’t, but he’s not the real target of this conversation anyway.

“I’m glad,” says Tatsuya. “Catch any good waves?”

“Oh, yeah,” says Taiga. “Nothing huge, but there were some good ones I got at just the right time.”

Daiki flips him the bird; he’s trying to make retirement sound enticing again and it’s not going to work.

“Whoa, whoa,” says Taiga. “You can retire any time you want.”

Mellowed by age and relaxation, Taiga’s not as easy to set off, but it’s still fun to mess with him—and the exchange itself gets an amused glance from Tatsuya, so it’s totally worth it. Daiki’s always gotten satisfaction out of that, the short smiles and the tone of Tatsuya’s voice turning warmer as if Daiki had placed a hot plate under it. So Daiki plays it up for a little more and stays longer than usual before letting the two of them have their alone time, because that always makes Tatsuya a little happier and makes Taiga less likely to send him a flurry of argumentative text messages when Daiki’s too tired to bother answering.

Daiki’s already got the water on for pasta by the time Tatsuya’s done, and Tatsuya gets out the chicken to stir-fry it. It’s an easy standby meal, but Tatsuya’s been making it interesting so far, marinating the chicken differently or using some kind of lemon olive oil on the pasta instead of regular.

“Thanks,” Tatsuya says, pointing his shoulder at the water.

“Hey, no problem,” says Daiki. “You’re doing the hard part.”

Tatsuya inclines his head; he’s not going to argue it out for the sake of politeness even though he’d claimed this morning that this marinade was no big deal.

“Taiga’s really enjoying himself, huh?” says Daiki.

Tatsuya smiles. “Retirement suits him. It’s good to see him so relaxed.”

He genuinely means every word, and Daiki feels a little bit stupid for wishing Taiga was still competing against them, that they’d have that to look forward to on the schedule.

“Do you think he would have liked staying?” It comes out petty and whiny.

“No,” says Tatsuya, “Do you remember his last year?”

Daiki remembers Taiga being short and abrupt with him when they talked, always napping or having some sort of excuse, playing like his heart wasn’t in it. He’d thought there was something going on, some injury he’d been keeping quiet or some personal issue he didn’t want to talk about, and then at the end of the season he’d retired with a year left on his contract.

“Yeah,” says Daiki, scuffing the linoleum with his toe.

He gets being tired of basketball, the feeling of disconnection; he’s been there before—but every time he’s only wanted to get back; he’s only waited on circumstances changing so he can find his way back out of the labyrinth because he always does; he and basketball always find each other again. There’s nothing specific like Kise’s ankles or Akashi’s family obligations pushing him out of the game, nothing like Midorima quitting because of his own dissatisfaction or Murasakibara due to just wanting to be done or Tetsu because of sheer physical taxation. Daiki had always thought Taiga was like him, that he’d have to be dragged out of playing pro ball by arena security at age sixty or some shit, and this still sort of feels like betrayal.

Tatsuya pats Daiki’s back, right between his shoulder blades, and lets his hand rest there for a little longer than necessary. “I miss him, too. And I know it’s selfish, to want to keep playing basketball at the highest level against him…but knowing he’s happy makes it easier.”

Right, that was their childhood dream, making it to the NBA together and wearing the same all-star uniforms; Daiki remembers Taiga tell him that once when they’d all been young and drunk. Tatsuya’s speaking so calmly, poker face like always, and even his tone isn’t particularly bitter. Is it just as bad for him? Worse?

It’s a lot for Daiki to think about but it’s driven out the next night when they play the Mavs. They win again, by a lot, but Tatsuya’s in high-stress mode from the start, fumbling an easy pass and clearly letting it stick with him throughout the game. It’s not a terrible game but it’s worse than the precedent Tatsuya’s set for himself so far and that can only mean it’s fathoms below the impossibly-high bar he never lets himself clear.

Tatsuya’s still thinking about it the next morning, gone out for a run before Daiki wakes up and silent on the train ride to practice. He tells Daiki not to wait for him afterward because he’s staying in the video room, and Daiki lets him. It’s probably going to make Tatsuya madder after stewing in his own perceived incompetence, but he doesn’t want to start shit right now.

He’s browsing the takeout menus, wondering how much grease he has to blot off a slice of pizza before he can justify eating it, when Tatsuya gets home. He calls out a greeting and sounds a hell of a lot closer to calm than he had earlier, and he’s got a bag of groceries in each hand.

“How was the video?” Daiki says, digging through the first grocery bag for snacks. It’s all vegetables, and not even something like celery he can just rinse and eat.

“It was good,” says Tatsuya. “I think I got it.”

Daiki’s not sure what he’s referring to (whatever misstep had led to his shitty pass? Some other flaw he now knows how to conquer? How to be calm?), but if it solves whatever’s the matter then it’s all good.

Maybe it’s just the alone time, the feeling of control when Tatsuya’s the only one in the room, free to overanalyze his own moves and be as self-involved and hypercritical as he wants to. Maybe he needs some or all of that, and it lets him refresh, wash his preoccupations away before the next ones come in; maybe it had been building up before and the last game had been the thing that sent it over the edge.

Tatsuya’s making something complicated for dinner tonight, some recipe that Daiki, with his adequate-for-someone-living-alone-for-years cooking skills, isn’t even going to try. He helps cut the vegetables, though, and Tatsuya seems pleased with his work. He goes to bed early, probably tired from being so angry, and Daiki feels something like relief spread through him. That’s not quite right; it’s closer to the removal of anticipation of something that’s not going to happen. Tatsuya’s not faking the calm; he’s not snapping back into anger the minute something bad happens. And, Daiki supposes, the idea of that isn’t as strange as it once had been.

*

After nabbing himself a double-double, Daiki feels he’s completely justified in taking an extra-long postgame shower. A few press members are still hanging at his locker by the time he gets out, though; Tatsuya’s entertaining them while he adjusts his tie.

“Five of your six assists were on Aomine’s shots; you two have such good chemistry,” says one reporter (she’s one of the earnest young ones fresh out of school on her first big beat). “Is it because you’ve known each other so long?”

“That’s part of it,” says Tatsuya. “But I think it comes from similar habits, similar attitudes toward basketball…what would you say, Daiki?”

The reporters hadn’t really noticed him until then but they suddenly shift their attention at hearing his name, moving in a giant clump toward Daiki as he makes his way to his locker. Tatsuya smiles (damn him), but as soon as the press are all out of the way a couple of the younger guys approach him. Daiki fires off random bullshit about their chemistry and how good it felt to have a double-double (of course, not as good as the win itself). By the time they’re satisfied, one of the kids, Perez, their starting small forward, is still talking with Tatsuya. Daiki isn’t actively trying to eavesdrop, but their lockers are right next to each other and it just happens.

“I was wondering if you could, uh,” says Perez, rubbing the back of his neck. “Take a look at my j in practice? Like, once we’re done, you know?”

“Sure,” says Tatsuya.

The kid tries not to smile too hard and jams his hands into his pocket; it looks awkward as hell in a suit but it’s kind of amusing. He struts out of the locker room with that I’m-a-cool-guy walk Daiki remembers doing himself at that age.

“Looks like you’ve got a fan,” says Daiki.

“He’s a good kid,” says Tatsuya. “He and a bunch of the others were watching me watch tape on the plane the other day; they just want a few pointers.”

And they think Tatsuya, not the coaches or another veteran (say, Daiki), is the right guy for the job—which is totally true. Ever since Tatsuya had come up there have been puff pieces written about what a student of the game he is, how he’s going to make a great coach one day, how devoted he is to scouting his opponents and what a coachable player he is. Some of them are dumb and clearly written to fill out some kind of quota, but that doesn’t mean they don’t have a valid premise.

“You want some pointers, too?” says Tatsuya.

He says it with a smile, clearly half in jest. It’s halfway serious too, though, and honestly Daiki’s keen on the idea. It’ll be better than forcing himself to watch his own video again for sure. He nods.

“Only if you’ve got time.”

“Of course I have time for you,” says Tatsuya.

Daiki pulls hard on his shoelace and it nearly snaps; he looks down and it’s all caught in a snarl. That had sounded almost like open, intentional flirting, but maybe that’s only because Daiki wants it to sound that way. He’s reading too much into it, even if it is Tatsuya.

“You ready? Team bus won’t wait for us forever,” says Tatsuya.

Daiki won’t trip over his shoelace on the way. He grabs his coat and walks out at Tatsuya’s side.

Tatsuya knocks on his hotel room early the next morning, laptop tucked under his arm.

“There’s no practice today,” he says. “But we can look at video.”

Daiki waves Tatsuya in, suppressing a yawn. The sun’s too bright outside the shades already and his body’s still an hour early, but he might as well do this. Tatsuya boots up his computer, setting it on the bed and heading over to the coffee machine. It’s some weird gourmet shit (since this is a classy hotel), but it smells good and by the time Daiki has some in his hands he’s already starting to feel a little more awake.

He’s still close enough to dreaming that he lets himself look at Tatsuya, the lines of sun cutting through the shades and reflecting off his hair, the quiet tiredness on his face that he always insists isn’t there.

“Where do you want to start?”

Daiki takes a generous gulp of coffee, ignoring the way it burns his tongue. “Yesterday’s game is fine.”

It was a good game, but a million coaches’ voices in his head are telling him that good isn’t flawless. And games like that for him are games when he can still get away with a formless shot, when he can feel the ball fly off his fingers and he’s not thinking about where he’s putting his feet or what he’s doing with his arms, and soon enough he’ll play a game where he doesn’t have it and can’t get away with that shit and struggles with remembering the right position through a quarter or two.

In the beginning of the game, his form’s good. Tatsuya slows down the video to half speed, replays a shot where everything does what it’s supposed to, and he looks at Daiki.

“Looks fine to me. You see anything?”

Tatsuya shakes his head but they watch a few more times anyway. They skip past the parts Daiki doesn’t play, analyzing the way he runs and each pass and shot and rebound, Tatsuya identifying when he jumps too soon but makes the shot anyway, when he puts too much of his left arm in a quick chest pass and the backspin sends it a little to the side, and had the receiver been standing farther away he might not have held on. Finally, they see another shot that looks absolutely perfect to Daiki.

“You’re dropping your elbow,” says Tatsuya.

“No, I’m not,” says Daiki. “That looks exactly like the other one.”

Tatsuya drags the cursor back to the beginning of the video and replays the first shot. It looks the same to Daiki. Then he drags the cursor forward again, and—fuck. It is different, the ever-so-slight drop in Daiki’s right elbow offset by some other part of him or just not enough to matter.

“How the hell do you notice all this?” says Daiki.

“Practice,” says Tatsuya.

“I’ve been doing this for a few years already,” says Daiki.

“I’ve been doing it for twenty-five,” says Tatsuya.

Daiki shuts up after that. They watch more; even later in the game his elbow’s dropping more and Tatsuya definitely could have seen that while watching that from the bench or a couple of meters away on the court. But that doesn’t explain how he’d found the precise moment Daiki’s elbow dropped, and holy shit. Twenty-five years? He’s been doing this for more than half his life, since middle school. Daiki had always known how analytical Tatsuya could be, but he never remembers him paying this much attention to video when he hadn’t made a huge mistake, an occasional retrospective here and there but never this.

But before now, how much of Tatsuya in the middle of the season had Daiki known? They’d called and texted when they were together, sure, but there’s no reason Tatsuya couldn’t have had several windows of his own video open in the background. They’d only stayed a night or two together here and there, and Daiki had put aside some of his own routines to get the most out of those nights. He’d still probably done it in the offseason, but they’d always had alone time even then, and, well, it’s Tatsuya. He’s always got something he thinks he needs to hide for whatever reason. And back then there had been so much that Tatsuya had never shared, so many parts of him that had been locked away. And this one is just one of several that Daiki’s not privy to, because they’re no longer involved or because time has rusted through Tatsuya’s locks or both. He’s not sure what to say, what to do, so he just shifts a little closer to Tatsuya on the bed and tries to focus on the video.

Daiki focuses on his elbow the next day at practice, trying to feel it move in the right way. He ends up throwing a few airballs but the coaches compliment him on his focus on form. He stays afterward, shooting until it starts to feel alright and he has to concentrate less. At the other end of the court, Tatsuya’s helping Perez, stepping in just as he’s about to shoot and pulling his arms into the right position. Daiki imagines, for a second, asking Tatsuya to help him with that, Tatsuya’s fingers skimming along his arms, and—no. He tells himself to think about his elbow instead.

“It already looks better,” Tatsuya says on his way back to the locker room.

From Tatsuya, that’s high praise, and Daiki’s going to savor it.

*

Daiki makes his way to the bathroom in the morning, almost tripping over his own foot before rubbing his eyes and elbowing the door shut behind him. He’s debating whether to shower now or after breakfast when he looks at the sink and that makes up his mind for him. It’s the second time in the past few weeks Tatsuya hasn’t cleaned it out very well after shaving; there’s still a bunch of hairs around the rim. Daiki’s no neat freak, but even he has higher standards than Tatsuya, who clearly hasn’t really grown out of his tendency toward being a slob. When they were dating, it used to bug Daiki to no end when Tatsuya did that, but back then it had been worse and more often. It’s still fucking gross, though.

“I’m not cleaning your hair off the sink,” says Daiki as he walks into the kitchen.

“Oh,” says Tatsuya. “I’ll do it when I’m done.”

He motions to the mostly-completed newspaper crossword on the kitchen table, spotted with grease from the butter on his toast.

“You missed a spot anyway,” says Daiki.

“Oh?” says Tatsuya, rubbing at his cheek.

“A little to the right—there.”

Tatsuya rubs harder and frowns. “You’re messing with me.”

“Yeah,” says Daiki, grinning.

Tatsuya folds what remains of his toast and stuffs it in his mouth and fills out the rest of the crossword. Then he’s gone, back in a few minutes smelling like soap. Daiki’s staring at the stove still, unable to think of what he wants to eat. Tatsuya plops the bag of bread down in front of him.

“Toast?”

“Yeah,” says Daiki.

It’s another quiet morning after that, the way most of their mornings at home are. Some days they go running; some days they wait for practice to work out; some days off they do neither. They get up around the same time, take the same post-practice nap with just the thin plaster wall between them, and then go to the game if there is one.

If not, they’ll play ball in the park sometimes, trying to catch the fading evening light and playing hard enough so they can ditch their hoodies but not so hard they injure themselves. It’s a little like how he remembers from that summer but the court they go to has been renovated and there are too many new buildings on the walk back and forth. It reminds Daiki more of Cleveland, of shooting alone in his driveway, of having the extra key to the practice facility and going in and playing alone. It’s so much better having Tatsuya with him, being able to grab the keys and stuff his feet into his backup sneakers and jerk his head toward the door and have Tatsuya pick up a ball and follow.

After that they go back and make dinner, or really Tatsuya makes dinner and Daiki tries to help or just watches and lets himself, for a few moments while Tatsuya’s completely absorbed in the task at hand, want. He wants to kiss the base of Tatsuya’s neck sometimes, feel the cold chain on his chin; sometimes he gets caught up enough to imagine when it had actually happened in the same kitchen and he knows what happens next, pulling Tatsuya against him, into his lap, moving his lips to Tatsuya’s cheek and feeling Tatsuya’s skin under his mouth as he smiles. He can’t do that now, no matter how much he wants to, no matter how much of a weird stupid crush he’s building up for Tatsuya, built out of the crater of his old feelings their breakup had left but very much tied to the present, this Tatsuya, calmer and fairer and less explosive. He pushes it aside, because he’s not going to let it make what they have right now, friendship, companionship, get weird, because no matter how different they both are now there’s no way it’s not ending the same way.

*

Daiki finds himself wanting to show off for Tatsuya on the court, like he’s twenty-three again and this is the only way he knows how to impress someone he’s interested in (and, well, it had worked back then, with Tatsuya and with other people, but Daiki would like to think he can get by on just his personality at this point). He goes for dumb shots because he knows they’d look cool and then tells himself Tatsuya would like it better if he’d focus on his form, so he does that instead, switching modes during games. His production is dipping, not far but enough to make an obvious dent and defeat the whole purpose of all of this, and Daiki decides he’s going to figure it out.

The game against Charlotte is the perfect opportunity; Daiki’s going to be matched against Jackson, the Hornets’ top-prospect-for-three-years-now who still hasn’t panned out; it won’t matter much if he has to make a few in-game adjustments to focus on the right things or if he has to take the occasional step back. Yeah, Jackson’s supposed to be better this year, and he’s playing less sloppy so far, but he’s still the same guy.

The thing that doesn’t quite show up on video, though, is Jackson’s situational awareness. In previous years, he’d looked almost lost until somehow stumbling under the net to make a block or grab a rebound; he’d pass to the least-open man as much as the most-open man, and though once in a while he’d make a highlight-reel shot, it probably hadn’t been worth it for all the other shit he’d been doing. This year he’s sharper on the ball, glancing quicker and more confident in his moves, and it’s all Daiki can do to keep up.

It does get him to stop thinking about impressing Tatsuya, though, at least until the game is over and they’ve squeaked out a win.

A couple of the guys tell him to come over and play cards, and bring Tatsuya if he can. After changing into more comfortable clothes, Daiki goes over to Tatsuya’s door and knocks. It’s a few moments before Tatsuya opens the door. He’s just taken another shower; he smells like the fancy perfumed hotel shampoo and there’s a fluffy towel over his hair and the ends of his faded college team t-shirt are clearly damp. Daiki’s seen him like this so many times in the past couple of months alone, after practices and games and in their apartment and still, there’s something about Tatsuya like this, right now, that makes his face heat up.

“Uh. There’s card games in Wallace’s room. You in?”

“Sure,” says Tatsuya. “Wait for me?”

“Yeah,” says Daiki. “Of course.”

*

The game against Brooklyn a week later starts out easy, and Tatsuya starts out on the bench. Daiki tries not to be aware of that, but he knows Tatsuya’s watching. He knows Tatsuya’s been working extra-hard on defense lately, and it’s easy to get caught up in the moment and the tangle of limbs under the hoop and jump for a block he might have made ten years ago but probably won’t now.

He’s shoved out of the way by the other team’s center and immediately the refs blow their whistles and Daiki doesn’t even know who’s got the foul call but he’s off-balance and falling back and he’s not ready for the ground when all of a sudden his left foot slams down against it. He feels his ankle twist and buckle, and he knows the rest of him’s going down to follow but there’s nothing he can do, even catch himself because the pain rips through him like an electric shock. Daiki closes his eyes, tries to breathe; most of him’s okay but he’s still sort of sitting on top of that ankle. He pushes it out from under him, to another wave of pain, and fuck. This isn’t good; he’s not getting back in the game. Is it broken? He hadn’t heard or felt anything crack, but that doesn’t mean shit. There are more whistles in the background, and then a hand on his shoulder.

“Aomine, you okay, man?” It’s their point guard, Wallace; Daiki tries to focus on his voice.

“Fuck, no. My ankle.”

“It’s his ankle! Get the trainer out here!”

And then the trainer’s there, asking him to sit up and Daiki complies, opening his eyes and God, the lights are bright. He tries to push himself to his feet, but the trainer’s holding him back.

“It’s your left ankle?”

“Yeah,” says Daiki.

He lets the trainer and Wallace, who’s over with them, help him to his feet, and leans on the trainer. He tries to put weight on the ankle, but it won’t stand much. It’s enough for him to limp off, hugely favoring his right side. He doesn’t get a glimpse of Tatsuya on the bench before they’re in the trainer’s room, asking him questions about how it hurt and what it feels like.

They say it’s most likely a sprain but take him to the hospital anyway; they’re showing the game on TV while he waits for the x-ray to come back. Tatsuya’s out there now, fiercely driving to the net and aggressively defending, and Daiki wishes he were there in person to at least see it (or be a part of it).

“Still focused on your work, huh?” says the doctor, while knocking on the open door.

Daiki shrugs. “You know.”

“Well, good news. It looks like it’s just a sprain.”

“How long?”

The doctor looks down at her clipboard. “About six weeks, most likely, but we’ll reevaluate it every week or so in case there’s a hairline fracture we couldn’t pick up or it turns out to be less severe. Right now, you just need to keep off it, put on some ice to keep the swelling down.”

Daiki’s sprained his other ankle before; he’s pretty sure he knows the deal. He takes the paper the doctor gives him anyway. The doctor’s no doubt been told to deliver the news to the team. Daiki sighs. He hadn’t had time to grab his phone; he should text Tatsuya about it. On the television, the Knicks have already won; they replay his fall again. Shit, he’d only had four points, too. He wonders who they’re going to send to pick him up from the hospital, probably one of the trainers.

It turns out, half an hour later, to be Tatsuya. He’s got Daiki’s stuff and makes him call the team doctor to confirm his release; his medical records have all been faxed over and he’s supposed to come in tomorrow for an in-person next-day checkup.

“You did good,” Daiki tells Tatsuya when they’re waiting for the cab. “I wish I could have been there.”

“Me, too,” says Tatsuya.

*

Daiki had almost forgotten the Cavs would be in town a few days later, and he’s almost relieved to be missing it. The Cavs still feel like his team to a pretty high degree, though less so than they had at the beginning of the season. It’s not like he’d suddenly start passing to the guys in red and gold uniforms, but it’s not going to feel perfectly right not to. He shows up to the game early, because he knows the Cleveland writers will be there, and they’re practically staking him out as he walks into the arena.

“Daiki! How does it feel to be rooting against the Cavs?”

“How much do you wish you were playing right now?”

“Is the team going to make a big statement for you?”

Daiki almost rolls his eyes at that last one. These people never change, but it’s still so nice to see them again, the Plain Dealer’s beat writer with her ridiculous hat and the color guy from the radio station and his big teeth, and no Daiki is not feeling weirdly homesick about it. It’s just sudden. He coughs.

“It’s good, uh, to see you all again.”

“How do you think the game is going to go?”

“The Knicks are going to win.”

“Even without you?”

Daiki grins. “I got faith in my boys. They can hold the fort down.”

He remembers saying roughly the same thing last year when his hand first got fucked up, without really meaning it, and it had come out of his mouth bitter, but this year he does. Sure, they’re still thin at forward, but they have a solid roster with good chemistry (for whatever that’s worth) and the skills and stamina to keep up two-way play.

“You do wish you were playing, though?”

“Well, yeah,” says Daiki. “But stuff happens.”

He waves one crutch around and that gets a laugh out of the media.

The game isn’t very pretty; it’s physical from the outset. Daiki’s replacements are apparently straight out of some goon squad, and one of them gets a flagrant five minutes into the game. Daiki knows he shouldn’t get pissed off about this all over again, but he kind of is. The Cavs’ front office really thought that was a better idea than him? (They’re probably making more money, too, not that Daiki wants or needs more but it’s the principle of the thing, that they’d refuse to shell out a few million for Daiki but gladly give more to players like that.)

The Knicks aren’t a big team but they’re not intimidated, either; they meet every shove with a basket or a solid block. When Tatsuya steals the ball off the Cavs’ lumbering power forward, some dude who used to play for Denver, Daiki almost claps for him. It’s good to see that, a vicarious strike against those younger, supposedly-less-over-the-hill guys, against the bullshit words he can still hear in his ears about the risk of signing someone like him.

The Knicks squeak out a win and Daiki can’t stop grinning for the rest of the night.

*

The good feelings about the team don’t outweigh being injured for long, though. It’s not like it was last year, when he’d never felt good, but it might be worse in some ways. He’d been playing so well before and now he can’t really fucking walk; he’s itching to play again and he hates being isolated from the team. He comes by practice for PT, and he’s still living with Tatsuya, and he’s at every home game on the sidelines in a suit, but it’s not the same. They’re developing a rapport without him, and how’s he going to fit back in? Last year he never could. Last year, he reminds himself, he hadn’t in the first place.

It’s not really much of a comfort, so in some ways Daiki’s glad when the team heads out on another road trip, this time to the west coast. He doesn’t have to check himself before snapping at Tatsuya (especially because Tatsuya fucking hovers even now Daiki’s off crutches); he doesn’t have to lie around being bored; he doesn’t have to pull at the cuffs of his suit while the Knicks try to figure out yet another team, at least for a few days.

Satsuki calls on Christmas; Daiki’s got Knicks-Lakers on the TV and Tatsuya’s just sunk a pretty three, smile flickering on his face. Fuck, Daiki wants to play; fuck, Daiki wants Tatsuya (another good thing about him not being there is that it gives Daiki space, finally, to try and deal with his ridiculous crush).

“Merry Christmas, Dai-chan.”

“Merry Christmas, Satsuki. Hot date?”

“Just came back from it,” she says, all smug and married (whatever, she’s happy).

“And you called me, wow.”

Satsuki laughs. “I didn’t want you to be lonely.”

“Hey,” says Daiki. “How do you know I don’t have a dozen hot chicks cooing over my injured ankle?”

“Because I know you,” says Satsuki.

“Whatever,” says Daiki. “I’m not lonely.”

And he’s not; even alone in the apartment watching everyone else play when it’s mid-morning in Los Angeles an entire content away, he’s really not.

“I’m glad,” says Satsuki. “I was worried about you, last year especially.”

“I wasn’t lonely there; I was happy. I had a team. And stuff.”

(So he wasn’t exactly happy per se, but he had a place there, and a life.)

“Of course you weren’t,” says Satsuki in that humoring-you voice she uses when she thinks she’s so right.

Daiki falls asleep on the couch, keeping his ankle elevated on the arm. He wakes up to a text from Tatsuya. The Knicks have since lost, but from what Daiki had seen Tatsuya did well. He texts back a congratulation for doing well against his hometown team; Tatsuya tells him not to say that unless they win. Typical, the way he’d always been back then, when Daiki would catch his games when he could and text him about the triple-double or the buzzer-beater to send the game into OT.

The next day is unusually hot, their one day of midwinter where everything is warm and people expose their pale legs in shorts even though that’s kind of stretching it. It’s cloudy and humid, the skies threatening rain, and Daiki’s got no reason to go out what with his ankle and all. He does all the assigned PT exercises, does stuff for his arms, and takes another nap on the couch. He has a dream about diving in a pool and wakes up drenched in sweat because the living room window’s still closed and he’d had a blanket over him. Sighing, Daiki cracks it open and makes his way to the bedroom. It’s much cooler in there, like sitting right under the air conditioner, cooling the sweat on his skin, like being in the bedroom on the other side of the wall almost fifteen years ago, with Tatsuya. Daiki’s thought about this, many times before, but never let himself get farther than this, reminded himself Tatsuya could walk in any minute, that this is Tatsuya’s apartment—but fuck it. He lives here, too; Tatsuya’s not back for another three days or so; he’s horny and today in particular feels like back then. Daiki flops on the bed and shoves his shorts and underwear down, spits on his hand and grabs his already-hardening cock.

He lets himself think about Tatsuya, naked and sweaty next to him, taking a drink from the bottle of water in his hands and it dribbles down past the side of his mouth, spilling over his rosy lips. Daiki had kissed them until they were warm all over again and they’re grinding their hips together already, Daiki flopping his arm around reaching for the lube because he can’t look away. Tatsuya’s face is flushed, his breath hitching; his hair is plastered to his face and neck but his bangs are lifted aside and Daiki can see the other eye peeking out; Tatsuya moans something that sounds close enough to Daiki’s name for Daiki to shudder; he bites the flesh of Tatsuya’s shoulder and Tatsuya moans again and it turns into a squeak when Daiki rolls his hips just so and in the present Daiki’s coming already (God, he has no stamina anymore).

He catches his breath as he comes down, until he actually starts to feel gross with the dried come on his hands and sticking his thighs to his shorts. He tosses them into the hamper and goes to the bathroom to clean off and stare at him in the mirror. This isn’t just some dumb crush; it’s a dumb, big crush; all of his self-control is crumbling away, faster and faster like a melting glacier. He’s told himself, over again, that the Tatsuya he wants is the young one and only on his good days, but that’s a lie. Yeah, he remembers it well; yeah, it would be nice if their bodies were younger, less touched by age and surgery, but he hadn’t enjoyed living with Tatsuya nearly this much back then. It had been like walking on marzipan and squishing everything sometimes, wondering if the Tatsuya he’d wake up to today was going to be withdrawn or if he’d be up for whatever or if he’d just pretend to be. This Tatsuya smiles easier, lets things go and truly picks his battles instead of building up a mountain of grudges, keeps his claws retracted. And back then, Daiki himself hadn’t tried hard enough to get Tatsuya, had just waited whatever it was out, hadn’t come to meet him in the middle or even made the effort in the first place. If the price of changing that is the time, then it’s a small price to pay.

But that would be, once again, ignoring Tatsuya’s feelings for his own. Tatsuya’s been flirting with him, but part of that’s just who Tatsuya is. He’s never done that when they’ve hung out with Taiga, though, but the last time was a year and change ago. But does that just mean he doesn’t want to do this in front of Taiga? And what does that mean itself? Daiki glares at his reflection. There’s no way he’s keeping this a secret from Tatsuya, if he ever had.

He’s got a few days to prepare, but there’s no real preparation to be done. He can’t prepare to tell Tatsuya or not to; it’s just going to happen or he’ll chicken out. Maybe the anticipation is the worst part, the liminality of the few days of nothing.

Tatsuya gets back in the middle of the afternoon, and Daiki totally hasn’t been waiting on the couch since Tatsuya had texted him that the flight had landed. He’s just casually watching television, not turning toward the door every time something that could maybe be a key in the lock sounds.

But then it does; then Tatsuya’s there in the doorway, looking exactly the same as he had last week, and before Daiki knows what he’s doing he blurts out, “Do you ever think about giving us another try?”

It’s not even a hello or a welcome home; it’s just the question. Tatsuya stands still in the doorway, his suitcase still behind him in the hall. Then he pulls the key from the lock, lifts his suitcase up and in, and closes the door behind him. He walks two steps into the living room and then stops.

“Yes.”

He meets Daiki’s gaze squarely, takes a few steps closer. There’s something attached to the yes, some kind of usual Tatsuya caveat; Daiki moves over on the couch to give him room. Tatsuya sits down, carefully keeping to his side, not reaching over to touch Daiki or accept his hand half-offered.

“We need to talk,” says Tatsuya. “About before, regardless of what we do now.”

Daiki nods. Tatsuya’s right, because they haven’t; Daiki’s come to his own conclusions but they might be vastly different from Tatsuya’s even if they both end up speculating roughly the same thing.

“I know I hurt you,” says Tatsuya. “Sometimes on purpose, sometimes knowing I would, and I know I hid things and picked passive-aggressive fights with you just to have an excuse to cut myself off. And I really am sorry.”

He doesn’t try to excuse himself (but he never has); the apology’s sincere, though, and even though there’s nothing from back then that hasn’t scarred over Daiki appreciates it all the same.

“I did provoke you sometimes, though,” he says.

“Doesn’t mean I should have taken the bait,” says Tatsuya.

“Well, yeah, but it’s a two-way street and all that,” says Daiki. “You ran away, I pushed you farther; I demanded too much and I didn’t try to fix things, I just let it get fucked up and ignored it until I couldn’t, and that’s just. That’s just a shitty way to be in a relationship.”

“I took advantage of that,” says Tatsuya, quieter, looking down at his hands. “I dragged it out just to see how far you’d let me go; I just waited for you to start hating me but I didn’t want to openly break things off myself.”

“Hey,” says Daiki. “No one likes doing that.”

Tatsuya looks back up at him.

“We both fucked up,” says Daiki. “We were young and stupid and living apart for most of the year, and I don’t know. We get along better now; I like living with you now. And there was a reason I kept coming back to you before; I want the best of that but I want this, too.”

“And you think it can work,” says Tatsuya.

“Obviously it won’t if we don’t try,” says Daiki. “But look. I have these feelings; you have them, too, right?”

Tatsuya nods.

“And we haven’t let them drive us apart as friends, so if we can, like, express them…” he waves a hand, half-expecting Tatsuya to poke holes in that logic.

“What if I get traded?” Tatsuya says. “I don’t want to do this because it’s convenient and then drop it in a month and a half.”

Daiki’s first thought is to say that’s fucking ridiculous, that they’re doing so well this year and that they’d never trade Tatsuya, but that’s not the point. Tatsuya was traded at the deadline last year, and the year before that; it’s a very real possibility to him (and maybe to the front office, because it’s a business or whatever excuse they’re going to give). Tatsuya’s waiting for an answer.

“I hadn’t considered that,” says Daiki. “But if happens, I—would you hide? Would you pull away?”

Tatsuya swallows and looks down. “Yeah,” he says.

“Would you let me in? Because I wouldn’t want to let you go.”

Daiki’s heart is hammering, tens of thousands of feet stomping in an arena, the bass booming out of the speakers. Tatsuya looks at him, trying to determine how serious he is (very), how much he’ll back it up (the whole damn way), whether he can try and make that choice for Daiki (no). He must see the right thing, or just have gotten way worse at lying to himself, because, finally, he reaches for Daiki’s hand.

“Then we’ll make it work,” says Daiki. “No matter where you are, if you get traded or if I do or if we both do.”

“I’m in,” says Tatsuya.

Daiki squeezes his hand—and then, what the hell’s he waiting for? He pulls Tatsuya closer; it’s awkward with Tatsuya sitting halfway on his side and Daiki’s leg propped up on the coffee table but whatever. They’ll have time for a picture-perfect kiss later; right now it’s like they’ve just gotten driver’s licenses and shiny new BMWs, and Daiki can’t wait to start a drag race. He skims one hand down Tatsuya’s waist to squeeze his ass and Tatsuya laughs, ducks his head away, but then turns it up again and he’s smiling when their lips finally meet. There were so many times they’d done this but Daiki’s not fucking thinking about them because this is real.

They make out for a while before Tatsuya’s clearly getting stiff from the positioning and he yawns when he pulls back, and the circles under his eyes have only gotten bigger.

“Go sleep off the jet lag,” Daiki says.

Tatsuya raises his hand in mock-salute.

Daiki sleeps alone that night, not out of any desire not to disturb Tatsuya (he sleeps like a fucking rock, especially after flying) but because that would be too much at once. They have time in front of them to do that, and plenty of it; there’s no reason not to take it a little bit slower even if they’re both better at sharing now. And alone, Daiki can let himself dream about Tatsuya, so close and no longer so far.

*

Tatsuya has a shitty-by-his-standards game against San Antonio; he comes home late and crawls into bed next to Daiki turned away, close to the edge. Daiki’s only half-awake; he’s still weighing the idea of rolling over and putting his arm around Tatsuya’s waist when he slips back into sleep, and when he wakes up the bed’s cold beside him. Daiki can hear the shower running; Tatsuya’s already back from his morning run. It’s still early; Daiki rolls over and closes his eyes again until he hears the bedroom door open.

“Hey,” he says, pushing himself up on his elbows.

“Hey,” says Tatsuya. “I’m going to head out to practice in a bit. Anything you need me to pick up?”

His voice is neutral, deliberate. He’s still angry with himself; his jaw still looks stiff and his shoulders are set.

“Nah,” says Daiki. “I’ll take care of dinner. Just let me know when you’re on your way back.”

Tatsuya nods. Daiki watches him get dressed, but Tatsuya doesn’t bother to try and put on a show for him this morning. It’s still nice to see, the way he towels off his hair and pulls a shirt over his head, fingers fastening the buttons. Then he’s gone, and Daiki pulls the covers back over him.

He wakes up again an hour later, and he really can’t put off doing his physical therapy exercises any longer. If Tatsuya were here he’d help, but he’s not—though really, even without him being here having their relationship makes the exercises and everything about the injury a little more bearable. It gives him something in the short-term to look forward to, dinner together or, if Tatsuya’s out of town, watching the game on TV and texting afterward, going into detail about Tatsuya’s game and then derailing the conversation with flirting until one of them (okay, it’s always Daiki) gets fed up and calls the other. And when Tatsuya’s home, he eases Daiki’s restlessness, distracting him from his ankle or listening to him whine and vent until he’s tired or having really slow morning sex under the blankets because the bedroom radiator’s shit. Tatsuya never tells him it’s only going to be a few more weeks and that he’ll be back soon; he knows that doesn’t do shit, and for that Daiki’s grateful, and that makes it a little better, too. It’s even easier to do the damn exercises when he’s thinking about Tatsuya, even if he’s not there.

They’ve been easing back into their relationship routine well, not like they’d never stopped but more like it had kept existing on some parallel continuum and they’d jumped the tracks like some extra-capable trolley. In a way, that’s sort of true of the past few months, living together and establishing rapports and routines; they’re just fitting more things into the same time now. They’re still cooking dinner together most of the time, only now they flirt and bump elbows and once or twice Daiki’s pushed Tatsuya up against the counter right after they’ve put the fish in the oven. Today, though, Daiki’s going to take care of dinner on his own; it’ll at least make things easier for Tatsuya.

He rifles through the fridge; there’s a few vegetables in the crisper and some leftover rice, eggs and milk and half a jar of peanut butter. They need groceries, but Daiki absolutely doesn’t feel like getting them today. Besides, with Tatsuya’s obviously-shitty mood and all he deserves a treat, a once-in-a-while break in the prescribed diet. Daiki wonders if that noodle place on 149th and Broadway that they used to stop by on their way home from the park is still open. A few minutes on the internet confirms that it is, and that its menu is still roughly the same.

He gets back with the food before Tatsuya’s back from practice, his ankle already complaining from the short walk. He ices it and puts it up on the coffee table, and flips through the channels on TV. There’s tennis on ESPN, sports talk on ESPN2, infomercials and news and cartoons on most of the other channels. He settles on a dumb commercial for a sports drink with that guy from the Clippers and waits for whatever show to come back on. It’s one of those shows with the tortured-looking white guys Tatsuya likes; it’ll do. He’s pretty sure Tatsuya’s tried explaining this one to him before, but it’s too complicated and anyway, it’s fun to watch while not getting it and just making shit up to explain everything he doesn’t understand. He’s just settling in and making up context for the seemingly-random shit on the show when Tatsuya gets in, face pink from the cold.

“I got takeout,” says Daiki. “There was nothing in the fridge.”

“You could have bought groceries,” says Tatsuya, but his mouth is twisting into a smile.

“That’s your job,” says Daiki.

“Did you walk? How’s the ankle?”

“I might have overdone it,” Daiki says. “But only a little. I did my exercises and stuff earlier.”

Tatsuya drops the subject and sits down next to him, pulling the hot plastic containers from the bag. He passes Daiki the hot beef chopped noodles and takes the container of dumplings for himself. The food’s still warm but cool enough to eat, and God. It’s still just as good as it ever was, when they could down three containers of noodles between them and still have room for more. The spice level is appropriately mouth-numbing, and Daiki grabs one of the iced lychee teas, offering the other to Tatsuya. That’s good, too; it’s sweet and strong and the perfect complement. Tatsuya’s almost done with the dumplings, so Daiki steals one, dipping it generously in the tangy sauce.

Tatsuya reaches over and grabs a clump of noodles from Daiki’s container with his chopsticks; it refuses to come free for a few seconds but he finally pulls it out and manages not to spill the food everywhere.

“This is good,” Tatsuya says. “Thanks for picking it up.”

“No problem,” says Daiki, downing the rest of his tea.

They settle in closer against each other on the couch. Tatsuya drags his foot up Daiki’s good ankle (his toes are fucking freezing still) and Daiki drops his arm around Tatsuya’s shoulders.

“What’s happening in this episode?”

“Well,” Tatsuya begins.

Daiki stops following after the third sentence, unable to keep all the characters and plotlines straight, even after half-watching the last twenty minutes. He likes listening to Tatsuya explain it anyway, the animation of his hands and the movement of his mouth. And there are some things he picks up, names and locales that sound vaguely familiar even after years since the last time Tatsuya had tried to explain it all to him. Daiki leans his head on Tatsuya’s shoulder and nuzzles his neck; he can feel Tatsuya’s laugh before he hears it.

“Tired?”

“Mm.”

“Me, too,” says Tatsuya.

They watch the next three episodes in silence (the show’s apparently on a marathon), and Daiki honestly couldn’t even say what any of the lines of dialogue were. He’s too busy focusing on his fingers winding through Tatsuya’s, the smell of Tatsuya’s neck, practice-facility shampoo and burnt coffee and a little bit of Daiki’s cologne that he’d probably stolen. Tatsuya curls up closer, swinging his legs over Daiki’s lap. (he’s probably not paying much attention either, but he’s also probably got the episodes memorized).

*

There is one small maybe-benefit to being injured, but it would be the same if Daiki was day-to-day or just rested for one night, without the month out already and a couple of weeks still left. But from his position on the sidelines, he gets to watch Tatsuya for whole games at a time in a way he can’t when they’re playing alongside each other.

The game against New Orleans starts out awful; Tatsuya’s doing all he can but the Hornets are all over him. They’ve managed to spook Wallace into missing three shots, and all three forwards look lost and they’re down seventeen already. Daiki sighs and flexes his hand out of habit, the way he did last year watching games from the bench and trying to convince himself he was completely healthy. They’d played sloppy without him, too, but they’d played sloppy with him; he’d been just as bad as the rest. This team is different, though, and even on an off-night Daiki could watch Tatsuya forever.

The Knicks call a timeout. Daiki’s not sure if it’ll be of any help, but they might as well try.

The coaches are trying their best not to yell at all the players, but Tatsuya cuts them off. They all start to listen, players and coaches, as Tatsuya gestures wildly. Daiki can’t hear what he’s saying from this far but he can read the intensity of Tatsuya’s expression, and whatever it is seems to have some sort of effect on everyone.

The refs break up the huddle and the teams go back out on the floor, and Daiki watches. Wallace passes the ball to Tatsuya, and Tatsuya dribbles. He moves, slower than he has to, around the opposing players; his path is unclear but the pace is solid. He passes to the open man just inside the three-point line. He shoots; the ball travels in a perfect parabola and swishes through the hoop.

Play goes back the other way, and still Tatsuya’s setting the pace for the Knicks and the Knicks set the pace for the Pelicans, forcing them almost to a shot-clock violation. They get a shitty shot off, but the rebound ricochets off the rim and straight back to the Knicks. They keep chipping away at the lead through the first, and they end up only ten points behind.

The whole thing only works because it’s Tatsuya, because all the kids look up to him and the coaches like his work ethic (but more importantly, his results; that’s the only reason they can hold him up as an example of Doing Everything Right Because It Pays Off). They look up to Daiki, too, but even when he was healthy it was different. Daiki’s the guy they used to want to be like (and still sort of do); Tatsuya’s the guy whose approval they care about. Daiki’s not sure if he should be jealous, or if he actually is jealous. It’s not something he really wants, and more something he can appreciate, because he knows what it’s like trying to gain favor from Tatsuya; it’s not something he gives lightly (but that just makes it more worth going after).

The Knicks keep it going through the second, finally taking the lead on a three-point play thanks to an obvious foul on Tatsuya right in front of the ref. His shot is clean; the tie is broken; that’s all the Knicks need in order to start running away with it. Even after halftime, the lead continues to build, and by the fourth they have mostly bench players out there. They hold down the fort well, slam the door in the Pelicans’ faces, and seal Tatsuya’s twenty-five point game while he watches from the sidelines with approval etched on his face.

*

Daiki’s finally cleared for play at the end of January. The coaches want to debut him at the next home game, but Daiki would rather just get back as soon as possible and get those first few games out of the way. He’s been working his way up to full practices, and he’s fit in seamlessly with the rest of team, even though they’ve been winning without him. Even more than that, he needs to prove he’s really back in playing shape, and he just wants to play. He promises that of course he’ll go easy on the ankle and let them give him limited minutes without complaint and the minute he feels something he’ll come out. He’s had too many re-aggravated injuries not to listen by this point, and he feels too good not to.

They pencil him in for the Boston game; despite the shitty mountains of dirt-encrusted snow outside Daiki feels great. He grins into Tatsuya’s shoulder as they settle in for their pregame nap; Tatsuya squeezes his wrist in return. He’s not too excited to fall asleep, though he is excited about all of this, to be back, to play as Tatsuya’s boyfriend. It’s not going to, like, elevate their chemistry (at least it hasn’t in practice) but it’s still fun to get too close bending over a clipboard, to lean against each other watching video, to bump fists after a nice play and let their hands linger close together after the fact. Daiki’s a simple guy, okay?

He tries not to resent the few, protected minutes he gets; after the first few the whole holy-shit-I’m-back feeling fades away and he’s almost as impatient waiting on the bench in his uniform that he has been sitting street clothes on the side. He gets a few points but he’s itching to play more all through the second quarter. In the fourth, though, he starts to really feel how tired he is, how unused he is to playing a full game’s worth of minutes. It’s going to take a few more games for him to get his stamina back, yet another reminder that he’s not as young as he once was.

It still feels good to be a part of the win, to show up on the scoresheet as something other than DNP, to fall sleep feeling like he’s actually done something today.

“Congratulations,” Tatsuya whispers as they drift off.

Daiki tries to say Tatsuya hadn’t done too bad himself, but he’s too close to sleep to make any kind of coherent sound.

*

Now that Daiki’s back on the court, most of the remaining tangles in his and Tatsuya’s relationship are beginning to sort themselves out. It’s easy to sync up their routines when Daiki’s going to the same practices and games as Tatsuya instead of physical therapy, and the little resentment for Tatsuya’s health that Daiki couldn’t stop from creeping in has fallen away. It just feels so good, so right to be together right now, to “accidentally” bump into each other in the locker room and pass the ball to each other in games and fall asleep on the couch watching video together only for Daiki to wake up half an hour later with the video ended and his arm tingling from where Tatsuya’s body is pinning it to the back of the couch.

The grind of the season is taking its toll on Tatsuya, and Daiki too; he still feels like the injury is forcing him to play catchup, that everyone else is in a different place than him. He’s still making the plays, but whenever he lets himself think it just all feels weird. Basketball really is a young man’s game, especially right now; they can take all the punishment every night, go hard 35 or 40 minutes and go out the next day and do it all over again.

Tatsuya’s clearly tired, though; he’s slower at practice and sleeping for longer; Coach rests him against Milwaukee and he’s not happy about that. He tries to play it cool, and Daiki tries to get him to vent or something, but the attempt is unsuccessful, and it feels like (rightly or not) just another failure at trying to help Tatsuya the way he should, the way he hadn’t tried hard enough the first time around, the way Tatsuya had helped him when he’d been injured.

This time around, he’s not going to stay clueless and silent. He finds Tatsuya in the kitchen flipping through a cookbook on the counter and wraps his arms around Tatsuya’s waist.

“Am I doing enough?” he asks.

“What do you mean?” says Tatsuya.

“For you.”

“Of course,” says Tatsuya.

He swivels around so they’re facing each other, pressed stomach-to-stomach; he’s looking up into Daiki’s face from below his lashes, beautiful but very serious.

“Am I not showing it enough?”

He is; he’s not hesitant to touch Daiki or bring him in for a kiss, to reassure him that his feelings are most definitely real.

“I’m just…when you were helping me with the ankle thing. I haven’t really, uh. Done anything.”

“I’m not injured,” says Tatsuya.

That’s not really the point, though; that’s not what Daiki had meant or how he’d wanted to say it. It’s more than help; it’s everything, really.

“I just want to know you need me, too,” says Daiki.

Tatsuya’s not good at needing, or at least admitting that there’s something outside of what he can do for himself that he needs, for anything. Maybe it’s way too soon to admit this shit, a month and change into their newly-defined relationship (regardless of the time they’ve logged as boyfriends in the past or as friends more recently); maybe despite what they’ve said, all the changes they’ve gone through, this is going to make Tatsuya run and hide.

“Daiki,” says Tatsuya, cupping his cheek in one hand. “I need you as much as you need me.”

For now, Daiki supposes he’ll take that, even if Tatsuya means they don’t actually need each other at all.

*

They’d both been planning separate all-star vacations since the start of the season, and since neither of them wants to cancel they go their separate ways for the weekend. Daiki’s not looking forward to finally having some time off and not being able to spend it with Tatsuya, but it’s not like they can (or should) spend all their time together, and they’ll have all summer for that. Right now he’s pretty excited about visiting his parents and Satsuki in Tokyo, though, and he knows Tatsuya’s also happy about seeing Taiga and Alex.

Satsuki looks good; even though the trade deadline’s coming up and executives want to move half her NBA clients she’s not too busy, mostly just advising people about no-trade clauses and such (apparently the Knicks aren’t interested in moving Daiki, which he’s more than fine with). He’s already told her about Tatsuya, of course; though she’s made it clear she has her reservations she says she’s happy for him anyway.

It’s good to be home, though; no matter how much time he spends away and how much the city changes, it’s still the same place he grew up. The hustle and the atmosphere of the city, tourists hopping from neighborhood to neighborhood to go shopping, white-collar workers clogging the train. New York’s a little bit like it, enough to ease the part of him that had always been a little bit uncomfortable in Cleveland, but not enough to be anything close to a substitute.

Taiga calls him on Saturday afternoon, when it’s already past evening in LA.

“What’s up?” says Daiki.

“Tatsuya says you guys talked about it.”

Typical Taiga, straight to the point.

“Yeah,” says Daiki. “It’s not like we could really get back together and not fuck up right away without that.”

He doesn’t know how much Taiga knows, how much Tatsuya had told him and how much he’d guessed on his own. He wants to say it’s not Taiga’s business, but it kind of is, considering how deep he’d waded into their breakup and how highly-invested he is in Tatsuya’s happiness (the tow of them truly are a package deal).

“Uh,” says Taiga. “Yeah.”

“And?” says Daiki.

“Good,” says Taiga. “Anyway, don’t hurt him again. Don’t fuck things up.”

“I’m trying not to,” says Daiki.

In the background, Daiki hears Tatsuya’s distant voice. “What are you talking about?”

“You!” Daiki yells, hopefully loud enough for Tatsuya to hear.

“Ow, fuck, my ear,” says Taiga. “You want to talk to him?”

“Yeah,” says Daiki.

“You just saw each other,” says Taiga, but he hands over the phone anyway.

“Hey,” says Daiki. “How’s LA?”

“It’s good. Warm. How’s Tokyo?”

“Good. It’s nice to be here.”

“Yeah,” says Tatsuya.

“So,” says Daiki. “What are you wearing?”

That gets a half-laugh out of Tatsuya. “Mm…black jeans, white t-shirt, that striped sweater.”

Daiki knows the one. “Oh, yeah.”

“Oi!” he hears from Taiga in the background. “Don’t do that on my phone plan!”

“I think Taiga disapproves,” says Tatsuya.

“Yeah, probably,” says Daiki.

“Try not to mess with him too much.”

“Mm.”

Tatsuya laughs. “I’ll call you later.”

*

Daiki’s been good about reading less of the rumor mill, but when he gets back to practice a dozen reporters are asking him about the trade rumors and whether he thinks the Knicks are a piece or two away. Daiki shrugs and says they’ll do whatever it takes to win, and then idle curiosity gets to him when the train back sits at 96th street.

He scrolls through Twitter; there’s talk about trading Wallace for a slight upgrade who’s older and comes with an expiring contract, getting rid of next year’s first-round draft pick to shore up their forward corps (including that goon on the Cavs, please no). And there’s a hell of a lot about Tatsuya.

All the articles start out talking about what a great season he’s having for an old guy, how healthy he’s been (as if that’s a surprise when it comes to Tatsuya), how it’s a nice story to see him come back to the city where he’d won a championship but you have to give something up in a trade and the Knicks will be able to make do without him, and perhaps improve if they have some other player. Fucking garbage, the team needs Tatsuya. Daiki closes the browser tab and shoves his phone into his pocket.

“What is it?” says Tatsuya.

“Trade rumors,” says Daiki.

His voice is dark; Tatsuya rests his hand on Daiki’s knee for a few seconds. It doesn’t help that much.

The next day Tatsuya gets called into the GM’s office in the middle of practice, and there’s no mistaking what that means. Some of the kids wish him luck; Daiki hugs him. It’s not as much as he wants to do but it’s as much as he can right now, and maybe some of his feelings will go from skin to skin. Tatsuya leans into the gesture, pulling away very late.

Daiki’s distracted the rest of practice; he makes two turnovers in ten seconds in the scrimmage, and then he tells himself to focus. He pulls it off well enough; he makes most of his shots and gets to the right place at the right time but a huge part of his brain is thinking about Tatsuya, where he’s going, how he’s dealing. It seems like a week until practice is over and he’s finally free. Tatsuya’s still in the locker room, gathering all his stuff. The kids all surround him immediately; Perez asks where he’s going and Russell asks what they’d gotten for him and they’re all both concerned and looking for one last bit of advice or attention. It would be pretty cute if not for the fact that Tatsuya’s fucking leaving.

“Charlotte,” Tatsuya says. “They sent a bunch of their doctors over here to look at me. I’ll be flying back as soon as ours get a look at Jackson.”

Jackson? That’s who they’re getting for Tatsuya?

“Straight up?” says Wallace.

“Yeah, no draft picks or anything,” says Tatsuya.

The Hornets are weak at guard, but that doesn’t mean the Knicks should fucking help them out, especially by sending Tatsuya over for a marginal return on help at forward. If Dolan was still the owner, he would have vetoed trading Tatsuya for sentimental value alone—though if Dolan was still the owner they probably wouldn’t be all that fucking competitive in the first place.

“I have to head back home,” says Tatsuya, “Pack and stuff. They’re going to get me to the airport as soon as Jackson’s done with his physical. But thank you, everyone. I’ve really enjoyed playing with you, and I’ll see you in the playoffs.”

“You bet,” says Perez. “We’re going to win, though.”

Tatsuya laughs, real enough for most of the kids not to catch how fake it is.

They take a cab back because it’s quicker; Tatsuya’s still wearing his Knicks hoodie and Daiki’s not going to tell him to take it off, not when it’s maybe the last time he’ll see it. Tatsuya walks around the apartment, throwing random crap into his worn-out duffel bag, an extra pair of boots and a raincoat and the book he’s currently reading. Daiki trails after, suggesting things halfheartedly but mostly watching, trying to stop his insides from bursting and trying to focus on the little things, the way Tatsuya’s hands look doing up a zipper and his bare feet on the hardwood floor.

Tatsuya double-checks and triple-checks; the suitcase is packed. He has his passport and his spare phone charger and three suits, workout clothes and underwear and pajamas, one of Daiki’s hoodies he probably hadn’t thought Daiki would miss (and he probably won’t miss this one; it’s better off with Tatsuya especially if Charlotte gets cold). They’re both pacing, up and down the living room floor; Daiki’s gone from letting his feet make noise to trying to make a game out of keeping them quiet, distracting himself from the impending trade with this. It doesn’t really work.

What has to be the fifteenth time they pass each other, Daiki stops. Tatsuya stops, too, looking at him. Their gazes meet; in that moment it’s more obvious than a giant black bullseye on a white background how vulnerable and scared Tatsuya looks at that moment, how much Daiki needs to do something. There’s not much he really can, he supposes, but holding Tatsuya might make both of them feel a little better so he does, hands clasping around Tatsuya’s waist and face buried in Tatsuya’s neck.

Tatsuya breathes slow and shuddery, squeezing his arms around Daiki’s back. Daiki wonders if he should say how much they need Tatsuya here, as a team, but that probably won’t help very much.

“Daiki,” says Tatsuya.

Daiki waits.

“I need you.”

His voice is so soft and frayed that Daiki’s heart almost explodes. It would be so easy to dismiss this as Tatsuya saying this because he’s about to leave and he’ll be able to hide from it, that he’s trying to give Daiki what he wants in the short term while trying to avoid everything that comes with that statement. But there are a thousand reasons why Tatsuya still wouldn’t do it, least of all because of how true the statement rings. Daiki squeezes him.

“What do you need? What can I do?”

“Just this,” says Tatsuya. “This is fine.”

So they stay like that, Daiki memorizing the shape of Tatsuya in his arms, the slope of Tatsuya’s skin beneath his lips, the way he clings back. When’s the next time they’re going to get to do this?

Tatsuya’s phone vibrates; Daiki gives him room to pull back but he only does halfway.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hey, Tatsuya.”

The volume on his phone is loud enough that Daiki can hear Tatsuya’s agent on the other end.

“Jackson flunked his physical.”

Daiki doesn’t breathe.

“Some kind of scar tissue in his foot from that surgery he’d had in college; they’re not taking him for all the years left on his contract, so you’re staying put.”

“Oh,” says Tatsuya.

He’s staying. He’s fucking staying, and Daiki silently thanks the Knicks’ doctors for being so finicky and thorough, Jackson’s contract for being so long, his not-even-a-problem foot scarring for existing, and whatever other causes there might be. Tatsuya gets to stay here, with him.

Tatsuya hangs up the phone and pulls Daiki closer again, presses his face to Daiki’s shirt. He still needs this; they both do.

*

Since the trade that wasn’t, Tatsuya’s been simultaneously more relaxed and tense. In some ways, it’s like it was just after he’d signed the contract, that some part of him had always been readying to leave, that he wouldn’t let himself settle down for the long hall if they were just going to ship him off somewhere else, but now that possibility is gone he has no reason not to let himself really believe this is for the long haul of the whole season. But they’d also tried to get rid of him; the only thing preventing it had been an unpredictable hitch in the plans, and so he’s got an even bigger chip on his shoulder; even though he and the Knicks are stuck with each other he feels like he needs to prove himself all over again.

It helps that no one in the locker room had wanted him gone; Daiki tells Tatsuya they probably wouldn’t be happy if he’d been traded for prime-era Michael Jordan and Tatsuya tells Daiki they’d all make shitty executives. It’s true, though, that a team grows accustomed to having certain players in certain roles and certain dynamics (Daiki’s learned at least that since the start of high school). Swapping out players can help but it also rocks the boat, and at this point Daiki would sacrifice some firepower for steadiness, even outside of how much Tatsuya means to him personally.

They’re leaning more on each other in general; the whole team’s going harder in practice and gunning for the playoffs. Sometimes Daiki wonders if they’ll gas themselves before they get there, but considering the average age probably not. It’s Tatsuya and Daiki who have to look out for each other, show no weakness and prop each other up, make sure they both stay rested and healthy. The coaches sit them both a game apiece, and it’s probably what they need at this stage, no matter how much they want to go all eighty-two-plus. The Knicks are coasting on a huge division lead; despite their predicted mediocrity they’re kicking ass; they can afford a loss or two here and there the way they can’t in the playoffs.

Maybe this, being perfectly healthy and having to sit out anyway, waking up achy and sore in a hotel room that might as well be anywhere (and takes him a few moments to quite remember which town it is), is the feeling that had made Taiga realize it was time to retire. Maybe it had been the pile-up, another shitty bus ride and another shitty hotel breakfast and another game that had felt too long. Right now, though, Daiki still doesn’t feel like giving this up. The possibility seems remote, wrong, unreal.  

But most of all, it’s irrelevant to the games they still have left to play; regardless of what he decides (if there’s a decision to be made) he’s still playing this out, so he shoves all of those thoughts out of his mind. (He does, in the late hours of the night when he can’t fall asleep on the team plane, wonder whether Tatsuya, dozing off next to him, has had these thoughts too, however.)

*

The schedule’s weird this year; the Knicks don’t go to Cleveland until March. It’s probably better like this, to be going back after everything’s been given time to settle, but Daiki still feels unprepared. The coaches ask him if he’s going back to his house, but Daiki shakes his head. It’s too far from the arena; he’s not going to drive his car there and call someone to tow it back to the house after the game. The house itself is empty, full of boxes; Daiki’s hired someone to check in on it once a week and mow the lawn; it’s certainly not going to feel like home if he goes and he can’t take Tatsuya with him.

“It’s weird,” Daiki says, voice muffled by the hotel pillow.

Tatsuya rubs his back. “Of course it’s weird. It’s always going to be weird.”

That doesn’t make Daiki feel much better. Maybe it would be easier now if he’d been good to go for that game against the Cavs back home in December, or maybe it would make this harder because it’s like getting hit all over again, the Cleveland fans and all of the local media and people in jerseys with his name and number and a Cavs logo on the front.

It’s still weird the next morning, the local media crowding around his locker at practice and asking the same kinds of questions they’d asked last time.

“Of course it’s strange,” says Daiki. “But I’m comfortable here. I’m glad to be back; I’ve had some good games in this arena so I’ll do fine tonight.”

“Have you been catching up with old friends? Revisiting your favorite places?”

Daiki shakes his head. “I’m here for work. I’m here to win a ballgame; I can do that in the offseason.”

It’s apparently a disappointing answer, but at least it gets them away from Daiki’s locker. Regardless of how familiar they all are, he just doesn’t want to deal with any of it now.

Daiki catches his name on signs in the crowd, some in English and some in Japanese, many of them welcoming him back. Shit, it feels so wrong to be here wearing blue and orange instead of white and red, and Daiki can barely focus on the pregame warmups.

And then they announce the fucking video tribute. Daiki’s seen it done for a few players before, but he hadn’t even thought about it in this context, although it makes sense (it would make more sense to him if management were actually sorry about letting him go, although maybe they are now, what with him and the Knicks in first place and them struggling to stay in the fight for the eight seed). He braces himself, but he’s not prepared.

It opens with just a black screen, and then the familiar notes of that dubstep song they’d used as the team’s fight song his first few years here, and then there he is, eighteen and dressed in an ill-fitting suit on draft day, shaking the owner’s hand, posing with LeBron James with a ridiculous smile on his face but trying to pose like he’s cool. There he is in his first game; he can tell right away because he’d shot the ball from nearly full-court; the head coach had benched him the next game for showing off and he’d probably deserved it with the kind of ass he’d been back then. There he is, dunking; there he is, his first all-star team; he passes and shoots with his arms overextending, kicking his leg out for balance. And there he is winning the championship, O’Brien Trophy in one hand and Finals MVP in the other, in the middle of his teammates pouring champagne on him, and that’s what fucking does it.

He's not crying; there’s something in his eye; there’s got to be fifty million fucking cameras on his face now and he can’t cry but his cheeks are wet—it’s got nothing to do with version of him on the screen, bright-eyed, slapping his teammates on the back, jumping probably twice as high as he can get now, pulling his jersey away from his chest to emphasize the Cavs’ logo, getting a water cooler full of Gatorade dumped on his head after scoring a buzzer-beater in OT to lock up their playoff spot.

The fans are chanting his name by the end, and they’re showing a view of his face now on the scoreboard; Daiki lowers his head and points to the crowd. That’s all the fucking proof he needs, all the vindication. The Knicks could get knocked out in the first round; Daiki could get injured again tomorrow; he’s already won but it doesn’t feel good. Part of him, not as large as he’d thought, wants to be here every day, wear the old uniform, try and bring a championship back here.

“Need a minute?” says Tatsuya, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Nah, I’m good,” says Daiki.

He wipes his face with his towel; it’ll have to do. They still do have a game to win, and even if he doesn’t need to prove it he’s going to show the Cavs what they’re missing all over again.

The Cavs really are dreadful; Daiki gets thirty points and eleven rebounds even while sitting out half of the third quarter entirely. It feels good, but it still feels a little bit wrong and weird, and maybe Tatsuya’s right and it never really goes away.

He thinks about what Satsuki had said back in that café, that he’d done the right thing. He hadn’t wanted to believe her then, but now he’s pretty sure he does want to and that he does believe.

When they get back from the road trip a few days later, Daiki flops down on the bed and pulls Tatsuya down on top of him before they can even put their suitcases anywhere.

“It’s good to be home,” he says, clasping Tatsuya’s hands in his own.

“Isn’t it?” says Tatsuya.

He wriggles out a few minutes later to get undressed and brush his teeth, and Daiki follows. Daiki still hasn’t stopped smiling by the time they fall back into bed. This is exactly where he should be right now.

*

They make another west coast trip in the middle of March, Oakland and Denver and Portland and then back to LA to play the Clippers. They have to jet off to Utah right after the game, so Tatsuya brings Daiki along to hang out with Taiga and Alex beforehand.

This isn’t as much of a meet-your-boyfriend’s-family type thing as it had been the first time they’d dated. Even then, Daiki had known Taiga and Alex pretty well but they both weren’t used to the idea of Daiki as Tatsuya’s actual boyfriend rather than a friend or hookup. It had probably caused more friction between Tatsuya and the two of them than Daiki and anyone (what with as much as he’d hated the idea of the two of them looking out for him, taking it as an insinuation that he couldn’t take care of himself) but it had made sense. They have his best interest at heart, and even though Daiki’s Taiga’s friend, too, Tatsuya comes first for them.

Still, Daiki had remained friends with them after the breakup (which they know was mutual and he and Taiga already talked about in terms of him and Tatsuya right now), and Tatsuya can actually take care of himself a whole lot better now, something that’s not lost on anyone here. But Taiga still looks at them every time they touch, every time they turn toward each other, as if trying to see some nonexistent faultline before it rips apart and their relationship crumbles into the abyss. Things are good right now, though; things are getting better every day, and Daiki hopes it’s not just the illusion he wants to see.

He figures he’s passed whatever the tests are when they let him go without a word of warning, and why shouldn’t he? It still feels like a decent-sized weight is off his shoulders, that this isn’t just some fragile thing that only exists when they’re alone, between the two of them, that there aren’t any obvious flaws and warps they can’t see because they’re on the inside.

The Clippers kick their asses that night, but Daiki still counts the day as a win.

*

The Knicks finish the regular season on a high note, a clean win against the Hawks after they’ve already sealed home-court advantage for the first two rounds. The first round is laughable, a quick sweep of Boston, who had lucked into the playoffs after giving up and trading their best player for a couple of draft picks and the rights to some guy who’s playing in Spain right now.

The second round is going to be tougher; they’re facing Indiana, a very competent four-seed. They’re bigger than the Knicks and just as fast; they aren’t as efficient when shooting but they defend well enough that that’s less exploitable than everyone thinks it is. That, of course, means it’s probably going to be fun as hell.

Everyone’s pumped up for the first game; the rookies have never been to the playoffs at all, and it’s been a long time since Daiki was even this far in. It’s easy to get used to it, though, the tension in the air of the arena about to crack like thunder, every shot seeming to count more like they’re being graded on some kind of exponential curve, the speakers turned up too loud and the crowd responding until their voices give out.

Indiana wins the tipoff and scores first, an easy layup that’s only a bland statement. Tatsuya scores ten second later on a jumper, and that’s how the game’s going to go. One team scores; the other matches. One team blocks; the other steals. The score seesaws a little bit, tipping first in the Knicks’ favor and then in the Pacers’, but as the clock winds down the Knicks are clinging to a two-point lead.

The Pacers foul Wallace; they don’t have much choice with nine seconds left and the Knicks in possession. He makes the first free throw, but the second spins around the rim for a few moments before plopping down into the hands of one of the Pacers. He passes it up ahead to his two, standing at the half-court line. He jumps, lets the ball fly off his fingers. No one had bothered to guard him at all, assuming Wallace would make the free, but Daiki can see from the moment the ball leaves his hands where it’s going to land.

Indiana’s got the momentum; they crush the Knicks under their heels like worms in the OT period and win it by fifteen. Daiki doesn’t need Coach to tell him how disappointed he is; he’s pretty sure no one else does, either. They’d all screwed up, giving up their big lead and then letting it get to OT and then losing it all in five minutes. Still, it’s as good a motivator as any, and the early-morning practice tomorrow is, if not necessary for their mechanics, probably a good way to get everyone’s frustrations out.

They don’t let the second game slip from their grasp, or the third one, either; they win the fourth in a come-from-behind in regulation and they’re back home for Game Five.

It starts out like the first one, anyone’s game at the half, then at the end of three. Neither team has had a double-digit lead all game, and the possibility one of them blows it open is looking highly unlikely at this stage. They’re doing everything they’d done in Game Four, and doing it right; it’s not like the Pacers have suddenly figured out their game plan; they’re just somehow matching every basket, getting through the Knicks’ defense more when it seems like they aren’t.

They foul Tatsuya in the fourth quarter again with thirty seconds left and the Knicks down by one. He makes the first free and intentionally misses the second; the ball bounces off the rim and Daiki knows exactly where it’s going to fall. He nearly doesn’t get there and almost has to foul the Pacers’ center to get the ball back. He looks at the shot clock; the only way to do this is to get the ball out, hold it as long as possible, and make a three. The passing lanes are blocked; Perez is right by the net and Daiki’s just going to have to trust him. He shoots, intending for the ball to go off the rim and reset the shot clock.

The only problem is Indiana’s point guard, who out of nowhere lunges and intercepts the pass and they’re all back the other way. Shit, shit, this is not good; it was a stupid idea and the cost of failure is too much. The Indiana point guard lazily dribbles, and then Tatsuya rushes in, grabs at the ball and bumps him, hard enough for him to flop and grab his shoulder. Tatsuya had basically hip-checked him; there’s no way the refs didn’t see that. There’s no way they’re giving Tatsuya a flagrant; they can’t. Daiki’s eyes meet Tatsuya’s; Tatsuya looks worried for a second and the officials really can’t be that dumb. Then again, Daiki didn’t think the Knicks would try to trade Tatsuya, so what does he know once the ball’s not in play?

One more foul and Tatsuya’s out; shit, that was risky. Daiki reminds himself that they’re one win away from the conference finals, but that’s still not a complete comfort. Plenty of teams have blown a 3-1 lead.

The point guard starts to argue with the ref, but his teammates pull him back and they announce the non-flagrant (thankfully) foul. Tatsuya’s been pulled for their other shooting guard, and they all line up around the free throw line.

He misses both shots; there’s ten left on the clock when Perez grabs the ball. He takes it slow across the half-court line; the seconds seem to stretch themselves. He passes it, finally, to Daiki; Daiki’s not close enough to shoot with perfect confidence so he passes it back. Two seconds. Perez leaps; the ball leaves his hands; the buzzer sounds.

The ball bounces off the backboard and down to the floor. They’re going into OT again.

This time, they don’t collapse; this time, they make the shots and make the blocks and it’s like the latter part of last game all over again condensed in five minutes where Indiana just couldn’t keep up. They’re up by ten with forty-five to go; the crowd is on its collective feet. They seal the deal with another layup and a long three, and then they’re fucking in.

Most of the team goes out to celebrate the victory; Daiki and Tatsuya go with them but after about half an hour it’s clear Tatsuya’s struggling to stay awake and Daiki’s not so alert himself.

“I want to celebrate with you,” Daiki mumbles into Tatsuya’s hair, leaning against the living room wall.

“We can do that after the finals,” Tatsuya says, or at least that’s what Daiki thinks he hears because Tatsuya’s mouth is pressed to his shirt collar and he can feel Tatsuya’s warm breath on his skin.

“After we win,” says Daiki (and now it doesn’t seem so far away; there’s only the winner of the next series between them and the finals, only eight wins to reach it—it’s no guarantee, but it’s already so fucking close).

“After we win,” Tatsuya repeats. “Champagne, victory sex, big party.”

“We don’t have to go hard right now,” says Daiki. “What about just the victory sex part?”

“Tonight?” says Tatsuya, looking up at him through sleepy eyelids.

“Tomorrow morning,” says Daiki.

“How’s it going to be victory sex the day after?”

“We’ll still be basking in the glory,” says Daiki.

“Don’t rest on your laurels,” says Tatsuya.

(It ends up feeling pretty fucking victorious, actually, and it doesn’t take much afterwards to get Tatsuya to agree.)

*

They end up playing, of all teams (well, of the two remaining), the Charlotte Hornets, in the conference finals. The media is having a field day, tossing out articles speculating that perhaps it’s better for both teams that the deal hadn’t gone through (of fucking course it is) or how the Knicks might be regretting that medical veto because Jackson’s not having any foot problems right now and isn’t a championship worth it? Daiki would not like to meet that particular reporter anywhere because he’d probably end up giving her a piece of his mind, even though Tatsuya pretends it doesn’t bother him at all.

Daiki’s playing more minutes than he has all year, but he feels the opposite of worn-down. It’s like by placing him under more pressure, they’re forcing more out of him and taking him to heights he didn’t know he could still reach. He can feel it in the air, the door to the zone just beyond his hand, every game, and it would be so tempting to kick it open and smash through whatever limits he still has.

But the last time he’d zoned had been a couple of years ago and he’d been out for a week; there’s no use pulling out a trick like this from his arsenal when they haven’t even lost a game yet and the finals loom ahead. Sure, Daiki could blow out his knee tomorrow night or tire himself out so completely he can’t get back to this stage, but at this point it’s highly unlikely. And he doesn’t need the zone to beat Jackson now; he’s in enough of a groove on his own.

The series is over in five again; they’re in the finals. The press have shut up about who had won the non-trade, and the Knicks have only four more wins left to tally.

*

They’re playing San Antonio, and it’s hard not to think of them as Tetsu’s team, even years later. Daiki texts Tetsu to ask who he’s rooting for, and Tetsu doesn’t answer; that’s typical of him and Daiki’s just going to assume that means he’s rooting for the Knicks.

There’s a lot of pre-series press, including that giant media day where they’re all wearing special edition team gear (made with the express purpose of selling to fans, of course). It’s exciting, sure, but Daiki would rather be taking a nap, not that he’d admit that to anyone except maybe Tatsuya (they all tease him about being old, anyway). At least the two of them get to sit together and play footsie under the table in flip flops (or when Tatsuya takes his foot out of his shoe and slides it up Daiki’s leg and that is not fair.

It’s hot down in Texas; they manage to sneak out of the hotel after curfew because they’re both actually pretty wired (more than Daiki had been the last time he’d gotten to the finals), and no one recognizes them in the Burger King a short walk away.

Their first date, the first time around, had been at a Burger King in LA, after about a month of flirting and hooking up; they were going to go with Taiga but something had come up and it was just them and Tatsuya had insisted on paying. Daiki had teased him about being so romantic, and Tatsuya had said it had worked, hadn’t it?

They hadn’t chosen this hotel, and if they had it probably wouldn’t have been based on sentimental fast-food proximity. The memory is not lost on Tatsuya; he steals a few of Daiki’s fries and dips them the puddle of ketchup on the side of the tray just the way he had back then and grins.

“We’re really here, huh?”

“Yeah,” says Daiki. “We really are.”

This time last year, this was out of the question—the finals, the Knicks, Tatsuya most of all.

“Thank you,” Tatsuya says.

“Huh?” says Daiki.

“For putting up with me again,” says Tatsuya. “I know I’m not the easiest person to be with.”

“I’m not putting up with you,” says Daiki. “You’re worth it. You’re trying; you’re so much more open than you used to be. I’m not going to bail just because we hit a rough patch.”

“I know,” says Tatsuya. “You came back after last time.”

“I did,” says Daiki. “Because I wanted to. You don’t owe me shit. We’re a team, right?”

“Right,” says Tatsuya.

Under the table, Daiki grabs his hand, traces his fingers over the calluses on Tatsuya’s palm.

“But, I guess, I should say it, too,” says Daiki. “Thanks for giving me another shot. I know you had a lot of misgivings.”

“But I wanted to,” says Tatsuya.

“You wouldn’t have let that stop you before,” says Daiki.

Tatsuya smiles halfway. “You’re right.”

“I’m glad you let yourself do what you want,” says Daiki.

“Me, too,” says Tatsuya.

*

Game One is electric. The zone is scratching at Daiki’s fingertips, whispering at him to use it, use it, open the door, but the Knicks need him. They’re four wins away, not one or two; the Spurs had the best regular season of any team in the NBA and breezed through most of their early opposition as easily as the Knicks had. They’re sharp, fresh, young but experienced, the kind of team everyone predicts will start a dynasty.

The coronation can wait a few years, though. The Knicks come out ready, eager, and capable. They finish their passes, run their plays, sink their shots, draw a few lucky fouls. A quick lead lets the Spurs get sloppy, desperate; the Knicks toy with them for the rest of the half. They’re up by twenty at the half, but halftime is always a dangerous momentum-killer. The Spurs come out in angry focus, and they’ve got their best three-point shooters out there trying to maximize the efficiency. The only problem is none of those guys is much of a defender, so the Knicks get back every basket and capitalize on the Spurs’ misses with defensive rebounds and passes out ahead to threes of their own. They lose a lot of ground, but manages to hang on to the bitter end and it’s one down, three to go.

They win Game Two more easily, but drop Game Three at home. It’s not a bad loss, but the close ones are always the ones that hurt the most this time of year because the leash is too damn short to have much of an improvement arc. They win the next game, though; they sharpen up their defense and don’t take stupid shots when they don’t have to.

Some of the younger guys who’ve never been this far in the playoffs want to go out afterwards and celebrate. To be fair, there’s probably a lot of long-suffering Knicks fans willing to buy them a beer or two (and a lot of easily-impressed young single people), but alcohol’s definitely not in their diet and even aside from superstition and complacency celebrating early isn’t going to end well regardless.

They fly back to San Antonio the next day, no one nursing a hangover, but with excitement buzzing in the air like cicadas in one of those prime years, as if even the most superstitious of them is finally entertaining the possibility of winning it all. Even though it’s not at home (if only they’d won fucking Game Three) a win is a win and the trophy is the trophy.

From the outset, the game is sloppy; both teams fumble and turn the ball over and Daiki wonders if he should just zone now and put it away. But it’s never like that; the more he thinks about it the harder it is to slip behind the door, and it’s especially hard when the passes are dropping and people are throwing up elbows.

It tightens up in the second; Daiki’s making his field goals and they’re mostly doing the plays like they’re supposed to. The real problem is defense; the Spurs are slipping by and Daiki’s teammates are panicking. They foul, way too many for this early in the game; Coach calls a time out after the Spurs’ third possession in a row ends in a free throw and tells them to slow things down.

It sort of works until halftime; it’s mostly like absorbing the blood in an open wound and applying pressure to slowly stop it. They have a long talk in the locker room before the third; when Daiki starts to stretch he can feel it coming. And then Coach sends out their backup, because they need his defense.

Daiki really can’t be mad because it’s working; the Knicks are building up a lead and he’s not part of it but it’s a lead; it’s not like his contributions to the team all season long have suddenly been nullified. But he wants, needs to be out there at the pivotal moment; he can still block and steal and intimidate if he needs to.

He’s finally in at the end of the quarter, two points and an assist before the horn. They’re up by seven; it’s not a secure lead (though nothing is) but it’s good enough to build on. Coach switches Daiki and Tatsuya both out a few minutes into the fourth, says he’ll put them both in at the end. It feels a little like a snub, again like being told he’s unworthy, and isn’t the best defense a good offense? Shouldn’t they be trying to build up the lead?

And then the Knicks collapse like a cheap bedframe on an uneven floor, too quick for anything; Daiki goes out to stretch when the lead swings to the Spurs but they’ve already scored six points by the time he’s back in and they’re not about to let anyone stand in their way. Daiki reaches for the zone, about to open the door, and then the Spurs’ center dunks on him.

Coach pulls him after that, conceding the game with a few minutes left in the name of saving him for Game Six, and fuck. The next time he’s got a chance, Daiki’s going to rip that door off his hinges before any coach can pull him in the name of anything.

*

At least they have a chance to win it at home now, although maybe if they think too much about winning that’s going to bring them right back down again. In the locker room, no one says anything about it; no one says any of the specific words (the coaches reference it but always use some phrase about finishing the series, and Daiki’s inclined to agree with that sentiment; the Spurs have more energy and if this goes to a seventh game the odds are probably against the Knicks).

It starts even; both teams are playing tight on defense, both aware of their prior mistakes in that department. Daiki gets switched out early on and that’s fine; he already feels pretty fucking tired and for a fleeting moment he wonders if he’s just going to be physically incapable of going into the zone. But does it matter, really? By zone, by some specialty, they have to win; the zone is just the simplest way he can think of, but if he can hang tight in his usual mode all it has to be is good enough.

The problem is, Daiki doesn’t want good enough. Championships are never won on good enough; they’re won by better, usually a decisive better. And he’s got that in mind when he heads back out, already feeling more clear-headed. He makes his first two field goals, and then almost makes a turnover but then passes back, stopping himself several moments too soon. It feels good, jumping to make the right blocks, the smack of the ball against the scar on his hand. He wants it, needs it; he stuffs in a dunk.

He comes out again for most of the third; the Knicks’ defense struggles a bit but then Tatsuya comes back in and they adjust. They slow down, like they have all the time in the world; they catch up basket-by-basket. And then Tatsuya sinks a gorgeous fadeaway three as the quarter ends, arcing through the air and then down through the net as the buzzer falls silent. The Knicks’ lead is up to five points, and Coach is telling Daiki he’s in.

The door’s already open and Daiki’s through. Everything seems to slow down and speed up at once; he throws down a dunk from almost the free throw line, blocks a shot when the Spurs’ player starts his jump a meter away, feeds Tatsuya a crisp pass when they’ve left him all alone and he throws down another gorgeous fadeaway. It’s like Daiki’s feeding on it all, every increasingly-desperate push by the Spurs, every time the ball lands back in his hands, every beautiful shot or pass or steal from his teammates, like he’s going deeper into the zone with each one.

There’s a limit, though, a limit to how much he can hold his breath under the water of the zone; he’s not even close to the second door when he feels the crash coming and it’s all he can do to make the last dunk. He’s already walking over to the sidelines; Coach is calling their twenty-second timeout in the background; it’s all too much. Someone passes him a towel and he flops down on the chair. This had better be enough; it’s the best he can give.

He feels someone sit down beside him.

“What’s the score?”

“105-86.” It’s Tatsuya.

“How much time?”

“Five.”

They’ve lost games in less time, perhaps not as far apart as this. Daiki digs his fingers into the empty chair next to him. The Knicks score again and he pumps his fist. Daiki’s totally beat but his heart can’t stop thumping; he scoots to the edge of his seat. Time ticks down; the Knicks hold the lead. The Spurs are still scared. Tatsuya puts his hand on Daiki’s knee; Daiki leans closer so their shoulders are touching. Four minutes. Three. The lead’s up to twenty-five points. Two, and Daiki starts to let himself think that maybe it’s going to happen. One, and barring some insanity or a foul so flagrant they’re forced to forfeit, it will.

He’s never heard this arena so loud when the buzzer sounds; he can’t even hear the buzzer after half a second because of the people screaming, his teammates among them; Tatsuya pulls him to his feet and they’re all together in a massive clump, hugging and yelling incoherently in several different languages.

There’s posing for photos, holding the trophy, Perez going nuts over being named Finals MVP (kid fucking deserves it with his defense tonight and that triple-double in the second game) and the whole crowd staying and cheering. They go back to the locker room to pour champagne on each other and rip the tags off their honestly-pretty-tacky-but-right-now-beautiful championship t-shirts, take pictures with everybody’s kids, until even that starts to clear out. Daiki’s not sure how he’s still standing (hasn’t his adrenaline supply been exhausted by now?) but eventually he grabs a bottle of champagne and Tatsuya’s hand and they go back out to the court.

It’s pretty empty; there are still a few reporters going from locker room to locker room so they can get quotes from both sides but all the fans have been ushered out. Daiki figures that two old guys drinking champagne straight from the bottle will go unnoticed, but of course that doesn’t happen.

“Hey,” says one of the Knicks’ beat writers. “What’s next? You going to retire? You can’t top a season like this.”

Oh, right, retirement, the thing he’d succeeded in not thinking about for a while—but then, doesn’t that make it obvious?

“I think I’ve got another year left in me,” says Daiki.