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Shintaro tilts his head up. It’s a flurry of white; the winter sakura have blossomed in shocks of pink in the ice. He’s seated outside of the cafe, warming his hands with his hot cup of tea, where condensed steam curls upwards in little cozy spirals. There’s another cup of tea opposite him—Shintaro took the liberty of ordering in advance. Akashi doesn’t like to be kept waiting.
“Midorima,” a silk-smooth voice greets, sliding into the chair with the grace of an emperor on a throne. Akashi’s wearing a grey sweater, far too thin to be comfortable. It looks good on him.
“Akashi,” Shintaro returns; he succeeds in making it sound even. Akashi nods with approval at the chamomile Shintaro bought for him, and— God. Shintaro hates how his heart picks up at just that slightest hint of approval, even now. Will he never change?
Akashi gets straight to business. “I have a favour to ask from you.”
A favour? That’s rare. Wary, Shintaro picks up his cup and sips lightly, watching Akashi over the rim.
“Come with me to a wedding.”
Granted, they do attend events together often—both of them are used to conferences and using them to make connections—but a wedding is a more personal event. Then again, Shintaro supposes they are friends, even if it’s difficult to tell how much you mean to Akashi, sometimes; there’s no reason for him to refuse.
“As my date.”
Shintaro nearly spits his green tea everywhere.
“Midorima?” Akashi asks, concerned, as Shintaro coughs and hacks and clutches onto his lucky item today for support. It’s a large action figure of a clown with green hair. Shintaro doesn’t know what his life is anymore. “Careful, now. There’s no need to drink your tea that quickly.”
“That’s not— never mind. I think I heard you wrongly. Could you repeat that?”
“Come with me to an acquaintance’s wedding, as my partner. Not for real, of course—but there’s a business deal I’ve been wanting to close personally for a while now. The client’s an entrepreneur with a promising start up, but he’s a tricky one. He’s not particularly fond of people like me born into money. I’ve done my digging; take a look at this.” He pulls out a manila envelope and tosses it carelessly onto the table. Still slightly stupefied, Shintaro opens it blankly to find a few grainy photographs. A tall man with short cropped hair in a dimly lit club, his hand around a male worker. The same man touching another man’s face. The same man in an alleyway kissing a distinctly masculine figure.
Shintaro swallows hard and slides the envelope back over.
Akashi hums. “I trust you see where I’m going with this? It’s not a guarantee, of course, but I’ll take any chance I can get to predispose him to think better of me—make me think that I’m sympathetic, someone who can understand him. The wedding’s two weeks away on Sunday. Are you coming?”
“You can ask someone else,” Shintaro protests, his eyes fluttering shut, when he’s sure not even a fraction of what he’s feeling will escape. “Surely I can’t be your best option. A coworker, a uni friend, or— or even Kuroko, or Mibuchi—"
“I can’t bring a coworker; I’d be a boss dating their subordinate, so that would just backfire. Kuroko is overseas with Kagami, as you know. Mibuchi is overseas as well. Most of the rest—even including those who are already in a relationship, like Kise and Aomine—are hardly the kind of people I can bring to make a good impression.”
And that is unfortunately true, as much as Shintaro hates to admit it. He tries to imagine Murasakibara introducing himself as Akashi’s— partner, with a mouthful of umaibo and his fingers stained with powder, and immediately wants to brain himself.
“You’re well-bred,” Akashi continues. “Smart. Polite. Good-looking. I know some people think you’re eccentric, but that’s perfectly fine with me. So am I. Most of all, we’ve known each other since we were small, haven’t we? You know enough about me that our cover won’t be blown easily. You’re the best option.”
Shintaro dips his head, fumbling with his glasses; he can feel his cheeks burning and he hates it. Jesus, this is— cruel. Even as the gentler part of his personality, Akashi has a habit of cruelty—Shintaro’s used to it, and he wonders what that says about him that he keeps coming back—but it’s worse, somehow, now that he isn’t even meaning to be cruel—that he can sit there and call Shintaro good-looking with a placid, matter-of-fact tone, like it’s obvious. Like it doesn’t mean anything that he’s saying it.
(To say things like you’re the best option—)
“Midorima?” Akashi prompts, and it’s the closest he comes to saying please. Something inscrutable flickers across his expression. “I understand if you’re— uncomfortable,” he says, his voice cooling slightly. “I suppose it’s a rather difficult thing to ask, especially in Japan—“
“No,” Shintaro blurts, and puts a hand to his forehead, rubbing his temples. “No, it’s— it’s not that. Trust me, it wouldn’t be that.”
Akashi falls silent.
Shintaro can’t look at him. His gaze is fixed on the floor. It’s damp with snow and glistening flower petals.
“That’s good to hear,” Akashi says, eventually. “So. Your answer?”
“I’ll do it,” Shintaro acquiesces, and glances up. He’ll have to reschedule his shifts, but it’s worth it when Akashi offers him a small, genuine smile, his scarlet-rimmed irises shining, and he sounds pleased when he says:
“Thank you. Now, I remember you mentioned an experimental procedure in your hospital the other day?”
They’re both busy people—Shintaro will have to work double night shifts for this, and Akashi’s inbox must be overflowing—but when Akashi eventually makes to leave, the sky is brushed with streaks of gold in wake of the setting sun. A fresh cherry blossom’s stuck in his hair, fallen from the tree above them; pink against red. Without thinking, Shintaro stops him by reaching over to pluck it from his soft red hair.
Akashi doesn’t move until Shintaro jerks back abruptly, letting the flower fall from his fingers in alarm, when he realises what exactly he’s doing. The touches Akashi invites are always rare, so he shouldn’t have—
“I apologi—“
“No need,” Akashi cuts in evenly, and picks up the flower from where it’s dropped onto the table. Bewilderingly, he pockets it, then meets Shintaro’s eyes. His cheeks are pink; likely from the cold. Shintaro should give him his scarf. “I’ll see you again soon.”
“…I’ll be in touch. Take my scarf before you go.”
“It’s fine. I don’t get cold.”
“I insist.”
Akashi accepts it, humour and something Shintaro can’t read dancing behind his smile.
“One more thing,” he says, standing. “If we’re going to be dating, we should start getting used to calling each other by our first names. I know perhaps it might bring back memories, but— it’s still me, right, Shintaro?”
Shintaro lets the glare of the dusk light hide his eyes behind his glasses, as he curls the syllabus around his tongue: “Okay. Seijuro.”
Once upon a time, he would have feared for his safety just by saying that name—but as it is, Akashi just stands there for longer than he would normally, and it makes Shintaro hesitate, but he doesn’t sense any anger. After Akashi leaves, Shintaro finds bills tucked underneath his teacup enough to pay for both their drinks and then some. He looks up, holding up a hand, but Akashi’s back is already disappearing into the distance.
The sight is a familiar one. Akashi is the type of person you spend your life chasing, the type of person you’d think sat, untouchable, on a throne, but is simply flawed, infallible, just like everyone else. The type of person you love until the ends of the earth, quietly and devotedly and from afar—especially if you were Shintaro.
That is to say—this is a terrible idea and he knows it. It’s only going to end with another damn loss.
He finishes his last sip of tea and lets the snow fall over him.
Well. It’s not like losing to Akashi has ever deterred Shintaro, anyway, from going back to him, over and over again, has it?
There are things that stick with Shintaro, from before—not details, but impressions. Flashes of memories dyed in saturated watercolour. A long, dark corridor so black he can’t see the end, stumbling after footsteps with echoing strides. How it feels to always a step behind, to be always chasing after that red. Always behind that broad back, watching sharp eyes underneath shadow that never watch back. Always a coward; too close and yet never close enough.
Shintaro remembers wood beneath his fingers, shogi pieces on a board, the wind blowing through the translucent curtains of his classroom. He remembers a hand against his cheek and a sweet smile like the devil. He remembers the echo of a basketball hitting the court, a fist touching his. He remembers what it was like to lose all that—for it to be like nothing had ever happened—and he remembers what it was like to lose, and lose, and lose. Never good enough. Never in power. Never loved. Just loss after loss after loss.
Shintaro hates losing.
(He continues chasing anyway.)
“Are you sure you should do this? No, scratch that. Definitely do not do this.”
Takao tries to snatch his phone from Shintaro’s desk, but he pulls it away so it’s out of reach. “Takao, stop it!”
“Shin-chan, do you think I’m blind? I’ve never said anything to you all these years, but it’s because I thought you were sensible enough to guard your heart. Somewhat. But then again, considering your taste, that should have been my first warning.” He holds out his hand. “Here, give me your phone. I can help you cancel your idiotic plan. We need you here at the hospital, anyway; I can just tell him that.”
“Get. Out. Of. My. Office.”
“No,” Takao says cheerily, but then he catches sight of Shintaro’s expression and sobers. The glimpses of Takao like this—serious, dryly ironic, but still not without humour—when the sharp glint of his eyes become pronounced, his gaze and words acerbic—is not something Shintaro dislikes. Still.
“Takao—“
“Shin-chan,” Takao says. “It’s been years. Why do you still do this to yourself?”
“It is not something I ‘do to myself’,” Shintaro says stiffly, adjusting his glasses. “He is my friend. We are close.”
“Who are you fooling? I admit you’re not pining after him twenty-four seven, but you’re hardly giving yourself what you deserve, either. You’re not even trying.”
“I— appreciate the concern. For what it’s worth, you’re right—these unnecessary feelings, I don’t need them. But it doesn’t matter. They’re not permanent.”
“That’s what you told me the very first time I tried to bring it up. How long has it been, exactly?”
“It’s just going to take more time,” Shintaro snaps, and instantly feels guilty for doing so. He dips his head in apology; and Takao smiles, slightly, but it’s a little wry and a little sad.
“Shin-chan.”
“Yes?”
“You ever wonder what it could have been? Us, I mean.”
And Shintaro pauses, caught off-guard. He never— he thought it would never be addressed, the unspoken thread that’s run between them for the longest time, ever since he and Takao joined the same team, then the same university, then the same hospital.
“…what’s wrong? It’s not like you to be so sentimental.”
Takao hums. “I take that as a no?”
“Don’t be stupid, Takao.” The of course I have goes unspoken. “If it were anyone, it would’ve been you.”
“That’s cruel, Shin-chan,” Takao says, but he says it lightly, and his expression has cleared. “Don’t be ridiculous, anyway. There’s no way I’m going to be competing with the shadow of a king. Oh, don’t make that face—okay, sure, I wouldn’t be competing, because I’m my own person, blah, blah, I can already tell what you’re going to say. My point is, I have more self-worth than to fall for someone unavailable, okay? Besides,” Takao pokes at Shintaro’s lucky item, a dreamcatcher hung on the edge of his desk, “I have zero interest in stick-in-the-mud carrots.”
“Get out of my office,” Shintaro demands again. It’s without heat, though, and both of them know it.
“Aw, I guess I do have patients to get to. Look, just— I’ll try not to worry so much, so in return, don’t get yourself hurt. Have fun with Akashi, and in the meanwhile, you just finished two surgeries almost back to back, right? You should catch a quick nap.”
And then he turns, waving a hand goodbye, and Shintaro can see the echo of the teenager he was just as he can see the man he’s grown into, wise and sharp and as kind as before.
“Takao?” Shintaro calls, right before Takao closes his office door.
“Hm?”
“…thank you,” Shintaro forces out, awkwardly. He doesn’t say what for, exactly. Takao seems to get it anyway.
“Of course,” he replies, soft, and then he’s gone.
For all those Cancers today, congratulations! Today is your lucky, lucky day. Ranked right above Sagittarius at first, that painful, lonely love life of yours is about to come to an end. Brace yourself, and above all, enjoy it! Now listen closely for your lucky item…
Akashi—no, it’s Seijuro now, and, Jesus, it’s hard getting used to that—has a hand in his pocket and an eyebrow arched as Shintaro approaches. Seijuro’s looks has never the driving factor that drew Shintaro in. Even so, it’s hard to feel nothing at the bespoke suit on that lithe frame, clinging at just the right angles to show off the muscles people don’t know Seijuro has, at that cleanly-styled hair and faint sheen of lip gloss, and Seijuro gives Shintaro a slow, crawling once over that Shintaro doesn’t allow himself to blink twice at.
“Good choice of suit.”
“You told me to wear it.”
“Exactly,” Seijuro says, and laughs lightly. “You remember everything you need to, right?”
“Naturally. What do you take me for?”
The first half of the wedding is uneventful. They go around greeting people, and Seijuro introduces him as his plus one—other than a few weird looks, nobody seems to question it. Maybe because it’s Seijuro they’re talking about, and Seijuro off-handedly mentions Shintaro’s a doctor, and surely a respected businessman and a doctor can’t like men. There’s nothing too out of the ordinary from their normal outings, except— except Seijuro stands just that fraction too close; except Seijuro touches him, conditions Shintaro to his touch, a hand on his back to steer him across the crowd or a lean against Shintaro while sipping champagne.
Shintaro is starting to think Takao may have a point. This is far more painful than he anticipated.
Seijuro’s client arrives a while after they do, and Seijuro points this out with a slight tilt of his head. Shintaro nods to shows he understands, but as per the plan, they don’t make their move yet; that’s for the reception, when everyone’s bound to be a bit looser from the alcohol and sentimental from the ceremony.
It starts to get worse after that, though. The pawns have been played. The pieces have to be developed. They’re reaching the middle game.
Shintaro is the one who starts it, because it’s marginally less torturous that way; because it helps him wrestle back that little bit of that goddamn control he never feels in Seijuro’s presence. They’ve planned this out—stand, visibly, in the line of sight of the client; act close enough that it doesn’t raise too much suspicion from others, but enough to get the client thinking. Shintaro grits his teeth and says, deadpan, “Aka— Seijuro.”
“Do you need something, Shintaro?”
“There’s something on your suit,” he lies awkwardly.
Seijuro looks deeply amused. “Is that so?”
“Yes. Here.” Shintaro wonders if for the first time Oha Asa is wrong as he reaches out and brushes a whole lot of nothing from Seijuro’s suit. Seijuro’s body heat is warm even over the layers of fabric. Shintaro can feel Seijuro’s eyes on him as he pulls away.
God. What he would give to be allowed to do this, not in public but in private. To let himself be devoted completely to Seijuro, to talk to him in the late night not simply as his friend but a lover; to open his eyes in the morning next to him and unequivocally be able to kiss him awake. To be special to someone like Sejijuro—to have won over something as precious, as valuable, as priceless as his love, to have control not because Shintaro wrangled it from Seijuro, but because Seijuro offered it up of his own accord.
But there’s no use entertaining fantasies like that. Shintaro is a practical man; he does the best he can, and he believes what comes simply comes. That is all.
And so the game progresses, rook and knight and generals, Seijuro’s arm slung through his and Shintaro angling their faces close and Seijuro touching his arm, his back, his shoulder. It’s working, Shintaro can tell, from the way the client keeps on discreetly looking over at them, even without them doing anything; Seijuro, of course, notices this too, as Shintaro can tell from the way his lips curl briefly every time he catches the client glancing in their direction.
The wedding ceremony is— beautiful. Shintaro isn’t one for romance, or even sentimentality, but even he has to admit feeling slightly touched from the speeches and the vows, the sheer unabashed love on display evident in the tears to the decorations of the venue, the colourful flower petals and strung-up fairy lights twinkling like stars.
Shintaro turns to look at Seijuro, who’s seated beside him, during the vows.
Seijuro is staring straight ahead at the bride and groom. His red hair looks almost golden in the dim orange light, like a halo; or perhaps a crown. His eyes are slightly lidded, his lips slanted in a smile that’s more melancholic than joyful. Shintaro knows Seijuro well enough to see the— the pensiveness of it, the barely-there wryness that touches the edges of his furrowed brows. It’s almost— wistful. But Shintaro is self-aware enough to realise when he’s projecting, so he dismisses the thought.
Perhaps Seijuro is wondering if he’ll ever find a girl to get married to. The thought stings more than he thought it would, so abruptly and viscerally that for a moment Shintaro feels like he’s in actual pain, his chest constricted, squeezing air from his ribcage.
Yet, well—it’s not something he hasn’t dealt with before. He slips a hand into his suit pocket to finger his lucky item for comfort, running his thumb over the wooden surface, and tries very hard to not feel like shit.
“Shintaro,” Seijuro catches his attention, brushing his arm lightly. Shintaro turns to him; they’re close enough that he can count the eyelashes on his cheek. “Are you ready for the reception?” He stands and offers a hand. His nails are well-manicured, fingers slim but strong, the tips of them callused. Shintaro remembers another hand held out, once—in that case the hand was his.
“Yes,” Shintaro replies, and is relieved to acknowledge it’s mostly true. He’s a grown ass man, for God’s sake; he’s no longer some infatuated teenage boy. He’s mature enough to handle this with grace.
In the end, he accepts the hand. A faint smile flickers briefly over Seijuro’s face before it disappears.
“Akashi-san,” greets the client, finally, almost half an hour into the reception. Just like Seijuro mentioned, he doesn’t seem too comfortable around him, his expression on guard as he nods.
Well, it’s fine. That’s what Shintaro is here for. They’re in the endgame now. Seijuro has always been especially good at endgames. “I didn’t expect to see you here. How come you’re…”
“The groom and I attended the same university,” Seijuro tells him, and his voice is a fraction too warm; a charming, convincing illusion of friendly camaraderie. Shintaro is pressed so close to Seijuro’s back that he can smell not only the woody musk of Seijuro’s cologne but the floral hint of shampoo picked up by the wind. “How have you been?”
“Fine, I’ve been— fine,” replies the client. He’s clearly distracted. His gaze keeps flickering between Shintaro and the possessive hand he has on the small of Seijuro’s back, and, God, does it feel good to be able to touch Seijuro like that—for him to be able to show that Seijuro is his and he is Seijuro’s.
But at the same time— absolutely not. That would be foolish. Shintaro has to be careful to remember that all this is a pretence, a falsehood. A lie. No matter how much, how long, he’s wished for even a facsimile of this—he’ll take what he’s given, for this short period of time; and then it will have to be enough. He won’t be able to survive otherwise.
“And this is…?” the client blurts, after a moment more. Check. Shintaro sees that delighted smirk Seijuro gives when Shintaro falls into his shogi traps flash across his face so fast anyone else might’ve missed it.
“Oh,” Seijuro says, and then, before Shintaro can move, grabs a handful of his hair and drags him down so he’s at eye level. With a muffled sound of surprise, Shintaro finds himself being pulled down. He feels himself gaping without his own volition. “This is my beloved. Please,” and Seijuro’s voice turns saccharine, almost dripping with affection; it sounds real but Shintaro has to remember that it’s not, he has to remember, “meet Shintaro. Midorima Shintaro.”
And, ugh, that Seijuro. He should give warnings when he’s going to do weird things next time. Seijuro lets him go and Shintaro regains his composure as quickly as he can, trying very hard to look like what just happened was a perfectly everyday fondness he’s used to.
The client’s eyes are wide as saucers. Shintaro privately agrees with him.
“Are you…” he starts to say. He seems to struggle with himself for a moment. “You two look like very good friends.”
Seijuro’s eyes gleam with mirth. He’s enjoying this far too much. “In a manner of speaking, yes. We are very good friends.” He drawls the word out so that it’s innuendo-laden, and Shintaro feels red creeping up into his cheeks. Really! He knows it’s for the act, but Seijuro should know better than to be so improper.
“Oh,” the client stutters, jaw dropping slightly. “So you mean…”
“Shintaro is my partner, yes. Will there be a problem?” Seijuro says, suddenly frowning. As though he doesn’t already know there won’t be a problem.
“No! No, not at all, I, uh.” The client clears his throat. “Actually, I…” He seems to think better of it; abruptly, his eyes narrow. “Everybody seems to be under the impression you’re single, Akashi-san. When exactly did the two of you get together?”
“For a few years now. We’ve been discreet about it, out of necessity, if you get my gist.”
The client softens at that, a sympathetic grimace flittering across his face. “Ah, of course. I see. Midorima-san, was it? It’s nice to meet you.”
Dutifully, Shintaro shakes the client’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you too.”
“What do you like about Akashi-san?”
“H— huh? Where did that come from?"
“I was merely curious. Even after knowing Akashi-san for so long, he just seems too perfect to be true. It’s a bit off-putting.”
“That’s rude,” Shintaro defends loyally. The client smiles for the first time in the conversation.
“Sorry, you’re right. Either way, surely you have something to say.”
Shintaro can feel himself freeze for a moment too long, because Seijuro turns to look at him, and the client’s eyes narrow slightly. But— come to think of it, Seijuro can’t do anything about it, can he? If he takes issue with what Shintaro’s about to say, Shintaro can just point out that it was all part of their cover.
“Seijuro,” Shintaro starts, “is the strongest man I know. He has been through a lot, and yet grown into the brilliant person he is today. He has always been driven. He has always been kind. I like the part of him that always pushes himself to be better, even if I wish he wouldn’t overdo it. I like how he cares about his friends and respects them no matter what. I like how he sees potential in people even if they don’t see it in themselves. He’s charismatic, he’s popular—people are powerless to do anything but be drawn to his orbit, and I’m no different. He’s an outstanding leader.” Shintaro’s nails dig into his palm. He takes a steadying breath. “We’ve known each other since we were young. I’m grateful for all the memories we’ve made. I love how he plays shogi with me even though I always lose, although perhaps I hate that too. I love the way his passes feel in my hands, so full of diligence and skill and support. And he’s far from the perfect man you think he is—he gets annoyed when dogs don’t listen to him. He’s polite and witty but can’t make jokes. He picks out the wakame from seaweed soup when he thinks nobody’s watching because he dislikes it. He—“
Shintaro cuts himself off. There’s a short silence.
“My apologies,” he says. “I spoke too much.”
The client laughs slightly, sounding half-flabbergasted, half-stunned, almost rueful. “No! No, not at all, thank you for sharing. I— I’ve always… I’m jealous, is all. I think what you two have is very special.” He grins ruefully. “And it’s nice to hear Akashi-san isn’t just the untouchable emperor he seems like, after all.”
Shintaro’s only half-listening. He curses that he can’t see Seijuro’s expression from here; but as soon as Shintaro started speaking, he’d gone still—there’s a tension to the set of his shoulders that Shintaro wants to reach out and press away. Such frivolous thoughts are dispelled when the client speaks up again.
“Akashi-san. Since we’re here, anyway, I was wondering if we could discuss your proposal? I might be open to reconsidering my earlier decision to withdraw.”
Checkmate. “Of course,” Akashi inclines his head, a smile in his voice, and— and the blithe gaiety of the acceptance betrays neither the joy he must feel at his success, nor the earlier tension in his body language.
Shintaro swallows and feels slightly numb.
So.
That’s it, then. His job is over. This farce is over, and he and Seijuro will go back to being less than friends and more than lovers. A limbo for the rest of eternity.
Shintaro needs to get some fresh air.
“I’ll leave you two to it,” he says woodenly, and then he excuses himself before he can hear a response.
Seijuro finds Shintaro by the gazebo down from the garden path where winter flowers bloom from the grass and warm orange lights light up the way.
“That was quite the speech back there. Thank you, Shintaro. It was very convincing.”
Shintaro turns to hide his expression. “It was nothing. I’m glad your plan worked.”
“It’s all thanks to you. I’ll treat you to a meal in return.”
“You always do that, anyway.”
Seijuro pauses. “Did you mean it?”
“Mean what?” Shintaro says, but he there’s no goddamn way he doesn’t know what Seijuro is referring to and they both know it. Jesus, this was a horrendously terrible idea. His blood is cold in his veins. It’s snowing again. His mouth is dry and Shintaro wants to run, he wants to fight, he wants to battle until he wins this war with no start or end.
“What you said. The things you— like about me.”
“Of course I meant it, Akashi,” Shintaro says, suddenly and abruptly tired. He leans forward, putting his elbows on his knees, rubbing his eyes warily.
“Seijuro,” Seijuro corrects. As if that’s what’s important right now.
“What?”
“Seijuro is still fine.”
“Alright, Seijuro,” he says eventually. “You have something to say, right? What’s on your mind?”
It’s not like Seijuro to hesitate, and yet. “I…”
Fuck it, Shintaro thinks, and reaches into his suit pocket. He tosses the shogi piece with his signature high arc right into the hands of Seijuro, because he knows it’ll make him smile, before letting his eyes flutter shut.
“This is…“ Seijuro sounds genuinely surprised. “It’s the king piece from the customised shogi set I gave you, right before we graduated, right? We weren’t talking too much, then, but I… why did you…?”
“It’s my lucky item for today.”
“Your lucky item,” Seijuro repeats, slowly. He’s always been quick on the uptake. “You mean, the lucky item that was vaguely described as ‘an object from the object of your affection’.”
“You listened to Oha Asa today?”
“Of course. I knew I’d be meeting you.”
And despite everything, Shintaro’s traitorous heart skips a beat. The snow blankets alongside a long silence. Shintaro stares out into the garden and wonders how to respond without giving another piece of himself away. Without losing again.
“Oh, Shintaro,” Akashi says, softly; he’s sharpened a knife with his tongue to cut through the quiet. “You’ve been so foolish.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Shintaro says sharply, offended, but then Seijuro’s on his tiptoes with cold fingers on Shintaro’s chin, pulling him down to slot their lips together for a brief, timeless second.
Shintaro flails back, his entire face flaming.
“W— what—“
“Let me rephrase. We’ve been so foolish.” And Seijuro smiles, not the yearning smile from earlier or the business-like one, but something pure, full of unadulterated joy and wonder. “Let’s try this again. Shintaro, go out with me.”
“Seijuro,” Shintaro snaps, helpless; even as his heart is screaming and his lips are burning with the taste of strawberry gloss, “I do not want to be someone you date just because you can. I do not want to be chasing after you for the rest of my goddamn life. I want to be your equal, and until then—“
“Enough. You misunderstand,” Seijuro interrupts—calmly, but not any less cheerful. “It was never your place to chase after me. Your place has always been by my side.”
Shintaro’s throat constricts. “Seijuro—“
“I love you, Midorima Shintaro. Let me take you out. Yes or no?”
And, well.
It looks like Oha Asa is always right.
“I could never quite say no to you,” Shintaro replies, almost a whisper, and steps forward on his own this time to kiss the man he’ll follow to the grave, under the company of stars and flowers and the glistening snow whispering of hope.
(“Kuroko, I have news.”
Kagami’s background yelling is audible even through the tinny phone speakers. “Yes, Akashi-kun, what is it?”
“You’re the first person I’m telling. Shintaro and I—“
“When?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m putting you on speaker now. When did you get together?”
Seijuro huffs a shocked laugh. Kuroko never ceases to surprise. “How did you… no, never mind. It happened yesterd—“
“FUCK!” Kagami shouts loudly, and Seijuro winces, holding the phone away from his ear.
And Kuroko sounds very, very pleased. “Congratulations, it finally happened. I was starting to get sick of it. I’m genuinely, intensely happy for you, and thank you for just winning me a hundred bucks, Akashi-kun,” and that little shit hurriedly hangs up before Seijuro can even respond, leaving him staring blankly at the screen and wondering who else he has to kill.)