If I Woke Up Next To You
Disclaimer: I don't own Fujimaki Tadatoshi's Kuroko no Basuke. Title comes from "I'm Like a Lawyer With The Way I'm Always Trying to Get You Off" by Fall Out Boy, which I also don't own.
Note: Same verse as my other fic "Alone Together" but it's not necessary to read that one
The questions are piling up, from the standard to the absurd, and he's deflected them all with the standard shrugs and non-answers. They were the best team in the regular season but couldn't make it through the first round of the playoffs, tossed aside like small fry despite being relatively healthy and no changes for the worse. It's a mystery, but it's over and done with and they can't save the season now. All they can do is train and come back and start over in the fall, watch the rest of the playoffs on flickering screens if they can bear it.
Aomine just stops talking to the reporters after a while, gathering up all the stuff from his locker, equipment and his spare phone charger and a half-empty bottle of aftershave and extra sticks of gum that are probably stale by now join the layers of assorted crap at the bottom of his bag. He's just going to end up throwing most of it out, anyway, but he'd rather figure that out back at his apartment when they can't shove microphones into his face or stare at him, unashamed at how goddamn creepy they all are.
He zips up the bag and slings it over his shoulder; none of them follow him as he leaves the arena. After all, Jones is still fielding questions at his locker and Taylor just got there and no one's talked to him since last night's loss at all. They're like fish, aggressively jostling for a position under a hand that might or might not feed them. What a shitty job.
He walks the mile or so back to his apartment, shades and hat and posture a shield against anyone who'd have anything to say to him, and most of the people are rushing against him to their own ends. They have no time for him.
The flowers have fallen off the trees; summer is pulling restlessly at the corners and he's sweating in his t-shirt and jeans. The weather is like a push, inciting a restlessness inside of him, that even though the season just ended he's long past due getting the hell out of here and going back home. He's got so much to do before he leaves, appliances to unplug and things to secure when he's gone for three months or so (he couldn't find anyone to sublet, although it's probably for the best. It's weird when people disrupt his things, when he's got to find a place to store all of his extra stuff that he doesn't want them finding or doing anything with.
His phone vibrates in his pocket; Kise's calling.
"Hey, you."
"When are you coming home?"
"You miss me that much?"
Kise sounds more needy than usual, more than he even does in person when they've gone without seeing each other for months. He doesn't sound dramatically whiny so much as desperate and lonely and the few days ahead suddenly seems like weeks, months, eternity.
"Yeah," says Kise.
He's so damn honest about how much he loves Aomine, so open and frank and aggressive with his feelings, and Aomine wants to say it's unfair but he can't really decide how it could be.
"My flight's on Friday. If I can move it up, I will."
"Why so long?"
"I got shit to do," says Aomine. "I have to clean, pack, take care of a few things. You want to come and help?"
"I have a shoot on Thursday," says Kise.
Aomine rifles through the fridge. He's definitely going to have to find something to do with all of this food; he can't eat all of it himself but he can't just throw it out, either.
"Hey, what are you wearing?"
Aomine grins, stands up and kicks the crisper drawer shut. "Lemme get to the bedroom."
"You can tell me on the way…"
Kise's voice is lower, rougher.
"You better not have your dick out already."
"I wouldn't start without you."
"Jeans, light grey t-shirt, Jordans," says Aomine.
"Mm," says Kise. Thankfully, he doesn't ask Aomine if he couldn't have worn something sexier (although whenever he does, it's when Aomine's wearing sweatpants, which anyone Kise's ever talked to since he graduated high school knows are pretty much the only things Kise doesn't miss about basketball). "I'm wearing dark-wash jeans, combat boots, and a plaid button-down."
"Earring?"
"The usual."
"Damn," says Aomine, flopping on the bed. "I'd like to touch it, run my hand along the edge of your ear, stroke the bottom of your jaw, kiss it."
Kise's breath hitches on the other end. He has beautiful ears, sculpted and artfully-shaped, bending under his touch and so, so sensitive.
"You're blushing a little bit and your mouth's kinda half-open and hour hands are up my shirt and it feels damn good."
"Mm. What about your hands?"
"My hands?"
Aomine pauses. He wants to touch any and every part of Kise right now, but that's not a real answer and Kise might find it romantic in a different mood but it's not sexy.
"Your thighs, my thumbs are on the inside of your thighs. Can you feel it good through your jeans?"
"Yes," Kise breathes.
"And you kiss me, your tongue runs across my teeth and you thrust your hips against mine and—ahh."
"You're hard."
"You're goddamn right, I am."
"Me, too, Aominecchi. I need you to take care of it for me."
"Yeah," says Aomine. "Yeah. I'm bringing my hands higher and higher on your thighs and I'm palming you through your jeans and you're grinding against me and your nails are digging into my back."
Kise moans; Aomine licks his lips and shoves one hand down his own jeans and touches himself. God, the thought of doing this to Kise—he's not ready to make this last longer than it has to.
"I'm unbuttoning your jeans and you're, uh, you're.."
Aomine loses track of things as he strokes himself.
"I'm squirming against you," says Kise, still panting. "I really want you right now and I help you pull down my jeans and boxers and, and, ahh."
He's touching himself now, too; Aomine imagines the bright flush on his cheeks and his heavy eyelids, long eyelashes weighing them down, hair matted with sweat and body tense, racing pulse in his wrist against Aomine's skin, legs clamping around Aomine's hips.
"You pull out your cock, too, and I put them together."
Aomine shudders, brushes the tip of his cock with his finger and moans, rolls his hips.
"My hand is moving…up and down…and you kiss me again…" his voice trails off, dissolving into sighs.
"Kise, I'm getting closer," says Aomine.
"Me, too."
Just listening to each other moan and sigh is enough, now; they're both horny and needy and imaginative; Aomine closes his eyes tightly and imagines Kise's face buried in his neck and his hands on Aomine's hips as they jerk each other off, imagines that his hand is softer and thinner and the heat of Kise's body is up against him.
"I'm coming," he gasps, and then a few hard jerks later he does, spilling onto the sheets as he shouts some incoherent phrase that he can barely hear because all of his senses are so overloaded right now. And as he's coming down, Kise shouts his name on the other end of the phone and Aomine grins.
He lies there for a minute or so, trying to muster up the energy to go take a cold shower and do something about the refrigerator and the laundry.
"Send me your flight information," says Kise through a yawn. "I'll meet you at the airport."
"Course," says Aomine. "I'll see about getting an earlier flight, too. I can't wait to see you."
"Me neither," says Kise. He yawns again.
"What time is it there?"
"Four."
"Go to sleep."
"Working on that," Kise mumbles.
"Love you."
"Mm."
Kise's breathing slows, and Aomine sits up, listening until he's sure Kise's asleep. It's only three more days; somehow he'll make it bearable.