Sorry about the general lateness of things...poor health and rl issues really isn't a good look on me. Well, I hope you enjoy this spontaneously-written ficlet.
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Aomine still didn't bother to attend club practice, but Wakamatsu couldn't bring himself to care anymore. After all, even an idiot could see how hard the bastard was working to catch up: having Momoi set a special menu just for him, wearing the soles off his shoes and the paint off the floors of the street courts. In fact, the blond would never have guessed just how early Aomine rose these days to jog, if his mom hadn't sent him once at goddamn six a.m. to the closest 7-11. He had good reason to suspect this routine persisted during the weekends too.
(Yeah, even an idiot could recognise Aomine's renewed effort.)
(Too bad some of the new regulars were worse than idiots.)
That was why when Kaijou avenged themselves by one point come next Interhigh, Wakamatsu didn't go off on a rant like half the ream expected. Instead, he stayed silent. He was silent in the showers, was silent as Sakurai herded everybody off afterwards as per his instructions, was silent as he sat down opposite his equally mute power forward. Even at this direct angle, Aomine's face was half-hidden by the towel, and there was something about the slant of his normally imposing physique that felt almost polite. Tired.
He should probably punch this retard anyway–like what was he thinking, sulking so early into the new season; immature brat–except they were no longer who they were, comfortably able to fit into those old roles, and Wakamatsu had had to grow into a captain some time ago. More than anything else, it was the phantom clangs in his memories, of a basketball ring obsessively pounded with shots, that turned his fist into a gentle but inexorable palm, clapping a too-limp shoulder. "Good game," he said. A choice of words that made the most sense because, of course this stupid and difficult kouhai should understand everything else–that this wasn't over; that Touou was still considered strong–but not what was most important.
(As in, you've done your frigging best and no one has the right to blame you.)
(And maybe, I knew all along.)
Any other day and his not-pity would've been met with a slap and angry scorn. Should've been. But today the boy who had only recently rediscovered his love was too raw from unaccustomed loss. So Aomine, who had never cried when Seirin woke him up, simply sat there and didn't issue one sob this time either.
Whether Wakamatsu spotted any actual tears from the corner of his averted sight was nobody's business.
(Owari)
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So, was it OOC? Please do tell me if it is.