Barton-kun

Prompted by: weirdgrammar - BLUE

AoSaku

Kuroko no Basuke

His eyes aren't as sharp as Izuki's eagle, never mind Takao's hawk, but keen enough to calculate the distance between him and the hoop with an extremely accurate precision and take in every detail of human beings or nature then map their beauty out on a piece of paper.

Each strands of hair, sets of expression, wrinkles on their clothes, swiftness of their movement, atmospheres they create, Sakurai Ryo studies them carefully and relives them on almost everything his hand manages to reach out; on his table, in his History or Math textbook, in his notes, but mostly in his sketchbook.

Sakurai loves drawing. It happened when he watched Dragon ball years ago, and it hooked his interest ever since. He started to doodle all over places; his first masterpiece is an awful doodle of Son Goku with his hands hidden behind his back and Sakurai's mother has framed and put it up on the fridge. His older sister is still teasing him about it every morning, gaining delighted laughter from his family.

After years of slaving away for the techniques of drawing and spending a considerable amount of pocket money, Sakurai finally has perfected the skill and is able to dip into it whenever or wherever he wants. He can capture details almost perfectly and put them into life in his sketchbook easily.

A nurtured talent.

Still, he prefers to shield his artworks away from prying eyes, hugging them to his chest. Sakurai isn't too fond of unnecessary attentions. So, most of the time, he'll lock himself away in the art studio to pour his creativity out.

Well, not always. Sometimes Sakurai follows his subject of drawing, almost like stalking but not quite, because he uses 'bonding moment' as his excuse to observe his subject.

Coincidentally enough, this time his subject of drawing is one of his classmates and they're quite close to each other (if a string of apologies counts as one of conversation materials).

Sakurai sits quietly in his chair while his brown eyes occasionally flick up in the direction of the subject of his drawing. He's hunching over the cluttered table, his hand dancing across the paper delicately, graciously. Colored pencils are all over his table, and yet he could care less, giving his full concentration on the artwork.

Stroke, stroke, stroke. Rub, rub, rub.

"…yo."

Sakurai frowns at the artwork. He taps his colored pencil against the table in a contemplative manner. It doesn't look right. He's been working at the artwork for weeks, been tearing many papers and none of them has been able to near to the finishing touch because his choice of colors always fail him.

The color of eyes, specifically.

"Ryo," then follows a sudden tap of finger on his shoulder, and Sakurai jerks, coming out of his intense concentration with a jolt.

Aomine appears in Sakurai's field of vision, looming over him and the table, his expression concern for a second. It smoothes out into bored fast, but Sakurai is distracted by his motion of hiding his artwork beneath him out of pure reflex as quick as his brain processes Aomine's image, accidentally pushing his colored pencils off of the table.

The colored pencils fall on the floor with loud noises. Aomine backs away in surprise and Sakurai tries not to wince at the sound. He can only hope their lead hasn't broken.

"Quite a reaction you've got there," says Aomine, amused. He crouches down, picking up the pencils.

Sakurai, too, joins him picking up the pencils with a bright scarlet face and a murmur of apology under his breath for bothering Aomine-san to help him. Aomine gives out a chuckle at him.

"Hey, it's just me or you actually got a lot of blue pencils here?" Aomine asks and presents him with a dusky blue pencil. "Looking for a favorite pencil? And they're quite short too."

Sakurai pinks. He's been playing with shades of blue lately to find a suitable color for his drawing. "I'm sorry, but that one is actually wedgewood. Not just any blue," he mutters shakily. Sakurai holds up more colored pencils, then he adds; "Sky. Midnight. Turquoise. Cornflower. Mediterranean blue. Royal. Aqua. Slate."

Aomine furrows his brows together. "You're making things up, aren't you? They look pretty much same to me."

"No—no!" Sakurai shakes his head. "I'm sorry but I'm not bluffing! It just—"

"Hey, chill," Aomine lands a hand on his shoulder, comforting, reassuring, but Sakurai can feel his bones flex under the pressure, his shoulder slightly slumping beneath Aomine's large palm. "'m just playing, 'kay?"

Sakurai gives him a shaky smile as Aomine hums, picking up more pencils. Aomine-san scarcely ever opens himself to anyone, offering a sincere smirk – Aomine-san never smiles, only smirks – and a tender gaze. His arrogance often shields the good side in Aomine-san away, blanketing over him like a cocoon as if he's trying to protect his vulnerable side from being abused by anyone. It is a sporadic occurrence, but Sakurai is grateful to able to this side of Aomine-san.

"Ah~ I know this one," a raise of octave in Aomine's deep voice startles Sakurai out of his thoughts. Aomine waves a colored pencil in Sakurai's face. "This one is navy, right? Navy, right? Tell me I'm right, tell me I'm right!"

Sakurai remains silent, eyes narrowing into Aomine's orbs. There are enchanting sparkles, almost like a cross between sky blue and white which soften the navy that pools around the black pupil. The visible lines of electric blue and midnight are drawn up around the iris into the pupil, making it a breathtaking view to see. Sakurai takes a sharp intake of breath as he drowns deeper into sea of blue.

"Ryo?"

Sakurai snaps back, remembering the question Aomine threw to him. "Er… I'm sorry—yes, it's navy. I'm sorry, but can I get back the pencil, coz, uh, I need—I need it, sorry, like right now."

Confused, Aomine passes to him, nonetheless.

"Thank—thank you," Sakurai bolts upright for his sketchbook and bends over, his face few inches above the table, his hand frantically switching the colored pencils as he pours each of shades and details he's absorbed into his mind out in his sketchbook. He can feel Aomine's confused, intense gaze on him from behind, but his concentration hasn't budged at all.

Stroke, stroke, stroke. Rub, rub, rub.

The clock is ticking.

Stroke, stroke, stroke. Rub, rub, rub.

It's getting redder outside.

Stroke, stroke, stroke. Rub, rub, rub.

And he stops.

Finally, Sakurai peels himself off the table, now with a satisfied look. He allows himself a tiny smile of satisfaction.

"You done?" Aomine asks suddenly, causing Sakurai to whirl around to him. Aomine has his one arm hugging around his body and another hand resting on his lips; a suggestion of waiting gesture for god knows how long, maybe a few minutes, maybe an hour, Sakurai has lost track of time.

Sakurai gives a sheepish nod, his smile hasn't disappeared. "I'm sorry, not really, but quite done."

"So, uh, I know you don't like people looking at your drawing, or whatever, but, uh, can I?"

It's rare to hear Aomine-san ask for permission, but Sakurai makes a point to not say it out loud. He prefers to squeeze this rare moment and burns it into his mind before it's shattered either by him or Aomine-san himself. He takes a better look at his masterpiece then hands it over to Aomine.

Aomine shoots him a cursory glance before looking at the sketchbook. Then, his eyes snap open wider, and blink.

"What the…"

It's a drawing of him in Touou jersey, holding up the ball with a wide smile on his face. The drawing is indeed not done, it's still sketchy in places, the lines trailing away as if absorbed by the paper. But his head and shoulders, chest and arms are in stark relief, and he's standing proudly as if there isn't any weight on the shoulders pulling his body down. The details of ball are magnificently, elegantly drawn, its texture and shadow and the light playing across it. His short hair is messy and dripping sweat, painting a unique shade between cerulean from the spotlights and midnight from the sweats.

Then there's his smile. So wide it reveals his pearly white teeth and it almost touches the corners of his eyes.

So beautiful, Aomine thinks, but above all, he likes the eyes the most. A fine mixture of blues expresses million of human feelings; happiness, love, satisfaction, and they bring soul into the drawing.

Aomine is captivated.

"That's… not me," says Aomine, shaking his head.

Sakurai tips his head to the side. "I'm sorry, Aomine-san, but it is you. I didn't have so many chances to see this side of you because you know… you're kind of…" he trails off before breaking off his saying completely. "But when I did, I poured them out in here."

"Wow, I don't know what to say," Aomine's thumb brushes the side of sketchbook, delicate and almost reverent. "I mean, he looks too… sincere," Aomine cringes.

"It's usually hidden, but always there," Sakurai answers truthfully. "At first, I had problems with the color of eyes. I couldn't decide which color suits you best."

"Ah~ that explains those weird colors, huh? You've been experimenting." A statement instead of a question. Sakurai accepts it nonetheless.

"Yes," he scratches his cheek sheepishly. "I've been until you picked up the navy one. Then I realize it's the perfect color for your eyes," then Sakurai leans closer. "Er… I'm sorry Aomine-san, but how did you know that it's navy?"

Aomine gives him a familiar smirk. "Coz' I'm genius."

Sakurai throws a perplexed look at first before curdling into admiration and affection at Aomine-san's cockiness. Sakurai has been known about it long time ago. There are two sides that have been buried in Aomine-san, two clashing personalities, but they both make who Aomine-san is.

And to Sakurai, either one is fine. He admires both.