Double Meaning
Disclaimer: Don't own.
No one ever really sees Kuroko Tetsuya. That type of blanket generalization isn't good to make, and it seriously doesn't even begin to comprehend the problem. This has something to do with his lack of presence, of course, but it's not as simple as that. The statement is very like himself (if Kuroko can be presumptuous enough to say that in the first place, which he's not sure he can) in that on the surface it's something but it's really more complicated than that.
Oh, he's mostly a simple guy; it's not that he's deep and full of complex emptions like a tortured poet or anything. What's there isn't really all that deep, it's just that no one has ever tested his depth, tried to immerse themselves in his essence (although he's a pretty private person, and the thought of someone getting inside of him in any sense makes him a bit uncomfortable, especially in the abstract).
And then along comes Izuki Shun, whose eagle eyes don't miss very much. They don't miss Kuroko. He's not sure of the exact moment when Izuki sees him, really sees him, but he's been watching Kuroko for a while when suddenly Kuroko looks up and meets his eyes and something passes between them. How long? How? How does he see?
It's not just the literal vision, because Ogiwara and Aomine had seen him and played basketball with him and been his friends, and yet they had not truly seen him and tried to reach under the surface. They were content just being with him, and there was nothing wrong with that in and of itself. Akashi had also seen and not seen him, even as his eyes saw everything it took him quite a while to notice and utilize Kuroko's talents. And, as Kuroko learns more about himself and his own capabilities, his potential not just in basketball but in social situations and in school, he realizes how little Akashi really noticed him. It was more than anyone else had noticed at the time, yes, but it had not been enough. Others, too, had started to notice his presence, had even changed their impressions of him over time—but none of them have tried to find much more than what Kuroko offers in plain sight (it's not that he's hiding anything deliberately, but they never ask him questions that he'd be happy to answer).
Of course, once Kuroko has noticed Izuki noticing him, he can't help but notice and observe Izuki, what an interesting specimen he really is. Izuki's hips are narrow, something Kuroko takes not of when very covertly studying him in the locker room and from then on is unable to not think about. After all, the typical muscular athlete has a square body, broad shoulders and chest with a waist that's as wide as his hips, but Izuki's slim waist grows narrower as it reaches down to the top of his boxers, just barely visible above his jeans. Kuroko smiles as he finishes dressing; it's a beautiful sight. Izuki knows, of course, because Izuki knows everything and sees everything (although he doesn't say anything). He wears his shorts slung lower and lower on his hips (until Coach tells him to cut that out because they'll fall down during a game and then where will the team be?) and somehow the hems on his practice shirts keep on getting cut off, so his pale but toned abdomen is showing and Kuroko almost gets a nosebleed. It's an awkward game of chicken between the two—Kuroko is not quite sure how to make a move in this kind of situation, and besides, Izuki might just be teasing him. It's hard to tell when he's joking and when he's being serious (he's unconsciously been making puns without realizing it lately, causing Hyuuga to react violently and Izuki to apologize because it just slipped out and he did not mean it this time) so what are his intentions?
Besides, Kuroko tells himself, this might just be a passing fascination. He's been enraptured before, by Ogiwara and by Kagami (that first time they met, which Kagami probably doesn't remember all that well if at all) and then the feelings ebbed and died away before he even really thought of doing anything about them (after the fact, he wondered what would have happened—and his inaction was probably for the best in both scenarios, because they only offered challenges to one another and an extra dimension to their carefully-balanced relationship could have broken the whole thing). But Izuki does not challenge him directly; Izuki himself is the challenge, as it were. Kuroko's lack of presence offers many advantages, including clarity of sight—he sees himself and therefore he sees things unseen that slip people's notice, but he is also witness to private and intimate moments between a person and himself or herself, moments that people do not realize they are making him privy to. But Izuki sees him, also sees the unseen, and Kuroko is so amazed to see his image reflected in Izuki that sometimes he does not see Izuki at all for himself. There is something he's missing, some wall Izuki has put up. Kuroko's muscles are not big enough to break through walls easily, metaphorical or no. But Kuroko does not quite know what he's searching for, what question needs answering.
They're both staying after practice when Kuroko finally figures out what he wants to ask; Izuki's trying some kind of fancy dribble but totally messes up. His laughter echoes from the high ceilings; it's nice and it's inclusive, like all of Izuki's laughs, inviting someone else to laugh, too (with him or at him; he's not picky about that). Kuroko doesn't laugh, but he feels his lips turn up at the corners a bit.
"Izuki-senpai?"
"Hm?" He pauses, about to take a jump shot, then turns to face Kuroko. He clutches the ball in his arms.
"What exactly is basketball to you?"
"Ah, man, Kuroko," Izuki says. "That's a hard question, so I'll make it my quest to answer it right here!"
Kuroko stares placidly at Izuki. That was a worse attempt than usual.
"Um," says Izuki. "Well, I've always liked basketball, since I was a kid, so…it's a big part of my life. I mean, playing is fun. Practicing is fun. Becoming better, winning and losing with my friends, that's fun. I mean, it's not really about being the best player in the world or defeating some particular opponent, you know? I mean, whenever I hold onto the ball, or pass or shoot or dribble, it helps me calm down." He's babbling, trying to pull things out of his mind, not the calm and collected guy firing out puns that Kuroko's used to seeing.
"It's refreshing," Kuroko says. "Thank you, Izuki-senpai."
They don't say anything for the rest of practice, continuing to work on their shots, getting in the repetitions and working on putting the motions in their muscle memories. They leave at the same time, shower and change, Kuroko thinking pleasant thoughts about Izuki's hips but unable to see them this time. They walk out together, still in a comfortable silence.
"Want to go to Maji?" Izuki asks as they near said fast food restaurant.
"Yes, that would be nice," says Kuroko.
They purchase milkshakes, Kuroko going for vanilla and Izuki choosing strawberry ("and I'll drink it with a straw!"). It's getting late, sun sinking so low in the sky outside that it blinds Kuroko through the window and he has to shut his eyes reflexively.
Even with closed eyes, the sunlight is so bright that it takes his eyes a while to adjust. And then, suddenly, his eyes adjust and there's a pressure on his lips. He opens his eyes to find Izuki's face stuck to his, blocking the blinding light. Kuroko shuts his eyes again, tastes the strawberry milkshake on his lips, wonders what the other patrons of the restaurant are seeing—do they see a boy leaned over the table precariously, mouth moving against nothing? Does Kuroko make Izuki invisible with his touch? Does Izuki bring Kuroko into visibility with his?
His heart is pounding wildly as they separate. They go back to sipping their milkshakes, Kuroko looking at the table to avoid the sun in his eyes. He does, however, extend a hand that is soon covered by Izuki's slightly larger, more calloused one.