Hi. This is my first Kuroko no Basuke fic. And despite how rushed this is and may seem to be, I like this a lot because this is the first fanfiction I've written after a long time of not writing one. :'D I feel quite accomplished, really.
Though since this is a product from a long stint of not writing, I… know this won't turn out as good as the ones I like to read. Hehe. I'm sorry.
Anyways, above all, I hope you enjoy this one.
Warnings: hints of self-harm. Probable OOC-ness.
Disclaimer: Kuroko no Basuke is not mine. It belongs to Fujimaki Tadatoshi.
Kuroko wasn't the only apparent master of people observation. Kagami was one too, in his own way.
Only he doesn't focus on people's movements or learn how to lead their gazes to where he'd desire them to steer to—that was Kuroko's specialty. Kagami would never give much effort to learn how his partner observes people. And even if he ever does, Kagami knew he won't be able to put what he possibly learns into any use.
What he observes—Kagami thought—was more special.
He liked to observe the reactions of people to little things—the way they'd smile in a childish light over particular objects or small moments of joy, the way they'd smile and agree over certain sentiments or points of view, or the way they'd suddenly possess a searing spirit of courage when they face an adversity no matter how big or small. Such observation allowed him to get to know people discreetly, without the very need to get into lengthy talks just to find out what the ones he observes value. Most times, as odd as it seemed, what he got to know made Kagami feel delighted.
He felt delighted for a lot a reasons, and a lot of reasons were they. For most, he felt delighted to acknowledge this 'skill' as almost a specialty, something he solely possessed. The rest was the various things he suddenly learned to do—most of which embodied his specialty.
Kagami treasured the way he seemed to know just what can most greatly cheer up a lonely soul on his seemingly forgotten birthday, like when he noticed the leadenness that seemed to wrap discreetly around the usually cheerful Kiyoshi Teppei on a certain 10th of June. Kagami treasured the way he seemed to know just what can mend a crushed spirit even by the simplest utters of childish encouragement, or by a plain tap on the shoulder and a collision of fists, like when he did the same to a shaken Hyuuga Junpei on a then losing match. Kagami treasured the way he seemed to know just what he can do to raise rather dejected spirits in a way he knows best and almost personal—that he never felt so delighted in his life. For once, no matter how impulsive he can be with words or how assertive his actions turn out a times, he finally didn't feel helpless in reaching out to the people he held dearest to his heart.
But Kagami was an amateur. He was relatively new to this observation ordeal—he knew and acknowledged that well. And as much as it hurt, he knew that he'd find out he wasn't genuinely good at closely observing people at all.
He knew it from the time he noticed how Kuroko seemed to be fully protective of his own wrists one day, and how he tried to keep them hidden between his stretched sleeves when they were touched. The reaction was just unnatural, almost peculiar—that Kagami could give nothing more than a confused but thoughtful look at the movement. It was a move of concealment—a move to keep something blind to the rest of the world, Kagami thought then. As much as he'd hate to admit it, he had to squint to notice this at all.
Though he has to admit that he tried not to think of the abnormal action and gave the blind eye the movement seemed to demand, the look on Kuroko's face that day had Kagami thinking twice if his budding observation skills were any of the special kind—if his observation skills truly paved way for him to give what the ones he observes need. And he couldn't ignore that.
Because the look on Kuroko's face wasn't just the kind of a trampled spirit or a lonely soul.
It was a look which thirsted for none of life. It was exhausted. Distant. Dead.
Then it was suddenly all funny, Kagami thought, to remember what his once observant little eyes seemed to see only now—the lattice work of red and maroon peeking almost teasingly through black sleeves, the little drops of rotten brown spread aimlessly around Kuroko's papers, the rusted ends of a cutter and a notebook spring long discarded but seemingly out of place—he let them pass by. He saw them, but almost didn't care.
Then it was suddenly painful—really, really painful—to know that Kagami had long tried to observe people from the sides only to find this out too late. And to find this out from Kuroko—dear god, Kuroko—hurt the most.