Imayoshi was in a foul mood after listening to that arrogant… he shook his head and cleared such thoughts loose. He knew his own worth – and more importantly, his own mind – better than anyone else. He closed the calendar app on his phone as the beginning of a plan coalesced in his brain.

Imayoshi rarely took the bus from his dorm to the Psychology building, but today he needed someone else to drive him so that he could focus on the text conversation going on.

[Help me, Obi-Wan Mitobe, you're my only hope.] He'd decided that humor was the best way to broach this ridiculous request and their shared love of all things nerdy and sci-fi, was the best way to spark the quiet Center's interest.

[I can lend you my lightsaber] came the reply. [It's not as clumsy or random as a blaster; an elegant weapon for a more civilized age.]

Imayoshi's dark chuckle convinced some of the girls sitting nearby that this was actually the stop they wanted, or that they'd be more comfortable in the seats farthest away from him. He saw their movement out of his peripheral vision, but he was in a good mood for the first time in days, and he ignored them. If only he had more time to play with Mitobe.

[Seriously, Chatterbox, I need a favor. It will take forever to type out. Can I call you and explain?]

[Of course. You talk and I'll text back my half of the conversation. Koganei and I do it all the time.]

Imayoshi sunk lower into the seat at the back of the bus, and dialed Mitobe's number. When the phone picked up on the other end, Mitobe tapped the speaker to let Imayoshi know he was there.

"Ok… so, ya see I'm in this weekend Sociology Seminar and if I miss one more day I'll fail the class, but I also have tryouts for the basketball team."

The silence on the other end of the phone was disconcerting.

"Ya with me?" he asked. A single tap, confirmed he wasn't alone.

"So, I was thinkin' since you and I are of similar height and colorin'…" he allowed the sentence to trail off, as he heard Mitobe's fingers racing over the keys.

[You want me to impersonate you?! At which event?]

"The class of course! We both have a rather impressive double-clutch, Chatterbox, but I think any good coach will notice the difference down the line when I can't do a hook shot worth a shit."

[I thought you were done with basketball so you could focus on school? Won't your professor and classmates notice that I'm not you? What happens when I can't speak to them?]

"I thought I was too, but the situation has changed. Ya know me better than ta think I'd call without a plan, Chatterbox… let me explain."


The confusion on Mitobe's face would have been comical, if Imayoshi wasn't so pressed for time.

"Ya can wear my old glasses without the lenses all damn day, but if ya don't close your eyes, no one is gonna believe this little ruse of ours, Chatterbox," he explained. "Fine, let's go over this one more time and hopefully I won't be runnin' inta the tryout after it's begun."

[No, no,] Mitobe typed quickly. [I got it, I just don't know how I'm going to pull this off. I'm going to have to open my eyes to walk down the stairs to the teacher's podium to give him the note about having laryngitis, and to get to your seat again.]

"Ya'll just have ta squint. I know this ain't gonna be easy –"

[And you really think none of your classmates will notice?]

"I am not well-liked, Chatterbox, I thought this was an established fact. My classmates tend ta avoid me, especially since the professor and I get along so poorly."

[You do it on purpose, don't you?]

"What? Irritate people?" he smiled. "Of course I do; don't waste time askin' pointless questions we both already know the answer ta. I have a perfect one hundred percent in that class – despite missin' two periods – and I could teach the class better than that fool of a professor."

Mitobe raised an eyebrow, but typed nothing more. Imayoshi put a hand on each of Mitobe's shoulders and looked up into the Center's eyes.

"The six centimeter difference won't be noticeable when I'm not there for comparison," he told Mitobe. "Thanks ya for doing this for me. I can't afford ta take this class a second time. Dad said that he can't help me with tuition any longer, not with the downturn Hiroya's taken lately. Thank heavens you're payin' rent. But, if he doesn't come out of that fuckin' bedroom soon… I'll beat the living' snot out of him."

Mitobe nodded and put on the empty glasses. He began typing as Imayoshi packed his gym bag.

[You do it all for him, don't you? Your classes, your future career in Psychology, even returning to basketball to pay for it all. You just want to help your brother get well.] He showed the screen to Imayoshi, who opened his eye a little wider.

"You're startin' ta sound like Bat, by sayin' all those 'unnecessary things.' I think I'm finally able ta empathize with Socialite." He turned back to his schoolbag. "All my textbooks are on the tablet. Take notes the best ya can from the lecture and keep a low profile. If you have ta, tell them you're hungover."

[Ok, Saint, don't worry. I've got this. You concentrate on the tryouts. Everything will work out.]

Imayoshi checked his pockets one more time and then left Mitobe.


With a schoolbag slung over one shoulder and wearing Imayoshi's school blazer, Mitobe walked into the Social Sciences Building as confidently as he could. He detoured into the bathroom, checked his disguise, and made sure that the hairspray still held it in a roughly Imayoshi fashion. He adjusted the set of his glasses so that the top rim of the frame sat low enough to cross the midline of his eyes. Satisfied, he squinted and walked into the hallway.

This isn't going to work; I'm going to get caught.

The classroom was right in front of him and he pushed his way into the lecture room. He almost opened his eyes, but then remembered the point of this visit wasn't to pine jealously after the amphitheater-style classroom he would never get to attend on his own.

Might as well just make the best of this one opportunity to attend a real college lecture.

He sighted the staircase and then closed his eyes as much as he could.

One, two, three – ow! Mitobe slammed his shin into the corner of the fourth row's desk. He stumbled and waved off the odd looks with the wide grin he'd practiced for the last few days. People stepped away as he continued to descend the stairs.

He slouched – as he'd been coached – against the first row of desks as he waited for the professor's attention.

"I'm so glad you could grace us with your presence, Imayoshi-kun," he said, his voice reedy and sarcastic. "What do you want?'

Mitobe tossed the paper onto the desk, and without bothering to wait for a response, he turned to climbed back to his desk in the last row.

This is so wrong, so wrong, so wrong…

"Laryngitis? Well, we've been granted a miracle, class. Imayoshi-kun has been prohibited from speaking by doctor's orders. We might actually get to learn something uninterrupted by his shenanigans today."

For the rest of the class, Mitobe opened his eyes as far as he dared, took notes, and enjoyed the lecture.


Imayoshi felt old and out of shape, which was ridiculous, since he met up and played basketball with Aomine at least once a week, but the sweat dripped off him as he kept up with the first year students also vying for the few coveted spots that were open on the bench this year. As a second year student, he was at a disadvantage, but Imayoshi was too smart to allow the younger students to show him up. Age and treachery always would out do youth and skill.

He knew everything possible about the members of the current team and those who had signed-up for the tryouts, thanks to Momoi Satsuki. Given the names of the players, she had a preliminary rundown on their positions and reputations before he'd hung up from their phone call. Given three days, she had file footage, records since middle school, and every newspaper and magazine clipping every published about the twenty other possible players. Best of all, she had her recommendations and strategies. It hadn't taken him long to sort through the information and prioritize which players he would challenge head to head and which he would work with.

As he switched from defense to offense in the split second it took to see that the three-pointer wasn't going to succeed. He slid into a space caused by the confusion of the rebound and tapped the ball away from the other team of potential candidates. With the ball knocked loose, it was only a matter of moving unpredictably while increasing the pressure on the new defenders.

These were players who'd come up through high schools playing against members of the Generation of Miracles, but most of them had never stepped on the court with someone who had trained with one of those monsters. That slight hesitation and underestimation of Imayoshi was all he needed to drive through the crowd and lead his team up the court, landing one last shot before the buzzer sounded.

The whistle blew and the game ended, his team leading by twenty-five points, nine of which had been his three-pointers and another six had had his hand on them directly before they went through the hoop. There wasn't a single play he hadn't assisted on in the game.

Even if he impressed the coach and team, there was no guarantee he'd be picked for the roster. He'd only be good for three years of play, instead of four, and the starting Point Guard on the team was established and qualified. Nonetheless, he'd done all he could to stand out in positive ways, now he just had to wait.


Mitobe was waiting in his dorm room when Imayoshi returned, freshly showered from the tryouts.

"How'd it go?" he asked the quiet Center who was once again clothed in his own attire.

[It looks like I fooled them. After the professor heckled me – you – no one said a word to me the entire time.]

"See, I told ya it would be easy. Thanks for the help," Imayoshi said, before collapsing onto his bed. "I'd forgotten how tirin' practice can be. No wonder Aomine sleeps so much."

[And the tryouts?]

"You wound me, Chatterbox!" he said with a huge, predatory smile and then rolled over and opened his gym bag. Inside was a blue uniform with a gold number fourteen on the back. "I made it, now comes the tricky part of balancin' playin' ball with keepin' my grades high enough for the scholarship," he said, laughing.

[Well, don't expect me to take your tests for you.]

"No, I sure won't; this was a one-time deal, Chatterbox, after all there's only one Saint."

[We're even now, right?]

"Even for what?" Imayoshi opened his eyes just a fraction more than normal.

How in the world do you play basketball with your eyes closed?

[For Osaka.]

"You've never been in my debt, Chatterbox, that's what brothers are for."