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BANDS OF black AND blue
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requested by dreamz
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11 : grinning glory of yesteryear
Aomine is all dangerous smiles and predatory glances when he's strolling through the Seirin Stars Agency. It's a no-name company that has yet to snag any magazine covers - much less billboards or blimps and while the rooms are clean and the hallways manage to shine brightly, the luster is lacking. Where are the jewels, where are the constant cameras and tear-struck fangirls? The barrage of papparazzi and constant media attention does not exist in this corner of the entertainment industry.
Momoi - of course - is the one who arranges the trip, contacts the agency and finds out (from an all-too-eager little bird, no doubt) where Kuroko will be working the next day and for how long. Akashi, who had openly thought of retirement with the disbanding of MiraGen, had raised an eyebrow when Kise relayed to him that Kuroko had not, as they expected, returned to lounge in the tropics with the heaping fortune he - along with everyone else from the MiraGen Modeling Agency - had made.
No, of course not, Midorima murmurs, when they meet up for drinks at some out-of-way bar, high-end glasses that are rimmed with the brightest emeralds money can buy. Of course Kuroko would be unable to settle down and enjoy the prospects of retirement at age twenty-two. Kise laughs, flippantly, stretching out his diamond-studded fingers to flick carelessly around the room.
"What's not to like?" Aomine remembers the other saying with a million-dollar smile.
"Don't say that," Momoi had replied, casting a glance to the empty seventh chair, the chair that Kuroko Tetsuya no doubt would have been sitting in if he bothered to return any of their calls. "Tetsuya-kun isn't like that. He..." she flushes, because the weight of being the only woman in their all-star crew is a heavy one (even if Murasakibara and Kise have no qualms whatsoever about going around in drag - to say nothing of Kuroko), "He never liked the blinding lights of fame."
"It hardly matters," Akashi had concluded, stubbing out his perversely cheap peppermint-scented cigarette (the smell still lingers; the scent of money) against the glossed hardwood of the counter, "He's in the wrong industry if he doesn't like the spotlight." He says it like a death sentence and, in many ways, it is one.
But at the crux of things, Aomine does not want to believe it. It was bad enough when Akashi single-handedly came to the conclusion that the industry topcats would be looking into their salaries sooner or later and, as a result, calmly called for the disbanding of their top-of-the-class modeling agency. It was godawful when Kuroko simply nodded his head, as if this was something he had known would happen; as if this was nothing out of the ordinary.
What really hurts is when Aomine asks for a forwarding address of some kind - they had all been living in the same multi-million dollar apartment complex for three years, after all - and Kuroko does not give him anything.
He doesn't know what he's looking for, whether it be a phone number, a picture, or an address, shuffling awkwardly to and fro in Kuroko's deserted dressing room. He finds a couple girlishly cut wigs, most likely in-tune with the sudden wave of androgyny, neatly-stacked boxes of make-up (all in that same peculiarly pale shade of skin Kuroko was made famous for), and a ribbon-bound parcel of letters - from adoring fans, no doubt. When he's about to give up, not even knowing what he was searching for in the first place, he finds it.
It's a black-and-white photo, crinkled once and then smoothed out, of the two of them in one of their many, many shared shoots. Kuroko is wearing his typical waist-length wig, his fingers pressed limply against his utterly flat chest. His neck would be bared for all the world to see, if Aomine's expertly tousled hair - wet and shining with the water and light, were not covering it.
Instinctively, he lifts his fingers to his lips, the memories of that particular shoot rushing into his mind. He had, at some point, loved modeling - loved the sound of cameras snapping and people pandering to his every want and whim. It's silly, but he brings the photo (it must be at least six months old) to his face, squinting at Kuroko's ultimately lost expression, taking note of how their hands are clasped together - almost romantically - at waist-level. When he inhales, he catches a whiff of the perfume - Enchantée - that Kuroko wore for that day.
The smile he didn't know he had on slips off his face when he looks at the cut-out image (from some low-brand magazine, he notes with a sneer), placed underneath the photo of their shoot.
It's a picture of a relatively handsome young man, presumptuous grin that showed just the right amount of teeth. He had, as Momoi would've noted, devilishly good looks in an uncoordinated and asymmetrical sort of manner. If Aomine squinted he could, perhaps, see elements of himself in said model. But what he notices - aside from the slick blaze of fiery-red hair and caption of 'Kagami Taiga - the Wild Tiger of Seirin' - is a teal-blue imprint of lips parted in a kiss.
The color is unnerving because it leaves no room for speculation - that was Kuroko's trademarked lipstick color. Even Murasakibara and Momoi wouldn't go near those shades.
Aomine stares impassively at the photo, unable to actually process the idea of Kuroko falling in love with someone from the no-name agency - someone who didn't look like they could hold up to twenty hours, much less three consecutive days, of shooting. It's strange and silly, almost ridiculous, because the fact of the matter was: everyone slept with everyone; half the time half the rooms in the apartment complex were empty because their occupants were in other people's rooms.
The insistent ringing of his cellphone is what snaps him out of his reverie. He extracts it with practiced ease; it's Momoi.
"Daikkun!" she starts, a hint of nervousness bleeding into his normally cheery voice. "Are you still in Tetsuya-kun's room?"
"Yeah."
"Shoot. That's bad," she mutters, and he can hear the precision-manicured fingernail being ground further down on the other end, "Tetsuya-kun's just returned. I moved the car a couple spaces down, I don't think he recognized me. But - he's going in. What are you going to do?"
It's the million-dollar question, not just of the moment, but of his life. He could settle down as a bachelor; hell, he has enough money to afford anywhere. He could continue aimlessly at his old-school agency, maybe even convince Akashi - on one of his unusually lenient days - to start up MiraGen Modeling all over again. There are possibilities, but he doesn't want to see them, doesn't want to acknowledge them and all because -
The doorknob turns and Kuroko steps in. Aomine doesn't get a chance to see his expression because by the time he turns his head, Kuroko has already forcibly schooled features into one of mild surprise.
- Kuroko managed to carelessly move on, find a new talent agency, find a new partner.
(It hurts - it hurts goddammit.)
"Tetsu," he starts, as casual as if they were still in the utterly blinding light of the MiraGen Agency. And then he pauses to really look at the other. He has - in the most inexplicable manner - changed entirely, and Aomine does not know if he would be able to recognize Kuroko if he were strolling down the street. For one thing, he is without any sort of hairpiece of wig; his ethereal-styled blue hair, cropped short to allow wig after wig, is slightly disheveled - most likely accidentally. He's not dressed to the nines - there are no priceless jewels (in the shape of earrings, watches, necklaces, or anklets) anywhere on his body, and he is dressed in such laughably common clothing - jeans and a t-shirt.
"Aomine-kun," Kuroko says at a manner of greeting. His eyes look Aomine up and down, before resting at the two pictures that Aomine is still clutching in his hands. "Why are you in my room?"
"I - " the words are stuck; they feel like lead and glue against his constricted throat, the fact of the matter is: he does not know this Kuroko who walks around in men's clothing and has half-hour shoots for no-name magazines and plants teal-blue kisses on the photos of rising stars. "I don't know," he ends up saying, even though that is anyything but what he meant to say.
"I do not," Kuroko starts, as he moves aside for Aomine to stumble his way out of the other's dressing room, "want to see you here again." It's side in a bitingly polite polite tone, even as Aomine catches the glimmer of light-blue lipstick. His mind is in a blur when his feet shuffle through the hallway - he passes by the red-haired man in the picture (he looks perturbed at Aomine's presence but not enough to comment - Aomine does not care) and a waif of a brunette; the manager, no doubt. Momoi is waiting for him in the car, biting on her lip because she can read him like a book.
"How was he?" she tentatively asks as she's driving him back to their agency's living quarters.
"Beautiful," he breathlessly replies - closing his eyes and leaning his head back and tracing high cheekbones and thin wrists and wayward glances; things that used to be his. Kuroko is, he needs admit, as utterly stunning as a man as he was when he spun himself to be female. There's something enchanting about his eyes, his posture, the undeniable confidence he manages to glide through. "Beautiful," he repeats, because he has never imagined Kuroko surviving outside of MiraGen - without Aomine.
There's no such thing as a happy ending and so he doesn't ask for one.