Another livejournal drabble that's migrated over here. Far too fluffy to take seriously, but fun to write!
An Alternative To Basketball
It's April, and the air is alive with the promise of summer. The golden season isn't quite here yet, but it's close enough almost to taste on the warming breeze; the sky is bluer than blueness itself, and the clouds dotting it are harmless lambswool.
Despite the weather, however, the town-centre basketball court is almost deserted, only two pairs of feet skidding over its dusty tarmac. Takaiwa and Yamazaki have been playing one-on-one for about twenty minutes, and of course Yama is leading because Takaiwa isn't really bothering to make much effort; he'd much rather just have fun - and anyway, he's enjoying the company, even if Yama does take things far too seriously. He's heading downcourt now, his mouth set in a focused line and eyes no doubt intent behind those dark glasses, and Takaiwa makes a lazy lunge for the ball as he sweeps past, just to show willing.
There's a solid pash as the ball drops through the net, and Yama turns.
"What's the score now?"
Takaiwa shrugs; he hasn't been keeping count. He only keeps track of the things he's interested in, and so he's spent most of the last twenty minutes watching the way Yama runs, and smiles, and tilts his head when he's asking a question. He got briefly distracted by a wasp that decided to adopt him as its new best-friend-slash-landing-pad, but mostly he's just been watching Yama, because it's something he likes doing. It's nothing urgent or anything, not some sort of desperate aching obsession, but it's nice and it sometimes flips his stomach over at unexpected moments. And he hasn't quite got around to mentioning it to Yamazaki yet, but that's okay too. No rush.
They pass the ball around a bit more, and Takaiwa gets the feeling Yama's losing interest, his passes getting slower and less energetic. Perhaps his knee is giving him trouble, or maybe he's just bored, but for whatever reason he eventually grasps the ball and hangs onto it, a disgruntled expression on his face. He doesn't say anything, so Takaiwa asks him instead.
"What's the matter? Your leg?"
"Nah, it's fine. I just don't really feel like playing anymore."
Takaiwa isn't sure about that, but knows better than to push him. He saunters over, pulling off his headband and tucking it into a pocket.
"So, what do you want to do instead?"
"There isn't anything else to do," Yama complains, yanking off his shades, and right then he looks so adorably spiky and glowering that Takaiwa can't help himself. He grins like a crocodile, says:
"I can think of something..." and kisses him, turning his head because Yama's a little shorter than he is. The other boy still has the basketball in his hands, and Takaiwa can feel it pressed against his ribcage, like the only real thing in the world.
Yama's face when they break apart is a flurry of expressions; Takaiwa reckons he counts at least a dozen in the space of three seconds. The one he finally settles on is surprised and a little overawed, but not at all disapproving.
"What - " he begins, and that's as far as he gets, because Takaiwa kisses him again and doesn't stop, and wonders why he didn't do this months ago.
The basketball hits the ground, bounces a little, and rolls to a halt in the corner. No one notices.
