A Ratio of the Times We Spent Apart

Warning: nonlinear story

Disclaimer: Don't own.

Taiga's not sure what it is that makes him realize, probably a combination of everything in the moment, but when it does happen he slams on the brakes and swerves hard to the left—luckily it's the early afternoon on a Tuesday in early September. Most likely, the one trigger is the way he's been drifting and what lifts him out of his talk radio-induced reverie is Tatsuya's voice inside his head, telling him to pay attention and this is not like taking the subway.

He didn't learn to drive until the summer he was twenty-five and he finally got out to Los Angeles for more than a week again, in Tatsuya's mom's old Buick that was on its last legs and had 150,000 miles on it. Tatsuya had gotten it when he'd gotten his license a few months after his sixteenth birthday. His mom had wanted a new car for a while and she didn't feel too bad about not being able to sell the old one to more than a junkyard, and Tatsuya had been thrilled. Of course, he'd ended up spending most of the next two and a half years in Akita but he'd kept the car, kept up his auto insurance payments, and had driven the thing around and done maintenance on it whenever he did come back during that time span. He'd driven it throughout college and after, refusing to shell out the money for a new one even though he could probably afford a decent new car.

Taiga didn't get it, and he'd asked Alex about it and she'd just laughed (somehow bitterly, which was weird considering the subject matter) and tucked her hair behind her ear and said that Tatsuya was sentimental like that and got attached to things and as long as he kept it in good shape and it didn't break down too often he'd be okay, and he was. Learning to drive on it was hard because he had to hit the brakes just right, slam them down but not too hard or too sudden because that would send both of them sprawling into the dashboard and Tatsuya would make some wry remark about seeing a chiropractor but anyway for god's sake Taiga watch the light because it's about to turn green.

Driving was actually not that bad with Tatsuya as his teacher, because even though he got yelled at and the hours were awkward because of Tatsuya's job Taiga learned anyway, everything—and he'd been able to pass the road test at the end of the summer, which turned out to be a damn good thing because he got traded from Brooklyn to Phoenix in the middle of that year and he would have been screwed if he couldn't drive and had to rely on cabs (as it was, the summer in LA was full of sleeping on Tatsuya's couch all day and going out and finding a gym to work out in, and then relying on whatever groceries Tatsuya picked up at the mega grocery store on his way home to make dinner. Theoretically, he could walk other places, or take public transportation, but it was all shitty and disorganized and not at all like Tokyo.

The Buick finally betrayed Tatsuya two years later and he'd bought a tiny two-door Honda that had a satellite radio and an MP3 plug, whereas the Buick had an iffy AM antenna and a tape deck. The next time Taiga crashed at Tatsuya's place he found the pile of well-worn tapes on top of the bookcase, a couple of unnamed mix tapes and a few rap tapes and the 80s metal tapes they'd bought at the thrift shop downtown when they were barely adolescents and they just thought the covers looked cool.

Tatsuya doesn't have a tape deck anymore but he still has the tapes; they sit and gather dust along with the chipped glass candle holder and the flashlight shaped like a teddy bear that needs a certain type of light bulb that can only be found in specialty stores (but he hasn't gotten around to buying it for more than a few years now) and the fitted Dodgers cap that's now too small for him because his head suddenly got too big for a 7 1/8 when he was nineteen. And little by little, Taiga has grasped the meanings of Alex's words. Tatsuya holds onto things until there's no hope, until he'll never be able to repair them or use them again, but he still finds a reason not to get rid of them because they are like old friends and he's afraid of losing the past, so afraid that he forgets sometimes to live in the present or plan for the future.

And thinking about that, the bent magnetic strip sticking out of the plastic cassette, and hearing Tatsuya's voice telling him to switch the turn signal on earlier and not be so impulsive because it'll cause an accident and yes I know everybody does it and yes you're better than some people who don't use their turn signals at all but seriously turn it on earlier and remember to bob your head when you're looking up at the mirror. It's strange in a way, because this car is not like the old Buick at all; it's got a push-button ignition and an automatic transmission and an automatic beer window—and all that's superficial, because it feels different; everything moves more quickly and more smoothly in this thing and even though it's supposed to feel natural it feels a bit off. He's like Tatsuya, too, attached to simple things and rooted in his old ways and resistant to change and living in some sort of cloud where he refuses to see change, even as it happens so obviously, even as it occurs inside of himself. He's in love with Tatsuya, has been in love with him for so long it might as well be forever.

Tatsuya feels like the one he just punched in the gut was himself, wishes the one he just punched in the gut was himself. Still, there's no hiding the angry red welts swelling up on Taiga's face and the mix of confusion, hurt and anger in his expression. Doesn't he get it? Is he really that dumb and foolishly naïve? Tatsuya just wants to scream his grievances out and make Taiga listen, but that won't do. Then at best Taiga will pity him.

He doesn't want the pity of a guy who'll throw a game, a guy who plays down to his level, who doesn't think he's a worthy enough opponent to go all-out against.

Tatsuya doesn't realize he's still shaking until he's on the train and the lady next to him asks if he's alright, if he's having a seizure. He just shakes his head and buries his face in his hands and cries and misses his stop.

When Tatsuya first bought the rings, it was obvious that they were cheaply-made, the smell of them in his small, sweaty hand tangy and almost instantaneously rusty. They formed circles that at the time had seemed unbreakable and unending, although there was a fairly obvious strip where the rod had been sealed to form a circle.

But time wore away at the seams, sticking out and digging into their fingers until the rings were too tight and by the time they started wearing the rings on chains around their necks, they couldn't find the place where one side began and the other ended anymore. The rihgs were untraceably infinite, and they couldn't tell where on each other's lives they dropped in and out anymore—by the time they turned back to look, they'd gone full-circle at least a few times, losing track of their paths, with no way to go but forward and around the cycle again.

The last time they play against each other in an organized game is Tatsuya's senior year of high school in the Interhigh preliminaries. Well, to be fair, it's not really them playing against each other; it's Seirin against Yosen. Murasakibara's improved in leaps and bounds by applying himself to the sport, and he and Tatsuya aren't technically double aces anymore, more of a 1a and 1b or even, to be fair again and to discount their prior status as equals, ace and second-best player. Life isn't fair, but this time it's being kindly unfair to Tatsuya and the media and his teammates all still refer to him as ace. Still, even kind unfairness feels bad, and for this match they sense he does not want to speak to them.

Still, their best strategy time and again proves to be letting Murasakibara do his one-man-wrecking-crew thing, and he blocks shots and scores from everywhere, batting away the defenders like they're insignificant houseflies. Of course, he's still no match for Taiga, who's somehow gotten even better.

Tatsuya scores six points in the first five minutes and grabs a couple of defensive rebounds. He doesn't make it on the score sheet at all after that, barring a single assist on a jump-shot by Liu and a foul on Hyuuga, until the last minute when Yosen is behind by ten and they're trying to look like they went down swinging. He's attempting one last mirage shot, and he's got Mitobe and Kuroko fooled—until it springs off his fingertips and then drops straight down, felled by Taiga's hand.

Taiga grabs his hand as soon as they get out of the car and take the familiar route from the parking lot to the sand-covered beach. The advantages of February are latent, subtle; stretches of the beach that are almost empty is most certainly one of them.

Oh, the people go to the big beaches like Zuma anyway, but on a weekday morning in February even these are less crowded. Here, it is quiet. No dogs bark at them; a jogger passes but she's too engrossed in her headphones and the rhythm of her feet sinking into the sand to pay them any mind.

They take off their shoes and stick them in their pockets, strolling barefoot through the cool, wet sand at the shoreline. Neither speaks. They have seen this ocean many times, walked this beach many times together. There is no need for words.

Their hands dangle, fingers loosely intertwined, occasionally bumping against one or the other's thigh.

They've won their little schoolyard tournament, the one where everyone secretly pitched in fifty cents (they couldn't let the teachers see them betting or they'd get detention) and with all that money plus what little of their allowances they'd saved they had enough to go to In-N-Out together. The large meals have so much food that Tatsuya can't finish it, sipping on his Sprite and eyeing his half-finished burger warily. Taiga has absolutely demolished his burger and fries, and is trying to slurp up the remains of his root beer.

"You going to eat that?"

Tatsuya shakes his head, and Taiga wolfs down the half-burger. Tatsuya doesn't know whether he should be amazed or horrified at this guy's never-ending appetite.

"It's my visa," Taiga says, an ocean away, voice cracking with static. "They still won't let me stay for the summer…I can't come back until training camp."

Tatsuya sighs. "I understand. Shit happens."

"Still, I was looking forward to spending time together and all that. I mean, it's nice to see Dad again, and everyone in Tokyo, but, you know, still…"

"I know." Silence. He can hear crunching from the other end—Taiga's eating again; how typical. "I'll try to get out there this summer or something," Tatsuya says finally, knowing that he probably won't. It's a nice thought and he'd like to, but getting time off work right now is hard and a round-trip ticket to Tokyo is fucking expensive, especially in the summer. He knows Taiga would pay in a heartbeat if he asked, but that's not something he'll ever feel comfortable asking so he just tugs on the ring at the end of the chain around his neck and listens to the rhythm of Taiga's teeth.

The coat feels weird around his shoulders still. The weather here sucks, but this isn't about the weather, is it? He's admitting his defeat, putting it all behind him (for good this time, right? Right?) and leaving the future in his brother's hands. He lets all the love he has override the anger and envy that still refuses to go away completely, pats him on the shoulder. He's still not used to Taiga being so much bigger than him—not only taller but broader and stronger and with more confidence in his step. Taiga's growing up, is already far past Tatsuya in more than basketball. But he still hasn't done it all yet—and if he does it before Tatsuya, or if he does it and Tatsuya never gets there at all, well, that's life, isn't it? He's the one who always reminds everyone around him that life is not fair.

The first time begins with uncertainty, steady eyes mixed with two glasses of white wine each (Taiga's always been a lightweight, even as he gulps down water and tries to regain his balance). Tatsuya looks absolutely gorgeous, face gently flushed and a sweet, absentminded smile stuck to his face the way the damn cork is stuck inside the bottle, way too hard to dislodge. Still, the smile's slightly vacant and he leans like a cat on Taiga's shoulder on the couch; both of them have their feet up on the table but they aren't doing anything. There's no music, nothing on television, not much white noise from outdoors, just the cool late December desert breeze. There's just them, Taiga's hand cool from the glass of ice water he's just set down.

"You're beautiful," he says, no reservations about it, earnest.

Tatsuya cocks his head slowly and looks around, as if Taiga's talking to someone else. Shit, either his tolerance has lessened or he's playing dumb, but Taiga has no time for beating around the bush right now so regardless of the cause he kisses Tatsuya full-on and lets him deepen it.

Tatsuya's very receptive, quickly opening his mouth and letting in Taiga's tongue and pushing against his chest, feeling his heartbeat with his hands and attempting to pull himself up onto Taiga's lap.

Taiga carries him to the bedroom, bridal-style, and Tatsuya's hair falls out of his eyes and exposes both of them and Taiga mutters some line he heard in a movie once about eyes like shining stars and believes it with all of his heart because Tatsuya is bright and amazing and right now and forever Taiga is content to let him be his whole world.

Tatsuya's hands become more courageous with Taiga there to steady him, with the uneven moonlight streaming through the venetian blinds. Taiga's really sobering up now, head spinning for entirely different reasons, and his hands are steady enough to remove Tatsuya's pants and gaze at his legs. His calf muscles are more defined than ever; even as he's older he keeps in shape. He can probably jump higher than ever, flies almost weightless like the way he seemed to when they were eleven and twelve and Tatsuya was on this whole other plane of finesse and serene grace and Taiga was just awkward and unsure and scrambling to keep up with everything, unsure of his body and his sudden growth. Still, there are familiar and faded scars on his calves from that time they tried to break into the abandoned gym and Tatsuya fell through the floor and bled, scars that vie him a pang of guilt the way the skin shines artificially and he kisses them.

"Never mind that," Tatsuya says softly and slowly, pressing his lips to Taiga's hand, knowing exactly what Taiga is preoccupied with.

His skin is pale, alabaster almost, even with the amount of sun he has to get outside in LA all the time. It rains more often there than in Phoenix, sure, but that's not really saying anything at all. Why is he thinking about rain, anyway? Tatsuya's fingertips are like raindrops on his torso, falling down under his shirt and unbuttoning him and making him strain against them, bucking his hips.

Tatsuya laughs; his throat rumbles against Taiga's chest and when did it get there? It will all be better if he just revels in the wonder of the moment.

Taiga is a wide-eyed, naïve kid; he's still very shy about speaking English but when he gets going in Japanese he'll talk so fast he doesn't make sense sometimes (although this may have to do with Tatsuya's general inexperience with his parents' native language; they've told him they'll send him to classes where he can learn to speak better and to write). He still doesn't quite understand Los Angeles, and more than not knowing English (or, for that matter, Spanish) he's just not used to the way it's laid out and the way the shops look, the clouded and polluted air. He's seen the ocean before (after all, Tokyo is right on the water, isn't it?) but he's never been to the beach until Tatsuya takes him. His eyes fill with wonder at the endless expanse of sand and the way the waves lap at his feet. He hides behind Tatsuya when a dog runs by, chasing a tennis ball that rolls to a stop a few feet away from them. Everything smells of salt and their skin is drying in the air, even as the water covers their feet. The only thing that Taiga doesn't like about the beach is that they can't play basketball there, and while Tatsuya shares the sentiment he wonders if it's okay to separate part of their lives from basketball. The beach is tranquil; here he can get away from the thrilling rush of the ball hitting against his palm as he dribbles. It's amazing, but it's exhausting.

The first person they tell is Alex; Tatsuya calls her first and then hands the phone to Taiga because it's the early morning and he has to go to work. He knows there are things they're going to say about him that he probably shouldn't be privy to, but then he's always been good at observation.

"You know, I was getting a little worried," Alex tells him. "If it didn't happen by your fortieth birthday I might have had to step in."

"Am I really that oblivious?" Taiga says. He's still trying to figure out when the hell this had all happened, and he still has no idea.

She laughs. "Do you really need to ask that question?"

Taiga just shakes his head; she can probably tell that he's doing it even from over the phone.

"I mean, if I had tried to force you guys together and it had backfired horribly…" Taiga can tell she's making that angry face with that crease in her brow and she's resting her chin in her hand. "Tatsuya's too stubborn and you're too slow, so it just wouldn't have worked."

Taiga doesn't know if he should feel insulted or not. The thing is, though, she's right. He sighs. "I mean, we could have had so many years together and instead he was just waiting and now—"

Alex cuts him off. "Let it go. Weren't you just saying you're trying to move forward?"

The first game is easy; his opponent is ten years younger than him but relies solely on his youth and swagger. He seems to think that will be enough; it's not. Tatsuya wipes the floor with him in the first five minutes and goes a bit easier on him in the second, although he still wins by a large margin. He always thinks that by now these kids will have learned something, but they never have; every tournament there's a few more who think that anyone older than a certain age is nothing. Still, it makes it easier for him.

The second game is better, if only because he's up against a respectful opponent, a guy named DeShawn who he faces regularly in these street ball tournaments. They're not quite friends, but they know each other's games quite well. Still, knowing the mirage shot is very different from being able to stop it, and Tatsuya wins this game as well.

By this time, the sun is peeking out from behind a cloud and it's getting pretty warm out. Tatsuya leans on the chain-link fence and watches as the game on the adjacent court finishes, waiting for his next opponent.

"You look good," a voice says from behind him.

"I thought I told you not to come," he says, only mildly annoyed.

"Yeah, well." Taiga shrugs. He's eating fast food again; Tatsuya can smell the grease and starch.

"Hey, gimme a fry." Tatsuya turns and opens his mouth.

Taiga's probably rolling his eyes (At least he's had the good sense to wear sunglasses and a hat so he has less of a chance of being recognized, although among basketball nuts like these he probably will be anyway) but he stuffs a hand inside the white bag and pulls out some French fries dripping with oil, and pushes his fingers through a gap in the fence. Tatsuya's mouth closes around Taiga's hand, sucking off the salt and fat stuck to his knuckles along with the food.

Taiga blushes. "People are looking."

"Let them look," Tatsuya says. They'd probably find out soon enough, anyway. "You came here; it's your problem." Still, he removes his mouth and Taiga takes his hand away, wiping it on his jeans.

"Hey, Himuro, you're up."

"Duty calls," he says, giving Taiga a quick smile. No one seems to have recognized him—they probably don't expect to see him here, anyway, given that he was just traded to the Lakers less than a month ago. (Well, they don't expect NBA players to show up at their little street tournaments in the first place, but that's beside the point.)

He shows off a little bit extra this game, just for Taiga, trying to jump a little faster and hit the ball out of the other guy's hands a little bit harder. He knows it's nothing compared to what Taiga can do, but still it's something. He wins by twenty.

"Come on, can I have a kiss for luck?"

"You don't need it," Taiga grumbles, but he kisses Tatsuya through the fence anyway, bending over a few inches so their mouths can fit into the same gaps in the fence.

It's a few months after the Winter Cup finale when he brings up the videos, watches through all of them. There's Taiga in the Touou match, going head-to-head with Aomine in the zone; there's Taiga for a few seconds against Shinkyo; there's Taiga in that tie game against Shutoku; he drives and dunks and blocks and passes and shoots and it's perfect. Even since the beginning of the season, when he was not at all comparable to the player he is now, Taiga was worlds ahead of Tatsuya. Even remembering the match he and Yosen played against Taiga and Seirin—even then, it wasn't about him and Taiga. Taiga's true rivals are people like Atsushi, the people who hold enormous power in their hands and are comfortable wielding it, the people who have no foreseeable limit. (Still, Taiga is even more unlimited than any of these Miracles, Tatsuya thinks. His Taiga is better, loves the game more fully and openly and works the hardest and has the most talent.)

Taiga is so far in front of him Tatsuya's only imagining, hallucinating, remembering the way his back looked, every muscle and every swing of his shoulders. It's as if he's struggling against the wind that tries to blow him down, blowing snow into his face, stinging his cheeks and his lips and making him so numb. But even with less sensation, he still feels Taiga so strongly, wants Taiga to be his. His chief desire is selfish, in eternal conflict with the rest of himself. He wants to see Taiga soar up to these high heights where Tatsuya won't be able to see him even on the clearest of days, wants Taiga to compete with the best and win every time—but he wants Taiga to be his, to belong to him. He wants to be on Taiga's level, whether that means Taiga falling back or him going forward—but, no. It's complicated. He feels sick, hates himself for even daring to wish anything bad on Taiga. It's all such a mess. He tries to focus on stuffing it away deep inside of him. If he doesn't think about it, it will go away.

Tatsuya drives down to Arizona for Christmas. It's the first time Tatsuya's been out here to see him, a realization that hits Taiga with a wave of guilt. Still, he buries it and makes himself forget about all of that because he can't make Tatsuya be the only one who's trying to overcome past grievances. It's more than a little tense at first, even though they've been talking on the phone and texting each other pretty much every day since Taiga left LA back in September (the one time the Suns came to town in the first half of the season was only for a few hours, just long enough to lose to the Clippers and then head off to Portland). Neither of them is really sure how to act now, which is stupid because they've both know each other for so long and they've both been in relationships before—but this is different, a combination of their ideas of what a romantic relationship should be plus the man each has known forever, plus something else that makes it heinously awkward.

It improves in little steps, each gradually reaching for the other's hand, letting their conversations slip back into the way they used to, pressing soft kisses to the corners of each other's mouths, falling asleep in the same bed, waking up with tangled limbs, leaving notes scrawled on post-its stuck to the television.

Taiga makes dinner in the kitchen while Tatsuya watches, gets out the ingredients from the fridge that's still organized the exact same way Taiga's fridge in Tokyo in high school was organized and how he organized Tatsuya's fridge when they spent the summer together. Taiga's tongue still makes its way through his teeth and lips when he's cutting the onions, carefully slicing each set of rings the same width, holding the root with his hand like a claw on top of the cutting board. He fries the vegetables and chicken impatiently, keeping an intense gaze on the frying pan in front of him, wooden spoon at the ready. Even with the fan on sweat trickels down the back of his neck. He's been keeping his hair shorter again and his neck is completely bared to the world, and Tatsuya's the perfect height to kiss it so he does, tasting the salty tang with his dry lips and wrapping his arms around Taiga's broad waist. Taiga stiffens at first, but then relaxes into his grip even as his heart feels like it's about to hammer out of his chest (Tatsuya's hands aren't even all that close to it but they still pick up the beat). He's so focused on Tatsuya's grip that he doesn't notice when the food begins to burn. That's okay; Tatsuya's always liked his vegetables slightly blackened.

Taiga gives in to his instinct and moves and moans against Tatsuya, moving his hips and sliding his hands roughly down Tatsuya's torso until he can almost feel the warmth created by the friction of skin on skin. Tatsuya jerks backward, and Taiga lets his hands slip under the elastic waistband of Tatsuya's ratty old basketball shorts, They fall away, exhausted by time and Tatsuya's slim hips and the slope of Taiga's fingers and then Tatsuya's hands and lips are all over Taiga's shoulder, attacking it the way a snake attacks a rabbit, jaws ready to devour him almost completely. Taiga brings one hand up to rub at the nape of Tatsuya's neck until he finds that one incredibly sensitive spot, and Tatsuya bites down harder in response and bucks his hips up against Taiga's other hand that's been caressing his thigh. Tatsuya's already rock-hard and he doesn't want to wait, licking haphazardly down Taiga's chest and Taiga realizes he's hard, too (until now, he has been completely absorbed in Tatsuya) when Tatsuya straightens up and just starts to grind his hips against Taiga's and it just feels so damn good.

Tatsuya picks up on the first ring. "Yeah," he says, and though his tone is neutral he sounds like he already knows.

"Phoenix," Taiga says. "They traded me to the Suns."

"I know," Tatsuya says. "I read it on Twitter."

What else is there to say? They'll be closer geographically, on the same side of the same country for the first time in more than a decade, and the time difference will not be as great. Still, will they see each other? It's not the same state. There's enough distance between them to make a flight or a drive an inconvenience, enough distance to make procrastinating a visit acceptable because there will seem to be time in their schedules somewhere, in the abstract future.

"I gotta go; my flight's about to board," says Taiga. The call cuts off a few seconds later. Taiga knows he could have called before, in the cab or when he was rushing around his apartment grabbing the few things he didn't have ready to go (being traded was kind of an inevitability at this point, what with the Nets all but numerically eliminated even this early and the ownership reluctant to further extend his contract. When and where were the only variables left.) or when he was at the airport bar in his suit, trying to appear relatively inconspicuous but failing—even most of the crazier fans would leave him alone if he was clearly busy with a phone call.

But he hadn't.

Tatsuya wakes up in the middle of the night; it's too hot. Sweat is cascading from his pours and he feels so disgusting pressed up against Taiga and unable to free himself easily from the vice-like grip. Still, Taiga's always been a ridiculously heavy sleeper and he's finally learned how to sleep the night before a basketball game (playing ninety or so games a year will do that to a guy, even one as foolish as this one) so even though it's hard to take the large arm off his chest Taiga doesn't notice when it's shoved away and flops down next to him, just keeps on drooling.

Even in the dim light of the digital clock display it's easy to see Taiga's half-smiling in his sleep. He's completely relaxed, not tense and unsure the way he's been with Tatsuya for a long time. The sharp guilt that courses immediately through Tatsuya's veins switches to pure adoration in moments. He's spent such a long time burying his love for Taiga under self-centered jealousy and resentment, and it's such a relief to be able to just love him for his grip and his half-smiles and his heavy sleeping and how he always wants to hold Tatsuya closer to him—it's impossible to not accept his love when he still gives it so purely, does not begrudge Tatsuya all that he can and should begrudge him.

He gets up and opens the window to the maximum. It's so late at night that even this relatively loud neighborhood is somewhat quiet. Not that that would matter. Tatsuya settles himself back into Taiga's arms and kisses his cheek.

Taiga recovers from the swerve, letting the car stop completely before he starts driving again, taking a moment to gather himself up and turn off the radio. He glances ahead to find his bearings and there it is like a beacon, the exit onto the highway. It's got the number and then below that it reads "Los Angeles", so he flicks on the turn signal and changes lanes.

He calls his agent on the phone, quickly confirming that he's got nothing scheduled until next week, and takes on. He's really going to do this—no; he has to do this. He's spent way too long entertaining delusions that he only loved Tatsuya as a brother and a friend, ignoring the jealousy and loneliness and other pains that coursed through him when they were apart, ignoring that they were closer than he'd ever been with anyone else but he still yearned for more. It's not like Tatsuya's ever going to make a move on him, anyway, regardless of his feelings.

Carefully, Tatsuya dribbles, bends his knees, starts a drive—he's sure there's a hole right there in Taiga's defense, but it's only an illusion and he's blocked. He should have anticipated this, halfway has—but he can't bring his arms up for a shot in enough time and aborts that plan, too, because Taiga's arms are coming up and at this angle he can't get the ball over. He tries to duck under Taiga's shoulder but he's blocked and the ball slips from his sweaty fingers.

This is how it's been all game, Tatsuya always trying to outthink Taiga and Taiga using his pure force and skill and instinct to blow past Tatsuya. It's their first one-on-one in years, and Tatsuya can tell Taiga's not taking it easy on him. Still, he's holding his own, and if there was a shot clock he might be closer because he slows down Taiga's pace. Defense in the NBA has made Taiga more lax when it comes to being guarded. He's breathing hard, too, not used to playing such long stretches. Tatsuya's not as young and strong as he used to be, but he's built up endurance from years of long streetball games and he can still take advantage of the little breaks in Taiga's defenses and the little things add up. He's not really in the game, but he's a hell of a lot closer than he would have guessed.

Taiga's arm swings wildly; Tatsuya jerks backward and manages to get off an awkward fadeaway that bounces off the rim. Taiga's arm grabs the rebound, outreaching Tatsuya (who gets there first) and he starts running to the other end and Tatsuya tries to use his highest speed to catch him.

Eventually, they call it quits, both too exhausted to continue. They sit on the bench in the nearby playground gulping down water like they're in the middle of a desert, basketball between them. The score has vanished from both of their minds; it doesn't matter anymore. It was fun.

They said that Duke would suck after Krzyzewski, that it wouldn't be the same, that they'd never get back to their high status without Coach K. Of course it wasn't the same, and his retirement was a big blow to recruitment—but there are still a lot of kids out there more than willing to come to a storied program, legendary coach or no, especially when scholarship money is being waved in their faces. Kagami Taiga is one of those kids.

He leads them to three Final Four runs in four years, racking up offensive and defensive stats and shattering NCAA records. Every year, he's pegged to go in the first round of the NBA draft, but every year he says he's staying in college thanks very much.

Of course, college does come to an end and the draft nears and even though he's the surefire number one pick he's still nervous and unsure. It doesn't help that his parents don't think much of it, and they've returned to Tokyo and really don't want to come back—especially not to New York (they hate the east coast). They do understand that it's important to him, but they'd rather not talk to the media (they've already had way too many calls during Taiga's high school and college careers). He tries to plead with them up until the week before the draft but it's really no use. He feels a bit bad about it, but he calls Tatsuya anyway and asks him to come.

He seems quite pleased that Taiga would ask, and Taiga feels a bit guilty for a second, that Tatsuya's basically his backup plan. But he's explained his reasoning and Tatsuya seems fine with it (although he could be hiding his feelings yet again; even after knowing him this long Taiga's never quite sure when he's telling the truth).

There is nothing as nerve-wracking as waiting in the audience as the pre-draft ceremonies drag on and on. Tatsuya knows, because of course he does, squeezes Taiga's hand when he thinks he can't bear it anymore and gives him a smile that's somehow incredibly reassuring and puts him at ease a bit.

When his name is called first, when he's actually drafted by Brooklyn (and all things considered, they're not a truly terrible team, having won the draft lottery with a fairly mediocre record), Tatsuya hugs him tightly and then practically pushes him up and toward the stage. He holds up one finger and grins as they put a hat on his head and he shakes a bunch of hands and is blinded by the flashbulbs no matter which way he looks.

Somehow, he makes his way back to Tatsuya, who is standing with his agent and looking prouder than Taiga has ever seen anyone look in his life. Neither of their smiles fades for another week.

It's a month into the offseason and Taiga strolls into the kitchen in the evening, dressed in Tatsuya's pajama pants (which are way too small for him and stretch over his thighs in a half-awkward, half-sexy way) and leans over the countertop. His lips are pursed. Tatsuya waits.

"I think I might take a year off," Taiga says.

Tatsuya stares, slowly lowering his mug of tea onto the counter. "What?"

Taiga shrugs. "You know. I mean, the Lakers want me back but…I don't know. I want to spend time with you and stuff."

Tatsuya keeps on staring at him with that same look, as if he can't understand what he's hearing. "Don't you get bored on the offseason?"

Again, Taiga shrugs. "I'll find stuff to do. Interviews, that sort of thing. I always wanted to open a restaurant. I can do that. But, I mean, even now if I went to training camp in a couple of months I probably won't have gotten to spend as much time with you as I like."

"We can spend time together when you retire. You only get one shot at basketball, you know."

"Yeah, but I only get one shot at being with you," he says.

Damn his way of saying those cheesy lines with a straight face.

He nags at Taiga, snaps at him, nitpicks—his shirt isn't buttoned all the way to the top (it's too hot; it's Arizona in the spring for fuck's sake) and his hair isn't gelled properly and he's not holding his fork the right way and he wonders why he stays with this guy. He's cute, but really not his type and so annoying, but they keep saying he should settle down so he's thinking one of these days maybe they'll get married or something (maybe that will shut up the idiots on those online forums who think he must be some depraved sicko just because he's gay). As long as they draw up a good prenup (although he's got enough money of his own, you can never tell) things will be fine.

But what he nags about most is the ring around his neck and how he never takes it off and how he says Taiga's lying when he says it's from his brother, how there must be some other guy in the picture—maybe they're done, maybe it's from a dead childhood love, but he wants to know right now—and that's the deal breaker right there. The ring is important to him; he touches it twice (three times, four times, more) before every game, asks a higher power, the god of basketball, to grand him Tatsuya's vision and clear-headedness and ability for the evening, or whatever it was Tatsuya deserved after giving and giving and giving to basketball and not getting anything back. He doesn't understand; no one does. Taiga talks to a teammate and gets a look that means Taiga you are an idiot, but he doesn't get it—Tatsuya is too important; the ring means too much for him to ever take it off.

They try to put the pieces back together, but their bond has been shattered for so long some of the pieces have crumbled into dust. Still, it's a joint effort using the strongest glue they can find to repair what was lost. Neither of them wants to step back and take a look at how much they've done, though, because they know it's not nearly as nice of a picture as it used to be.

They play one-on-one on the street courts in Tokyo, unused to courts being vacant in the middle of the day but grateful that they can stretch out their time and go at a leisurely pace—although they don't want to and they never end up taking long breaks, too uncomfortable in the silence unfilled by rubber on concrete that seems to crave words, words that are on the tips of both of their tongues but are afraid to say. What if they come out wrong? Will the relationship they're rebuilding so carefully break again?

Taiga wins every time, and month by month he's pulling further and further away. It's even harder for Tatsuya to keep up; it's even harder for him to drive past Taiga, to stop Taiga from driving past him, to block Taiga's shot or to shoot the ball past Taiga's quick eyes and long arms. It's not in his nature to quit, though, even when something seems impossible or even is such.

Taiga bends to catch his breath and Tatsuya stares at his back. Will there come a time when Taiga is so far ahead that playing against Tatsuya will hinder him?

Tatsuya's there when he gets there, answers the door not long after Taiga's heavy, hard knock. He gives him a once-over, as if he's looking for something, and Taiga realizes he's got nothing with him but the clothes he's wearing and whatever is in his pocket. It's not much, not enough if he's going to stay very long, but he can't even really think that far in the future because he's not done with the present.

"Tatsuya," Taiga says, voice almost cracking. "We need to talk."

Tatsuya raises his visible eyebrow (why he's kept the same hairstyle all these years Taiga doesn't know—it suits him, but his eyes are both beautiful and he's intensely aware of his desire to bring his hand up to brush the hair off of his left eye) but stands aside to let him in.

He's rearranged the living room (the tapes are still on the bookcase, though, and it's still pretty dusty in there) but it's not quite the appropriate time to talk about it. After all, he's just shown up unannounced and offering little to no explanation why. He's not here to talk about furniture, after all; he's spent far too long delaying this conversation. Tatsuya's already pouring him some iced tea, and the small gesture is all it takes to cement his resolve. He has to say it; it's past due.

The glass is already dripping with condensation when Taiga sets it down on the coffee table and the water drips down forming the shape of a ring on the wood. Instinctively, Taiga clutches at the ring around his neck. Tatsuya sits down next to him on the couch, keeping his glass in his hand, letting the water melt into the flesh of his thin, calloused fingers.

He breathes, squeezes the ring, then opens his hand, but does not let it fall away to rest on his leg. Tatsuya cocks his head slightly, less than an inch—and Taiga will take that as an invitation, which it probably isn't, but he knows himself well. He knows the longer they sit and he does nothing the more likely it is that he'll chicken out. So he smashes his mouth against Tatsuya's, feeling the sharp intake of breath from the thin, slightly parted lips and then the way they press back against his for a few moments of ringing uncertainty.

Tatsuya's hand pushes against Taiga's chest and he pulls his lips away slowly, bowing his head. The glass has slipped through his fingers, and he is now holding it at the rim. His fingers have drawn lines of clarity in the condensation. Taiga wishes he could see Tatsuya's face, but he's not sure if it would be right to tilt up his head. Still, Tatsuya's palm remains stretched across Taiga's chest, thumb right over his heart so they're pressed pulse-to-pulse.

Tatsuya places the glass on the coffee table next to Taiga's. He slowly raises his head and lets his other hand fall from Taiga's chest. Before he draws it back completely, Taiga clutches at it. Tatsuya does not shrink from his touch, and slips his thumb under Taiga's fingers. He's not smiling, though—but he doesn't look particularly revolted or surprised, either. Actually, he looks like he's in pain.

The silence is hanging over them, falling lower and lower and Taiga can feel it pressurizing the humidity in the air. He has to say something. "I love you."

"Yeah," Tatsuya replies in a half-whisper. His gaze into Taiga's eyes is steady.

Taiga takes another deep, shuddering breath. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize it until now, but I've felt this way since I don't know when and I just had to tell you so I came up here so…I just…" he trails off. The sudden burst of confidence has suddenly left him, and he's unsure again. Of all the situations he'd imagined during the long drive up, something this ambiguous had not been one of them. "Do you…I mean…" Shit. He can't say it; his mouth is suddenly so very dry.

Tatsuya's eye widens and he squeezes Taiga's hand. "Taiga, Taiga." Hearing his name from Tatsuya's mouth now makes him feel very self-conscious. "Of course I love you."

Taiga wants to smile, wants to embrace him, but Tatsuya's left something heavily unspoken in the air that's pushing him away. He seems to be gathering himself to say it, though, so Taiga waits, gulps down some of his iced tea.

Tatsuya sighs. "Taiga, I…we can't. The situation is just…we're in different places right now; it's too far apart."

Taiga furrows his brow. He knows he's not the smartest guy, but this really makes absolutely no sense to him. "What?"

"It's just, love...in the scheme of things…" Tatsuya's voice is slightly raised, both in pitch and in volume. "I mean, in an ideal world, loving each other is enough—but I'm here and you're in Phoenix and I work an office job and you're a basketball player with millions of dollars in sponsorship deals alone, and…it just doesn't work like that."

"What the hell?" Taiga's shouting now, but he doesn't care. He didn't come all this way for stupid, irrelevant objections. "We haven't even tried it and you're saying it won't work? Why are you such a goddamn pessimist sometimes? My contract's up at the end of the season, and I don't want to re-sign there, anyway. I want to come back home. And do you honestly think I give a damn about the money? We both make enough to live comfortably. I don't care if I make more than you. I mean, does it matter that much to you?"

"I just…I don't know, okay? I don't want it to turn out badly. I don't want to destroy what we have. I mean, I know you won't mean to, but in the end what if you…what if I…?"

"What if we what? You'll never get anywhere if you don't take risks. Stop denying yourself the chance and just let me love you!"

Something in Tatsuya's visible eye changes; his anger shifts back into neutrality and he leans forward and kisses Taiga. Even Tatsuya can't always be articulate; hell, Tatsuya's always had a hard time expressing his feelings and always makes things uselessly complicated. The kiss is soft, vulnerable, pleading a bit—it's rare for Tatsuya to take anything (well, consciously) without asking first or feeling an overwhelming sense of guilt. Taiga knows that all too well. But Tatsuya shouldn't feel guilty for wanting Taiga to be his, and Taiga wanting to be his isn't the first reason he shouldn't and it might not even make the top five.

Gradually, Tatsuya's arm reaches around Taiga and pulls him closer; the pressure of the light but strong arm is familiar and comforting. They're far from finished with this conversation, but it's a damn good start.

This time, it's Tatsuya who calls him. Taiga's in the middle of a phone call with his agent, but he abruptly cuts him off. There's someone important on the other line. They can talk later. (His agent will be pissed, but whatever. He'll just have to sit through another lecture on propriety. Seriously, why does that guy think he's his clients' father or something?)

"Hey," Taiga says, feeling the smile spread across his face just from the tenuous phone connection.

"Holy shit," says Tatsuya.

"I know," says Taiga. "I know."

"When do you get here?"

"A few hours."

"I'll probably be able to pick you up at the airport," Tatsuya says (Taiga might be imagining it but he almost sounds eager). "I mean, if you want me to and you don't have to go right to practice or something."

Taiga releases his breath. "Fuck. I hadn't thought about that. I mean, there's no game today and I doubt there's afternoon practice, but I probably have to meet with the coach or the GM or someone." Maybe he shouldn't have just hung up on his agent like that. "I guess I'll ask my agent or something. But even if I have to, they can wait a few hours. I really want to see you."

Tatsuya's basketball is like no one else's. It's deceptively simple, luring opponents and observers into a false sense of security—it's almost predictable, and then he slips through everyone's grasp like water—no, not water, because that leaves droplets and a sense of wetness; Tatsuya's like smoke, disappearing into the air, fading into almost nothing the way he jumps and lands lightly, not crashing to the ground and dipping too low (he can shoot fadeaways, but that's not really what Taiga means, even though he's not quite sure of what all these move names are).

In contrast, Taiga is rough where Tatsuya is smooth, and where Tatsuya fades he swells in crescendos and pushes through impatiently. When Taiga's playing one-on-one with Tatsuya, he just can't wait to see a hole in Tatsuya's defenses (there probably won't be one anyway) so he tries to make one and most of the time it doesn't work. Tatsuya just swoops down on his desperation and risk and grabs the ball and runs down to the other end and shoots a graceful layup (seriously, it's a layup, but it's so beautiful).

He tries to tell Tatsuya just how much it affects him, and his explanation comes out in a jumble of Japanese and English and random gestures.

Tatsuya smiles; it's not the weird fake thing he gets sometimes when he thinks he should be happy so he turns up his lips while still looking kind of stoic; it's a genuine expression of happiness. He reaches out to ruffle Taiga's hair. Taiga is caught between the reflexive wince (he's not a little kid; he likes it better when Tatsuya gives him a fist bump or throws the easy weight of his arm around Taiga's shoulder) and wanting to see Tatsuya's smile because it's so rare he doesn't know when the next time will be. "Taiga, you're gushing," he said, with a faint hint of amusement in his voice.

Taiga's sure he's blushing, although he could just as easily be flushed red from the game he's just played. Still, on top of that he's grinning twice as wide as Tatsuya is. "I can't help it. It's so cool!"

"Well," Tatsuya says, spinning the ball on his finger as he walks (while this has no actual relevance to basketball, this ranks high among Taiga's favorite things Tatsuya can do. He can spin the ball for a few seconds, but not while walking and it always ends up dropping and bouncing on the ground). "You've improved in leaps and bounds already."

"I won't quit," Taiga says, clenching his fist. He may not be able to play exactly in Tatsuya's style, but that doesn't mean he'll never be good, or that he'll never be able to twirl a ball on his finger. He lets his grip slacken and holds out his hands to receive Tatsuya's pass.