A/N: i just wanted fashion designer akashi. with his hair swept back. that's the only salvation left. chii's birthday (akashikuroko tumblr) is around the corner and this is the only thing i can come up with: crossdressing kuroko. also, any grammatical errors + plot stuffs + characterizations that you find odd as heck, everything is totally my fault 100%, but hopefully this fic will come off as funny + cliched + light as what it should be.

At 10:00 p.m., Kise's shoved him into a striped sweater and a pair of jeans, calling them easy to be removed. Apparently, ease of clothing removal is an absolute necessity for tonight's agenda. Kuroko doesn't argue much about it; the hoodie is his favourite gift from his mother and the jeans are well-worn, so he knows he can go in and out of them in five-seconds flat. Kise's got half the mind to attack his hair with a spray and some serum, but he probably figured that he'd give Kuroko a chance to redeem himself. The blond pushes a round brush into his hand (some golden hair are sticking out from it, Kuroko notes) and tells Kuroko to tame some of the unruly spikes on his head.

Fine. Kuroko mulishly flattens the bush he calls his hair and ignores the pointed look on Kise's face when a few wild tufts still rebelled like a teenager.

"One of these days, I'll use Akashicchi's scissors to cut your hair." Kise flatly tells him, crossing his arms over his chest. "Actually, why don't you let me take you to a salon? I'll pay for it, you know."

"Please stop paying for me," Kuroko says. His hair has its own free will and he's not going to smother them in some icky sticky goopy glob that Kise calls Schwarzkopf hair gel. "You know it doesn't sit well with my conscience, Kise-kun."

Kise opens his mouth to argue, but emits a half-strangled cry once he realises that it's already fifteen minutes after ten, and hurriedly grabs Kuroko by the shoulders. He shoves the slighter man out of the door, stumbling into the hallway with the expression of someone who's seen a murderer on the sidewalk, and keeps muttering in exasperation, "Akashicchi is gonna kill us for being late," like it's a chant to keep evil away. They got out of Kuroko's dingy apartment in two minutes (plus one, since Kuroko forgot to grab his keys on the way out) and as soon as the unreliably shaky apartment elevator dinged at their floor, Kise smacks the buttons to close and doesn't forget to press LG to get to the parking lot.

Squeezed between two crumbling pillars dented with many scratches from cars who've valiantly scraped past them is Kise's Range Rover Evoque, and the car soundlessly unlocks itself once the owner approaches. Kuroko doesn't do much other than to get into the passenger seat beside Kise, cringing at the acrid brand of car perfume that the blond utterly loves, and straps on his seatbelt. Comparing Kuroko's measly ¥770,000 Honda Fit that he bought through countless overtimes at the 7-11 whilst juggling his teaching schedule, Kise's fiercely golden Evoque probably has a price tag of somewhere way above Kuroko's annual income.

"I'm going to drive fast to get us there on time, so hold on tight, Kurokocchi," Kise warns, starting up the 4WD with a press of a button. "He'll be so pissed… hell hath no fury like Akashicchi's." The car smoothly rolls out of the tight spot, bending around sharp edges and avoiding pillars like it isn't a gargantuan ride, and Kise expertly hikes up the speed once they're both out of the apartment's miserable parking lot. "But if you ask me, there's no one else who knows better about clothes than him. He'll be my tailor until I die, seriously. That's why I put up with him."

This, Kuroko realizes, is why he hates the lifestyle of the rich and famous.

This 'Akashicchi' character sounds shady from the start.

If not for the fact that Kuroko's newest suit will be sponsored by none other than the six-time-award-winning Japan Academy Prize Kise Ryōta, he wouldn't even dream of going anywhere near him even with a ten foot pole. The orange street lamps flash past them in a series of lights as Kuroko mulls over the option of declining Kise's invitation to his award party just so that he can avoid potential death from an unstable tailor, but every single one of his friends from Teiko will be attending Kise's night of honour too. Momoi's been harping on and on about it in their LINE group chat, snapping shots of herself in various night dresses to get their opinion, and even Murasakibara will be flying back from Le Cordon Bleu in Paris just for their long-awaited reunion.

And that's something, coming from the laziest member of the bunch.

The gliding car comes to a smooth halt before an ominously scarlet traffic light and Kise thumps his hands over the steering wheel, cursing slightly under his breath. "I should've rung him up to say that we're going to be late."

Yes, yes you should've, Kuroko parrots internally. Maybe that will save us from all this trouble. But he says nothing to add to Kise's growing agitation, and merely fingers the fine yellow threads binding the dark leather upholster.

Something about his life feels as fragile as the thinly spun thread itself, and he wonders if Akashi's sharp scissors will snip him apart.

They're led to a designer mansion (by mansion, he means a classy apartment with a monthly rent that makes him think of Kise's Evoque as some cheap accessory) and Kuroko steps out of the car onto a silver platform that strangely resembles an oversized tray for a car. Kise shuts off the engine with a click of a button and yanks Kuroko by his forearm, dragging him to the side. A strange-looking panel with many buttons has Kuroko peering at the strange combination until Kise hurriedly keys in a series of numbers, and quite suddenly, the silver plate holding Kise's car begins to swivel in a spot before descending into the ground. With a blink, the SUV is gone and what's left of the spot is just another empty silver platform, like some sort of fancy magical trick for the rich and fabulous.

Shaking his head, Kuroko follows Kise through the courtyard and past the saluting watch guards, heading right into a gaudily decorated foyer. Bright chandeliers dangle above their heads, blue locks glowing amber at the intensity, and Kuroko squints at the light. Unperturbed, Kise merely hits the button to go up, restlessly tapping his foot and chanting, "Please don't get mad, please don't get mad, please don't get mad," under his breath as a prayer. Once the lift reaches G, a pretty little chime announces its arrival and they step into the glass box. Kuroko takes a moment to appreciate a woodblock print hanging on the mirror wall as if it's some art exhibition and ponders on its aesthetics as a fretting Kise paces.

Nervously checking his phone, the taller man sighs. "Well, he didn't call me yet. That means there's still hope, right?"

"I don't know Akashi-san personally, so I can't say," Kuroko replies. The digital red numbers gleam like fresh blood timer on the panel, counting up to the minutes they have to live, and once they reach 4, Kuroko clears his throat to shut a wailing Kise up. "I'm sure he will be a rational man, Kise-kun," he says, though it's more of an effort to convince himself than the other man. "You've been his acquaintance for a while, and I'm sure you've been late on numerous occasion. He's probably grown immune of your tardiness."

The lift doors rattle as they slide open with Kise crying, "That's so mean, Kurokocchi!" in the background.

On the other hand, Kuroko's treated to the sight of an odd-looking man standing before them. Definitely not just another passenger waiting to get a ride with them. One piercing look from him has Kuroko thinking of pins and needles jabbed into a mannequin's body.

His artily styled crimson hair is swept back, short bangs falling over his forehead and framing his youthful face, and his deep scarlet eyes are sharp. In hindsight, Kuroko should've known that all those reds he encountered along the way are premonitions of sorts. Sartorial choices, dress shirt with its sleeves rolled up to his elbows, paired with fitted slacks and shiny formal shoes, the stranger gives off a subtle air of amiability.

That is, until a crooked smile splits his handsome face.

"Kise, you're late."

So there they are; Kuroko's treated to some tea that is assuredly expensive if he had a finer palate, while Kise bawls in the background like a kindergartener on his first day of school. The cushion he's sitting on is uncomfortable, more like a decorative ornament than serving its true purpose as something meant to be sat on, but he doesn't voice his complaints. Not when Akashi's keeping away a pair of scissors from his work table—yellow handles, Kuroko notes, and properly stows this memory inside his head in case he needs to recite the tragic event to policemen later on.

"But I got off from the shoot late!" is what Kise whines, hiding his face behind his hands. "You should be angry at the crew, not at me!"

"Then you should've reconsidered asking me tomorrow," says Akashi.

"But I have another CM to shoot tomorrow!"

"Then the day after that?" Akashi cooly replies, cocking a brow. At Kise's undignified silence, Kuroko could see Akashi victoriously mounting a white horse and parading all over with his victory. "Even if you just won the Japan Academy Prize for your latest film, Perfect Copy, you should've thought about it long and hard. I might've been busy, you know."

Refusing to be shot down, Kise tries again. "It's just thirty minutes—"

"—one more word out of you, and I'll send the both of you home," Akashi warns, brandishing his ballpoint pen menacingly.

Kuroko jerks at the threat. Suddenly he's also included in the target for abuse? It's like dealing with kindergarteners all over again, only with adults this time. Feeling quite attacked at the onslaught, he puts away the teacup and exhales softly. "I would appreciate it if you can take out your anger only on Kise-kun. Please leave me out of this." As if that was damage control, with Kise sniffling in the background at Kuroko's traitorous ways. "I don't have enough money to pay your services, Akashi-san, so by right, I shouldn't even be here. But since Kise-kun will be sponsoring my suit, I have no choice. If not, I would've worn my other suit for his party."

The blond manages to summon an offended face at that statement, wiping his eyes. "Ew no, Kurokocchi. They didn't fit you at all. You looked like a kitchen rubber glove."

"At least it isn't yellow like your hair," Kuroko shoots back. Kise visibly deflates at the personal attack and retreats, counting his prayers that so far Akashi hasn't mauled him yet. Appeased at the man's deference, Kuroko lifts his cup and sips from it. "We're sorry for being late, Akashi-san. I hope you'll forgive Kise-kun again."

Gaining Akashi's approval isn't simple.

But Kuroko thinks he somewhat managed something with his words when the redhead leaves him alone after a minute of scrutiny. He returns from one of the nearby rooms, brandishing a roll of plastic measuring tape in one finger and an iPad in another hand. What an iPad has anything to do with sewing, Kuroko has absolutely zero idea. Akashi flicks through a few things on the screen with intense precision like he's memorised the buttons and finally settles on an application once a bright blue light is reflected in his slanted eyes.

"Stand up," he orders.

Kuroko does.

Instead of professionally strangling him with the tape, Akashi hooks a finger underneath the lapel of his hoodie and pinches the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. As though dissatisfied by the store-bought quality, he promptly withdraws his hand. Their height difference is marginal, but the intensity lit in Akashi's eyes disturbs him all the more, like he's dissecting Kuroko and contemplating of making a mannequin out of him. Oh, you know, just stab Kuroko's neck, cut all the way down, remove his organs, and stuff him with cotton to prop him up. Especially when Akashi's wispy brows are drawn together and his lips curl. That thought has Kuroko shuddering inwardly and he stomps it down.

When Akashi draws closer half a step with a frown, he orders again:

"Please strip, Kuroko. Now."

It's expected, of course, that's why he wore the sweater. That doesn't explain why Akashi's eyes are violently surveying him like he's some sort of private property with a signboard tacked on his forehead. But Kuroko's seen his fair share of man-nipples in the private locker rooms of Teiko and Seirin—even Kiyoshi's hairy ones, and he figures that Akashi has a collection of his own memories, so he obliges with a shrug. A simple tug on the zipper, a whoosh of fabric, Kuroko invites the sharp nip of cold air-conditioning on his bare skin as he deposits his clothing on the chair.

"Awww, Kurokocchi's still so cute!" Kise gushes from his corner of shame. "You're still the smallest among all of us!"

"Please stop harassing me, Kise-kun."

"You're still unforgiven, Kise," Akashi reminds him, and that shuts him up quicker than everything else could have.

Satisfied, Akashi unrolls the tape and promptly invades Kuroko's private space once more. Warm breath fans Kuroko's cheek—too close, he mentally chastises—as Akashi lowers his spine by half an inch to press a cold metallic tip on Kuroko's shoulder. He's just taking Kuroko's measurement and he's not exactly doing anything else that should breach the law (like making a noose of the tape). Kuroko's reminded of a surgeon when Akashi sizes him up.

He's meticulous, whipping his tape around like Nijimura's black karate belt. Too sedate for someone supposedly rich and famous, unlike Kise. That and the dark rings under his eyes says more than enough about his working ethics.

Kuroko's initial impression of star-class tailors is that they're gaudy creatures who slap on anything they deem remotely fashionable. Pink is in season? Pink necktie it is. Stripes are good for pants? Stripes all the way. Big, cartoon-looking buttons are hot? Definitely putting on a whole bunch of them on the next line. Their pretentious attitude also tends to tick Kuroko off, from the slew of Hollywood and Japanese movies he's watched, and he's almost half expecting Akashi to break out a pair of sunnies like some sort of capricious couturier.

But no.

He doesn't do anything from Kuroko's no-no list, let alone approach it.

Akashi is just a fetching designer, and nothing like the stereotypical ones.

Kuroko almost jumps when Akashi drops onto his knees and has his nose in front of Kuroko's crotch. He'd never thought of the day where he'd see another man with him in this intimate position (though, nothing about his current situation is remotely intimate). Feeling somewhat violated, Kuroko sends Kise a withering look, and the blond silently returns it with a pout, hugging a cushion tightly. If anything, he looks envious of Akashi right now and would trade his soul to Satan just to switch bodies.

The tape slithers from Kuroko's midsection right down to his pelvis, where it constricts snugly over his crotch. Oh boy. Akashi looks like he's nosed more groin than he ever wanted in a lifetime, blasé, and notes the final measurements before straightening up. He doesn't make eye-contact with the man he discreetly ravished; instead, he goes to his tablet and taps in a few things on the screen.

Within seconds, the device emits a comical tinkle and he sets it down on the coffee table again.

It's only then he draws his eyes up to meet Kuroko's gaze, unwavering. "You have quite a small frame for a man. Are you Kise's age?"

Not sure whether he's vehemently offended or mildly chagrined, coming from the second smallest man in the room, Kuroko rubs his neck. "Yes, 22. I wasn't the most prominent of the basketball members back in Seirin."

"Kurokocchi's the shadow player I talked about," Kise gleefully supplies, batting his lashes. "Akashicchi, maybe we can get together and play sometime? Kurokocchi's a deadly opponent when it's time for face-off."

The redhead regards the blond with a contemplative stare. "All right, but definitely not this month." And that's that. Akashi turns back to Kuroko, dropping the conversation to tip his head indicatively. "Please turn around. I'll need the measurements from behind."

Now, Kuroko knows 'from behind' is far from suggestive in this context, but spending too much time growing up with lecherous Aomine and pining Kise does wonders to his brain. Their sexual harassments are starting to get to him. Discomfited with his train of thoughts, Kuroko follows as instructed and spins to face the transparent grand piano displayed alongside a matching violin in the distance. Akashi's tape returns to wrap around his chest with a vengeance, and it slides down to graze over Kuroko's nipples by accident.

This time, Kuroko jolts at the touch. His neck is fraught with restraint at the urge to emit some sound that could be provocatively misinterpreted.

"Ah." Akashi's voice is smooth by his ear, warm, making his skin crawl inexplicably. "My bad."

Like it happens all the time, Akashi adjusts the tape properly and makes sure that it's situated under his nipples instead of over it. And Kuroko's left all alone to contemplate why he thinks his cheeks are reddening without his consent, why his nipples are stiff, why his throat is itchy, and blames it on the blasted air-conditioner altogether.

So it's a Wednesday, three days after their initial meeting, that Kuroko's hands twitch as he clicks on Google. The PC in the staff room lags a little when he boots up the program, but once it's done, his eyes scan the English Google page. Kagami must've left it here, he thinks, and checks the toolbar, only to see that the keyboard's been switched to English too. Great. Not quite computer-savvy, Kuroko musters his limited knowledge on the language from high school and shakily types in the letters one by one:

AKASHI

As soon as he presses enter, the entire screen loads up red, red, red, maddening shades of red from various qualities of pictures splayed on the result page. It didn't quite bring up what he needed to know because there are a few dresses thrown in the mix, so Kuroko scans the links and finally picks up on a romanised full name. He hits enter and waits.

This time around, luck shines down on him. Akashi Seijuro is his full name ("Seijuro," Kuroko tests the name on his tongue and finds that it's like reaching the pinnacle of a mountain and rolling off the slope) and his collections are godly. Kuroko doesn't quite know how to appreciate how dresses should flow or how haute couture works, but a particular sundress has an orgy of colours and still turned out fashionable when Akashi worked his magic on it. Even the worst of fashion disasters metamorphosed into contemporary art if Akashi's involved. There's no possible way to explain how gifted he is in what he does.

Kuroko examines the smattering of flattering photographs depicting Akashi in his own design: smart, sleek, suave. Even when he poses beside Kyary Pamyu Pamyu—who's wearing an appalling combination courtesy of Sebastian Masuda, Akashi's regal stature separates the glass from the diamonds. A bit more intrigued than he should be, Kuroko clicks on a link and isn't really surprised that Akashi made the front cover of a Vogue magazine, something Kise's been struggling to get on.

His collection on NYC's recent runway met critical responses and they're all varying degrees of positivity, with reputed journalists calling his 'Spring 2014' collection as phenomenal and breathtaking. The recurring palette is baby blue, cornflower blue, powder blue, just sallow blues on the rows, but something about the broad spectrum of twinkling turquoises, rich creams, sweet pinks and bold bronzes dotting his designs breaks the stereotype and beckons its viewers in an uncanny way. How he artistically plays with these conflicting colours are beyond Kuroko's comprehension, especially the details of the French appliqué.

Akashi's obviously in a league of his own, tromping down walkways in aviators and leather jackets.

A league too far away for a kindergarten teacher to afford.

Once it's 2:51 p.m., just close enough for Kuroko to gather his wits before confronting the wildlife of children in 3B for their nap time, he quits the browser and logs off, keeping the chair where it's supposed to be.

Thursday morning has Kuroko falling out of his bed when he reads a message at 4:45 a.m.

Warm medleys of flushed yellows and magenta spikes pierce the morning skies with sunrise, just falling in slivers through chintzy ¥100 Daiso blinds. His alarm set to go off at 6:00 hasn't even rung yet. Kuroko rubs Sandman's spell from his eyes, still woozy, and thinks that it's an elaborate joke in his hands. The foreign number on his cellphone mocks him on the screen with its silence.

Date: 3/7/2014
Time: 4:44 a.m.
Sender: 0118481414
Subject: Address
Message:
Good morning, Kuroko.
Your suit is almost complete. But I need you to wear it in case of a tight fit. I need your address.

He doesn't bother to introduce himself, but the words ooze Akashi all over its pixels.

For one, how did he get Kuroko's number? Kuroko wonders if he's accidentally exchanged numbers over some imaginary drunken nights together, but it isn't plausible because he's always sober (and Kise's the loud drunk, Aomine's the imaginary groper, Midorima's the embarrassing lightweight, while Murasakibara's a hungry monster in his alcoholic flush). Maybe Kise gave it to him. Yes, of course. Kuroko's full name and his number together like it's a name card for a dating site.

Knocking the unsteady shiver in his hand away, Kuroko hunches over his cellphone and punches in a civil reply.

Date: 3/7/2014
Time: 4:47 a.m.
Sender: 015114322
Subject: RE: Address
Message:
Good morning, Akashi-san.
Thank you for your hard work, but you needn't rush it. Anyway, here is my address.

He inserts his address and hits send before his brain registers the automated process. Now that's out of the way, it's time for him to resume his sleep. But before Kuroko could even clamber from the floor and roll back into his lumpy mattress, his phone buzzes with a new reply.

Date: 3/7/2014
Time: 4:48 a.m.
Sender: 0118481414
Subject: Thank you.
Message:
I'm on my way.

Kuroko stares.

What.

(the actual fuck, Aomine would've added if he were in Kuroko's shoes.)

Scrambling onto his feet faster than Riko's spinning kick, the man nearly slips on his bathroom tiles and he fumbles for purchase on his sink. Shoving a toothbrush into his mouth and downing a capful of mouthwash to rinse it out, spearmint icing his tongue, Kuroko douses his bed hair in copious amounts of cold water in an effort to flatten it as much as he can. He breaks out of the bathroom in record time to bless his armpits with spray-on deodorant and sheathes an appropriate shirt and shorts just in time to catch his phone's next beep.

Date: 3/7/2014
Time: 5:07 a.m.
Sender: 0118481414
Subject: Downstairs.
Message:
Please come down.

Kuroko's stomach does a pathetic flop at his uncanny punctuality.

He must've driven in such a way that could put an F1 racer to shame.

Not wanting to put much thought to how the redhead will terrorise him this time around, Kuroko pockets his phone and remembers to grab his keys this time as he heads outside. The morning chill creeps up his spine and he shudders at the poor warmth circulating in this dilapidated apartment, even inside the dimly lit elevator box. He gets off at G, sprinting out the frosted glass doors faster than he ever did on basketball courts, and catches himself before he comes hurling right at a certain redhead waiting for him.

And this time, Akashi's dark eye circles reminds Kuroko of Chinese pandas.

Despite his apparent lack of snooze, Akashi's still impeccably dressed in a dark, military-styled trench coat to combat the cold, though he's left it unbuttoned and his necktie loosened. He raises a brow when Kuroko stands ramrod straight in front of him, but acts like it's normal for them to rendezvous at sunrise. Suspicious, suspicious.

"Glad you could make it on time," Akashi says conversationally, though it doesn't look like he means it. It's more like a conversation setter to Kuroko. Gesturing to a car behind him, he motions for Kuroko to follow him. "Come with me."

Just a scant few meters behind, parked underneath a leafy tree, a burnished sienna sports car lies in wait. Kuroko discreetly pinches his arm behind his back, feels the sharp sting of pain, and thinks hard about Kise's Evoque. Comparing this slick beast to the bulky 4WD, Kuroko's sure that his Honda could be sold to a junkyard for ¥200. He's not big on cars, only identifying the ones he's seen on the road before, and an Evoque isn't so common in Tokyo—but this, this car is definitely one of a kind. Much like its owner, Kuroko notes.

Oblivious to Kuroko's internal accountant waging a war, Akashi opens the passenger's door and withdraws a covered coat hanger. When he turns around, it's only then he understands why Kuroko stands a few meters away from him, and more meters away from his car. Seemingly amused at the thought, he pats the roof and smiles broadly.

"Aston Martin's Vanquish," Akashi introduces his car like it's a lover who won't cheat on him. "It's the most discreet car I have at the moment in Tokyo. I'm waiting for my Mitsubishi Lancer to be shipped next week to replace this one."

Akashi's definition of discreet must've been on different tangents than Kuroko's. Maybe they used different dictionaries and referred to different definitions.

Not wanting to seem rude, Kuroko subtly gravitates away from the penny-pinching beast and manages to approach Akashi from another corner, accepting the clothing with care. He doesn't want to drop the things he obviously can't afford. "Thank you very much, Akashi-san," Kuroko says, all Japanese politeness that he's famed for. "I'm sorry for all the trouble that Kise-kun puts you through for this."

"Not at all, Kuroko, there is nothing you need to apologise for," Akashi smoothly rectifies him, giving a curt shake of his head. "It is my job and Kise is paying me to make your suit, so you are my customer. Moving on to more pressing matters, I need you to put on the suit to see if it's to your liking. If there are any additional adjustments, I need to take note of it now, as I'll be leaving for Paris in three hours."

Such is the lifestyle of the rich and fabulous, always rushing around, never settling down. Kuroko has no intention of stopping the redhead from going on his merry way with his craft scissors, but something's niggling his mind.

"How do I know if it's a good suit or not?" Kuroko asks. "I don't doubt your quality, Akashi-san, but maybe I'm used to improperly fitted suits. This is my first time having something tailored to my body."

To others, it sounds like a stupid question. To Kuroko, it's a weighty one. Kise is paying for this, after all, and he doesn't want to waste the blond's money, as much as the idiot actor dotes on him. He's a responsible adult, one who understands the life and trials of a man trying to make a decent living in an expensive city. Just being surrounded by his successful friends is sufficient reminder for Kuroko on a daily basis.

At first, Akashi doesn't say anything about his question. He rests his back against his minutely purring car and crosses his arms over the thick gabardine fabric. Kuroko's stuck in the middle of a silent crossfire, unsure of the safest direction to crash.

Then Akashi opens his mouth and offers his answer, though it's leaps and bounds far away from what Kuroko imagined.

"If it is to your liking, it will fit you. If it makes you uncomfortable, then you best return it to me, Kuroko. That is all."

Akashi's words are loosely threaded together, forming an indiscernible pattern, and Kuroko wonders if life is purposely sewing his fate closer to the redhead's.

But first, the suit. The rest of his worries will come later.