"You are the only one who has understood even a whisper of me, and I will tell you that I am the only person who has understood even a whisper of you."

― Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything is Illuminated

I.

Once, when Aomine was twelve years old, his mother smiled at him over a cup of tea and said, "Did you know that you were born with your eyes open, Daiki?"

The boy with midnight blue hair looked up from the basketball he was trying to re-inflate and scratched at his flaking, sunburnt nose. "No," he said finally and cast a thoughtful gaze out the window. "What was I looking at?"

His mother shook her head and Aomine wondered if the expression on her face is what they called wistful. "It would have been nice if you were looking at me or your father. But you only had eyes for the sun coming through the window behind me."

Aomine had only laughed then.

"I knew it."

II.

He can't remember a time where someone hasn't mentioned to him that he looks nothing like his parents. They joke about it often and it's a running gag in the family. It's not true, of course. He has his mother eyes and his father's nose. But while both his parents aren't fair, Aomine Daiki is still several shades darker. It's a testament to his love for the sun.

Satsuki reprimands him often about it and for a few weeks she tries her best to make him wear hats and sunscreen. "You've got to be safe," she says to him every morning and jams a cap over his hair. He only responds with a derisive snort and flicks it off with his finger, much to Momoi's chagrin.

"Oi, how am I supposed to see anything with that stupid thing on my head?"

"It's not stupid," she says with a huff, but she can't hide the growing smile on her face when his head subtly follows the movement of parting clouds to reveal a ray of light.

It doesn't help that basketball means he's almost never inside. He wipes the sweat from his face with his red t-shirt and squints up at the sky. The sun will set soon, he thinks a little forlornly. Satsuki's fallen asleep on the bench under the tree beside the court and he bounces the ball idly with one hand. Daytime doesn't last forever and Aomine knows he's too old to wish it did. He tucks his basketball under his arm, crosses over to his long-time friend and shakes her awake with a surprisingly gentle hand.

They walk home together as usual and Aomine is quiet as they watch the shadows grow longer under a setting sun. Momoi wonders what exactly is going through her friend's mind.

No one finds it surprising when Aomine gets considerably moody during winter. The sun isn't out as often as he wants it to be and there are days where it's too cold to even go out and play basketball – though it's not for lack of trying. But even he supposes that there are only so many times you can play on frost covered courts without getting hurt and catching a cold.

Satsuki and his parents rotate turns in nursing him back to health. Aomine frowns deeply at his ceiling the whole time while his twisted ankle throbs dully under the covers. They give him their sympathies and assure him it won't be long until he can play again. He mutters in agreement because he's irritated but not bitter.

"I'll just make up for it," he tells Satsuki when she voices her concern. She blinks, then chuckles and shakes her head endearingly.

"Of course you will."

After all, the room is much too small and stifling to hold a light such as Aomine Daiki.