Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4236918.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Kuroko_no_Basuke_|_Kuroko's_Basketball
  Relationship:
      Akashi_Seijuurou/Nijimura_Shuuzou
  Character:
      Akashi_Seijuurou, Nijimura_Shuuzou
  Additional Tags:
      Established_Relationship, No_Plot/Plotless, Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without
      Plot, Angst_and_Porn, Lack_of_Communication, Inline_with_canon
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-07-24 Words: 3545
****** Resignation ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "Akashi never asks questions. Nijimura appreciates that best, of all
     the things he appreciates about the other boy." Akashi and Nijimura
     avoid asking questions they won't get answers to.
Akashi never asks questions.
Nijimura appreciates that best, of all the things he appreciates about the
other boy. His composure is remarkable, his abilities astonishing, but it is
his silent acceptance of his surroundings that Nijimura finds most comforting.
He never asks why Nijimura's house is always empty, never comments on the
absence of adults in a space far too large for one student; he doesn't even ask
about the other's interest in him. Even when Nijimura closes the bedroom door
needlessly behind them, when Akashi says “We're not going to be discussing the
starting lineup,” it's a statement and not an inquiry.
Nijimura can feel his mouth twisting itself into a smile more bitter than he
intends, the edge to the expression lost to the back of Akashi's shoulders. “We
don't need to,” he says, leaving the door so he can step into the room, can
brush past Akashi to sit on the bed. The mattress gives under his weight, the
smooth line of the sheets forming themselves into creases around his body, and
Akashi turns towards him without being told. “It's fixed, now.”
“Yes,” Akashi agrees. He sets his bag down carefully, tipping it so its weight
falls against the legs of Nijimura's chair, as carefully unzips his jacket so
he can slide it off his shoulders. The motion is smooth, elegant with the sort
of striking beauty that comes from well-learned efficiency. Nijimura tracks the
motion of the jacket, the way it seems to fall into neat folds in Akashi's
hands before he drapes it over the back of the chair and steps in towards the
bed. “There's no real need for further discussion.”
Nijimura could leave it at that. It would be easy to fall into silence, to let
the quiet between them become something nearly companionable as Akashi's knee
fits alongside his hip, as a hand settles at his shoulder so the other boy can
move in to straddle his lap. But when Nijimura reaches out his hold is harder
than it needs to be, fingers pressing against the edge of pain at Akashi's
hips, and when he exhales it comes out raw around a humorless laugh.
“You know the team better than I do,” he says against Akashi's t-shirt, hissing
the words until they sound like an accusation. Akashi's hands slide sideways
over his shoulders, press up against the back of his neck with the same gentle
deliberation he always shows, and Nijimura ducks his head and lets him continue
while his mouth keeps moving on its own. “You're more the captain than I am.”
There's a bite under the words, a justification too faint for Akashi to make
sense of. Nijimura can feel the edge under his own skin, cutting open his
priorities (family over team, father over basketball) and laying the painful
truth bare until it has to be spoken, even obliquely, if only to feel the harsh
truth of the words tear backwards against his throat.
“Your experience is invaluable,” Akashi says over the top of his head, the
level tone he uses that rings of absolute truth. Nijimura drags at his hips,
urges his weight forward so he can breathe in the heat off Akashi's shoulder,
and the fingers in his hair spread wide to dig bracing pressure against his
scalp. “I am a better vice captain for your guidance.”
Nijimura's laugh lacks any but the barest hint of amusement, and all of that is
twisted around to turn on himself, to scratch his thoughts aching with hurt to
match the heat unwinding itself into his veins. “You shouldn't try to lie to
me, Akashi,” he says, opening his mouth to bite at Akashi's skin. The pressure
gets him a shudder of reaction, a brief gust of air as Akashi exhales hard;
when Nijimura laughs again it's a little more sincere, a little less rough-
edged with self-loathing. “You never really needed me there at all, did you?”
“I appreciate your support,” Akashi doesn't-answer, dodging even the rhetorical
question on Nijimura's tongue. He arches his back, presses himself in closer so
their hips come together; it's enough even with the barrier of their pants in
the way, the heat of his body grinding against Nijimura's a distraction for the
too-rational thought in Nijimura's mind. “I truly value you, Nijimura-san.”
“Sure you do,” Nijimura growls, the words feeling like sarcasm even though he
knows Akashi is telling the truth, because Akashi always tells the truth, he's
never lied that Nijimura has known in the months since they met. It's still a
relief to his own emotions to let the words tear rough on his tongue, to brace
his foot on the floor so he can twist them both sideways and topple Akashi over
the bed. It's easier like this anyway, with Akashi's eyes wide and a little
unfocused from the impact and his breathing knocked off-rhythm by the fall, the
scarlet of his hair set off by the pale bleached-white of Nijimura's sheets.
Nijimura stares at him for a moment, lets the unjustified anger go cold and
unspoken on his tongue. There's too much he could say – jealousy for the other
boy's obvious talent, mostly, maybe concern for the wall he can see behind
Akashi's eyes sometimes, the home life the other boy never speaks of.
Affection, even, if he knew how to frame it, if he was sure that was part of
the everpresent ache in his chest, like mourning for something lost before it
was ever truly possessed. But Akashi doesn't move, and Nijimura doesn't speak,
and in the end it resolves as it always does, with Nijimura leaning in as if
called by the crimson of Akashi's bright eyes to press his mouth to the
other's. They fit together smoothly, always better than Nijimura expects, and
he can never be sure if it's his flawed memory or that Akashi really is getting
better every time, arching up more smoothly to meet his touch and winding his
arms around Nijimura's neck just as the other leans in to press closer.
It doesn't make a difference, of course. It's always perfect, or so close to
perfect Nijimura can't see the gap, enough to chase away the hesitation that
lingers in his thoughts and the bitter tang of judgment turned inward, the
weight of the choice he will have to make, the sacrifice he has already made,
if he's honest with himself. It's enough to distract him, enough that Akashi
opens his mouth in invitation before Nijimura has thought to ask, enough to
have a leg hooking against his hip to pull him down to the bed and close to
Akashi himself.
They move well together, Nijimura has to admit. There's the question in his
mind, again, as there ever is: is it that they are truly compatible? Is it just
that Akashi is that good at reading people, that he can adjust his actions to
mesh seamlessly with Nijimura's? Could he do this with anyone? But he doesn't
ask, lets that question go to the graveyard of all their unsaid answers, and
when he braces himself on an elbow to reach for Akashi's hip the other boy's
fingers meet his, already easing the elastic waistband free of skin pale as
Nijimura's sheets.
Nijimura pulls back, then, rocks his weight back over his heels. Akashi doesn't
follow; it's easier to work his clothes free with his shoulders steady on the
bed, the arch of his back enough to give Nijimura the leeway to tug his pants
free. That's easy, too – Akashi brings his legs up, slides his feet free with
more dexterity than Nijimura would dare to expect from anyone else – the
elegance of the motion nearly enough to distract from the line of bare legs,
the cutting-sharp dip of his hip and faint flush starting to climb into his
cock. Nijimura tosses the pants aside, pauses to stare for a long moment, to
glide his hands up along the outside of Akashi's legs, ankles to knees to
shadow-textured hipbones. He doesn't look at the other's face – he knows
without seeing that those eyes will be fixed on him, that mouth steady and calm
but perhaps for the clinging damp of Nijimura's mouth still printed on him. He
tips himself forward instead, spreads his hands wide to hold the other down to
the mattress as he slides his knees back, and by the time he's ducking his head
to fit between pale knees Akashi's going harder, breathing fast enough in
expectation that Nijimura can catch the sound of alternate inhales.
He doesn't bother with any kind of warning. Nijimura may lack Akashi's
preternatural intuition for the actions of others, but he's more than capable
of learning from past experience. So he knows better than to start with
teasing, knows that the best way to draw Akashi's breath into a gasp is to open
his mouth and slide his lips down over the other's length all at once. There's
a jerk of reaction, stalled and stopped by the hold of Nijimura’s hands, and a
hiss of breath to match the rush of heat that twitches Akashi to near-instant
hardness against Nijimura's tongue.
It's enough. Nijimura steadies his balance, tips his head down, adopts the
well-practiced rhythm that catches Akashi's breathing out-of-sync in his
throat. There's a hand at his hair, fingers winding through dark strands, and
Nijimura keeps his eyes open, stares at the flutter of response against the
flat of Akashi's stomach as he tightens his lips and sucks. He gets a hiss of
air when he lets his mouth slide free, a shiver of response when he comes back
down, and he contemplates continuing on, working Akashi over with lips and
tongue until he can taste the bitter salt of the other's capitulation on his
tongue. But Akashi's hand slides free of his hair, there's the shift of
movement, and when Nijimura pulls away to look up the other boy is just pushing
up to an elbow, offering the bottle Nijimura could feel him reaching for.
Nijimura accepts without protest. He's hard inside his jeans, his pulse
thrumming hot against his spine, and he thinks it would be impossible, anyway,
to try to resist the way Akashi's steady stare assumes obedience. He lets the
other's hips go, takes the bottle from his hand, and while he slicks his
fingers Akashi sits up entirely to tug his shirt up over his head. That's more
skin bared, this time in the form of narrow shoulders and the telltale speed of
breathing in his chest, but Nijimura reaches for Akashi's knee instead, pushes
up until the other lets himself fall backwards over the bed again. Akashi lets
his legs slide apart, makes an invitation of his body language rather than his
words, and Nijimura takes it without doing him the disrespect of asking if he's
sure. It's easy to fit a finger inside him, the motion as smooth with
Nijimura's experience as everything is between them, but Akashi is burning hot
to the touch, the heat startling even after dozens of repetitions. Nijimura
hisses, reaction spilling from his lips even as he presses in deeper, and
Akashi is arching up off the bed, chin tipped down as if he can see anything of
import besides the shift of Nijimura's hand.
“Nijimura-san,” and he sounds calm here, too, as composed as if they were on
the court. “Use two fingers instead of just one.”
Nijimura wants to ask if he's sure. He's forming the words on his lips,
creasing his forehead with the uncertainty because it's too soon, isn't it,
he's barely started and Akashi's still tight against his first finger. But he
looks up, and catches the way Akashi is looking at him – dark, dark in his
eyes, fire burning into shadows instead of light – and drags the question into
a scowl of irritation as he pulls his hand back.
“I ought to be setting the pace,” he growls as he obeys anyway, his motions a
little jerkier now with irritation than they were. There's resistance this
time, enough to prevent his movements until Akashi lets one leg fall wider even
than it was, and even then Nijimura is pushing hard, stretching Akashi open
around his fingers with every inch he moves.
“My apologies, captain,” Akashi says. He's not looking at Nijimura anymore;
he's staring at the ceiling, his mouth set in a line that says he's reaching
for composure, that he's fighting to keep his expression neutral. “I intended
that as a suggestion rather than an order.”
Nijimura frowns. There's too much of basketball practice in this, too much of
their barely-balanced dynamic giving way for him to like. He can feel the walls
of their accord collapsing around them, the chill along his spine wondering if
this is the last time, if the fragile truce of mutual respect between them will
even last out this interlude. But he can hardly complain; it's his own
decision, after all, to skew that balance with his resignation, even if Akashi
doesn't know it yet. He hardly has space to be irritated by this almost-
insubordination from the vice-captain who long since surpassed him with regards
to handling their over-skilled team.
So “Of course you did,” he says, sarcasm his only refuge in this, and thrusts
his fingers in hard, as deep as they will go. Akashi's back arches, his eyes
going wide and unseeing for a moment, and the spill of slick pre-come that
catches against his stomach is like a victory all by itself. It's enough to
make Nijimura smile, at least, even if the expression is taut and bitter at his
lips, and when he draws back to thrust in again it's with intention, angling
for the same shivering response he got the first time. This time he gets a
whine, a choked-off whimper of response from Akashi's throat, and there's a
flush coming now, too, color collecting across Akashi's cheekbones and over his
shoulders like his hair has decided to share some of its color with his skin.
There's a rhythm to this, too. Nijimura finds it without reaching, fits the
stroke of his hand and the press of his fingers to the inside angle of Akashi's
knees, to the shivering breathless arc of his spine. It's easy to press him
open when he's so ready to submit, to give himself over to Nijimura's greater
age and accumulated experience without threatening the other's position of
superiority. That burns through Nijimura, too, shudders anticipation along his
legs and sparks heat up his spine, but it's nothing compared to the glaze that
hits Akashi's eyes, the heat that finally melts the line of his mouth into huge
gasping lungfuls of air.
It's not until his hands are reaching for the sheets, twisting into handholds
as if to brace himself in place, that Nijimura slides his fingers free, lets
the lube-slick heat of his fingers cool in the air while he works his belt and
jeans open. It's enough time for Akashi to loosen his grip on the sheets, to
bring a hand to press over his face, but it doesn't make a difference; he's
still breathing hard enough for Nijimura to hear, still flushed enough for
Nijimura to see, and his knees are still as far apart as he can spread them.
Nijimura fits his clean hand back against the inside of Akashi's knee, tightens
his fingers into an unnecessary hold to brace the other in place while he looks
down to line himself up. He watches the first press, the half-inch of motion
that slides the head of his cock into the slick-wet heat of Akashi's body; then
Akashi makes a sound, an odd gasp of air, and Nijimura looks up instead to see
the shift of the other's shoulders as he pushes into him. It’s satisfying to
see the way Akashi’s mouth goes open on breathless heat, the involuntary
reaction matching the tension Nijimura can feel collecting in the line of the
other’s legs, and he keeps pushing forward, a slow steady advance until the
whole length of him is buried inside the other boy.
“There,” he says, satisfied concession to speech, and he lets Akashi’s knee go,
reaches out instead to brace himself against the bed alongside Akashi’s hip.
It’s easier to move with this improved balance, frees his other hand to slide
along the top of Akashi’s thigh, and by the time he’s fitting his fingers to
the flushed-hot resistance of the other’s cock he can hear every breath Akashi
is taking. There’s a jolt as he touches the other boy, a shudder of sensation
that tightens against Nijimura’s cock, and he thrusts in harder in response,
his breath rushing out of him in a groan at the feel of Akashi tensing around
him. He starts to stroke, then, a slide of fingers as careful as he can manage,
fits the pace of his movement to the arch of Akashi’s spine; with the other boy
arced off the mattress Nijimura feels every tremor of breathing in his chest,
can feel his reactions even if Akashi is biting his lip to silence, now, even
if the palm of his hand is pressed tight to shadow the response in his eyes.
Nijimura watches the white of sharp teeth against pale lip, grins open and
unabashed with no one to see, and when he presses his thumb in hard against the
head of Akashi’s cock he can hear the whine on the other’s breathing, the flush
that crests over his shoulders in the moment before he can restrain his
shuddering.
“Feels good,” Nijimura offers, a statement and not an inquiry, and he does it
again. Akashi’s legs hook around his hips, this time, heels digging in against
the small of his back; there’s a hand grabbing at his wrist, now, a desperate
bid for control too shaky to effect any real dominance, and Nijimura tightens
his fingers and strokes faster, enough that Akashi’s mouth spills open into a
moan without giving him a chance to call it back. It’s straightforward from
there, no special tactics needed; just the thrust of Nijimura’s hips, the
quick-slick slide of his fingers, and Akashi turns his head against the sheets
and wails a shattered note of instinct as he quivers and comes under Nijimura’s
touch.
Nijimura feels Akashi’s orgasm all through his body, spiking heat up his spine
as the other boy clenches against his cock and tingling satisfaction through
his psyche to match. He lets his hold go as Akashi’s arching wail subsides into
breathless tremors, plants his hand over the other’s shoulder to improve his
balance, and when he starts to move in pursuit of his own pleasure it’s with
the encouragement of the fire in his veins. Akashi is panting against the
inside of his arm, trembling and glowing with the sweat collecting against his
pale skin; Nijimura ducks his head, presses his mouth wet at the sharp line of
the other boy’s wrist, and when Akashi’s arm slips sideways Nijimura follows
it, shuts his eyes and focuses his attention on the friction against his skin
and the tension building low in his stomach. He doesn’t want to see, he thinks,
doesn’t want to know if Akashi’s expression is as stoic and calm as ever or
dangerously unusual, warmer or softer or more intense than usual. Safer to
leave the questions unasked, safer to leave the view unknown, safer to shut his
eyes and thrust forward hard, fast, deep, until his fingers twist into fists on
the sheets and the heat of satisfaction shudders under his skin to white out
everything he knows.
Akashi’s hand is at his hair when Nijimura recollects himself. It’s not quite
affection -- something a little closer to steadying, perhaps -- but his fingers
are warm, soothing as they slide through the dark locks. Nijimura lingers for a
moment, catching his lungs full of the too-humid air between Akashi’s shoulder
and the press of the sheets; then he shifts his shoulders, presses himself up
enough that he can take his own weight. Akashi’s eyes are calm again, as steady
as if he were fully dressed and not still flushed with the aftereffects of
pleasure; he disentangles himself from Nijimura’s waist as easily as they fit
together, sliding back and sitting up at the end of the bed so he can smooth
the crimson of his hair down against the pale of his skin.
Nijimura watches him without comment. He could say any number of things, all of
them equally true: you’re beautiful comes to mind, I will miss you hard on its
heels. He can feel the impending necessity of separation, the loss of this as
well as basketball as soon as he offers his resignation as team captain; it
aches in his chest, he is sure colors his eyes dark with shadows of not-quite-
regret. It’s still there when Akashi looks at him, he knows; determination
colored with sorrow, appreciation for something even as it crumbles out of
existence. Without any understanding of it it must be unfathomable, unsettling
at best and alarming at worst. Akashi looks at him, blinks slow contemplation
over the uncanny red of his eyes, and doesn’t ask.
Nijimura wouldn’t have answered anyway.
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