Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2037069.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Kuroko_no_Basuke_|_Kuroko's_Basketball
  Relationship:
      Midorima_Shintarou/Takao_Kazunari
  Character:
      Midorima_Shintarou, Takao_Kazunari
  Additional Tags:
      Phone_Sex, Masturbation, Pre-Relationship, No_Plot/Plotless, Plot_What
      Plot/Porn_Without_Plot
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-08-13 Words: 1774
****** Routine ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "Midorima does now what he has determined is the best course of
     action: pauses his movements, stares at the backlit screen until it
     dies into silence, and only then finishes the wrapping, carefully and
     calmly. Then he sets the roll of tape aside and picks his phone up to
     call Takao back." Takao has become a part of Midorima's nightly
     routine more than he knows.
Midorima knows his phone is going to ring. It’s become part of his nightly
routine, after he’s showered, just before he’s done rewrapping the tape on his
left hand. It’s invariably at exactly the wrong moment, when he’s almost but
not quite done, so he has to let it ring itself out while waiting for the
irritation at the interruption to fade. He’s tried wrapping through the
ringing, which left the job so poorly done he had to restart anyway, and he’s
tried stopping to answer, which leaves his hand half-done and him tight-wound
with anxiety until he hung up and could finish. Neither of those was
acceptable, so he does now what he has determined is the best course of action:
pauses his movements, stares at the backlit screen until it dies into silence,
and only then finishes the wrapping, carefully and calmly.
Then he sets the roll of tape aside and picks his phone up to call Takao back.
“Were you busy?” Takao asks as soon as the other end of the line clicks into
life.
“Yes.” Midorima doesn’t elaborate, even when Takao lets the silence grow
pregnant in anticipation of further details. He knows he has the patience for
this, lets the sound of Takao’s expectant breathing go staticy across the
connection while he puts the tape away in his bag, takes his glasses off to the
turn the room soft and blurred, and goes to turn off the overhead light.
He’s navigated his way back across the room, pulled back the blankets across
the bed, and is just starting to settle himself under the sheets when Takao
finally breaks. “What were you doing, then, Shin-chan?”
“Taping my fingers.” Midorima shifts himself into comfort on the mattress,
blinks up at the vague texture of the dark ceiling overhead. “My hands were
occupied.”
“I thought you were asleep already.” Midorima can hear the pout as clear as if
he were seeing it on Takao’s face, catching in the high whine of the other
boy’s voice. It makes him flinch, the sound hitting an uncomfortable screech
across the phone line, and when he speaks himself his voice is lower and
flatter as if to compensate.
“It’s ten minutes until the hour. I don’t go to sleep until ten.”
“Whatever.” Takao’s tone implies this is irrelevant, useless information he
can’t be bothered to remember. “At least you’re still awake.”
“What do you want?” Midorima prompts, in case Takao intends to wander down a
tangent and use up his remaining time before bed on useless small talk.
“Yeah. Do you want me to meet you tomorrow?”
Takao does this every night. It’s as much a part of Midorima’s routine as his
shower, as the taping, as his bedtime. It’s been months since they didn’t go to
school together; rationally there’s no point in Takao still asking. Midorima
could declare that it is a fixed event and that would be the end of it.
He’s not sure why he doesn’t, or at least he doesn’t like to think why he
doesn’t. It’s hard to admit, even to himself, even when he knows it’s true,
that he likes hearing the sound of Takao’s voice each night, likes the
reassurance that the other boy will think of him at least once before they
rejoin the next day. It’s comforting to know that Takao worries he won’t call
back, that Midorima can draw that fretting irritation from the other boy’s
throat while barely doing anything at all to deliberately elicit it.
He knows he’s smiling, but when he speaks his voice is as level as it was
before. Takao’s emotions are painted in every word that comes out of his mouth;
Midorima prides himself on having more self-control than that. “Of course.” The
phrase itself is chiding Takao for having to ask, but Midorima doesn’t give the
implication of that time to sink in. He likes Takao better off-balance, whining
and frustrated and all. “Make sure you bring breakfast.”
There is a huff of irritation from the other end of the line. “Can’t you make
your own breakfast, Shin-chan?”
“I won’t have time.” Midorima blinks at the ceiling, eyes out-of-focus and
staring past the darkness like he can see over the distance and through the
sound of Takao’s breathing to the other boy’s face. “I need to prepare myself
for school.”
“What about me?”
Midorima knows what Takao means -- it’s a protest, not actually a question -
- but he answers anyway, because it’s amusing, and because his breathing is
starting to come a little faster at the desperation in Takao’s voice, his
drowsy imagination is starting to suggest other causes for that tone. “You’ll
be pedaling, of course.”
Takao makes an anguished wail of a sound, the protest too intense to be at all
coherent, and all the blood in Midorima’s body flashes hot in response. Takao
sounds breathless, sounds like he’s pleading wordlessly, and the fantasy in
Midorima’s head pushes Takao to his knees, pins his arms behind his back and
tips his face up so Midorima can picture the other boy’s parted lips, the
motion of his shoulders as he takes a breath around that noise.
“Shin-chan,” Takao finally manages, and Midorima reaches up to transfer his
phone from his right hand to his left, careful to cradle the object gently in
his wrapped fingers. He doesn’t like to hold the phone this way -- it’s
unfamiliar, angled oddly and out of the norm -- but he needs his other hand
free to slide under the blankets, to fit his fingers under the waistband of his
pajama pants so he can close his fingers into a grip on his cock.
This isn’t part of the routine. Midorima has never actually done this before,
not while Takao is still on the phone, at least. There’s been more than once
that he’s tossed the phone aside after a call and fallen back to the bed, too
desperate to even get his clothes entirely off, or shut his eyes to the useless
darkness so his imagination can pull the other boy into all manner of unlikely
scenarios. But he wants more, ever more, more of Takao’s time and more of his
attention and more of him, and just the thought of what he’s doing, with the
other boy unaware on the other end of the line, is enough to send another rush
of blood to his length.
“Yes?” he says, and his voice sounds perfect, pristine and clear and frigid
with control even as he tightens his fingers, strokes up over himself slow and
imagines Takao’s lips. “Do you have a problem?”
“I always pedal,” Takao is saying, and Midorima can see his mouth on the words,
pictures his throat trembling with gasped air and the flush of pleasure instead
of irritation and protest. “We’re supposed to take turns.”
“I need the time to prepare,” Midorima points out. When he digs his thumb in
against himself he pictures Takao’s tongue sliding over his lower lip, blood
flushing high in Takao’s cheekbones. “And I need to arrive at school on time.”
Takao whimpers again and Midorima has to close his mouth entirely to fend off
the groan of response that threatens his throat. He’s stroking faster without
thinking about it, drawing waves of responsive heat over his skin and pushing
his heartbeat drumroll quick. “You’re so mean to me, Shin-chan.” He’s pouting
again, Midorima can see the soft shape of the other boy’s mouth in his mind,
imagines that damp curve bare inches from the slide of his fingers over
himself.
“I’m just being rational.” That’s starting to sound frayed, in spite of his
best efforts; Midorima is sure it’s too subtle for Takao to trace, but he can
hear it, and that’s enough warning. But he doesn’t want to hang up, he wants
the sound of Takao breathing in his ear when he comes, so he takes a breath -
- carefully, so the sound doesn’t form into a gasp into the receiver -- and
says, “I don’t know why you always protest.”
“You don’t know why?” Takao wails, and there, good, now he’s irritated, now
he’ll talk without asking any questions. Midorima can slide entirely past the
meaning, let the sound of Takao’s throat working on the words inform his
movements and his fantasy both, and this time when he tightens his grip the
heat has the edge of inevitability to it, the taut pull of expectation along
Midorima’s spine. In his mind he can see Takao’s knees on the floor, Takao’s
mouth parted for him -- he can imagine salt moisture clinging to the other
boy’s skin, can paint superheated want into the other’s blue eyes. And he can
hear the continuing whine at Takao’s throat, separate from his imagination and
intensely real, the only real thing in his whole world. Midorima opens his
mouth to deaden any sound, and arches up off the bed, and when he comes in his
mind it’s over Takao’s lips, across Takao’s tongue, onto Takao’s flushed skin.
The other boy is still talking when Midorima reels his attention back in, when
Midorima can trust his throat to not betray him with a shiver under his words. 
“-- every time, Shin-chan, it’s horrible of you, you’re using me and I --”
“Kazunari,” Midorima says, loud and clear, and Takao goes silent like
Midorima’s closed his fingers on his throat to stop the flow of sound. “Go to
sleep.” Takao whines, starts to say something, and Midorima repeats himself,
louder. “Go to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”
A pause, Takao considering whether further protest is useful; then a huff of
resignation, an inhale, and when he speaks again he sounds chipper, sharp-edged
happiness back under his words. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Shin-chan. Goodnight!”
“Hm,” Midorima offers, agreement rather than reciprocation. Takao pauses,
waiting for more that they both know isn’t coming -- then there’s another
little rush of air, more irritated this time, and “Fine” before there’s the
click of the line going dead.
Midorima doesn’t move for a minute. Then he shifts the phone from his ear, sets
it on the sheets before working his hand free of his pants. He’s meticulous
about cleaning up, careful to avoid smearing either his clothes or sheets as he
does so; but then that’s done, and he can lie back in bed, perfectly flat on
the mattress, and blink up at the ceiling again as languid heat suffuses his
veins.
It’s past ten, when he reaches for the phone, brings it close enough that he
can see without finding his glasses to type out Goodnight, Kazunari. He’s
smiling before he’s hit the send button.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!