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bluezoneThe transition of winter into spring was usually enjoyable enough, heavy jackets and long stays inside gradually giving way to milder weather, brighter skies, and a whole lot of school festivals that certain club members, exhausted from the rigors of wintertime competition and personal revelation, really didn’t want to be dragged into. Some of those certain people never liked that crap anyway, especially not when all they actually wanted to do was eat, sleep, or practice, but the people around them – teammates, team captains, team managers – had suddenly, for some stupid reason that couldn’t be fathomed, gotten the idea into their heads that school + festival + additional responsibility was not only good, it was mandatory.
The worst part of it was that Satsuki, of course, knew where he lived.
She also knew where Sakurai lived, which meant Aomine needed to think of another plan. Two days and two more failed attempts – one that involved slumming it in one of the dormitories and another that involved a rooftop during a thunderstorm – Aomine had to think of another, other plan, because he’d spent every free period painting (hideous) posters and getting yelled at when he made a game of tossing the failed results into waste bins across the room and on top of cabinets.
His final solution was just that: the sole, last-ditch effort before he just gave in and became the “cultural ambassador” for a themed project, the theme of which he couldn’t actually remember.
It was still wet, warm, overcast, and unseasonably windy when Aomine trudged up to the front desk of a surprisingly nice complex, told what had to be the world’s most gullible landlord that he’d lost the spare key, and then took the stairs up to the fourth floor. He tracked water inside in the process, and ended up leaving a bag, a jacket, and a soaked pair of recognizable basketball shoes by the door, because he was too tired and too grumpy to do more than nudge the door shut with his elbow and grope in the dark for the first thing that felt couch-shaped.
Ten minutes and a near-death experience later – who the hell put a basketball next to a huge glass coffee table? Only an idiot – Aomine was dozing on the couch, still in his damp sweats because slipping out directly after practice had been his only avenue of escape.
The worst part of it was that Satsuki, of course, knew where he lived.
She also knew where Sakurai lived, which meant Aomine needed to think of another plan. Two days and two more failed attempts – one that involved slumming it in one of the dormitories and another that involved a rooftop during a thunderstorm – Aomine had to think of another, other plan, because he’d spent every free period painting (hideous) posters and getting yelled at when he made a game of tossing the failed results into waste bins across the room and on top of cabinets.
His final solution was just that: the sole, last-ditch effort before he just gave in and became the “cultural ambassador” for a themed project, the theme of which he couldn’t actually remember.
It was still wet, warm, overcast, and unseasonably windy when Aomine trudged up to the front desk of a surprisingly nice complex, told what had to be the world’s most gullible landlord that he’d lost the spare key, and then took the stairs up to the fourth floor. He tracked water inside in the process, and ended up leaving a bag, a jacket, and a soaked pair of recognizable basketball shoes by the door, because he was too tired and too grumpy to do more than nudge the door shut with his elbow and grope in the dark for the first thing that felt couch-shaped.
Ten minutes and a near-death experience later – who the hell put a basketball next to a huge glass coffee table? Only an idiot – Aomine was dozing on the couch, still in his damp sweats because slipping out directly after practice had been his only avenue of escape.
