Disclaimer: All characters appearing in this work are fictitious; I own nothing but my ideas.

First actual work in the Kuroko no Basket fandom, written to the numerous replays of the cover 'Say Something' by Max Schneider and Victoria Justice. My suggestion is to have a listen to it. Unbeta-ed; forgive me.

It's been almost ten years since we've first met, Kuroko muses. Ten years, stretched and wrung and battered but still there, twining their basketball-loving molecules into a single strand of understanding.

In all these years, it has been inevitable to be caught under that ridiculous wall of muscle, that irresistible grin—that burning heat—left behind every feather light touch. Of course, Aomine's desires couldn't be quenched with someone like Kuroko, small and flat and without much stamina.

Still, as their bodies touch, Kuroko selfishly pulls Aomine closer, sucking his mark onto sensitive patches of skin. He's possessive of the time they share and cherishes each kiss pressed upon his thighs, his stomach, his chin—his lips. When Aomine pushes into him, Kuroko unravels and is guarded simultaneously, afraid of the requests he so desperately wants to make.

Catch me, (I'm falling). Help me, (I can't keep doing this). Look at me, (I'm right here in front of you).

Say something, (before I give up on you). Aomine never does.

After small fights, weekends away, late nights spent, Kuroko comes back to a foreign leg wrapped around cocoa skin or even locked doors and creaking springs. Tonight, apparently, would be one of the latter and he swallows a lump in his throat, bitter as moans resonate, a wall away. He closes his eyes and presses his back to the wooden frame, almost knocking into the metal doorknob as he slides down. It's cold as it brushes past his arm.

Every slap of skin knocks down any of his attempts at getting back up. Every one of Aomine's grunts muffle his choked back inhales of air and it's killing him, he can't, he just—

He wants to mean something to Aomine, something more then what they are, what they've been—

What they'll undoubtedly be, at this point.

Yet, he can't say a word; he has no right to demand more when he's just an infrequent fuck to Aomine. Anything Kuroko has thought of suggesting would sound ridiculous now as the movements behind the door begin to erratically pick up in speed.

It'll be ten years tonight, Kuroko muses, when the calendar hung in front of him catches his eye. From Teikou, to Interhigh, to the Winter Cup, to now, Kuroko has always been following Aomine, watching his talent take flight and even as it causes Aomine to leave him behind. (He'd follow him to the ends of the earth—to the depths of hell—if Aomine would only just look at him).

As he recalls, the upper right drawer in Aomine's room (it was never their's) has a random collection of Kuroko's shirts; the neatly folded pile barely fills it halfway before it's covered by porn magazines and Aomine's crumpled boxers. Kuroko remembers leaving his favorite book in the love seat down the hall, and his toothbrush shares a cup with another in the bathroom. He has an old vanilla shake in the fridge and coffee beans in the cabinet.

He's barely made a sound the whole time, so when he swallows his pride and stands up on shaky legs, he doesn't expect. Expectations were something Kuroko had learned not to have anyway, in this relationship. A small, wistful smile graces his lips and he puts a foot in front of the other. It's not easier then anything else he's ever done.

Slowly, Kuroko makes his way through the small apartment, tracing his fingertips along the walls and across the worn couch. Once, Aomine had lifted him and pressed him against the space between picture frames and once, they had watched movies on a rainy night, strewn in front of the television. Kuroko still can feel the softness of Aomine's hair, back when he brushed through it as Hermione punched Draco across the face.

Kuroko brushes the countertop and thumbs the crack made in it by himself, during their last argument. He'd been so mad, but now—now, he's just tired.

He exhales and it feels like it's been forever since he's last done it; something like unrequited love does that to you, he thinks. It's akin to drowning.

When Kuroko lifts his hand from the table, he feels like he's leaving behind a lifetime.

Say something, Aomine, (I'm giving up on you).

When Kuroko quietly closes the front door, he knows he's leaving behind a lifetime.

—

When Aomine stumbles on loose articles of clothing in the morning and cracks open his bedroom door, the floor is cold and the air is still. In his favorite mug, he finds stale coffee made to his liking, and next to it, a lone key.