#z--enko

sure, why not. 

Whatever he was glancing at on his phone immediately became illegible but out of habit he kept staring waiting for some kanji to make sense again -- you know, the kind he actually knew. “...Hah?” The question asked was just about the only thing he could understand but his mind still needed the buffer, still focused on deciphering the message on the screen in the most futile example of stubbornness he’s ever exhibited. 

“...Date? A real one?” After some time Aomine’s reply, if even called that, came in unbeknownst skepticism as he finally gave up on the passage, placing the phone face down on the table. “Like a real one, not like the usual,” even without the mystery factor of whatever questionable chemistry they had it wasn’t like they didn’t go on dates per usual -- movies, shopping, basketball and fried food; practically inseparable or unfortunately subconsciously in tune they ended up in the same place at the same time annoyingly too often.

“Like a real ‘you text me what time to be ready, you pick me up, we go to an aquarium, we buy expensive pointless shit from the gift shop as memorabilia before we head out to dinner where we go 3:1 on the bill, then you walk me to my doorstep, and kiss me on the cheek before heading out’ because this is a real ass date,” his tangent goes more places than he expects it to, and he’s not sure how he sounds or when he actually looks at Kise but it’s more like he’s shitting out his mouth in an attempt to save face figuring out where he’s going with this.

He’s quiet. 

“locked in a room” starters

ஐ : pretending to be married because this quaint old couple’s bed and breakfast is the only shelter for miles, they only have one room, and they’re a bit old fashioned.

It’s raining, it’s getting late, Aomine’s been complaining for the past twenty miles, and Kise’s phone, they’re only source of navigation, is clinging onto less than five percent of battery life. They hadn’t planned on making a pit stop so soon, especially not at a bed and breakfast, but the next exit is roughly thirty minutes away, and if Aomine has to hold his bladder any longer he swears, he honestly does, he’ll piss on everything in Kise’s car. (Not that he makes it to the bathroom, anyways. The second Kise parks, he hurries out of the car, makes sure the coast is clear, and unzips his pants right there behind a tree.)

They’re greeted immediately by an old lady behind a front desk, who at first looks suspicious until her eyes fall on Kise. Typical. Aomine’s half listening as the old lady introduces herself as the innkeeper and announces they only have one room available at the time, only to tune in fully when Kise is turned down. “Unfortunately, we only allow couples and family members to share rooms,” she says, overlooking the possibility that the two men in front of her could very well be a couple, the possibility that Aomine ceases.

“It’s a good thing we’re married then. Right, babe?” Aomine says, an elbow pressed against the front desk as he faces Kise. There isn’t a bit of uncertainty in his voice, anyone who knows them otherwise would find it impressive, how natural they are at the whole Pretend We’re A Couple thing.