"Oneirophobia"
#22 - Memories in a Box
The thick cement beneath the boy's feet cushioned any echo of footsteps. A pale orange light garnished the outside of the club room. It flickered valiantly, the only light aside from the weak glow of the city, reflected on the face of nighttime clouds. The boy pulled on the heavy handle of the door, the large slab of metal coming away from the wall with unexpected ease. He stepped into the dark clubhouse, the lack of light and people rendering the small space deathlike in its pallid stillness. Deeper into the tomb, he came upon the door, light outlining its wooden frame. The light was soft and silvery, as though the door shielded an entrance to heaven. The boy swung the door open, but this heaven proved to be bare, shelves accenting one wall, more shelves placed in the center. A television with a dying voice played washed out pictures, splaying its light over another boy. The sitting figure did not turn, did not acknowledge his guest. With a reverent calm, he plucked a couple of notes on his guitar and remarked;
"You're up late."
A pair of red eyes regarded Kotaro inquisitively. The long-legged boy shrugged and continued his swagger until he stood next to the others, glancing at the moving figures on the television.
"I could say the same to you," Kotaro muttered as he plopped onto the ground beside Akaba.
The redhead grunted in response, returning his full attention to the screen before him, occasionally strumming a chord from the guitar cradled in his arms. Kotaro picked the lint off his school pants, occasionally looking up at the game on the screen. Disorienting the opposing linemen, the offensive quarterback faked a handoff only to throw a gunshot of pass to an open wide receiver. The mouse of a wide receiver gawked at the incoming ball with obvious tension, and as his fingertips barely nicked the pigskin, he fumbled it. The referee blew his whistle, and the play was lost.
Kotaro clicked his tongue. "So not smart. Wasting a pass like that."
Akaba shook his head, playing a sympathetic chord on his instrument. "Hiruma is a good quarterback, but all of the volunteer team players he had last year dragged him down. Too noncommittal," he murmured thoughtfully.
"They have a receiver now."
"Several. Only one is worth noticing." Akaba gently laid his guitar aside, stood, and ejected the tape from the VCR, replacing it with a more recent recording. "The Monta kid is talented."
"He still has a long way to go," Kotaro huffed.
Akaba glanced at his teammate with an amused smirk. "Let me worry about him, alright? You just think about your kicking game."
Hairs bristling on the back of Kotaro's neck, he returned the other's look with a halfhearted glare. "Laugh all you want. You'll see how powerful a kicking game is when we blow out Deimon."
"Of course." Akaba pressed the fast forward button on the VCR, eyes carefully watching the screen, watching as play after play was executed in fast motion before him.
"You're not evaluating every play?" Kotaro leaned against Akaba's chair, flipping out a comb and running it through his hair carefully.
Finally, pressing play and allowing the game to continue at a regular speed, Akaba relaxed in his seat and picked his guitar back up. "This game, in particular, should remind you of what your goal is."
Such cryptic words could only annoy the boy sitting on the floor, but before he could retort, a dangerously familiar face flashed across the screen only to disappear after a few seconds. Kotaro's mouth hung open, but as his surprise slackened, fire began to smolder in his eyes.
"Deimon's game with Seibu?" His eyebrow quirked as he spared a corner glance at Akaba.
The other shrugged, strumming a mournful chord. "The importance of a kicking game, am I right?"
As though to emphasize Akaba's words, the blow of a whistle jumped from the television's speakers. Touchdown for Deimon! Prepare for the bonus kick! Blood chilled in Kotaro's veins as he watched the calm expression of the man on the screen. The camera angle jostled as the person filming moved, but Musashi's face was still clear. Jaw strong but not tense, the figure emanated cool arrogance and determination. It was the face of a man who knew he would succeed. Betraying admiration bubbled inside of the smaller kicker, but anger battled the unwanted emotion. Soon, it would be he on the opposing team. Soon, it would be the trial to see who was truly the better man.
"His kicks are reckless," Akaba observed, eyes locked on the screen.
Kotaro leaned his head back, eyelids drooping. "Yeah, but they're powerful."
Glasses glinted in the bright daylight. "He is too reckless. He almost missed."
The buzz from the television faded, and Kotaro's head slipped forward onto his chest.
He glared at the taller man, sneering at his criticism. "But Musashi didn't miss. He never does."
(…)
"Too bad you lost." Kotaro's shoe scuffed at some pebbles clinging to the wooden trenches in the cracked bench. "You would've had more points against Seibu if you had been here the entire game. Tch. Not smart at all!"
Musashi didn't look up as he examined the damage done to his vehicle—courtesy of Kurita and his massive hugs.
"We may still play one another," he said evenly. "After all…isn't that what you wanted?"
Kotaro's comb paused in midair above his head. "What? You say that as though my team will lose! Ojo may be a good team, but Bando will show them how it's done!"
The stockier teenager ducked his head in what appeared to be a display of disappointment. But as a trickle of deep laughter floated up to Kotaro's ears, he stared in wonder at the other man.
"What is your problem?" he snapped.
Musashi rubbed the back of his head, shoulders still shaking with chuckles. "You are something else, you know?"
Color graced his high cheekbones, and Kotaro could only resist the urge to pout.
(…)
The morning of the game passed uneventfully. Sunday, flat clouds hovering over the buildings, humidity high, insects singing their gentle hum. Minutes before the game, spectators milled in the stands, chatting amongst themselves. Already, Kotaro could feel the impact of the leather against his cleat in the kickoff, and he stretched his legs more—relishing the burn in his calfs—as he anticipated the game. That Monta kid would probably catch the ball when he kicked it, but that monkey of a kid wasn't fast. Kotaro racked his brain for options. There was Yamaoka to the left. He was a weak wide receiver and had higher chances of fumbling. Yes, Kotaro decided as he hopped from one foot to the other to get blood circulating, he would kick to the left—toward Yamaoka.
The whistles were blown, the coin flipped. Bando to kick off. Kotaro held his breath to contain his giddiness. The kickoff was a powerful asset for a kicking team like the Spiders, and he would make it worthwhile. The ball was tipped in its tee, and Kotaro leaned forward, eyes scanning the field for Yamaoka. There he was, toward the left, just as expected.
"Do you really think your kicks can be better than the 60 Yard Magnum?"
Kotaro jerked before his foot made contact, sending the ball flying in the wrong direction. It practically fell into the arms of the waiting Monta. Kotaro glared at the offending player beside him, the one who distracted him. Kneeling beside the kicking tee, expression of indifferent innocence painted perfectly onto his chiseled features, Musashi returned the stare.
"I thought all you wanted was to become better than him?"
Throat constricting, Kotaro tried to scream his frustration, but he could only manage a muffled groan.
(…)
"Sixty yards? Is that even possible?" Skepticism laced Musashi's voice.
The construction worker stood terribly close to Kotaro. The leaner boy could smell sweat and cigarette smoke off of the other. He grit his teeth and shoved his face closer to Musashi's.
"I don't know!" Kotaro hissed. "Didn't you do it?"
Musashi shrugged and turned to walk away. "Did I?"
Kotaro yelled at the other to stop, that their feud wouldn't end until they resolved it on the field, but his feet remained glued to the spot. His hand clawed toward the other's back, but he was barely out of reach. Musashi climbed into his truck, cigarette hanging loosely between his teeth, eyes staring blearily ahead of him. Kurita and Hiruma flanked him—the one smiling sympathetically toward Kotaro, the other grinning maliciously. The vehicle's engine roared to life, and Kotaro's voice found no notes loud enough to overcome the presence of the engine's rumbles.
He screamed until his throat felt raw, but he could only watch as the truck carted the trio away.
(…)
"What is it that you want?"
Kotaro ignored the voice ringing beside him, as he examined the end zone before him, ball poised before him. Languidly, he lunged forward, and he snapped the football into the air, flying perfectly centered between the goal posts.
He released a sigh, refusing to turn even as he could sense another being coming closer to him.
I want to be better.
I want to be worthy.
As the sheer proximity of the other teenager became too much for Kotaro to ignore, he finally looked up. Dark eyes, fringed by strands of hair, stared intently at him, but Kotaro didn't step back, didn't allow himself to be intimidated by Musashi. The other boy reached his hand up, but before he touched the smaller kicker, the hand paused hesitatingly.
"Part of you," the larger teenager said slowly, tasting every word as he spoke; "was always better than me."
As rough fingers brushed against the skin of his neck, Kotaro shivered at the contact, his skin more sensitive than he remembered. As a face drew closer to his, he licked his lips and tried to say the words he wanted to say. But lips covered his, and the thick air swallowed his unspoken words without any remorse.
Then why am I afraid I will lose to you?
(…)
A finger poked his shoulder.
Kotaro's eyes flipped open, looking for the field, looking for the scoreboard, looking for Musashi's truck. He felt his neck where ghost fingers had left their impression. But his gaze met only a static-glazed television screen and a pair of worn sneakers. His fingers only touched the bare skin of his neck.
"Hey, sleep at home, you idiot," a voice lightly chided him. "We won't have our kicking game with Deimon if our kicker isn't in his prime."
"Akaba?" Kotaro blinked sluggishly, first at the redhead, then the boy's guitar, then the television screen again. "I was asleep?"
"Almost half an hour."
"Oh." Kotaro slowly pulled himself to his feet, the lateness of the hour weighing his limbs down.
Half-expecting to see Musashi come out of nowhere again, he self-consciously ran his comb through his hair. Akaba paid him no more attention, instead clicking the television off and returning the tapes to their respective homes on the shelves. Disconcerted by dreams which had felt unnervingly real, the leaner man hovered by the door, waiting for Akaba to finish so that they could leave together. A zipper hummed as the redhead slid his guitar into its case, and when he slung the strap of the bag over his shoulder, he nodded to Kotaro.
"Waiting for me?" He smirked slightly, sliding a pair of sunglasses over his eyes.
"Whatever." Kotaro snorted. "Sunglasses are typically worn in the day, weirdo."
Akaba shrugged as he opened the door and gestured for Kotaro to go first, suspiciously gallant. "Well—I'd say we all have our quirks."
When Kotaro neither answered nor walked through the door, Akaba simply tugged on the strap of his bag and went ahead.
"After all," a voice danced back to the kicker, the still room carrying the echo of the redhead's words perfectly; "you talk in your sleep."
A door clicked shut. After a moment's pause of sputtering and color-changing, Kotaro stormed through the clubhouse after his captain, demanding to know what the other man had heard. Akaba's smirk only grew. Were it possible, Kotaro's cheeks turned shades and shades a deeper red. It had only been a dream, he told himself. Dreams meant nothing, he reassured himself. His ruffled feathers smoothed a little, but a voice quite unlike his friend's slinked into his ear.
What are you afraid of?
Kotaro's stiffened, but when he stopped walking, Akaba turned a corner, leaving the kicker by himself. Alone. No one else. What was he afraid of? No other person stood beside him. Only the telltale noises of a sleeping city wisped through the air. His lips and the skin of his neck still tingled from the dream.
"Tomorrow," he breathed. "Face your fears tomorrow."
Kotaro broke into a light jog to catch up with his friends.
Fears—whatever the hell they are.
END