General Drabbles
Disclaimer: Don't own.
Author's Note: I decided to try a new thing and write drabbles. These are the non-romantic ones I posted in September; presumably I'll keep doing them and update every month.
1. Only Human (Koganei Shinji, Kiyoshi Teppei, 201 wds, K+)
Koganei Shinji brushes off feelings of inadequacy like dandruff from his jacket. While it's true that he's never the best at anything, he's never the worst, either. He works at things and gets better, but it's gradual and even when he works he never gets to the top (of course, he's not the best at working hard and being persistent). He can always find some area or niche in which he's better than each person he knows, anyway—not that he's all that competitive, but it's nice to know.
Then he meets Kiyoshi Teppei and plays basketball with him and realizes that not only is Kiyoshi better than him at basketball in general and at every skill, he's better at every position. It's an odd feeling to see someone that far above him, someone so talented—it takes his breath away.
But Kiyoshi's only human, after all. It's not that Koganei's climbing up the mountain to reach Kiyoshi's status; Kiyoshi falls. He's a supernova, the sickening sound of his knee failing as he burns even brighter a sign of what is sure to be a fall that's hardly graceful (that sound haunts Koganei's dreams for longer than he'll care to admit).
2. Grow (Fukuda Hiroshi, Mitobe Rinnosuke, 199 wds, K)
The first time Fukuda Hiroshi enters a game is in his second year. The first time he gets the ball, the result is a turnover. It's hard for him to not look at himself as a failure—after all, it's midway through the year and everyone else on the team has started a game before he has even gotten a chance to play in one. Of course, he knows there are more contributing factors than his own ineptitude—the fact that there are always too many centres, especially with their phenomenal new freshman. Still, after the turnover he makes a block, although it's bordering on being a foul (it doesn't draw a whistle, though) and the other team regains possession. Still, it's something.
Their next time out, the freshman is subbed back in. Fukuda sits on the bench; no one speaks to him (they're all watching Izuki dribble). Fukuda feels pressure on his hand; he looks up. Mitobe cocks his head at Fukuda and looks into his eyes—and says, silently, don't get too caught up in the moment. You'll get another chance soon. Fukuda can't help but believe him, although he will concede that he's sometimes foolishly optimistic.
3. Reflection (Sakamoto Kenjirou, 220 wds, K)
They were supposed to be kings, nigh-unbeatable, titans. And for a while they were, for a magical moment (for what now seems like a moment) Sakamoto Kenjirou was part of that, the glorious tradition of Seihou, one that continued on and would continue forever, they said. Sakamoto was a backup when they won the Interhigh in his first year, celebrated with the team but did not fully get it, did not fully feel like a part of the team. He got some playing time in the Winter Cup, where they finished a respectable third place behind Yosen and Touou, and he began to take pride in himself, as a basketball player and especially as a Seihou player.
And then of course it came crashing down on him, the rapid descent to fifth place in the following Winter Cup and that awful loss to Seirin at the Interhigh the next year.
He has ingrained this pride in himself, and so have his teammates, and they no longer have very much to be proud of. They tried hard, but somehow, somewhere along the line that wasn't enough. They could have squeezed in a little extra practice, focus, resolve.
He keeps telling himself this. It's easier to blame yourself than to admit that the other team was simply better than you, isn't it?
4. Champagne (Fukui Kensuke, Kasuga Ryuuhei, 369 wds, T)
Each year, they'd seen each other at the final. They'd met during the season, of course, had played against each other, had recognized the other's team as formidable opponents. Of course, each year they'd vowed to the other that he would be the one to revel in the glory, how he'd pop a bottle of champagne with his teammates.
Of course, this year neither one made it to the final four, let alone won the whole thing. This time, there's no next year, no vow. They're just like everyone else; only a small sliver of their number ever gets to experience this type of glory, this rush of victory. It had been a pipe dream, anyhow, right?
"Fuck this," Fukui mutters at halftime, to no one in particular. Okamura raises an eyebrow as Fukui hightails to the exit, minus his coat. He'll be back, maybe only for a slimmer of the fourth quarter but he's not planning on leaving completely. Kasuga, it seems has had the same idea as him. They stand with their backs to the wall as exited fans chatter around them, some faces that they recognize and some that they don't.
"It's a good match," Kasuga says. He's slumped slightly, and Fukui, standing straight, seems taller than him in this moment.
Fukui knows he's probably bursting with analysis; he's always been that kind of guy—but that it's leaving a bitter taste in his mouth because it should be him. It's impossible to be less narcissistic than they are, but they've been telling themselves the whole time that this is their destiny. How can they extract their own dreams now?
They stand in silence, each man lost in his own thoughts. The public address announcer warns that there are five minutes left until halftime is over. Kasuga cocks his head toward the entrance to the seating section. Fukui nods.
This is no time to be self-absorbed. Kasuga's right; it's a hell of a good match, and right now he's got to put this shit behind him because whatever the end it'll be interesting. He's had his chance; the day and the glory belongs to one of these two teams. He'll keep telling himself that, at least.
5. Silence (Seto Kentarou, 251 wds, K+)
They sell those worthless machines to make white noise, things that supposedly help people sleep. They also sell headphones to cancel the noise, to make the world silent around someone's ears. Repetition, whether of a sound or of silence, really isn't conducive to rest, Seto decides as he's drifting off in practice while the irregular squeak of sneakers on wood is punctuated by an occasional shout. It's a cacophony that's mixed with the creak of the shifting weight of the boards on the bench. This, this gathering of sound, it's more comfortable, he thinks. That's his last coherent thought as he falls into a deep sleep, slumped over on the bench.
He's the type of guy who can fall asleep anywhere, under any circumstances, but he doesn't always fall asleep right away. If he lies still in the dark for a few minutes he's always sure to drift off anyway, but it's better when he's on the train and the conductor is making an announcement or the person beside him is talking, and when he's in class and there's an open discussion with a clash of his classmates' ugly voices and when he's at home and the cars are driving by and the people are fighting all night long and the alley cats are meowing at one another. When it's loud and random he falls asleep trying to make sense of the pattern, so interested he doesn't notice the steady rhythm of his own breathing and the weightlessness in his limbs.
6. Stirring of the Wind (Okamura Kenichi, Imayoshi Shouichi, 195 wds, K)
It's been a long time since they've met; a season has come and gone; the wind is cold and bitter now. They are both in the process of shedding their titles, the burdens that have been weighing down their shoulders, burdens that reached their peak weight back in the summer. Their heirs are argumentative, and their reigns will be interesting to say the least. But now is an awkward moment and they are caught between the past, between things they had spent ages cultivating and building up carefully, and a blank, wide-open future where they must start from the bottom again.
"You know, it's good to be in Tokyo," Okamura says, raising his hands above his head so that it feels like he towers even more over Imayoshi than he actually does.
Imayoshi laughs. 'That's because you're from here."
Okamura joins him in laughter. It's good sometimes to make stupid small talk like this, because even that much can help build up your relationship, and even if it all comes tumbling down like a sand castle beneath the waves, it will have been there, even if you two were the only ones to see it.