Kaiser Washington suggested that I write a Sendoh-centric fic. Thus, here is the result. While not exactly Sendoh-centric in the strictest sense, I hope I did his character justice. Concrit is very much appreciated!

Disclaimer: Slam Dunk is property of Takehiko Inoue, not me.

07:40 am

Hikoichi can't help but take life in doses too large for his size. As friends and family would put it, he's a ball of flailing, almost violent, energy, spraying flecks of motion as he rushes through and fro between interests. His physics teacher calls it a constant state of perpetual oscillation, swinging round and round an absent center like the oft-described pendulum. His sister dubs it 'ADHD' with a thinly veiled groan. Hikoichi himself thinks little of it, dashing through the morning with nothing but glimpses of the outside world as he spins through the school gates, an unharnessed typhoon of spastic limbs and flyaway sheets of note-paper.

Hikoichi prefers the term 'vertically challenged'. Others snort and mutter 'pint-sized' while his teammates strip away the euphemisms altogether for the pithy term 'short'. In fact, he barely reaches most basketball standards, let alone enough to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the tallest of his classmates. His mind still lost in a whirlwind of statistics and averages, Hikoichi doesn't catch the sniggers thrown his way when he literally crashes down into his seat and belts out a breathless 'Present!', stroking the amusement of everyone already inside the classroom.

Momentarily though, his head clears enough to allow patches of random conversation to pierce through his consciousness, the sky within scattered with visions of lightning-quick passes and earth-shattering slam dunks. Never his own because if there's one thing that Hikoichi never needs to be explained again, it's the fact that the limelight always falls on those more deserving. Those who run through storm-clouds and rain instead of those who take cover behind the bleachers.

"Isn't Sendoh-kun the best? He even stopped to sign my bag!"

"Really? D'you think he'd do mine too?"

Surprisingly, Hikoichi doesn't complain. Contrary to popular notions, he's more than happy to let the real stars shine and forever be suspended in orbit around them. For the freshman, the last few months have been a whirlwind of sorts and he'd never cried as harder than before when he realized it would all be over for the time. But come winter and a new beginning, Ryonan would be ready.

"… Sendoh? That slacker?"

"Captain? Please, the guy couldn't get tell the difference between an algebra test and a tuna sandwich. Not that the other ape was any better either…"

True, Hikoichi is a veritable dwarf among his peers, lacking in everything but sheer determination on the court, a dim humble light against supernovas like the ace Sendoh and the Goliath Uozumi. But none of these ever go uncompensated by the sudden spark of fire that appears in his eyes at the slightest insult that befalls his teammates, his friends, even in their absences. Before the taller gossiper can acknowledge it, a fist sweeps into his face and Ryonan's most diminutive, but no less loyal, player pounces, spewing threats against anyone who dares upset his team's honor.

Later on, when a bruised and battered Hikoichi is reprimanded by a surprisingly unfazed Coach Taoka in the staffroom, he almost misses the genuine twinkle in the older man's eye.

12:15 pm

It's not the first time that Fukuda has skived off school for the sun-splashed freedom of the street courts. It's barely the last time for today that he speeds across the dusty grey tarmac, slipping past invisible opponents, dribbling a worn spheroid of stained dimpled rubber. He's already lost track of the score, yet still not enough for him to reach his limits.

And when will that time come? It's a question he often dwells on, usually each time a perfect shot from Sendoh hits its mark, sending the woven strands of the net into a tremulous flutter. There's got to be an answer to that and he's almost done with waiting. Patience, for Fukuda, has long since ceased to be a virtue and is now a last resort for failed attempts at flying. And flying, soaring, is a state which he wonders of, whether it's a sanctified realm meant for the demigods at play.

In Fukuda's dreams, flying is what birds, planes, and superheroes do. It's a wish that falls from his grasp like a blazing hot comet, it's a gift that only the elite deserve. Flying to Fukuda is what a song is to a mute. It's something he feels in the soles of his feet whenever he takes that leap of fate for his time to shine, only to crash again later when he realizes the space has been empty all along.

Hours and hours of running, salty rivers of perspiration streaming down his back and soaking his hair, hours and hours of imagining that it's Sendoh instead of him in the shadows. The gold glints of Ryonan's new captain's past achievements never go unnoticed by Fukuda, turning his insides green with envy beneath the navy blue of their shared uniform. A hearty laugh and an honest pat on the back later, the blues overcome the green, and Fukuda inwardly writhes with guilt.

Sometimes, he thinks of quitting, ponders on whether he was better off shooting hoops and scoring street cred from the local kids than another hidden pawn within Ryonan's arsenal. And then he hears the crowd cheering in memory fresh as spring daylight, the pulsing rhythm of clapping hands synchronizing with his pulse hammering beneath the sweat-slick skin of his throat, pure relief running down with the tears on his cheeks…

It's a feeling, a rush, an antidrug, that Sendoh must be used to by now.

Usually, it doesn't take Fukuda long to reach his decision. The same one he always chooses.

Hesitating no longer, he jumps across the imaginary line, body arching and lungs exploding for all the bated breath he's suppressed. A hand slams down, rubber slipping through a metal ring and chains creak gloriously against the force that scatters their links about. Two points up, the nth number of times he's scored today.

As Fukuda himself would say, he's getting there, one steady leap of faith at a time.

04:01 pm

Ask Koshino how he managed to scrape through to a place on Ryonan's famed basketball team and he'll tell you it's none of your business.

Usually, it's Sendoh who questions him so, a light-hearted smirk and a gentle punch to Koshino's arm punctuating the remark. It's not in jest that he asks but Koshino speeds up despite his knees throbbing and chest heaving. The echoes of shoes squeaking against polished wooden floors all but dim from his mind as he fakes a pass, then shoots to score…

The ball bounces off the rim, shattering the illusion.

Kainan's Jin gets by on five hundred a day. If there's truth in the rumors, then Shohoku's Mitsui is hot on his trail, just short by a hundred. Koshino hasn't been keeping count of his own three-point record but judging by the amount of times he's heard that dreaded sound of rubber hitting fiberglass, he already assumes that he is in trouble. Ryonan is in trouble.

Ever the pessimistic perfectionist, he resumes his position, scowl locked as firmly into place as Sendoh's smile.

Ask Koshino why he, of all people, chooses to remain friends with the ever-optimistic ace and he'll kindly request you to 'get lost' or 'fuck off' depending on whether or not you bothered him with the first offensive question.

Sendoh doesn't ask and Koshino doesn't remind him. People have the inopportune tendencies of gravitating towards each other, regardless of what they need to understand about the other. In any case, Philosophy has never been Koshino's strong point. Practical, mature, and mundane, fading ever so slightly into the background in his friend's stead. Two minutes left to go and he's exhausted to the core, humiliation ebbing into his system alongside the fatigue.

Of late, it's been Koshino doing the questioning to himself.

"You okay?"

The hand that claps his back reassuringly is warm and familiar. "Hey, Kosh…"

"… Fine."

He swats it away.

Unperturbed, used to his friend's quirks, Sendoh picks up the pace. "You gotta keep going at it, Hiro-kun. We're counting on you for those points!"

It's a lie, a pretty big one at that. Apparently though, Sendoh always means what he says which makes Koshino want to smack that ridiculously spiky head of hair and beg of him to just please shut up and see the damned light. Nobody calls him 'Hiro-kun' but then again, Sendoh escapes scot-free with most trivialities.

"Does it blind you?" Koshino ventures in a low voice as they crowd into the locker-room, the stench of his clothes reminding him of his inferiority.

"Huh?"

"Don't you see, Sendoh?"

The blank gaze hits him again, annoying him further. "You can't count on me for those points, Sendoh. You can't put all your faith in my abilities and expect me to be the star of the show. It's not how it works – "

"Don't say that. You're a good player, Koshino."

"That's the point. I'm a good player." He grips the captain by the shoulders for emphasis. "Not a great player."

Silenced, Sendoh looks away.

06:30 pm

The fact that many customers mistake Uozumi for the owner of his father's restaurant doesn't surprise him anymore. He's always been 'Big Jun' since his elementary school days until his last few minutes heading Ryonan on the court. In a way, it reminds him that time can indeed be merciful when it comes to letting certain things remain as they are.

What does surprise him is the speed at which he adapts to his new routine of hitting the kitchens instead of the gym after school. Instead of the sharp scent of disinfectant and polish, it's the fresh aroma of raw fish that greets him. The uniform is another reminder, the cloth hachimaki wound round his head instead of the old nylon and polyester lining his back. On his first official day 'at work', he received a nod of approval from his father, not unlike the one given to him by Coach Taoka on his first day as captain.

Chopping vegetables instead of practicing defensive lockdowns, Uozumi wonders if it is merely the sentimentalist in him that attempts at drawing parallels between his past and present, possibly seeking comfort in similarities. Uozumi the chef-in-training might as well be Uozumi the basketball player in disguise as a method actor for a role in a play. As the knife slices up and down, grinding against the wooden chopping-board, the old feeling of control, the ball in his hands slamming to and from the floor, seeps it.

Strangely, as the days progress, Uozumi finds that he is not saddened by this change in his life. Occasionally, he recalls Hikoichi pelting them with rivals' statistics and overall match scores while he listens to his excitable Classics teacher babble over kanji and katakana in class. Other times, it's Sendoh he thinks of with a wry smile when checking his former teammate's tab, a sheet of paper which grows longer, almost in proportion to the points which he accumulates in every game Ryonan plays.

Sometimes, the team drops by for a visit.

"Just checking on you to see if you're bored." Sendoh offers as an explanation. "You're always welcome back if you want, Sempai."

Uozumi shakes his head, the tail ends of the hachimaki flapping about in agreement. His place is here now and Sendoh should have learnt to accept the glory. Maybe it's the responsibility that puts the ace out, Uozumi theorizes. Sendoh, by nature, has always been a giver, whether it be jokes, encouragement, or a reason for his rivals to extend far and beyond their limits.

He begins his lecture the usual way.

"Now, Sendoh, it's quite obvious to me and everyone else on this team that there is only one person best suited for the position, and like it or not…"

It takes Uozumi a few minutes from then on to discover Sendoh nodding off on the counter, his face almost falling into the plate of sushi before him, not a word having penetrated his consciousness.

09:18 pm

Sendoh remembers the talk he had with Coach Taoka quite clearly. Even as he lies flat on his bed with the lights turned off, the words remain etched in his mind like chalk on a blank slate.

"Blood brothers!" The man proclaimed, his hand pounding on the cluttered desk in his office. "That's what you all mean to each other on this team. Bound together as tight as that."

It didn't take long for Sendoh to realize that today would be a bad day to bring up any doubts about his recent captaincy.

"The boys trust you, Sendoh. Probably more than they do me. Do it for them, if not to feed your own ambition."

'Ambition' is a word that feels distastefully foreign on his tongue. He mouths it out now in bed but still cannot get used to the oddly disjointed syllables jostling for space between his teeth. Ambition to him equates images of unwanted fame, single-minded goals with nothing left to spare, and Kaede Rukawa. Disconcerting as the concept is, Sendoh tries to view it as a necessary evil. Uozumi had been better at this sort of thinking, he muses.

The smile on Sendoh's face is a small and wistful one. Koshino had always joked that he could always consider becoming a monk if his basketball career didn't pan out as well. That is, if he ever summoned enough courage to shave off his trademark set of spikes. The look in Koshino's eyes after the day's practice session had told him enough about his friend's belief in himself, the resigned acceptance of forever floundering in a shadow too large for him. That look had shaken Sendoh to the core. More than he let on.

In an act of pure whim, he flicks on the bedside lamp and picks up the framed photograph that rests beside it. It had been taken after the game with Shohoku and just before the third years' announcement to leave. In it, Hikoichi lies sprawled on the floor after having tripped over his own feet in the rush to fit in the group before the timer on the camera went off, Uozumi in turn frowns over him in disdain, Uekusa and Ikegami give each other bunny ears in a rare moment of gleeful immaturity, Fukuda glowers in disbelief, while Sendoh and Koshino grin for the flash, arms flung over the other's shoulders.

The smile widens and the tides of change seem to recede slightly. They may not know it, or even understand it, but the faces in the picture matter more to him than any accolade that's tossed his way. Hikoichi's exaggerated yet well-meant praise, the steady support behind Uozumi's stern commands, and the wry affection beneath Koshino's sarcasm among others was what would remain truly unforgettable memories.

He lies back on the sheets, raising the frame high above him to catch the light.

In time, they would see what he could.

He'd make sure of it, he silently promises those smiling faces.