Blameless and Beguiled
Disclaimer: I don't own SD boys, Inoue does. The events that follow are not included in the original lot but enjoy anyway.
Summary: A sarcastic Sakuragi is ranting alone inside the gym when Rukawa unexpectedly comes along. HanaRu. One shot. Warning: this sucks.
A/N: Uhm, it's been practically ages since I wrote a Ruhana fic, not to mention both don't have any form or quality to speak of. I can never tell if this outmatches the crappiness of the other two. I want to write and that's all there is to this, I'm afraid. I dedicate this to Wowie.
--
The day of reckoning has more or less arrived. Life prior to that, as usual, was a higher order of a bitch. That's all thanks to Kitsune who got caught in a beating spree and swept me along with it. Or rather, I dragged him along with it. I can't lucidly remember anymore. What I know for sure is, that night changed the way we looked at each other. Now I don't mean that in a good way; I mean, Rukawa should go to bloody hell for countering my punch. And once he does go to hell, I'll make sure I'll be the person to kick him down the stairs all the way to the world hereafter.
So here I am inside the gym, always the first to arrive and last to depart. The time is six-fifteen in the morning, I'm quite sure, having left home at six o'clock on the dot and braved the road for a good fifteen minutes. As I'm saying this, the minute hand might've already ticked once, which would make it six-sixteen. At any rate, time is not important. After beating Rukawa up last night and seeing blood run down his lips, I realized just that. It didn't quite matter how long we'd been swapping blows; it mattered less to know how late it was in the evening. When you're reducing a fox to a bloody pulp, it hardly registers to you to look at the time, much less to stop at one point. It was, make no mistake about it, a kind of continuous intoxication.
I'm reaching forward to the ball crate. The floor is reflecting the sunlight and produces a type of blinding light at first sight. One gets used to it easily, especially if one is asked to polish it every morning and afternoon and the day after that to no end. Your choices literally range from staring directly at it or shutting your eyes tight as you mop the floor. Now the latter would probably just earn you a double task, because if the autocratic team manager is watching she'd sure as hell ask you to do the same thing all over again. Life sucks that much if you're a freshman and if you're luckier than you ought to be, you come across someone like Rukawa Kaede.
Now, why did his name come up? Oh, I know. The floor wax reeks of him. Sometimes I'd like to catch him in the locker room secretively rubbing the pitiful thing all over his body. He probably thinks it would make him look less like a fox. So far the only thing the stupid floor wax made him look like is, you get it, a floor-wax-stinking fox. Which is a plus since there would just be nothing but a futile comparison between me and him. Red-head Rookie of the Year versus a floor-sweeping fox. Only an idiot would prefer him over me.
A few white dusts are fluttering in the air, hardly reaching the ground in their volatile glory. The morning outside has waxed to its full stature as in the distance, I can easily catch the roar of several car engines. The day has begun, at last.
I started rehearsing my dribbles. I can't tell if it was Ryochin or Mitchy who told me that my dribbling sucks crap. Yeah, what balls. Imagine a squat pumpkin and a lame-ass old slouch telling that kind of thing to Sakuragi Hanamichi. And as if that wasn't bad enough, here came Gori joining the Let's-embarrass-Sakuragi brigade by giving out his order of two hundred screwed-up jump shots per day. I've long since ceased to view this as Gori's generosity; for all I know he and Rukawa could go to hell together and I'd pay their one-way fares out of my own pockets if needs be. But naturally, a good clout at the back of the head is the only thing I could merit from it. So maybe there's more to be gained by simply shutting up. Story of my life.
It doesn't end there. To top it all off, the fox would more than make my day by showing off. Haruko would of course be there to see it and Rukawa's army of bimbos would be there to see it. Add my guntai to the equation, subtract common sense and you get the picture; Rukawa in pure, spotless victory, reigning supreme as the unrivalled owner of the title Triple-Threat. It makes me sick every time that happens, it's about to happen and after it happens. When he pulls a lay-up, a dunk, a jump-shot; you bet it's all there to back his cheekiness up. It's like... what do you call that feeling when you chew up on poison and let it slide down your tongue all the way to your esophagus and digestive tract before you could remember to spit it back out? Nausea? Unconsciousness? Jealousy? All of the above?
The door creaks open. Now what retard could be having business with the gym at this time of the day? I can hear a rustle behind me, like a jacket getting doffed off or a pair of jogging pants being draped over the folding chair. I turn to see who it is when...
"Oh, if it isn't Kitsune, my miserably sub-par archrival."
Well, would you have that for a persona non grata? Just when you thought that you have all the privacy in the world, here comes one of the world's rudest realities; that Rukawa Kaede exists and you have to partially witness his existence, like it or not.
"What are you doing here?"
"That's my line, Kitsune, and this is my territory."
"It's Saturday. Anyone can go here on Saturdays."
"I know what you're going to say next. You'll say that this is a free country and that you have as much right as I do to be here--"
"That's too long."
"Well then, you can shut up or fuck off or else I'll kick your ass to the moon."
"Get lost."
Again, he's exhibiting that endlessly familiar stubbornness which is only so indigenous to him. He fishes out a ball from his black duffel bag and proceeds to the opposite side of the court to never again participate to our give-and-take swearing match. At least for the day. He goes slicing his way to the bucket, as if to imagine dodging several defensive presences. He's okay with feints, I have to grant him that. But he's better at reverse lay-ups which gives due character to his speed and movement. He then cranks up a jumper from the twelve-footer downtown, which is unexpected because that is Mitchy's style. And knowing Rukawa, he'd rather be accused of being a no-one than to be reasonably called unoriginal or a rip-off. The ball traces a graceful curve up in the air, spinning neatly on its orbit and draining down the basket. Nothing but net. Typical. He rarely tries off-the-paint guns but when he does, his accuracy is close to perfect...oh shit.
Why am I saying this? Hell, I'm not getting paid to make a descriptive narrative of Rukawa's crappy shot! Remind me again to slap my face the other way each time he goes showing off like this. Or better yet, just sever my handsome head from my neck.
I resume dribbling, this time with the careful addition of driving through the pole and pitching the ball for a fast break. Ryochin said that mine still leaves a lot to be desired and that the best way to accomplish it is to concentrate my mind on the position of my wrist. That is, given that you'd memorized where the ring is located, which I haven't and which means I'd have to linger here for another lifetime until I get around to doing what he said. Well, I'd rather not quote him on that... I'd rather...
"Hey, Kitsune! What about a show-and-tell? I'd like to see how it's done."
Whoopsie. Just what possessed me to say that?
Without a word, a nod, or any gesture of consent for that matter, Rukawa traipses through the end of the three-point lane. His reaction to my request is rather apathetic, perfunctory and even detached. Then again, he couldn't be anything else but the three of those. I slowly canter towards the parallel for a better perspective. He straightens his shoulders first before he charges to the paint. He bounces the ball after every two steps and within a meter from the basket, he launches off, heaves his ball hand and taps it through the rim. The ball swishes heatedly as it skids back on the floor. Now that's what I call blessed fortuity. Almost in simultaneity, Rukawa lands soundlessly under the ring. He turns to me in a moment,
"You get that?"
"Yeah, of course." I frown slightly, wondering what devil made Rukawa do a thoughtful thing for once. Rukawa starts moving away to the bench where his things are.
"I'm going." he says.
"Come again?"
"I'm going."
"What, are you tired of showing off?"
"I'm not showing off."
"Yeah, like, I'm so gonna believe that. It's fine. Go ahead. I hate a nuisance to be around with anyway."
"You go on practicing your shot."
"Pardon me? Did Mitchy and Ryota just snuff it and channel their goddamn useless spirits in you? Who gave you permission to sound like a complete jerk?"
"..." Rukawa says nothing, but his breathing implies apparent exasperation.
"Oh well. You can go for all the hell I care. I'd rather not see you all my life afterwards than to--"
"If you don't want me to go, I'll stay."
"It's your fucking business whether you want to stay or not. Don't make it mine."
"You sound like you want me to stay. Quit beating around the bush."
"What?! No, no, no, no. Read my lips and repeat after me; I-DON'T-WANT-YOU-TO-STAY. I don't, really; why can't you just beat that into your thick empty skull so it'd have something in it? Go. And while you're at it, why don't you---"
"What? Make up your mind, do'aho." he is now glaring at me, his irritation seemingly ballooning by the second.
"You're the one who should make up his mind, dummy. Just cut me some slack here and scram."
"Whatever you say." he turns around, marching away.
"No, wait a second. Can you do that again?" I venture to ask another favor. I hate to be in debt to this guy but...
"Right." he replies.
In a moment, he's zooming off the court again, leaping along with the current, doing what he so effortlessly does. It's almost terrifying to think how precise his clutch is and it's hard to imagine that we could lose to a team when he's on our boat. He then lands on the floor just as silently as before, as ever. He looks at me straight in the eye,
"Did you get it?"
"Yeah. I'm the genius here, you know. Not you."
"Right. I'm good to go." he mumbles, bored. "By the way, you smell like floor wax."
"What?!"
I jump on him even before he could take flight. In the meantime, and almost immediately, a flurry of blows is being distributed right and left, up and down from both sides. Profanities, insults and others of the same variety fill every blank space inside the stadium, reassuring a tiring, scandal-ridden afternoon. Time rolls around, is protracted to one hour and seems incapable of ending. It would've been a finer spectacle if the media happens to be just around the corner. Rukawa and I go on trading blows, yanking each other to the side, hardly stopping for breath as if who quits first would endure an even longer round of beating. As I contribute further to his tragic injuries, I realize that it's going to be another long and aimlessly chaotic day.
On second thoughts, maybe a day like this is the only day worth looking forward to.
END