Miracles
I've heard there was a secret chord,
that David played and it pleased the Lord,
but you don't really care for music, do you?
It was sweet, really sweet.
Not that excessive kind of sweetness, exaggerated, like some industrial candies, but that of an home-baked biscuit or of a granny's cake, of the summer festival's cotton candy or of hot chocolate after a snowballs fight.
It was sweet to have someone taking care of you, who laughed and cuddled you instead of getting angry because you're behaving like a child. It was sweet to have someone you can count on, who'd come to take you out of the storage room you accidentally locked yourself into. It was sweet to have a little family even outside your house, it was sweet playing all together and who cares what the game was, even a boring sport would have been alright as long as you can all played it.
It was sweet, really sweet, like the distant echo of a forgotten lullaby.
But when the sweetness passes, bitterness stays. So much bitterness.
It goes like this: the fourth, the fifth,
the minor fall and the major lift.
The baffled king composing Hallelujah.
Right and left, forward and backward, you reached a quarter of the court and then the middle and then three quarters and then the end, but you always came back. No matter how far you went, you'd all come back, together.
Four and five. The sweat-drops slipped on the smooth skin to each sit-up, each push-up, each carefully studied movement and the fatigued voice of the chosen-one for the count filled the gym over a chorus of panting.
To fall and to get up. The harsh training and the won matches, the irreverent challenge of a rebellious subordinated who shouldn't dare to talk to you as if he was at your level and the growth of a pure talent, of brute strength, of power in the moment you towered over him like the king you were, but you even are and always will be for him.
A confused king who was only trying to build his perfect grace, if best chord, his harmony.
But if nobody who left ever come back, the distance from who stays will always grow, until the very day it can't to be closed anymore.
Hallelujah, Hallelujah,
Where is my sweetness?
Hallelujah, Hallelujah.
Where is my harmony?
Your faith was strong but you needed proof.
You saw her bathing on the roof,
her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you.
You knew, you knew it and you felt it. There must have been, there must have been that someone who would have changed everything, broke the boredom like a sunlight ray could scythed the fog. You knew it, but it never happened.
And then the low but melodious voice in his falling childishness, the mocaccino-coloured skin beaded by fatigue, the eyes blue like a deep see but shining like suns, the body turning into music and the vanishing gravity. Lightness and speed, strength and determination, passion and even arrogance, because perfection doesn't exist and isn't liked, were like a blow straight to the stomach, way more painful than the ball bouncing on your head.
Because it was him, he was the one you waited a life for and he was there.
The greatness of that moment, of that talent, of that boy, was so much that you gaped. But then they hurt like hell.
She tied you to a kitchen chair,
she broke your throne, she cut your hair
and from your lips she drew the Hallelujah.
It was like being tied. There were no ropes nor chains, no threats nor black-mailing, only two thin topaz eyes shining of pure worshipping and such an acute voice that it was almost irritating in its constant begging 'Another one! Another one!'. But to such a pleas, how could you say no? Were it a kiss or a ten minutes play, you couldn't deny it.
Those eyes and that voice had ran up the abrupt steps of solitude, broken the throne of inequality and torn to pieces the crown of talent just by keeping on losing. How was it possible to have so much without winning, it was a mystery.
And then why when it hurt the most, when the stairs had grown longer and the throne incandescent and the crown weighted tons, those eyes didn't come? Why there was nobody there to chase after him, when his pleas had grown desperate?
Hallelujah, Hallelujah,
Where's my idol?
Hallelujah, Hallelujah.
Where's my comrade?
Maybe I've been here before,
I know this room, I've walked this floor.
I used to live alone before I knew you.
The gyms were all the same; the locker rooms and the bathrooms and the benches were all identical. It is almost as having seen them all, even by watching just a few. It is like having been there already, like having spent there the most beautiful moments of a life and suffered there the most atrocious pain of an existence, without ever having stepped in them.
The parquet squirms under the shoes and that irritating sound fills the far too familiar empty court. If it is because of the looks of it or for the lack of human contact, you can't tell.
Even the bandages holding a toy-frog can feel the warmth that once it had and the solitude permeating it now. Even a tsundere can cry the company that once broke is confinement, but then broke itself.
I've seen your flag on a marble arch,
love is not a victory march.
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah.
A hundred fights and a hundred victories. The proud banner didn't waved in the lying emptiness of the gym; even held up into nothing it was strong and still like the propositions of who wrote it. It was like an immovable monolith, but sometimes it was like a huge blade hanging from the ceiling by just a horse hair.
Even if they were thousands and thousands, if at the end of the match nobody was happy, that wasn't victory.
The passion of a green game, the consuetude of a purple routine, the happiness of a yellow laugh, the caring of a blue friendship, the belonging of a red love don't exist just during the victory march. They exist even in the humiliation of loss, in the delusion of a shattered dream, in the irritation of the reality that someone better simply exists in this world. Or at least that was how it should have been.
On the surface of a candid paper, the apathetic black letters for retreat showed off, but the shadows of little dried but once liquid circles went unnoticed, salt like see and burning like a whip in the face.
Maybe not, maybe victory was just the points on the scoreboard and withour them nothing exists, maybe all the colours in this world are sucked away by the grey of a mistake, an incomprehension, of a shadow who tries – really tries – to say something, but does it too late.
A hundred fights and an hundred victories, but a thousand apologizes wouldn't be able to put back together the pieces of an heart of ice shattered merciless by a Damocles' sword.
Hallelujah, Hallelujah,
Where's my strength?
Hallelujah, Hallelujah.
Where's my passion?
There was a time you'd let me know
what's real and going on below.
but now you'd never show it to me, do you?
"Coooooome oooooon! Midorin, please!"
"No."
"Pleeeeeeease!"
"Nanodayo."
"Is this a yes?!"
"No."
"Midoriiiiiin! Please! What does it cost you to date Mukkun once?! He's nice!"
"He's lazy. And slow. And irritating. Nanodayo."
"Oh, Midorin, how boring! You and Mukkun are the only single ones in the team!"
"Neh, Sacchin, that's because the other four are dating each others."
"Exactly! You two could do it too!"
"No, and this is my last word! Nanodayo!"
"Neh, Midochin, is your last word 'Nanodayo'?"
"Shut up!"
"Uff, Midorin!"
"You too, nanodayo!"
"You said it again, Midochin…"
And remember when I moved in you?
The holy dark was moving too
and every breath we drew was Hallelujah.
"Akashi-kun is irritating."
"This is not a good compliment to offer to the person you love the most in the world, Tetsuya."
"I don't remember ever saying something like that."
"Strange, you usually have a good memory."
"Akashi-kun, I'm trying to read."
"Please, go on."
"It is a bit difficult with your tongue playing with my ear."
"Do you want me to stop?"
"…"
"Then? Should I perhaps stop, Te-tsu-ya?"
"… I don't remember ever saying something like that."
Laughs , just like smiles, are like gems: they're all the more precious as rare.
"Aishiteru, Tetsuya."
"Aishiteru, Akashi-kun."
Hallelujah, Hallelujah,
"Ohi, Kise."
"Uh? What?"
"Daisuki."
"…"
"…Ohi? Kise? Kise, are you still alive?"
"Aominecchi, baka!"
"What?! Ohi, did you blush?! Really?! Ah! Idiot, you really are a girl in everything!"
"BAKA! Say it again on the court, if you have the courage to!"
"What is this, a challenge?!"
"I'm taking the ball!"
"To the court in fifteen minutes and don't you dare start crying once you've lost!"
Hallelujah, Hallelujah.
"Geez, how depressing. They all act like great men and then behave like children…"
"Momoi, don't come lamenting to me about how childish that bunch of horny teens is, okay?! You're not the one who has to put up with their hormones in the locker room!"
"Ops! … Eh eh, gomen, captain."
Maybe there's a God above…
Murasakibara didn't lift his head. He kept it bent toward the floor, his towel covering it and hiding his face from his teammates. He didin't raise it even when Himuro got near him, talking calming to reassure him.
He lost and it was the bitterest feeling he had ever tasted. Even being beat by his ex-captain had been less horrible, maybe because from him a victory was to be expected but from Seirin…certainly it was something he hadn't think about.
Never again., he found himself repeating in his mind while hot tears were running down his cheeks, Never again, please. Never again.
And for some strange reason, hemlock became sweet honey.
…and all I've ever learned from love…
Akashi gulped. He felt his eyes burning, but he wasn't willing to cry in front of all the final spectators. He couldn't hide the tears blurring his sight, but he would have never allowed them to fall. Like him, they would have never gone down.
Trough the fog of a new and definitely unbearable suffering, between the dark vague shadows running in the background, Akashi spotted one he knew very well. A shadow, for him, shining as much as the stars in the sky.
He stretched his hand toward it almost without thinking about the words his lips were saying. Surely, a captain's words, but far less important than his boyish palm.
Candid fingers, snowy and thin like a girl's, but strong enough to make the enemies on the court tremble, slipped slowly within his and held, soft and harmonic, a holding that promised not to get loose ever again and Akashi smiled.
"This is your …No, it is your team's victory. Congratulations."
Finally, he had come back.
…was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you.
Aomine wasn't sure of how he knew it, but he knew. He knew how the match would have ended, knew what would have happened after and knew where to find Haizaki.
Just for once, he didn't act on the mood, but walked slowly toward the other boy, keeping his hands sank into his jacket pockets, more to make sure not to do something foolish than because of the winter cold.
"If you're thinking about getting revenge, give up."
Those were big words, right from him who was the main reason of the blond-head's leg injury and of his dream of leading Kaijou to Inter-High's top, from him who had switched from being the hero to play the villain role. But redemption exists for a reason, adolescence is the age build right for make all the mistakes that will be unforgivable once into adulthood, it is the perfect moment to behave like assholes and then say sorry.
Because it hadn't been the blond to defeat him, but he was the only one who kept losing while giving his whole 'til the very end. Because he may not know it, but Daiki still considered himself his one and only comrade.
Aomine's punch crushed on Haizaki's cheek with so much strength that he fell on the ground senseless. And it hurt his hand, but healed his heart.
It's not a cry you can hear at night,…
Kise knew he had already earned the 'Cry-baby' nickname at school but he was still grateful none of his teammates was there to see him, in that moment. It would have been too much.
Laying on his side, on the bed, his sweaty uniform still on, his hair glued to his skin and his muscles begging for mercy, Ryouta let the tears fall from his eyes to the mattress and the sobs making his body tremble. He gritted his teeth to suffocate his moans and his hand-grip closed on the sheets when his crying grew faster and louder.
After all he had done, after all the effort he had put since when they'd been defeated at the Inter-High, he still hadn't been enough.
He wasn't angry to the Seirin guys, it was clear even them would have fought to win and the last thing he wanted was a victory left to him by the adversaries, but…he wished so much to win with his teammates, to bring his senpai to the top to, well, apologize for being so annoying and a cry-baby and for the troubles his model job – fangirls in particular – gave to the team. And what had he done instead? He got in late, fell for his enemies' trap, made their game and in the end he wasn't able to win. Again, or maybe it would have been better to say 'for the umpteenth time'.
Kise didn't claim to be the strongest. Nay, he always said he was the weakest among the Generation because it was a simple matter of fact, but even Seirin was a relatively weak team and yet it kept on winning, so why not Kaijou?! His sempai gave it all, put their souls in that game, Kasamatsu above all the others: he deserved to win both the Inter-High and Winter Cup! And instead, he ruined everything… He who, in truth, only wanted to win together with his teammates…
The umpteenth sob made him jerk, but his closed lips prevented the sound from covering the phone ring.
As if abruptly awakened from a dream, Kise hurried up and sat. He passed an arm on his face, uncaring of dirtying his uniform more, and reached with the other hand for the mobile.
"H-Hi?" he asked, gulping to hide the hoarseness in his voice.
"Oh, fuck, you're still crying?!"
Kise widened his eyes, shocked, when he recognized the voice.
The name of the other boy escaped his lips, then he realized what he had been told, "No, that's not true. I'm not crying!"
"Yes, of course, try tricking your grandma with this voice of yours, Kise. Are you at home?"
Everything the blond managed to do was blinking once.
"Hai…" he murmured, confused by the question.
"Well, then hurry up and let me in because your granny neighbour is going to call the police." That grunting, Kise could recognize it between thousands.
"She's never liked you…" he found himself whispering while grabbing his hoodie before running out of his room and down the stairs.
"You think?! Maybe that's why the last Halloween we had together she threw the candies cup on my tummy."
And Kise didn't want to do it, but laughed all the same. He laughed while tying his shoes, while opening the door, while ending the call and while running toward his friend. He even laughed while, face hidden in the other's chest, he had his tears falling again, but only because he heard that voice promising him that they would have played so many one-on-ones that in their next match Kaijou would have made Seirin wash their necks.
He laughed, Ryouta, because his idol had come back.
…it's not somebody who's seen in the light.
It didn't matter how many lights shined over the court, how many spotlights and flashes from the cameras. Simply, nobody would have noticed him, as always.
He still remembered the burning sensation of humiliation when the Generation of Miracle had been interviewed for the Basket Monthly and the journalist had walked beside him just to go away, happily sure he had done his work, muttering about what sandwich he should have ordered for lunch. The others had told him it was for the best, that he shouldn't grab attention, and he had simply forgotten it. In the team's photo, he was the one always half cut out. Within the legend of the unbelievable geniuses of Teiko, he was the only one to be considering exactly just that: a legend, something that probably didn't even exist. Despite his name appearing punctually in the players list, nobody ever remembered him. Even that guy for Seiho had managed to forget and not recognize him just an yea after asking his name and promising vengeance.
For as much as those lights shone, he would have never been able to leave the darkness he had cultivated all over and around himself, like an armour.
Looking at that imitation, that half-darkness, that penumbra Rakuzan built to substitute him, Kuroko couldn't help but feel the anger rise.
Being a shadow was painful, that was why just a few could sustain the weight of that role. You had to sacrifice yourself completely, to leave behind every single crumble of emotion, every gram of glory, even the possibility to have really and proper normal social interaction. You had to give up on your individuality for the one and only sake of the team.
For a moment, he felt pity for that proud dim-light who clearly didn't have the slightest idea on how difficult was the path he had chosen so superbly.
A basket, a second, a third. Tetsuya let the one he could have easily considered his kohai, at least for the play-style, pass. The other was elder, sure, and he wasn't the type to defy a senpai's authority – too obedient to the rules – but in that moment he didn't care.
Pass, dribbling, dunking. Kuroko observed that boy with well-hidden superiority.
It took him years to become the player he was and now that guy thought seriously he could equal him in just a few months? He was just a presumptuous child. He didn't have his observation skills, nor his experience, or his knowledge of the game, of the adversaries' or teammates' psychology. Most of all, he didn't have his determination to win.
A compliment, an ovation, a scream from the audience. An annoying blonde, once in his middle school second year spring, had praised his 'pure aspiration to victory'. It wasn't true. It was not victory that you needed to crave, to be a shadow. It was your teammates' joy, the satisfaction of every single player on the court and the honour for the team: those were the only goals to seek.
And while the penumbra got slimmer, falling even more within light, the shadow realized what the aces fro Touou and Kaijou must have felt in the quarter of finals of Hinter-High: playing against yourself was something electrifying and incredible; it a shock of pure adrenaline starting from your brain and running down your spine since making your feet fingers curl because of the euphory.
The dim-light vanished into nothingness, soundlessly, and the shadow sighed between himself, without letting others notice. He may have made his same mistake during the previous matches, he could have dragged on himself a bit too much attention, but Tetsuya knew he was too much darker than his adversary to lose.
"The title of the Sixth Phantom Man. Sorry, but I don't feel like surrendering it, yet."
And it was the quieter version of the scream of a phoenix resurrecting from her ashes.
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah.
Midorima clenched his fists, lost his temper as never before, felt his eyes sharpening and cutting in pieces the enemy he once admired like a god but now appearing to him like a pathetic lone wolf that maybe would have devoured him, but would have never been able to call himself 'human' like him.
Once he wouldn't have thought it, but now it was different. Once, he would have growled, fought 'till the very end, sure that someone who always wins was the worst adversary, but after losing to Seirin he knew it wasn't true. The worst adversary was the one who had already had to lick the bitterness of defeat from the dirty and sweaty parquet of a court over which he had proved himself not enough.
The god in front of him was strong, had never had to kneel in front of anybody nor he had ever cried under the pouring rain with his face turned to a mute and indifferent sky, he had never felt that hallucinating pain in the chest nor the shame of meeting the wet eyes of someone who had trusted him, in vain, 'till the end. He had never had to suffer that guilt, but Shintarou had.
That first defeat, he would have always carried with him. It had broken him, but he had collected and glued his own pieces and then he had moved on strengthening them.
Obviously, he was not that stupid to think defeat could have made him strong enough to beat his ex-captain. He was stronger, not stupider. For as much as he knew, his lucky item being a damn shogi pawn could be destiny's way to tell him not to make illusions since he was going to lose and yet he couldn't bring himself to be worried.
"In truth, everybody but you is and hindrance." that guy had said.
Shintarou felt irritated, yes, and a lot, but not worried.
"What did you say?"
Rage, boiling in his vein, became pure strength. A player, two, five or ten or twenty enemies: it didn't matter anymore. He would have smashed away whoever dared to cross Shuutoku's path.
"An hindrance? What are you blubbering?"
He would have given everything he had without rest, he would have bet sould and hart, he would have gone on even if it meant crushing his legs with jumps and all his left hand fingers with three-pointers, he didn't care. He would have never allowed himself to look again at his comrades with his head filled of 'if only…a bit more…'.
"There's not a single player in this team who's an hindrance."
And he meant it. He knew it. He believed in it.
He was not like the other aces, Touou's or Seirin's. He didn't need a shadow, he didn't need someone who sacrifice himself completely for him. What he needed, what he wanted, was another light, someone who played beside him as an equal, someone he had never had before.
The second Kazunari's pass slipped within his hands, while he felt all his teammates' hopes sticking to him, wrapped to his skin like the bandages to his scary left hand, Midorima knew it laid there. There laid his whole strength.
Thus, he didn't fear missing the shot not even for a second.
"The real match begins now."
Hallelujah, Hallelujah,
Hallelujah, Hallelujah.
Hallelujah, Hallelujah,
Hallelujah, Hallelujah.
Authoress' notes:
Okay, I was planning on waiting a bit for publishing this, but then I realized how much time I'll have from now on... And decided it would have been better to do what I could, now. XD
I just love this Kurobas kids so much... ;)
Thanks for reading! See you! ;)
Agap