TITLE: Things Better Left Unspoken

PART: One-shot Drabble

AUTHOR: Simply Kim

WORD COUNT: 1,130

CHARACTERS: Akaba Hayato. Sasaki Koutarou. Sawai Juri.

PAIRING/S:Implied one-sided Akaba Koutarou. Koutarou Juri

GENRE: Angst/ (A bit of) Humour

DISCLAIMER/S: never knew anything about American Football until recently, so no, I don't own Eyeshield 21. Just this story. ;

NOTE#1: Blah or Blah is for emphasis./Blah/is for conversations over the phone or flashbacks (if any). /Blah/ is for the conscience or whatever inner voice there is talking. Blah is for thoughts or random Japanese words.

THINGS BETTER LEFT UNSPOKEN

As an artist, he acknowledged that something vague always had meaning.

He recognised affection in the mere sight of two people sharing a single umbrella, and an indirect kiss between two people sharing one can of soda.

He understood shy acquiescence when someone says 'maybe', and an embarrassed 'yes' when the mouth sputters a 'whatever'.

He knew the meaning of long sidelong glances that seemed to search one's soul and light touches on skin by cold fingertips mimicking a cool path of sensual breath.

So it was no secret to him that Julie was in love with Koutarou. No matter how irritated she was at him for his excessive combing and no matter how infuriated she looked just for him being there, he knew she felt otherwise.

"Whatever! Stop saying stupid things and just kick the ball already, you idiot! The others are waiting!"

"But it's just lunch tomorrow, come on, Julie… please?"

"Argh! You're impossible!"

The rest of the team were laughing, and some were even egging Koutarou on, encouraging him further, fists raised in the air as they made another bet behind his back on whether or not their manager would finally capitulate.

But not him.

Akaba Hayato let out a huge pent-up breath upon the sight of the clipboard connecting with the familiar spiked hair. As far as he knew, this was the hundredth time their kicker had been waved away.

Waved away.

He thought it was the most fitting word to describe what their manager had been doing all this time – or maybe ever since Koutarou learned the meaning of the word 'date'.

She never said 'no'.

But of course he knew that no matter how 'smart' Koutarou thought he was, unlike Akaba, he didn't recognise the meaning behind her attitude. "You aren't smart at all." He murmured almost inaudibly, strumming his guitar absently as his eyes remained glued to the depressed form at the centre of the field.

It hurt to look.

It hurt to look, but he couldn't seem to make his gaze stray away from him. So he stared, stared, and stared some more, watching as Koutarou sagged dejectedly and started trudging towards where he was seated.

Cross-legged on the ground like a street musician, he was, and he had half the heart to stand up and move toward the bleachers, but he couldn't seem to move. So he gave up and resigned himself to his fate.

Another vague dismissal, another therapy session.

Closing his eyes as he felt the displacement of air beside him, followed by a loud thud and a small sound of pain, he couldn't help wonder if this was actually his fate, or this was the fate he chose himself to have.

"Aah… she rejected my invitation again!"

A human sounding board.

"Fuu…" He answered almost automatically, strumming his guitar once and leaning back against the wire fence. "That was worse than the last time."

"I know!" Koutarou moaned. "She even hit me with her clipboard!"

Akaba's eyes opened slowly, and he gazed thoughtfully at the late afternoon sky. He started strumming on his guitar once again, the silence filling with sets of simple notes he thought might soothe... "At a time like this, a piano would suit the mood, don't you think so?" He mused. "Rock will antagonise you."

He heard Koutarou sigh loudly. "Will you stop that?!" He groaned. "That's why I hate musicians… nothing is more important than mood and music, that's not smart!"

Unexpectedly, cold fingers flattened his own against the strings of his guitar, and surprised, Akaba turned to him, eyes wide. "No?" He managed to ask, struggling with the lump in his throat.

"No. You connect everything with music, it's irritating. You never really listen."

After a few moments of silence, Akaba's hand started to sweat. If Koutarou didn't let go he would feel the moisture and might, just might, think he was even weirder. He knew he already thought so, and it wouldn't do any good to perpetuate said image even further.

So he made a show of rolling his eyes and tugged his hand free as quickly as he could. There was slight sting as the strings cut the tip of his index finger, but he didn't pay any heed. A small wound was nothing compared to…

"Fuu…" He started, sighing. "You're the one who isn't listening."

"Excuse me?! You're the one who just started rambling about pianos and mood and stuff and – why are you even carrying that thing to practice? It's going to be accidentally smashed one of these days! That's not smart!" Koutarou took out his trusty comb and fixed his hair carefully.

"Because this guitar is the only one who understands me."

Surprise was evident on the ace kicker's face, and Akaba thought he may have gone too far proclaiming such. Then, an unreadable expression crossed his face before flattening back to his patented perplexed planes.

"I just don't understand you, Akaba." He declared, poking his nose with the tip of his old fashioned steel comb. The coolness of the metal reminiscent of the coolness of his fingertips on his skin a while ago. "You say the weirdest things –"

"What are you two doing here?! Akaba-kun! Koutarou! Get up! Practice isn't through yet!"

When did she – The distinctly female voice echoed between them and pounded in Akaba's brain. And sure enough, opera gloves and all, Julie was there, looming over them, brows narrowed, eyes displeased. "You guys are shirking practice. That's not good."

And everything fell back into place.

Giving her a small smile, he stood up and carefully placed his guitar inside its case, making sure it was locked before slipping the strap across his chest, bulk sitting comfortably on his back.

Further before him was a sputtering Koutarou, being dragged by their livid manager by the ear.

Beyond them was the now orange sky, a promise of a clear night.

Akaba Hayato acknowledged that something vague always had meaning.

Like Julie, he and Koutarou had shared one umbrella, and drank in a single water bottle.

He heard shy acquiescence whenever Koutarou said 'maybe' upon asking if he could come with him to the arcade… and an embarrassed 'yes' when he grumbled and yet, actually helped when he was needed.

And every time they were together, he knew Koutarou was giving him long, searching glances and touching him almost regularly, even when it wasn't necessary.

And he couldn't seem to figure it out.

"Fuu… I'm the one who can never understand you, idiot." He murmured solemnly.

His stinging finger demanded attention and he instinctively slipped it into his mouth, licking the oozing blood off and letting the warm wetness soothe the slight pain. Satisfied, he let his hand drop back to his side and sighed.

"Whatever."

ENDE

A/N: These three has been quite an obsession for me since I first read their arc in the manga. I kind of like Akaba. I think he's an underappreciated character, and he isn't as annoying as others perceive him to be. In fact, I think he's kind of cool – in a kooky sort of way. :)

Feedbacks are greatly appreciated. :)