He was just a kid when he joined the gang. His hair was still short then, even though it almost touched his collar. I didn't know what the hell was he doing there, tagging along with us when we went around town and created hell. I took one good look at him that first day and knew he didn't belong. He shuffled silently behind his friends from school, his uniform a mess, his hair hanging all over his face, and it wasn't just his attitude that bothered me. It was also that cloud of melancholy he carried with him, whether he knew it or not. Frankly, his presence disturbed me. He did all he could to mask his sadness, and it worked with most of the guys, but he didn't fool me.
And of course, there was that thing with the basketball courts. He'd take one glance, and only one glance, at them whenever we passed some, and there was always this expression on his face that was a mixture of anger and regret and wistfulness that went as quickly as it came. Nobody noticed it, for they were always too busy drinking beer or hassling people and doing their own things to notice. But it was obvious to whoever cared to look, and I made a point to after I caught it for the first time.
I wondered why basketball courts held such deep nostalgia for him, and I even asked that first time, but all he did was laugh it off and said, "You're thinking too much, man. What do I care about basketball? It's such a dumb sport!"
His laughter was too loud, his smile too wide, his eyes too troubled. I didn't believe a word he said.
So I wasn't too surprised when it was finally revealed that not only did he play basketball in junior high, he won MVP honour and was one of the most sought-after players of the year. It was slightly shocking, yes, because he never let on that fact about himself, but when I thought about it some more, it made sense. It was the perfect reason for why he angrily threw the basketball back at that group of kids who were playing when it landed at his feet. It was the perfect reason for why he was able to dodge the ball that flew at him that day in his school's gym and why he caught another one deftly on one palm.
It all clicked. All the missing pieces of his life. Everything came together with that one simple, yet so important, piece of information, like a jigsaw puzzle: his past as a basketballer and his love for the game.
I'd always known that he was different. There was something special about him, but I just couldn't put my finger on it. For one, he had an aura of vulnerability about him, however slight, but it was present and I sensed it whenever he and I talked. It was a tiny tremor in his voice, a snappy flash of uncertainty in his eyes, the unspoken truth in his words. It made me feel protective towards him. It also helped that he was the youngest of all of us, even among his friends from school, who were born earlier than he. And he was always too quick to get angry. Too quick to let himself be provoked. Too quick to take it out on others.
He was lost and confused. And he masked it well.
Fortunately, he doesn't have to do it any longer. I've always believed that things could only get better after rock bottom. That period of time when he was a part of us must've been rock bottom for him. And I can't help but feel a sense of pride when I look at him now.
He's standing outside the hospital, his once-long hair now cropped short, and the melancholy about him is gone. He looks startled to see me, and I can't blame him; after all, I have a reputation as one of the toughest street fighters around.
"Oh, I went to get my knees checked," he tells me, as if feeling a need to explain, or maybe he's just filling up the silence. He shifts about awkwardly. I hide a smile. He's different, yet he's still the same. So damn easy to read.
"You got your hair cut," I say, nodding in his direction. I light a cigarette. I drag it out, my eyes locked on his. His mouth is slightly open, and he resembles a deer caught in the headlights, frozen with... fright? Shock? Does it matter?
Taking another puff on my cigarette, I study him. He's done a good job of getting his act together again. He looks cleaner, somehow, if that even makes sense, and his short hair is neat, just like his clothes. The only thing that ties him back to the past that I have a part of is his hair that is dyed dark blue.
"You look like a sportsman," I say finally. I lift a corner my mouth into a small smile. "That's more becoming of you."
He doesn't know what to make of my remark, but he's pleased at the same time. He wants to smile but he's not sure if he should. He wants to say something but he doesn't know what, exactly, to say.
All he manages is, "Tetsuo..."
The both of us turn in the direction of the police signals wailing in the distance. I utter a curse. He's looking at me with concern now, perhaps thinking that I'm in trouble for one of my many fights. I grin. I point to my head.
"I hate the helmet, you know."
Now he smiles a little, evidently relieved. Still, he doesn't say a word.
I hop back onto my motorbike and gun the engine. Taking one last look at him, I give him a smile.
"See you later, sportsman."
And show the world what you're made of, Mitsui Hisashi.
A/N: I love Mitsui. Oh so much. Gimme a review, all right?
PS. To whoever reads my Rukawa fic, I am still working on Chapter 11. I don't really have time nowadays 'cause school just started and I'm aching all over from the last day of orientation yesterday. So um, be patient. Or something.
-Yelen