Polished wooden floors. The acrid tang of rubber. Orange bumps shading away to curves and the most perfect shape known to man. And that sound, the swish and thunk of the net slapping the ball, the sound that could wake him out of a sound sleep. This was what he was. This was his core.
He never could stay away for long. Like breathing, it was intrinsic to him. The rhythm of shooting; the tempo of a casual dribble; it was in his blood, like a heartbeat, sustaining him, giving him focus. He didn't know why he had survived those dark, soulless two years without that certain pulse racing through his body. He knew how, though. He knew how.
Anger was at the center of it, anger at himself for being utterly foolish and impatient. It took Mitsui a few more years to come to terms with his own skeletons in the closet, but eventually he had found closure. To get there, however, took time, effort, and countless talks with Coach Anzai to sort things through. Mitsui understood now that he hadn't forgiven himself for abandoning the sport he loved. His guilt and shame had manifested itself in a series of black moods, each lasting longer than the previous. During these times he would punish himself, sleeping little and eating less, ignoring everything but the ball and the net and his training. This of course spiraled out of control: his ability to play suffered, he trained more to take up the slack, and then his body failed him, bringing him around full circle. His temper was also liable to explode in the most spectacular of ways. And it did, too often. Coach Anzai had to be called in before he drove the people around him insane.
All of this was present in his mind every time he touched a basketball. The compounded feelings of years flashed through his head as he played, giving a whole new depth to the game. He thought it had been personal before, but oh, was it personal now. Mitsui still played because he enjoyed it, but it was more than just fun. Basketball was release, the most profound catharsis he had ever experienced, the pinnacle of his joy, and the absolute hell of his frustration. Basketball was therapy as practiced by Coach Anzai. Mitsui remembered afternoons spent shooting baskets together - the old man had taken his heart attack seriously and lost a good deal of weight - just letting the body ease into a routine so that he could free his mind and his demons.
So here he was at the gym again, those wooden floors stretching away in all directions, orange bumps beneath his fingertips, hands holding the locus of his self gently. He sighed, rolled his shoulders, released the ball with his left and pushed down with his right. A flick of the wrist; a bounce; a return. His arm came up, elbow bent slightly. Another push, another flick. Establish the rhythm, set it in the body. Relax.
He looked up and sighted. An easy push of his legs had him airborne. The ball sailed in that graceful, lazy, dangerous parabola and swished into the net. He felt himself smile.
Of course he knew why he came.
By reverse dribbles, Mitsui was already brooding.
He was good at it. He'd had lots of time to practice over the years; he'd perfected it, had it down to a science. He was now possessed of the kind of power Rukawa had with sleep; that is to say, he could brood anywhere, doing anything. But this was his kind of introspection, a masochistic self-examination that would leave his issues resolved only through pure sweat. People had always thought Rukawa was the brooder. Not true. Mitsui doubted if he had any other pressing matters to think about other than when he could get his next basketball fix.
Scowling, he rushed at the first chair set up on the court. To him they were defenders, guards or forwards or what-have-you crouched low, arms at their sides. He pivoted smoothly around, ball handling tight and precise. He wasn't a shooting guard for nothing, despite whatever that damn Miyagi had said. Any position on the court was fine, but the years with Coach Anzai had made the role of shooting guard expressly his. He faked quickly to the side, switched his weight from foot to foot and back again, dashed forward and delivered a fadeaway. The swish was crisp and clean.
He followed the ball's trajectory with his eyes, and when it bounced back up, he realized there was a figure beneath the backboard, watching him. It bent to retrieve the ball, and, wordless, tossed it back. Mitsui caught the glitter of blue eyes in the shadows and smirked, already walking to the half-court line, shoving chairs out of the way. One-two the bounces went, and he was off like a shot, pressing the advantage.
It was funny how things came full circle, funny how things balanced out. Like the simple action of the dribble, for example, the hand pushing the ball pushing the hand. Like how, inexplicably, through circumstances beyond his control, it was Rukawa, not Akagi, not Kogure, who was here. Rukawa, who was playing defense like a madman, who was one of his closest friends now, filling a void that was at best still raw.
The ball rebounded from the rim, and Mitsui cursed. Rukawa caught it and brought it back to half-court, then began his attack. Mitsui was suddenly reminded of the first time he had ever been challenged by the young upstart, how he'd cheated a bit in order to win. This situation was the same, picture-perfect the same, and not for the first time Mitsui felt some dejà-vu, as if he were reliving parts of his life through snapshots. See, he was guarding Rukawa with the same technique now as he had then, only this time it was harder to get through. And see, the sneaky bastard had floated an underhand layup into the net, just like before.
Mitsui went back to the half-court line to receive the ball. He advanced slowly, concentrating on keeping the rhythm even. Without warning, he jumped, sighted, released. The ball arced through the air and plopped into the net as he made a fist.
His eyes met Rukawa's, and Mitsui grinned cheekily, tapping his foot on the floor, showing the other man just how far away from the line he was. Picture-perfect the same, indeed.
Well, no. Not quite picture-perfect the same.