COURTSHIP
by Peregrine Vision
1 - In Which Mitsui Receives Alarming News
It was like a showdown in an American Mafia movie. Mitsui Hisashi, 19 years old, tense and straight-backed, sitting in an armchair in the living room, facing the man and woman on the sofa across from him. His enemies, on and off for the past seven years. Also his parents.
Mitsui had never been very close to his parents. When he'd left the basketball team and joined a gang his father had sent him out of the house. He hadn't been formally disowned, but he'd needed to support himself for a while, get a job and his own place. School had been only a minor consideration, which was why he had been left behind a year.
And now he was back in the team, and Shohoku had clawed its way up the Inter High elimination lists from the very bottom, earning its boys (even the ones who had graduated) a grudging respect from the amateur basketball world. And suddenly he was visible to his parents again. But Mitsui had chosen to stay in his disorganized six-mat apartment near the middle of town, rather than go back to this big expensive house full of unspoken anger.
Then a call had come last night from his mother. "Please come for dinner tomorrow, Hisashi-kun."
The whole day Mitsui's hackles had been on end. It was summer break, so there was no school to distract him. He'd spent half the day roaring around on his bike, then went down to the beach and the free basketball court there. This time he hadn't needed to bully anyone to make them clear out. A game with untutored kids wouldn't have been a challenge, but it would have passed the time. But they got one glimpse of Shohoku's notorious three-point scorer and scurried away to a respectful distance, sending out a spokesman to offer Mitsui the ball as if he were some sort of God Of Sports.
Of course, that was nothing. Imagine if he'd been Rukawa....
Well, dinner was challenge enough. He'd spent the meal chewing his tongue while his father went on about looking after his grades and not neglecting them for basketball, look at Akagi-kun, he wasn't accepted by the basketball university but because of his grades he could still choose where to go, you know you've already been left behind a year so you have to scrape together what little opportunity you have left just to make it through, don't rely on basketball all the time....It made Mitsui's teeth hurt.
Was that all they'd called him for? To lecture him? They could have done that on the phone. But no, his mother had called him. So there had to be something important going on.
Mitsui watched his parents as intently as he would a marked opponent. His mother looked anxious as usual; his father was uncharacteristically silent, and a little red about the ears and neck, which meant that he wanted badly to burst out with something and was restraining himself. Mitsui put on his "game face" and kept still. And watched.
Finally he saw that the opening move was up to him. He chose his words carefully, not being particularly good with conversation. "Was there something you wanted to talk to me about?"
"Hisashi-kun...how old are you?" asked his father, with some difficulty.
What kind of question was that? Strangers asked that question. Then again, this was his father. "Nineteen."
"Turning twenty next May, am I right?"
Mitsui narrowed his eyes. "Why? Just tell me what you wanted to tell me."
His father's face purpled briefly, then slowly returned to its normal shade. After a while he said stiffly, "We've been...thinking...about your future, your mother and I. You'll be graduating this year, and..."
"And I can look after myself," Mitsui said coolly. "You never worried before."
"Don't interrupt your father!" snapped Mitsui Koudai.
My father, are you? So suddenly? thought Mitsui sarcastically, but held his tongue. Between his teeth.
"We've been searching for...prospects...for you," his father continued. "There are many young girls from good families around, and you need something to settle you down. You're not going to play basketball forever."
Mitsui kept a straight face, but his eyes proclaimed I'll try my damnedest. His father went briefly purple again.
His mother, who had become experienced at diverting crossfire, began quickly to speak.
"We've approached friends of ours. You remember the Yamanazukis? They have a daughter about your age."
A chill shot up Mitsui's spine. And then crawled back down again.
"The meeting with the matchmaker takes place the day after tomorrow."
Mitsui leaped to his feet. "You ARRANGED me a MARRIAGE?!?!"
"How dare you talk that way to your mother!" snarled his father.
"You've been talking that way to me for my whole life!" Mitsui snarled back. "I'm entitled to a little backlash once in a while!"
"If you don't know how to behave like a proper Japanese son, the Yamanazukis will never accept you!"
"GOOD!"
"We are not asking you to marry her yet," pleaded his mother. "We are only asking you to meet the girl. Please, Hisashi-kun. If you do not at least agree to see her, we will lose face with this family. They are our oldest friends."
Mitsui glared at her, and then at his red-faced father. He clenched his teeth. Really, at this rate he'd be seeing the dentist as often as he'd once seen the doctor. "What's her name?" he muttered.
"Tsukiko," muttered his father, in exactly the same sullen tone.
"I think she's quite suited to you," his mother put in earnestly.
There was no reason why he should be persuaded to uphold the family honor. No reason except his mother's eyes. However much he resented her, he'd never been able to refuse her.
He gave an extremely put-upon sigh. "Fine. Give me the time."
* * *
"Your parents got you a wife?!" His whole group of friends exploded in laughter, making everyone in the park turn to stare.
"Shut up," growled Mitsui.
Hotta was in tears of mirth. "An arranged marriage! Micchan's going to be a pre-ordered groom!" Everybody began to shake with laughter again.
A hand descended on his hair in a death grip. Sweating, he quailed under Mitsui's deadly stare. "Don't," said Mitsui in a quiet voice, "ever forget who's the leader here."
The bigger man gulped. "S-sure, Micchan."
Releasing him, Mitsui heaved a sigh and flopped backward onto the grass. "What the hell am I going to do? I meet her tomorrow!"
"What's her name?" asked the pale-haired guy.
Mitsui rolled his eyes. "Tsukiko Yamanazuki."
One of them whistled. "Sounds rich."
"Yeah, she is. Or her parents are, anyway."
"That's okay then, right?" someone else said. "That means you're in clover for life!" Hotta, who knew his friend the best, was quiet.
Mitsui's dark eyes blazed suddenly as he sat bolt upright. "DO I CARE?!" he yelled, drawing the attention of everyone in the park again. "I live in a six-mat apartment when I could be living in a 28-mat ROOM, with my own car! I'd rather have the apartment and basketball than live in my own house and have to grow up to be a BLUE SUITED CLONE who pushes paper and punches numbers and drinks until he falls over and ogles dancing girls while his colorless wife is waiting for him in a perfectly arranged Japanese home!!!"
They cringed away from him as he jumped to his feet and stomped off across the park to where his bike was fastened to the fence. He vaulted the bars, unlocked the Kawasaki, jammed his helmet onto his head, threw a long leg over the bike, kicked it into gear and roared off.
The Kawasaki was his most precious possession, only recently taking the place of his MVP trophy from junior high. Tetsuo had given it to him, a few days after the Inter High. The bike was clean, although Mitsui seriously doubted if the money that had paid for it was as well. But he was touched by the gift, recognizing the rough sentiment behind it. Besides, he'd always wanted a bike of his own, and this one was nearly as big as Tetsuo's. Whenever he was feeling depressed or angry, a long ride always cleared his head and lifted his spirits. Just looking at it made him happy; it was painted with metallic blood red and bone white enamel, and every pipe plated with chrome.
For this bike alone, he refused to be chained to a traditional Japanese wife--and her traditional Japanese family. Basketball was the greatest reason; he imagined the Yamanazukis' view was just like his parents'. But basketball was at least a respectable pastime, and lucrative. This bike was living, breathing, purring freedom. And as such, an antithesis to everything he was running into with his family.
His pulse thrummed in his ears like the roar of the bike. Meet her. That's all I have to do. Then I can walk away.
But somehow he doubted escape would be so easy.
-end 1-
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