09/18/2013: Did some revisions. Still unedited, so feel free to point out the mistakes. Loosely based on episode 92 and beyond; tense confusion, syntax violation and painstaking introspection also abound as there are three timelines here. There are tons of allusions, references, useless information, and most importantly Romanized Japanese words, so pardon me if some stuff get obscure. Also, you'll see a lot of ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` which are supposed to be spaces to emphasize the pace and succession of dialogues, but ff-net seems to be obstinately outdated with spacing and layout. Above all, be warned that the story is supposed to be lighthearted and fluffy, hence the lame attempts at humor. Prepare to get massive toothaches, too. Inoue Takehiko, please don't sue me. Standard disclaimers apply; reviews/flames are welcome, as always.
Revenge by Reality (or I'm a Lovable Fault)
Day eight, twelve blocks from the gym. Tonight's summertime is definitely breezier than the usual, and Kogure Kiminobu could not even be bothered writing pages and pages worth of excursion and curses and definitely groping, certainly more blights than what the foul-mouthed Shohoku starters could actually pronounce (and more groping). Not in there (anyway). Not that he would trade it for anything, he smiles to himself, his right hand shakes as his enthusiasm gets the better of his journal, writing away cadences, characters and words short of periods and commas, feeling the texture of the air. He'd be content smelling the wax of the gymnasium floor, he could definitely taste his own sweat as he musters his right arm, projecting, alight; the wondrous end of his basketball career—he's going to the Inter High, definitely.
One, two! One, two! In the meantime, he could get that bellowing, haunting chant away from audible range. It was grating him for one hundred and eighty eight hours now, and he won't make the afternoon practice tomorrow if he keeps fixing his stare up the sky, shivering (not from the cold) and just staring, actually, with no time and object in mind, definitely with no petulance, just the kind of stare that'd accuse you of—
"Daydreaming?"
Not at all, he denied; the other grinned. He was beginning to get wide-eyed, distantly looking at the grinning figure. Miyagis's dreamy snorting of Ayako was already beyond Mitsui's annoyance so he has stealthily replaced the unmoving, pale freshman (of disheveled hair, littered drool with a humming snore) to his seat.
"Much... better..." said the scarred senior, putting himself to sleep, "Get some nap yourself, Kiminobu."
Kogure furrowed his brows as he opened his right eye, his sight roundabout his sleeping teammates, probably fatigued and numb. They still have three weeks or so to polish themselves for next week's Inter High, and even Rukawa was naïve enough to trust that sitting one centimeter from the couch would make him the number one high school basketball player in Japan. The sun has likewise crept defiantly; without his glasses, the Shizuoka prefecture looked awkward and definitely too verdant. Would Josei High be a waddle of greens and searing sunlight, he asked himself, pursing his lip ever so slightly (nope, no drool)—he yawned next, gushing his air out (nope, no bad breath). No windswept hair either, he smiled, not that the train speeded like a windowless bus with humid summer airstreams to gorge on, and the inviting futon is no less part of the 38,000 yen he paid for this trip. Akagi's adamant, spontaneous training wasn't surprising, and in fact he could still hear it drumming in his ears.
There was definitely a lot of snoring. The blue-haired was already buzzing against his right ear, and without even glancing Kogure was sure he could equal Rukawa's drool and scruffy hair; he was also beginning to snore more loudly, which could only mean that the trajectory of his head, as soon as gravity hits it, will be his neckline. He thought fast: Day One. Summer. Damp snoring on his neck—
which would probably look submissive (and un-cool) on his end, and so Kogure Kiminobu tried to shift Mitsui's weight with dainty, gliding fingers, tiptoeing silence with vague uneasiness when the ex-MVP suddenly shot him a look.
One probing and gullied eye looked at his own brown, prodding eye; it was the kind of stare that's neither jabbing nor nudging, but it never the less protruded like a thought, like he was... fully... conscious? The air conditioner's whiz suddenly sneaked into his body as their hands and cheeks and fingers steadied with a long fall of minutes.
"Wh–what–you... you got me there, Mitsui," he tried to laugh as the other tilted his head, narrowing his eyes as if they were the correct ripostes.
One, two! One, two! Kogure can hear Akagi in his mind's eye as his arms retreat from Shohoku's three-point ace. "You were gonna fall on my shoulder so I, uh, I thought of having you lean on the pane instead," he whispered.
"I see."
Was he grinning?
"Okay. I'll take a nap now," he immediately replied, closing his eyes, creasing his brows, concentrating.
His journal flips page after page even without wind. His bedroom becomes a dark four-cornered seam as he lies down after putting the lights off, ironically trying to muster enough strength to summon sleep. Summer is unforgiving with all that temperature and hormones (and definitely groping), and rambling, and as he is tumbled sideway, he decides to be unsure whether to just stare until his eyes close to a rest or down a glass of milk (they said it can get you sleepy), or write away again with all the incessant flipping of pages ringing in his ears. He breathes hard finally, summoning shuteye like a mantra.
One, two! One two!
One, two! One two!, said Akagi, and he couldn't be more bewildered why this howl was haunting him right now, or even the trepidation with which all this entailed, and it may be owed to his excitement, since he's going to be in the starter line for the practice match this week (probably), or since everyone was asleep and he had nothing else to do but purse his lips (nope, still no drool), or wait five minutes—and opening your right eye, just to make sure he's not rambling in his head, and yes, Mitsui was still staring at him. This could be a dream, the brown-eyed mused, since an eyeballing Shohoku three-pointer is like him being able to smile without his fake teeth. He opened his mouth, as if to make a conversation instead.
"Excited about the practice match?" Kogure finally asked.
"You can say that," he replied, suddenly yawning.
"Me too," he smiled genuinely. "I mean, it's my last month or so in the game, of course I gotta make the best out of it, ne? Josei is one of Japan's top eight, so they must be of national level..." he looks down, continuing, "...and though I don't have the same skills you guys have, I could do very well supporting you..."
"You underrate yourself as always,"
The vice-captain will then continue in his monologue with the firm belief that this phantasm will most probably end within fifty five minutes; the sunbeams would peek against them and he will be awed by the light, blathering stories away, and Akagi and Miyagi will snore while Mitsui will shift his weight, and Kogure will take his glasses off since he could perfectly see the nodding head of Mitsui (which affirms it being a dream in the first place, the brown-eyed reasoned), clutching his bag. Here goes a summer of hard work and experience, he'll tell him.
It could be past an hour this dream, but then again he couldn't remember half an hour since quarter to nine in the morning that he already fell asleep. And by the time he woke up, his head was already nestled against the scarred youngster's shoulder.
He stares at him long enough for Mitsui to throw a quizzical look himself.
"What?"
Kogure laughs apprehensively— ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "—that won't work anymore, you know,"
"Yeah, I know," he scratches his head, "Just that I've always wondered if I really drooled on your shirt that time."
Mitsui shifts his weight, reaching for a pillow, tucking it in his back, "Of course you did."
"—but I never drool," protests the brown-eyed, "I always check."
"And you don't have to tell me," he whispers in his ears, lying down, flexing sideways as he follows the other's gesture, locking his arm with his. "Go to sleep."
Day One. Four or more counties from Kanagawa. Third hour, clammy armpits and thighs—
and more than this sweating and nervous laughing were assailing questions of reality (which Kogure deemed as normalcy)—two dudes nestling each other's necks weren't in the least thought-provoking, right? By this time, they've already drifted towards the student lounge of Josei High School, and contrary to the road's lush bamboos, maples and oaks, the classrooms and buildings were toothily imposing (despite being nicely tiled), and as the Shohoku team proceeded for the basketball gym, Kogure was busy thinking he was sure he drooled on Mitsui's shoulder; he probably pursed the wrong part of his lip—but it was all a dream, remember (he would tell himself)?
"Oi."
He stood still.
"Jet-lagged?" teased the blue-haired.
Kogure smiled, "Jet lags are for planes, Mitsui-kun,"
"You were sweating like a pig back in there, Kogure-san," complemented Miyagi.
"Well look who's chatty," said a suspicious Mitsui, eyeing the sophomore closely. "You were dead to the world earlier. Aya-chan, Aya-chan—" the brown-haired did not say a word, and rightfully so, since he was so close apologizing for the drool in the other's shirt, some sort of attempt to join in the conversation.
"Ha... hahaha!" he fell about, futilely at that. He walked beside him, touching that part of his shirt. He wasn't sure if it was damp.
"Toothless! Akagi-san! Wait up!"
Alone at last. "Is that... is this—?"
"Don't mind it," the other nonchalantly says, unrelenting, not even batting an eyelid. Kogure, on the other hand, was beginning to hear Akagi's One, Two! One, Two! at the back of his mind, and he thought of running; since Akagi was really making them run. With a fiery determination, Mitsui Hisashi spouted against the asphalt and jogged like he was about to make an alley-oop.
"You've come a long way, Akagi-kun. Mr. Anzai did a good job," waved the bald coach as the team assembles, "He made a good team." Kogure watched as the other captain ran for them, "This is captain Mikoshiba. Akagi-kun of Shohoku,"
"Nice to meet you,"
"I heard you had a good game with Kainan,"
"I guess,"
The other chuckled. "If that's the case, that means this year's Kainan is nothing,"
The replies, of course, were ticks in the forehead and raised eyebrows, and Mitsui walked up to clench a fist. "Bastard... that's quite a welcoming speech," he fizzed, confident.
"Oi Mitsui, don't start a fight here—"
Kogure looked at Miyagi next, "Heh, I told Hanamichi it was a combined training camp... I guess it will start raining with blood soon,"
Laughing nervously as he clutched the scarred man's arm, "Let's enjoy a friendly camp together, everyone... Ha... hah... hahaha..." It was luck among misfortunes indeed, he thought. He would just have to control a third of Sakuragi's propensity to blow nuclear, which equates to Mitsui's hotheadedness and Miyagi's impatience, or even Rukawa's silent insinuations; he would just have to keep them confident enough for next month's Inter High. Mitsui stepped further, conspicuously narrowing his eyes; Kogure would've understood the shrug's purpose, but the tightening grip against his hold was making it all the more confusing. He gave him a curious stare, holding his gritting arm, but it seemed to be downplayed so subtly no one could even bother noticing. He neither looked back nor replied, as expected.
"Okay team—assemble!"
He loosened his grip.
"Here's the gist. Curfew at ten, breakfast at seven, lunch at twelve, dinner at six. We'll practice from nine to eleven, one to two. We will have three matches this week, so we have to make sure we win at least two of them. Saa, you better have mattresses or you'll sleep stone cold."
"Your hand is cold," mumbles the other beside him, fitting his sturdy frame with Kogure as if wanting to thaw the brown-eyed.
"I've been sleeping stone cold for almost a week so it should take some time," he mutters, "before I get used to this,"
"Hey," Mitsui grins, "You weren't the only one who missed the curfews."
"Well, that's true—"
"And I haven't even phoned my parents—they're gonna kill me in the morning. Unlike yours—" he delves his scarred chin to his neck, laughing ever so faintly against the groaning crickets, and the moon shone up the vertical to a crisp lightness.
"I bet they will," Miyagi sneered, "Haha! Sleep stone cold!"
"You..." he tapered his sight, throwing the ball to him, "Throw!"
He ran, earring glistening in his right ear as the lay-up rebounded.
"Suits you right! Dwarf!" he jeered, which earned glances from the other team whom they were supposed to practice with tomorrow.
"Oh they are so gonna lose—" remarked Josei's vice-captain.
The whistle blew, signaling respite. The freshmen sans Rukawa decided to stroll around the campus and scratch their itching curiosities that Josei High School supposedly housed tropical beauties, as Yasuda often mentioned that girls in Kanagawa were paler than everyone else (this Kogure remembered a week ago), and this was also the time when the brown-haired ascertained of his disinterest in anything resembling dodgy stares and confusing gesticulations, anything which resembles buckshot, blue stare.
"Girls are more popular here," Ishii once thought aloud, more of an inviting, introspective question to the bench warmers than a declaration, what with all its reserved tone with which he used to say it. Kogure, being an encompassing deputy captain that he is, participated in the conversion. Yasuda would even blush as soon as the first syllables of 'girls' would be uttered, and Kogure wondered if they could be so undiscerning—
"—well, they say it's because they got tighter blouses," he said, as if declaring a fact. But with such innocent, genial voice with which he used to say it, the boys would of course flush, and most of the freshmen would also remark that the senior was already experienced and women-savvy, but, truth be told, he was just unsympathetic. He also remembered how tight Mitsui's shirt was—
"—what?" he grimaced. This was getting more and more confusing. He drooled on his tight shirt, then gripped his hands, he definitely made it a point to memorize how his knees would bend, how the bandage on his knee would fold graciously against sweat—
"What?" Mitsui tapped him by shoulder, exorcising him. "Everyone's gonna go for a swim by the lake. Wanna?"
"What lake?" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "You're suddenly dried eyed—"
"Mitsui-san, you coming?" beamed the unrelentingly enthusiastic bench warmers, geared up as girls-huntsmen.
"I'll follow later," Kogure replied to him, walking for the benches.
He remembers it quite daftly now; he was unsure if his allegedly wanton contribution actually offended, but he's sure more than ever that the two large green tea fields which seemed to overhang Mt. Fuji, or his tight shirt and red bandage, were more interesting than a woman's curves. He sits quietly, holding his glass of milk while trying to cool off his reddening cheeks as if he suddenly has fever (amorous fever he'd like to call it), the milk on the glass starting to simmer and he knows he is ordained to purse his lips, yawn and check his hair—and return to his darkened room and Mitsui's tight embrace (boxers).
But something is amiss. He dates back to the study camp, he dates back to Rukawa's one on one with Mitsui, he dates back to their practice almost a week and a half ago, or even the day he returned to the team; the midnight is beginning to creep in the house like a slithering sliver of ice despite the warmth that summers ought to give, and he has approximately four hours before breakfast, and another eight hours before practice, and he can actually feel languid over-rambling and excessively analyzing all these carousing and mistakes and fulfilled wishful thinking. Call it revenge by reality, they say—
He wakes up at the bustling sound of spatula against the frying pan, and the maple syrup lingers on his nose long enough for him to realize it's almost eight in the morning (and the maple syrup is five millimeters across his nose). His mom was already finished with the pancakes, shoving it to him— "Your friend already left. Seemed like a punk, Ko-chan,"
He's not a baby anymore, he thinks.
"Huh?" he straightens his shirt, yawning (he forgot to purse his lip, earning a drool).
"Oh, he's definitely one of those red-mark army, like those raven-haired and redhead friends of yours," she looks quite menopausal to him right now, and his father wasn't making it any better, snickering like a bully.
"Ah, forget it. He's going to Peers by winter, so give him some slack," his dad finally says, although for the senior, the defense would've been more valuable if he wasn't reading the newspaper and looked straight at them. His mother has always been adamant about this Imperial school racket.
A thirty-second silence ensued. "Well, he did pass his exams,"
"Who?" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Mitsui," he sips his coffee.
"Huh?" she smiles innocently, "Oh. Ha...haha… hahaha! Of course he did honey," she says, and Kogure is certain this falling-about-failingly in him was her gene. "I'm sorry if I judged him, Ko-chan,"
He strolls along the street for school, taking long, droopy strides, his ears beginning to engorge with crimson, as if his blood boiled up tenaciously like his team just won the tournament. Truly, it wasn't his disheveled hair he managed to neglect this morning, or the wrong glasses he took by the drawer. The sun isn't as lifeless, in fact it was scalding his nape and his sweat was nowhere to be felt against his skin; like he was a second short from getting a snowflake within his chest, his flapping ears, his cold hand which is like a corpse's. This is what he has thought of last midnight, and his mind couldn't keep up, or could he now anyway—he clutches his messenger bag, and he can see Akagi in the distance.
"Good sleep last night?"
"Haa..." he laughs, "Haha... no, I didn't, actually,"
"Probably Mitsui's fault," the bass voice said.
"Huh?—" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "He's probably at the gym right now. Blighting that monkey,"
They start to walk.
"The real thing is happening today," Akagi informs him as they enter the gym. It brimmed with a sense of optimism, the rest of the team practicing earlier than the call time, and by then coach Anzai was doing his ho-ho cheer as he himself smiles, awe-inspired; he can hear Ayako applauding Yasuda for his two points, he can see the Shohoku ace shooting, alone, he can hear Miyagi recommending good faint moves, that screeching foray of sneakers that's long ago music to him, he noticed Hanamichi's new shoes (he likes one himself, he thought), his defense loose as Mitsui does an off-ball screen against the redhead—what joy, he thinks.
The redhead notices them, and starts his routine of laughing and introducing himself as the Tensai. "Gori! Megane-kun! You're late!"
"Good! You're all doing fine!" the brown-eyed cheers—
"Oh, I wonder..." the redhead thinks, caressing his chin with his fingers.
"Huh?"
"Mitchy! Aren't you jealous he came in with Gori?"
A tick in the forehead. "Don't call me that! What—"
The captain's fist is about to hurl in the air, "...bu-but—but they're a couple, no?" The gym seemed to be overcast with gray sky and an impending summer storm as the optimism it had a minute ago turned into a noiseless crowd. Ah, yes, it took him all that to finally remember now.
tsuzuku.