Misplaced Stipulations
Disclaimer: I don't own SD boys, Inoue does. The events that follow are not included in the original plot but enjoy anyway.
Summary: Sendoh Akira's true feelings about getting kicked out of the playoffs aren't merely of sadness and frustration: the better part was in fact anger. Slight SenRu. Absolutely OOC. One shot.
Note: This is as random as it's going to get. It's not very well written but I guess the fact that it's a Sendoh fic makes it worth the read. Somehow.
"Sendoh Akira's once-in-a-lifetime foul mood strikes after Ryonan's elimination in the series' playoffs", That would be a perfect headline for the school's editorial.
Something has to give, they say, but isn't that what they tell sore losers to prevent them from drinking themselves to death the very next hour? Not to me, they didn't: all they ever came up with after two years of excellent service was, "better luck next time." Pretty generous for a consolation piece, huh? So that moron apparently got the bust of it and very possibly was grinning from ear to ear as they hoofed off to their dug-out with the newest addition on their credits: Shohoku nipping Ryonan into the final race. I can almost reconstruct that Sakuragi's smug smile with mine just by trying to look a bit like a pervert; and if I had exactly zero shame left, I'd be dying my hair and eyebrows red. But even I can't stretch things that far to make my team championship contenders this time around.
As it happened, the idiots had to get away with it and left me the deadliest post imaginable: captain. Newly elected captain. Ikegami's on about focusing on his studies this time around, claiming he's sick of his neglect and that it's about time he makes reassessments on his priorities. Uozomi, on the other hand, wants to build some career in cooking. Choosing to sauté a goddamn flounder over playing basketball actually makes sense, you know, especially if you're more a gorilla than an actual human being. Naturally, you can't count on them to be decent enough to be honest: they just need someone to clean after their mess. Wherever did they glean the idea that that person had to be me, by the way? I woke up the next morning literally christened as Ryonan's new team captain. I didn't have enough time to waive the title since pretty much everyone had it down their planners way from the beginning. If I said something along the hypocritical lines of, "I don't deserve the honor," they all pretended not to hear it. If any one of them meant to say anything on my behalf, none of them had balls big enough to do so. They just sat me in the throne like none of them could wait long enough to drop me. That was all the thanks I was going to get.
As all things have consequences, there I was inside Ryonan's filthy gym sweeping the face off the stupid wooden floor, repeating the process as often as necessary. I had one rusty bucket and a partially unhinged mop to act as my arsenal, a tired wrist for a fine obstacle and a whole boring terrain of dust that must be my damsel in distress. At least it didn't whine for a royal treatment. I didn't expect to be given a medal for it, but I wish people would stop to consider my feelings. As a rule, I outshine anyone on hard-court, wooden floor included, and not the other way around (definitely not like this). Polishing it, more than anything, wasn't included in the terms.
In case you wonder why I was doing this, it's not in deference to my teammates who all worked drop-dead hard during the summer; it's because there were technically no freshmen in the boat then. Aida and his lot had started calling themselves "The Pending Ones", meaning they were in that gray transition from rookie-dom to sophomore-dom. The real rookies wouldn't be coming around until the next school year and for the time being, incidentally, nobody wanted household chores for their hobbies while winter season was just about to begin. So it fell upon me as a noble duty to handle the dirty work while everyone who used to constitute Ryonan Basketball Team was trying to loosen any link they had with the sport, at least until winter season ticked off. Somehow I get the feeling that they desperately wanted to be free of Taoka's wrath as well. So much for loyalty. I'd like to think the bucket and mop tandem made better company, a lot better than the squealing bimbos outside and my useless teammates, otherwise what justice was I trying to do myself?
The double doors unexpectedly creaked open just then, letting in a warm shaft of light that might be part of what you'd call day. The space inside became suffused with welcome heat, so sudden that the enclosure felt like it was breaking into a yawn. Ever since Ryonan didn't make it to the final round, light had to be interpreted as darkness, the better to suit this pathetic status. Sure, people hadn't started branding me the drama queen for nothing. Sometimes identity change helps, you know. As the full length of sunlight touched me for the first time in many days, realization dawned: I was wearing nothing but my work-out boxers, and absolutely nothing in the way of a top. Sweat dripped shamelessly on my skin, resembling rainwater coursing down a wall. I couldn't accurately tell who the person was, except that he was extraordinarily tall and quite still; the glare of the sunlight behind him made his face just a shade among the shadows. I squinted, frowning at intervals for a better view. I drew closer and received the second shock of the day.
"Rukawa?"
He was in his sweat shirt and dry-fit pants, replete with runners and earphones, totally clad compared to my half-naked Spartanesque costume, the mop being my spear. I could easily be mistaken for a lunatic this way. I couldn't help feeling ridiculous and as all temporarily ridiculous people are, I found myself putting up the defense.
"I wasn't doing anything horsey, you know," I began. "If I were you I wouldn't go trying anything I'll regret later on. I was just—"
"Sweeping. I can see that."
"Right."
"…"
"And what the hell are you doing here? This is my turf, you know. If you want some paid face-off you'd better wait for the next season. I'm not big in the athletic department as of the moment, as you can see."
"Didn't come here for that."
"That's good news then. Please leave."
"Here."
Rukawa tossed a weightless package about the size of a binder toward my direction. It fell flat on the floor, making dusts rise out of it synchronically. I clutched the mop harder, possibly out of impulse, and stared from the object to Rukawa. If he demanded a nice little brawl for lunch, I knew I wouldn't back down quite a bit.
"What's that? Making business out of your delivery express? I'm sorry but I didn't take the order."
"It's your sweater, baka. You left it on the bleachers at the local court."
I held my silence. It had been two weeks since I encountered Rukawa at the Kanagawa basketball court on a pleasant sunset. It ceased being pleasant the moment he swerved in on his pink bike, needless to even assert it, as the next minute found us in a showdown of skills with neither of us pegging down one notch. The match ended in a tie, my distraction having done its job: I knew I could easily thump Rukawa had the circumstances been different. At that time Ryonan just suffered a close-shave loss against Shohoku. That was the scenario. My distraction had to reach the extent where I would forget to pick up my favorite piece of clothing from the bench where I dropped it. Man, I was sure more screwed up than I believed I was. But there had to be more than that.
"You came here to hand this over?" I muttered amidst my developing disbelief.
"What does it look like?"
"Well, I suppose I should thank you, eh?"
"Don't bother."
Rukawa wheeled around, ready to take off. Under the partial sunlight, my form seemed to shrink in embarrassment. I clung to the mop tighter while eyeing the slowly retreating figure of Rukawa. Halfway through his progress he made an about-face and gave me a quick glance.
"You're doing it the wrong way, you know." He mumbled.
"Wrong way? Don't bring up old scores, Rukawa. I can bloody well trump you right now." I snapped and felt my temper boiling. If Rukawa intended to undermine my captainship, I was prepared to defend it at whatever cost of suffering.
"I meant you're sweeping it the wrong way."
"Excuse me?" I frowned. That was uncalled for.
"Try doing it in a circular motion." Rukawa informed as though the possession of such knowledge was a greater deal than the whole mystery of the Pyramids. "Let me show you."
Without formalities, he snatched the weapon away from me and left me no chance to follow up my thoughts. In a while, he began his labor in a manner so effective, so devoid of errors, that he could've written a book on the art of mopping, which no doubt would top the bestsellers' list. The spot he wiped off gleamed fiercely beneath the dim light sifting through the portal. I continued watching him at his leisure, throwing a few comments his way in an attempt to mask my speechlessness. I'm sure I didn't make any sense but if your name was Sendoh Akira, and someone like Rukawa Kaede came to this sort of rescue, there's no questioning what comes out of your mouth. Until then, I'd regarded Rukawa as a concept that's purely abstract, inhuman and incapable of any act of kindness, concern, whatever you want to call it. Watching him do the job for me, I was suddenly prepared for a paradigm shift.
"You seem to enjoy getting sick of this job," I gave it another start. "Don't bank on it. It's not going to get you anywhere. I was just—"
"Akira-kun!"
A voice, pitchy and cold, cut through my tirade. I craned my neck to the other end of the stadium where a girl stood, a mixture of amusement and annoyance overcoming her features. Whether it was due to my semi-nudity or Rukawa's presence or a combination of both, she didn't voice so. Above everything, her pretty face waxed familiar, looming along the hedges of memories I couldn't bother myself with anymore. It occurred to me, almost immediately, that she might be among those random omnipresent chicks who'd pop out of nowhere and tell me they love me and claim a secret mutual understanding we were supposed to be having in the face of the public.
"What?" I rounded on her in full, impatient and irritated. I was sure she'd be down on her knees in the next moment asking me for a big-time date.
"What do you mean 'what'?" Instead of swooning, she snarled at me. "Your guy's about to murder our chemistry teacher and you're giving me that face? Why don't you help?"
I jumped out of my place as I came to realize that this girl's name was in fact Ando Tomoki, students' council president, homecoming queen and captain of the girls' volleyball team. Contrary to my initial speculations, she wasn't part of my fan club, nor had told me she loved me before. Belligerent and rule-abiding, she drove away any prospective candidate for a boyfriend simply by seeming superior, which she was in this way or that. No one messes with Ando where her virginal, imperial image was concerned.
"Move it, Akira; he might be breathing his last at this very minute."
Sensing the urgency, I tore Rukawa's package open and slipped my sweatshirt on at once. The smell of fabric conditioner stuck to the thread instead of the usual sweat stink that grew intimate with me over the years. I gave Rukawa a final nod as I scooted out of the building to join Ando in this crazy, aimless save-the-instructor mission.
I wrestled Fukuda by the arms just as he was strangling the tiny chemist. The rest of the class gawked at the spectacle, arranged in a semi-circle and ultimately unable to detach the mad athlete from the staggering educator. Screams and gasps alike filled the air. Finally able to extricate the mentally challenged teammate out of the jumble, I began a short lecture on school laws I never thought I had a mind for. Ando, on the other hand, led the teacher out of harm's way and glared at Fukuda. One of these days Fukuda would be sure to get his fair share of detention and suspension, on Ando's recommendation not the least.
I traced my way back to the gym as gradually as my reduced energy could allow. The afternoon had ripened, indicating how much time I wasted on Fukuda and the damn scene he was brainless enough to instigate. I burrowed deeper in thought, wondering if I had to answer to every screw-up my teammates made starting then, cover up for them, lead them, tyrannically discipline them the way Uozomi did. I wondered too if Uozomi ran quite as much thoughts in his head shortly after being appointed; he probably did and went over the same struggle neither of us understood. Captainship, after all, has its ups and downs: it would unleash your strength as much as it would prey on your weakness. When it came down right to it, I probably just hadn't yet experienced the ups. Once the winter league reopened it was sure to add dramatically on my long list of responsibilities and by then I'd be back to wondering whether the situation gave me enough time to deserve the whole of it. And if I was being completely honest with myself, nearly snagging the MVP trophy was such a small price to pay compared to what I'd been going through. Would it always be a period of adjustment for me?
I tottered into the gym, sighing and sick of exhaustion. As I did so, something inside caused me to squint at the scene sprawled before me. All fifty meters of the floor, formerly just a heap of filthy expanse, now glimmered in surreal glory. Not a single speck in sight. I put my snickers on carefully and tested the wooden smoothness of the ground underneath me. It passed. It exceeded expectations. I went on standing there, pretty much frozen, until it transpired to me that something wasn't quite right: I was alone. Rukawa made the split without leaving any vestige of his presence behind. Not even his shoeprints.
"You didn't have to sweat it, kid." I began smirking to myself. Rukawa wasn't just a scoring robot after all. He had a heart. More than that, he had an aptitude for janitor-ship, the most powerful undiscovered secret about the most celebrated future star of Kanagawa basketball history. And Sendoh Akira was the only person who knew it. At least I had it for captainship.
I waded my way to the locker room for a warm shower. Nothing tunes things up better than a nice bath.
END