The Minute Ache

By Aki Midori

Warnings/Ratings: PG for shounen-ai hints

Pairing: SenRu, duh.

DiSClaiMeRS: I'm winning, but they're pretty firm about the ownership thing.

BLaH:

We've been lurking far too long, friends. It's time we rekindle the flame. Long live SenRu!

The Minute Ache

Dedicated to my partner, friend, and mentor, Archangel Barton

­

I feel prickles in my heart every time I see you.

I don't know why, really. It's not as if you're this big someone in my life, that I have to actually feel anything for you at all. Come on, you're just another guy in my life, and I'm sure as hell I'm just another road block you need to get over for you to be able to reach the pinnacle of your career.

It's not as if I actually have to care about your said career, or anything, but every time I see you hold that orange ball, I find my feet walking towards you in their own volition. It's like, disregarding my mind and will just go on their merry way towards you. And then my stupid mouth, which I might add, also has a life of its own, would call out your name.

I really don't want to mention that I sound as if I'm actually seeking you out or anything, because you know, I'm not. Really.

I don't even want to acknowledge that subtle leap my gut makes every time you turn those ocean blues on me. Not like I'm comparing your eyes to oceans, or anything as cheesy as that, but well, they do remind me of the calm surface of the ocean on a sleepy Sunday afternoon. When I'm fishing, and all.

I don't really have to mention that butterflies would suddenly find their way on my stomach when you'd say yes to my (unconscious) invitation for a one-on-one. I mean, oh come on, it's just a match, hello?! What the hell do I have to feel giddy for? Certainly not for a sweaty match under the glaring sun, nu-uh!

I don't want know why my skin would burn where you accidentally touch it when we'd play. I don't want to recall the feel of your body against mine, hard and firm and strong, pushing and shoving, awakening certain areas in my lower extremities, much to my chagrin. My only excuse for that rude awakening is that I'm a normal, teen-aged boy. Of course.

I don't even want to know why something in me plummets every time I see you pack your things in that obsessive-compulsive way of yours (water bottle in the pocket, towels carefully folded underneath the ball, and extra shirt neatly tucked in another pocket). I don't want to acknowledge the blooming hole that grows much bigger inside of me as your shadow goes farther into the night.

I don't even care even if the flickering light of the solitary lamp makes the whole damn court so damn lonely without you. I'm ok, standing there in the middle of the court, with only my breath to catch and my heart to mend.

Not that it's broken, or anything, mind you.

I'm not really affected by you at all, you hear me? You're just a petulant brat who thinks of nothing beyond the ball and the court, and I certainly don't have the inclination to associate myself with a recluse such as yourself.

I'm not affected by your eyes, or your body, or any part of you whatsoever, and if it takes me a thousand repetitions to convince you of that, I'd do it.

I don't fucking care if I'm being repetitive.

I just want to get a point across, you know?

I don't even care if you went to Inter High. Who the hell would miss those one-on-ones? Certainly not me, mister. I wouldn't miss you, not at all. I have my own team, and my fishing, and my own ball, so I don't need you to actually put some fucking sunshine in my life, or anything as remotely pathetic as that.

You, Mister Rukawa Kaede, have no effect on me and my person, whatsoever.

I've said that already, haven't I?

Oh yeah. So it doesn't mean anything if I'm here standing before you at the train station, at six in the fucking morning, to see you off. I just happen to be in the neighborhood, and all that jazz, and no, I don't care if you buy it or not! It doesn't mean anything if I'm giving you a warm smile that doesn't really speak for this gigantamous wound in my heart that grows bigger, as the time we'll be seeing each other goes significantly smaller.

It doesn't mean anything if I continue to stand here in the platform like an abandoned idiot as I stare at the doors slide shut with a soundly 'swish' that screams of finality.

It certainly doesn't mean anything if I pull out my phone and see if you've sent me a message even though it's only been seconds after you left.

I feel prickles in my heart every time I see you.

But I certainly won't tell you that I feel something much more painful, kind of like a sword embedded in my heart, every time I watch you walk away.

You, after all, have no effect on me, whatsoever.