READ ME FIRST
Disclaimer time:
I'm perfectly aware that I do not own Slam Dunk and never will, therefore I must content myself with fanfic. This chapter contains excerpts from "The Road Less Traveled" by Robert Frost – which, obviously, I do not own, either.Thank you so much for the reviews! Keep 'em coming! And if you're wondering why Yuna, a sports editor, was surprised to see Mitsui back (it's already well into the season and he has been playing a lot), I'll be clarifying that soon. Maybe after another chapter or two.
This chapter is a huge about-face from the previous one in terms of mood. Not much humor here, I'm afraid. But give it a shot!
This ENTIRE CHAPTER is from Tetsuo's POV (can't do a Mitsui series without this fellow), but the next will focus on Mitsui again. Major OOC warning. But I do hope you like Tetsuo like this. I've always thought he was a big baby, judging from how emotional he can get cheering for Mitchan.
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Chapter 2
Old Friend
My best friend and I had always been inseparable. He'd been there for me whatever life slapped me, whatever the Fates threw my way. He was there with me through it all. He made the pain go away, made me feel invincible.
Good old Philip Morris. I knew I could count on you.
I took a long drag of my cigarette and exhaled, watching the smoke as it rose and dissipated into the night. There was a chill in the air, unusual for the summer. The sky was shot through with stars.
I chuckled to myself, tapping my cigarette against the edge of the bench I was sitting on to dislodge the ash. And here I thought I had no poetry left in me.
I wasn't always like this. I hadn't always been the chain-smoking gangster I was now, whose name struck fear throughout Kanagawa. I used to be normal – if by normal I meant someone who wrote poetry and was into gardening. But after Daisuke… I found another outlet for my emotions. Namely via my fist.
All right, I was still a softie at heart. I was probably the biggest softie on the gang. Good thing Mits did that sobbing thing in front of that Buddha geezer awhile back – nobody remembered finding that copy of Wuthering Heights in my backpack after that.
Although, of course, Mits wasn't a part of the gang anymore.
Mitsui had been a big basketball star – he'd certainly been famous in my neighborhood. People thought he was the greatest thing since Astro Boy. But when he showed up in our alley with a limp and a hard, bitter look on his face, we just welcomed him in, no questions asked.
Mitchan and I never talked about the things that counted. We were best friends, but not because we shared a lot. It was the macho thing to do, an unspoken agreement I was grateful for because I didn't have to explain myself.
Mitchan never said so, not in as many words, but somehow I sensed that he would never be completely finished with basketball. It was too much a part of him. It was his lifeblood, coursing through his veins. Without it, Mitsui Hisashi had no focus, no center. It left him so numb and listless that the only way he could validate his existence, the only way he could feel the smallest semblance of life, was through connecting his fist with someone else's jaw.
Now Mitsui was back from the dead. And I was happy for him. Not as happy as I thought I should be, though -- not because he left the gang to face his fears, but because I knew I didn't have the courage to do the same.
I stubbed out my cigarette and got up. Maybe a walk would do me good…
The moon shone on the treetops, outlining every leaf. It reminded me of poetry.
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Four years ago
I pulled my windbreaker tighter around me and tried to shift my weight without banging my spine against the molded plastic chair I was sitting on. Argh. Was it even humanly possible to be comfortable in a molded plastic chair? Why were hospitals bent on buying out the entire molded plastic chair industry? Anyone in a hospital deserved more luxury than a molded plastic chair.
I stared at the open book in front of me. I've read it thousands of times before, but today none of the words made sense to me. They were just black squiggles to look at while I tried to not to think of anything, least of all what Daisuke was doing on the hospital bed with an I.V. in his arm.
"Oniichan."
My head snapped up. Daisuke was awake and whispering hoarsely.
"Yes?" I said softly. He was so thin, so pale. His head gleamed bare under the harsh lights.
"What are you reading?"
"Robert Frost," I answered.
"Would you… would you read to me?"
"Of course," I said. My voice caught in my throat.
I pulled my chair closer to the bed and began to read.
"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long as I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth
."I glanced at Daisuke. His eyes were closed and his breathing was still shallow, but he was smiling.
My chest tightened painfully, but I read on. Oniichan… I'm here. I can't make you better, but… but I'm here.
Daisuke was only six years old. Six-year-olds were supposed to go to kindergarten and play on the jungle gym. It wasn't fair.
"Yet, knowing how way leads to way, I doubted if I should ever come back," I continued. I was reciting from memory because the words had suddenly blurred in front of me.
"Oniichan… can you hold my hand?" Daisuke said sleepily. His lips moved slowly and his eyes were still closed.
I put the book down, reached out and clasped his hand tightly. It was cold and small, insubstantial. I felt like a block of ice had settled in my stomach and had started to grow.
"I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence…
Daisuke's eyes fluttered open. He looked at me, his face peaceful. Ethereal. Like an angel. "When you grow up, you'll be a famous poet. Like Mr. Frost."
"Yeah?" My eyes were moist. "What about you? What will you be when you grow up?"
"I'm going to play basketball," he said. "I'll be great…"
I nodded, trembling. "You'll be the best."
He smiled serenely. "Yeah… I'll be the best… Just like, just like… Like Mitsui Hisashi…"
I smiled back, and reached to stroke his cheek. Daisuke snuggled up to my hand, warming my palm with his breath.
I finished the poem, from memory. "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I took the one less traveled by…"
My hand grew cold. The tears I didn't know were there dropped unto the sheets, making damp little circles against the white linen.
"…And that has made all the difference."
END CHAPTER 2
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Phew! Finally got that one out of my system. So, whaddya think? Please review! I've got Chapter 3 on paper already. I'll post it as soon as I get more time on my hands.
