The chronology is reversed to emphasize something (which the title of the fic means to express); unoriginal, but enjoy anyway. Thanks for reading.


The sun hides against the backdrop of clouds and Rukawa relieved at the shade when he closed his eyes in time to think of nothing else but the haunting words and the water tank begins to emit coolness when his head could only be as infuriated; he felt betrayed, these faceless crowd who seemed to know nothing has delighted on his miseries and here he is, by the rooftop, the silent witness to all incitements and heartbreaks, trying to plan ahead so he could ignore those deadly facelessness and their secret knowledge of what was between him and Mitsui. He flexes his back, trying to be comfortable, and when it proved otherwise he stood up, ruffling his tresses, looking beyond – such great heights, he thought, and he felt alone.

The door opens to reveal the weakness that is Mitsui; but to Rukawa, it felt that it was time to relinquish any more knowledge and forget the deceiving feelings of lying, because he's near, he tells himself – Mitsui was too near for a touch and yet they were facing each other from remote places... when Mitsui waved his hand, Rukawa did not reply (not even a glance), and looked ahead – the vertical rises in the heat of the afternoon... what time is it?, he asks himself, what beauty does this bleak horizon hide?

"Hey," Mitsui was the first to break the ice, but it was rejoined with a silent hiss.

"I know yer not speaking. You're so wise beyond your year."

Is he now?, Rukawa thought, suspicious; will he be plastering that grin across his face yet again?, he asks, so that he can be incited?, so he can delight at the thought of him and Mitsui, together, in this bleak horizon? – well, he thought, it was the fear of this blitheness that takes getting used to. He faces him, not twitching his gaze – the somberness that is Mitsui, and Rukawa does not understand.

"I hate you, I fucking like you," he mutters, and he looks up the sky – under the bleakest sky there is, he and Mitsui shared the same feeling.

"I know."

Silence.

Mitsui faces the horizon, and he looks on as if there was something hidden in those abstract clouds and the yellow sunbeams – the blue sky, the amassed fog, the warmth and his pale face... Mitsui was someone to be despised for all the symptoms that meant his mind was in decay, and he was also someone to be loved because this emotional downfall is what makes him beautiful. Would he trust that somber face?, Rukawa asks himself, would he sacrifice his own safety by sharing it?, would the universe betray him for everything he will be having?

"Lovely sky, isn't it?" Mitsui smiles as he stares at him. He looks at the sky again. No, Rukawa thought, they were under the bleakest sky there is... and while the rest of the world felt anonymous, while the world knew nothing of what they both know, Rukawa can only do so much as to be bewildered by these dualistic feeling of hating him, and needing him... yes, he tells himself, he should grow up. And so he looks up the sky, feeling its warmth.

"It certainly is."

It was nine in the morning when the raven-haired freshman opened the locks of the gymnasium and proceeded his monotonous activity, trying to distract himself against this isolating sense of seclusion, trying to divert himself from this jarred compulsion to need company, trying to reconcile these contradictions that, as he sweats his body away at his second lap, he runs for the ball, shooting, trying to see what it was like to be the blitheness of Mitsui as he makes his three-points – it pounces against the ring. He sighs; these aimless memories, and he shoots again – he makes his shot, barely missing. He takes another ball, assessing the distance between him and his destination – where would he be going, after all these?, he asks, because here is nowhere and nearness is as fearful as being a far-eyed stranger to this blitheness that is Mitsui... what distance shall he take so as not to seem defensive, and hopeless at the same time?

He misses.

He takes another ball, his sneakers sounding off against the gleaming floors; this is no three-point shot, he tells himself; he already stepped at the line... nearer, he thought, and he shoots – well, he thought, there is no distance at all, because it's been one month and a week and they're supposed to be over... and there were no promises, and maybe it was his loss of apathy that made him forget the best of who he was – distrustful, alone – well there's nothing wrong about being alone, he says to himself, the boredom that is him may be the best of who he was, until the fleeting sense of uncertainty dirties him with the beauty of the body and the greatest thing he could ever learn... what is it again now?, he asks, because moments with Mitsui is the end of all he knew.

He makes a shot this time.

He goes farther; this is supposed to be a four-point shot, but there's no such thing, he complains, assessing his distance, dribbling the ball, thinking like he's assured enough to repel any sense of neediness to touch, to talk, to hear thoughts that are not his – to be on a higher state of awareness, to be an outlaw, to starve the heart and nourish the condescending mind, to despise the lovely nonsensical mutterings (the assurances and eternities, he thinks), the sweet garlands and bodies that are not tepid to the touch... as the ball flies upwards, he thinks of Hisashi Mitsui's smile, that grin plastered in his face, the beauty of what he lacks and the wondrous harmony of what he has – he had nothing to lose and Rukawa was supposed to gain everything, but all are lost within a month... preceded with an infinity of encounters and a fleeting relationship, he recalls, and he runs for the balls, trying to seize what can only be a thought, and so did he grab it in the air... and thinking that it was supposed to be this way, he jumps higher – it was the glory he can be proud of – and dunks, and all are left with reverberating sounds inside the gym when the rest of the team saw the so-called feat.

"Hnn..." he mutters, and the practice starts.

Long cosmic hours fall upon them.

"Rukawa, a word please?"

He draws himself near.

"What?"

"They should be coming here after lunch, so,"

He didn't reply.

"Y'don't have to involve the team in yer mess."

"I'm not."

"Right... that's why Sakuragi scored more points than you,"

"What's in it for you?" his voice was trying to threaten.

"Nothing. I just don't like the team getting fucked up too."

He stares, managing to be not taken aback.

"The world is yours to break just 'coz of yer petty love life. Grow up, Rukawa."

When the lunch break came, he was nowhere to be seen.

Hisashi Mitsui awoke against the deadly afternoon sunbeams, and his clock beside him began to send out thundering clicks as its hand begin to slowly swerve, he realizes it's one hour past lunch; and so he went downstairs, and saw the crumpled paper clipped against the electric bill by the refrigerator... well, they could spend some time off trying to comprehend the dysfunctional weakness that is him, he thought, at least his parents are not well-informed by how decadent his life is... more crappy basketball practice, he tells himself; if only he was the captain, everything might've been well, like ignoring Rukawa and winning games instead... like resisting all boredom and kept Kogure... he could be the best of who he was, he could still be standing at such great heights – he could be living the fluorescent adolescence, falling in love and marrying, having miniature versions of himself... he could be having a bachelor degree; well, he thought of enlisting for physical education, that's what his body's for anyway...

Open the door, turn the faucet – wash your face, trying to look anew with a fresher face, trying to look ahead at the time which he rewound and only to be foreboded with splitting images of Rukawa, his pale face, what his body can offer... dry yourself, eat your breakfast, and slouch by the sofa... he tells himself, mechanically at that – well, he thought, he could be the rising basketball star in Japan if he didn't quit the team two years before, and in so doing he could be anticipating Kogure every second, feeling no discontent, and he could be the man whose life was not absurd enough as to make him lust for men like him, or maybe he could detest them instead – well, he thought, he could be not smoking, like what's he is doing right now – he could be the best of who he was.

Turn on the TV, watch the reruns of Chicago Bull, and dream away, like he was someone else, trying to slam dunk against the tall American bodies, priding himself; he could be the best of who he is... and right now he's as blind as the bat, preying at nighttime, sensing only what could be heard, because whatever his sight can peruse can only be marginal as to give him what is sweet and optimistic, because he could be sweet and optimistic, he thought, he could be the best of who he was.

And so did he take his shower, tidying himself with all the malicious thoughts... he could be sharing this shower with Rukawa, and everything would be normal; he could be certain, ahead of himself as always, because he could be sweet and share undivided moments with him, because he could be optimistic and look ahead, confident enough to challenge the burden of resolves and time... and he stroke himself away, trying to release whatever malice his body can contain, he can only realize what terrible mind he has against the pale fox, and so did he increase his pace, his caress is too numb to be felt; he did it with handful of dirt, and Rukawa, the hopeful raven-haired travels with him and but he is out of sight, all these lucid visions in which time didn't interfere at all are drained away as the waters trickle against his back.

The phone rings next.

He dries himself, looking at his schedule.

"I can't," he says, dissuading himself. "No, I haven't..." he continues, "...not that he'd come back. It's better this way, I would only do damage,"

"No damage cannot be repaired," says the other line.

"Ah fuck off, y'speak like ye'r an experienced assfucker,"

"Like hell you'd not come back. You're as deprived as a porcupine."

"Whatever. I gotta go to practice, don't worry, I'll take care of the team."

"The team is depreciating. Y'gotta do something 'bout this."

"Yeah yeah," and he hangs up the phone. It seems now, he realizes, how colossal was the burden of time; the departure of Akagi and Kogure has crippled the team and it was his self-proclaimed duty to bury the past and decide for what should be – to win the Inter High, he mutters to himself... is it now, Mitsui thinks, that everything would be fine?

Watch it all disappear now, he thought, that which makes everything too picturesque for his own good, sweeping him off like the tidal waves – break it, he tells himself, mold it like a clay, sculpt it like cauldron, this temptation, this all-too-soon of an encounter, this needlessness, and he, as used as he is – as all those touches make him small, insignificant, as all these ways of fake endearment were cloying against his taste... salty, perhaps?, he asks, why then would it all fall under him, this tremendous weight on which the universe provided for him, this lonesome time – at the same time did Kaede Rukawa remembered, the mundane and self-absorbed thoughts that are his, that at time's end it was only four minutes that they were on this road, that it was a feeling of isolation and company at the same time... is it against the rules of nature, to suspend lightheartedness towards the precedence of exhaustion?

He can only feel too much, he's too aware of himself and the uselessness (the only probable thing he may be excellent at, it seems), and... well, what comes after this then?, he asks as his tongue swirls with wetness, and the feeling that it gives to Hisashi Mitsui – well, where will it all end?, devouring him like a predator... well a hopeful one at that, he smiles and the other begins to be baffled.

What now?, thinks Mitsui, what can the mind summon if only it would remind what decay it has?, the forgotten past and avoidance of future, the lonesome post by which his thigh felt its asphalt roughness, the cold touch... oh how well did he marvel at the wanton thoughts, he grins, the lust for life has become the neediness of the body, the self-wretchedness and the rejection of that fucking universe, he curses, because the world is his and it was time to forget it; he had nothing to lose and only a bulging pants to gain, and the rest of the world felt unreal.

To him, all ends into a sense of certainty – no measurements and pathologies, patience and sentience, of thinking and being aware... all are lost when his hands reaches for Rukawa's shirt, trying to take them off, as if the world existed for him and it was his playground... the weakness that is him, the wondrous feeling of his skin grazing the other's eyebrow... to Mitsui, it all ended too sweetly, because what was left was empty, and he needed nothing else but the luscious lips, enduring, and their tongues meet – savor it, he tells himself, and so he guides Rukawa's hand onto his groin... this fastidious urgency, he thought, was one thing he can only offer – a divine discontent that was his life.

And so did Rukawa remember what it felt.

"...what now?" says the other, exasperated, sighing.

He pulls away, and he does not flinch.

"No use," he whispers, tucking his shirt back in when the lamppost stopped shedding light onto this ancient encounter, this all-too-familiar thread they're walking, this hate, Rukawa muses, the frustration by which the mind can only recall what was unbeautiful and deceiving, and he sighed for relief knowing that Mitsui will not see what his face actually hides – in the darkness, the seemingly stark face turns sober enough to elicit a frustrated expression, and he sighs, knowing nothing else.

"That crotch of yours says otherwise," he points out, mocking.

"It's not th'way it's-upposed to be," he utters at the depths of the darkness, too willing, this tone of a voice which retrieved every hope, the way that this blitheness that are limbs of Mitsui, the prowess of the body, he recalls, was as forgettable as three-second release for this pale Mitsui... is it now, thought Rukawa, that he was only nine minutes for this devil-may-care, when Mitsui was eternity for him?, when the worlds collided and he was mere filth?, that he was as mundane as the darkness... right now, he thought, the lonesome lamppost has started to lose all burden when Rukawa finally takes a step backwards...

Although the other cannot notice, Rukawa can only hope some more, to seize what is only a thought.

"What now?"

"Y'jerk off, y'go home, and forget tonight."

"Fuck you–"

He tries to grin.

"You already did."


fin.