The sun dawned upon their sleepless bodies which sat down the gymnasium floors. They have been staring blankly at the window panes they've mistaken as the floorboards due to their gleaming light, and it wasn't exactly from last night's escapades did their eyes almost gouge themselves out of their sockets. Since the Shohoku basketball team, excluding Kogure and Mitsui who busied themselves cajoling each other by the oak trees outside the gymnasium, were outside searching for an unsearchable chōchinobake, kasa-obake, bakezōri, oyuki, hitodama, inugami or uchisake-onna—which supposedly roamed during midnights—a group of real, bona fide opportunists began scouring their belongings—as if there were good stuff to steal! Kakuta and Ishii lost their porn magazines, which just demonstrated the susceptibility of these thieves, but more so with the sophomore and the freshman; Miyagi doesn't have anything to begin with, but he did lose his jersey, along with the captain's, who, incidentally, had attracted the attention of Shizuokan universities—much to Mitsui's envy—and, of course, the deadpan, raven-haired Rukawa, whose eyes can never tell if he cared at all, or if he feigned the insomniac eyes. He also lost his walkman, the prize of them all.

Their stomachs roared; their eyes wringed a bit more.

"We're never gonna win today," whispered the freshmen, and Akagi could only sigh in agreement.

For the two lovebirds, all these bereavements were a relief. Last night's carousing down by the old trees weren't exactly the right place to do so; they almost thrived like sprouting oak seedlings as the earth warmed with their limbs—but whoever survives in a public display of uncommon liaison can survive being intimate at a public park, or the school, and theirs was obviously vulnerable and objectionably constituted. The team knew they've been friends since their first year in school, and they could wonder for days on end whether the blue-haired Mitsui was the tachi, or a yancha-zeme, on account of his boisterousness, or maybe a nonke-zeme, owing to his experience; or doubt that they even manage to do that at all, or even digest the fact they are, as they have sworn secretly, together. And in the course of this haunting forecast, they will be shunned away by their parents, or ordained as monks, and most probably denied public accommodations, like what Kogure read in the newspaper years back: OCCUR still fighting lawsuit against Tokyo Prefecture. He can almost read his name between the lines.

As they clandestinely held hands together while the rest of the team ogled further, they both knew they could only do as much as this, to be content as ticks leeching each other's palms and living off a wink, or a glance, to require the least of time—their souls ought not to be starved with security and warmth or whatever esteem they need; all these, they've agreed, were dispensable for now.

"Well," the captain finally spoke, stretching his legs. "It's a mess, but we're gonna get through it. We have a match after lunch, so we need to beef ourselves up."

"With what, boss?" groaned Miyagi, "...water?"

"You're talking like you're not a Shohoku player!" Ayako finally stood up—

"Aya-chan!" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Fight fight, Shohoku! What do you need?"

"...our stuff?" answered Kakuta. ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Fatty! Get your ass up and exercise!"

"—that was mean," he cried, ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Not if you're a fighter!"

"Yosh. Whoever doesn't get up and practice will mop the floors tomorrow until the end of winter tournament!" commanded the captain. This directive soon proved adequate for them to lethargically walk for the lockers and start preparing breakfast by filling their coolers and bottles with tap water.

By nine in the morning they have completely understood their predicament—there was not an edible thing left in their bags (the pantry, they found out, was suspiciously closed), no proper jerseys, no music, no porn magazines, not even an ounce of enthusiasm. They recognized this by uniquely holding their tears back for they knew they will mop the floors until the winter tournament if they show any sign of hesitation, and what Akagi could gather was the knowledge that Kogure—the seemingly nonchalant deputy captain—was just given an ATM card in preparation for college. The owner did not hesitate. The annuity was just enough for food and a phone call to coach Anzai. Kogure's obligation to the team was so far removed from the actual responsibility of a vice-captain, however, as this was the perfect excuse to wander the Izu district with his newly-found persona grata: the lovable blue-eyed fault that is Mitsui Hisashi.

The sun has not fully risen in the vertical when they reached the Izu district although summertime was just in the middle of bloom; at two and a half hours before noon the steaming bathhouses beckoned their unusually heat-ridden bodies, trying to discard their roaring stomachs. Dried sencha leaves have begun to smell malodorous as the barbequed fish and sushi become tasteless, and so did the energy drinks become brewed poison—they've lost any sense of time, robbing their teammates the needed stamina for the practice match. What was clear here, on the other hand, is that their seclusion in the backdrop of cicadas and plums and dry cherry blossoms was something sleazy, something inching past the edges of their breaths, something undeniably right. They left the world with the adjoining streets of Naka-Izu and Katsura River, and there was nothing else but the sound of peacefully streaming waters against smooth rocks, the sound of faceless crowd and the sound of their empty stomachs (this, ironically, was no bother) as they leaned close to each other like the densely knitted bathhouses and began to wonder where this escapade will go further. And whether they left the world is an abstract circumstance that the world, conversely, could care less about, as it was, after all, a sworn secret—and nor will it be ever concrete here, they figured.

"So how does this work?" Mitsui was playing around the edges of his shirt as he stares curiously but nonchalantly.

"I..." the blushing face of Kogure stuttered— ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Come on, you must've known how to do this,"

"I said I don't know!" he finally pulled himself apart, trying to retain what's left of his self-esteem.

"I'll spread my body here—" he said, as if experimenting, feeling the soft tatami mats with his limbs—

"Woah, a virg—" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Oh please, let's stop this—" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "—will your groping count?"

—and a long fall of silence.

He stared at him, anxiously, nervously; the blue-eyed was beginning to be a mixture of sencha leaves and perspiration, of sun-baked skin and fresh bath water, of ramen noodles and cherry blossoms, of dried fish and steam. The imaginations were infinite, only to disperse with a fleeting but grave sense of embarrassment; he began to slowly crawl towards him like a child, meek, timid, diffident. As his nose bled from all the fusion of olfaction and thoughts he tried to unwind the flagrant images one by one, sorting them by familiarity; by curiosity, experimentation, by embarrassment, fear, by caution, meticulousness, by the desire to appease.

His hands traveled his leg pants; the blue-eyed gulped in the touch, and he closed his eyes in turn, anxious, nervous. As a self-professed specialist in the art of naked bodies, his perception was more or less anticipating—

but he gulped this time around; this was growing harrowing for him, it must've belonged into another nauseating order, and the forthcoming sensations, in his mind's eye—groping, casting about, grabbling, tickling, palpating—suddenly became unfamiliar to him.

Kogure hesitated, and finally a knock on the door saved them from all future discomfiture.

At eleven thirty in the morning, they were able to go back to Josei High School and found the team already having the practice match. Mikoshiba was dribbling the ball and running towards the ring as the rest of the team tried keeping up with his speed, and when Akagi managed to jump high enough to block, the other captain has passed ball to the power forward, earning their team two points from the lay-up. They both stood silent and guilty against the shadow of the gym's double-doors, and with Ayako noticing them, they, too, realized that all the extravagant provisions they bought will be wasted away.

"We are so gonna lose," she said this while narrowing her eyes.

"Well," Kogure muttered, changing clothes, "...there's a time when one fights and one accepts loss."

"Said Shohoku's supposed optimist," scolded the ex-MVP, "I'll replace Ishii, he looks so lost,"

"You do that, Mitsui-senpai, these losers knew we're down and exploited it! Can you believe that?"

"Well, maybe they were the thieves—" Mitsui said, whistling and replacing the freshman. Mikoshiba, being Josei's basketball club captain, was no oversight for their coach; he guarded Rukawa as if to steal the ball at the same time, and the ball dug into his nails as he secured it with a fast break with Yufune, whose three point shooting ability resembled Mitsui's in accuracy. He scored several; they mastered fast break and three point shooting, and Shohoku, left with broken pride, decided to show their ultimate ability—a rough, bustling run-and-gun play.

Their team excelled at being well-coordinated, freewheeling hooligans, each member carrying a variety of arsenal on the arena. Miyagi's speed made fast breaks and steals convenient for his teammates; Akagi's height and raw power, combined with vast knowledge, made him a one-man team, though this can be said for Rukawa, too, since teams don't exist for him, and so the counter for this introverted style of play was to be offensive, defensive and swift—he scored with a lay-up when Kogure passed the ball to him. The combination of these styles of play, however, could only thrive with well-nourished members, with nothing to intimidate them, nothing to get their limbs trying hard to run past their opponents, nothing to have them struggle. The other team was cheeky enough to capitalize on this detail, and it wasn't surprising for Ayako and Mitsui to suspect that these exploiters were, in fact, those scouring mongrels. After all, they led the practice match with one win the other day; and who else had the gym's keys?

When the first half ended, Shohoku was 20 points behind. The team was by now savoring Pocari Sweats and Doraemon and Fujippi kyaraben bentos (much to Akagi's chagrin), which were the only available readymade lunch boxes when the two seniors finally decided to go into a convenience store a few, long minutes back; and when the rest of these famished, poverty-stricken youngsters proceeded to bow their heads in gratitude, the two starter members were already out of sight.

The two youths had much to learn, they vetoed. When the clamoring footsteps outside the adjoined lockers have faded, after the sun reclined to rest behind those oak trees outside, when finally the shade veiled their nearly exhausted bodies by the showers, they decided to resume their supposed experiment. They both stood with arms stretched out as if to conquer, and yet with stifled, misty breaths they did not stir any presentiment, any new impressions or hypotheses to further their uncanny, sensual pedagogy. They did hope of smelling more than just sweat, but they soon realized that only these beads of water will whiff out for infinity, unless scents like oak, sore muscles and earth, or perfume, added up to this solitary smell.

They parted when knocking sounds bellowed at their earshot.

"Kogure-senpai! Mitsui-senpai! We're about to begin!" Ayako shouted, banging the door.

A long fall of silence.

"We... uhm, we'll be out... in a bit!" the vice-captain squeaked against the other's groping.

The scarred youngster resigned, sighing, "Next time, smack me when my crotch gets the better of me."

Kogure wasn't able to score anything by the second half, and despite Akagi and Miyagi's help the deputy captain was not able to even hold the ball. And because the blue-haired was too distracted to hold his own defense, he, too, wasn't able to flaunt those beautiful three points their team badly needed. Rukawa's tenacity earned them fifteen points, and the other two added with five points each, which would've encouraged them, but their opponents were not enthusiastic about a looming triple defeat. The practice match ended with Shohoku's first loss by ten points.

Eventually the intense emotions, brewing meanness and grip of victory for Josei High's team settled down. By twelve thirty in the afternoon Akagi Takenori was notified of a phone call from Anzai, and their relief furthered when provisions were lastly sent by their coach through Suzuki-sensei, their chaperone, who just got back from Shizuoka Gakuen School in Suruga-ku after dropping them off of Josei four days since—a third was saved to cover their ride back home, and the rest were their recompense for beating Josei High School in the first round. They shuddered in guilt afterwards, and went to the Izu district yet again to celebrate; Mikoshiba's team offered to accompany them—

—but something was amiss, Kogure thought. Practice games, practice courting, practice the unusual movement of limbs; blushing, scandalous magazines and scandalous remarks by inexperienced yet tense, hapless boys, aloof dirty jokes—flirting, groping, scanty clothing on a sunned firmament. The way that all these seemingly infinite betrayals of reality and double imitations of it appear like distractions too far-fetched to believe. The way his teammates would prepare all belongings and stockpiling them one by one into the lockers looked too mechanical for him, the way the other team would help them (he's still doubting whether or not they were the actual culprits), the way it was too normal. He has gathered enough realities that could render his existence into oblivion—namely, his undying pursuit of love to this scarred youngster who's been helping mopping the floors together with the freshmen,

and his uneven tone of voice as he talks to his teammates, which, obviously, befits his stature, his so-called repute, his experience; all these were something away from sleaziness, away from the edges of his breaths, something undeniably right. And his lack of confidence to the lovable faults that betrayed all notions of love, sympathy, boyhood and adolescence has made Kogure Kiminobu distrust himself. What high and mighty horse he's saddled in!

Mitsui walked towards him and thus realized the cold sweat on his nape and the numb sensation of having to regress into fear and caution. The glow of sunbeams made the senior's face paler, and it was, for Kogure, foreboding to say the least.

"What's wrong?" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Ha—hahaha! Nothing!"

"Whoever gave you that habit?" He gestured in disbelief, and continued, "Anyway, we're all going to Niji-no-Sato in Izu, so I think that's the best time we can..." he hesitated,

"—we... we still have one match tomorrow, ne?"

His mop fell. Mitsui's arm tightened around his neck as the other scuffled his hair.

"You aphasic lad! Whatever happened to your brain?" he was laughing, and his palm began to crawl on his sides, prickling the brown-eyed.

"Since when did you know that word?"

"You taught me, remember? You're underestimating my memory, Kiminobu,"

One, two! One, two! The seven-lettered, whispered word bawled at his eardrums. It was hardly noticeable to the rest of the world, and perhaps to Mitsui, too; but this seemingly normal response was premonitory and outstandingly delicate, eluding his perception. How can such a word erase ill prescience, Kogure thought, how a meager act of speech could incomprehensibly devour even the blackest of void; and with a swerve of hands Mitsui attested to his mythical ability to rest all doubting hearts at peace—

Kogure proceeded to the locker room to change clothes, his blue-eyed lovable fault in tow. They exchanged glances too cheerful for their own good, as they soon found out that that a 1994 summer issue of Barazoku (Rose Tribe Magazine) was interleaved between Kogure's jerseys and pants; a springing metallic sound echoed throughout the gym, and all sweat dropped into a sudden coldness—his breaths loudly muffled in each exhale,

—just when you think you're in control, he thought, just when all susceptibilities for mistrust have dissolved into thin clouds like those up the vertical right now; just when he thought he was on a roll, an un-cul de sac—who would've thought that cheap blackmails really did exist? Mitsui Hisashi was busied changing clothes at the other end of the locker room. Here it goes again, he muttered to himself.

A memo was stuck at the last page of the magazine, which covered the face of a psychedelic, naked body of Yuichi Minami—Shinsuke Hinoke's Adonis, perhaps even Kogure's—colored and drawn by a famous art connoisseur who used pennames to hide his own uncanny predilection to a thousand Yuichis. Ah, he remembered reading that book under the bed sheets with the tiniest bit of light. 2PM. Shuzen-ji temple. You know where it is.

Despite his wit, all he could discern were the three fragmented sentences and the weight that they bore, or otherwise the mass which could abandon himself, or which could help the lovable blue-eyed fault abandon him, too. He required a forceful tap from Mitsui to regain his senses. He slightly opened his locker.

"Hmm... well, that's a good reference we can use later, ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Stop kidding. Look at this note—"

"2PM. Shuzen-ji temple—shit!" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "I know!" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "What do we do?"

"Do you want me to go?"

Mitsui hesitated for a moment. "I know a trick to this. You go there and hide 'til he shows up. Then you scuttle and I will extort him back here."

"Extort with what? We don't even know who this is—" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "What time is it?"

"Huh? Almost one. We've got one more hour before we die, Mitsui."

"Don't be glum—"

"It's probably Hanako-san..." he realized, "...or god forbid... Godai,"

"Nandato?! Who the hell is that?"

"N-n-n-nothing! I... I mean, no one! Nandemonai!" ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` "Tsk, you're a lousy liar,"

"Maybe it's Yufune."

"Hmm... maybe," he stroked his chin, "He's obsessed with her, you see. His whole team was there when I told them you were doing that blasted bara girl—"

"Nani?!"

"I was hard-pressed, okay? Believe me, that's the last thing I want to do."

Both of them sighed. Ayako knocked, entering the lockers, and they had to part as they mumble in incomprehensible tones. "Or we can just hear what this person has to say," whispered Mitsui.

"And what are we gonna do?"

The other grinned. "What any motivated person would do. Punch a blue hole on his cheek!"

"This is hopeless. Sheer silliness. What do we have to lose?"

"You're right," he hesitated, "...and I don't wanna continue because it'll just get cornier—"

And so when the rest of the members of Josei and Shohoku basketball teams accompanied each other down by Izu's Niji-no-Sato—with Ayako at the other side of the district to enjoy an excursion with the other girls—the two boys headed out for the temple and settled on the sakura tree beside the shrine's Bodhidharma statue. The foliage were in summer bloom; young, dark red petals and deep green leaves started to fall as they stood by the cherry blossom, and the sun thrived with no shades as the clouds diluted with a warm waft. It may be Yufune, or the rosebud girl, or the perpetrators of last night's theft, or even Godai Tomokazu... and as Mitsui and Kogure looked afar they both readied to defend themselves against this approaching figure before them—


tsuzuku.