Let me start off this by saying that I have never written a full-length fanfiction, with chapters, in my life. Needless to say, this is my first Slam Dunk fanfic and I don't know where it's headed yet, but I'm having fun writing it so I decided to post it. I haven't finished watching/reading the series but that shouldn't matter, yes? I won't beg, but please review. Constructive criticism is good.
Disclaimer: I don't own Slam Dunk, although I do wish I owned Mitsui Hisashi, so don't rub it in by suing. If you really want to, wait til I become a world-wide bestselling writer. Deal?
Pairings and nature of fic: Mitsui/OC (finally figured out that it stands for 'original character' - duh), totally stupid, totally moronic, totally shoddy, but totally worth-reading because this genius wrote it.
Tip: To make sense of sequence of events, watch out for tenses. (Although my grammar really sucks and I do make mistakes.)
I'm sure I've seen the blue-streaked hair somewhere before. The stranger's cocky posture stirs something in my memory, from the way his mouth is turned upward into a little ironic grin to the way he's looking at me, as if he's found his princess.
"What are you doing?" he asks casually, gazing at the notebook in my hands.
Self-consciously, I snap it shut and stand up. He easily towers over me, even though I'm taller than any of my friends.
"I'm sorry. Do I know you?"
His eyebrow shoots up, and a brief flash of hurt forms on his face, but it is only for a couple of seconds. Pretty soon, he's slipped his aloof facade back on.
"I see you don't remember me," he drawls steadily, locking his eyes on mine. "Well, why am I not surprised?"
I let out a small sigh. Whoever this person is, he must have a huge memory capacity for remembering strangers; that, or he's simply nuts.
"Look," I say, trying to keep the slight annoyance I'm feeling out of my voice. "I really am not in the mood to talk right now. So, if you don't mind, just tell me who you are, or leave me alone."
The stranger purses his lips and snorts. "Fine." He looks at me with an expression I can't quite read as he continues, and begins to shatter my world: "I'm Mitsui Hisashi."
Oh my god. Time must be standing still, for I don't feel anything moving. The strong wind has stopped raging, the people around have stopped talking, even the air molecules have stopped moving. All that remains is this moment. A sudden blast from the past. One that I'm not at all prepared for.
When I haven't replied, Mitsui goes on impatiently, "I played basketball for Shohoku High. I wore the number 14 jersey. I was MVP in junior high. Remember me? Mitsui Hisashi? Hisashi Mitsui? The magnificent three-point shooter?"
"Right," I say softly. I am in shock. There is no other way to describe the state I'm in. Over the years, I've learnt to expect surprises, but never once in my life have I fathomed this.
Mitsui runs a hand through his hair and scowls, a clear sign that he's annoyed. I want to say something but no words would come.
"That all you're gonna say?"
His eyes are still one mine. I've forgotten how intense and penetrating they can be.
I need to sit down. Now. Without a word, I sink back down to where I got up from only moments before. "Um," I say. "Uh. No."
Mitsui drops his body next to me and sighs. "To be honest, I didn't expect much from you, but I certainly expected more than this. I thought...well, I don't know what, but -- "
"Okay, sorry,"
I interrupt. I try to calm my racing heart but his being next to me proves
to be a tad too overwhelming for me. I rack my brain for something to say,
and blurt out,
"What are you
doing here?"
Mitsui rolls his eyes and looks away. "Nice to see you too," he mutters, more to himself than to me. "I'm on a scholarship."
"A scholar what?" I exclaim. Am I hearing right? Mitsui Hisashi is on a scholarship? For what, having the most detentions in high school? What is this world coming to?
He turns and glares at me, as if reading my mind. "A basketball scholarship," he snaps. "Not an academic one. Duh."
"Right," I say again. Then, "Um, why?"
He shrugs. "Some talent scout offered me a place in this grand school provided that I play for Singapore in international games. Said something about needing foreign talent. The money is pretty attractive, so I said yes."
I snort. "Figures. This is Singapore for you."
"Wow, she can talk!" Mitsui says sarcastically. "Should I expect another complete sentence from her?"
"Okay, so I was surprised that you showed up and maybe acted like an idiot, but you don't have to be an asshole."
Mitsui is about to retort, but he stops himself and throws me a boyish grin instead. His smile has always resembled the early rays of sunshine bathing down on the Earth while most of us are still asleep.
"Sorry," he says light-heartedly, and abruptly changes the subject. "You haven't told me what you're doing yet."
"You mean before you interrupted me?"
"Pretty much."
His smile is infectious, like flu. It gets to you and spreads over you, but not enough to leave you permanently damaged.
"Writing poetry,"
I reply.