Disclaimer 2: Title's not mine, too. It's from the Bible so don't fine me.
Disclaimer 3: Seattle Supersonics and Ray Allen don't belong to me, I only wish they do so don't sue me.
A/N: If this rocks, then review me, if this sucks, then flame and blame me but don't file libel against me.
Sexual innuendos within the context are independently inspired by read literature and NOT at all based on personal experience so don't make a jailbait out of me. I'm not a perv, okay? Or at least I think I'm not. Geeesh...
Warning: Some filthy words may not be suitable for NICE audience so take special caution.
Characters may seem OOC too, so try to find a way to bear with this problem.
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Wednesday. 7:30 PM. Sportswear outlet at Y mall.
'Slip in to one of those. They look good to me.' Mitsui points at a throng of bumpy-looking NBA jerseys that lifelessly fling on some untouched wardrobe hangers.
'This one?' Akira Sendoh picks up one that shows a large patch of Seattle Supersonics emblem sewn with the number 34.
'Yeah, whatever. Go try it on.'
'OK,' Sendoh smiles casually and disappears behind the fitting room's heavily draped curtains. After a minute and twelve seconds he re-emerges to the scene donned fashionably in awesome sports get-up. Fully furnished with sporty majesty and well built frame, girl magnet Akira Sendoh gives the store's erstwhile detached customers plenty to gawk at; Ray Allen's vintage basketball uniform looks exceptionally good on him that even the world's greatest dope can't remain clipped looking at him. He's just too bewitching, too beautiful.
'Er, you look nice, (Terribly nice)' Mitsui gapes, seeming to echo what's on the other customers' mind. Even this regular playboy can be awestruck by Sendoh in no time flat alright.
'Really? Don't I look a little scrawny with this neckline on?' Sendoh asks, clutching the shirt's outer lining.
'Not at all. Looks good. Go get it.' Mitsui protests gently.
'Alright,' Sendoh agrees as he dumps the shirt on the counter and cashes in a $23 bill. He's a fully loaded guy, satisfying his caprice right away even if takes squandering tons of dimes.
After moving out of the store,
'I hope Taoka isn't giving you hell,' Mitsui gives a start.
'Since when? His dotage's luggin' us fright all the time and he becomes, well, a little bit off each day.' Sendoh complains in a half smiling expression. This is what Mitsui loves about him; his knack of throwing wisecraks despite the difficult times.
'Oh. And taking it easy, are you?'
'Just when you pulled me out from his fiery pits. You're the only who can make me forget about practice hell, you know,'
'Yeah. So he's really into this day to day torture, isn't he?' Mitsui asks.
'Natch. Taoka sees us as fuel powered androids whom he can subject anytime to a forced labor with a ball and sneakers. Really awful.' Sendoh explains.
'Forget about it for the time,' Mitsui decides to drop Taoka's subject. 'I hope you're having a good time,' Mitsui says heartily (Oh, cheese), coddling up the younger boy with his oh so cogent words.
'Oh yeah.' Sendoh smiles.
Walking together is like tugging the spotlight on you in a championship. No, not just that. It's like hitting a buzzer beater fade away from down town that overturns the crowd into frenzy as the scoreboard unveils the match's victor. This is how Akira Sendoh and Hisashi Mitsui feel together; the winners of the barely made it match, its irrefutably praiseworthy heroes. Though not at all legit, their hidden agenda to rendezvous in a sportswear outlet in Y mall is all that matters to them 'secret lovers', as we put them. For some reason, their affair is highly clandestine; Mitsui of course doesn't own Ryonan's ace, Hiroaki Koshino does, and Sendoh of course isn't Mitsui's sole possessor, Kaede Rukawa is. Inferentially, we can term them, in a more appropriate manner, as 'cheating lovers', or in all candor, 'foul philanderers'.
'Hisashi?'
'Yes?'
'I love you very much.'
'I love you, too.'
Earlier that day, 8:30 in the morning, Shohoku locker room.
Mitsui struggles not to look at Rukawa as he gears up to his school uniform. In fact, he resolves to ignore him for the whole of the day so as not to arouse the petulance of his mood.
'Who the fuck does he think he is? Prancing in front of me like an amazing jackanape in a jersey? Nobody does this to Hisashi Mitsui or he's fucked forever,' Mitsui mutters to himself imprudently.
'Mitchy, are you okay?' Sakuragi asks him suddenly. He's sitting an inch away from Mitsui.
'Oh, er, nothing. I'm just a little loose today...don't worry, I'll get by,' Mitsui strives to find the right expletive but fails to quench the other's curiosity nonetheless.
'You just sounded like you want to send someone to the gallows. Who exactly are you brushing up against with lately?'
'No one.' Mitsui lies. Damn, why can't people leave me alone with Rukawa for crying out loud? Mitsui thinks but suddenly remembers that he's giving Rukawa a talk-to-the-hand attitude that day.
'Rukawa, right?' Sakuragi says.
Mitsui's jaw falls open. How the fuck did he know?
'I know he's grating on you,' Sakuragi's curling lips seam into an even more mischievous grin.
'What the fuck are you babbling about?' Mitsui asks. Deep inside, his temper is boiling to the thermometer's tiptop.
'Nothing. I just thought I saw you oggling at him like an idiot for a split second, or was it for a split second? a minute? an hour? The whole time?' Sakuragi mocks. His sarcasm can have equaled that of Rukawa's, only it's a bit too pungent for Mitsui's patience.
Mitsui stays quiet, withstanding shock in silence. Me? Was I looking at him the whole time without knowing it? How come Sakuragi noticed it? Oh, this is fucking weak.
'I've nothing against you being a closet...fag, Mitchy. But please, not Rukawa. You deserve a lot better than that salty crab. He's a good for nothing type of you know what. I mean, he's nothing more than a skipping fox in hibernation, you'll get nothing from him,' Sakuragi says, masking on sincerity and concern.
'Nose out, Sakuragi. It's my fucking problem.' Mitsui replies.
'You know, my friends always tell me; the pain of rejection runs longest and deepest...I think you should know that too.' Sakuragi says. Surprisingly, he is looking serious.
'Don't prattle. I know what I'm doing.' Mitsui answers succinctly. I've got a whole herd of big time tads skirting behind me so don't give me shit for advice; I'm not the one who's been downed 50 times.
'Yeah, right. Like hitting on Rukawa is straight genius.' Sakuragi hits back.
'Sakuragi, do me a favor and cut the crap.'
'Fine. Thanks for listening, crab-pumping son of a gun.' At that, Sakuragi walks out.
Mitsui stands up and heads for the next class. This time, he is sure he passes by Rukawa without looking at him.
TBC
