Chapter VII
Disclaimer: I don't own SD boys, Inoue does. The events that follow are not included in the original plot but enjoy anyway.
Warning: Language. Inedited; expect errors.
Kenji Fujima swivels his head back and receives the shock of his life. He fails to veil the startled expression of his face upon clashing eyes with Mitsui; his mouth barely zipped open in silent horror and his eyes flickering and moist with gruesome fear. He feels utterly ripped asunder, like a thin sheet of paper forcefully seared into 2 halves; one half wanting to melt away in retreat, the other hankering for redress. He is very unlike Sendoh in handling the matter (because of the mere fact that he neglects Rukawa who's being fondled by Mitsui). That at least is one thing; instead he acknowledges Mitsui's anger and moves further away from the sophomore, out of deference. But Sendoh is thick as thieves, stickling to get even as he watches the sardonic glare playing on Mitsui's eyes. He automatically snucks a knitted, almost vengeful brow at Mitsui as if to inoculate to the senior the contagious feeling of a just-acquired disgust he harbors for him. It's just right to place us in an even footing; after all who's inflicted the more serious damage? Me or him? Neither; if he's pulling a nasty little game with Rukawa, I'm doing the same with Fujima. We're in a fine equilibrium, and if it becomes too equal, as science proves, each side tends to repel each other, like a magnet. Yes, antagonism is the key; from now on Hisashi Mitsui and Akira Sendoh are completely polarised, and if someone tries to put us together...a colossal spark, a massive explosion...Only then is our business with each other gets buried; only after the quake. Sendoh muses in quietude while sitting vis-à-vis with the senior, meters apart however. But both Sendoh and Fujima know less; all they know is that however they feel, it is independent of each other, completely disconnected and isolated from the cord that binds.
Mitsui's already flushed cheeks turn puce in subdued anger, knowing only too well each plane of the multi-faceted story; exemplar teenage icon Kenji Fujima is out on a starry Friday night with coxcomb lady killer Akira Sendoh while both are still and actively putting the make on Hisashi Mitsui. He trammels himself by the thought, slowly bathing himself in indulgent wrath as he bats an eye at the annoying couple at table 7. How long have they been whapping away every night making a shit out of me? What the fuck do they think they're playing at? A child's play? Fuck, they'll be doomed before they get a joint straight on that fucking table...He ponders diabolically.
He dies to subjugate the exorbitant fury rushing out from his insane pulse with the usual I-don't-give-a-fuck cold look, like a steel sluice pitting itself against a deluge of gushing river. But the immodest infidelity being displayed there is beyond pardon, beyond retribution, and it's only fit to deem vengeance as the singular panacea for this parlous anger. Such antipathy he's never had all his life nor imagined is taking hold of him as he sits starkly on the stiff stool, held rigid under duress by a consuming power of hate, dark and deadly. It then suddenly occurs to him that Rukawa's with him; and this makes it more complicated. He has to check his brash, prudish self before the freshman learns anything and right now, he's giving all might to contain himself. But Rukawa sits unruffled, seeming not to care or even to know any of the absurdity of the moment. What a cold blooded dog he is. Mitsui sighs, nonplussed by Rukawa's sheer demeanor.
Suddenly, out of the short-lived stillness, Fujima raises himself up, realizing he can take no more of this satirical farce. He excuses himself to the restroom and charily slides away from the scene with a palpitating nervous heart. Spineless git that he is. Sendoh continues to make irksome eye contact with Mitsui who's assumed a provocative, almost venomous glare.
Why is that good for nothing li'l devil with you? Sendoh's eyes tell him, referring to Rukawa.
Mitsui catches the beck and with a thwarting, haughty glance, he answers in mental transmission,
Because it's a hundred times more fucking fun to be with him in hell than to be out in a utopian paradise with a brain-dead magpie like you. You blab so much it's dirt to my ears, and I wouldn't be surprised if that jerk-off cad beside you conks right off in boredom with your little quibble.
Sendoh cringes a little, finds a way to regain ascendancy, and through a suffusing vibration from his eyes, exclaims,
Fine. I never thought you have a fetish for monosyllabic arse heads like Kaede Rukawa, that's a new one. And one more thing, Fujima's a thousand times more enjoyable than you'd ever be. You're a truck of bagatelles to my daily sched, really, you're palling me.
Mitsui makes no effort to confute this, but takes a great one at wanton assault. With a perfect attempt to equanimity, he blips an evil piquant smile that seems to reply: Oh yeah. Looks like we've arrived to a final conclusion here; we're even. You both take your road and I'll take mine; I've had my share of the prize, leave me alone with Rukawa.
And with an I'll-get-back-at-you-later-on look at Sendoh, Mitsui grabs Rukawa by the arm and flees from the infernal coffee shop.
Fujima comes back to Sendoh. Neither offer a word to the other; both are in a pinnacle of indiscernible guilt and shame to be starting even a short idle talk. And with a mutual look at each other, they decide to call it a night.
Next day, Saturday morning. Hisashi Mitsui's room.
Mitsui plops himself on the bed by the telephone, abiding the first call from either of the two, Fujima and Sendoh. He expects more of the former to ring him because he and Sendoh have already come to a half understanding last night through the mind and look altercation they had, but it seems that something is still not in the clear. And withal, there is no warrant that every message has been transported effectively. So he waits, and it seems that the clockwork is over even before he hears a twang from the receiver. Seconds fly so slowly, minutes aren't better, let alone hours; the hands of time turn again and again, from 1 to 2, from 2 to 3, from 3 to 4...from one digit ad infinitum. But he's losing it; a moment doesn't stretch to eternity, it isn't malleable enough to do so. He's just growing too impatient and too vulnerable to be coping up with this momentary recluse life imposed on him; it's his impotence to mitigate his heart's gall and to withstand solitude that's been downing him, and he refuses to look it. So much the worse for him.
He forces himself to meditate on this pitfall; all he could do is to foster self pity. The silence seems so demeaning, the milieu so rancid, and this utter seclusion so offensive and...desexualizing-
RING...RING...RING...RING...
Let the answering machine take care of it; I've lost enough of the rudimentary knack to enter to a man-to-man conversation. He whines quietly.
He hears his own voice spring from the receiver,
'Hi, Hisashi here. I'm not home right now. Just leave me a message...'
Then flows a familiar, unexpected voice as it recites non-stop words that seem to belong to a drama series script; like an actor berating his lover for lacking everything required of him.
'Hisashi, where the heck are you! I've been ringing you 30 minutes straight last night and you wouldn't pick the damned phone up. How the fuck d'you expect me to contact you? I've been getting all fucked up hearing the same record stuffed in that fucking receiver and still no you. Shit. You're making a hell out of this ugly life of ours, really. If we carry on still like this I swear I'm taking somebody else for good company. You never speak to me unless I force you to, and always you're cold as cola. You don't smile either, you just sulk and snort and frown and glower. And I'm always the one who's calling you up, not once a call for me from you. Sad. We're not getting anywhere, honestly, and you're becoming out of touch each day. Even I myself am incredulous how I'm getting along with you; you're so easy to crack and hard to please and... Sigh. Anyway, I just want-
The querulous harangue is cut off suddenly. Then the speaker sounds again to lease the same histrionic voice,
'Damn, you should allot more time for messages. I don't know what I'm gonna do with you; your case is irreparable, truly. Anyway, I just want my Nike windbreaker back. The red one, if you can't recall; I lent it to you last Thursday and I forgot to take it back. You can take it here anytime before next Wednesday so I'll be expecting you within that time, clear? Well, that's it. Hope you're still alive. Bye.'
And the line goes dead. It was Nobunaga. So he wants his jacket back. He'll have it. Mitsui thinks desultorily, seeming to have lost all wits to reflect properly. This time he can take neither a block nor a modicum of it; he dials Kenji Fujima's number, 8312866.
3 rings, then,
'Hisashi?' Comes Fujima's sure voice. He's been expecting this and he's grown tedious of waiting. He wants to tell Mitsui he intended to ring him, but doesn't have the guts to get started.
'Yes. I reckon you know what topic I'm discussing to you today, don't you?' Mitsui hisses austerely.
'There's too many to guess from.' Fujima answers as if in remonstration, but his voice is so calm one will think nothing's on foot.
'Really? I can only pluck up one.' Mitsui says mordantly with a don't-beat-around-the-bush tone. Deep inside or from the other end rather, he's gnawing his teeth feverishly as if to whet himself for a final attack. He's only too indignant to express boorishness and so he resorts to sarcasm.
'What is it?' Fujima asks laconically, having found no word to venture.
'Sure isn't the weather; there's nothing new to it, 'cept that I feel it's gonna be awful this day, don't you think?'
'Hope not. But what is it?'
'I marvel at you; that you'd have the balls to play I-don't-know-what-you're-cackling-about after being caught red handed catting around with that Ryonan bloke, that vainglorious jackrabbit, of all fucking pricks! Fuck heavens, Fujima, don't horse around with me.' Mitsui roars.
'True. Hisashi, I already know how angry you are so please spare me your vehemence, violence, whatever. What we need is to talk. You may not want to hear from me again but I guess...' Fujima stammers, confounded by the other's crude effrontery.
'You guess what? Tell me about it.' Mitsui says in pure hauteur, suddenly able to gather up his broken pieces.
'I guess,' Fujima begins. 'you never will and so it ends there.' He finishes in taciturn candor.
'Yeah. I'm never the kind to listen, anyway. And what d'you make of yourself if I'm that?' Mitsui wails in reproof, like an instructor demanding a correct answer from his pupils after getting all ones wrong.
'A lowdown cheater.' Fujima says meekly, his voice shaking with remorse. 'I think it's what you and I want to hear here, right?'
This self-abnegation almost brings him to tears as Mitsui feels the other's loneliness despite their distance. He decides to tone himself down.
'No. Not that.' Mitsui answers in soft protest.
'Then what did you call for?'
'To find peace, I guess. But I just learned I'll never get it from you.'
'I can't. Even I can't give that to myself.' Fujima says, scantly revealing the initial fear he has just felt. 'Hisashi,'
'Yes?'
'Let's call it quits.'
Mitsui sucks in his breath, but his chest can no longer take a gram. It seems that a cry will inevitably come out but nothing is emitted for awhile until Fujima incites an exchange of words with a sober sigh. Mitsui wakes up from his faint swoon.
'Of course that's the only way to solve this quandary.' He says. This time, he arrogates to himself the subordination to one's will; and it surprises Fujima as Mitsui goes on, 'You're always right, you know it.'
'I'm the one who's wronged this time. Not you; that of course isn't right.'
'Yes. But you always know how to act right.'
Fujima remains silent. Mitsui goes on.
'My head's still hot within me. You can talk to me some time later if you feel there's something else left untouched between us, but now...Bye.'
They say goodbye. Two down, two to go.
The place seems to Mitsui ravaged by a whirlpool, the atmosphere evilly occult and dark; even the imaginary sounds are a combination of thunder and lightning chased by a gust of wind, howling threateningly like the rapacious hounds of hell honing to mangle every available flesh. Everything's crashing down on him like an avalanche assailing the hedges of an icy mountain, like a tidal wave devouring the coast, like a flood of smoldering lava descending down the hill to devastate the flatlands... All because Fujima jilted him. He doesn't know what to think but knows well he deserves this sadness; 'This is my comeuppance; I should take whatever consequence lays ahead of me.' he says to himself. His brain feels like being drilled, like someone just came looking for something in it but didn't find any because there's nothing in it in the first place. He wants to forget, to forget and not to forgive. But to be vindictive and unforgiving means he has to care and he doesn't want to care anymore. He just wants to be-
Ring...ring...ring...
The phone rings again. Something in its repetition gives him a presentiment of another hard blow; he wishes to elude the sound but it sticks more adhesively to his sensorium, poking his depressor nerves like a bug digging an excavation on his brain...the clanging pains him, and he wants to jam it with a sickle or a hammer but that isn't like what it is not to care; if he doesn't give a tinker's curse about it he should be numb, immune from the irritation it conduces but...
'Hello?' Mitsui says as he picks it up, trying hard to sound composed.
'Sempai?' Comes a voice, saturnine as the hollow skies and cold as clabber. But it's music to Mitsui ears, like a blowing pipe, like a celestial harp, like the clear sound of ice falling on water; beautiful, beloved voice...
'Kaede?' Mitsui asks in wonder, his pulse beat increasing its velocity each millisecond.
'Hai.'
'Nice to hear from you, how was last night?'
All his worries seem to float away with the clouds, away from him, away from his Universe. This voice is all he needs for a remedy; it's all he needs to lift up the plaintives that's been mortifying him since last night's hell. He smiles unconsciously, his mind revitelizing after being cramped down, his heart ceasing to care, finally forgetting...Delight after the storm; that's how it is.
'Okay.'
'Uhm...You need something?'
'Ballgame.'
'Ballgame?'
'With me, sempai.'
So Rukawa wants to play.
'Sure. When?'
'Now.'
Perfect. Perfect time to escape through heaven's stairs away from this inferno.
'Where you at?'
'Park.'
'Okay. In a minute.'
TBC
A/N: One line's an adaptation of Tolkien's in Silmarillion. Another one too from Murakami. Nike apparel isn't mine.
