Dude, Where's My Bike?
Disclaimer: I don't own SD boys, Inoue does. The events that follow are not included in the original plot but enjoy anyway.
Summary: All Rukawa ever wanted was to find out who the better player was; All Mitsui ever wanted was for someone to walk him home. Then they agreed to go out for a drink. One shot.
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Kaede Rukawa stashes a towel in his locker. Of all things he doesn't feel like doing is to bother getting shiny clean after class's been over; a sleepy head soaked in a bathtub and a dried-out body under the showers. If it doesn't make him feel like a senile sheep, he must've been possessed by a less tempered person. So he settles to take a shower after practice session and throws in some clean outfit for today's shooting, after all who cares half a nut about foul odor and ragtag hair dress; they're all bound to stink like acrid vinegar and get shaggy later on anyway. With a filthy body and newly washed clothes, he rows away from the locker room--slicked up with a shirt and a pair of shorts--to be exposed to his punctual teammates; Miyagi and Sakuragi are rehearsing passes, his co-freshmen are burning their asses on the bench seats, Kogure is chatting with the dotard coach Anzai, Akagi their tight-ass captain is henpecking some lame dribblers, Hisashi Mitsui is frying a scene with constant successful three-point attempts, nailing each and every basket. Rukawa wends to the crowd with verve. A bunch of promising young ballers are advancing before his eyes, and he is the primary liner among them lest his haughtiness misconstrues it. Akagi adverts to face him; Rukawa regresses a little in case the captain blows his top for being late again. Vis-à-vis, Rukawa is dwarfed by the older lad's gigantic frame and physical maturity like their ages are far enough as that of a child and a parent's. Akagi sure looks decades older than his players; anyone next to him is a half pint. The atmosphere is suddenly tinged with a doom's chill; Rukawa fails to expel the notion that he'll be nagged at any second now. He's mistaken. Instead, Akagi dotes on him as if his tardiness has been taken care of motu propio. A gorilla in a good mood doesn't seem too convincing; Rukawa wonders if there's a hook somewhere.
'Go get stretching, Rukawa. In five minutes, we're all game.' Akagi informs without the hating and hated aura he usually issues for rule breaking.
'Hai, captain.' Rukawa says, almost giving the other the interrogation point of why his scarlet anger is out of commission.
Rukawa wades his way through the lumped-together boys in motion, culls up a spot, and occupies himself with a leg bend. His muscles are in mint condition to push engines; the things not taking a shower after class does, makes him feel swell. After draining five minutes, Ayako gives the signal. Akagi gathers the boys up to assign their respective teams. All seems to be taken in arrangement underhand but the puerile red head is yawping about something. The silly bugger.
'But I don't want to be teamed up with Kitsune...goes without saying, Gori.' Sakuragi says with a start, almost bawling his head off. Not a truer line is spoken.
Rukawa raises a brow, darting a censorious look at Sakuragi as if to retort edgewise; Why the fuck do you have to be a screw up flake every goddamn time? Why can't you just be up the creek for everyone's sake, goddamit. He's disliked Sakuragi from the word go alright.
'This, Sakuragi, is a genius decision. I've been brooding over it without let up for quite a while. Now don't give me that I-don't-wanna bunk for chrissake. This isn't about your social life, ya know.' Akagi says calmly.
'It'd hardly turn out as a team effort if it's Kitsune, no how. Let me be with Miyagi and Mitsui.' Sakuragi persists, dying to be pertinent on the subject. Branches of veins appear on his overstrained temples.
Rukawa manages to remain opaque to this upbraiding; I'm not the one who can't pull up piece o' cake jumpers anyway. Worthless ass. He mumbles to himself.
'Time to split up the dream team, guys. Get yourself accustomed with Rukawa from now on; your acid test. It'd do you some good, after all he's a good kid.' Akagi chortles. He's unusually nice today.
'Good kid NOT to like. Don't make me lose brains with that dreck, Gori---' Sakuragi protests gingerly but he ends up not harked.
Each line up has already skelped to the middle of the court for a jump ball. Rukawa's agog fan club is smoking the whole vicinity like locust pests in the rye, shrieking RUKAWA 3X. Sakuragi pishes and pshawes an awful times but what else can he do; his words just come out to dry. Rukawa's stationary stance is set, all signs of dullness expiring from his bored expression, his formerly piscine eyes now fulgurated with a fire of passion. How he wants to show them all; they who shirk him for his selfish plays, they'll get a piece of him.
The whistle sounds, Team A (Rukawa's) gets the first possession. He grabs the ball to deliver it to the other side, highballing ahead everyone. Sakuragi makes ballistic gestures asking for a pass. Rukawa ignores him and ferrets his way to the basket, Sakuragi rails even more gruffly---share the fucking ball---he shouts like a bastard. 3 defensive bodies block Rukawa's view. He swings his shoulders, still volatile, to the right to perforate their wagging arms. He releases a lay-up, Tony Parker/tear drop style, to earn his team the first point. Rukawa girls screech like rapacious seagulls. Truly an earthbound paint shooter, he lands under the rim, refulgent with easy does it confidence. A sketchy luck.
'Mind not hogging the ball like fuck, Rukawa!' Sakuragi gnarls violently.
Rukawa slurs it right away and busies himself defending. Like hell I'll pass it to you; he doesn't say it but the way his eyes blaze scream it pretty plainly.
After Team A has dominated the first half by 18, the contest almost goes evenly in the next period. As it turns out, against the other group's holy conviction, Team B just beat around in the first half; a humbug to tame and rough the relentless Team A. Mitsui and Miyagi begin to pull their springs in utmost celerity in the last 5 minutes, commencing an 11-2 run to cut the lead to a perilous single digit. Time disinters from its stillness quite nimbly; at 2 minutes remaining, Team A is trailed by 1. Rukawa tries to compose his nerves but an impending clonus is drumming out from the morsels of his flesh like an onus package clogging his thighs. But his job doesn't end there; he has to, in all his capability, comply with the figures given to his standards and defy certain simultaneous urges. An injury is not enough an excuse, much less an unfair competition; Hisashi Mitsui has snagged a bruising total of 16 points in 8 minutes, tying a long-standing local record, and he a lowly 6 in the last half. He opts right away to intensify his concentration as his egoism feeds his certitude to win no longer.
Moments have come and gone for naught with all the pointless going-ons in Team A's team work; the other just fare better than they have all the while, securing and even stretching their lead to 3. Rukawa takes it to fire the tying goal in the last 20 seconds despite Sakuragi's strong vehemence to this. Miss this one and he's history. He positions himself, equidistant from the 4 marks of the 3 point range, Kogure douses the ball to him, he grips on it and funnel the target. It flees from his clutches, so and so miles per hour, hardly in a rainbow trajectory. Bright hopes hem in. Sakuragi screams like a pumped up flit---out, out, OUT!--an extraneous burden for Rukawa's confidence. Too sharp for a far snipe, the ball bangs the rim, creating a warbling metallic sound. It spins around 720 until finally bouncing off to Miyagi's fingers who lags behind. Sakuragi's prayer has been hearkened. 12 seconds and they're down 3, complicated by the fact that it's the other group's ball. A marvelous miracle is their last resort. Rukawa stands by erectly as if to watch it come off; Miyagi pulls up a behind the back pass to Mitsui as they plod through their side of the court; Mitsui triggers the triple. In. He drops safely to the ground, almost curtsying in the next second; his mean pose of power. Buzzer sounds with joyful shrills from Team B; they win by a thin margin of two baskets. Rukawa's team loses; all very hoopla. His fan groupie weeps openly as if someone just kicked the bucket. Rukawa feels he'll be needing a good dose of slapping for the shock to wear off; he's finished with meager 20 points, Mitsui has 28 complete with 4 out of 4 3 points. Everyone congratulates the other; Rukawa's still stubbly and drives straight away to the locker room without giving anyone the good game. A smack of sour grapes is lingering about the freshman's ears, his limp fibres jammed solid in disbelief; somebody in Shohoku is better than he is, in a nutshell that is.
'Rukawa's a damp squib, he didn't let his 3 point in.' Sakuragi carols mockingly in a 1000 decibel note, seeming too glad about his own team's loss; an excellent reaction for a wrong situation, his teammates think. But nothing seems to run over Rukawa's shoulders; he's gone deaf to it anyway.
Rukawa scampers straight to the showers, his eyes lachrymose and bloodshot and his body totally gypped out. He doesn't even bother to turn on the heater out of confusion; he feels diddled by an unknown force that pilfered his stone's throw victory. While the whole team slackens off first thing after the game.
'Rukawa doesn't look 'ayt. You think he's snivelling the hell up in there?' Mitsui says worriedly, referring to the showers.
'Clue me in; I haven't got the slightest idea. He's drowning himself maybe. Damn, is he that hard hit about it?' Miyagi replies, nothing doing.
'Yeah, Rukawa; he's touchy as a goddamn steel scrub. Hey, that stupid shot earned me a few points, y'know.' Sakuragi says balefully.
'On top of that, you're still not in the lead. Ya think you've gone a whit better that he missed a shot?' Akagi pipes in.
'Not exactly. He's gone dumber, that is. Thought he couldn't go any more moronic than he already was anyway. Nyahahaha.' Sakuragi guffaws. The apish dido.
'Actually, simply, and obviously, you don't have the superstar outlook and potential Rukawa has, if I'm being honest. He just made a rare oversight; probably too shaken to turn his wrist aptly. It happens. Anything else is out of the question.' Mitsui utters wistfully, still refusing to write Rukawa off. Ouch.
'Really, Mitchy? Sure, are you?' Sakuragi glares at him, evidently pissed.
'Sure as you rant a lot.' Mitsui answers curtly with a look of infinite sureness.
'Rotten dolt. Me? The sexy King of Rebound, the future hero, captain, savior and ace of whole Kanagawa team? The hell d'you think you're crowing about? Some stiff dope like Rukawa?' Sakuragi fumes in combusted anger.
'Far-fetched assumptions; the rest is up to you, smart aleck.' Miyagi teases.
'Like fun it is. Let me affix that to my memory forever; Rukawa screws up a winning shot.' Sakuragi laughs, propounding on the word screw.
'Get it by the board; it's just a miss, everybody misses once in a while.' Mitsui says sternly. At that, Sakuragi's bragging spree's unanimously over.
38 minutes gone; Rukawa soaps himself like crazy, his cubicle door dovetailed stubbornly. Half of the boys are wetting themselves by now; the other half already prepping up to hit the road. Sakuragi's crooning his pants off in booming tenor, Kogure and Akagi are now discussing their basketball scheme, Mitsui's still in the first box pleading Miyagi who's now done.
'I'll be done soon, Ryota, wait for me for chrissake.' Mitsui says loudly, his voice melding with the sloshing water.
'I'm in hurry, slowpoke. Can't you be up the streets alone? I need something fixed at 6:30.' Miyagi answers, his back leaning on Mitsui's cubicle door. He's all set; even his bag is slung on his shoulders already.
'6:30! What time is it? I haven't bubbled my head yet!' Mitsui panics.
'Jesus Christ! You're not in a parlor; it's been a cent since you walked in that damn door. Sweep the heck outta there, will you?' Miyagi complains brusquely. 'It's 6:16, I'm supposed to be home at 6:15.'
'15 minutes late isn't the end of the world. Wait me up.' Mitsui says.
'15 minutes! The hell d'you think I am, your watchman? I'm splitting; see ya tomorrow.' Miyagi turns to go.
'What?' Mitsui asks.
'I'm leaving. Open your ears, godammit. Walk home by yourself, I can't be late on this one.' Miyagi yells and slams the locker room door.
'Ryota! Ryota! Oh, deuce.'
Rukawa's been in the showers for over an hour now just when all his team mates have gone home. He doesn't feel like scrupling with anyone nor does he give a good goddamn if he makes anyone concerned with his abrupt solecism and un-sportsmanship. He moves out of the cubicle, tosses a towel around his waist, and clops an eye on the wall clock; 6:42 on the dot, 42 minutes beyond his usual go-home hour. He proceeds to the washbowl and faces the mirror; he's looking exceptionally hazed to the marrow. But today requires more of him; he's staying behind for extra work despite being plumb tuckered out. He blows himself dry, throws in some practice attire, and whisks through the empty gym alfresco. Coast's clear. He picks up a ball, perks his dexterous limbs up for a horrendous velocity, and is about to pad up for a dunk when somebody emits a cough. He wheels around; he's smack right in front of Hisashi Mitsui with nothing to say. He detects a heightened tension the moment the older lad draws near, singularly however. Mitsui immediately goes for a direct mode to start a conversation.
'I was wondering if you're feeling sore about earlier.' Mitsui says, burying his hand on his jacket's pocket; he looks as though he were ready to stow away home any minute now, just abiding to have a word with Rukawa.
Rukawa shakes his head a little, his bleak eyes dimmed by frustration. Feeling immensely sore for making a dust bag out of me, really. He's a poor liar and how he hates the word sore. A pointless adjective.
'It's okay to feel bad. I would if tables are turned.' Mitsui admits.
'Just disappointed.' Rukawa confesses, wishing to parry the remark.
'Yeah; can't be helped.' Mitsui smiles. 'Hey, I know you're planning to outstay the afternoon but can you move it next time and have coffee with me?'
'Huh?'
'Drink. Coffee. Coke. Anything. My treat. Will you?' Mitsui says with an importuning glance. Whatever he's up to.
Rukawa squints at him, conspicuously over his head about it. Hisashi Mitsui's trying to monopolize his company. A recondite incident after sundown; his archrival getting friendly with him and all; what could that mean? There's gotta be an undercover or any motive behind this, or so his convoluted stream of awareness implies. But for what it's worth, he agrees to go, feeling unintentionally tethered by Mitsui's impulse. Of course he's in position to decline only he doesn't quite have the wherewithal to for some reason.
'I was supposed to hit home a lot earlier, then I remembered you were still around. Thought I could just wait up on you.' Mitsui says. They're now seated inside Seattle's Best, loafed across each side of the table. Rukawa orders Frapuccino Grande; Mitsui an iced white mocha. The clime's freezing a bit outside; not quite suitable for a cold coffee. A young looking waitress serves their drinks; she's wearing a scandalous micro mini skirt and an incredibly low necklined top that deepens down as she ducks to place the cups on the table. A pathetic smile cracks on her face like she's just seen a hunky movie actor; near enough. Rukawa and Mitsui together are like a pair of golden bars ready to be pounced on anytime. Hot, too hot to handle together.
'I spend time here often times after school and practice with Miyagi, Sakuragi, Akagi, Kogure...everybody, but you. Gives me the relaxing rhythm I need before I brave the way home.' Mitsui says with gentle enthusiasm. He's gotta be dreaming with that 'cretinous' look on; why the hell does he need to relax just to go home? Isn't it the point of going home at all? To relax and rest?
Rukawa just watches him vapidly. Mitsui slinks himself off comfortably as if he's home watching a TV series.
'You sure yer okay? I mean, 'bout Sakuragi cussing you and all?' Mitsui asks, steering for another subject; a sensitive matter to be tactfully broken off.
'Yeah.' Hunkydory. Rukawa says wryly, too empty headed to be responsive. To hell with Sakuragi and that shot.
An intermediary hush, then,
'Ever been obsessed over one thing, Rukawa?' Mitsui asks out of the blue.
'No.' Rukawa answers blankly. Obsessed of beating the crap out of you in a one on one match, perhaps. He thinks.
'Not a bad thing. Well, it's murder, y'know. You can't get to turn your screws right, can't set your priorities right, and can't think for yourself right. You become the least selfish thing in the world but the most thoughtful for the worse. I, myself, was a victim once, y'know, I was sure I was one hard nut.' Mitsui rambles. Rukawa can't see where the palaver's going but one thing though; it sure is senseless as a gas tank.
'...' Rukawa's uneasiness takes form in sustained silence. A terribly bad thing, if you'd ask me; I need to defeat the hell out of you.
'It's okay not to word me out. All I need is someone to listen. Sometimes it's better to have someone to listen and not to return a word at all. An American diplomat once quoted' "One good thing about having a dog for a best friend is that when something's wrong, it doesn't bother to find out why." Nice isn't it? Not that anything's wrong with me. I'm good as I'd ever be.' Mitsui says, maundering.
Rukawa says nothing for the umpteenth time but sucks in some drops of caffeine. And now I'm your doggy best friend. Great.
'Hey, nice game earlier.' Mitsui starts, still not laying a hand on his coffee.
Rukawa looks up. 'What?' All these discrepancies are snapping the threads of his patience; it's cockling the hell out of him.
'Nice game. I've never seen you that fiery before. I thought you could tie it out but it turns out we were lucky.' Mitsui grins.
'You were great, too.' Rukawa concedes, finding voice in a maintained susurant. How unbecoming of him. Even he can't believe his ears; the thought of humbling himself terrifies him.
'Thanks. Quite an experience to have you as a teammate,' Mitsui says gratiatingly.
'Oh,' Rukawa says, his usual snobbish self exacts little expression for the compliment. He can've said Mitsui's 3 point range is excellent, his crackajack, but his pride gets there before the compliment.
A pause. Mitsui stops at his watch and lifts up his head.
'It's 8:30, I ought to be skipping home.' Mitsui says.
'I'll walk with you.' Rukawa blurts out all of a sudden. What the...? Why the hell did it have to come out?
'You will?' Mitsui asks, surprised. 'Well, thanks.' Just exactly as I want. Smiles happily like he's just won the lottery.
'Yeah.' Rukawa answers. Too late to take back his word now.
They hop out of the shop and cover the winding pavement to Mitsui's house. The heavy feel of Metropolitan post-afternoon hovers about. The moonlight lurches the soil with a bluish brilliance. A strange combination of circumstances opens up as the tip of the inevitable chain between them; how come they're walking together now? Mitsui begins to engross himself in hearsay tales about the dangers of walking the dark night in solitude as it becomes clear to Rukawa why the senior wants a company that night. So he needs someone to walk him home, badly. Great. Then it transpires to Rukawa why he consented to have a drink with the other; he wants to find out who the better player is. Mitsui halts in front of a swanky two-storey building.
'We're here.' He says.
'Okay.' Rukawa says.
'Thanks a lot.' Mitsui says. Lunar beams begin to desert his face with a lingering affection. 'I hope we get to repeat this.'
'Sure.' Rukawa says, not knowing if he'll agree to go out with him again.
'I've never had a better date, y'know.' Mitsui says suddenly.
Rukawa's expression turns vague; vague enough as such read in an obscure paper. He nods at Mitsui, addressing him a look of query and turns to go. Rukawa aborts the aim to sneer. Mitsui holds out his hand and squeezes Rukawa's until finally letting go. 'See ya tomorrow.' They part. Rukawa flops down the streets, more befuddled than ever, confuzzled more like. The crazy luke; why did he have to say something so stupid. Date? What the hell was he thinking? A vacuous feeling creeps its way through his chest, seeming to allay the gnawing of his shattered pride. He doesn't like it, it sounds too corny for his vocabulary. He reaches his home before his musings end, all fired tired.
'Oh brother.' He mutters to himself as he pegs himself down his bed without brushing his teeth or washing his face or changing to his pajamas or boxers whatsoever.
He turns over his pillow after switching the lights off. He spins to his right side and to the left. He swishes to and fro on his bed sheets, slats his blanket up and down for god knows how many times, and counts a zillion sheep. Still no go. Nothing will make him sleepy, not even a good hard clout on the back of his head, not with Mitsui's pretty face stalled somewhere in his memory lanes. Something's not so right about this evening. He thinks without intact faculties, his logic all fouled out to be shut down for a snooze.
RING...RING...RING...
Rukawa is shaken awake by the bugging sound of his alarm clock. He jams it down, almost hacking it to rubles. It's 6:00 in the morning or should we say 6:15; his clock is wound down 15 minutes late for a purpose. A stabbing sunlight volleys across his spatial bedroom as if a fluorescent were on. He scratches his eyes and goes about his morning routine; stretching, breakfast, shower. He swings out of their house's entrance portal, hoists their garage's shutter, and discovers something interesting; his bike's missing. He tries to rewind yesterday's chronological events, eking out the missing puzzle pieces. Lucky enough, he figures it out; his bike's parked in front of Shohoku entrance door. He forgot to bring it with him because somebody requested to stride the side walks with him. What was he thinking succumbing to someone like that? But he knows; he wasn't thinking at all. Furthermore, he missed to append it with a padlock because he left the damned thing home. By now, some roguish lard's pawning it to a junk shop. Sure as holy hell. Great; his putrescent luck's taking its toll on him. Now his transport convenience is fucked up. Thanks to Hisashi Mitsui he'll have to walk everyday home or should he say, walk everyday home with him because their paths lead to the same neighborhood. Holy darn. Looks like they're going to repeat the 'A Walk to Remember' cum coffee treat everyday or perchance, just whenever Mitsui feels like going out on a date with Rukawa. Either way, nothing's going to be the same as before. There he is, unwillingly walking away from the past and he doesn't know whether or not he's going to feel more gratified. Oh well...Not quite bad, he gathers. Maybe he'll not be wanting to purchase another bike after all. Perhaps walking home with Hisashi Mitsui everyday IS what you call luck.
END