Breakfast at Tiffany's by ivybluesummers & koruha
It was a story about a same ground. Or whatever.
A yielded sigh it was and Haruko never identified with a red C embossed at the paper she's holding; her poem was supposed to be an existential parody for Rilke's 'You Who Never Arrived'. Or whatever. Haruko's class was over then as soon as the bell rung and walked unhurried and clung herself low from other students; it wasn't too long for a past – three days to be exact – when her russet-eyed sempai was well. She was promised that and the mere genuine smiles appearing on Kiminobu's face testify to that.
Yesterday she saw Akira Sendoh and Shinichi Maki by the Shohoku terrains about basketball perhaps; not that she weighs attention on them anyway – and walked up more. She wondered in her blissful discomfort only to discover herself dragged in the basketball gymnasium; flushed glow she had on her face then when Hanamichi in his school uniform walked up to him with red roses on his arms and a sore on his head, an indication of her brother's thump. Hanamichi didn't practice.
The sun ruptured dusk and the bays felt cooler than it used to; it was mounting autumn but Kogure felt winter at the sight of undergrowth dying from vacant winds that passed the contradiction of his senses and psyche. He arched at the seemingly uninviting windows plastered at the face of the anonymously disenchanted brown-eyed, sundry yet razed like an angel. Slightly gradual he looked up the cerulean sky and coldness tasted nauseating cigarettes; the thin line between night and day paraded throughout Kanagawa and within seconds prepared to leave.
Or not. "You again."
No reply though. Sendoh smiled and got the brown-eyed peeved; their eyes converged at the waters as a stone metaphorically escaped its velocity and soared as it bounced on the bays, Sendoh's eyes imperturbable. "You; look at you." The other was soundless.
"I know you're here,"
"You always stride darkness; course you do. Why are you here anyway?" What gaze on the spike-haired Kogure could not make sense of?
"Beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror which we still endure (1),"
"We?! How dare say—"
Stillness besieged them and Kanagawa was disconsolate for them both; Kogure could not continue lamenting from seconds understanding of Sendoh's own woes. "You are watertight gorgeous and you won't need woes to beg for love,"
"People always tell me that; I know I am." Kogure was comically serious, a sweat dropping on his forehead. "Tell me, what have you got to offer me?"
"I'm a drip. I don't fancy you anyway."
"Eh? Me too."
"Never ask that again."
"Sure."
"Do you love fishing?"
"Studying."
"Lemons?"
"Watermelons."
"Converse?"
"Mizuno."
"Rhythm and blues?"
"Jazz and classical."
"Action flicks?"
"Philosophical drama." Is there such a thing?
"Color blue?"
"Red."
"We've got nothing in common, eh?" the spike haired smiled, tranquil in distractions.
"Who would care?"
Silence. The sun is finally crippled and the sounds of the train murmured metal and abrasion; waves of water rushed by the rock-strewn shore fastened on the blockaded seats and it felt counting dewdrops and all those petty phenomena. Sendoh disturbed silence's sleep then.
"Do you love basketball?"
"Certainly."
"Then it's one thing we've got."
Kogure was hardly a teenage skeleton breaking out in the closet, in the brink of courage and virtually in love; he fabricated existence with his own unnoticed ways. He hears the winds crying and telling that paradise is only a parody of what people often think they know; in these mists he voyaged pessimism and thus floated on waters disdainfully toppled from lunacy.
And so he probed for answers like an academician himself and ran through so many enterprises in his war for sanity, trying to end his predicaments; that is, how to smile without being suicidal, how to be well enough to ask comfort, how to be happy for Mitsui and Rukawa and not point his finger at them. The vanity he kept in his panic for loneliness kept him on the run.
And three and a half weeks ago it was the last time he fell from it. It was odd of a feeling and yet he was eager finding his path towards sanity. It was the difference and it felt better.
Notes: (1) quote from Rainer Maria Rilke, and no, it's not from 'You Who Never Arrived'; I just assumed their favorites except for the lemon and fishing thing; Sendoh wears Converse and Kogure Mizuno. It got mushy I think.