Summer Son by koruha & ivybluesummers
It was a story for all its worth. Or whatever.
Stairs were rough but effortlessly the spike-haired lad scaled against it. Sunday morning savored saccharine dryness at the expressional adieu of winter; snowflakes have liquefied amidst sunbeams and jewels of glossy water echoed dappled hues of red and blue and yellow – budding plants perched on the awnings of hundred-year-old shrine Kogure's grandmother kept. It was springtime though it felt like summer nevertheless; Kogure was trite chronicling grief over and over past his story of Mitsui and Rukawa. He knew of the passion conflagration that has been burning for them both, the Shohoku locker room a witness to that. Two months ago Sendoh asked him to reconsider their differences so as not to repeat history; it was an open door for all that it means and it aches like waiting hopelessness. It was nothing of a dream, vanishing to cleanse faith; it was not until the two individuals unlikely made liaison through basketball and woes – it was shallow for a common ground, barely of a jiffy – but there Sendoh was, ascending the flight of steps towards his dearest.
Kogure was the summer son.
Sakuragi told them of spikey and glasses-boy; on the other side of Kanagawa, Mitsui and Rukawa were floating images of shorelines and streams of warm winds. The fox could only smile then at his appreciation at the molded diversity of life – only the blue-eyed ex gangster can make him smile. Basketball was best blown on his own horn. Mitsui alternatively may well gratify himself on his last reminiscence of Kogure crying, and down to his last gesture of bathing at the Enoshima coast he actually thanked the defunct skies obviously the gods at granting his entreaty for the russet-eyed's welfare.
It was hardly a story. But it had a happy ending.
A late realization hit Haruko; she was a transcendental plagiarist and subsequently apologized to caprice silhouettes of a certain russet-eyed and other cobalt-eyed's. At the screen that gritted her eyes from soreness she printed out eleven parchments for her literature class; quickly she took them, scoring out the file at the terminal. She slid down the stairs smiling at his brother by the sofa watching idiot box and finally went to their domestic incinerator by the garage and burned the papers; a few minutes after requesting time off she strolled with Hanamichi for a date regretfully thinking at the obtuse assumption she had for the past months.
Kiminobu Kogure had really loved Ayako.
The outwardly carnival lad of raw cobalt eyes entwined his hands at the average bore; a kiss was softly buried at Kogure's forehead and that's all there is, nothing more and nothing less. It was springtime but they were already summer's sons.
Note: this fic is supposed to be a food for thought; all I'd say is that this is actually a non-yaoi fic. This fic is dedicated for Night Strider; thanks for allowing me to use passion conflagration. Ciao!