the fact that the anime is not mine plus ooc-ness equals disclaimer. flames/reviews welcome.
Chapter Three
The deduction of it all is simple for Hisashi Mitsui; the ostensibly quiet room remained boisterous from some unknown voices that haunt the ex-MVP like mantras on a deadpan night – scattered books, notes and pens were angular and precise at Mitsui's consciousness, much more as his eyes pass by the lot of such noir room. The objectivity of some happenstance worth judging lies now on the revolutionary and rascal thoughts of the blue-eyed besides the life of his chocolate-eyed friend; uneasy silence lingered on their mouths like saccharine and there goes the best epoch of their adolescence on a lovely day of summer solace – Kogure nodding, Rukawa gulping for the third time, Mitsui smirking in malice.
Then, as if the totality of the universe swaggers in slow motion, Kogure can catch sight of the succession as Mitsui's arms fling as to knock the study table like door; silence left the room in an instance on account of a slapdash thud suddenly – and Kogure shuddered.
"Well now, I better be going," Mitsui has said, gathering his notes and pens and even the glass of water.
"What?"
"Akagi called me; something with the game."
"You don't have a cellphone," Kogure muttered, almost breaking down because of some foreboding, and he can already imagine the situation where the russet-eyed is isolated with the epitome of isolation himself, Rukawa. "And I didn't hear the phone ring either,"
"Call it original consciousness. Edmund Husserl." Mitsui said, drinking the water right after.
Looking at the emptied glass, "I can make tomato juice with lemon grass if you want,"
"No need. I'm going anyway."
Mitsui strolled towards the door, earning himself a naughty victory as manifested with his smile that reached up to his ears; of course it was unspeakably amiss to leave his friend floating in airs of awkwardness which are akin to emotional breakdown, but seeing this invented choice superlative with regards to noshing his mischievous ego and finally putting an end to this silly game towards intimacy, he then opened the knob and prepared to leave. "See 'ya round."
"Rukawa, I'd be back in a minute," and Kogure dashed towards the ex-gangster leaving the raven-haired quite puzzled; Rukawa sighed, probably from relief, and fixed his sight instead on the two seniors with an audible range on a par with 'spider sense'.
"What are you doing? You're supposed to help me here," Kogure has muttered in rough whispers.
"You know, I can shove to that jerk I'm more intellectual but I'm doing you a great favor," and his eyes quickly passed Rukawa by, who happens to be intently staring as well. "Eh... or not," he sighed.
"Great favor? You're teasing!"
"Hush... Rukawa'll hear you,"
"Please, I need you in this; I'd be dead later if you leave."
"Dead? Yeah right; you kissed back for chrissake!"
"Uh, I don't know what else to do anyway,"
"Why don't you just confront him?" Mitsui, in all his effrontery, has somehow managed to say this in an extent where the freshman could hear it clear-cut. To further this complex, he looked at the ace player. "Hey Rukawa,"
"Hnn,"
"You got an exam that'll decide whether you'd play basketball or not. And that's 'how to shout I like you'."
"You got a business with Akagi, right? You can go now – thanks for the time!" Kogure verbalized in discomfiture, pushing his friend outside, actually opting to be solitary with the ace player than to be episodically harassed by a senior high school student in his spoiled and wild imagination.
"Your mug!"
"You can have it!" Kogure sat down then in front of the freshman; Rukawa snubbed the idea of going against the ways of his senior because of the apparent redness in Kogure's face, because of the apparent reason that established this certain comic reality – his stubbornness.
"Let's rest for a while." And Rukawa just nodded in agreement.
With time passing by, strolling its metaphysical self in a direction unknown to beings such as a certain chocolate-eyed, rowdy images of the raven-haired blink on his psyche like drizzle on a subdued day only to realize he's been fixing his gaze at Rukawa for the whole twenty-two minutes, which by they way oddly seemed to be hours for both. Reeling on a contradiction like roses without thorns or cigarettes without nicotine, it feels odd for all some cagey reasons, like chosen truth when situations such as this come undone.
It was a matter of sentimental admission for Kogure; of course it was simple to grasp the conclusion in the raven-haired's behavioral premises – such as asking for English lessons when he can write like Salinger, offering a basketball lesson when he already knows that Kogure can play better than Yasuda, or even just a matter of sighing 'I want his company' – but it is just downright... confusing. Kogure can whole-heartedly come clean with the fact of his mediocrity. But somehow Kogure hopes to find a hope for this emotional darkness to be overridden by something not as toxic and blue as great indoor like rejection; and this condition Rukawa was giving him is so poignant like summer afternoons that melt anything, most especially the chill of indifference.
As if he had the enthusiasm, Kogure tried to smile, but the thought of memories within each memories started to black out in the mist of the brown-eyed's mind, reeling as if those memories are empty nothingness that swirl helplessly, creating joints and joints of conception he never had before. And he can't help standing on something, asking forgiveness to people of imaginary realms, of images that flicker right about everywhere his sight. But briskly stretches seemed very cosmic to Kogure's eyes; awkward warmth faded away like winds passing by their existence. It must be the weather. "What catch," Rukawa whispered.
"Eh?"
"Your smile."
Silence crept as their company; somehow in that silence both of them felt secure enough to worry nothing but the their presence, an acknowledgment that somehow comfort becomes a subjective word seen as an impartial emotion, something that leaks through the minds of people like orthodox and tradition. Of foxes and specs, their emotional investment. But real comfort do not exist but only a representation of how people perceive it; comfort needs no substantiation but presence. Kogure watched the blue-eyed boy smile; Rukawa watched the other's naturalness, and it seemed for the both of them that it wasn't comfort at all, but a reciprocation of emotions sliding down in the haunting winds and majestic skies, the blue backdrop in the mundane day of emotional revelations. But the two can't quite grasp their exploits yet – they will, one of these days – and in these things they do not rationalize but just be as they are.
"You better go home,"
"Yeah,"
"See you tomorrow, Rukawa."
"Uh... hnn."