Standard disclaimers apply. The last part is the re-creation of the original 2nd chapter of Carnival Town I wrote years ago (it had a happy ending before). And since the series is about basketball, I made a reference to it.
CARNIVAL TOWN Version 2.2
In which Sendoh Wins His Odd Conviction Back & Rukawa Reveals His True Nature
The long tête-à-têtes fall into minutes and turning into the day's hours; buzzes turn into movies and sometimes home videos, and the seemingly happy sighs change into the silence of the bodies, and the night would finally clear them both away. These seemingly tedious weekend schedules turn into weekdays and never did Kogure soon realize these little carousing until the spike-haired phoned him two days after their first all-too-secret encounter. The frailty of Sendoh and the desire to foster a residue of depth within have preceded this feeling of lightheartedness, and but the russet-eyed has often proved to himself how startling it was, how convenient of a riposte it was to accept the other's offer and thus avail time and emotional strength for himself, and for the blue-eyed too.
An hour after lunch break and the sunlight flares up above the light cerulean skies as more soon-to-be students sprawl themselves into the lobby's seats. An intimidating waft of the fans can be heard at the corner, and the nurse's heels against the tiles make a clacking echo every minute; she was handling all the forms and has already convalesced from all the annoyances of dreary inquiries beforehand. She smiles as she hands an application form to Kogure, and the youngster replies with an anxious grin.
"I'm sorry you have to go here, too," he says, motioning the spike-haired to a table.
"It's too warm in here."
"Yeah. But take all these applicants out and it's a lot cooler."
"I bet it is. Hey look," his finger touches the glossy paper, and a smirk can be seen on his face. "It asks your civil status."
"Ha. What do you think?"
"Say it's complicated. Oh wait, there's no such thing, ne?" he meekly beams, handing the other a pen. "What're you gonna take?"
"Oh y'know. I've been afflicted with the same disease as any other nurse. Or so they say at first,"
"But I don't think you can take care of chemistry right?" He grins, yet again. "And imagine the corpses you're gonna dissect," he continues.
"Oh shut it, will you? I'm already getting uptight here,"
"Alright, alright. I'm going to the canteen. Y'want something?"
"Uh, anything. I'll be out after five minutes anyway."
"I'll meet you outside then." so he leaves, and opens the wooden double doors of the university. Outside was an open field of sorts, and he can make out the long blades of grass swerving through the breeze's haste. Several others are strolling themselves to idleness, and their formal garbs whistled a strange mood that welled in him like a tear. He takes his own step, and at his right was a soccer field; the wars of the bodies' gyration against the ball launched another pang right through him and so he avoids the sight. What was it really that reeled his head just now?
Perhaps this was a feeling of enthusiasm, the thrill of anonymity versus the world's end that is the vastness of Japan; Tokyo was surrounded by serrated structures of glass and concrete and steel, and but all these meant more than just the form. Here lay more neon lights and more easily accessible people, bound by an ambience of limitless liberalism, bound by hypnotic traps of a dizzying night; and not only because of a busied time but because Tokyo offered a higher standard and a higher perfection. And the comparison against Kanagawa doesn't just end there. The latter was trite, and the bays sometimes sicken him. And now that he deliberates such an open-ended dispute within him, Japan, too, is such a banal place when at variance to the totality of the world. He suddenly felt betrayed by the seeming glory of Kanagawa.
A voice beckons him from behind. A tap of his shoulder told him it wasn't Kogure.
"Why're you here?"
"Shinichi."
He sips his soda. "Well? What're you doing here? Ah yes... you're with him."
"Kanagawa got me bored."
"Everything gets you bored, Akira."
He raises an eyebrow. "And what's that supposed to mean?"
"You're the smarter one right?" he mumbles, downing his soda.
"I feel a lot lighter–"
"Now that you're with him? Well that's good to know, if you really feel that way that is."
"So you're betting time now? And why're you here anyway?"
He crushes the can, throwing it to the bin; and scoring three points. "I'm trying my luck. Passed the interview, now I got an exam in about an hour. And yes, I'm betting one month."
"He's not like you," he hisses, trying to sustain an unruffled disposition.
"He's not like you either."
"You think I don't have the right to change?"
"Look Akira," he pats his right shoulder, "everyone has the right to change. But I don't think you're the type who wants to change. You're too excellent in what you do to give it up just now."
He swivels his sight at the soccer field, and then to the open seas of the world embodied by the grassy fields. "You're... you're wrong. I like him," he stares at the Kainan captain.
"And you've told me you liked Haruko, too."
"I did. But she's... too perfect. And uh... well, forgettable."
"Anyway, I cannot be a judge of all these," the other has said, dusting off his shirt. "And now I take back my bet. Don't break him. He's stronger than me, and you direly need him."
"Besides... someone else is planning to be a thief."
Both of them walked across for the building now, and they could feel themselves laughing at the hilarity of it. "So you've noticed it, too? I thought I was the only one who suspected it," he grins.
"Now that I imagine him, he looks like your twin."
"Are you patronizing me Shinichi?"
The other has ogled long enough at his spikes, touching them next. "Take these down and you'll look like him,"
"Shut it."
Maki smirks. "If I don't pass the exam I might go abroad. You won't have a psychiatrist anymore."
"Well I don't need one now. But good luck anyway."
"Thanks," he says. The soon-to-be former captain of Kainan leaves with a sigh of goodbye, a silence which meant more meaningful than the denotations of the words. There was a sense of melancholy coursing to them both, for the spike-haired knew that Shinichi Maki will forfeit his exam.
"There you are,"
He snaps; at the fields, his weakness. "I'm sorry, I didn't bring anything."
The other smiles, "No problem. I got an interview next week. I'm hoping for the best."
"Don't you have a spiel or something?" he laughs, motioning the russet-eyed for the university's park. "Tokyo has more than enough choices for lunch I might get confused,"
"Anything should be fine."
"Where're you going next?" he says after a silence of the hearts, tweaking his switch with a finger and his car squeals. He opens the door.
"Well I've had too many absences now in the team... but then by the time we get there the gym's gonna be closed."
Rough noises are heard and he presses the gas. "Well we haven't finished Seven Samurai," he hints, and the car ran its course like a bullet.
But no sooner did they realize their only common feature as they spotted the nearby court at Kanagawa's square. It's been three hours of drooped bodies, and the game of their lives was the only option they know of rekindling everything and clearing the night away, the psychical force of touching bodies; and the penetrating sounds of their sneakers against the asphalt make it all exhilarating. The night is stretched with no stars at all, and even the moon sparkled no more than a fading beacon like a lamp from a lighthouse. The air is too warm but it was exactly what they're after; people seemed to be dead, and only the hastening roars of the cars can be heard from afar. Their bodies set adrift at the slightest rhythm of the red-hued ball previously lodged in the spike-haired's car.
"I don't stand a chance, I know, but don't go soft on me either," the russet-eyed has said as he dribbles. "Maybe you can teach me a thing or two after this."
"Maybe," he whistles, and a skip of the watch's hands signals the game. He easily grabs the ball with a reflex of the body.
A crossover dribble and Kogure chases the red orb while he's suddenly out of breath. The other runs for the ring, elated, jumping with enough height; hauling up his fingers and the ball moves with a dainty touch, dropping into the basket. "Two-zero," he smirks, and passes the ball to Kogure.
The russet-eyed thinks of his ordeal, trying to predict the future. A crossover dribble between his legs as the ball bounces dreamily against his hands, trying to defend. He runs like a madman, protecting the ball. A swooshing sound escapes from his shoes and Sendoh flung his arms wide, defending the basket. So Kogure dribbles once, stepping back, faking to shoot.
This hit Sendoh no intimidation. He steals, spinning his body as he dribbles. Kogure has predicted it right and he now gyrated his own body so that they're face to face, and stole the orb with a rough touch. "Hey, foul," the other has said.
"Calling your own foul," Kogure muttered, immersed in the game. He's suddenly changed himself into another idiosyncrasy while Sendoh tries his luck. He has proved to himself that this metamorphosis caused ecstasy way beyond being a basketball player itself, and he's suddenly thought of the ways which differentiate himself to this pale youngster before him. He tries to shoot, but Sendoh was taller.
He blocked; Sendoh fakes, and he fell for it. But there was something that made it mean something else.
"Five-zero, Kimi-kun."
Kogure makes a grimacing smile. The ball was passed to him again, and he shifts his weight to his right and ran away from the basket, seeing if a three-point shot is permissible. He dribbles with a lower stature, the bounces countless. He shoots, and he misses. What was it really that differentiated him from this youngster before him? The russet-eyed always was the believer of intimacy's sanctity, the tenet of the idealist heart and an almost naïve body; wherefore despite endless rationalizations he sought for himself transcendence, even if it took years. He believes of the hopeful soul receiving the blessing and the gift of another's hopeful soul, but here he is, with more than apathy to the game, single-minded by a pursuit of an answer. "I got a putback," the spike-haired said, calm as usual.
He suddenly stole the ball and tried to shoot it.
"Seven-two. Not bad,"
The power of social possibilities, he thought, has more than enough force to tumble down the remaining purity within each and everyone on this earth. It encompasses a distortion of a romantic into a pessimist, surpassing even eroticism. But this is not what he complains about; what was it really that differentiated him from the youngster?
"Ten-two Ki–"
"Sempai." He snaps; at the court, his weakness.
The meshed steel fence of the court makes a soft noise as Rukawa opens the entry with narrowed eyes, his arms securing his bicycle. Of all people, Kogure thought; he was almost afraid of the voice that kept like a mantra on his audition, but there was something in him that urged him to speak. The raven-haired meanders, chaining his bicycle as it leans by the fence.
"What're you doing here?" Sendoh raised an eyebrow, admitting a sense of jealousy despite the consideration of a possibility that Rukawa only meant to play himself.
Kogure smiles. "Hello Rukawa. It's eight, aren't your parents looking for you?"
"They're not here," he coolly says, staring into the blue-eyed, admitting a sense of inexplicable feeling, like he's looking at himself. He walks towards them both. "One on one, Spikey."
"I'm playing with him."
And yet it meant more than just a game. A sweatdrop from Kogure's forehead trickles down with utter anxiety, admitting a sense of rivalry between them, which of course went way beyond being basketball players. He blushes at the thought. "If Kimi-kun assents, then I'll be more than happy to play with you," Sendoh says with a smile, hiding his own sense of intimidation.
Now the decision, related to his past thoughts, addresses a current issue here. What would happen if he lets them both play? Will animosity rise beyond the control of his mediating gestures? Is this a power struggle of sorts? Who will win? Who is he betting to win?
"I don't have the knack to score well anyway," he says.
"Be referee then," Rukawa says, almost like a whisper. And yet it meant more than just being a referee.
Foreseeing the danger, "I'd rather watch."
And so for thirty minutes he slouched at the benches, drinking his water, his sight attending to the game before him. Bodies graze each other with more than enough aggression, and creating a distance Sendoh releases the ball with his outside hand as it rolls on the rim and dropping in a second. He schemes his body into full gyration, faking to shoot, and Rukawa fakes to block. He shoots, he misses, Rukawa gets the rebound. He puts the ball back in, and he scores two. It almost became a tournament as more fancy shots re-appear before Kogure, and now he felt like he was watching from afar, out of sight. Seconds turn into minutes which turned into long and cosmic falls of the red sphere into the basket, slow-paced and their shots are more fatal. Thirty minutes passed, and he saw them both panting for oxygen.
"You're both exhausted," was the only thing Kogure said.
"27-29, he won," Sendoh says between his breaths.
Rukawa stares too deep Kogure felt like his eyes were jabbing him. The fox faces the clown, and he can see his lips move in slow-motion.
"That's a good game, Rukawa," the spike-haired genuinely comments.
"It's for him."
"What?"
"Don't play dumb."
And after ten minutes, Rukawa was already dozing off in his bicycle, away from them both. However, his audacity and seeming boisterousness lingered in the place that it took more than twenty minutes of silence between the two, waiting for Rukawa to dissipate like a vapor. Twenty minutes of time, too, meant infinity of thoughts which crazed not only the deliberating Kogure, but the all-too-excellent Sendoh who took his defeat nonchalantly. Even if this thief of a fox try, his handsomeness can conquer any body; including the one beside him. Kogure on the other hand, succumbed to the urgency of his concern. There was no denying it. Drinking his water, he turns to the blue-eyed.
"Uhm... 'Kira,"
"Hmm?" the chap whispered, foreshadowing everything.
"What d'ya think of relationships?"
Sendoh Akira assures himself that he's still an emotional advocate of an all-too-excellent beauty and his experiment about unfounded speculations of the idealist heart is still in motion. It was more than a premonition in his part now for the question to be roused but quite indescribably his surprise is at the inappropriateness of everything, the place, the mood. He is a carnival man who takes affairs in life as if they're the prolonged impulses of his body, some custom wisdom he's acquired for years, from Shinichi. Why does he have to change now, when it's this wisdom that conquered Kogure?
For this wisdom earns emotional well-being; for he thought that he was never an emanating frailty to the russet-eyed. Comfort and solace belonged to him, and gestures of gratitude belong to Kogure. Sendoh has the title emotional apotheosis, while Kogure is its devout believer. "Eh?"
"My stance's no more but pessimistic, Kimi-kun. It's gonna be problem for us,"
He rouses interest however. "Enlighten me then. I'm sure it's just a pinch in the cheek,"
Sendoh heaves a sigh, drinking water afterwards, readying himself. "Relationships are futile unless it works for someone who believes in it."
"Uh... elaborate?"
"Why is there intimate relationship?"
"To be able to keep it."
And now it was turning into a disbelief on his part, this Kogure before him.
"But is it only the way for men to perceive each other? To whom do we promise? To a god? Goddesses? To nature?" What was it really that reeled his head just now?
"I rather think that a promise to a relationship is more than a proof, and not because a couple offer themselves to them,"
A welling exasperation surges from within him. "But what if the person doesn't deserve a promise at all?"
Silence. Whom was he referring to?
"It's just an assurance," he finally says.
"What's wrong with having faith?"
He holds the ball tightly, dribbling it. "We're free to do whatever we want. I just think that faith becomes boring at the end, it becomes meaningless..."
"...and I don't want that to happen to us," the spike-haired continues in a whisper, leaning closer, caressing Kogure's cheek.
Isn't that an assurance in itself? Kogure says no more and surrenders to the stirring charm before him, and but a sense of distress looms from somewhere; here lays an unspoken truth between him and the blue-eyed youngster, something way beyond his remote concern for a difference.
tbc.