When he used to be with the others, and they were all "The Generation of Miracles", every day was fun.
It was all fun and games and laughter.
Until it wasn't.
And now he is all alone, no longer seen as a hero, but a monster. No longer was he an idol, but an arrogant son of a bitch.
They don't understand anything about him.
She can't blame them. From what they have seen, he's an asshole, through and through. The king of the land of jerks. They don't know him and they don't want to, either, because what he shows them is grotesque aloofness and icy coldness. They have no sympathy to spare him because he hasn't a single damn to spare for them in turn.
They can't hear him, because they are not tuned in to listen. They can't hear his cries and desperate prayers, because they don't want to listen to anything he ever says—least of all what he doesn't say.
When he says, "The only one who can beat me, is me alone," what they hear is unparalleled arrogance and impossible confidence that transcends reason.
They sneer and glare at him, call him names and still grudgingly rely on him when they need his help, using him for the only thing they consider him good at.
Using him, because they want to have no attachments to him at all. He's not like them, they say; he's different. He's a monster, a miracle. So they better not get involved with him, unless they want to get themselves in deep trouble.
They use him and use him and use him, for as long as they wish.
They use him, because he uses them, too—so it's only fair.
Although Satsuki agrees that one should reap what one has sown, she is dismayed that no one ever hears the desperate plea of "Someone, give me something to strive for again" when he claims that no one can win against him. No one hears, and both his sanity and the very essence of his being are already strongly slipping.
He's running out of time. He's driving himself up against a wall, the edge of which he cannot see. He's pushing himself closer and closer to a deep end, and she's afraid to think what will happen if he takes just one more stride into it.
Sometimes, she really hates them all.
She hates them because they look at him, they know that he's amazing and it becomes so easy for everyone to forget.
They forget that, even if what they want to see is a genius sportsman, a miracle in his own right, that's not what he is.
She hates them for forgetting that he's just a high-school boy, just like any other. Just like them.
She hates them because they forget that and they expect him to perform miracles, because they perceive him as one himself. She hates them because they make him push himself till he collapses; they make him believe that he's as invincible as they make him out to be.
He doesn't care what they think of him, but what he doesn't realize is that their unconditional trust in the fact he will win is giving him all the push he needs in order to keep straining himself to the point that his body can no longer handle it.
She hates them all, the basketball team, the commentators, the people in the audience—she hates them all because she feels like she's the only one who can see that he's struggling, clawing against the boundaries his own body puts on him, and he pretends like he can overcome them just by simply being stubborn enough.
He pretends that overcoming his limits will make him even more unstoppable, when she knows that the only thing it will do is hurt him—physically and mentally.
She hates that they cheer for him, and he forgets. She hates that he tramples every single one of his opponents, standing victorious over them, and they all forget.
She wants to punch and slap all of them for this. She wants to, because she's so very afraid.
She's afraid, because they all forget that he's not, in fact, a miracle, no matter how much they want him to be—what he is, is a high school boy who has been in love with basketball for the longest time, giving his best for the sport he adores.
She's afraid, because even if his talent and desire for the game are miraculous, even if his body is seasoned for some of the strain he puts on it—his growth is too fast; his strength is too overwhelming; he's too much, too quick, too soon. He's too powerful, too extreme – his limbs can't handle it, and if he keeps pretending they can and keeps pushing…
She doesn't even want to think about that. A Daiki who couldn't play basketball was something she didn't want to imagine. Look at how warped constantly winning had made his character. Being unable to get on the court to begin with—being unable to touch the ball – that would kill him.
She sometimes hates him, too, for believing their nonsense.
She hates him because she sometimes thinks—dreads—that he's doing it to himself on purpose.
He's losing sight of what's important. He's been so sad, so lost, so angry for so long that he's completely forgotten what the whole point to this used to be.
He knows best that his body, as he is, can't handle his tremendous talent.
Yet, in his frustration, in his fear of becoming even more unreachable to the rest of them, he ditches practice all the time, refusing to allow himself to improve. He ditches practice with excuses, unwilling to take another leap, and thus successfully exposing his body to even greater dangers.
He skips practice, waves off her concern and acts as if he doesn't need the physical exertion—as though his body is perfectly capable of handling what he wants to do with it on the court, even if he doesn't exercise nearly often enough for that to be fact.
This is one of the main reasons why she can't let him be on his own. She is constantly vigilant, always at his side, making sure to do her utmost best to insure that he doesn't get himself into too deep a trouble.
She acts like his keeper, and sometimes, it's tiring. It's taxing on her mind, on her strength, on her patience—but she does it anyway, because she can't just leave him.
She can't, because if she leaves him, then he would really be left with no one to understand him. Then really no one will be able to hear him anymore.
No one would care.
And he'd keep sinking—further and further, misunderstood, hated for something that wasn't his fault.
So, regardless of how tiring, how vexing and how trying it was, acting like Aomine-kun's keeper, it was a job she kept doing anyway.
Because, she believed as much—the Dai-chan she had known and adored was still in him somewhere. He was still there, fist slamming against the confines of hopelessness, bitterness and resignation, screaming to be let out into the world again.
Dai-chan, who could smile and crack innocent jokes at people just for the sake of making them laugh. Dai-chan, whose grin was easy and kind and just a bit mischievous (not twisted and scary and psychotic like the Aomine-kun now). Dai-chan, who had no agenda and who did not condescend others just because they were subpar to him on court. Dai-chan, who enjoyed a match of basketball just because it was the game he adored.
Dai-chan, who said what he meant and whom others did not misunderstand and loathe…
So Satsuki prayed the gods above for strength as she stood beside him—him, the one hated and revered above all else.
She stood beside him and prayed that he would find what he wanted—before his personality disintegrated completely, and he lost himself without a trace in the darkness that was enveloping him.
A/N: Some feels and thoughts I got while reading the manga after the anime's end. This is the kind of thoughts I started considering after I read how Daiki also wasn't in his best shape after that mind-numbingly awesome match with Kise. And, of course, Satsuki standing up for his well-being to the coach, despite knowing that he'd be displeased with her for meddling.
I hope this came across as intense and meaningful as I intended it. Character explorations of my most favourite character in this series are difficult~
100 Situations, Table One; 085: Hate.
7th April, 2013.