Bridges Don't Burn

Disclaimer: I don't own SD boys, Inoue does. The events that follow are not included in the original plot but enjoy anyway.

Summary: Post-series friendship fic about Rukawa and Mitsui. This could be yaoi but then again, I didn't intend it to be. One-shot.

Rants: I could spell this out as rather tedious. I wrote it because… nah. No reason. Just felt like it. I haven't written in a while so I guess I'd've lost the touch here (I am convinced my muses have abandoned me, those bitches). But what the hell. Might as well seize the opportunity freedom offers once in a long while. This is for Kaiser, I think, for believing.

And oh, this is set three years after the series. Number 11 (my OC) is a new recruit of the Shohoku Basketball Team, a genius and a Gary Stu.

Spring.

Number 11 knifed through Sannoh High's defense like a scythe that parts the overgrowth with a single swing. The space before him was a little more than sun lit, heated, but nothing so distracting as to stop him from his assault. He could almost feel how solid the floor underneath him was. It was glittering, unless his eyes were deceiving him. He paused as if to calculate the chances he had left, then charged just when the digits on the shot clock started trickling down to zero. Launching, he freed one arm and stretched the other, gently tipping the ball onto the rim where it spun down the net and into the floor. Perfect.

The scoreboard now read Shohoku 87 and Sannoh 86. The crowd stood electrified, hardly breathing as Sannoh rushed on from the inbound. The buzzer wound down; nine, eight, seven seconds left in the game. Their offense left no margin for penetration, their determination even fiercer than it was thirty minutes ago. Then there it was straight from the painted lane, the ball soaring as it made a pretty curve through the air.

None of the members of the Shohoku Team saw it coming, but by then the lead was stolen and the clock shut off. The game was over: Shohoku, 87; Sannoh, 88. And the crowd, the crowd was all a muddy illusion Number 11 would have given everything not to see. He shook his head and it was all he could do not to cry.

From the stands, Rukawa Kaede watched the spectacle with candid stillness. He was slowly beginning to feel the pressure of the now stirred-up crowd. He snuck one final look at number 11, eyes narrowing a little, before he decided that he'd seen all he wanted or didn't want to. He eyed the exit pass and turned away, an impending migraine creeping deep beneath his cranium.

"Ano, Rukawa-san, may I have your autograph?"

Rukawa caught himself staring at a pre-teen kid in matching jersey uniform. There was a manic wistfulness in the eyes of the kid that two or so years ago Rukawa would have found repulsive. He used to roll his eyes at people like this. But that was then and this was now. Rukawa promptly signed the kid's notebook and managed as pleasant a nod as he could, whereat the child beamed as he scuttled away with his prize. Rukawa began to walk onward; another minute in the place was sure to cause much more than a headache, he could tell.

"A disrespectable thing to do, that." A voice emerged from behind him, distinct from all the collective ruckus the crowd was making. At this time the celebration was at its peak; an easy indication was the multi-colored confetti filling the space between the ceiling and the ground in continuous downward motion.

"Mitsui-sempai." Rukawa mumbled. Years ago he had said the name with less interest, back when he had the misfortune of seeing the older guy every day. But now Mitsui Hisashi had grown to be six-foot-two, more muscular, more brilliant of eyes. There was a change in him that Rukawa couldn't yet place, but he knew nonetheless that it was a good change. Somehow, Mitsui Hisashi had turned into a man.

"Giving away autographs when you're not the champion is very rude, Rukawa. I thought you would have known better." Mitsui replied sternly and seeing Rukawa's frown deepen, cracked into a smirk. "I was kidding. I'm not your sempai anymore. Wouldn't dare tell on you now, I guess."

Rukawa made the slightest gesture with a hand. All of a sudden, in silence, both felt a shared need to be extracted from this dizzying mob so that in a little while they found themselves outside. Mitsui exhaled, a visible relief overcoming the expression on his face. The world outside the stadium was a lot different, a lot more familiar. It was easier to breathe here.

"I thought I should see the championship match." Rukawa offered though his tone betrayed no particular shade of curiosity in it. For some reason, he felt he owed it to Mitsui to start a conversation at least.

"So did I. A championship game like that deserves all the attention it can get." Mitsui said. "it's been what? Two, three years since I was here."

Rukawa knew that Mitsui could only be referring to that magical game against Sannoh at the Inter High three years into the past*. He was a freshman who had just begun, the entire universe stretching right in front of him; but Mitsui was a senior on the road to redemption, a picture of wasted youth and opportunity. Somehow they won that battle, but with a price that cost them almost everything: Sakuragi incurred a serious back injury. True, Rukawa remembered. That was when coming off second best still meant making it to a magazine spread and a silver trophy that could be displayed on the gymnasium's shelves. Glory.

"So… how would you judge the present Shohoku Team? Aren't they a sight?"

"Better than last year." Rukawa answered curtly.

"Better than last year." Mitsui sighed. Then his looks darkened; there was a mixture of disgust and frustration in his voice as he continued, "They're just a bunch of braggarts grown too big for their breeches, if you ask me. I knew this would happen."

"Number 11 had 33 points." Rukawa said in mild protest. Somehow he thought that Number 11 deserved acknowledgement or another, if not for a little reckless streak in him. Losing this championship match hardly made him any less talented, that much both sides were willing to admit.

"Grand, right?" Mitsui laughed out loud. A deafening crescendo accompanied his tone, mocking for all intents and purposes. "I'm so sorry Rukawa, but did you come here thinking that Number 11 would turn out to be like you? Or did you hope to see what you were like back then? I would sympathize with you if you hadn't got it all wrong."

Rukawa tossed his head. He recognized the Mitsui he knew in high school, a guy who knew just where to poke for the soft spot, a guy who bawled when he meant to be insulting. Standing in front of him now, Rukawa could scarcely draw the difference.

"Today's Shohoku is an offensive team." He muttered, not really knowing if it was still worth pursuing the argument. At this point, he could have just left Mitsui there and it wouldn't make one bit of difference.

"Those show-offs had all the opportunities they needed to turn the game around. Instead they made a circus out of the whole thing, dunking and flying as though they'd get something extra out of it while they let the opponent slip under their radar. You want me to give them their due? They made a mistake. If they focused half as much on defense as they did on their offense, they could've swept Sannoh clean. But no, they wanted entertainment, I guess."

They were both quiet then. Rukawa only knew vaguely what Mitsui was driving at. He could guess, but not more than that. The air around them went dry and barren all at once; Rukawa suspected that if he held out his tongue he would be able to taste the bitterness. Shohoku lost, and the atmosphere willingly conspired with them.

"I was like him once." Rukawa said, surprised at himself for breaking the silence. He thought of the 30 or so points he'd made in each and every game he'd had with Shohoku. He thought of Number 11; how he aimed at the target without regard for obstacles, huge or small; how his concentration had most often got the better of him, and his confidence for that matter. He thought of himself, and time and again failed to undo that likeness he thought he had with Number 11.

"Rukawa," Mitsui said. This time he was gentler, although his sense of conviction remained. "If Number 11 was nearly like you, he would have died trying to stop Sannoh from nabbing the last point. It seems to me he went too easy on the opponent. Overconfident much? I don't know what else could be the reason."

"That could be true."

"False humility, Rukawa? This isn't like you." Mitsui laughed but mellowed in an instant; conceding, he went on, "Well, we're probably just seeing it from different angles. It happens. It's not like we had much in common to begin with. I suppose, well, I…"

"You're right, sempai; They're not us." Rukawa finished it for him and for the first time that afternoon he understood what Mitsui had been trying to construct with words all along.

This wasn't the Shohoku that they were, not the delinquents or the dedicated loyalists. The present Shohoku Team was composed of junior-high superstars whose fame attracted scouts from all regions. By the time they were eligible for senior high school, the Shohoku basketball club had garnered considerable popularity for its stellar performance at the Inter High, for which Rukawa, Mitsui, and the rest took credit. It was no coincidence, therefore, that these new members had all the makings of tough, talented athletes. Success and victory were served to them on a silver platter. And Shohoku was easily one of the best teams in Kanagawa; that was enough reason for them to be in it.

By contrast, the Shohoku that Rukawa and Mitsui knew was nothing like the milestone that it was now. It was simply the exact opposite. Picking the team up from ruin, they knew neither perfection nor palpable teamwork during their first few games together. On a personal level, there was worse to say. They hated one another, each only hardly tolerating the other at best. Simply put, it was a team from which no hope or joy can be derived, one without sufficient skills and patience. But then a miracle happened and the next thing they knew Shohoku delivered one of the greatest performances Kanagawa had ever seen. Contrary to popular belief, it was not an overnight transformation or something that can be described as an easy journey.

As if in a bright dawning flash, Rukawa began to clearly see now why Mitsui was so offended by the comparison.

"They didn't have to exert as much effort as we did." Mitsui resumed. "We were a bunch of struggling brats, morally discouraged, physically unprepared, or just simply untalented. Just thinking of how we suffered back then just to put the team together, I could break my heart just by remembering. It's funny, though, isn't it? That we had to come here just to feel like that again. Pitiable. I should've figured this shit out; my Shohoku has no likeness."

Rukawa was quick to note Mitsui's "my" before "Shohoku" but decided not to bring it up. He watched the senior uncomfortably, wondering if he felt the same order of belongingness, if at all he owned the team as much as it did him. He knew he did. He would never have come here if he didn't. Right then the senior had spoken for both of them; like Mitsui and probably like the rest of those who were in that legendary match against Sannoh, Rukawa Kaede missed his Shohoku desperately.

"Sempai,"

"Rukawa?"

"It's over now, isn't it?" Rukawa said. He believed, but found it hard to accept, that all things must have an end, even those times he felt his happiest. Those years he had stood by Shohoku's side were gone, never to be relived except in his mind. He was in fact sorry for himself most of the time. Sorry to leave. Sorry to be separated from his old teammates. Sorry to be older. Sorry to be standing apart from the best years of his life. He could feel sad at what others couldn't help thinking of as silly, but then what did they know?

"No, it's not." Mitsui told him, and he was smiling so reassuringly at Rukawa that somehow, even for just a moment, it was enough. "It stays alive… there." Mitsui was pointing to the sturdy, modern building that was the stadium, yards away from where they stood planted.

And then Rukawa smiled. Mitsui was right. He only had to pry his eyes open to see it. Recalling the game earlier, Rukawa realized now what Mitsui saw: Takenori Akagi shouting orders; Sakuragi Hanamichi leaping for rebounds in what must've been insane heights; Miyagi Ryota and his behind-the-back passes; Mitsui's long-range jumpers; the bench-warmers on the sidelines, generous in their undying support and enthusiasm; And Rukawa's sheer, spotless efficiency on the court. He could see them winning a tragic* but sweet victory: The best game they ever had or will ever have.

"Goodbye for now, Rukawa." Mitsui held out a hand. In a moment, the clouds seemed to have been pushed back and gave way to a canvas of the bluest skies. There was much warmth in the sunlight.

"Thank you, Mitsui-sempai." Rukawa said, this time, far more lively than he used to do. It would be years before they would reunite again, both knew.

And as they stretched the distance between them the years they spent apart closed in to become one. In a way, none of the members of that Shohoku squad really left the game*. They lingered, stubborn boys in their sweat-soaked uniforms, drowning in their own emotions as they raked constantly through to glory. It was there where a companionship of spirit was sealed, so that even when they'd gone their separate ways some thick and unbreakable cord kept them bound to one another.

They, too, dared to dream together.

END

A/N: *I was referring to the chapter in the manga where Shohoku beat the best high school team in Japan, Sannoh with Eiji Sawakita in it. Sakuragi fell down and nearly broke his spine. They lost the following game to that team where Morohoshi Dai was playing for.