Idyll Under the Waves

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

Summary: An OOC fic about Rukawa. Yes, it doesn't seem like him but he sure has a lot to say about this blue-eyed someone. How much does he want this senior? Does he stand a chance? Find out. Another Rumit fic.


Warning: language



Prologue

Inside Rukawa's mind.....



I've been pretty fucked up lately, I can tell. It is so because they're all getting on my tail even though they claim to have not gone an inch beyond japing; they say I'm all too touchy and easily flustered, and if I'm not wearing a somber scowl, they'll still whine about my temper being in a threadbare. But if you stuck yourself in glum you still get a blast out of them giving you a misnomer; I've always been the 'Snobby Little Fox' of this hell-turned-Shohoku-School. Goodness, people just love exacerbating your pains, don't they? 'Kaede, you musn't frown like that, be comme il faut; they'll like it.' Fuck what they like, I want to be me just for a second; it's my fucking life, you know. Can't we just do away with the be-nice-to-the-nice-because-it's-nice-to-be-nice-to-the-nice attitude? You see, I'm in a deadlock here; if I do this, they'll find it disagreeable, if I act natural, it'll sure be repulsive. I'm no Mr. Nice Guy from around the block; I have to stretch the point to that. I'm not your next door congenial chap who delights in trivial coquetry the society requires. I'm just a...a simple kid with an extraordinarily anti-social conduct. Or am I? That's not how you describe a simple individual or an average Joe, and I'm certain I don't look like one. No, I can't be that; with these vaunted good looks my frivolous little crowd will sure repugn such sentiment. Of course they worship me; I'm the best thing that ever happened to this pathetic team, and if it wasn't for HIM I should be...should be desisting my efforts to be the rookie superstar, I should be playing somewhere else, I should be securing a spot in Kangawa mytical five. Phew, how long will I keep on making eyes at him? For another semester? A year? My whole godawful life? Fuck...



Must undergo ceremonial ablution to drive away this devil. Didn't work out last time so...



Time calls for desperate measures; I have to consult a quack-or an expert, rather. This is what's been prescribed to me to rid of this illness (courtesy of Dr. Love):



1. Must set priorities



2. Must practice hard


3. Must be focusing on the upcoming games


4. Must clinch playoff berth



5. Must act normal



6. Must not be overdosing myself with obsession


7. Must forget about my feelings




Rather demanding, right? But Doc says I shouldn't put it in the bad light, 'It's all for your health (mental health). I'm not saying you should avoid him; that'd be cruel. Just tone down your emotions and you'll get on,' That's how I should be, he says. Must dig a recess in my mind to occupy it with what's significant (whatever is significant to me), must not niggle, must pull myself out of this quagmire...This is farfetched; me? Control my feelings for Hisashi Mitsui?


Shohoku gym. Morning. After a 30 minute practice game.


Here he goes again, unrolling his tough thighs a meter away from my played out, lax body. Here we are; I, perched on this steel folding chair and he, in front of me whipping his post-game warm up routine. His self-styled hair dress remains intact despite the groggy flip flops of his gallops, and its tiny nibs are still perceptible after being roughly rubbed and swayed for a hundred times. He's so near to me I can almost taste the pungency of his sweat fountain as my blade-sharp eyes go over the blanket of his impeccably pigmented skin, mincing it smoothly to mentally denude him of what's been cloaking his delicious nakedness. I'm concentrating on his facial features as usual, and I can't help scrutinizing the listlessness of that exquisitely gorgeous face. For some unknown reason it (his innocent expression) seems so malicious to me, and that unintentionally flippant smirk on his gaze while he inflects his knees only pushes me to the limits; I'm fighting the impetus to clasp him harshly to me and yes, I'm battling with this vile temptation in abysmal labor. This death-like irresoluteness I gain from his presence murders me, literally; add to it the unwary decorum he's flaunting me and I'm doomed to another fit of hysterics here. Why the fuck does he have to be so fucking handsome, and hot, and buffed? Why can't he just be a plain bumpkin without an iota of charm for damnation's sake? Do I have to imagine him in a see-through apparel every goddamn time? Why can't I scratch him off this balky brain? Do I have to be a fucking stickler for pretty boys like Mitsui-san or for overkill good looks like that? He's not even getting enough props for that face of his and fuck knows how many cut-throat bitches drool over me. Yes, me; the squeamish closet-queen-jock-heartthrob of this little academy called Shohoku High, and they're just as haplessly clueless on WHAT Kaede Rukawa is as I am on what Hisashi Mitsui is. Darn it! His mystery's such a fucking nuisance; why can't he be an all-out or a discreet gay like everyone else (or like me, for that matter)? Or maybe he's just another diva playing hide and seek behind that lady killer facade. Hope so; in that way, I wouldn't be overdoing myself trying to get across his real identity, and I shouldn't be growing a paddy of acne stressing myself with incessant thoughts about him. Kuso. I have to purge myself of this psychological pain in the ass or else, I'm done for; the only way is to follow Dr. Love's pieces of advice. Must try so...




But he's so...perfect, and cute, and sexy, and innocent; how can I possibly dump it all away or even betray the thought of him? I'm thinking; I can just stay like this till the last drop of time's sands flips away to the universal void, and I can watch him forever, desire-less as he may be.



There, his scandalously short tights are shrinking higher above his knees as he stretches busily on the wooden floor. His face seems to decipher nothing of the treachery of this disillusionment; it's very much likely that's he's still unsuspicious of all my unpracticed advances or my dark aspirations for him, after all, I haven't tried anything funny; YET. But I've gone totally evil on this matter, fostering a fashionable vice of fantasizing over this dainty, lovely lad---





'Rukawa,'





'Huh?'





Holy fuck. It's HIM. He's snucking that look to me again, and he's leasing a smile...an emasculating, de-boning grin...I can't resist this...geeesh...




'Rukawa?'





'Huh?'






'You're sweating a ton,'






Fuck it. Don't look at me like that; you're burning me. Kaede, what's fucking wrong with you? Keep your ego afloat, stand up and give him the traditional kiss-my-ass attitude.





'...'





'Rukawa, you good?'





Must stay defiant to his sex appeal...must not give a welcoming response...must be an artic blockhead all the time....darn!




'Uh-huh.'







'Uhm, you sure?






Fuck that nosy ass of yours. Scram before I do something insidious here.





'Hai, sempai.'






'If you say so. Can you hand me a towel?'






Sure thing. I shove one to him, averting his sidelong glance that seems to jest my rude deportment. Must not be affected...grrr...







'Rukawa?'






Fuck. What d'you want? Can't get enough of seducing a bloke like me, Hisashi? You can't even take me on, I bet.






'Sempai?'





'Thanks.'



Now he's walking away, taking with him that irresistibly attractive smile that sucks dry all my physical prowess; that weakening, plundering glance he shoots at me....so...so meaningful and strange and dreamy. Grrr... Thanks to my dialogue deficit syndrome I didn't have the chance to say...THAT.

I need a moment of consolation to retrieve my senses, and that's only possible in two instances; either I totally forget about him, or he shall be mine. It can't be otherwise but right now... Hell, whatever goes. He's gotta be mine if that's the only thing in the world that is, and it sure is.


The next day.



Akagi's merciful enough to treat the team to a lavish buffet; a fine indemnification for the torture he's putting us into everyday. I haven't gone a lunch out with as many people like this; I've always been your regular not-so-geeky loner type. I know it would've been more normal if I've put down the offer but captain is unusually insistent that I should join them. He's just probably sympathetic with my social condition; I can tell it from his commiserating look. If only he knows how I love being alone. Well, we should all be proper at times of course, and be smart enough not to refuse God's grace(thus goes the famous Filipino adage) so for the sake of paying that much respect to my senior; I agree to feast with the team.

The red head ape's thick as thieves as usual; stacking his plate with a pile of God knows how many dishes and condiments are there. His monstrous appetite is a turn-off, but I can't say the other boys are better; they all sniff at the table like filthy swine, anyway. I'm not a connoisseur for preening and hygiene, that would've made me obvious. But I've always clothed myself in optimum propriety; my shirt's always tucked in, my shoes polished, my pants ironed, you can't ask for anything better. Right, he can't ask for anything better. TBC