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It’s becoming a habit, Kogure realizes, as his feet carry him around the back of the school building instead of to the front gate again. It’s a reflex, after three years, but he’s not supposed to go there now. Vacation is over, the Interhigh is over, and Kogure is officially retired.
He really should leave. It’s late—the trees turn dark against the paling sky, the clouds lose their golden edge and a light breeze catches in Kogure’s hair. Despite that, his shirt clings to his back, and Kogure pulls it down. In early September the heat of summer lingers in the air even as the sun goes down, sticks to the building walls and seeps into the asphalt.
It’s late, and Kogure should go home and study. He’s still getting used to coming to school without packing his gym clothes, and not staying to the rhythmic drumming of basketballs on the hardwood floor. He hears them now, as soon as he gets close to the gym. The door is half-open and the squeaking of shoes and shouts of players mix in with the cicadas chirping tirelessly in the bushes. Occasionally, Ayako’s paper fan thuds.
Kogure stops a few meters away from the door, in front of the steps leading up to it. He can’t really see much of the inside, just listens to the familiar sounds and tries not to miss them too much.
Right when he considers working up the willpower to leave, the gym door gets pushed open with a foot and Yohei steps out. He grins at Kogure, arms full of empty water bottles. A few strands of his usually perfectly slicked-back hair stick to his glistening forehead. The air in the gym must be stuffy and oppressively hot, but Yohei doesn’t seem to mind. Kogure gets it—part of him wishes he could be in there right now too.
“Are you taking a walk after school?” Yohei asks. “Enjoying the weather?”
They both know he isn’t. Kogure has run into Yohei right here at least three times already, and school started a week ago. The first day after summer vacation was just like this, Yohei running to get ice for an injury, and Kogure standing right outside. He can’t help but feel caught.
“How’s practice, Yohei?” Kogure asks instead of answering the question. Yohei made him use his first name—it feels alright since everyone does it. In turn, Yohei dropped any honorifics. Kogure doesn’t mind really, it fits him somehow, easygoing as he is. Yohei might just start using his first name before he graduates.
“Good. Weirdly quiet, without Akagi and Hanamichi.” Yohei shrugs, and the plastic bottles clatter. “I’m still bad though. I can’t be mad at them for making me run errands.”
“I suppose that’s just the fate of the newest players,” Kogure muses and feels his shoulders relax. “Just wait for next year.”
“I hope there won’t be that many talented first-years then.” Yohei grins. “Or I might just end up on the bench forever.”
Kogure has not seen Yohei play much, but tries to look encouraging. “If you want I can show you some basics on the weekend,” he says. “There’s a public court nearby. The one by the sea, do you know that one?”
“I’d really need that,” Yohei says, and lets out a wistful sigh. “Don’t you have to study though? Mitsui said it’s all you do now.”
“Most of the time, yes,” Kogure says. “But an hour or two won’t hurt. It’ll be good to get out of the house.”
“Great!” Yohei adjusts his grip on the bottles. “Do you miss it?”
“Of course.” Kogure stares past Yohei, at the gap in the washed-out green door. Bright lights reflect in the polished wood. “It’s just until I get into university. I’m not quitting forever.”
Yohei hums. “And do you miss Mitsui?”
“What?” Kogure coughs, almost choking on the word. “Why Mitsui specifically?”
“You’re slightly less obvious than Hanamichi with your crushes, I’ll give you that.”
Kogure grimaces. “Great.” He eyes Yohei for any sign of scorn or disgust, but there’s just a faint smile on his lips. “Thanks for telling me?”
“Hey, I don’t mean– I’m just saying I know how you feel, okay?” Yohei shifts on his feet.
“Huh?” Kogure gets out, because his brain is still trying to understand—then it clicks. In hindsight it feels obvious—the way Yohei is always looking at Hanamichi—even if he is good at hiding it. He’s known them for only a few months but he can see it—where Sakuragi goes, Yohei follows, like they’re tied together by a rope, pulling Yohei along. “Is that why you joined the team?”
“Not just that,” Yohei says. “I started to like basketball. And someone has to play point guard when Miyagi leaves next year.”
He has a point, Kogure thinks, though Shohoku should worry about what to do without their center first, now that Akagi is retired.
Yohei scratches at his face, awkwardly, still holding the bottles. “And it’s just– What if he comes back and doesn’t look at me anymore?”
Kogure frowns, and considers taking some of the bottles out of Yohei’s hands before they fall down. “Why would he do that?”
“Not on purpose, I think. I mean, he’s always had a girl he liked, but now with Haruko, and basketball…” He trails off.
“He wouldn’t just stop caring about you. You’ve been friends since middle school, right?” Kogure says, but it hits him then that he knows what Yohei means. He notices it, every time they play against strong teams, and their best player’s gaze passes over him like he’s invisible, until they stop to linger on Rukawa, or Akagi, or Sakuragi. On someone interesting, someone strong. They’re not doing it consciously, but compared to them he’s just not exciting.
“You’re probably right,” Yohei says, and that easygoing smile is back on his lips. “I call him sometimes. He’ll be back in a few weeks. I’ll need a lot of practice to catch up to him though.”
Kogure thinks that they both know that Yohei is not catching up to Hanamichi. Not until he returns, not until winter, and not in the next two years. Maybe trying is enough.
Kogure looks into the gym through the half-open door, where Mitsui is a blur of red on the court. Like wildfire, untouchable. He shoots, arm straight and wrist flicking elegantly, right at the three-point line, and he grins even before the ball reaches its highest point. Sweat runs down the side of his face and he wipes it with the back of his hand. He doesn’t look over to the door.
“I should stop coming,” Kogure says.
“Can’t stay away, huh?”
Mitsui catches a pass from Miyagi and lines up another shot. Bounces up, body in a perfect line, straight shoulders, outstretched arm. He makes it look so easy it’s hypnotizing.
Kogure turns back to Yohei. “I really should. I guess you won’t?”
Yohei grins up at him. “Someone has to look out for him.” He adjusts his grip on the bottles and starts walking. “So is Sunday alright for you?”
“We can meet at twelve in front of the school. It’s a ten-minute walk from there.”
“See you then!” Yohei hurries off to the outside sinks, which is probably smart considering how long he’s letting Miyagi wait.
Kogure looks after him, then back to the door. It’s nice to see someone who has not given up yet. In a way they switched places, now Kogure is the one always watching from the outside while Yohei is on the court.
Rukawa blocks Mitsui’s next shot and drives past him. Something flickers up in Mitsui’s eyes and he sprints to follow him.
Kogure tries to swallow down the sudden jab of pain in his chest. Maybe it’s better that he’s not on the team anymore.
The breeze picks up and pulls on Kogure’s shirt, colder now that it gets dark. Kogure shivers but stays, fingers tight around the strap of his bag and eyes fixed on that gap in the door. It’s definitely becoming a habit.
⋅ • •────── •⋅ ☀︎ ⋅• ──────• • ⋅
“And you really won’t tell him?” Yohei asks, while idly dribbling the ball next to him.
It’s getting colder now that September is coming to an end, and Kogure has to put on a sweater when they sit down on the low stone wall next to the court. The air is crisp and smells faintly of the dry, brown leaves the wind drags rustling over the asphalt.
Yohei has been getting better. He makes up for his height with his athleticism—his body seems to almost instinctively pick up on the motions. Maybe he has pent-up energy, now that he had to give up the back alley fights with delinquents from other schools that are usually a head taller than him. Kogure can’t help but feel a bit relieved, for his sake.
“He has the Winter Cup to worry about,” Kogure says. “The preliminaries start next month already.”
“Don’t remind me,” Yohei groans and shoots. The ball hits the backboard and drops in. “He’s talking about it all the time. Miyagi too.”
“See? And for Mitsui, it’s the last chance to get the attention of university teams.” Kogure catches the ball Yohei passes to him. “He’s missing all of our study sessions, so I guess he’s relying on that.”
Yohei laughs and moves in closer to defend. “When he’s not talking about basketball he’s talking about you,” he says. “How you’re studying too much. And that it was more peaceful with you around.”
“Is he still butting heads with Miyagi?” Kogure goes for the three-pointer—the ball passes over Yohei’s hands and rattles in the metal net. It’s not as satisfying as a regular one, but at least playing with Yohei keeps him from getting too rusty. “Anyways. I don’t want to distract him.”
“Tell him after the tournament then,” Yohei says.
Kogure sighs and lets him dribble past. “We’re both guys, so it doesn’t matter either way.”
Yohei makes the layup and catches the ball. “You know, if he plays well in winter and still doesn’t get a girlfriend…”
“He’s already in love with basketball,” Kogure says.
Yohei snorts. “Or Anzai-sensei.”
They both know it’s not gonna happen, but Yohei likes to talk about it like it could actually be real. Kogure sort of hates how it makes his stomach churn every time, but lets him talk.
It’s easy to be optimistic for others—encouraging Sakuragi’s basketball talent, Mitsui’s return, maybe even Yohei’s pining. When Kogure tries for himself, all he sees is the jarring face of reality.
Besides, who knows where Mitsui will end up next spring? Maybe on the other end of Japan, or overseas, like Miyagi always talks about. It’s better to not waste too much energy dreaming.
“But you’re friends, right?” Yohei asks.
Kogure bounces the ball to Yohei. “I– yeah. It was weird for a while, and it’s not like two years ago,” he says. “He’s training most of the time now.”
“He asked me how you’re doing.”
“What did you say?”
“That he should ask you himself.”
Kogure chuckles. “Maybe he’ll show up to our study sessions for once to ask.”
“If you keep avoiding him, maybe he will,” Yohei says.
“I’m not avoiding him,” Kogure says and shoots. The ball bounces off the rim.
Yohei grins and runs to pick up the ball. “You know, I’m ninety percent sure he likes you back,” he says, passing it back to Kogure.
“You’re projecting, you know that, right?” Kogure shoots another three-pointer over Yohei’s head. “Let me get over him in peace. Or ask out Sakuragi so you can spend your time and energy on him instead of Mitsui and me.”
Yohei rolls his eyes. “That’s different,” he says. “He likes Haruko.”
“And Mitsui doesn’t like me.”
“I know what people look like when they’re in love,” Yohei says. “I’ve seen it fifty times. Have a little faith in my skills.”
“Your skill is looking very closely at Hanamichi for all of middle school,” Kogure says and shakes his head, laughing. “And like you said, he’s not very subtle. No wonder you figured him out.”
“And you.”
“That’s- alright, fine. I guess,” Kogure huffs. “Your elbow is too far out when you shoot.”
“You should know how lucky you are that you didn’t have to watch Mitsui fall in love with fifty girls.” Yohei laughs, though it sounds a bit hollow. He lines up another shot, this time moving his elbow further inside.
“I know,” Kogure says. “He never talks about girls. At least not to me. It’s always been mostly basketball, back then and now.”
Until their third year, Kogure might have been able to convince himself that it was nothing more than infatuation, a middle school crush that just lingered on. But after Mitsui’s return, after Nationals, Kogure knows it’s more. To him at least. It’s something different, bigger. He’s afraid to put it into words, just lets it sit in his chest, undefined and aching.
“Should we play another one-on-one?” Yohei asks.
Kogure hums and passes him the ball.
⋅ • •────── •⋅ ☀︎ ⋅• ──────• • ⋅
Apart from spending Sundays with Yohei and occasionally taking a break in their favorite café with Akagi, Kogure drowns himself in studying. It’s easy—it doesn’t give him time to think about basketball, or the future, or Mitsui. His parents are happy about it at least—they don’t even complain when Kogure comes home late from the extra classes, and eats alone in his room, buried in his textbooks so deeply he can barely taste the food.
It’s fine, his October just isn’t very eventful. He falls into a routine, strict and tightly planned so it doesn’t allow him to spend his evenings in front of the gym anymore. It’s getting too cold anyways.
So Kogure stays late most days, studying in a corner of the library until his neck is stiff and his eyes are dry and basketball practice is over. Like today, it’s already getting dark as he leaves, and he’s about to pass the school gates when he hears fast footsteps approaching.
“Kogure, wait,” Mitsui gasps out when he catches up with Kogure. It looks like he sprinted all the way from the gym, and he doubles over, resting his hands on his knees. His breath forms little white clouds in the air.
“Hey, Mitsui,” Kogure says, with as much cheer as he can muster. He puts his hands into his pockets when a gust of cold wind tears on his jacket and shifts, waiting for Mitsui to speak.
Mitsui stands upright again, still somewhat out of breath. “I was– Kogure, are you avoiding me?”
“I’m not,” Kogure says a little too quickly. “Just busy. Studying.” He manages a grin. “You should get started too.”
“I, uh–“ Mitsui begins, and clears his throat. “I might get to play for Osaka University. Maybe, if I do well in winter. Their recruiter called me yesterday.”
“That’s great, Mitsui,” Kogure says, and tries not to think about how Osaka is three hours away. “And that’s why I have to study and you can get away with just playing basketball.”
“That much?”
Kogure shrugs. “I want to make sure I don’t have to wait another year.”
“It’s weird without you,” Mitsui says. “Different. And there’s a noticeable increase in fights.”
“Miyagi will grow into it. I’m sure it’ll get better.”
“You could come by,” Mitsui tries. It’s not the first time he asks. “Maybe once a week, if you have time.”
“I need to study,” Kogure says. “And I don’t want to disrupt your training routine.”
“You’re not disrupting.”
“You need to focus on working as a team with your core members.” Kogure smiles. “And I really am busy.”
Mitsui looks at him, lips pressed together. Kogure knows what he’s thinking.
You have time to play with Yohei.
Mitsui doesn’t say it. He never says anything about it, but he knows.
Kogure has never invited him, with the excuse that Mitsui would probably get bored after five minutes. And half the time they’re just sitting on the side of the court talking anyways. They can’t exactly discuss his hopeless crush on Mitsui when Mitsui is right there.
The hopeless crush he should be getting over. Considering the way his stomach flutters, that hasn’t happened just yet.
“You’ll come to watch the preliminaries though? Right?” Mitsui asks. “Our first game is next week.”
“I’ll try. If it’s not too far away.”
“And you’re really not mad at me?” Mitsui shifts on his feet. “If I did or said anything–“
“I’m not mad, Mitsui,” Kogure says.
“Okay.” Mitsui’s shoulders lose a bit of their tension though now he’s fidgeting with his zipper. “Then maybe you– I know you’re busy on Sunday, but maybe you wanna come over on Saturday?” He pauses for a second. “Study. Or just watch a movie.”
Kogure hesitates. He wants to get over his crush on Mitsui, but they’re still friends, and they haven’t done much together in a while. Being friends was easier back then, when they had hours to idle around in the hospital. Just the two of them, reading or talking or (to Mitsui’s dismay) studying until the evening sun painted orange squares on the hospital wall and the nurse told Kogure to go home already.
Thinking back it was intense, like when your parents take you somewhere far away on summer vacation, someone there becomes your best friend in just two weeks and then you never see each other again.
Only Kogure did see Mitsui again, even after things fell apart. In school, and walking home, and sometimes on the way to the supermarket, and every time they just turned their heads away awkwardly. Despite that, rebuilding their friendship came naturally, easily almost, with their shared dream of going to Nationals.
And now that’s over and they’re both busy and Kogure feels a strange agitation in his chest whenever he runs into Mitsui in the hallway and ducks away into the next classroom.
“Kogure?” Mitsui asks, and Kogure’s eyes focus again when he realizes he’s probably been just quietly staring at Mitsui. “I know I never showed up to the study sessions, but you know how Akagi gets, and–“
“Saturday sounds good.” Kogure straightens his back. “I’ll be there.”
Mitsui beams at him. “Great!”
Maybe they’ll be fine. Maybe Mitsui feels bad about not spending time with him—not that Kogure made more of an effort. They can be friends, even without being on the same team.
“Already know where you’re gonna go?” Mitsui asks and starts walking. Kogure falls in next to him. “For university, I mean.”
“I think I’d prefer to stay close to Kanagawa,” Kogure says. “Yokohama or Tokyo, probably.”
Mitsui hums. “The acceptance rate in Osaka is higher.”
“Why do you think I study so much?”
“You’re smart.”
Kogure laughs. “Thanks, but just being smart is not enough. I’m not gonna risk failing.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mitsui says. “What do you want to study anyways?”
“Physical therapy,” Kogure says. “I think sports medicine is really interesting. And just working closely with people, helping them get better…”
“That’s really cool,” Mitsui says. “It fits you, I suppose.” He grins. “So I’ll come to you in case I mess up my knee again?”
“Don’t say that.” Kogure nudges Mitsui’s side. “Besides, I haven’t even been accepted yet. So you better don’t get injured.”
Mitsui laughs and raises his hands in defense. “You’re right, you’re right,” he says. “They need me for the Winter Cup.”
“They do.” Kogure sighs. “It’s gonna be hard without Akagi.”
“Hey, have some faith, will you?” Mitsui says, and pouts. He glances over to Kogure. “You will come to watch our first game at least, right?”
“Yeah,” Kogure says. “Sure, I’ll watch.”
Mitsui’s face lights up. “It’ll be weird to see you up on the stands instead of on the bench,” he says.
“Just on the bench?” Kogure huffs. “Who’s gonna sub in when you get tired now?”
“Okay, ouch,” Mitsui says. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. Besides, I go running every morning before school now.”
Kogure raises his eyebrows. “Every morning?”
“Yeah, well, I gotta put in the work if I want to get into university like this,” Mitsui says. “I do get tired in class though.”
“Then I really hope that this whole Winter Cup thing works out for you,” Kogure says with a drawn-out sigh.
Mitsui grins. “Me too,” he says.
They stop eventually, at the corner where they always part ways when they go home together.
“Saturday, at seven?” Mitsui asks.
Kogure nods. “Just the movie then?”
“We’re doing a little extra practice, and studying after all that…”
“That’s alright.” Kogure smiles. “See you then.”
⋅ • •────── •⋅ ☀︎ ⋅• ──────• • ⋅
Kogure arrives five minutes before seven. It’s been a while since he’s been to Mitsui’s house, and he hesitates for a moment before ringing the doorbell. The buzzer sounds a few moments later, and Kogure makes his way up the stairs.
“Hey,” Mitsui says when Kogure gets to the third floor, leaning against the door frame. He looks cozy, in sweatpants and a slightly baggy shirt.
“You look tired,” Kogure says before he can stop himself.
“I’m fine,” Mitsui says, and lets Kogure step inside. “Practice was rough today. Miyagi is really not messing around.”
“We don’t have to do it today.” Kogure takes off his shoes, putting them next to Mitsui’s. “If you’d rather get some rest.”
“What? Hey, no, we agreed to meet up today,” Mitsui says. “I’m alright.”
“If you say so.”
“Think I’ll be too tired to entertain you?” Mitsui grins and leads Kogure down the hall.
“I just don’t want to stand between you and a healthy amount of sleep,” Kogure says.
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Mitsui says and waves his hand dismissively. “I can sleep in tomorrow.”
Kogure looks around the quiet hallway. “Aren’t your parents home?”
“Business trip.” Mitsui shrugs. “You know how my dad is.”
“I think I’ve seen him twice in my life,” Kogure says.
“Sounds about right,” Mitsui says. “He’s been overseas last month, and I think now he’s in Nagoya.”
All the work and business trips seem to pay off though—every time Kogure visits Mitsui, he feels a bit intimidated by the spacious apartment with the high ceilings and large windows. Even the smooth wooden floor looks too expensive to walk on.
“Are you hungry?” Mitsui asks when they get to the kitchen.
“I already ate earlier,” Kogure says.
“Good,” Mitsui says. “I tried to cook, but…” He gestures sheepishly to the stove.
Kogure can’t find any polite words for the undefinable mess in the pan, so he stays quiet.
“That bad, huh?” Mitsui says, but he laughs. “I have snacks though.”
“Snacks sound good.”
⋅ • •────── •⋅ ☀︎ ⋅• ──────• • ⋅
Mitsui falls asleep within the first ten minutes of the movie. Kogure doesn’t blame him—he looked tired after all, and he did mention getting up early to go running every day. No wonder he’s exhausted.
The movie is some generic action drama with lots of explosions. If Kogure wasn’t convinced that Mitsui has absolutely zero romantic interest in him, he’d say it’s a movie to watch in the background while you make out.
Now though Mitsui is peacefully snoring on the couch next to Kogure, his face squished against the cushion. One hand rests on his stomach, the other dangles off the side of the couch. His fingers move as he dreams, like they miss the weight of the ball. Occasionally his eyebrows twitch, and he mutters something that sounds like ‘pass already’.
Kogure can’t focus on the rest of the movie, not that it was interesting to begin with. He goes to the bathroom at some point, staring at himself in the mirror while he washes his hands, looking weirdly pale and tired in the cold, white light. He comes back to the living room then and stiffly sits back down on the couch. When the credits roll Mitsui is still sleeping, and Kogure’s chest feels so tight it hurts.
Maybe this was the last time, like this. The Winter Cup is right around the corner, and Kogure has university application exams in February, and by the time spring fully unfolds Mitsui will be gone. In a new city, with a new team, and Kogure will still be here, wishing that they could have had a few more days in the hospital, or just one more game at the Interhigh.
It’s a strange mix of panic and defeat that wells up in him, and Kogure quickly gets up to rewind the movie.
“Kogure?” Mitsui says, drowsily from the couch behind him.
“I should go,” Kogure says, kneeling in front of the TV as the VCR whirs. “It’s past ten.”
“Shit. I’m sorry,” Mitsui mutters. “I really didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
“It’s alright.” Kogure stands up, but he can’t bear to look at Mitsui. He stared at him long enough this evening. “See you next week.”
He’s out of the room before Mitsui can get up. Kogure hurries, as much as he can without actually running. Ignores Mitsui calling after him, down the hall, fumbles with his shoes, then he’s out the door.
When the night air finally hits him Kogure takes a deep, shuddering breath.
He can’t do this.
It hurts too much, Mitsui was trying to be nice and Kogure can’t stop thinking about kissing him and he’s a horrible friend and he has exams coming up and he has been avoiding him and Mitsui’s gonna leave, he’s gonna leave.
Despite being out of that room Kogure still can’t breathe.
⋅ • •────── •⋅ ☀︎ ⋅• ──────• • ⋅
Kogure still comes to watch all of the Winter Cup games, of course he does. Shohoku makes it through the qualifying games, though it’s a close call against Kainan especially, and Kogure’s fingers hurt after tightly gripping the edge of his seat for the entire game.
Akagi’s absence is noticeable, but the others work well together, better than in the summer. Miyagi leads them well, Rukawa seems to improve with every game, and Sakuragi becomes a crucial player now that he doesn’t make beginner mistakes anymore. Even Yohei gets to play in two of the games, and he grins up at Kogure when he gets subbed in.
They lose in the quarter-finals. It’s a tough game, against one of the favorites for the title. Mitsui misses only two shots in the entire game, and he cries when they line up. And that’s it, for Shohoku, and Mitsui’s high school basketball career. In the end, you can only go so far without a proper center and a bench as weak as Shohoku’s.
Time after that passes in a blur. Winter fades into March, Kogure has taken and passed his entrance exams, and suddenly it’s their last day already. They’re sitting on tightly spaced, uncomfortable chairs in the gym, listening to the principal’s speech drone on and on.
Mitsui is sitting next to him, back straight but he hasn’t looked up to the stage even once. He passed his finals too in the end, not with impressive grades but that won’t matter when he’s on the court.
“Hey, Kogure,” Mitsui whispers, and nudges Kogure’s side with this elbow.
Kogure half-turns his head. “Yes?” He can still see Mitsui’s toothy grin from the corner of his eye.
“I’m going to Osaka.”
“That’s amazing,” Kogure says, with a smile. “Congrats.” He can’t quite match Mitsui’s excitement, but if he notices, he doesn’t show it.
“Akagi said you’re studying in Toyko?” Mitsui says, and his voice is no longer resembling a whisper. A few of the students in the row in front of them turn around to glare at them.
“Yes,” Kogure mutters back. “Now be quiet.”
Mitsui ducks his head but doesn’t seem bothered. He’s still grinning. “Then can I talk to you? Afterwards?”
“About university?”
“Just wait, okay?”
Kogure nods and turns his attention back to the front—mainly out of politeness. The principal is still talking, about their futures, their potential. Kogure has to admit he starts zoning out.
⋅ • •────── •⋅ ☀︎ ⋅• ──────• • ⋅
Kogure loses sight of Mitsui as the crowd pushes them outside after the ceremony. They spread out a bit as they leave the building, but everyone is running around, chattering excitedly, so Kogure just decides to wait by the school gate, leaning against the brick wall. Mitsui has to pass here eventually.
It’s a mild spring day, warm for March. Too early for the cherry blossoms, but first leaves are already sprouting from the trees surrounding the school, yard sun-dappled through them. It’s a nice last day, one that you can remember fondly when you look back on your time at school. A nice day to say goodbye. Maybe that’s what Mitsui wants to do, Kogure thinks, as he searches the crowd with his eyes.
He spots Mitsui then, in the middle of it. A group of girls surround him, swarm him, bold hands on his arms, grabbing at his shoulders. Mitsui grins brightly and doesn’t push them away. They point to his chest, to the button there that glints in the sun. Mitsui laughs and says something Kogure can’t hear.
It’s not surprising. Shohoku did well in winter, and Mitsui is popular, maybe even one of the most popular third graders. He’s tall and handsome and talented, and though he doesn’t have a fan club as large as Rukawa’s, since the Interhigh there’s been a growing number of girls that confess to him or giggle when he walks past them in the hallway.
Still, somehow graduation day is even worse than Valentine’s Day. It’s everyone’s last chance, so it makes sense they’re shooting their shot.
Kogure waits. And waits. And Mitsui is still talking.
Whatever it is Mitsui wants to tell him, about university or basketball or Osaka, he could have told him some other time. But it had to be now, and now Mitsui’s not even trying to hurry. After they barely talked all winter.
Kogure waits. Presses his lips tightly together and waits. He can’t move, like he’s stuck in thick syrup up to his knees. One of the girls hands something to Mitsui. Maybe a letter, maybe a phone number. Mitsui shakes his head but takes it.
And in a few weeks Mitsui will be hours away, in a new city, playing for a new team. He’ll be even more popular, surrounded by popular people. People that are just as good as him, just as attractive, just as interesting.
Maybe like that, he’ll fully forget about Kogure. And Kogure is standing here, alone, still waiting for him. He feels stupid. So damn stupid.
And the worst thing is that it hurts. So much. And then, in April? Mitsui will be gone, and Kogure will stay behind and miss him like crazy.
In a way, he is just like those girls. Desperately trying to get a second of attention from someone unreachable. Only that Kogure can’t confess, or flirt with him, or even tell anyone but Yohei.
Mitsui is still somewhere in the crowd. Kogure rolls back his shoulders. This isn’t doing him any good. With each minute he waits, hopes, still clings to Mitsui, Kogure aches.
He can’t stay stuck in a middle school daydream forever.
Kogure deeply inhales the sweet-smelling air, turns and leaves.
His anger fades when he’s about half of the way home, but Kogure can’t turn back now. It’s better this way, easier for both of them. Mitsui can move away, and he can focus on his future. Kogure keeps walking, home and up the stairs, shuts the door to his room and starts packing.
⋅ • •────── •⋅ ☀︎ ⋅• ──────• • ⋅
“You picked your friends wisely,” Yohei says as he sets down the last cardboard box on the living room floor of Kogure’s new apartment. It’s small, feeling cramped with all the boxes around, but it’s not too expensive and somewhat central at least.
“That’s not–“ Kogure starts, but then notices Yohei’s teasing grin and drops it. “Thanks, really,” he says, turning to Akagi who sat down on the couch he and Yohei carried up the stairs with surprising ease. “I’d offer you tea but–“ he gestures at the stacks of boxes. “–all my stuff is somewhere in there.”
Yohei snorts at the apologetic smile and drops down next to Akagi, stretching out his legs. “It’s fine,” he says. “I’ll take your basketball lessons as payment.”
“I’m glad they were useful in the end,” Kogure says.
“They were great,” Yohei says. “I mean, Anzai let me play. And I made what, nine whole points?”
“Maybe you’re a genius too.”
Yohei laughs. “Oh no, I don’t think so,” he says. “I feel like I just scored because Hanamichi prefers passing to me instead of Rukawa.”
“Either way, you really improved,” Kogure says.
“Thanks to you.”
Akagi clears his throat and sits up. “Kogure,” he says, in the tone he puts on when he has to talk about something he’d rather avoid. “Are you and Mitsui alright?”
“Huh?” Kogure coughs. “Yes? I guess?”
“He thinks you’re mad at him. I don’t know.” Akagi lets out a sigh, brows knitting together. “He gave me this? His new phone number in Osaka I suppose.”
Kogure takes the small, folded-up piece of paper from Akagi’s outstretched hand. Unsure what to say he unfolds it and stares at the number with the Osaka area code, written unusually readable for Mitsui. Still, he recognizes his slightly scribbly handwriting from hours of studying together. Kogure’s chest aches at the memory.
“Kogure?” Akagi asks, pulling him out of his thoughts.
“Uh, thanks,” Kogure says. “Right. I’ll call him.”
“Look, it’s none of my business, okay?” Akagi says. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“We’re fine, really,” Kogure says. “I guess he just forgot to give me his number on graduation day. You saw how busy he was.” His small laugh sounds a little forced, but Akagi doesn’t seem to notice.
Akagi hums. “He just seemed– well, it doesn’t matter.” He pushes himself off the couch. “I’ll get going. You probably want to start unpacking.”
“Right. Yeah,” Kogure says, still a bit awkward. “Thank you again for helping me carry all this.”
“No problem,” Akagi says and grabs his jacket. “I’ll see you on Saturday?”
Kogure nods. “See you then.”
Akagi looks over to Yohei, who just waves his hand. “I’ll leave in a bit. Don’t wait for me.”
“Alright,” Akagi says, and leaves with a small nod to Kogure.
As soon as he’s out the door, Yohei turns to Kogure with a grin. “Come on.”
“What?”
“He gave you his number,” Yohei says.
Kogure looks down at the piece of paper in his hand. “I suppose.”
“Don’t act like that’s no big deal!” Yohei pulls his legs onto the couch.
“You’re acting like it’s a marriage proposal,” Kogure says. He folds up the piece of paper, putting it next to his phone, already plugged in and working on the windowsill.
“But you’ll call him, right?” Yohei asks. “He wants to keep in touch.”
“I will,” Kogure says. “Later. I guess we can call once in a while to catch up, now that I won’t see him every day anymore.”
⋅ • •────── •⋅ ☀︎ ⋅• ──────• • ⋅
Later that night, Kogure sits on the couch, phone in one hand, the piece of paper in the other. Smiles slightly at Mitsui’s awful handwriting and starts entering the number, but then he stops, his thumb hovering over the call button. What would he even say? Something about his upcoming classes, or his tiny apartment full of boxes? He should probably also apologize for leaving on graduation day, if Mitsui even noticed that.
Maybe Mitsui was just being polite when he gave Akagi his number, or just wanted to say goodbye.
Would Mitsui be interested in what he has to say if it’s not about school or the Shohoku team? If it’s just him?
Some people drift apart if life doesn’t force them together—Kogure knows. There’s a part of him that isn’t sure if he’ll be interesting enough to keep Mitsui’s attention. That little voice that tells him that their conversations might dry up into awkward silence until one of them comes up with an excuse to hang up.
I should get to bed.
Hey, the battery is almost empty.
I gotta get to practice.
Kogure’s hand tightens around the phone, his thumb slides over the buttons, not pressing down.
Maybe that’s it. Mitsui is in Osaka, busy with basketball, competing with the best young players in the country—and Kogure isn’t one of them. And they’re gonna drift apart until they have nothing to talk about anymore.
Kogure puts the phone back down. The screen lights up and sounds a cheerful short jingle, then it goes dark. Maybe he’ll just call Mitsui some other time. It’s late and Kogure is tired, and he should start unpacking anyways.
⋅ • •────── •⋅ ☀︎ ⋅• ──────• • ⋅
University keeps Kogure busy—so busy that he puts off calling Mitsui again and again. The classes are fun at least, more demanding than in school. Kogure joins a small basketball team with some fellow students that trains on Tuesday and Thursday evenings after lectures. It’s good to get away from his desk, and Kogure didn’t want to stop with basketball completely anyways.
There’s less at stake now, but they’re decent. Surrounded by players like himself, who are not aiming for the top of the world. It’s comforting and oddly depressing at the same time, some days he misses the ambitious speeches about becoming the best in Japan. High school was for dreaming big, and he made it to Nationals with Akagi and Mitsui. Now that’s over, and Kogure moves on. When it comes to himself, he’s a realist after all.
He meets up with Akagi sometimes too, exploring the cafés in his neighborhood until they settle on a small, cozy place ten minutes away from Kogure’s apartment. Once every few weeks they catch up in Kogure’s favorite corner, and Akagi complains about the group project he has to do while Kogure tries his way through the menu of sweet and colorful drinks and tells stories about his classes or his basketball team when Akagi is done ranting about the lazy members of his group that he’s stuck with for the entire semester.
Akagi doesn’t mention Mitsui again, and Kogure is eternally grateful for that. He’s always appreciated Akagi’s ability to read the room—as well as his complete disinterest in other people’s drama.
Kogure thinks about calling Mitsui, now and then. He should congratulate him maybe. Or just ask how he’s doing. They are friends, or at least something like that after everything that happened. But then Kogure thinks back to graduation day. And how it still hurts to think about him. After a few weeks, Kogure puts the little piece of paper into a drawer and tries to focus on other things.
What use does it have to think about what could have been, if Kogure said something. Maybe in that room in the ryokan in Hiroshima, or one of the times when they were alone in the clubroom after everyone else left. Every time Kogure imagines it, all he can see is Mitsui giving him a pitying look and an awkward, stiffly polite rejection.
Not that it matters now, or back then. Kogure knows he wouldn’t have said anything.
Still, Kogure can’t fully avoid Mitsui, because he starts appearing in the basketball magazines Kogure reads. First, it’s just a mention of his name, buried in a wall of text in the university sports section of the June issue. Next month there’s a whole paragraph, and then an article with a picture, in his new jersey. Promising new player. Pro player material. Shooting guard genius. Middle school MVP. That’s what they write about him. Kogure keeps it on his nightstand for a week, until he tells himself to get it together and puts it on the shelf with the others.
He’s fine, really. Missing Mitsui has become a dull, throbbing ache somewhere in the depths of his chest. A stray bullet that lodged itself into him, not life-threatening but buried so deep it cannot be removed. It’s a constant thing, he carries it throughout his day and occasionally gets reminded of it, when he sees Mitsui in a magazine, or plays basketball, or looks at his phone and the drawer with Mitsui’s number hidden inside. Or when he talks to Yohei or Akagi, or when he visits his parents and walks past the convenience store where he and Mitsui stopped by sometimes on their way home.
Then the dull, distant pain turns sharp for a second, until Kogure pushes it down again. There’s no use missing Mitsui when he probably doesn’t even think about Kogure anymore. So yeah, he’s fine.
Kogure’s fine, but after visiting his parents at the end of summer break when he walks back to the train station, he turns to walk along the sea, almost automatically. He justifies it by calling it the more scenic route. Which is true—the evening sun glitters on top of the waves, and Kogure breathes in the salty breeze. It’s easier than going by the convenience store with its flickering neon signs and its memories.
He misses living right by the sea, having the beach within walking distance. Kogure stops and watches the waves roll over the wet sand, pushing and pulling white foam along in their gentle, unbothered rhythm.
“Kogure!” a familiar voice calls out behind him, and Kogure turns around, snapping out of his thoughts.
Yohei waves, just a few meters behind him. Sakuragi is next to him, his bright red hair impossible is miss. It’s slightly longer now, glowing like copper in the sunset.
And they’re holding hands—fingers intertwined as Yohei pulls Sakuragi along, towards Kogure. It’s a bit odd, seeing two guys holding hands, though it’s getting dark already. And Kogure can’t believe anyone would start a fight with Yohei and Hanamichi—one glare from either of them and most people would change the side of the road. This open display of affection—it makes Kogure ache in a way he’s pushed away for the last few months.
“Hey, Kogure,” Yohei says when they reach him. “Haven’t seen you around in a while. How is it going?”
He’s never seen Yohei this happy. He usually has a faint, carefree smile curling his lips, but right now he’s practically beaming, grin as bright as the evening sun.
“Let go,” Sakuragi whispers, but Kogure still hears it because Sakuragi is terrible at whispering. “Four-eyes is looking.”
Yohei doesn’t let him shake off his hand. “It’s fine. He won’t mind.”
“How can you know that?”
“I think he should tell you that himself.”
Kogure smiles back. “I see you two–“ he gestures to their intertwined hands.
Yohei’s grin widens even more. “Oh, yes. About a month ago. I knew right away.” He throws a fond glance at Sakuragi. “I guess I’ve seen him fall in love a few times.”
Sakuragi’s cheeks turn red.
“Took him a whole week to confess,” Yohei says and laughs. “I admit I teased him a bit.”
“Don’t tell him all that,” Sakuragi hisses. “Yohei, you ass.”
They look so natural together, leaning into each other, laughing and bickering, and suddenly Kogure feels like an intruder on a private scene. “Uh, I gotta catch my train,” he says, which is true at least. It’s past six, and the train ride back to Tokyo takes over an hour.
Yohei turns back to Kogure. “Oh, alright,” he says. “Call me, okay? We should play again sometime.” Then he pauses. “You did call Mitsui, right?”
Kogure shifts from one foot to the other. “Uh, not yet, no,” he says. “I was really busy.” It’s a lame excuse, he knows. “Besides, now it would be weird to call, right? It’s been months.”
“It’s not weird,” Yohei says. “Really. I promise he’s gonna be happy if you reach out.”
“You can’t know that,” Kogure mutters.
Yohei lets out a sigh. “He gave you his number,” he says. “He wants you to call him”.
“That was months ago.”
“You wouldn’t be mad if he called you, right?” Yohei pats Kogure’s arm. “Think about it, okay?”
Kogure nods stiffly. “I- yeah, okay. I’ll think about it.”
“Good.” Yohei grins, then he lets Sakuragi pull him along. “And let me know when you’re in Kamakura again, okay? We’ll play one-on-one. I’ve improved.”
“I’ll call you,” Kogure says, looking over his shoulder as they leave. Sakuragi leans in, animatedly talking while Yohei laughs quietly. Their hands are still tangled together, swinging lightly as they walk. Kogure stares at the street corner where they disappear behind for a long time.
He wants to see Mitsui. Not just call him, not look at the photos in the magazine. He needs to see him again.
⋅ • •────── •⋅ ☀︎ ⋅• ──────• • ⋅
And like that, two weeks after meeting Yohei, Kogure is on the Tokaido Shinkansen to Osaka, and a few hours later he drowns in an ocean of navy and white, the crowd cheering loudly around him.
He feels a bit lost, small under the high ceiling with the bright white lights illuminating the polished wood of the court. Kogure holds onto the railing, leaning in to watch Mitsui below.
Mitsui is beautiful when he plays—the way he rushes over the court, passes, shoots. His form is still better than textbook—he makes it look so easy with how effortlessly he moves. The flick of his wrist, the tension in his body when he jumps. He seems weightless for a moment, floating as the ball leaves his hand.
Kogure can tell he’s improved in the last few months, his movements are more fluid, faster—more controlled than they were in high school, and he’s even more mesmerizing than back then.
The whole crowd seems to hold their breath as soon as the ball rolls off his fingers, like they don’t want to miss even a second. It’s addicting, Kogure knows, the way Mitsui’s brows furrow and his eyes narrow until a grin spreads on his face when he knows the shot will go in. That vivid, uncontained passion has always been contagious.
He’s kept the number 14, now in dark blue on his back. Maybe he chose it for nostalgia reasons, or maybe it’s just a coincidence.
And Kogure watches from the sidelines, just like he did, back in middle school. He almost laughs at how pathetic it is—admiring someone way out of his league. He’s always been unable to keep his eyes away from Mitsui, whether he’s playing or not, ever since that district finals game. Even on a court full of talented university players, Mitsui stands out.
Like wildfire, bright and scorching, and Kogure wants to get burned. It’s just like back then.
Only now it’s not just about basketball anymore.
This time Kogure knows Mitsui. This time Kogure loves Mitsui.
And this time, Mitsui looks up and meets his eyes.
Right after he shoots, he finds Kogure somehow, up there in the stands, in the crowd of hundreds of fans. Mitsui doesn’t even watch the ball swish through the net, just stares up at Kogure with wide eyes.
Kogure fights the sudden urge to duck away into the crowd but he’s squeezed tight between the shoulders of the people next to him, exposed in the bright lights. Somehow he thought he could come and go unnoticed, just get back on the train again after all this. He almost regrets getting a spot in the front row, but it’s too late now. And if he left he could never look Mitsui in the eyes again. So he stays, right where he is, hands so tight on the railing that his knuckles turn white.
Mitsui glances up again and again. He finds Kogure every time, somehow. Maybe because he’s the only one not waving and cheering—that one quiet, motionless spot within the waves of the crowd.
Osaka wins, 108 to 105, after a tense back-and-forth in the last few minutes of the fourth quarter. The hall erupts as soon as the buzzer sounds, and Mitsui’s gaze doesn’t let him go. ‘Wait,’ he mouths up at Kogure, while his teammates surround him and throw their arms over his shoulders. They shake him and jump around him, cheering, but Mitsui’s eyes don’t lose Kogure in the crowd. He looks serious, almost anxious, tight lips and furrowed brows. ‘Wait,’ he mouths again. ‘Wait.’
⋅ • •────── •⋅ ☀︎ ⋅• ──────• • ⋅
Kogure does wait, again, leaning against a wall by the exit. Mitsui will probably find him here, Kogure thinks, aimlessly drawing lines with his shoe on the rubber floor.
He waits for maybe ten minutes, then Mitsui stumbles around the corner, pulling his training jacket over his shoulder. His lips part slightly when he sees Kogure, hurrying towards him. “You’re here,” he says, a bit breathless when he stops in front of Kogure.
Mitsui’s eyes dart to the side, hesitating for a second, then he grabs Kogure’s shoulders and pulls him into a tight hug.
Kogure honestly didn’t expect to be greeted like that—not after the last few months. He tenses for a moment, then he gives in and lets himself melt into the hug, presses his face against Mitsui’s shoulder. His body is warm, chest rising and falling, still slightly out of breath. Kogure closes his eyes and inhales deeply. Mitsui smells like dried sweat, but Kogure doesn’t care. If he did move on in the past few months, he just got pulled back all the way.
“You’re here,” Mitsui mutters again, breath tickling in Kogure’s hair. Then he steps back, grinning awkwardly. “I didn’t shower yet– I’m sorry, I just–“
“It’s fine,” Kogure says, and can’t help but smile. He really doesn’t mind—they spent a lot of time in locker rooms together. Mitsui smells familiar somehow, like this. “You were great out there.”
“Thanks!” Mitsui’s shoulders ease a bit. “It’s pretty competitive, even more than in high school. The last quarter was crazy, right?”
“You played the entire game too.”
“Oh, haha,” Mitsui says and pulls his face into an exaggerated pout, though his eyes are sparkling. “I’ve been doing so much cardio, the first two weeks were hell. The head coach was chasing me around all day. I spent hours on the treadmill.”
A group of people approach them, laughing and chattering. Mitsui gently pulls Kogure out of the way to let them pass, and they push open the door, their conversation fading out when the door falls shut again.
Mitsui’s hand lingers on Kogure’s arm, squeezing slightly before he lets go, and Kogure swallows around the tightness in his throat. Mitsui doesn’t seem mad or upset at least, and Kogure tries to think of something to say that isn’t horribly awkward.
“So,” Mitsui says, before Kogure can come up with something. “Do you have a place to stay in Osaka? It’s way too late to go back now.”
“No, I came right here from the station,” Kogure says. “I was just gonna get a hotel room. Do you know anything cheap?”
Mitsui’s grin widens. “I know the cheapest in town. It’s free, dinner and breakfast included.”
“I don’t think that’s–“ Kogure starts, then he realizes. “Oh.”
“If it’s okay? I don’t mind.” Mitsui says.
Disagreeing to that offer would be genuinely stupid. The train tickets were already expensive enough, and Kogure still has to eat for the rest of the month.
“Alright,” Kogure says. “Yeah– uh, thanks, Mitsui.”
“No problem.” Mitsui straightens and adjusts the bag on his shoulder. “Let’s go?”
Kogure nods, following Mitsui who pushes open the door. It’s already getting dark, street lights flickering on over them, pale orange against the deepening blue sky. They walk next to each other, streets mostly empty, with no sound but their footsteps on the sidewalk and the occasional car that rushes past them. It’s a mild evening, still, Kogure shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket.
“You seemed pretty popular out there,” Kogure says then. “For someone in his first year.”
Mitsui chuckles. “Guess so,” he says. “It’s mostly the team’s reputation though. They’re well-established and all that.”
“Mhm.”
It’s quiet again, until Mitsui turns left and towards an apartment building—a tall block with grey walls and tightly spaced windows. “It’s nothing fancy. I just wanted to live close to the gym,” Mitsui says as he gets out his keys. “And it’s affordable enough.”
He leads Kogure up the narrow stairs, to the second floor, where he stops in front of a plain, white door. “Here it is,” Mitsui says, unlocking it and letting Kogure inside, before pulling it shut behind him and toeing off his shoes in the genkan.
“I would have cleaned up if I knew you were coming,” Mitsui says, grabbing a few crumpled shirts from the couch.
“It’s alright, really,” Kogure says.
It’s a nice apartment for a student, slightly more spacious than Kogure’s back in Toyko, with a light wooden floor and white walls, bare except for a few basketball posters.
“I’m bad at decorating,” Mitsui says, grinning. “I had a bunch of plants too, but they keep turning yellow after a few weeks.”
“You live alone?” Kogure asks, and looks around the room. There’s a slightly worn couch in one corner, across from it a table with two chairs and a door leading to the kitchen.
“The rent isn’t that bad. I can afford not having a roommate.” Mitsui hangs up his jacket and offers to take Kogure’s with an outstretched hand.
Kogure decides to drop the ‘why on Earth don’t you have a beautiful girlfriend’ implications and hands Mitsui his jacket. Maybe he does, and she just has her own apartment. Not that it’s any of his business.
“I’ll take a quick shower, alright?” Mitsui asks. “You can look around if you want.” He grins, then disappears into one of the rooms. A bit later Kogure hears the muffled sound of running water.
Kogure sits down on the couch, leaning back against the cushions. It gives him some time to realize what he’s doing here. When he got on the Shinkansen he’d never expect to end up like this. He just wanted to see Mitsui again, watch him play, and now he’s in his living room, staying the night. He thought that he’d be fine just watching Mitsui from afar. Maybe he was wrong.
Mitsui comes out of the bathroom after a while, in sweatpants and a fresh shirt, hair damp over his forehead. “Wanna help me cook?” he asks.
Kogure grins, because he needs to get rid of this awkward tension somehow. “Oh, so the free dinner included means I have to make it myself.” He pushes himself off the couch and follows Mitsui to the kitchen.
Luckily Mitsui picks up on it. “Hey, it’s still free,” he says, turning to Kogure from the fridge. “Besides, you’re a better cook than me.”
Kogure lets out a breathy snort. “Thought you’d improve living alone for five months.” He nudges Mitsui to the side, looking into the fridge. “Let me see what you have.”
“I did improve.” Mitsui huffs. “It’s been weeks since I burned something.”
Kogure takes out a few vegetables. The carrots look a bit wrinkly, but still edible. “Peel and cut these for me, okay?”
“Oh, I’m being degraded to cutting duty in my own kitchen?” Mitsui says, tone teasing, but his eyes are soft. He takes the vegetables out of Kogure’s hand and sits down at the table.
“You said yourself I’m better at cooking,” Kogure says. Laughs. He’s feeling bold, almost giddy. He grabs an onion and tosses it to Mitsui, who catches it out of the air easily. “Besides, I have to earn my stay apparently.”
“Don’t make me feel like a bad host,” Mitsui says and starts peeling the carrots.
Kogure chuckles and sits down across from him with a cutting board. He grabs an onion. “You’re not, don’t worry. This is much nicer than a hotel room.”
Mitsui smiles, and Kogure quickly looks back down to the onion he’s cutting. For a while, the kitchen is quiet again, apart from the sound of knives sliding on wood.
"I thought the glasses would protect you from the onions,” Mitsui says then, when Kogure rubs his stinging eyes with the back of his hand.
“It really doesn’t work that way,” Kogure says. “It’s in the air I think.”
“Want me to cut the rest?” Mitsui asks.
Kogure blinks a few times and lets his glasses slip back down. “I’m almost done anyways,” he says. “You can cook the rice if you want.”
“I think I’ll manage to do that without burning anything,” Mitsui says. He gets up and starts rummaging through his cupboard.
A bit later there’s a simple curry simmering on the stove, and Kogure settles on the couch while they wait for the rice to finish.
“Tea?” Mitsui says, and puts a cup down on the table in front of Kogure.
“Thanks.” Kogure wraps his hands around the warm ceramic. He holds it close to his face and blows on the rippling liquid, letting the steam fog up his glasses.
“I told you you’re a better cook than me.”
“You didn’t even try it yet.” Kogure takes a sip. It burns his tongue.
“It smells really good though,” Mitsui says and sits down next to him.
“I’ll sleep on the couch,” Kogure says, before Mitsui gets the idea to offer him the bed. “Or do you have a spare futon?”
Mitsui opens his mouth in protest, like Kogure expected.
“I just showed up here unannounced,” Kogure says, before Mitsui can say something. “Besides, you’re too tall for it.”
“So are you.”
“You’re taller.”
Mitsui sighs and leans back. “Alright then,” he says. Silence settles in for a moment, before Mitsui speaks again. “I missed you.”
Kogure stares at the cup in his hand, the steam rising softly from the brownish liquid, curling in the air before it fades. He can’t lie. He’s lied to himself about this too many times. “I missed you too.” He feels it now—right next to Mitsui—more sharply than in the last few months.
Mitsui is looking at him, Kogure sees from the corner of his eye.
“Kogure,” Mitsui says quietly. “Why are you here now? I told Akagi to give you my number, but you never-“ He pauses. "You never called?”
What is he supposed to say? I didn’t think you’d care that much? Thinking about you still hurts? Talking to you hurts, looking at you right now hurts. Maybe he should have stayed away. The gap between them only feels wider now. Kogure tilts his teacup back and forth, watching the reflection of the ceiling light dance scattered over the liquid’s surface.
“I think I heard the rice cooker,” he tries, but it comes out half-heartedly. He doesn’t even make a move to get up.
“Are you mad at me?” Mitsui asks. “I mean, we’re friends, right? Even after what happened.”
“I’m not mad.” Looking back, he was never mad at Mitsui for long, even after the whole gym fight thing. Disappointed and hurt and then hopeful, sure. There was a small burst of anger, when he grabbed Mitsui and the weight of the last two years finally exploded. But he’s always had a hard time staying mad at Mitsui.
“You didn’t wait for me,” Mitsui says. “After we graduated.”
“I left after a while,” Kogure mutters. “You looked busy.”
“I thought that- you, know, because of Yohei. And you left because you figured out what I would say.”
Now Kogure turns to look at Mitsui. “Yohei?”
“Aren’t you two- I don’t know.” Mitsui waves his hand helplessly. “A thing?“
“He’s dating Sakuragi. I met them two weeks ago. Took him long enough.” Kogure smiles. “He was always moping around about it when we were playing.”
“Oh,” Mitsui says.
“You don’t mind, do you?” Kogure asks.
“No, I’m- I don’t.” Mitsui clears his throat. “Uh, you’ll stay for breakfast, right? Tomorrow?”
Kogure smiles. “You said breakfast was included too,” he says. “If it’s okay. My train leaves at eleven.”
Mitsui pulls on the hem of his shirt. “I’m not doing anything tomorrow,” he says. “It’s- I mean I like having you here.”
“I’ll stay for breakfast then,” Kogure says.
“You’ve never been a very selfish person, have you?” Mitsui asks and rubs the back of his neck.
“I try not to be.”
“Maybe you should be sometimes. I’ll feel bad otherwise.” Mitsui lets out a breath and gets up. “Wait here for a second.” He disappears into what Kogure assumes is his bedroom. Kogure waits and puts his tea down on the table. It’s lukewarm now, anyways.
Mitsui comes back just a few moments later, with a barely suppressed grin on his face. “You like me,” he says when he sits back down next to Kogure. “You were jealous, back then. You said I looked busy. With all those girls.”
Kogure stares at him.
“Oh my god, please tell me I’m not wrong about this.”
“You’re not,” Kogure says flatly, because there’s really no point in denying it now, not when Mitsui just laid out the one thing he’s been trying to hide for years. Not even asking him, just saying it outright, like it isn’t Kogure’s biggest secret. “I liked you since our first year.”
“And you still do?”
“Yes.”
Mitsui exhales. “I wanted to give you this. Back then after graduation. I suppose it would have been selfish, right before going to Osaka.”
He places a piece of paper in Kogure’s open hand. “My phone number again. Call me this time. And-“ he takes out something else.
Kogure looks down at the small, round object in his hand. “A button.”
“I- yeah. The second button. Of my uniform.” Mitsui says, like Kogure hasn’t worn the same school uniform for three years. He looks to the side, and Kogure can make out a hint of pink dusting his cheeks. “Is it weird that I kept it?”
“Oh.” Kogure still stares at it, small and gold and familiar.
“So?“ Mitsui shifts. “I mean- What do you say?”
“You still wanted to tell me?” Kogure asks. “Despite thinking that I was dating Yohei, and you moving away?”
“I- look, I’ve been keeping all this in for years. I thought- I mean if you understood, I could just get over you and we’d still be friends.” Mitsui grins awkwardly. “And I guess I hoped that I was wrong about you and Yohei after all.”
“Is this a ‘I used to like you’ confession or a ‘I still like you’ confession?” Kogure asks, voice calm though he feels like his throat is closing up.
Mitsui swallows and his tongue flicks over his lips. “The latter.”
Kogure is quiet for a moment. This is what he wanted—what he’s been dreaming of for years.
Mitsui likes him back—still likes him after all these months. And yet. “I just- I don’t know if I can keep up with you, Mitsui.”
“What?”
“You’re so-“ Kogure makes a vague gesture with his hand. “You’re here, playing basketball. You have so many fans. You’re in magazines and all that.”
“So?”
Kogure gives him a pained smile. “Am I not a bit boring?”
Mitsui tilts his head, brows drawn together. “No?” he says, after a few beats of silence. “What, because you’re not playing university basketball, or aren’t in… magazines?”
“I just- I don’t know. Compared to you. Do I fit into your life like that?” Kogure mutters, drawing invisible lines on the couch cushion. “I always imagined you with someone really exciting.”
“You’re not boring, Kogure. Not at all.” Mitsui laughs quietly. “And I thought you were the smart one of us.” Mitsui shuffles closer and wraps his fingers around Kogure’s wrist, thumb gently rubbing over the skin on the inside, right over his palm. Kogure looks up at his flushed cheeks and the urgency in his eyes, and can almost believe it himself.
“And I’m back in Tokyo,” Kogure says.
“I know the Shinkansen isn’t cheap but… We’ll be fine. And you have my phone number now, too.“
The smart, rational thing to do would probably be to politely reject Mitsui. He could still call him, as friends. But they live hours apart, and university takes up most of Kogure’s time. He should probably get a part-time job too.
“What about your career?” Kogure mutters. “This could cause problems for you if it comes out.”
“I’ll manage. Really, Kogure.” Mitsui’s hand tightens around his wrist. “I missed you so much. I was about to get on a train at least three times but I don’t know where you live. And Akagi didn’t want to tell me.”
Mitsui looks at him, expectantly. The button in Kogure’s hand feels warm. He closes his hand around it and feels the round edges dig into his palm.
He has plenty of excuses, of reasons to say no. His rational side screams at him to say no, to say let’s just stay friends. To avoid hurting Mitsui, his career, and himself, in case it all goes wrong. And still. He wants to say yes so, so badly.
Mitsui’s fingers nudge hesitantly against Kogure’s hand. When Kogure doesn’t pull away they slip in against his palm, warm and slightly calloused, intertwining their fingers and squeezing lightly.
“Okay.” Kogure lets his head dip forward, against Mitsui’s chest. “Yeah, okay.”
“And call me,” Mitsui says. He buries his nose in Kogure’s hair. “Please. When you get home.”
“Okay,” Kogure says again. His voice sounds strange in his ears, foreign, and his chest feels lighter than it has in years. “I’m sorry for… all that.”
“It’s not your fault,” Mitsui rests his other hand on Kogure’s back. “God, I barely talked to you all winter.”
“It’s a little bit my fault,” Kogure says, and Mitsui laughs breathily at that, his chest shaking slightly.
“I was just worried I messed up again,” Mitsui says. “When you didn’t call. You were avoiding me in winter, right?”
Kogure snorts. “Yeah,” he mumbles into Mitsui’s chest. “Sorry.”
“And you stopped watching our practice,” Mitsui says.
“You noticed that?” Kogure looks up.
“Yeah.” Mitsui smiles. “Miyagi was giving me shit ‘cause I looked over so much.”
“It was getting really cold,” Kogure mutters.
Mitsui nudges his arm. “You could have come inside, you know?”
“I guess, but-“ Kogure starts, then he freezes and jumps up. “I forgot the curry!” he calls, already halfway to the kitchen.
⋅ • •────── •⋅ ☀︎ ⋅• ──────• • ⋅
“Well, I’m glad I’m not the only one who’s burning stuff,” Mitsui says, scrubbing black flakes from the pan.
“The part that wasn’t burned tasted fine,” Kogure huffs. “Besides, you distracted me.”
"The potatoes were a bit too mushy, but otherwise it was great.” Mitsui chuckles and leans in closer so his arm brushes against Kogure’s, and well, Kogure just can’t stay mad at Mitsui.
“Where did you get the idea about me and Yohei anyways?” Kogure asks and puts another plate on the drying rack. “Just because we were playing basketball together?”
“I mean, that was all you did besides studying,” Mitsui says. “Yohei showed up to practice one day and made a bunch of three-pointers in a row.” He chuckles. “Miyagi asked ‘What the hell happened to you?’ and then Yohei started talking about all the private lessons you gave him.”
“He improved really quickly,” Kogure says. “I guess all that fighting gave him the athleticism.”
“Didn’t do that much for me,” Mitsui says with a snort. “Then again Yohei is a better fighter than me. He kicked my ass back then.”
Kogure sighs and shakes his head. “Well, I’m really glad you both picked basketball over fighting in the end,” he says.
“God, me too,” Mitsui says and puts away the last plate. “By the way, did you bring everything you need? I probably have a spare toothbrush somewhere, and a shirt.”
“No, I got everything,” Kogure says, nodding to his bag. “Do you wanna get ready for bed?”
Mitsui shrugs. “I’ve been up since six, and I get tired after games,” he says. “I’d probably pass out if we watched a movie or something.”
“Like that one time last winter?” Kogure starts pulling a shirt and sweatpants out of his bag. “You know, I thought it was supposed to be something like a date back then. Until you started snoring.”
“I’m so sorry about that,” Mitsui groans, dragging a hand over his face. “It was- I’m not sure. I thought about, I don’t know, putting my arm around you or something, but I probably would have chickened out again.”
“Again?” Kogure asks and pulls his shirt over his head.
Mitsui’s face twists. “Don’t even ask,” he says. “At some point I just decided to confess after graduation.”
Kogure smiles. “Waiting until the last possible day, huh?”
“Yeah, well-“ Mitsui starts, but pauses. “What’s that?”
Kogure looks down at his shirt, to where Mitsui is pointing. “A dog, I think.”
Mitsui snorts. “I missed your weird shirts.”
“Weird?” Kogure drops onto the couch, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Come on,” Mitsui says, and laughs. “You won’t really stay on the couch, right?”
“I think I will. You called my shirts weird,” Kogure says, but he grins when Mitsui grabs his hand, and lets himself get pulled off the couch and into the bedroom.
“This is way more comfortable,” Mitsui says when they’re both under the blanket, the room dimly lit by the lamp on Mitsui’s nightstand.
Kogure hums and shifts so he can look at Mitsui’s face. It really is better than the couch. This entire evening is better than what Kogure would have possibly imagined when he got on the train.
“Why did you come now?” Mitsui asks.
“I just-“ Kogure starts. “I wanted to see you. I don’t know.” He bites his lip. “I didn’t expect my trip would end like this, honestly.”
“Did you plan to actually talk to me?” Mitsui grins at him.
Kogure rolls his eyes. “I was still debating on that,” he says. “You seemed so… far away on the court.”
“I’m glad I saw you.” Mitsui shifts a bit closer. “God, I’m glad you waited for me this time.”
“Are you going to hold that against me forever?” Kogure asks. “Leaving on graduation day? And not calling you too, I suppose.”
The smile on Mitsui’s face is so soft that Kogure might just forgive himself. “No,” he says.
“Thanks,” Kogure says and smiles back.
“Can I-” Mitsui cuts off, and lifts the blanket, opening his arms. “I mean, do you want to?”
Kogure nods and shuffles closer until he’s pressed against Mitsui’s chest, and feels warm arms wrap around him.
“Stay until Sunday,” Mitsui mutters. “I can show you around town.”
“I already have my ticket. Tomorrow at eleven.”
“I’ll buy you a new one.” Mitsui’s arm tightens around him. “Consider it a late birthday gift.”
“That’s just a waste of money,” Kogure says. “Really. The ticket was over thirteen thousand yen.”
“Thirteen thousand four hundred eighty,” Mitsui says. “I know. I looked it up a few times.”
“See? Too much money.”
“You can pay me back in kisses,” Mitsui says.
Kogure’s cheeks heat up, and he slowly pulls back to look up at Mitsui. “Okay.”
“Wait, really?”
“Yes,” Kogure says. “How many do I owe you then?”
“Thirteen thousand four hundred eighty.”
Kogure frowns. “No way one kiss is only worth one yen.” Despite his pounding heart he manages a laugh and pokes Mitsui’s side. “Are you trying to insult me?”
“I guess I’m greedy.” Mitsui chuckles. “How about 134 then? That’s doable in a weekend.”
“Sounds good.” Kogure leans in slowly, hesitant at first. Then he presses his lips against Mitsui’s, softly, lingering for just a moment before he pulls back. “One,” he whispers.
Mitsui stares at him for a solid 30 seconds with wide eyes, unblinking. “133 left then,” he chokes out then.
“We don’t have to count,” Kogure mutters. “You can have more if you want.”
“So you’ll stay? There’s a café I think you’ll like.” Mitsui squeezes his shoulder. Looks at Kogure with soft, hopeful eyes. “My treat.”
“Tempting.” Kogure sighs. Oh, what the hell. Making bad financial decisions is part of the student experience, right? “Fine. Who knows when we’ll get another chance for a first date.”
“Don’t wanna think about it,” Mitsui says. “I’ll come visit next month. Or maybe in two weeks. I’ll be free on the weekend.”
“And I’ll call you,” Kogure says. “Promise.”
Mitsui smiles, his hand wandering up and down Kogure’s arm, gently tracing over the skin. “So,” he says. “You read the articles about me?”
“I buy the new issue every month. And I read all the articles.”
“I know, I know.” Mitsui’s eyes sparkle mischievously. “So did you cut out the pictures of me and put them up over your bed?”
“I’m not a teenage girl, Mitsui,” Kogure huffs. He doesn’t see the need to mention that he read the pages about Mitsui more often than the others.
Mitsui pouts.
“Besides, I was trying to get over you,” Kogure adds.
“But it didn’t work.”
Kogure sighs. “No, not at all.”
Mitsui seems immensely pleased with that answer. “Not at all,” he repeats, beaming.
Kogure rolls his eyes and hides his smile against Mitsui’s chest.