Chapter Text
Outside the Shohoku High School basketball gymnasium, Mitsui Hisashi crouched and watched.
There was Akagi, who looked miles ahead of where he was when Mitsui last encountered him during that fateful practice. It pissed him off to see the once holdback leading the team. His booming voice carried an air of professionalism and leadership that made Mitsui nauseous.
Then there was Kogure. He looked the same, maybe taller, maybe faster. Mitsui’s eyes followed Kogure for a while, unnamed emotions bubbling up within him. Mitsui had once thought of himself as the sun, the center of the universe to Kogure’s basketball dreams. But now here he was, a dying star, and Kogure was none the worse from his absence.
“Hey!” called what must be an incoming recruit. Mitsui watched as Kogure passed the short boy the ball. It was a difficult pass to pull off, but the shorter player made it look easy with the way he weaved in and out of other players. From this distance, it looked like he had the sides and back of his head shaved, the top of his head styled in tall standing curls. His movements were quick and agile, and Mitsui found he couldn’t look away.
The rookie passed the ball to Akagi, who scored with a resounding dunk. The practice game seemingly over, Kogure ran up to the shorter player, speaking in tones Mitsui couldn’t hear but with body-language Mitsui understood clearly. Soft-spoken, kind Kogure, congratulating the shorter one with a friendly hand on his back. The shorter one, waving his hands in a cocky manner, effortless smile painting his face.
Mitsui growled.
“Why are we picking on the basketball team again?” A crony of his asked. It wasn’t until he tried to answer that Mitsui realized how tight his throat was.
“Not the basketball team,” Mitsui corrected. “Him.” He pointed to the short player. “He’s the one we’re going after.”
—
Mitsui waited until the freshman was alone and sufficiently far enough away from the school grounds before approaching.
“Hey shortstop.”
The freshman paused mid-step. He turned suspiciously, one eyebrow raised in a manner that still managed to look profoundly disinterested. Such insolence. Mitsui decided instantly that he despised his target, however random his choosing might have been.
Placing one hand on his hip and cocking it dramatically, Mitsui conjured up his best smug expression. “What could the basketball team possibly want with a runt like you?”
As if on cue, his lackeys’ laughter followed. One of them offered, “Maybe he’s the waterboy?” which only renewed the performance. Mitsui just smirked through it, watching the smaller man’s posture in anticipation for the moment he’d get under his skin.
But the boy with the cocky haircut didn’t so much as budge. Instead, his posture relaxed and he gave a small aborted laugh. “That’s the wrong sport, dumbass.”
Mitsui dropped his pose and squared his shoulders. He didn’t know what the other guy was thinking, but obviously he didn’t recognize his plight. In a voice low and full of danger, Mitsui asked, “What the hell did you just say to me?”
The shorter man turned to fully face Mitsui’s group then, lidded eyes hardening with something like anger. “I said you got the wrong sport,” he repeated. “Shortstop is baseball…” Lazy eyes slid to the side, as if a thought just occurred, before returning to boldly catch Mitsui’s. Like a windup for a throw, the smaller man’s face split into a haughty smile. “Oh, and then I called you a dumbass.”
A sharp spike of anger flared in Mitsui. Without a word, he stepped forward until he and his prey were nearly chest to chest. He had at least five inches on him, and Mitsui angled himself so that the other had to crane his neck to maintain eye contact. Irritatingly, the shorter man did so unbothered.
“I’m Mitsui Hisashi,” he introduced through a fake smile. “You’re on the basketball team, right? A first year. I came here to rattle you up. A little bit.” He paused. “But then you spoke.” Mitsui leaned down, black hair falling free from its place behind his ears. The next words were whispered in the scarce space between them. “And now I’m here to fuck you up. A lot.”
Whatever Mitsui was expecting, it wasn’t the smug smile and almost coy look in the other’s eyes. “What do you have against the basketball team? Didn’t make the cutoffs or something?”
“You little–!”
“I have no business with you,” the shorter boy interrupted nonchalantly, showing his back to Mitsui as he turned away, “so you and your posse can kindly fuck off.”
How dare he ignore me. Mitsui reached out and gripped the other’s shoulder harshly. “What’s your name?” he asked, voice deep.
The freshman reared up, and was about to pull himself out of Mitsui’s grip when his eyes dashed to the side. No doubt Mitsui’s gang was closing in behind him, always having their leader’s back. Confident in his position of power, Mitsui squeezed harder. “I said, what’s your name number 7?”
Mitsui took special pleasure in watching the freshman grit his teeth, the first real sign of discomfort he wrung out of the other. His joy was short-lived though as the freshman put to use what Mitsui was quickly finding out was a smart mouth.
“You watching me or something? Shit, all you had to do was say you were a fan.” Auburn eyes locked onto Mitsui’s like they were issuing a challenge.
Mitsui felt all the hair on his body stand on end. He would destroy this little fucker. He pulled the other closer to him, fist rising. “You–!”
“Is there a problem here?”
Suddenly there was an officer on a motorcycle parked a ways from them. Everyone froze. It wouldn’t do any good if they got into trouble now, not without actually hurting the basketball team, so Mitsui lowered his hand and spoke.
“No officer." He let his eyes trace slow, comfortable lines around the freshman's face, before landing on the other's eyes. "Just catching up with an old friend.” Turning to his gang, he yelled, “Come on guys, it’s getting late! Let’s head back!” The gang retreated, and so did Mitsui, but not before slapping a not-so-friendly hand on the freshman’s shoulder, pointer finger and thumb flirting dangerously with his neck.
The other watched him unafraid, his large eyes distrustful under his heavy lids. Mitsui titled his head and smiled, cheshire-like.
“I’ll see you around, number 7,” was the final threat. And Mitsui had every intention of following through on it.