[fic] my awesome buddy

title :: my awesome buddy
author :: tongari
characters :: Kabaji, Jirou, Marui
rating :: G
disclaimer :: Tennis No Oujisama is the property of Konomi Takeshi.
challenge :: 'gossip' @ crack_pot
notes :: I still don't know much about Hyoutei yet, only that I'm starting to love them. brought about by recently watching the Hyoutei arc, gekidasa's generosity ('Ka-Ba-Ji!'xD), and ep 118.
summary :: Kabaji gets an earful of excited Jirou fangirling about Marui.



It's like something in a dream: these two boys drifting down a deserted back lane, with all the aimless motion of dandelion seeds riding a lazy summer wind. Even more of a dream if you know them, and you've never seen one of them away from Atobe Keigo's side more than one floor vertically or two rooms horizontally, and you've never seen the other one stay awake more than five minutes outside of a tennis court. Opposites of each other, even their shadows aren't the same size and shape, and one stays silent while the other speaks, filling in excited pauses for breath with a grunt that might or might not sound like 'usu'. Because, really, it's such a pleasant sound even if you don't know what he's saying.

There's so much life in Jirou's voice; as though that's what he sleeps for.

"Uwaaaaah! He's so cool! I can't believe we walked into him just like that!"

Happily, Jirou clutches at his messy blond hair, which does indeed look as though he clutches at it all the time. "Are you sure I wasn't dreaming again, Kabaji? I have an awful lot of dreams you know. I sleep a lot you know.."

"Usu," Kabaji agrees, and then, pausing, realises that he has to add another 'usu' to reply Jirou's original question.

"Aaaaah," Jirou sighs, and his eyes squeeze shut, as though his face has only so much space for his wide, bright grin to flash. "Maruiii Buuuuunta! Wow, doesn't he look awesome just standing there even in school uniform? They really wear those power bands everywhere, do you think that helps them get so strong? Oh, wow, Marui Bunta remembers my name! Well, kind of, at least he remembers I'm from Hyoutei." Kabaji grunts something which Jirou doesn't hear, nor does Jirou see Kabaji looking rather pointedly at the Hyoutei crest pin on the collars of their school shirts. "I wanna play a game with him! Do you think he'll remember me, Kabaji? Did he really say yes and write down my phone number and mention something like 'Text you if practice ends early some day, oi Akaya don't eat my cakes come back here you rascal sorry I'll talk to you later bai bai Akaya I'm going to gum your fingers together'?"

Kabaji's answering 'usu' sounds a little forced and reluctant, as though it pains him to relive the memory.

"Oh," Jirou says, his face falling suddenly as he spins around in the road to face Kabaji - halting their slow, meandering progress along the road - "but I just remembered, he's from Rikkai. I don't think they'd have such a thing as practice ending early. Maybe I should go there and hang around and sort of like wait for him to be free, do you think he'd mind? Is that a good idea, you think?"

"U--" Kabaji clamps a hand over his mouth, unable to stop his usual reaction from slipping out. He peers down at Jirou over the edge of his hand, as though the rest of 'usu' is still inside his mouth and he doesn't want to let it out. Jirou frowns in answer to the knotted curl of Kabaji's dark eyebrows.

"What?" he asks.

Leaves whisper on either side of them, and somewhere in one of the houses, a baby is crying, a television is blasting. Kabaji peels his hand away from his mouth, is silent. He shrugs his massive shoulders and a mountain seems to move; shadows shudder, are still again. When he speaks it's like something coming from out of the ground, a sound deep and rough as echoes off bedrock.

"Don't go on about Marui Bunta so much," he says. "Not where other people can hear you."

The complexities behind his statement fail to hit Jirou. "Why not? It's not like I care about their opinion, is it?"

"People talk."

"Oh, tell me about it, I can hear them even in my sleep, English class is especially bad.. Oh, wait, you mean people talk. Oh." He stares down at the dirt in the flowerbed at the side of the road, in which Kabaji has been scratching a ragged heart-shape with the end of a stick. "You mean.. Ewwwwww! Gross!!"

Ah, this is familiar territory again. "Usu."

"Okay, maybe not gross per se," Jirou admits. "What? Don't look at me like that! I mean, I don't think about that," and he flails his arms around, as though the exertion is the real reason his face is going red, "I mean, I want to play a game with him, is all, and then I want to go to sleep, and maybe if he calls and says we can play another game, I'm good; and if he calls and says we can catch a movie or eat cake or go bowling, I'm good too. You know? Because he's just so cool. It must be so awesome to hang out with him, and have him remember your name, and sometimes run off with his cake. You know. It's this vibe I'm getting off him. Like he could be my awesome buddy, except we never got to know each other."

He sits down on an upturned flowerpot, shoulders sloping forward, spine locking into a familiar curve of sleep-stable autopilot. "People talk," he says, and his voice sounds like he's almost smiling, almost crying. "Is he ever gonna call me for a game, Kabaji? Huh? Or does he think people are gonna talk, too?"

No answer, because it isn't Kabaji's place to answer. He leans against the wall, watches Jirou's head pitch forward little bit by little bit, face shut away by folded hands, the miserable crook of one little finger shadowed at its tip by an overhang of Jirou's sand-coloured curls. And if it wasn't Kabaji and it wasn't Jirou, you'd expect to hear the sound of sobbing, drops splashing on the dry ground; expect the big boy to stay where he was, helpless and still.

But the sound Kabaji is waiting for issues forth after about three minutes; is that of a faint snore whistling out through Jirou's fingers. Kabaji grunts to himself and pushes Jirou's hands away from his face, just to check - Jirou's head bobs forward, eyelashes flicker but do not lift. Smiles, as though he never knew what unhappiness was - and perhaps he doesn't, not when he's asleep. Perhaps that's why he spends so much time there. Kabaji takes his bag, slings it on one shoulder and puts Jirou on the other; then, like a vision from another bizarre dream, proceeds down the road, as though nothing has happened.

Jirou even starts talking again, in his sleep; it's about Marui, of course, and Kabaji knows he'll have to shake the hell out of Jirou to get him to stop, once they get out of this road and meet up with the rest of their friends. Once they get out of this road.. His footsteps slow down, although the extra weight barely registers as a burden to him, and each stride lingers long and low over the ground before giving itself up to the next, and the next. Over his shoulder, Jirou's dream-murmur runs on and on and on, a soothing counterpoint to the excitement of his waking speech.

It really is such a pleasant sound, even if you understand what he's saying.