Slam Dunk Fan Fiction ❯ Lingering Whispers ❯ Chapter 1

Weekday nights were always quiet, but the seedy neighborhood was especially deserted; most of the little shops were shuttered, metal doors hiding the wonders within. The neon lights were a shadow of their usual cheery brightness, empty tubes floating listlessly in the bath of weakly glowing lamp lights. A few pedestrians glanced at the tall, lanky teenager whose fresh face and easy strides seemed so out of place, but Kogure only noticed the skyline, feet occasionally tripping on the raised sidewalk cracks as he moved.

He stopped in front of a dingy arcade, leaning to the side just enough to peer into the smoky interior. Sure enough, he spotted a familiar sneaker jutting out from the side of a video game cabinet, then his gaze lingered longingly on the weathered hands gripping the controls, the shock of roughly cut hair jerking and darting slightly along with the unseen action on the screen.

Smiling to himself, Kogure backed away from the door and turned down a tiny side street that was more of a battered footpath than a real road. Mitsui would never forgive him if their teammates discovered that his love for Super Piyo-Piyo rivaled his passion for basketball. Masculine fighting games or role-playing simulations didn't pique his interest, it was the brightly colored birds and sweet chirps that held Mitsui captive for hours. Like many things, it was a secret Kogure cherished and kept in the closet of his heart.

He scooted behind an empty dumpster, knowing he was invisible to the street traffic and passers-by, a rarely-felt frown coloring his cheery nature. Lately, Kogure couldn't help overhearing the whispers of the reserve players whenever he stood on the sidelines or the hushed speculation that stopped the second he entered the locker room after practice. Even Ayako was shooting him knowing smiles and making vague proclamations about "team unity".

Kogure couldn't help himself or his own weakness. He couldn't stop watching Mitsui on the court; the three-point shooter was older, wearier, almost like a broken-down old horse sometimes. But whenever Shohoku's future was on the line, Mitsui's true self emerged, as dazzling and as superb as he was when Kogure first saw him years ago; his skin tingled with the illicit thrill of those wonderful memories.

Shohoku desperately needed to work together; to succeed, nothing could jeopardize their National tournament dreams. What if his actions alienated the team, upset the fragile harmony growing between the troublesome starting members? Maybe this private meeting place should also be part of his past, to be savored during the quiet moments when the vice-captain closed his eyes and wished for another dream, unknown to anyone except himself.

"Been waiting long, Kogure?"

Mitsui pressed up behind him, sliding his hands playfully into Kogure's pockets, and the shorter athlete's breath hitched at the jaunty caress of experienced fingers searing his skin through the thin material, the roughened palms slipping inward to rest against the delicious ache suddenly screaming for release. Kogure's unwanted melancholy shrank away into a firm little husk, silenced by the eagerness flowing from one hard body into another.

"You're late," he breathed, placing his hands over Mitsui's to heighten the sensation, rubbing his hips against the answering throb in Mitsui's groin, turning slightly so his forehead rested in the junction between the shooter's collarbone and neck.

They swayed together in the evening breeze, and a lazy hand wandered upward underneath Kogure's shirt, wide open strokes blessing trembling abs and soft skin. "But I was winning," Mitsui pouted and purred, and Kogure sighed at the rich chuckle seeping through him like slow sweet honey.

The hand still gloved in his pocket fisted and pulled, turning Kogure around to face a pair of wickedly amused eyes embedded in a uplifted, challenging stare. Mitsui's sturdy hands moved as one, reaching for Kogure's glasses, grasping the frames and lifting them with a surgeon's graceful touch, pretzeling them neatly and setting them aside. Kogure rushed into the embrace that was like holding a blazing star, hot and moist at the center, breathing in the smoke and sweat and the smell that was Mitsui, as intoxicating as his thick kisses, his jagged hair tickling and giving way under anxious fingers as Kogure's back grazed the concrete wall behind him.

"It's no trouble," Kogure breathed into his neck, "I've waited for you before."

Mitsui froze, and Kogure wondered at the fingertips twitching against his skin before Mitsui pressed his nose against his, the unpadded bones rubbing hard and unyielding, like Mitsui's stormy eyes.

"You shouldn't of had to," Mitsui rasped, his breath hot against Kogure's cheeks.

The taller boy shuddered, and for a heartbeat Kogure wanted to push him away, almost unable to bear the harsh emotions surging through Mitsui's veins, but the moistness shining in his teammate's gaze emboldened Kogure, blunt nails digging into Mistui's chest as they screwed tightly into one another. Kogure took a deep breath and exhaled the shooter's name, entreaty and command all mixed up in a single word.

"Don't make me wait now."

The shooter barked a hoarse laugh and tackled the challenge the way he always did, with everything he had, not holding back or giving a damn what happened later, and with a giddy rush, Kogure returned the fierce sentiment as their fiery wanting bodies slid down together until they bumped into the cool ground, two sets of stiffened fingers tugging at Kogure's clumsy buttons. The angle and lighting made it impossible to see, but Mitsui discovered the treasure he sought, his hands rough and demanding as he burrowed into Kogure's midsection, lips and tongue slick and gentle as his head lowered, embracing Kogure whole. He bit his lip hard, traces of blood splattering his tongue, stifling his cries as he writhed in Mitsui's knowing grasp, curling tightly around Mitsui's heavy build, then lashing out as the violent pleasure arced through him, the heavy groan forcing its way through his clenched teeth downwards to where Mitsui wrapped around him, entwined limbs trembling as he savored every last spasm, every last drop.

They rested together, then Mitsui used his hands for balance, strong arms pushing him up and over until his body fit between Kogure's legs, hands planted by scantily-clad hips. Kogure limply trailed his hands down the twin muscular spires adorning Mitsui's back as he arched inward, catlike grace blending their bodies together as his cum-soaked mouth brushed against Kogure's. He startled a bit at his own salty taste, then rotated his fingers until they pressed down on Mitsui's sensitive spine, urging the shooter to move closer until their bodies blended into a hungry kiss that slowly mellowed into something luscious and true.

Kogure opened his eyes slightly, enough to glimpse Mitsui's face, devoid of raw anger or rage, the scar on his chin enhancing the pure beauty that burned inside him, if one knew where to look. The vice-captain no longer cared about rumors or thought about the worries plaguing him; Shohoku would prevail.

For even the wildest dreams were possible when you were already living one.