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I confuse instinct for desire—isn't bite also touch?
—Natalie Diaz, Wolf OR-7
The first blood always tastes the sweetest.
Hanamichi knows this well. White-knuckled, flame-haired, lupine-eyed Sakuragi Hanamichi. Ugly down to the marrow, howling to map the territories he rules with an iron fist. Those who bark at him, he’ll defang before they can come to bite. And he’s ugly, not in the way a self-deprecating child would think upon the sight of their reflection. He’s ugly as in —
Caked in dirt and dust, cheekbone blackened, spitting red triumphantly on the swarm of ants near his knocked-out tooth. Sweet — in a way cough syrup leaves its aftertaste on the tongue. All the other kids fled the playground, save for the boy in a blue shirt peeking from behind the tree. Hair raven-black and falling over his temple, standing in a state of vigilance that almost mirrored Hanamichi’s. Sharp eyes bereft of the fear Hanamichi’s mere presence inflicted on the students at school. He wondered what the view was like from there.
Staring back with one unbruised eye, Hanamichi grinned at the boy as if to say,
Did you see that? See those big guys running? I won.
And he’ll always win the fight. As twisted as it is, being strong attracts the strong and repels the weak. He’s content with leading a pack, though he sees them as something more than that. Something that will step up to the front line for him and keep him grounded, something that knows how to throw mean punches and patch shit up. He loves his group of rascals, and they love him back.
Therefore, the concept of a lone wolf is entirely alien to him. Therefore, when he sees one, he’s bound for curiosity. Curiosity turns into jealousy upon finding out who the lone wolf is, and jealousy escalates to resentment the moment blood spills between them. The first encounter of a dangerous kind. Equal size, equal ferocity. The lone wolf — Rukawa — withstands Hanamichi’s full blow and retaliates.
How sweet the sound of those knuckles connecting with his nose; even sweeter the blood. How shameful it is to be knocked down in front of a doe-eyed girl. How sick it is to be burning and aching for more.
But he can’t help being drawn to it. He’s starving for collisions. The aftermath always keeps him awake, neither sated nor restless. He watches Rukawa leave, Haruko-chan fruitlessly trailing after him. Beautiful things should only look at beautiful things. And Sakuragi Hanamichi is —
Ugly as in wanting someone to look at him and think, I could eat you whole.
The night is bustling with life, yet Hanamichi’s ears are attuned to the sound of Yohei’s footsteps. Not that he needs to be hyperalert of his surroundings — he has left the delinquent life behind. Well, almost. He’s still here, seizing his spare time to watch over his friends, whose pachinko addiction seems to have become a substitute for their fighting habit. Two wrongs don’t make a right, but Hanamichi prefers a less harmful one for them.
“Your match is in a week,” Yohei says, handing Hanamichi a can of coke. “You sure it’s fine to neglect practice?”
“Dumbass. I didn’t—” The soda hisses, “Neglect practice. It’s rest day.”
“Is that so? Weird. You usually sleep like a baby during rest days.”
Hanamichi kicks Yohei’s calf, sending the boy staggering and nearly choking on his drink. “You better be grateful I’m such a great friend! I wouldn’t bother to look after you gamblers if I wasn’t.”
Yohei only laughs, one hand in the pocket of his jacket where the outline of a cigarette pack is faintly visible. Last week, he told Hanamichi that he was quitting. A cop car is slowing down as it passes by the parlor, waiting for some potential ruckus to break out. “All safe!” Hanamichi and Yohei shout in a mocking tone. Long over are the days of running away from the cops after destroying the neighbor school’s gang. Leaving one shoe at the abandoned parking lot, tearing one sock over the chain-link fence.
He had felt like a beast back then. A laughing hound wearing cuts and bruises as a badge of honor. They knew him by his flaming head first, then his cruelty. Or maybe it was the other way around. Doesn’t matter. He touched violence first and let it touch him back, let himself be nursed by the pain. He should be happy it’s all over. He is happy it’s all over.
If it’s the touch that he misses, he can still find it in the basketball he loves. Sweaty bodies bumping into one another, brute force in the shape of teenage boys. Cutthroat in their sportsmanship, roaring their battle cries to the reverent crowd. On the court, physical contact is inevitable — anticipated, even. And if he’s helplessly drawn to it, nothing is at fault here except for his own nature, which he embraces.
It’s a shame, though. Hanamichi doesn’t remember what it's like to be touched outside the game.
“Yohei,” Hanamichi calls, tugging at the hem of Yohei’s sleeve. He knows that Yohei will never do this under any nonlife-threatening circumstance, but— “Will you hit me?”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
A normal man would topple over from the harsh yank of Hanamichi’s hand. A normal man’s tough mask would crumble into dust at the sight of Hanamichi’s bared teeth. But Rukawa is no normal man. The ever-poised Rukawa Kaede, ready for whatever the universe will hurl at him. Their glares meet like two swords clashing, forged steel on forged steel.
Hanamichi parrots. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Admitting the question pertains to him more than it does to Rukawa would be humiliating. And — it boils his blood, the way the tilt of Rukawa’s chin highlights the cruel symmetry of his face. Under Rukawa’s gaze, Hanamichi feels taxidermied. It disgusts him more than losing a match.
And they almost lost the match today.
The grip on Rukawa’s collar tightens. He could easily break away from Hanamichi and shoves him hard onto the sink, but all he does is curl his fingers around Hanamichi’s wrist with meager pressure. Rukawa waits, aware that his silence alone is enough to coax more words out of Hanamichi.
“Why wouldn’t you pass to me?” Hanamichi asks, straining and desperate.
Rukawa shrugs, letting out a deep sigh that readies Hanamichi for an indisputable retort.
“You weren’t yourself.” He tries to push Hanamichi away but the firm arm won’t budge. “What’s up with all those fouls? You missed being a first-year that much?”
There is no excuse for Hanamichi’s poor performance, no matter how hard he tries to fabricate one. He could act childish by riling Rukawa up with a biting taunt, or resorting to a skull-crushing headbutt — but it would only further prove Rukawa's point.
“We were in a fucking pinch, stupid fox. 80-78? We could’ve lost our ticket to—”
“But we didn’t,” Rukawa cuts him off. “You knew we wouldn’t. And I know we’re gonna win again.”
It all has boiled down to this: We. There is no I in team — something about decimating your ego to rule the court, some rhetoric about collectivism as the core of strength. Hanamichi leans on this pillar. Moving from one pack to another, rebounding his way to the top of the hierarchy. Standing a level above him is Rukawa Kaede, who hits frequent buzzer beaters and captivates the crowd. Together, he and Hanamichi seal the terrible fate of their opponents as soon as they step onto the court.
“Aren’t we, Sakuragi?”
The cold beauty, Rukawa Kaede — who teaches Hanamichi a lesson in control by tugging on an invisible leash.
“Fuck off,” Hanamichi snarls. “We don’t have another choice.”
He rears his head, an invitation disguised as intimidation. Dark, nocturnal eyes follow the line of his neck, nails sinking red into the heat of his wrist to keep him in place. It’s appalling. It’s sweet. It’s the kind of touch he has always longed for. Together, he and Rukawa are all canines and claws. Both masters and slaves to their appetites.
Rukawa flips them over to throw Hanamichi against the tiles, then leaves without saying a word.
There are wolves in sheep's clothing, there are sheep who call themselves a wolf, and there are wolves who take pride in being a wolf. Hanamichi silently gives Rukawa credit for being the last.
Somewhere in the middle of the long road, Hanamichi sees himself running far from the starting line and still even further behind Rukawa. A distance that remains wide open.
Hanamichi has always defined Rukawa as half-animal, half-machine. Might not be the first of his kind and certainly won't be the last, but still a rare hybrid nonetheless. A constellation of many wild, dazzling things, Rukawa has already left his mark on future history.
And soon enough, in the bleeding heart of Hanamichi's desires.
There is a rarer instance, too, where Rukawa morphs into an unnameable thing. When Hanamichi finds Rukawa on the rooftop, the crisp autumn wind doesn’t seem to disrupt the boy’s deep slumber. Rather, he looks at peace, with his solitude shielding him from the sun and the rest of the world. Hanamichi takes a front-row seat. Watches the dark curl of lashes subtly flutter against dusty cheeks, hair as sleek as spilled tar. It pains Hanamichi to understand why girls flock to him. But they have never seen Rukawa like this, not even in the classroom where his untimely naps anger the teachers.
Here, Rukawa is everything but a machine. He might be no machine, never was one, in spite of his invincibility — or maybe because of it. A machine could never stomach that much thirst and tenacity. Only a boy could. Looming over him, Hanamichi is the sole witness of this rarer instance where Rukawa could be described as delicate. No red light flaring about, no blade of a knife to dodge from. So close to touch, yet still so far from reach.
“You get along well with Rukawa-kun now,” Haruko-chan says as they walk together to the gym. “That’s a relief. He really is a nice guy, isn’t he?”
At the fondness in her voice, Hanamichi hums. Laments. When it comes to the kindness of others, he can’t rely that much on his own idea. Funny thing is, his friends thought the same thing, though they knew better not to say it to his face. Whether they get along or not, Hanamichi wouldn’t call Rukawa kind. He’s not cruel either. He’s just — Rukawa. A sentence ending with a question mark.
But if getting along means spending the entire afternoon bickering while Hanamichi was waiting for his next rehab session, then maybe they do. Months have passed since, but it was seared into his mind. They ran into each other at the beach far too often for Hanamichi to believe it was all a coincidence. Hell, he couldn’t even overlook the way Rukawa slowed down his pace once they spotted one another from afar.
It was simple. Rukawa took a break from his run, and let Hanamichi grate on his nerves first. Other times he initiated the conversation, telling anecdotes about his training camp in such a deadpan manner that made Hanamichi laugh. An honest, carefree laugh that filled his lungs with sea air. Away from the world’s prying eyes, no witness but the waves and the sand.
There was no hello, no how are you, no see you again. Yet Rukawa’s brief presence chased Hanamichi’s loneliness off and replaced it with a handful of hope.
It was a side of Rukawa’s that Hanamichi didn’t get to see again once they returned to the club. And if they went back at each other’s throats after, perhaps that’s how they were hardwired.
“He’s alright,” Hanamichi says with a crooked smile. “Guess we’re alright.”
For the first time, Hanamichi wins a one-on-one against Rukawa. He’s getting good at reading Rukawa’s movements, but Rukawa’s athleticism will always be one step ahead of Hanamichi’s instinct. Losing to Rukawa is the default state of things, and even now Hanamichi can’t flick off the devil on his shoulder telling him his win was merely a glitch in the universe. With Rukawa, it always feels like bloodsport. Intensity as intimacy. And he should be rejoicing in his once-in-a-lifetime victory, if only he didn’t get the sense that Rukawa was distracted the whole game. But — well, Rukawa be damned. This is worth celebrating. Tomorrow this genius will have something new to show off to the world.
Still. It feels as though he can’t have the last laugh yet. Rukawa sits beside him, head facing skywards with his eyes shut as he quickly regains his breath. Something is stuck inside Hanamichi, meat between teeth.
“Dude. It’s not like you to lose,” Hanamichi starts. “How did you fall for that fake, anyway?”
Rukawa turns to glare dagger at Hanamichi, who’s lying on his stomach. “Can’t you just be happy you finally won?”
“What happened with going all out? You think I’m no longer worthy?”
Irritation starts to surface on that pretty face. “Shut up, big idiot. Why wouldn’t I go all out on you? What made you even say—”
“Fine, fine!” Hanamichi slaps his hand against the ground in mock surrender. “I won. You lost. And I’ll rip you to shreds next time.”
Maybe it’s the dimness of the streetlight playing ridiculous tricks with Hanamichi’s eyes, but he swears he catches Rukawa licking his lip. And he swears, at this very moment, that he could get up and take a bite. Taste it only to spit it out. Between them sits hunger, so enormous it leaves them with no choice but to cleave it in half.
“Yeah?” Rukawa rasps. “I’d like to see you try.”
Hanamichi, despite all the insults hanging on the tip of his tongue, opts to say nothing. For once, he lets the silence speak for him. The sun has set, and neither he nor Rukawa has moved an inch. The sound of Rukawa’s quiet, methodical breathing slowly lulls Hanamichi to sleep, until—
A hand rests on the dip of his spine. Calloused palm brushing the sliver of skin where his shirt rides up. It climbs up to slip into the damp fabric, inching curiously towards the edge of a bandage. Hanamichi stalls, stunned, grunting to his arm in protest — or anticipation. The cold ground is warmed up by the heat blooming in his chest. He can feel Rukawa’s gaze on him, as tangible as the boy’s hand on the expanse of his back.
Here’s one thing they never told him: everything Rukawa Kaede touched caught fire. So does the solid terrain of Hanamichi’s muscles. A trail of fire blazes in the wake of Rukawa’s fingers, dancing from one bandage to another. Claws retracted, no promises of harm. Hanamichi could ask for a little blood, yet all he spits out is a wounded noise and the furtive syllables of Rukawa’s name.
Rukawa leans in, his hot breath an incision across Hanamichi’s nape. “Has it fully healed?”
And if following his instinct means creating a disturbance, that shit runs in Hanamichi’s nature. With a hand balled tightly into a fist, he rolls onto his back and reaches for Rukawa's jaw to pull him down, down. He can learn to be gentler later.
“I sure as hell it has,” he growls into Rukawa’s open mouth, recognizing the same desire flashing in the midnight eyes.
And what could be sweeter than this? He knew they’d always feed off the other like some kind of a natural order. He’ll always be ugly for wanting this all the time. Desire sticking on his palate like cough syrup, with a metallic hint that shouldn’t be stirring his impulse. What does he have to do with the blood that isn’t his, then? To spit it out or to swallow it? To clean it off or let it dry on his skin?
“You’re sick in the head,” The boy above him says with bated breath, a smear of red tainting above his cupid’s bow. White-knuckled, wild-eyed Rukawa Kaede. Pupils blown, a line of teeth revealed in a sparse snarl. His jersey is crumpled in Hanamichi’s loose grip, still clean in a way Hanamichi isn’t.
“Get the fuck off me!” Hanamichi yelps, yet without the slightest effort to push Rukawa away.
“Sakuragi,” Rukawa says again, more glacial this time. Like he’s about to let himself go. “What do you want?”
I want you to lose. I wanna break your heart. I wanna see you cry about it. I want you to look at me. I want it to hurt. I want you.
Rukawa only receives a scowl in return. He snatches the jersey from Hanamichi, eyeing it as if checking for damage, then tosses it on the floor beside Hanamichi’s head. The cedarwood that clings to the fabric still lingers in his nostrils like some sort of a punitive reminder. His shame is heavier than Rukawa’s weight on his waist. Heavier than the look in Rukawa’s eyes that says more than words do.
“Go on, then,” Hanamichi taunts, clawing at Rukawa’s bare knee. “Just say it.”
Somebody has to win the fight. This time it’s not Hanamichi. A warm thumb hooks into his mouth, pressing right at the open cut on his lip to spread the salt there. Hanamichi gasps around the digit. Rukawa shifts and exhales.
“Pervert,” Rukawa says, sharp as a knife sliding between Hanamichi’s ribs. A statement; not an accusation. “What I’d do to you if we didn’t need you on the team.”
“Likewise,” Hanamichi retorts in a near-garble. “Takes one to know one, right?”
The slight twitch of Rukawa’s lips is the closest to a smile Hanamichi has ever seen from him. It’s too much. The light’s too bright, the locker room’s too empty. They should never be left alone together. The things they’d do to each other when away from the world’s prying eyes. There is only one means of doing this: Rukawa’s fingers in Hanamichi’s mouth, Hanamichi’s heart in Rukawa’s mouth. Let their teeth leave evidence of themselves. Bodies as crime scenes. If this violence could pave the way to understanding, then so be it.