Updated June 4, 2014
There was no resistance.
No cowering bodies tearing through the exits, no excuses and no alibis.
Fujima didn't neutralize the bomb. He detonated it.
He didn't have to undergo shock, because he wasn't shocked at all. No matter how much the self-controlled basketball manager and captain that was Kenji Fujima denied it, at the back of his mind, he always knew.
He's always felt it.
The way other players would shrink in the face of his impenetrable defensive form, the muscles hard and powerful in his 197-centimeter build. The way he lives with impassionate excellence, betrayed only by black fire in his eyes. The way he would stare at Fujima, like he was stripped off of his clothes, his pride, his sanity, down to the animal that he was. Underneath the flawless sheet of ice, the waters rush into darker depths. And sometimes Fujima was a bit afraid.
Sometimes, he was tempted.
If you don't know Fujima's iron tenacity, then you don't know Fujima at all. He did try, oh, he tried hard. He fought that monster, tripped all over himself trying to fix what was wrong with him. He focused on the team, barking orders and pep talk. He fucked several all-too-willing girls. And when the situation really called for it, he subtly served Hanagata the best helping of the Shoyo High population—girls and boys. He sacrificed basketball. A blasphemy, really.
He swore he would not give up. But Fujima is just as volatile as he is disciplined thus he knew, deep inside, that he was only shortening the fuse as time passes.
So he walks up to him on a Friday night, with a perfectly logical request to discuss and resolve what transpired between them on that Friday night. He steps into the locker room, watches Hanagata's need stare back at him, and locks the door behind them.
And when Hanagata tears off his green Shoyo vest and jersey shorts, when he rids him of the dirt and the filth, when Hanagata wraps four strong and steady fingers around his throat, Fujima understands that he's not giving up, he's just giving in.