All Over Again - Chapter 15: Chapter 15

Ruth hadn't been dribbling the withered, sorry-excuse-of-a-basketball across the empty blacktop for very long before she realized shooting hoops just wasn't working.
Her distraction lacked a voice, a conscience, or proper company. She thought finding her love for the carefree sport again would help in relieving the urge of wonder in the base of her chest, but it did no such thing. So she tentatively listened for the advice of her grandfather in the wind, waiting for him to make the decision for her, and received nothing in return but silence. Much to her dismay, he was as silent as the stars on a midnight canvas, no brighter than the yellow bulbs painted on Vincent van Gogh's Starry Night masterpiece.
No part of her body wanted to believe that writing held no importance to her. Looking at the flyer earlier that day had reverted her back to square one and there was nothing she could do about it. It was stuck in her spiderwebbed mind and no matter how harshly she pulled and tugged, the thoughts just wouldn't give. They demanded to be devoured, digested, and forced out onto paper.
She wrinkled her nose at the thought and pushed her hands up with the ball, using the tips of her fingers to push it the rest of the way towards the hoop.
Toilet bowl, Ruth thought, watching as it fell through the net and down towards her opened palms. Way to reflect, Ruth.
"Nice shot."
Ruth froze up instinctually, alarmed at the unsuspecting voice behind her. She spun around on her heel immediately, wanting to make sure she wasn't hearing things, and was more than surprised to find an opal-haired boy with woodsy eyes as he walked leisurely towards her, both hands shoved in his pockets. The black t-shirt he wore earlier was gone, replaced by a white sleeveless shirt. His beaded necklace shimmered brightly against his warm, honey skin directly at the center of his broad chest. Her gaze greedily roams over the bronzed strain of grooves and muscles bulging under his skin and her mind stutters.
The faded blue hat laying backwards over his lengthy locks drew her back to life after invisibly drooling over the beautiful angel of a man before her. Well, it was either that or his dark brow twitching upwards.
"What are you doing here?" Ruth questioned, furrowing her eyebrows. She pressed the basketball under her arm harder against her hip. "I thought you couldn't come?"
Raffo effortlessly shrugged his bare shoulders, a faint, crooked smile curling at the tips of his lips. Her soul cracked just a little. "I found time."
His steps towards her were deliberate and slow as if approaching a startled horse than a bewitched girl. It kickstarted her heart into hyperdrive, as sensory overload flooded her body, taken by his natural intoxication. A dark, woodsy spice clung to his shirt like a second skin, his casual breaths reaching her ears next once he's near enough, and the mint tangled in the gum he chewed on touching her tongue as she inhaled sharply when he breathed close enough to her face. The sight of him was a given, but touch happened when he skillfully nudged the basketball off of her hip and dribbled it towards the basket, not once looking back to take in her reaction to his fingers brushing against her.
Unlike Raffo, Ruth's cheeks flushed to an uncomfortable warmth and she watched him stupidly as he made the basket with ease. His small smile of triumph nudged at her heartstrings and she had to remember to breathe.
"You up for a little tournament again?" he called out to her, trying to pull her from the abyss of her mind.
She blinked at him, trying to get her brain to catch up to what was going on so she'd stop embarrassing herself. He might think she was a creep if she continued to stand there watching him wordlessly, so she did her best to come back to the present.
"Sure," she eventually agreed. "Same as last time? A shot for a question?"
Raffo pursed his lips and the calculation behind his gaze made Ruth instantly weary, receiving a moment of silence instead of a verbal agreement. What was he going to ask of her instead?
"I have something else in mind, actually," he admitted, eyes glittering.
Intrigued, Ruth paused, and then tilted her head. "What is it?"
"If I win," he drawled, spinning the basketball on his finger. "You have to join the writing contest."
Her heart sunk down to the pit of her stomach, the whites of her eyes overshadowing her irises.
"Wait . . . how-"
"You left the flyer on the table earlier," he explained easily, interrupting her fair question. "Thought it must have meant something to you."
He wasn't wrong, Ruth thought.
But why do you care if I join the contest?
"That's what you want out of this little tournament? Nothing that'll benefit you?" she rose an eyebrow incredulously.
"Why not?" he shrugged.
"You want me to write 20,000 words. Just for fun. On top of my schoolwork that I have to do."
"You can do it."
"You hardly even know me enough to think I can," she scoffed now, hating that he brought writing back to the forefront of her mind when she was trying to get rid of it.
He tried, and failed, not to smirk at her visible discomfort. She did notice, however, the emotion that flashed across his gaze like a shooting star, hiding behind the eclipse of his mind that he refused to share. "I'm a great observer."
Raffo's making her do this for a reason, that much she figured out . . . but what was the reason? She wasn't naïve enough to believe it's because he cared about her love for the hobby, but she had nothing else to go on. For now, she tucked it away into the back of her mind and deposited it like one does a lost memory.
"Fine," she eventually agreed. She'll just have to win their little tournament. "And if I win?"
He shrugged again. "Up to you."
She didn't need to think about her condition. In fact, it rolled off much too easily before she even had time to really think about it. "If I win . . . then you stop smoking until the contest is up."
Raffo visibly bristled at her condition, his fingers stilling on the spinning basketball. An intense moment stood between them then, their thoughts stuck on the the strange deal that they weren't entitled to uphold. Words were words, just as promises were promises. Words are made to be broken.
They were both at an impasse and both were too competitive, too proud to back out. No matter who would win or lose, they both would stick to their agreement and not try to weasel out of it.
"Fine," he finally agreed, his voice quiet. "Whoever scores ten shots first, wins."
The game was on.
They fairly flip a penny that lied about in Ruth's pocket, landing on Abraham Lincoln's head, which Raffo claimed, so he got to have the ball first. Faces glistening with sweat, curls and silk strands pulled back by overstretched hair ties into messy buns, and a natural fluctuation of eyebrows furrowed in concentration or rising with victory. Tongues swiping across salty lips periodically symbolized their missed shots, but they didn't let that get them down. Not when they were both so determined to win.
Ruth didn't even focus on the way Raffo moved so fluidly with her, mocking one another in a dance only they knew the steps to. Their hips twirled and pivoted in a ring of ancestral acceptance, their legs weaving in and out as if moving to the beats of an invisible drum, and their arms spread wide like an eagle to block.
Ruth at one point even accidently stepped on Raffo's foot more than once, obviously less elegant as the ball player, and by the third time it happened he was starting to wince. She was at seven hoops and him at six when they finally broke their concentration as he dribbled the ball and she attempted to grab it, finding his foot instead.
"Cheater," he breathed, his chest moving rapidly.
"Your foot-" she wheezed. "Is just- in the way!"
He laughed breathlessly, the sound deep and raspy as if sung on old radios and outdated record players. She imagined turning the dial up on the radio or watching his track spin around and around on the platter until she was dizzy with stupefaction. His wordless song momentarily stumped Ruth long enough for him to make his seventh basket.
After another twenty minutes, they were tied up nine and nine, both refusing to let the other one make the final shot. Each prance was met with resistance, each shot being blocked or pushed away from the net. Ruth's body was exhausted. Her bones ached, her breath was long gone, and her crimson cheeks puffed out.
"Homma chia, Ruth," Raffo pointed out, his eyes briefly glancing at the color shading her face.
"I'm fine," she dismissed. She was too busy trying to stay focused on the ball in her hand, slamming up and down against the blacktop.
And then she went for the last score, unware of the plan brewing behind her with the boy who tried to snatch the ball from her.
Simultaneously, they both twisted together, sliding back into their dance. Chest against back, arm against arm, and their hands holding the ball right alongside each other. It was effortless; smooth when they both pushed the ball up towards the hoop at the exact same time with the exact same force power. Their adrenaline matched, both tired and ready to give into their exhaustion, but had enough energy for one more hoop.
Raffo's arm subconsciously wrapped around Ruth's abdomen as she stumbled forward from the impact of his body against hers when they shot the shot together. A sharp gasp left her panting lips as his large, and fairly warm palm, pressed protectively into her stomach, holding her to him before she could fall. His fingertips imprint a blaze of wildfire into her skin, forever stamped there, even after he removed them from her body not long after.
The ball fell into the net.
Both players reached their goal of ten hoops, winning in a tie.
Ruth lurched forward and grabbed the basketball to keep it from rolling away, her heart still pounding senselessly in her chest. She wanted to free the caged birds from her rib cage and unleash the monarch butterflies from the pit of her stomach after just a simple touch, but she couldn't yet. It was too warm, too much of everything she didn't even know she craved from a man she hardly knew.
The wind ruffled her stray curls.
Ruth looked over at a recovering Raffo, whose gaze was stuck on Ruth as he fought to breathe through his fatigue. She swallowed thickly with too much effort, her blurry vision smothered around a face that pushed through that fog. The hairband tying his hair back finally gave out and broke in resistance, allowing his long, black strands to flow and stroke along the color spilling into his huffing cheeks. They fell like pelts of rain into his eyes and flowed like honey, caressing the sides of his neck and over his shoulders.
She tried to mentally tell herself to look away, but she couldn't. She couldn't stand to look away from someone so soft and jagged around the edges where it counted. His lips, full but not fuller than hers, parted like a wilting petal of a rose, and she found herself struggling to find what to say.
It didn't even matter that they ended the game in a tie. Not when everything else mattered. Not when the glint in Raffo's eye made Ruth's stomach flip and whirl like she was doing cartwheels instead of standing across from the boy with secrets. Not when her stomach was still hot from his touch and she was still wishing she wasn't without it.  And certainly not when Raffo finally stood up straighter, with his hands stuffing into his pockets.
"Looks like we both have a bargain to keep up," Ruth was the first to break the silence.
He slowly took a few steps forward, his head bowed with a nod as his gaze briefly fell to the asphalt. She didn't know what he was thinking, but she had an inkling it had something to do with the loss of cigarettes. Though she knew she had no grounds to demand this of him, she still hoped he would follow through.
She wouldn't be able to stand it if he got sick with lung cancer in the future if he kept this awful habit up. Earlier, she had asked him how her joining the contest would benefit him and recognized that it didn't. But she could selfishly admit to herself, that this was more for her benefit than his, and not just because she was pursuing the medical field. She refused to see another victim fall to the death of a cancer-filled stick. Especially not Raffo.
He deserved a longer life without a hole in his throat. She didn't think anyone would be able to bear the sight of that.
"Looks like it," he said, eyes locked on hers. "You're going to join the contest, then?"
She grimaced. The writer within her cheered and sang at getting her devilish way, while the sane part of her was anxiously trying to plan out her schedule.
Somehow, she'll have to find the time. "Yeah, I guess so. You'll quit smoking? At least until they read off the winners of the contest?"
Raffo's bottom lip slid between his teeth. He chewed on it for a second, mulling it over, and then slowly nodded his head as he released the flesh. "Yeah, I'll quit."
To prove a point, he took out the brand new box he must have just paid for before meeting up from his pocket and held it out to her solemnly. His eyes flickered anxiously, which was understandable considering he was choosing to quit cold turkey, but he never wavered. He stood proud, his body language encouraging Ruth to take it away from him openly.
Ruth hesitated. "Wait- Raffo. I don't want to change you or get rid of your freewill to do whatever. If you don't want to quit I'll come up with something else-"
"Take the damn box, Ruth. You aren't changing me. This is just until the contest is over," he said, rolling his eyes. He continued to hold his hand out to her.
Swallowing back her shock, she took the few steps it took to reach him and grabbed the box, her fingers brushing his in the process. Warmth channeled from her fingertips, through the veins of her wrists, and up her arm until it buried itself in the center of her chest. A blush of burgundy blossoms with lotus dreams and carnation fantasies along her hot cheeks, heating her from the inside out. Though both of her fingers cradled the box now, she wanted nothing more than to reach out again and whisk the curtain of silk from his eyes long enough to read what they said to her.
Were they speaking to her now, as they watched her in a still silence? Raffo and Ruth weren't more than a foot away from one another, and it wouldn't hurt to reach a hand out towards his face right? Could that be him silently begging for it? With his lack of moving away? And curiosity sparking in the iris of his eyes?
His lashed blinked long and slow, his head moving just a little closer.
"Raffo, I—" she began, but stilled at the sound of a distant voice yelling somewhere behind Raffo. Her eyebrows furrowed. She frowned in concentration, unsure if she really heard something at first, but then it came again, faintly louder than before.
Raffo turned around that time, confused himself.
"Raffie! Raffie!" A small voice squealed a little more clearly this time, interrupting the moment between the two.
He froze. Ruth looked around his stiffened body, curious about the youthful voice calling out to him. Sugary giggles of cotton candy and startling hazel eyes of soft rivers greeted Ruth's widened eye the closer the child came from barreling over the hill. Her arms were outstretched for Raffo, her wild waves of onyx flying behind her in a frenzy that cascaded to her waist. She couldn't have been much older than ten and stood no taller than Raffo's waist, a petite little thing.
Raffo finally broke out of whatever spell he was under and moved forward, scooping her up with his arm instantly. Though she was all too excited to see him, he didn't seem to share the sentiment, as he chastised her for leaving the house by herself. Her bottom lip jutted out, deflated as she pushed her nimble fingers into his hair.
"Did you tell mom you were leaving?" he demanded, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.
She hesitated at first, then mumbled out a quiet, "No."
"Phoenix," he groaned.
"I just . . . I just wanted to find you before daddy came home. Momma said he left work early."
Ruth watched on in confusion as he sucked in a harsh hiss, completely unexpecting her answer. A cold chip crisped over Raffo's shoulder as he spun around to face me, his feet already retreating before she could ask him what was wrong. The young girl, Phoenix, finally turned her head, her bright eyes looking at Ruth for the first time since their encounter. Her hazel diamonds lit up and shimmered with curious joy.
"Whose that Raff-" she started to ask, but Raffo interrupted her question, blatantly ignoring her. His gaze was urgent, his eyebrows smashed together and lips pulled down into a frown. The boy playing basketball with her only minutes before was nowhere to be seen; replaced by someone unrecognizable.
"I have to go, Ruth. I'll see you later," he rushed, still making his way backwards.
Ruth rose her hand in a puzzled, half-hearted wave, but he was already turning back around. Even when she called back out to him, only Phoenix watched on, stars sparkling in her almond-shaped eyes. "Okay, see you at school!"
Something in her chest told her his reaction wasn't normal.
But Raffo wasn't an open book, and she knew she could never pressure him to get it out. Even when they see each other at school, she could never force him to tell her anything. Obviously, whatever it was, it was personal. And Ruth didn't know him enough to force it from him . . . but that didn't mean she wasn't curious.
Or concerned.