When he leaves, he does not think to put a label to it. Nothing quite so final as leaving, at any rate; no, he’s merely stepping out for some fresh air, taking a day off, studying for that important math test next Monday—
As the humid wind brings the rainy season, sweet and sticky and a slow blur on the horizon, Ikejiri Hayato digs into the depths of his wardrobe and finds a wrinkled jacket. He smooths it out, flips it round and runs his fingers over the words printed on the back. Karasuno High School spelt out in white is still clean, clear as day. It is not washed out, cracked like it would be if he had worn it often and again, and tossed it into the laundry so many times over. It doesn’t even smell like the gym anymore.
Ikejiri balls up the jacket, hugs it to his chest and sits down. Outside, the light splinters through the branches of the orange tree. There is juice and freshly cut fruit waiting for him downstairs at the living room table.
Drop by drop, the drizzle on the lonely street falls like a confession he never made.
/
”Ikejiri!”
”Sawamura… I’m sorry, today’s just—”
”Don’t apologise. I’ll be waiting for you.”
”Huh?”
”I’ll be waiting for you. To come back.”
/
There are perks, he tells himself, of being just another face in the crowd. Not that he’s ever been one to stand out, or wanted to be; this is fine, up in the stands and near the back. He’s got a mask on today, because he’s always been susceptible to hay fever and the dandelions bloom bright outside the stadium.
He slots himself unnoticed into the thin ranks of Karasuno supporters. They are few, far fewer than the raucous squad spilling into the aisles that he’d seen, years ago, on an old tape in Sawamura Daichi’s living room. It had been Ikejiri, then, who’d pitched forward and stared at the TV with wide eyes and visions of spotlights like stars, said to Daichi, let’s go there together. Karasuno.
Daichi had grinned back, met Ikejiri’s youthful optimism with a determination that never grew jaded.
Well, thinks Ikejiri ruefully. Here they are now.
(And when he’s just another face in the crowd, he can watch Daichi more closely than ever before, heart in his mouth. He knows Daichi will not notice him. It is a tradeoff, Ikejiri dares to hope, he can learn to live with. He’ll have to.)
/
On the kerbside near the basketball courts, Ikejiri clasps his hands together. There’s a fragile heat cupped in his palms that aches, just a little less intense, a little more dull, than the ache he used to carry around for days after Coach Ukai’s training. Days. How fleeting they seem, now that they have turned into weeks. He looks up at the furious sun, smiles at the approaching figure.
Michimiya Yui hands him a soda-flavoured popsicle and flops down next to him. She’s done for the day, her towel round her neck and duffel over one shoulder, volleyball shoes peeking out the top of her bag.
“I saw you watching us,” she says. She leans back on her hands, lets out a long, exhausted sigh.
“I couldn’t very well watch the boys’ team practice,” Ikejiri points out, feeling his cheeks flush pink.
Yui tips her head sideways, gives him an appraising glance. “You miss it, don’t you?”
Ikejiri doesn’t answer. He looks down at his shoes, presses his toes and heels together. The popsicle is wonderfully refreshing. Somewhere beyond the school fence, he hears a whistle, raised voices and pounding footsteps; beside him, Yui shields her eyes and cranes her neck to look.
“Wow. They’re still at it.”
“Yeah,” says Ikejiri. He pauses. “I miss it, Michimiya. But I can’t. I can’t do it any more. I… I realised it when Sawamura said he’d be waiting for me.”
Yui turns to face him. She nods in understanding.
“That sounds just like him,” she says.
Ikejiri grits his teeth. “In that moment, I wanted to say I’d be back. But when I opened my mouth, I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t lie to him. That’s when I knew.”
The hand that reaches out to pat him on his arm is warm. It’s also strong, stronger than he remembers; Yui’s grip is sure and firm, and Ikejiri cannot help but smile to himself, a smile like the pale lavender sunset he once chased. You’ve grown too, Michimiya. You both did.
“I—”
I didn’t. I didn’t. The word gets lost in his mouth, melts like the popsicle in this long, unforgiving summer, and Ikejiri falls silent again. This time, he has no more excuses to give, and all of his reasons elude him, fall apart in that unsteady grasp of his. Drop by drop, like the rain, this time and every other time too.
This time, Yui’s voice breaks into his hesitations. “Sawamura won’t stop waiting, you know. He’s not the sort.”
She’s quiet, matter-of-fact as she gets to her feet, and they hear the foosteps fade as the distance between them keeps on growing.
“I know,” says Ikejiri.
The ache returns, a worn-out promise that still stings in his palms.
FILL: TEAM GRANDSTAND, G
Other Tags: None
Word Count: 879
hello :')
***
When he leaves, he does not think to put a label to it. Nothing quite so final as leaving, at any rate; no, he’s merely stepping out for some fresh air, taking a day off, studying for that important math test next Monday—
As the humid wind brings the rainy season, sweet and sticky and a slow blur on the horizon, Ikejiri Hayato digs into the depths of his wardrobe and finds a wrinkled jacket. He smooths it out, flips it round and runs his fingers over the words printed on the back. Karasuno High School spelt out in white is still clean, clear as day. It is not washed out, cracked like it would be if he had worn it often and again, and tossed it into the laundry so many times over. It doesn’t even smell like the gym anymore.
Ikejiri balls up the jacket, hugs it to his chest and sits down. Outside, the light splinters through the branches of the orange tree. There is juice and freshly cut fruit waiting for him downstairs at the living room table.
Drop by drop, the drizzle on the lonely street falls like a confession he never made.
/
”Ikejiri!”
”Sawamura… I’m sorry, today’s just—”
”Don’t apologise. I’ll be waiting for you.”
”Huh?”
”I’ll be waiting for you. To come back.”
/
There are perks, he tells himself, of being just another face in the crowd. Not that he’s ever been one to stand out, or wanted to be; this is fine, up in the stands and near the back. He’s got a mask on today, because he’s always been susceptible to hay fever and the dandelions bloom bright outside the stadium.
He slots himself unnoticed into the thin ranks of Karasuno supporters. They are few, far fewer than the raucous squad spilling into the aisles that he’d seen, years ago, on an old tape in Sawamura Daichi’s living room. It had been Ikejiri, then, who’d pitched forward and stared at the TV with wide eyes and visions of spotlights like stars, said to Daichi, let’s go there together. Karasuno.
Daichi had grinned back, met Ikejiri’s youthful optimism with a determination that never grew jaded.
Well, thinks Ikejiri ruefully. Here they are now.
(And when he’s just another face in the crowd, he can watch Daichi more closely than ever before, heart in his mouth. He knows Daichi will not notice him. It is a tradeoff, Ikejiri dares to hope, he can learn to live with. He’ll have to.)
/
On the kerbside near the basketball courts, Ikejiri clasps his hands together. There’s a fragile heat cupped in his palms that aches, just a little less intense, a little more dull, than the ache he used to carry around for days after Coach Ukai’s training. Days. How fleeting they seem, now that they have turned into weeks. He looks up at the furious sun, smiles at the approaching figure.
Michimiya Yui hands him a soda-flavoured popsicle and flops down next to him. She’s done for the day, her towel round her neck and duffel over one shoulder, volleyball shoes peeking out the top of her bag.
“I saw you watching us,” she says. She leans back on her hands, lets out a long, exhausted sigh.
“I couldn’t very well watch the boys’ team practice,” Ikejiri points out, feeling his cheeks flush pink.
Yui tips her head sideways, gives him an appraising glance. “You miss it, don’t you?”
Ikejiri doesn’t answer. He looks down at his shoes, presses his toes and heels together. The popsicle is wonderfully refreshing. Somewhere beyond the school fence, he hears a whistle, raised voices and pounding footsteps; beside him, Yui shields her eyes and cranes her neck to look.
“Wow. They’re still at it.”
“Yeah,” says Ikejiri. He pauses. “I miss it, Michimiya. But I can’t. I can’t do it any more. I… I realised it when Sawamura said he’d be waiting for me.”
Yui turns to face him. She nods in understanding.
“That sounds just like him,” she says.
Ikejiri grits his teeth. “In that moment, I wanted to say I’d be back. But when I opened my mouth, I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t lie to him. That’s when I knew.”
The hand that reaches out to pat him on his arm is warm. It’s also strong, stronger than he remembers; Yui’s grip is sure and firm, and Ikejiri cannot help but smile to himself, a smile like the pale lavender sunset he once chased. You’ve grown too, Michimiya. You both did.
“I—”
I didn’t. I didn’t. The word gets lost in his mouth, melts like the popsicle in this long, unforgiving summer, and Ikejiri falls silent again. This time, he has no more excuses to give, and all of his reasons elude him, fall apart in that unsteady grasp of his. Drop by drop, like the rain, this time and every other time too.
This time, Yui’s voice breaks into his hesitations. “Sawamura won’t stop waiting, you know. He’s not the sort.”
She’s quiet, matter-of-fact as she gets to her feet, and they hear the foosteps fade as the distance between them keeps on growing.
“I know,” says Ikejiri.
The ache returns, a worn-out promise that still stings in his palms.