no warnings apply, 415 words sweats i wrote like four different versions of this and this is the most coherent one. sometimes i have more feelings than words.
kouichirou knows regret is a heavy thing, the view from the dugout at the bottom of the ninth, a numbed arm, a cramped leg. a trip to the beach with his best friend during the last days of summer, broken promise lying in the sand between them like an open wound. looking at kaname framed against the sea, salt on kouichirou's lips and the sun in his eyes, things unsaid crowding the soft cavern of his mouth. it's a treasure chest without a key, a map without a compass.
kaname says i can't give up like this and kouichirou says nothing.
*
a year later, they drive up to koshien together to watch the finals, far away from the sea air and the lonely cry of gulls. in some ways it's more of a pilgrimage than a roadtrip, kouichirou's hand folded together on the dash and the sun haloing kaname's profile in a wash of heat and light. the imprint of it is stark on kouichirou's eyelids when he closes his eyes, but it always is. kaname is always there, between thoughts of stretching regimens and grip adjustments, natural as breathing. kouichirou wouldn't know how to stop thinking about him if he wanted to.
kouchirou's had so many lessons to learn and relearn in the last year, working his way up from the bottom on a new team, in a new place. he knows now that even when he isn't carrying the ace number, that weight never leaves, branded between his shoulder blades. failure and regret, a montage of things he could have done differently, the dangling thread of their pact to meet on the field as equals. use it for fuel or throw it away. dwelling on mistakes means repeating them. he's doing better, he is.
kaname shifts, fingers tapping the wheel to the beat of the song on the radio. kouchirou watches him, neatly buzzed hair and tanned hands, permanent furrow of his eyebrows making him look older than he is. this is a pilgrimage because they're both moving on.
later, they'll sit in the stands together, shoulders pressed tight and hands interwined between their knees. kouichirou figures kaname knows better than most what it's like to leave his heart out on the field and neither of them are here to collect debts. there's a prayer pressed between their palms, small and bright. this place and this dream are no longer attainable, but it's not the end, not for baseball and not for them.
FILL: team daiya no ace, G
sweats i wrote like four different versions of this and this is the most coherent one. sometimes i have more feelings than words.
kouichirou knows regret is a heavy thing, the view from the dugout at the bottom of the ninth, a numbed arm, a cramped leg. a trip to the beach with his best friend during the last days of summer, broken promise lying in the sand between them like an open wound. looking at kaname framed against the sea, salt on kouichirou's lips and the sun in his eyes, things unsaid crowding the soft cavern of his mouth. it's a treasure chest without a key, a map without a compass.
kaname says i can't give up like this and kouichirou says nothing.
*
a year later, they drive up to koshien together to watch the finals, far away from the sea air and the lonely cry of gulls. in some ways it's more of a pilgrimage than a roadtrip, kouichirou's hand folded together on the dash and the sun haloing kaname's profile in a wash of heat and light. the imprint of it is stark on kouichirou's eyelids when he closes his eyes, but it always is. kaname is always there, between thoughts of stretching regimens and grip adjustments, natural as breathing. kouichirou wouldn't know how to stop thinking about him if he wanted to.
kouchirou's had so many lessons to learn and relearn in the last year, working his way up from the bottom on a new team, in a new place. he knows now that even when he isn't carrying the ace number, that weight never leaves, branded between his shoulder blades. failure and regret, a montage of things he could have done differently, the dangling thread of their pact to meet on the field as equals. use it for fuel or throw it away. dwelling on mistakes means repeating them. he's doing better, he is.
kaname shifts, fingers tapping the wheel to the beat of the song on the radio. kouchirou watches him, neatly buzzed hair and tanned hands, permanent furrow of his eyebrows making him look older than he is. this is a pilgrimage because they're both moving on.
later, they'll sit in the stands together, shoulders pressed tight and hands interwined between their knees. kouichirou figures kaname knows better than most what it's like to leave his heart out on the field and neither of them are here to collect debts. there's a prayer pressed between their palms, small and bright. this place and this dream are no longer attainable, but it's not the end, not for baseball and not for them.