He can’t remember walking home, dragging his feet and his backpack, head filled with white noise and eyes unblinking and staring hard at the ground.
On Autopilot back to his house, that afternoon’s match seeming so far away, yet so close he can still hear the disappointed roaring of the crowd.
Why? Why wasn’t anyone there? Why weren’t you there?!
His house is empty, silent, dark and for once he does not mind. He doesn’t mind because right now, like this, he doesn’t mind much at all. Kunimi stares at him, face blank, speaking in a tone so aggravatingly calm, Kageyama wants nothing more than to grab him by the lapels of his shirt and throw him to the ground.
His bag falls from his fingers, half in the hallway, half in his room as he drags his feet, and sits numbly on his bed. Kunimi’s voice is firm. Unyielding. And yet, he sounds so tired. Finished with this conversation before he even began.
His phone vibrates, but he doesn’t care to answer it. Because it’s not who he wants it to be, it’s not anyone bearing goodwill, because why would they? Why would anyone after what has become of him? You don’t listen. To any of us.
He didn’t realise. A childish excuse, he realises now, staring down at his hands as his thoughts spin so clearly in the white noise that is his brain. But it was no excuse. You hold your head up high, and think you're far better than we are. Maybe you’re right. But you have no right.
He had no idea, so he couldn’t stop. Didn’t stop. Even if he realised his words were harsh, that he was cutting deep, he thought it was fine, they could take it. Because in the end they would win if everyone just tried harder. It stops Kageyama in his tracks. Words he has heard before, but the weight they carry overwhelm him, smother him.
It wasn’t that he overestimated. But he had pushed too far, he now realises, forced the boundaries far beyond their breaking point. You tell us we need to get better, go faster, try harder, as if you know anything about us. About me.
He had tested the limits of their endurance and patience until it burned out and left nothing more than a tired bridge, far too brittle for him to ever cross again. If they allowed him to in the first place. You even so as far as telling us how we should feel, as if you even know.
It wasn't that Kunimi was emotionless, as much as everyone else on the team would talk about (would laugh about when he wasn’t there, because Kageyama would ruin the fun, wouldn’t he?). I can’t do this anymore.
It just that he never had a reason to smile around him. You’re poison, Kageyama.
Maybe he was. And I wash my hands of you.
He buries his face in his hands. He can’t bring himself to apologise. Kunimi looks at him like he doesn’t expect him to.
And feels his heart shatter with regret. “I’m not sorry.” Kunimi says, face betraying him for a second, and looking as heartbroken as Kageyama felt.
“I’m sorry.” He whispers, no audience to hear it, no one to accept it.
FILL: TEAM FUKUTOMI JUICHI/KINJOU SHINGO, G
Word Count: 551
He can’t remember walking home, dragging his feet and his backpack, head filled with white noise and eyes unblinking and staring hard at the ground.
On Autopilot back to his house, that afternoon’s match seeming so far away, yet so close he can still hear the disappointed roaring of the crowd.
Why? Why wasn’t anyone there? Why weren’t you there?!
His house is empty, silent, dark and for once he does not mind. He doesn’t mind because right now, like this, he doesn’t mind much at all.
Kunimi stares at him, face blank, speaking in a tone so aggravatingly calm, Kageyama wants nothing more than to grab him by the lapels of his shirt and throw him to the ground.
His bag falls from his fingers, half in the hallway, half in his room as he drags his feet, and sits numbly on his bed.
Kunimi’s voice is firm. Unyielding. And yet, he sounds so tired. Finished with this conversation before he even began.
His phone vibrates, but he doesn’t care to answer it. Because it’s not who he wants it to be, it’s not anyone bearing goodwill, because why would they? Why would anyone after what has become of him?
You don’t listen. To any of us.
He didn’t realise. A childish excuse, he realises now, staring down at his hands as his thoughts spin so clearly in the white noise that is his brain. But it was no excuse.
You hold your head up high, and think you're far better than we are. Maybe you’re right. But you have no right.
He had no idea, so he couldn’t stop. Didn’t stop. Even if he realised his words were harsh, that he was cutting deep, he thought it was fine, they could take it. Because in the end they would win if everyone just tried harder.
It stops Kageyama in his tracks. Words he has heard before, but the weight they carry overwhelm him, smother him.
It wasn’t that he overestimated. But he had pushed too far, he now realises, forced the boundaries far beyond their breaking point.
You tell us we need to get better, go faster, try harder, as if you know anything about us. About me.
He had tested the limits of their endurance and patience until it burned out and left nothing more than a tired bridge, far too brittle for him to ever cross again.
If they allowed him to in the first place.
You even so as far as telling us how we should feel, as if you even know.
It wasn't that Kunimi was emotionless, as much as everyone else on the team would talk about (would laugh about when he wasn’t there, because Kageyama would ruin the fun, wouldn’t he?).
I can’t do this anymore.
It just that he never had a reason to smile around him.
You’re poison, Kageyama.
Maybe he was.
And I wash my hands of you.
He buries his face in his hands.
He can’t bring himself to apologise. Kunimi looks at him like he doesn’t expect him to.
And feels his heart shatter with regret.
“I’m not sorry.” Kunimi says, face betraying him for a second, and looking as heartbroken as Kageyama felt.
“I’m sorry.” He whispers, no audience to hear it, no one to accept it.