#might post this to ao3 as well | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mangoisms · 1 year

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superposition ━ miyuki kazuya in which miyuki isn't the fool in love with his childhood best friend. it's you.

━ completed

━ wc: 27k

━ warnings: none

━ you can read this on ao3 as well

You met Miyuki Kazuya when you were eight-years-old. You didn’t know how to feel about him.

You were introduced to him simply because he was the same age as you and you happened to live a few houses down from each other. It had been an attempt to get you to socialize more, as the move from your home country had severely jarred you. Here you were, in an entirely different city and country with strange new customs and environments. The small, eight-year-old you didn’t like it very much.

The move had all been done in favor of the bakery your parents ran, recipes based on traditional dishes you grew up with. The bakery was right next door to your home and always seemed to be busy. Your father was almost always there, running around, making sure customers were happy while your mother played the entertainer.

They must’ve gotten tired of having to split their attention between you and the bakery because that morning before the bakery opened, she dragged you into the yard, where a short boy with brown hair and glasses waited.

“This Miyuki Kazuya. He lives down the street with his father. Go on, say hello,” your mother tried to coax you out from behind her legs, but you stayed there stubbornly, the fabric of her skirt balled up in your small hands. Your strength was no match against hers, though, and she pried you off her skirt, leaving the two of you in the yard of your house alone.

The boy peered cautiously at you. You realized he was smaller than you and relaxed slightly. Smaller kids were easier to deal with, right?

“Do you know how to play baseball?” he asked suddenly, watching with wide, amber eyes.

You pursed your lips. “Not really. It’s hard.”

Miyuki blinked in surprise. “Hard? No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is,” you countered stubbornly.

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is!”

“Can you throw a ball?”

You stopped, confused at the sudden question. “Of course I can,” you huffed, now affronted. What kind of question was that? Who didn’t know how to throw a ball?

“Then you can play. Come on, let’s go. I left my glove at my house.” He turned and began walking down the street, not bothering to wait for you.

He was annoying, you thought, but you were a little curious, so you followed him down the sidewalk to a two-story home a few houses down from yours, right next door to a factory.

“Wait here,” he instructed then dashed into the house, giving you no time to protest. You pouted, crossing your arms over your chest. Who was this boy? He was so demanding and know-it-all. And you barely knew him, who was he to tell you what to do?

While you were tempted to not listen to him, you stayed there, waiting impatiently for him to return. You glanced around. The factory next door had the sounds of work going on, but you couldn’t see anything and the windows were far too high for you to see. You squinted to read the sign. Miyuki Steel. Did his family own a business, too?

You looked back to the door as he dashed out of the house, baseball glove and ball in hand. He held up a hand, signaling for you to wait as he ran to the factory and popped his head into the doorway.

“I’ll be home in a little while, Dad!”

There was no audible response, but he turned back around anyway, walking back towards you. He tossed you the ball, which you clumsily caught with a scowl on your face.

“Does your family own a business, too?”

“My dad,” he corrected. “He makes machines. It’s cool.”

That was kinda cool, but you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing you agreed.

“Are you gonna work there, too? When you’re grown-up?”

“No way. I’m gonna be a professional baseball player.” He turned to grin arrogantly at you. “Hey, hurry up. We need to get a good spot at the park.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you muttered, mood souring quickly at his bossiness.

Miyuki shrugged. “That’s what catchers do for their pitchers.”

“I’m not a pitcher,” you protested, following him reluctantly across the street after you glanced both directions, something he’d totally failed to do before crossing. “I wanna be a doctor.”

“That’s boring.”

You scowled, stopping on the sidewalk and dropping the ball unceremoniously onto the ground. “I don’t want to play, then.”

“Fine, then.” He continued walking towards the park, barely sparing you a glance.

You stood there for a second, casting a glance at the baseball still resting at your feet, then at your house that was quite a ways back. Squinting, you could see the bakery right next to it, the door swinging open and closed as people entered in quick succession. You recalled your mother’s words before Miyuki came over.

“Honey, please . . . Try to make some friends, okay? Kazuya is a good kid. He’ll grow on you.”

Initially, you’d been confused. Shouldn’t she have said something like ‘you’ll like him’ instead of that? But now, you understood. He was infuriating.

Yet, you remembered the loneliness of the first few days, stuck inside the house with nothing to do. Your older sister was always in her room, not willing to play with you. Apparently, she’d outgrown you, which didn’t make much sense. Sisters were always there, weren’t they?

Then, there was the situation with your parents and the bakery. On top of that, they were also preoccupied with your mother’s pregnancy. Rather, your father was constantly worrying about her, even though she was only six months pregnant. The baby only came when she was nine months pregnant, so why was he so worried about it?

You frowned, staring at the red stitching on the baseball. Miyuki’s bossiness . . . Well, it could be something you worked on, right?

You picked up the ball and ran after him.

“Wait up!”

You decided that he may not be the ideal friend, but he was there, and that was all that mattered.

Your younger brother was born two months later in the winter of December on a particularly cold day. By then, Miyuki had stuck to your side like a parasite, always asking for you to pitch to him, always asking for you to help him out if he ever got scraped up. And you did it, not necessarily because he was being annoying about it — which he was, but you were beginning to grow immune to his pestering — but because it was fun.

(Well. Disinfecting bloody knees wasn’t fun, but the cringe you’d get out of him when you poured hydrogen peroxide over the cut was always satisfying. Served him right for running around like an idiot.)

For your little brother’s one-month anniversary, friends and family were invited over. Aunts and uncles preened over you (“You’re growing up so fast!” and “You look exactly like your mother!”). It was horrible, so you managed to sneak Miyuki in and made a getaway to your room to play video games.

As you walked down the hallway, his attention was grabbed by your little brother currently napping in his nursery. (You didn’t understand why the party still went on even while he was asleep. This was all for him, wasn’t it?)

“He’s not that cute,” Miyuki muttered as he looked over the bars of the crib.

You nodded somberly. “He isn’t. He looks like a wrinkled grape. Mom said that’s just how little babies look, though.”

“So, you looked like that at one point, then.”

You scoffed. “So did you.”

“Of course I didn’t. I was a cute baby.”

“Sure.”

He reached out to tug on a piece of your hair and you batted his hand away with a scowl. “I won’t pitch for you anymore,” you said warningly.

“Fine, fine,” Miyuki snickered. “Come on. I wanna play Mario Kart today.”

You two snuck out of the nursery and into your room to play games for the rest of day, at least until he had to go home. Or until your mother discovered him.

Your name is called, just as your mother opens the door, in the middle of saying, “— come downstairs we’re all going to have din —"

She stops, blinking in surprise at the sight of Miyuki on the floor. “Hello, Kazuya.”

He stood up quickly and bowed.

She smiled, but it looked strange. “Would you like to join us for dinner? Perhaps you want to invite your father as well? Oh, does he know you’re here?”

Miyuki nodded but didn’t say much after that. You took over.

“He’ll stay. You should invite your dad, too. If he’s not working.” Both of you knew the answer to that, but your mother was still watching you two interact, a curious look in her eyes.

“Well, you know where the house phone is. Come down in a few minutes, alright?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She shut the door. You look down at him. “Working?”

He nodded. “All day.”

You shrugged, pulling yourself off your bed. “That’s okay. You can be with us.”

“Let’s play catch afterward.”

You rolled your eyes as you two exited the room. When you passed your brother’s room, the crib was empty. You could hear your family members cooing downstairs and figured he must’ve woken up.

“Thought you wanted to play Mario Kart?” you huffed as you walked down the stairs.

“I changed my mind.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s not a compliment.”

For the last few years of elementary school and your first year of junior high, you two were joined at the hip. Junior high also meant that Miyuki was getting serious about baseball. He’d received his first catcher’s glove from his father for his birthday that year. Not that using the one from the school hindered his performance anyway.

Being on the team meant he constantly got into fights with the older boys, so you slowly transitioned from cleaning up scrapes he received from rolling around to bandaging and icing bruises he received from fights.

You’d been making your way to the baseball field to catch Miyuki. You’d already heard of his loss from the other students part of the medical club and worried about his well-being, but when he dashed up the hill, he was grinning widely. Your eyes immediately went to the cut on his face.

“Where’d you get that?” You asked, gaping as he ran up to you, baseball gear over his shoulder.

“Never mind that. I can’t believe you missed today’s game. It was so good.”

“Miyuki, didn’t you guys lose?”

“Yes, but that’s not the point. Their catcher outplayed me!”

You surveyed him carefully. “Did you get a concussion?”

“What — No, I’m fine,” he shook his head, his cap moving precariously with his rapid movements. “You’re not listening to me right now. He was some foreigner, I heard his dad was in the Majors here after coming from America.”

“And this is good because . . . ?” you trailed off, confusion clear in your voice.

Miyuki’s grin turned competitive. “I finally have a challenger.”

You scrutinized him for a few more seconds, long enough for his grin to fade and for him to fidget under your gaze. Finally, you clicked your tongue in disapproval. “Is everything a challenge to you?”

“How else am I supposed to be the best?”

You scowled. “Maybe not get hurt? Also, how did you get that cut? Are you the boys beating you up again? They better not be.”

“I tripped and fell on my way up here.” As usual, he looked utterly unashamed. You had to wonder: did this boy even feel shame? You pinched the bridge of your nose, turning on your heel, setting off for the school.

“Dummy. Come on, let’s go.” You didn’t wait for him, knowing he’d keep up with you without any protests.

“Those fights were never my fault, either,” he disagreed. “Age doesn’t matter on the field and I was just saying it like it is.”

You rolled your eyes, though you agreed. You’d never been fond of the way his older teammates pushed him around; even if Miyuki could be painfully blunt sometimes, you didn’t think there was any reason to get violent with him. And even then, sometimes he didn't even need to say anything for them to get pissed off.

You really didn't like his teammates.

He never fought back, either; said everything should be resolved on the field. You agreed, but the other boys would never think like that. They’d only continue to beat him up because they felt insecure, or he said something about their performance — something that was probably true. He could be brutal but he wasn't cruel.

“Also,” he continued as you two reentered the school and walked to your locker where you held a first aid kit (specifically put there because of Miyuki), “there was a scout there today, from Seido High School.”

You unlocked the locker, rummaging through it for the kit. “And?”

He told you about his encounter (you snorted when he recalled her comment about his height) with her and when he was finished, leaning against the locker as you tended to his cut, he looked thoughtful.

“You think he’d go to Seido?”

“Who’s this kid again? Do you have a crush?”

Miyuki puffed out his cheeks, glaring slightly at you. “No way. He’s my competition. I can’t like the enemy that way!”

You laughed, reveling in this brief moment where you were the one annoying him. “Alright, alright. I don’t know, Miyuki. Seido’s a good school, I think, especially if you wanna get serious about baseball.”

“Should I go?”

You pressed the gauze to his cheek, shooting him an apologetic look after he winced from the pressure. After, you began cleaning up and putting the kit away again. He was awaiting your answer still, watching you with analytic eyes. You shrugged.

“It’s up to you. Seido’s a powerhouse school, so I think you’d be fine, especially since you’re so damn competitive. I just thought you meant you’d challenge him from another school, assuming he went to Seido,” you told him honestly. “But also, we’re barely first years.”

He nodded, but he still looked thoughtful. Too thoughtful.

You shut your locker and shoved him forward, making him stumble on his feet.

“Hey, what was that for?” he yelped indignantly, catching his balance and readjusting the bag on his shoulder.

“You’re thinking too hard,” you replied. “Hurry up. You need to shower because you stink and my mom wants to try out a recipe with you.”

“You’re picking up too many of my habits,” he said, mock-disapprovingly, as you put on your backpack again and fell in step beside him.

“Is Miyuki Kazuya admitting he has flaws?”

“Never mind. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

In your second year of junior high, your brother turned four-years-old. You also finally hit fourteen, along with Miyuki. With that, many changes came. Odd changes. Body changes. You wouldn’t lie. It was weird.

The counselors seemed to notice the sudden plight you all had. Girls stuck closer to each other, gossiping about boys and the like. Boys were suddenly coming in wearing heavy cologne, trying their hardest to appeal to others. You thought it was stupid. So did Miyuki.

That didn’t mean you two were exempt from the mandatory conversation with the counselor about the ‘changes in your body’ and the ‘strange way you may be feeling,’ whatever that meant. Truth be told, it was almost scarring.

“Tell me, have you noticed a change in your feelings to other boys? Perhaps even girls?”

You blinked demurely. “Not really.”

The counselor wasn’t satisfied, her lips turning down for a split second before she fixed into a proper smile. “No to the girls?”

“No to both of them,” you corrected politely. “I don’t really notice or care about those sort of feelings. They’re not necessary.”

“Not . . . necessary?” She asked, confusion as clear as day on her face.

You shrugged. “That’s what my older sister says.” Your elder sister had graduated high school last year and stayed home to help out with the family business, apparently finding some happiness in the kitchen baking pastries. You weren’t so keen on staying here, at least not in this part of Tokyo.

Your mother and father would probably have you stay back happily, too. As your third and final year of junior high grew closer, teachers and parents were suddenly awaiting your decision on a high school. You wished they’d just leave you alone.

“Alright,” she conceded warily. “But what do you think?”

What did you think? Now, that was the million-dollar question.

You shrugged again. The counselor was beginning to look annoyed.

“Well, regardless of that, you should know that some of the . . . urges you may get aren’t things you need to act on.” . . . Wait, what?

You stared at her. “Uh . . .”

“I’m sure you know what sex is —”

You blanched. “Sensei!” That was what this was about? No, you already knew about that, probably too much. The other girls in your grade hadn’t hesitated on divulging private details about their close encounters with other boys and it was far too much information you ever wanted to know about anybody else. You didn’t judge on what they were doing, that’s not it, it’s just — too much information.

“I already know about that stuff,” you hurried out, feeling your face begin to heat up. “A-And I know I shouldn’t do any of that until I’m older. I know.”

She scrutinized you and you wondered if this was what Miyuki felt like whenever you gave him that look. If so, you were going to stop. It felt like she was seeing right through you.

Finally, she sighed and nodded. “You have a good head on your shoulders, so, I trust you’ll know what to do if you’re ever faced with something like that. Remember, though, you can always say no to unwanted advances, alright?”

You nodded firmly, finding familiar ground. Yeah, your father had given you that particular talk, too.

“Girl or boy, you always ask consent and they should, too. Don’t be afraid to say no and don’t be afraid to get out of there if they don’t agree.” You weren’t a pushover. Hell, you couldn’t be one if you had to deal with someone like Miyuki. But even he seemed more aware of the kids that were suddenly looking at you with renewed interest.

“They ought to keep their eyes to themselves,” he’d muttered, stepping around to your other side to block you from the wandering eyes of a group of third years.

You only sighed, burying your nose deeper into the book on medicine you’d been obsessed with at the time. Oh, you could definitely take care of yourself and if need be, fight for yourself, too, but if Miyuki was willing to be your defender for now, who were you to deny him? It wasn’t like you doubted your ability to defend yourself. But he was already there and you weren’t going to waste that opportunity. Basic strategy in your opinion.

“Alright, then, we’re done here. Send Kazuya in, won’t you?”

You nodded and scrambled out of your seat, desperate to get out of that situation. Your face still felt irritatingly hot but you ignored it. You exited the office, spotting Miyuki in the waiting area, a sports magazine in his lap.

“You’re up, Miyuki,” you said, stealing the magazine off his lap, much to his chagrin.

“Hey, I was reading that —” he made a grab for it but you stretched your arm behind you, holding it at a distance. He stood up and you were momentarily surprised, stunned if you were being honest. So surprised you let him pry the magazine out of your hands.

“There’s a good article in here about the catcher that the SoftBank Hawks just recruited, I want to take a picture of it. You have your phone?” He held out his hand expectantly and you had the briefest of common sense to hand your phone over to him. His fingers brushed against yours and you pulled back, as though you’d been electrocuted. He didn’t notice.

You stared at him. When . . . When had he gotten so tall? Only last year he’d been the about the same height as you, if only a few inches taller, but it hadn’t been noticeable. When you’d been kids, you’d always been the one taller than him, but you kept growing and seemed to have stopped now.

Miyuki, though . . . He was easily five to six inches taller than you. What would that be? Five foot nine? Maybe even five foot ten? When had this happened? Was this recent? Or had it been gradual and you just hadn’t noticed?

“I’m gonna need to use your phone later to read this. Thanks. Hey, what does she want, by the way?” He’d handed you your phone back without glancing back and set the magazine back down on the coffee table, but once he’d turned around, he stopped and frowned at you, saying your name. “You good?”

You snapped out of it. “I’m fine, sorry. Just got distracted.”

“With what?” Of course. Miyuki Kazuya never knew when to drop something. He eyed you with barely-hidden suspicion.

“It’s nothing. Have you gotten taller recently?” Curse your loose tongue. You couldn’t help it, though. You had to know.

“Have I . . . ? Oh. Yeah,” he grinned, looking smug now, but there was something different because now you had to look up at him. It felt weird. Strange. “Five foot nine and half, last time I checked. Had to donate almost all of my pants. What about you?”

You scowled, your strange feelings disappearing as quickly as they’d come. “Shut it. Hurry up before Otsuka-sensei comes out here and beats you up.”

His obnoxious laughter followed you out of the main office. “She wouldn’t! I’ll see you in class, don’t eat lunch without me!”

You paused to look back at him. “What if you take too long?”

He grinned in a way that irritated you. “Guess you’re not eating lunch!”

You scowled deeply, swallowing down the curse words you felt compelled to throw at him, only holding back because of the receptionist currently eyeing you two in disapproval.

Prick, you mouthed.

He winked. Bastard.

Saying others didn’t have high expectations of you would be a lie. You were one of the top students in your grade, well-known for taking excellent notes and passing all your exams. Of course, others merely assumed you were just naturally intelligent, but it didn’t work that way.

There were far too many times when you had to split time between working register at the bakery and studying for a test. And many more times when you had to turn Miyuki down for some time to yourself. Honestly, though, you were sure you’d have run yourself into the ground if it hadn’t been for Miyuki’s pestering sometimes.

“I need to study, Miyuki,” you grumbled, switching between reading your textbook and taking inventory behind the counter. He was leaning over it, glove and baseball in his hand with his hat worn crookedly as per usual.

“You’ve been studying for the past three days. A break won’t kill you.”

“It might.”

He huffed petulantly. “You’re ignoring your best friend in favor of school? How cruel.”

You sighed shortly. “Don’t pull that.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I’m sure your little brother would be more than happy to pitch to me —”

“You realize he has the arm strength of a toddler, right?”

“Or maybe Mei would be willing to do it. He has been begging me to catch for him recently . . .”

“Narumiya . . .” you grumbled out, mood souring further. Narumiya Mei was from downtown Tokyo, living it up in the more expensive districts at his junior high where he dominated as the ace. Apparently, Miyuki and Narumiya had gone head-to-head during a game in the first semester of your second year and Narumiya liked Miyuki’s style of catching, even though your junior high’s team had lost phenomenally.

“I’m sure he won’t mind taking the train here . . .”

You clicked your tongue, flipping to the next page of your textbook. “Miyuki, you and I both know you can’t handle him for long periods of time. It’s literally impossible.”

He cracked a genuine smile. “Give him more credit.”

“No,” you refused stubbornly. Narumiya could be so condescending sometimes. The first time you’d met him, he hadn’t hesitated to throw an insult at you and worse, Miyuki hadn’t felt the need to defend you from it. That had been your first serious fight.

“Yes, Miyuki, I can defend myself, but I hardly knew him. Why couldn’t you step up for me? Just that once?”

“You’re making this a bigger deal than it actually is.”

“We’re friends, aren’t we? Friends defend each other, especially best friends, so what the hell?”

“If that’s all you’re going to talk about, I really don’t want to play with you, then.”

You had thick skin. You had to, being friends with Miyuki and all. And okay, fine, you were hurt when he had dismissed you so easily. Sure, maybe you were making this a bigger deal than it should’ve been, but nothing had quite hurt as much as it had when you learned that he’d went to catch for Narumiya after you had abandoned him. (Or rather after he’d abandoned you.)

Your older sister had been pissed to find you sniffling about it later on that day, vowing to kick his ass. You only barely managed to restrain her. Miyuki wouldn’t like someone else coming to speak or fight on your behalf. You both were mature enough to discuss it. Or so you hoped, anyway.

One week of no contact between you two had you almost caving and giving into him, but to your pleasant surprise, he approached you first. More specifically, he’d taken the painstaking time to jump the fence into your backyard and toss pebbles at your window until you finally opened it, almost taking a well-aimed pebble to the face in the process.

Of course, he didn’t outright apologize. Instead, he’d asked: “Can we play catch?”

“It’s two in the morning.”

“It is,” he agreed, then held up his glove and ball. “Please?”

You’d sighed, turning back into your room to change out of your sleeping clothes into something more suitable for going out in the muggy July night. It was easy to sneak out, your parents and siblings all fast sleep and immune to any quiet noises you might’ve made on the way out. Miyuki was waiting for you on the sidewalk in front of your house when you exited; you shut and locked the door quietly behind you.

Silently, you two began the trek to the park down the street. You found yourself tensing whenever a car would pass, ducking your head to hide your face. When the third one came round, you finally spoke. “What exactly am I breaking curfew for, Miyuki? My parents would kill me if we got taken home by a police officer.”

You lifted your head once the car was out of sight and turned to look at him. He had a pensive frown on his face. “I . . . I’m sorry.” He didn’t make eye contact with you. (In the present day, you distantly wondered if he’d been taller than you at the time, too. He had, but only by a few inches, not as tall as he’d been during the talk with the counselor.)

You were speechless. Miyuki Kazuya didn’t . . . apologize. Quite honestly, you were beginning to think you had made a bigger deal out of it than necessary. But perhaps that had been a trick on your own part, anything to try and talk with Miyuki like normal again. Up until now, you two had been close, though baseball was starting to take up a lot of his time and the medical club at school had begun helping third years find good high schools with medical curriculum programs so you were constantly staying after school.

He continued to avoid your eyes. “I should’ve defended you. You were right. Mei was being an ass and you don’t deserve that. Only I can be mean to you.”

The last part almost sounded like a defense mechanism, a way to stop this conversation from becoming too heavy. You appreciated it more than you thought you would.

You elbowed him in the ribs. “Is it physically impossible for you to say something nice?”

“Yes.” Miyuki nodded unabashedly. You scowled, but there was no heat behind it.

“Fine, I accept your apology. I’m sorry, too. I did kind of make a big deal.”

He shook his head, adamant now. “I was being a dick. You were right.” He looked at you, a little more meaningful. He elbowed you back. “Now, come on, I’ve been missing my favorite horrible pitcher.”

“Keep saying stuff like that and I won’t pitch for you.”

His laughter echoed off the houses, his eyes looking golden underneath the tawny glow of street lamps —

“— attention to me. Hey!”

Tan fingers snapped in front of your face, making you jump as you were abruptly brought back to the present. Right. Studying, an annoying Miyuki (as usual), the impending end of course exam for your English class. You regained your bearings, finding a frowning Miyuki in front of you. The furrow of his brow told you he was concerned.

“Sorry. Just got lost in thought for a little while,” you chuckled, a little embarrassed. Despite yourself, you noticed how the warm glow of the setting sun accented the golden flecks in his eyes, which were studying you seriously. You tried for a reassuring smile, but he clearly didn’t believe you.

He called out to your mother. “I’m going to be taking her out for a few! She’s been working hard!”

You gaped at him and barely managed to slip a bookmark into your textbook before he shut it and slid it underneath the counter. Your mother popped her head out of the kitchen, smiling in that perceptive way of hers.

“Of course, Kazuya. Be back by six. You’re more than welcome to stay for dinner and bring something to your father if he can’t make it.”

He grinned at her, in that charming sort of way he always did for your mother and older sister. “Yes, ma’am!”

You sighed, taking off the bakery apron and reaching for your own baseball cap. You both had gone to a SoftBank Hawks game for his twelfth birthday and bought matching caps for it. It was one of your favorite memories.

You didn’t truly care for baseball — definitely not like he did — but it made him happy, so you never really minded playing a good game with him.

By no means were you a legitimate pitcher, and as you two grew, you worried that your horrible pitching would hinder his performance since you didn’t provide a true challenge, but he had constantly said he liked playing with you for fun.

“Competitions are fun, too,” he’d agreed with your initial argument. “But I don’t have to be strategic or hard-working with you. It’s always been better with you.”

You weren’t sure you believed him, as you’d see the way his eyes lit up whenever he was out there on the field, hitting home runs, calling pitches (honestly, baseball was the perfect sport for him to show off his bossiness; you always pitied the pitchers assigned to him).

But, as you two walked to the park, you listening to him ramble about some baseball game, you figured he’d been playing catch with you this long, hadn’t he? That had to count for something.

Third year meant picking your high schools, pulling all-nights to study for entrance exams and most importantly, keeping up your grades — all the while dragging a reluctant Miyuki right behind you.

“What if you can’t get a scholarship? What if you do get one but it’s only for baseball? They’ll really be paying close attention to your grades then, you know,” you’d lectured him for the umpteenth time since the first semester began. “Having good studying habits won’t hurt you.”

“Yes, it will,” Miyuki grumbled petulantly from his spot next to you on your bed, laying down with his arm tossed over his face. You rolled your eyes, picking out a pencil to use for your assignment that you were about to do.

“You have no problem swinging three hundred times a day but when it comes to notes, what is it? You can’t read now?”

“I’m illiterate.”

You climbed over his legs to retrieve your notebook from your backpack on the floor, then threw it onto his stomach, making him jump at the sudden impact. You climbed back over to your spot against the wall. “Read those. I dumbed it down for you.”

“Thank you!”

You shook your head, grinning despite yourself. He was a real loser sometimes.

The two of you lapsed into a comfortable silence, punctuated by the sound of your little brother’s laughter from downstairs. He was probably watching one of his kid shows again. When the bakery began to get busier with the new school year, TV had become a fixation for him, a surefire way of keeping him in one place.

You unfolded your legs out from beneath you, resting them over Miyuki’s legs. He didn’t protest. Not that he ever did, really. Much to your pleasant surprise, Miyuki could be incredibly affectionate, always wanting to maintain physical contact with you. Whenever your class was taken on long field trips, his head always found your shoulder, though you knew it had to be uncomfortable for him because of the height differences between you two. He frequently draped an arm over your shoulders, if only to lean heavily on you and cause you to stumble — much to his amusement.

It was strange. He’d done those things often when you were kids, and they’d only increased in frequency as you’d gotten older, but . . . Why exactly were you noticing? Who cared? Miyuki sure as hell didn’t.

Maybe it was because sometimes, on those long field trips, when the hum of the engine, the feeling of his warm body next to yours put you to sleep in an instant, you’d wake up with the phantom warmth still lingering, finding yourself missing it. Or when you couldn’t help but notice the pleasant scent of something sweet and a little spicy whenever he’d lean on you and it’d be so overwhelming — his weight, the warmth, the scent — that your knees felt a little weak.

You pressed your mechanical pencil harder onto the page, finding your heart beating at what seemed like an unhealthy speed. That wasn’t good. Why was your heart doing this now? All you’d been thinking of was Miyuki.

“The heart should always be beating steadily. The only time it doesn’t is when you’re high on adrenaline, you’re exercising, or —”

“What about when you have a crush, Miss?” You couldn’t recall who had asked that, but it had probably been some annoying underclassmen. A few of the other kids present giggled while the upperclassmen rolled their eyes.

The nurse smiled indulgently. “Or if you like someone.”

“Have you thought about what high school you’re going to?” Miyuki’s voice brought you out of your internal strife. You almost breathed a sigh of relief, desperate for that distraction. You turned your attention back to your assignment since you’d neglected that, too. Then, you realized what he was asking.

“Not really.”

You had.

Miyuki hummed quietly. You could see him glancing at you in the corner of your eye.

You wrote down the answer to an equation. “You?” you asked.

“Sort of . . . I think I might head to Seido.”

You couldn’t say you were surprised. That guy — Chris, you’d learned his name was — had really gotten Miyuki going, a “potential rival” to keep him on his toes.

“Oh?” you asked, feigning surprise.

“Yeah. I got an offer from them. Full ride for academic and baseball.”

“Studying pays off, doesn’t it?”

“I can’t believe you don’t have a school in mind already,” he said, ignoring your jeer. He laid the notebook flat across his chest and turned his eyes up toward your ceiling. “What have you been doing in the medical club all this time?”

You snorted. “Helping the last third years get into good high schools. I don’t know, Miyuki, I just haven’t really thought about it that much.” Now, you were blatantly lying to him. Oh, you’d given high school a lot of thought. The idea of going somewhere far away — such as Hokkaido — detested you, and you knew Miyuki would love it if you’d go with him to Seido. In fact, any moment now —

“Why not Seido? They have a great academic program, you know. They’re always in the top ten national rankings every year for academics.” He was trying to be nonchalant about it, but you could hear — and understand — the message under his words. Let’s do this together.

Your grip on your pencil tightened. The idea of being away from him was painful.

But was that the best idea?

You managed to stave off his questions, only promising to tell him your choices when you managed to find a few good schools. He left after dinner, taking a plate for his own father and your notebook, promising to read them. (You didn’t believe him.)

When you went back up to your room, you went over to your dresser, pulling open the bottom drawer. It was the one with undergarments — one that Miyuki would never touch since he knew what was where. You brushed aside the articles of clothing and took out the thick envelope.

Mimayama School for Medicine and Science

It was in Kyoto, a huge campus that spanned an entire block and was the height of a skyscraper. It was a well-renowned school, one that had perfect statistics and scores in all subjects. The ideal high school. But it didn’t have a baseball program. Not to mention that there was a three-hour train ride from here to Kyoto.

Your grip on the envelope tightened, denting the thick cardstock. The fact that you’d been invited there was something to celebrate, but you hadn’t told your parents, having managed to steal the envelope before they could see it.

Maybe you would’ve celebrated if you lived a different life. One where Miyuki wasn’t there.

You felt guilty for thinking like that, but your sister’s words echoed in your head.

“Don’t allow feelings to influence important life decisions. Don’t think about those sorts of things. You don’t need them.”

You’d been a first year when she’d said that to you, strangely enough. It’d been the same thing you’d repeated to your counselor during that horrible conversation about puberty. And you’d firmly believed it, though there was one exception.

Don’t let others influence your feelings. Except Miyuki.

He was your best friend, after all. You’d be cruel to not feel anything.

What were you going to do, then?

Your answer seemed to come sooner or later. More specifically, the day Miyuki got into a fight.

It had been a cool October day, baseball season already over for Miyuki so he had no choice but to hang around the campus after school while you went to your regular club meetings.

The meeting had been adjourned earlier than usual so Miyuki wasn’t leaning against the wall like he usually would. The last text he’d sent you said that he was in the library, so you began walking over there. As you neared the doors, you passed a few girls, talking rapidly to each other.

“. . . fight. That’s so weird, I’ve never seen him lose his temper.”

“I know! He’s almost always antagonizing someone else, I can’t believe Tanaka was able to get Miyuki so riled up.”

You froze and turned to them, recognizing them as a few fellow classmates.

“Wait, what happened?” You stepped toward them, drawing their attention. They became fidgety and sheepish under your eyes, avoiding eye contact.

“Um . . . Miyuki got into a fight with Tanaka a few minutes ago outside the library.”

What?

Miyuki didn’t fight. He couldn’t fight. Well, no, you were sure he had a few good moves on him, especially since baseball kept him in prime shape and there were his unfortunate experiences with his more violent seniors on the team but they were long gone. Since he was a third year now (and considerably taller and more muscled), no one would dare to mess with him. Especially because he’d proved his worth on the field, that he had a right to say the things he did. It’s just that you knew he hated being at the tail-end of those confrontations. Having to take the hits, while refusing to say anything to any of the adults because they wouldn’t do anything. The violence of it. Violence has no place in baseball, he’d once said. Anything someone needs to say can be done on the field.

More than that — he couldn’t fight without risking expulsion. It would look horrible on his record and — he wouldn’t be able to go to Seido.

“Why?” you recovered quickly, not caring that you were being demanding now, probably too harsh if anything.

“We don’t know . . . We just heard it from some other kids.”

“Where is Miyuki now?” He probably wouldn’t answer your texts. If anything, it’d be exactly like him to hide this from you.

The girls shared glances again. “Um, I think he went to the boy's bathroom by 3-B.”

“Thanks,” you told them shortly, then turning on your heel and heading towards the hallway for third years. You made the decision to not retrieve your first aid kit. You’d lead him back to your house instead. He didn’t need to be around the school with visible injuries.

Once you were at the boy’s bathroom, you hesitated. What were you supposed to do? Could you go in there? Would he allow you to even see him? Maybe you could wait. He had to come out eventually.

You leaned against the lockers next to the wall, wondering what on earth happened. Even disregarding his dislike of violence and the huge risk that comes with fighting, like those girls had said, he wasn’t someone who got riled up easily. He was the one riling people up. But the fact that it’d been Tanaka made some sense; Ichiro Tanaka was the asshole in your class, always finding someone to pick on, always making unwanted advances on girls.

Miyuki may be an asshole in the sense that he could pick you apart and annoy you to death, but he had honor. (Plus, he’d never shown any interest in any girls or boys in your class ever.)

You rubbed your forehead tiredly, pulling out your phone to text your mother that you might be home earlier than usual. Just as you’d sent off the text, the door to the boy’s bathroom opened and Miyuki stepped out, his backpack slung over his shoulder, still not noticing your presence until you’d reached out to tap his shoulder.

You could see him tense, muscles stiffening. He was hesitant to turn around and you were about to call him out on it, but he turned before you could say. Your eyes widened as you took stock of his injuries.

“Are you okay?” you gasped, any thought of scolding him thrown out the window at seeing the busted lip, the cut on his temple, and the blossoming bruise on his cheek. A quick glance at his hands showed you the cuts on his knuckles, though they were only on his left hand. You knew he caught and threw with his right. At least he’d had that foresight. “What happened?”

He avoided your eyes. “I may have gotten into a fight with Tanaka.”

You huffed, glad to see he was acting normally. Well, as normal as Miyuki could ever be.

“No shit. I know that part already — though I don’t know why — but what did Tanaka do to you?” There was the underlying question in your words, one you wouldn’t outright say because it would probably appease him. Did you win?

Miyuki picked up on it anyway, smirking but then wincing at the pain he was probably feeling on his lip. “I won.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “You — I can’t believe you. Come on, let’s do this at my house. We don’t need someone seeing you.” You two began walking towards the exit. You shot him a worried glance. You couldn’t imagine the potential repercussions this could entail. You didn’t want Miyuki to be stuck here. You wanted him to leave, to go to Seido and become the best damn catcher to play high school baseball.

As if sensing your thoughts, he spoke. “No one’s going to say anything. Tanaka’s looking for a volleyball scholarship at some school in Hokkaido and his lackeys have their own scholarships they need to worry about, too. It was an unspoken agreement.”

You sighed heavily. “I don’t want you to throw away your chances at a good baseball career, Miyuki. Especially not over a fight, which, speaking of, is very unlike you. So, regardless of that . . . what on earth happened?”

He stayed silent. You pursed your lips and led him to your house. It was easy to sneak past the bakery, where your parents and older sister would be preoccupied with the dinner time rush. The house would be empty, too, since your little brother was over at a friend’s house for a playdate.

You ushered him up to the bathroom on the second floor, dropping your bags off in your room beforehand. You shut the door behind you and locked it for good measure, then opened up the window to let some fresh air in. Miyuki was still silent, appearing introspective. For once, you were unable to find out what he was thinking.

You made him wash his face and hands first, taking his glasses and setting them on the counter behind you so they wouldn’t get wet. Once he was finished and resituated on the closed toilet seat, you began tending to his wounds, first going back downstairs to grab an icepack and wrapping it in a towel so it wouldn’t be too abrasive against his face. You worked on disinfecting the cuts on his knuckles, which weren’t too bad. You had one hand cupping his, the back of his hand facing up as your fingers pressed against his palm to spread out his hand.

He grimaced at the burn of the hydrogen peroxide but didn’t say anything. When you moved to wrap up his knuckles, you closed your hand around his fingers, trying not to focus on how the calluses rubbed against your skin. You moved on to the gash on his temple, murmuring a soft “sorry” when he winced from the burn. He had to keep his glasses off, but his eyes were on the floor.

You’d been applying an ointment to the cut when he spoke again. “Tanaka said something . . . Something I’m not repeating.” You paused, your eyes briefly flickering to his bandaged hand in his lap that clenched into a fist. “I couldn’t let it slide. I know . . . you know how I feel about fighting but . . . it was about you. And I’m not going to let him, of all people, talk about you like that.”

He sat up straighter, his eyes meeting yours. You froze, golden irises searing into you in a way that made your heart race. The lack of glasses made it all the more intense, your stomach doing flips in nervousness.

“Miyuki . . .” you muttered, feeling your face heat up. “I —”

“Don’t say you don’t want me fighting because of you. I did it because you’re my best friend and no one gets to speak about you that way. No one.”

Miyuki was passionate about baseball. About his cooking. About the SoftBank Hawks. But never about you. Yet, here he was, speaking so strongly that you felt a little weak at this display of anger and . . . touched.

You pursed your lips, breaking eye contact with him to turn to the sink and take out a bandaid to put over the cut. You carefully covered the wound then took out another disinfectant wipe to use for his lip. You actually hesitated before you started your work, but it had to be done.

You brushed his chin with the back of your hand, avoiding grabbing it. He turned his head up with no qualms, but his eyes stayed on your face. You attempted to disinfect the cut on his bottom lip, but it proved to be more difficult than you thought. It could also be because your heart was racing and your face was itchy with heat. You swore silently and grabbed his chin with your hand to better clean.

You hated this. Here you were, close to his face, staring at his lips as you cleaned them. At least you had an excuse to stare, though.

You caught your train of thought and almost swore out loud. Where was that even coming from? When had you begun thinking of him like that? Yeah, Miyuki was good-looking, almost unbelievably so, but it wasn’t anything new. So why now?

You realized far too late that you’d stopped moving the wipe on his lip, the white cloth blossoming red from the blood still leaking. He winced from your grip and you wrenched your hand back, uttering a soft “sorry” again. You turned back to the sink to grab the ointment, only squeezing out a small amount so that it wouldn’t be noticeable.

With shaking hands, you pressed your fingers to his jaw to angle his face once again, concentrating on anything but the feeling of his smooth skin underneath your fingers. You spread the ointment over the cut, trying your best to be gentle but also ensuring that it wasn’t showing.

In a desperate attempt to distract yourself and to break hold from the heavy atmosphere you’d found yourself in, you lifted your head to look at him again, but before you could even think to speak, the look in his eyes made you stop. Your brain short-circuited at the look he was giving you, whether it was on purpose or not, you didn’t know. You stood there frozen, still invading his personal space for the most part.

For a moment, it felt like time had stopped. His eyes looked warm underneath the light coming in from the window, casting shadows over the curve of his nose, making him look so much more older and — and handsome.

Then, like a warning siren, your sister’s voice echoed in your head.

“Don’t let feelings cloud your judgment.”

You sighed shortly, the loud noise shattering the moment. “Honestly, Miyuki.” You shook your head, turning around to toss the q-tip into the trash along with the other used supplies. You heard him make a surprised noise at your sudden movements.

You picked up his glasses off the counter and handed them back over then took a few steps back, leaning against the wall opposite to him, putting a respectable amount of distance between you two.

“I appreciate what you did,” you said, managing to keep the shakiness out of your voice. He’d put on his glasses again, his eyes now impossible to read. “But, god, I don’t want you to not be able to go to Seido . . . That is where you decided to go, right?”

He shrugged. “Probably. Don’t worry. I mean, I don’t regret what I did. Not at all. But I do understand what you’re saying and I’m not planning to make this a regular thing.”

You scowled, feeling the atmosphere around you lighten up. “I sure hope not. You don’t need to be batting with cut up knuckles like that, you dummy.”

“I know,” he said quietly, before trying for a smirk, though it came out more like a pained grimace. “Besides, you’re here to fix me up, aren’t you?”

You huffed, turning your nose up at him. “You’re so annoying, Miyuki.”

“Thanks.”

“Shut up.”

But even as he began talking about the studying he’d managed to accomplish before he’d left the library and ended up face to face with Tanaka, you thought about your plans for high school. These feelings . . . Whatever they were, they weren’t needed. Not right now. Not right before you two were picking out your high schools. You couldn’t allow them to cloud your judgment.

At the same time, though, going to Seido with him . . . That seemed amazing. Another three more years seeing him, going through all the high school experiences, cheering him on at baseball games, it was all too dangerous. Far too dangerous.

It was dangerous because here you were, at risk of feeling something more than platonic feelings for a boy you’d known since you were eight, where you already know your feelings will never be returned.

First semester of your third year wrapped up quickly after that. With the start of your second semester, you received many offers from different schools all over the country. Your parents and sister were proud.

“That’s our girl,” your father had grinned, reaching out to ruffle your hair, much to your displeasure.

“Hey, make sure you choose a good school,” your sister said, giving you a severe look. You fixed your hair, not meeting her eyes.

“Wherever you want to go, honey, we’ll support you.” There was a heaviness in your mother’s tone, as though she didn’t want you to go far. You’d gotten an offer from the high school in this area, but you weren’t satisfied with the curriculum. Staying here would mean ending up like your sister (no offense to her, of course, since she was happy). You wanted out of Old Town Tokyo.

Miyuki had gotten a lot of offers, too. Schools everywhere wanted him as their catcher. The powerhouse schools, like Inashiro, Teito, Seido (of course), even several schools from Hokkaido. It wouldn’t be hard for him to make it as a pro. You were proud.

But he was set on Seido, and he was pressing you for your own decision, too.

“I have to start planning. It’s going to be busy when we start up,” he’d told you, trying to convince you to spill which schools had sent you offers.

“I’m still thinking,” you’d lied. “But if you really want to know, I’ve gotten one from Sakurazawa High.”

“Oh, I know them. They’ve lost in the first round of the West tournament for like, twenty consecutive years.”

You shot him a glare. “Is that all that matters?”

He chuckled, holding up his hands in a sign of surrender. “They have great academics, don’t they? But, you know . . . I’m fairly sure that Seido is equal in terms of national academic ranking . . .”

That was another thing. You knew Miyuki wouldn’t ever hold you back, just like you wouldn’t hold him back. It felt like some sort of crime to ever try and stop him from pursuing his interest in baseball and vice versa for him and your desire to be a doctor. But you knew, just like he did, that Seido was a powerhouse school in both academics and athletics. Going there wouldn’t hinder your performance nor his. Not to mention, you two would be together, right?

Except, it sounded horrible. The past few months had been stressful, because not only did you have to deal with the looks your mother was giving you about choosing a school way outside of Old Town Tokyo, but you also had to stave off the counselors who wanted your decision, along with Miyuki. Then there were your feelings for him. You weren’t sure what they were, but you knew they weren’t good. They were the type of feelings to inhibit you.

You couldn’t be a good friend to Miyuki if all you were thinking about is how much you wanted to hold his hand and have him tuck you under his arm like so many other couples did. If all you thought about was how happy he looked whenever he was talking about baseball or talking about Seido and competing for starting catcher. If all you thought about was how pretty his eyes were and how handsome he looked whenever he genuinely smiled.

You weren’t being a good friend. And you needed to fix that.

That night, you mailed the application to Mimayama. Two days later, you received your acceptance letter.

“Mimayama? That’s so cool!”

“Wow! You’re serious about being a doctor, aren’t you?”

It had meant to be a secret. You’d only wanted your family to know and no one else. You’d tell Miyuki when you had to. Preferably right before he left to Seido, or maybe when he was there already. Clearly, that had been too tall of an order.

You’d notified your counselors of your acceptance and subsequent admittance into Mimayama, much to their happiness. Apparently, no such thing as student-to-administrator confidentiality existed because your homeroom teacher found out immediately and after publicly congratulating you, a group of girls had approached you, gushing over your acceptance.

Luckily, not many people had been there yet, though a few of your other classmates had eyed you curiously. Miyuki was running late, something or another about sleeping in. You didn’t know — didn’t care, since that meant you had time to do damage control.

“Listen,” you began, trying to look as serious as possible. The girls leaned in eagerly. “Keep it to yourselves, alright? Don’t tell Miyuki or anyone else. I don’t want to start unnecessary rumors. It’d be horrible if people thought I was boasting about it.”

They nodded, agreeing immediately. “Of course! But why not tell Miyuki?”

They were looking harder at you now, more analytical, more perceptive. It reminded you too much of your mother and sister. You came up with a quick lie.

“It’s a surprise for him. I’ll be telling him later on. We’re going to different schools —” those words left a bitter taste in your mouth and a numb ache in your heart “— so I’m trying to prepare, you know?”

They soaked it up. Of course they did. Miyuki was popular with girls and they’d always wondered about your friendship with him. Saying all this to them was probably enough gossip to last for the rest of the year.

“Totally! We’ll be quiet, promise!”

You smiled at them, glancing over at the door just as Miyuki stepped into the room, looking like a total mess. The girls turned back around and began whispering to each other, sending occasional glances towards him then to you.

You ignored them in favor of watching him shuffle over to the desk in front of yours. He collapsed dramatically into his seat, laying on top of your desk instead of his own. You raised an eyebrow.

“Are you done?”

“I’m tired,” he muttered. “Exhausted.”

Now a little concerned because a tired Miyuki wasn’t a good thing (though he was absolutely adorable), you leaned forward. “Is everything okay? Did something happen?”

He lifted his head and you clicked your tongue at the circles underneath his eyes. His hair was messier than usual, leaving you to contemplate whether or not he’d actually brushed it. “I was finishing the application to Seido. Mailed it off this morning.”

“When was the deadline?”

“Tomorrow.”

You rubbed your forehead, exasperated. “Miyuki . . . You’re so lucky you don’t have baseball anymore.”

“Not until next year.” He yawned and you tried your best to not think that he looked so adorable all sleepy and tired. This was a bad thing. He needed his sleep. “It was worth it. Hey, Mei wants to talk to me today after school. D’you want to come along?”

You pursed your lips. Well, you still weren’t fond of Narumiya, even after he’d begrudgingly apologized to you. He was Miyuki’s friend — sort of — and you’d wanted to lead Miyuki straight to his house so he could take a nap after school. This would just have to be done before, then. “Sure, but after, we’re going back to your house and you’re taking a nap.”

He grinned lazily at you. “Thanks.”

You turned away, ignoring the burn in your cheeks. “Whatever. Try not to fall asleep in class.”

He did end up falling asleep. And of course, you covered for him despite your earlier words. You had to wonder. If these feelings weren’t there, would you have done it? You glanced at him from the corner of your eye as you two made your way to the park. (After school, you’d dropped off your bags at his house since his was closet and began towards the place that Narumiya wanted to meet up at.) He yawned again, something he’d been doing frequently today, and you decided yes, no matter your feelings, you would gladly take cover for him.

Maybe that was where the problem had started.

Miyuki had always been the best in baseball, striving to work hard and prove himself, calling for aggressive plays and focusing even if something hadn’t gone his way. Despite his tendency to laziness when it came to exams and such, he was a diligent student.

In some ways, you wanted to be like him. Charismatic and charming when it counted, quick-thinking in difficult situations. After all, that was how doctors needed to be, right? They needed to be decisive, no hesitancy in their movements. You had someone’s life laid willingly into your hands and you couldn’t disappoint.

Had this admiration planted the seeds for your feelings?

You didn’t know and you didn’t have time to think it over as you came to the park. You fell a little behind as you realized there were other boys present, all from different leagues, though you knew they were part of Narumiya’s friend group. If Miyuki noticed you partially hiding, he didn’t say anything about it.

“Well, well, what’s with the gathering of the all-stars?” he asked, announcing his presence to them, in that conniving way of his. The boys turned to him, a few curious eyes glancing over to you, but you resolutely stood silent with your arms crossed, not offering your name. Thankfully, Miyuki didn’t offer to introduce you either.

He began listing off their names and leagues (you wondered briefly how he knew that, but of course, if it was baseball, it was important). When he finished, hands still casually in his pockets, he turned to Narumiya. “Did you call them all here, Mei?”

Mei grinned. “Yeah. And you, Kazuya. If you come with me, I can form my ultimate team.”

You raised your eyebrows. Well, you were surprised at this turn of events, but it wasn’t exactly far from something Narumiya would do. Miyuki laughed, sounding surprised as well.

“I don’t really care if you’re not the catcher, but Narumiya wants you,” the one named Shirakawa said, probably trying to help Narumiya convince Miyuki but it just sounded like he was bored and would rather be somewhere else.

“Inashiro invited you, too. Right, Kazuya?”

It was strange. You’d never been the possessive or jealous type. Miyuki had his fangirls — of course — but he’d never paid attention to them. Hearing Narumiya call Miyuki by his first name made you tense. Miyuki, you could understand — he called everyone by their first name, whether it was welcomed or not and you’d been calling him by his last name for as long as you could remember, more by habit now rather than respect. He’d never asked you to call him by his first name, either, so that’s the way it’d always been.

But here was the ever-so-condescending Narumiya Mei, speaking so casually with your best friend. It made you uncomfortable, but you pushed that away. This wasn’t the time nor place.

“So, why don’t we make the ultimate team together? If we all get on the same team, we could take nationals.” That was what this was about then. Barring your brief discomfort at hearing Narumiya call Miyuki by his first name, you felt a little proud that even such a self-centered pitcher like Narumiya and the others knew how valuable of a catcher that Miyuki was.

“Inashiro’s coach has a lot of experience under his belt and they have the best equipment in Tokyo. It’s a great environment, too,” Kamiya added.

“Not to mention, you won’t have to play against Narumiya. You’re in, too. Right, Miyuki Kazuya?” Shirakawa, as much as you hated to admit it, had a point. You’d seen Narumiya pitch. He was head and shoulders above a lot of the pitchers in your year. That was probably why he was so arrogant. But the guys made it sound like Miyuki would actually be averse to going head-to-head with Narumiya, when in fact —

“I’m sorry, but I already got an invite from Seido a while ago. I can’t join you guys.” His hand came up to his neck, a sign that showed he was a little uncomfortable being cornered by so many.

“What? Are you being serious right now?”

Narumiya stood up from his crouch. “Seido, huh? They’ve only gone to nationals once since their old coach quit. Compared to what Coach Kunitomo has achieved, Coach Kataoka is just way too green.”

You shifted on your feet, turning your eyes back to Miyuki. He scratched his neck in a shifty movement. It was coming any moment now. “Well, it’s not really about that,” he began. “Inashiro’s a team with a bunch of all-stars like you guys, right? So . . . I want to face you as an opponent.”

Of course. While the others were visibly shocked, you bit back a small smile. You’d seen it coming from a mile away. Sure, Narumiya could probably prepare a team to take nationals on with Miyuki and his other friends, but Miyuki wasn’t like that. He didn’t want the easy out. He wanted to work for it. You recalled his words from first year, after his loss against that second year catcher, Chris.

“How else am I supposed to be the best?” How else, indeed. There would be no better way than to face Inashiro than on a different team, still at a powerhouse school with a competent team where Miyuki would fit right in.

“Are you stupid?”

“Oh, you’re too kind.”

“It’s not a compliment!”

“Kazuya.” Narumiya didn’t look too surprised. Well, you could give him props for trying. “I’m gonna ask you one last time —” and for being so annoyingly persistent as well.

“Sorry. No.” Miyuki didn’t sound too apologetic.

Narumiya looked a bit irritated and his eyes shifted to you. “You’ll regret it, Kazuya. Is it because of her?” He calls you out, by your first name. “Are you going to Seido as well?”

You glared at him. “I don’t remember giving you permission to call me by my first name, Narumiya. And let it go.”

Shirakawa and Kamiya snorted as an affronted look passed over Narumiya’s face. “Hey, you’re always so mean to me —”

You turned your nose up, ignoring him. He didn’t know when to quit.

Most likely in an attempt to defuse the situation, Miyuki took a step back and said his goodbyes, then turned around and guided you away from the park.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” he confessed when you two were a reasonable distance away from the park, well on your way back to your own neighborhood. “But it was a very Mei thing of him to try.”

“Exactly what I thought,” you agreed. “He is right, too, you know. You’d probably be able to take on nationals without any problems.” Miyuki opened his mouth to protest but you elbowed him in the ribs, continuing with a small smile. “But I know. Challenger. I get it. It’s a surprisingly level-headed decision coming from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” You coughed to hide your snickers at the look on his face.

His house was empty as usual, his father most likely next door in the factory working on whatever project that needed to meet its deadline soon. You’d never asked about Miyuki’s mother, but you never had to. You’d seen the picture frame of a handsome, younger Toku Miyuki and a beautiful women standing next to him, a small bundle in her arms, standing in front of the factory. It didn’t take a genius to know that his mother had probably passed when he was younger.

Upon the entrance to his room, you went to his drawer where some casual clothes of yours were kept — purely for practical reasons since he had his own clothes in your dresser, too, along with many sweaters you’d kept. When you came back from the bathroom, he was already sprawled out on his bed, changed into comfortable clothing.

You went to take a seat in his desk chair, but his tired voice stopped you. “Hey, what are you doing? Come here.”

Your heart skipped a beat in your chest. You two had slept in the same bed when you were kids every now and then, but it had stopped when you’d gotten older. Well, you had gotten more aware of it every time you had shared a bed — of him right next to you. Evidently, he’d never cared because he had no problem taking a nap whenever he crashed your room.

You climbed over him so you were next to the wall. His bed wasn’t big, only a full-size, so it was enough for you two but no more than that. He stretched, yawning quietly. You hesitantly laid down next to him, facing him with a reasonable amount of space between you two. He turned to face you, blinking sleepily as his face was pressed into the pillow, probably putting the edges of his glasses into his face uncomfortably.

“You’re gonna break your glasses,” you muttered disapprovingly, reaching out to pluck them off his face. He squinted, readjusting to the absence of his glasses as you leaned over him to place them on the nightstand. You made sure that you didn’t touch his body as you did so.

He hummed quietly, drawing up the blanket to his waist. You abstained from it. He radiated enough body heat on his own, plus your internal temperatures were always high when you were in close proximity with him.

“You never said.”

His sleepy voice brought you out of your thoughts. Miyuki was clearly having a hard time staying awake, so you indulged him. “Said what?”

“Where you’re going. When we saw Mei. You didn’t deny it, but you’re not going there, are you?” His eyelids fluttered and you found yourself enraptured with the way his eyelashes just barely ghosted his cheeks. “I’m not going to be mad if you don’t, if that’s what you think.”

You tensed. He scooted closer to you. “I . . . Well, Seido’s a great school, Miyuki.”

His eyebrows furrowed, his eyes finally shutting, but he didn’t drift off. “You’re confusing.”

“What . . .?”

“I don’t want to hold you back from a good school. That’s what you deserve, especially for putting up with me this long —” your heart broke just a little at that admission. Did he think he was a burden to you? “— so I won’t be mad. Just tell me where you’re going.”

“I . . .” I can’t tell you. I can’t tell you why. I’m leaving, not because it’s a good school, but because I need to leave you. I can’t be around you. If I tell you now, I just might back out and go somewhere near you. “I’m still weighing my options, to be truthful.”

He hummed again, a sign he was still listening, so you pushed on. “I got an invitation from Oya, too, in East Tokyo. They’re a public school and they have a good academic program. If I remember correctly, they went to Nationals five years ago.”

“Not bad,” he mumbled. “Make a decision soon, though. I take it that means you’re not going to Seido, then?”

You were surprised that he was still managing to make logical conclusions despite being on the verge of unconsciousness. “Yeah, probably not. It would’ve been great to be with you, though,” you lied. It wouldn’t have been great. You would’ve suffered from your unrequited feelings, having to see him make it big in high school baseball, watching the entire nation fall in love with him.

He nodded, eyes still shut. “That’s okay. Just tell me where you’re going soon, okay.”

“I will.” Another lie. You were on a roll today, weren’t you?

He drifted off after that. You knew when he’d fallen asleep because you could feel the bed dip as he became dead weight, utterly relaxed, his breathing deep and steady. Your eyes roamed his face as you become more relaxed, finding comfort in being so close to him.

That fight had left an unnoticeable scar on his temple, usually hidden by his glasses, then the cut on his lip had healed up finely so there was no trace of it — at that point, your eyes lingered too long on his lips — and the cuts on his knuckles weren’t that noticeable either, probably something he could blame on his gloves.

Your heart stuttered in your chest as he shifted even closer to you. You had nowhere to go, your back pressed against his wall. You sighed quietly, shutting your own eyes to take a nap of your own. Whatever. These last few months were ones you had to treasure because the likelihood that you’d see him during high school was little to none. Really, the chances of him wanting to see you would probably make it even lower.

You fell asleep, weighed down by your decisions and restless for what the future might hold for your friendship with Miyuki.

(Those thoughts really didn’t bother you when you woke up lying on his chest and he had his arms wrapped tightly around your shoulders. You were mortified, though.)

Graduation from your junior high had come and gone with no problems. You were in the top ten, sitting comfortably as number two while Miyuki sat as number ten; you weren’t surprised by his rank, by any means.

You’d avoided packing your own things, too. You would need to be in Kyoto by April 10th. They started the school year much later, for whatever reason, but it just meant that you’d be seeing Miyuki go off on March 28th, three days before the first day of school. And you’d managed to avoid telling him your final decision.

It all seemed to be catching up because the walk to the station was filled with an uncomfortable silence. Miyuki had said his goodbyes to his father and your family, your little brother strangely sad at the disappearance of his “Miyu.” (A nickname that had you rolling in laughter when he’d come up with it and always managed to make Miyuki’s face turn red.)

His train would be leaving in ten minutes. You both sat down on the bench at his platform.

“So,” Miyuki prompted. “Which is it?”

When you looked at him, his eyes were hard. He was irritated. Rightly so. You’d been dancing around your own leave for several months now and here he was, about to leave to Seido and he still didn’t know. You’d briefly contemplated allowing him to stay mad at you. Let him blow up. Perhaps it would give you the shock you needed. But he didn’t deserve that.

You sighed softly, guilt eating away at your insides. “Mimayama.”

You felt him tense up beside you as he made a strangled noise. “In Kyoto?”

You nodded, turning your eyes to the ground. He didn’t say anything for a few seconds and you clenched your hands into fists, ducking your head lower.

“That’s a good school.” His voice was leveled, cool and indifferent. Somehow, it hurt more than having to hear anger. “They’d be stupid not to accept you.”

You hummed softly.

He sighed shortly. “I don’t — what the hell? Why did you . . . What did you even gain from that?”

There it was. You turned back to look at him, then balked at the hurt on his face. “I . . . didn’t want to worry you.”

“You worried me more by not telling me,” he replied shortly. “That’s so far away.” Are you going to be okay?

That was more than you deserved. You’d been such a shitty friend for the past two years. Here he was, still trying to be a good friend.

You tried for a smile. “It’s not Hokkaido or anything, Miyuki. I’ll be fine. And I’m sorry . . . I just — I didn’t know. I don’t know.”

He stared at you. You met his eyes head on. You had to show him that you’d be fine. This was what you needed. You had the reckless urge to transfer back to a school here in Tokyo, if only to be close to him, but it was muted. Doing this was for the best of your friendship.

“I’m still mad.” Understandable. “And I’m leaving now. Baseball starts up immediately so I won’t have time to talk to you, especially since you’ll probably be busy with school, too. Solving this won’t be as easy as it was when we still lived here, you know.”

Would it even be solved?

“We’ll figure out a way,” you said, despite yourself. Something had changed. Your distance in your friendship had been noticeable. A child could notice. Whether it had been conscious or unconscious was up to debate. Evidently, though, it had hurt Miyuki and that was the last thing you wanted.

. . . Right?

You were moving all the way to Kyoto for the sole purpose of burying those feelings for him. Focusing on school. Rebuilding . . . Rebuilding your friendship. Right, that’d been a priority, too. But could it be done? You’d messed up.

“Well, let’s not spend our last few minutes together arguing or mad at each other.” Miyuki’s voice brought you out of your thoughts. He stood up, holding out a hand for you. You accepted, trying to imprint the feeling of his calluses and the way his palm felt against yours into your mind.

He wouldn’t give up on your friendship, though, would he?

The train pulled in, the draft carrying stray pieces of your hair, hydraulics hissing loudly as it eased to a stop. You were stunned as Miyuki pulled you in for a hug. It was tight, almost painful, but he was so warm and that sweet and spicy scent was overwhelming you in the best possible way that you couldn’t help but hug him back just as tightly.

“Don’t forget about me over there,” he murmured into your ear, warm breath tickling your sensitive skin. You suppressed a shiver.

“I-I won’t.”

He stepped away, sighing softly as the doors unlocked and popped open for the cabin in front of you. He picked up his bag. “I’ll see you later. We’ll talk.”

You nodded. He hesitated to leave, a strange look passing over his face as he fought with himself over something, but then it was gone just as quickly as it had come. He turned away and there was something foreboding about seeing him walk away from you. A cold feeling blooming in the pit of your stomach.

This wouldn’t be the last of him. You’d go to school in Kyoto, get over your feelings and rekindle your friendship with him. Things would get better. They would.

They had to.

Interlude: start

Miyuki wasn’t sure what was going on.

You’d been distant for the last few months, clearly having something on your mind and he’d waited patiently for you to come to him. But you never did.

Instead you sent him off, finally telling him where you were going. To the Kyoto Prefecture, of all places. Was he mad? Yes, and he sort of had a right to be.

He had to wonder. Had all those times he’d pestered you for your answer, had you lied to him? Applying to Mimayama and getting accepted wasn’t a last minute choice. Prestigious schools like that always had application deadlines earlier than other private and public high schools.

So, why hadn’t you told him?

It was something that plagued him for the entire train ride to Kokubunji, even when he made it to Seido High and received his dorm number.

Had you . . . figured it out?

He’d tried his best to hide his feelings and he felt that he’d been largely successful. You’d acted normally as you would and this felt like too much of a secret for you to hide if you knew. You weren’t one to hide what you were thinking, especially when it came to him. But falling in love with your best friend wasn’t normal, was it?

He couldn’t help himself. He’d never say it, but you’d stood beside him for the past six years, you were always so supportive, so patient even when he didn’t deserve it. So how could you even possibly begin to feel the same way? He wouldn’t openly admit this either, but he had more flaws than he had strengths.

Sure, he was . . . conventionally attractive and he was great at catching, but what else was there? It wasn’t like he’d be the type of guy to shower you with gifts or anything. Compared to so many other people, he wasn’t good enough.

He sighed heavily, continuing to unpack his things. His roommates were two third years but they were out, probably practicing. For once in Miyuki’s entire life, he didn’t feel the urge to practice.

Despite himself, despite wanting to give you the benefit of doubt, he wondered, had you attended Mimayama in an attempt to run away? From him?

Immediately, he felt guilty for thinking that way. Mimayama was an excellent school within itself, one you’d thrive in. He couldn’t be so selfish to assume that you’d gone there just to avoid him. You were trying to get a good curriculum. He was trying to get better in baseball. You both had your own agendas.

It wouldn’t be like you to allow your feelings to influence your decisions. Especially when it came to such an important decision.

His previous question came up again. Why wouldn’t you tell him? Were you scared he’d be mad? Or were you trying to protect yourself from something else? Did you think he’d try to convince you to stay?

His frown deepened. Well, that was a good question. Kyoto was so far away . . . If you’d stayed in Tokyo, it would’ve been easier to see you but now that you’d be all the way in Kyoto, the chances of seeing you were slim to none. You’d probably only see each other during winter break.

Regardless of that, though, he was sure he wouldn’t have tried to stop you.

Did a small (or very large if he was truthful) part of him want you to go to Seido with him? Yeah, but things don’t always work out. Friends don’t always get to stay together. Apparently, you had realized that sooner than he did and taken advantage of it.

But your reluctance to tell him was what had gotten on his nerves. He deserved an answer from you. (Right?) One that hadn’t been last minute, one where you two could discuss it. One where he could begin to make plans to see you, arrange methods to talk during the school year. But here he was, sitting on the barren side of the dorm with no real plans to see you again until December, irritated at you.

Until he had a proper answer from you on why you’d done it (because he deserved that too), he’d give you the space you needed to sort out your thoughts.

Besides, come April 10th, there would be three hundred miles between you two. Space would come easily.

Interlude: end

Things seemed to be fine for the first few months. You and Miyuki kept up moderate contact, calling and texting when you were able. There would be odd bouts of absence on his part, something he’d blamed on baseball practice and you could understand. As far as you knew, Miyuki had been able to secure the position as starting catcher with little to no problems. The way he felt about it was a different story.

“Chris . . . He injured his shoulder. He was removed from first string. I took his place.”

You pursed your lips. “That stinks. I’m sorry, Miyuki.”

Going to Seido to get that spot as starting catcher had been Miyuki’s main goal. And he’d already achieved it within three months of being there.

You knew he’d wanted to go toe-to-toe with Chris to properly fight over the spot. It probably didn’t feel too good to have it conceded to you.

“Starting catcher is starting catcher, I guess. There’s nothing I can do about it. Just have to get to Nationals and win.”

“You can do it,” you said, putting as much encouragement into your words as possible. You absently read over your textbook, waiting for his reply.

“So . . . You must have come up with a good reason for not telling me about going to Mimayama, right?”

Surprised, you dropped your pencil, his words catching you off guard. You hadn’t necessarily forgotten about his promise to figure things out between you and you were fully prepared to apologize, but explaining why was an entirely different ordeal.

You had been silent for too long, because he sighed shortly on the other line. “Come on. Did you think I’d be mad? That I’d try to stop you?”

You tried to think, tried to formulate an adequate answer. Would lying save you? Could you continue on in your friendship after lying to him about it?

“I just . . .” You were at a loss for words. You hadn’t expected him to bring this up. But of course, in classic Miyuki fashion, he would want to catch you off guard. Make sure that you wouldn’t be able to lie. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?” he scoffed. “It’s not that hard.”

You bristled. “Well, damn Miyuki, you said you wouldn’t have gotten mad and maybe you wouldn’t, but look at you now.”

“I have a right to be mad now,” he replied waspishly. “You lied about it for how long? How many times had I asked you? I know Mimayama has the earlier deadline for applications because it’s a private school. You made this decision and you didn’t tell me about it. I thought we told each other everything. I mean, that’s what best friends do, right?”

“Since when have you ever cared about how other friendships function? You’re only doing this because you’re mad. You’re not thinking straight.”

Miyuki laughed suddenly, in a callous manner he’d never used with you. “I’m not thinking straight? Well, we both know the answer to that,” he sneered. “Me and you are best friends just like anyone else, but now that I have a genuine problem with you lying, suddenly I’m the one who’s needlessly comparing ourselves to other people, right? I’m the wrong one here, yeah?”

“I didn’t say you were,” you disagreed. “It was just — I don’t know. I didn’t tell my family for a long time, too.”

“I get it. It’s a personal decision. But lying to me about it is where I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to!” you snapped, finding yourself fed up with his attitude. “It was . . . a personal decision, just like you said. I had to come to terms with it myself, too, you know.”

It wasn’t a lie, by any means. The day after his fight and after you’d filled out the application, you had stood by the mailbox so long, envelope in hand, the next door neighbor had come out to ask if you were okay.

“You could’ve told me that you’d made a decision. I was worried you’d end up stuck there with how much you were pushing it away. I would’ve respected your boundaries, you know.”

His voice had quieted considerably and you weren’t sure how you felt about it. Did it mean he was calm now? Understanding? Or was his anger and hurt phasing him so much he couldn’t muster the energy to be loud? You hated this. You hated not being able to see his face, being able to gauge what he was feeling. Relying on his tone was getting you nowhere.

“I . . . know.” Maybe it’d been irrational, but your decision had been the one thing he hadn’t known about. You could be so weak when it came to him. If he even knew that you had made a decision, it felt like he already knew where you were going, as though he could see right through you.

You and Miyuki could read each other like the back of your hands, unwillingly or willing. You knew his ticks, his dislikes, his fears, and vice versa. Alongside your feelings, the choice to attend Mimayama had been one of the few things you’d ever kept from him.

“Then why do it? That’s all I’m asking for. That’s it. Just an explanation and we can be done here.” He sounded almost desperate. It was disconcerting. Miyuki Kazuya wasn’t desperate; he didn’t beg. He was above that. But his voice —

You pinched the bridge of your nose, inhaling shakily. This was too much, it was all too much. You’d regret it later on, maybe, when you finally got your head back on but you couldn’t stand it right now. He couldn’t know.

Under no circumstances could he know that you were in love with him.

“I can’t do it.”

Miyuki was silent, for one, two, three seconds, then —

“I guess we’re done here.”

You tried again. “Miyuki, I — ”

The call ended abruptly as he hung up first, not even sparing you a chance to talk. You stared at your phone. Maybe that was what you deserved, though. You weren’t being the greatest of friends, but you just wished he would let it go. Why was it so important? Did it truly both him that much? Regardless of whatever it was, he wasn’t going to be letting it go anytime soon — that much was apparent.

The abrupt hang-up had hurt a lot more than you thought it would. (You certainly wouldn’t admit it out loud, though.) Miyuki wasn’t exactly the gentlest person and he could be mean, but he’d never been that way with you.

Something told you that this was only a small dose of what he could do, that he wasn’t completely shutting you out. Not yet.

You tossed your phone behind you, not minding the rough thump that came after. You dropped your head onto your textbook, sighing heavily. There was the slightest of stinging behind your eyes, but you shook it off, squeezing your eyes shut tightly. It wouldn’t do well to be crying. Dinner would only be in thirty minutes and you didn’t want to explain to your classmates why it looked like you’d been crying.

You dug into your nails into your palm, the pain relieved you from the burn in your eyes. The urge mercifully passed.

You sat back up, taking a deep breath. This would have to be dealt with later, you promised yourself, turning your eyes back to your textbook in a vain attempt to start your assignment again. All you two needed was space, some time to cool off and regain your bearings. Then, you’d solve this.

You didn’t solve it.

Baseball took up a handful of his time, so when you sent a wary text to him three weeks after your phone call, you didn’t receive a reply back. You then found out that that exact day, Seido had been at a game and had won, qualifying them for quarterfinals. Of course he wasn’t going to reply. He was probably busy basking in that afterglow of victory.

So you let it go.

But then, Seido was eliminated. You got that news from your classmates, a girl who apparently had a cousin attending the opposing school. When you’d asked, she had said proudly, “Inashiro.”

It felt like too much a cruel joke. But when you returned to your dorm and looked up the game, sure enough, Inashiro had won. The game had been four to three. Narumiya was their star — their ace. If you hadn’t had any real reason to dislike him before, you certainly had one now. You sent an apology to Miyuki, trying your best to be comforting.

His reply — albeit cold — had been relieving. Things weren’t as bad as you’d thought they were.

But then he didn’t contact you for the rest of the summer. And that was where the space between you two grew. It wasn’t only physical anymore — he’d stopped contact with you completely.

Summer passed and you descended into autumn, where temperatures dipped and the trees began to lose their leaves.

There was still no contact between you two.

You sent him the occasional message, just a random update about this or that, fooling yourself into thinking that he was just busy. The fall tournament was coming up and if they made it, they’d have a spot at the Spring Invitational. It was another chance for Nationals. But your messages stayed silent, save for the messages coming from your family.

Seido lost during the semifinals at the fall tournament; you sent him a text.

i’m sorry about the fall tournament… you guys played a really good game. text me back when you can.

Maybe he felt your desperation, somehow, through the screen and even though hundreds of miles separating you two.

You sat up abruptly as the little words underneath your message changed from Delivered to Read. You waited, your heart racing in your chest. But no message came.

You tried to rationalize. He’d just lost. Their ticket to Nationals was a pipe dream once again. He wouldn’t be up to talk immediately after, right?

It sounded foolish, even to yourself.

As though your problems with Miyuki weren’t enough, you got into an argument with your mother.

She had apparently believed that once you graduated high school, you’d come back home to work in the family bakery. That was the last thing you wanted to do.

Summer break had been an awkward affair because of it. You had envisioned summer break as time away from working and from the stress of high school, but your mother had other plans.

You were forced to be the cashier, much to your displeasure. Your father had patted your shoulder consolingly, while your older sister told you to stop complaining so much. Your younger brother — already seven-years-old — could only giggle at your predicament while he went to his friend’s house to spend the night. You were almost envious at his freedom.

You had no idea if Miyuki was back in the neighborhood since he wasn’t taking the time to answer your texts. You knew that if he had come back, he had no business to be outside of his house, either, so you decided that you would probably never know.

The fifth day of summer break started bright and early with you on the cash register. It had been slow, though, the heat of the sun discouraging people from walking out and about. The wall-length windows of the bakery did nothing to hide the sun, either, and the air conditioner was mostly focused on the table area rather than behind the counter.

The heat had started to make you sleepy but before you could actually doze off on the job and piss off your mother, the bell above the door rang, signaling a new customer. You straightened up, trying to blink the sleepiness away.

Thankfully, you didn’t have to try too hard, because the newest customer turned out to be Miyuki Toku.

“G-Good morning, sir. What can I get for you today?” Your voice was steady, thankfully.

He stared up at the menu, dark eyebrows furrowed and eyes narrowed behind his glasses. He was dressed in work clothing, grease staining various spots, a black baseball cap tucked over his hair. It was no wonder Miyuki himself was so handsome. His father was a handsome man for his age, the only sign of his age being the lines around his mouth and forehead, and the slightest hint of grey in dark brown hair and in his stubble.

“Two coffees and three sweet rolls,” he finally said, his eyes flickering to you.

You dropped your eyes, hurriedly ringing up his total and scribbling down the drink order to hang up for your sister to do. His eyes were the exact same shade as Miyuki’s. Of course they were, they were father and son, but it . . . made you miss Miyuki even more.

You handed back the money and grabbed some wax paper to pull out the sweet rolls from the display case of pastries. As you put them into a paper bag and folded it up neatly, he lingered near the pick-up counter. You wanted to ask him if Miyuki was back, but would that give you away? Maybe he already knew of the fight, if Miyuki had told him, but that sounded far-fetched. Miyuki wasn’t that open with his father.

You glanced around the bakery; all the customers were satisfied at the moment and nobody was waiting in line. You glanced back at Miyuki's father. He was looking over the display case with uninterested eyes. It wouldn’t hurt to ask.

“I-Is Miyuki back in the neighborhood?” you asked before you could lose your nerve, handing the paper bag over to him then stepping back behind the cash register, as though it could protect you from any unwanted questions.

He seemed surprised that you were speaking at him, brown eyes widening briefly before he cleared his throat. “No. He’s still at Seido. The coach keeps them for summer break.”

“Oh.”

That sucked, but knowing Miyuki, he was probably using that off-season time to get better.

“Have you been speaking to him?”

Now, you were the one surprised. When you looked back up, he was watching you with scrutinizing eyes. It reminded you so much of Miyuki that you had to avert your eyes. “Not really, sir. We’ve just,” you cleared your throat, “he’s busy. I’m busy. Our schedules don’t line up very well.”

“Mimayama, right?”

You looked back at him, furrowing your eyebrows. How did he know?

“Kazuya told me. That’s a good school,” he paused awkwardly, but before he could continue, your sister called out his order.

He picked it up and lingered in front the counter, shifting awkwardly before finally saying, “Well . . . keep in touch with him.”

You barely had time to get out a ‘have a good day.’ Did he know of your fight? There was no way that Miyuki could’ve told him, right? And if he did, then why was his father so nice? You knew Miyuki wouldn’t mince words and he probably wouldn’t hold back if he was talking about your argument.

“Hey.” You jumped as a wet towel smacked your back. “Stop looking so sad. It turns people off.”

You scowled, turning around to face your older sister with an insult on the tip of your tongue, but it died quickly at the semi-serious expression on her face. You both stared at each other for a few seconds before she slapped the wet towel onto your shoulder again.

“Loser.”

“Shut up!”

It was his birthday. He was officially sixteen-years-old.

You typed out a quick message. Maybe your conversations were beginning to be made up of your outgoing texts and nothing else from him, but you weren’t going to abandon him on his birthday. (Though, a small mocking voice in your head told you he had an entire team to spend his birthday with.)

You’d sent the text and went to put down your phone on your desk, but to your pleasant surprise, it buzzed a few seconds after, signaling a text.

It felt almost too true to be good. You unlocked your phone quickly, fumbling for the messages app. But when you clicked on his name, the message waiting for you wasn’t what you’d expected.

Error 1404. The number you are trying to reach is currently unavailable. For further inquiries, please contact —

Had he blocked you?

You tried again, but the message continued to pop up in reply to every text you sent.

You stopped trying, the words of the text seeming cold and callous, almost taunting.

Was he this petty? You had never believed him to be petty. Cruel, sometimes, sure, but never petty.

You tried calling. It rang two times before an automated message picked up.

“We’re sorry, but the person you are trying to reach is — ”

You hung up. This couldn’t be a coincidence. But why . . .?

You scrubbed your hands over your face roughly, feeling the familiar burn behind your eyes. Nothing was seeming to go right for you. Sure, you were at a school where you were put to work, but you were fighting with the only friend you had, with your mother about your choices for the future, with yourself over some stupid feelings.

Had it bothered him that much? Was this something to end your friendship over?

Evidently, to Miyuki, it had been.

December and January marked record-breaking lows with surprisingly heavy snowfall. You stayed on campus, burrowing in your room through the beginning of December to study hard for exams. Winter break brought you back home, where your sister had staged an intervention, surprisingly enough.

“What’s the deal with you and Miyuki?” she asked suddenly one day, when you two were in the kitchen at your home, making dinner for that night.

You continued your work, undeterred and unaffected. “What do you mean?” you asked tiredly.

She reached over to swat the back of your head, gaining a glare from you.

“Don’t glare at me, brat. You’ve been all mopey since the summer. I know something is going on,” she huffed, giving you a glare of her own.

You were prepared to shrug her off, turning to her to tell her off, but she was wearing that expression again. The one you’d seen during summer break after your run-in with Miyuki’s father. She looked serious. You hesitated.

You’d been dealing with this all on your own, with no one else to talk to. You definitely didn’t have Miyuki — not that you’d tell him about it, anyway — and certainly not your parents. Your mother would probably disapprove of your feelings since Miyuki wasn’t the type of guy to settle back down in his hometown and your father would disapprove because this was someone after your own heart.

Your sister was the next best thing.

That was how you found yourself telling her about the argument, about his lack of communication, and because you couldn’t avoid it, about your feelings for him.

She remained silent while you spoke, a pensive look on her face. When you finished, you shifted nervously on your feet, glancing at her in the corner of your eye.

“This is because of me, isn’t it?”

You blinked. “What?”

She paused from cutting up a vegetable, laying the knife down on the cooking board and turning to look at you. “What I said to you when you were in junior high. About focusing on yourself and not letting others influence your decisions.”

“I guess . . .” you murmured, agreeing reluctantly because you didn’t want her to blame herself for it. Luckily, that wasn’t what happened.

“You’re an idiot,” she muttered, grabbing the dish towel and hitting your shoulder with it. She tossed it back onto the counter before turning to you. “An absolute idiot.”

“What the hell — ”

“You played yourself, kid! I get it. These feelings are scary and new but running to Kyoto is not the answer!” she hissed urgently, looking annoyed.

Your hackles were raised. “You literally said — ”

“I know what I said, you fool! You had good intentions, but look where that got you.”

You winced. That was fair.

She groaned loudly. “Did it ever occur to you that you were letting your feelings influence your decision when you decided to go to Mimayama?”

You stared at her, eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“For as smart of a kid you are, you’re kinda dumb when it comes to feelings.”

You scowled at her. “Feelings are dumb! It’s easier to memorize algebra equations than it is to handle what I’m feeling!”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Listen to me. I understand that you thought putting distance between you two and lying to him about your choice would help, but you were blinded by your own feelings. In your desperation to forget, you made a rash decision. I know Mimayama is a good school and worrying about your education is worthwhile, but are you even happy there?”

You stilled. “Happy?”

“You’re hopeless!” she bemoaned.

“Hey, it was your advice! Don’t get mad at me,” you protested, unwilling to take all the blame for this.

She grimaced. “Fine. I’ll take half. But it’s redacted as soon as we fix this.”

You balked. “Fix this? No, there will be no fixing here. I’m going to suffer the consequences of my actions — and partially yours — for the rest of high school and that’s it.”

“You don’t even know if he feels the same,” she pointed out.

“He doesn’t,” you said firmly. “Why would he? After everything I’ve messed up on, I refuse to let him know. It’ll only make things worse.”

“It’s called taking a risk,” she muttered, finally turning back to finish chopping up the vegetables. “You won’t know if you don’t try.”

“We’re not even talking to each other anymore. I think,” you grimaced. “I think he blocked me.”

She paused mid-slice. “I’m going to murder that boy.”

“No, you will not!”

“This is better than homicide,” your sister muttered gleefully as you two watched your mother wrap up a plate of food. “So much better.”

Your mother faltered in her actions briefly, having heard your sister’s words, then resumed quickly. She was probably used to it.

Your little brother was waiting impatiently by the door, some action figure grasped in his tiny hands.

“One of you take that to the Miyuki’s. It’s a holiday gift. Dress appropriately!” With that, she left the house, your younger brother following after her, the door shutting firmly behind them.

“I’m not taking that,” you said immediately after. It’d been several days since you had told her about your problem and she hadn’t brought it up since. Maybe for good reason, too. You had time to think over what she said.

Her question about whether or not you were even happy at Mimayama was . . . conflicting, as much as you hated to admit it. What did it matter if you didn’t like it? It was a good school, one that would boost you ahead. It was giving you experience in the medical field, experience you couldn’t receive at a regular high school.

But at the same time, there were regular high school experiences that you were missing out on. Mimayama rarely had dances or anything of the sort, typically hosting an end-of-the-year banquet for the third years to congratulate them on their progress, but that was the extent of their dances. They had no sports programs, save for a volleyball team that was in sore need of motivated players and a better coach. All the students were always so competitive, constantly fighting for the top rank, making passive aggressive comments about grades. It was tiring.

It also made you think. Had Mimayama been the best choice?

“You don’t even know if he’s back,” she countered, drawing you out of your revere. “Pretty sure all the sports teams had one week less of winter break than regular students.”

“I don’t care. I’m not — ”

You stopped as you heard voices outside. It was your mother, very distantly. She was saying something, but the words were muffled by the door.

Your sister pushed you away to go towards the front window that overlooked the yard, peeking through the curtains. She gasped, making you take a wary step forward, but before you could ask her, she was turning around, grabbing your wrist and dragging you upstairs. You allowed her, figuring it was a lost cause to try and stop her.

“What’s going on?” you grumbled. She turned into your parents’ room, yanking you over to the window that overlooked the street.

You both kneeled on the ground under the window and she pointed up at it, grinning.

“He’s here,” she said in a sing-song voice that made you want to cover your ears.

You cautiously looked out the window, at first finding nothing to look at, but then your eyes latched onto the figure currently taking his bags out of a taxi’s trunk. Your heart kickstarted in your chest. Miyuki.

It was a bit far away, but you could recognize him anywhere. He looked taller, lean with muscles he didn’t have before. His skin looked tanner, too, no doubt from all the time he’d have spent in the sun. He was dressed in a black hoodie and jeans, looking far too good for someone who probably just threw that on without giving it any thought.

You dug your nails into the windowsill. A small, childish part of you wanted to run downstairs and out the door to tackle him into a hug. You were craving the feeling of his arms around you and feel his usual tight, almost vice-like, grip. You bit down on your lip.

“You look like a love-struck fool,” your sister whispered, sounding awed. You shoved her, making her wobble precariously from her crouch, then fall over, hitting the ground with a loud thump.

You continued to stare out the window, and you were grateful for your hyper-fixation on him, because you were able to catch the slight movement of him turning his head towards your house. You fell away from the window, the curtains fluttering back to their place.

“What?” your sister grumbled, rubbing her elbow. “That hurt, you know.”

“I don’t care,” you muttered. “He looked. If he saw me, I’m going to die.”

She scoffed. “Don’t be so dramatic.” She laid down on her side, propping up her cheek with her hand, shooting you a cheeky grin. “So? You wanna give them the food, now?”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no? Why not?”

You shot her an irritated side glance. “Seeing him doesn’t make me want to ‘try things out,’ as you say. What part of ‘we’re not talking anymore’ do you not understand?”

She scowled. “So, you’re giving up?”

You looked away. “I guess so.”

It was silent for a few seconds before she huffed quietly. “Well, I’m not. Stay here. I’m gonna give them the food. When you hear the door close, look out the window, but stay hidden.”

You stared at her as she got to her feet and left the room. This . . . couldn’t be good.

Nonetheless, when you heard the door shut from downstairs, you peeked out the window again. You caught sight of her walking down the sidewalk, her jacket and beanie on to fight against the freezing cold, the dish cradled in her arms. At that point, the taxi was gone and you suspected Miyuki had retreated into the warmth of his home.

When she walked up to the house and rang the doorbell, she sent a furtive glance to you, making brief eye contact before turning back forward. The door opened and she looked surprised for a split-second before schooling her expression into one of ease. You squinted, trying to make out who she was talking to.

She took a half-step back and you finally saw that it was Miyuki who’d answered the door; he leaned out of the house, nodding and saying a few things before accepting the dish with a gracious bow. Your sister returned it and turned around, walking back towards the house.

You dropped away from the window, making sure to fix the curtains carefully this time, then dashed out of the room and down the stairs. You didn’t have to wait more than thirty seconds before she was entering the house again, letting in a burst of icy air. Once she had locked the door and began taking off her shoes, jacket and beanie, you cleared your throat.

“Well?”

She looked at you, grim, and you prepared yourself for bad news, but then she said, “He’s cuter than I remember him being.”

“That’s not what I wanted to hear.”

She shrugged. “You two would be cute together. His looks cancel out any ugliness you have.”

“Again. That’s not what I wanted to hear.”

She sighed. “What do you want to hear, kid? I don’t know . . . He seems more mature now. Are you two really fighting about this as bad as you say?”

You glared at her, irritated that she was doubting your words just because he seemed ‘more mature.’ “I have no reason to lie. It’s not like you’ve ever liked him that much, anyway.”

“That’s true,” she murmured. “But he made you happy, so that was all that mattered to me. He’s not doing that for you anymore.”

You toed the edge of the carpet with your foot, avoiding her eyes.

“If you’re truly incessant on not making up with him, then find something that makes you happy,” she continued. When you glanced at her, she looked serious again. You decided you didn’t like that look on her face. She coughed.

“If not, I refuse to see your mopey face around here.”

“Comfort me or insult me! Pick one, dammit!”

As much as you hated to admit it, your sister had a point.

So when you returned to school, you tried to find something that made you happy. Either an end goal, or even another friend.

You found that continuously telling yourself to find something made things a little bit better. You didn’t think about the absence Miyuki had left you. You thought about ways to raise your grade or make the other kids mad about your success.

You even found a friend — a quiet girl in your class who was pretty low in the class rank named Arakawa Akemi. You didn’t care about the rank stuff too much. (Only when it could be used to make your snobby classmates angry.) If anything, had she been in a regular high school, she probably would’ve been top of the class.

So, your first year ended with a secure friendship and excellent grades. Your relationship with your mother had gotten better, mostly because of the shining commentary that all your teachers had about you and your behavior during the afterparty of the third years’ graduation ceremony, where students, families and parents mingled. Your sister was annoying as ever — though a bit proud — and your brother was merely happy about seeing you again.

You knew, when your second year started up in full force, that your friendship with Miyuki was gone at this point. He hadn’t seen you at all during winter break and didn’t make an attempt to contact you at all. You hardly ever saw his father, so you couldn’t ask him about it, either.

You were sad at this realization. Almost seven years of friendship flushed down the drain. And the worst part was that your feelings hadn’t even faded with that.

After the Spring Invitational, Miyuki had gotten . . . famous. He was known nationally, media calling him the ‘catcher of his generation.’ Known for his aggressive plays, people loved him. When you’d seen the magazine with an article about him in it, you were proud.

Despite his lack of communication, you were still proud that he was doing what he loved. And he was good at it. You could never be angry about him doing well in what he loved.

When you’d seen his picture in the magazine, your heart still beat like crazy and your stomach still did flips. You hated it.

Even without almost a year of no contact, you were still infatuated with him.

You found yourself busier than you’d anticipated when second year started up again. You were required to put in volunteer hours at a hospital, so you’d found yourself preoccupied not only with homework, but work from the hospital as well.

The busy schedule was good; it helped you keep your mind off things, especially when the Summer Tournament started up and Seido blazed through the first rounds, then qualified for the quarterfinals. They were constantly making news articles, something or another about their new first year pitchers that were blowing competition away; usually those articles had companion editorials about Miyuki and how quickly he was improving. You tended to stay away from those.

You felt guilty for avoiding the games as much as you did, but at that point, there was no real need for you to keep up. It wasn’t like Miyuki would be calling you afterward to ask for your opinion on it.

The way you saw it was that if there was no Miyuki, then there was no need for baseball, either.

Unfortunately for you, however, your classmates happened to be avid baseball fans, so when you came to class the Monday after the weekend of the finals, you weren’t surprised to hear them talking about it.

“ . . . what messed up their game.”

“Yeah, after that deadball, there was no way they were getting their momentum back.”

“It’s all that first year pitcher’s fault. Sawamura, right? If he hasn’t fallen apart, maybe they would’ve been able to continue.”

You listened curiously, only brought out by a nudge to the arm. Akemi was giving you serious side-eye. “You could look it up, you know, or even ask,” she murmured.

“Look what up?”

She elbowed you again.

You sighed, leaning forward to tap on the shoulder of your classmate sitting in front of you. He turned around, his eyes widening at seeing you interact with him.

You gave him a polite smile. “Are you guys talking about the finals of the summer tournament for West Tokyo?”

“Yeah. Between Seido and Inashiro.”

You sat up straighter. You hadn’t realized that it’d be between them, but of course, it made sense for them to be the finalists. Two of the three baseball powerhouses in West Tokyo.

A queasy feeling had settled in the pit of your stomach, but you pushed on.

“Who won?”

“Inashiro. Their ace, Narumiya Mei, was a complete monster but honestly that first year pitcher — Furuya, right? — was insane . . .”

You sat back, staring at the plastic of your table. Akemi hummed softly and leaned to show you her phone. It was an article, presumably on the game. You read the headline.

Seido loses to Inashiro by 4-5

The article was detailed, filled with baseball jargon that you didn’t bother trying to decipher. You latched onto a few pieces of important information; Seido batters unable to get a hit off Narumiya for the majority of the game, the deadball by that first year pitcher Sawamura Eijun in the bottom of the ninth inning and Seido’s ultimate loss. You sighed heavily.

“Great.”

Akemi shut off her phone, watching you carefully. “That’s it?” she asked quietly.

You’d told her about everything that had happened between you and Miyuki. Mostly as a precursory warning that apparently, you could be dumb when it came to your friendships; you’d try to be better with her, but fair warning and all that. Though, you had to give credit to yourself, since your errors were really because of your feelings and while Akemi was pretty and very kind to boot, Miyuki still held your heart.

But that was it.

You shrugged, pointedly looking away from her. “What am I supposed to do? It’s not like I can talk to him anymore.”

Akemi said nothing else on the matter, looking forward when the teacher entered and started up class. And you didn’t bring it up again, either. But you still had to sit through the excited murmurs of your classmates, biting down the urge to defend Seido whenever someone would badmouth the team for whatever reason. (At that point, you were irritated with yourself. You didn’t even know anyone on the team except for Miyuki. Why should you feel the need to defend them?)

The majority of summer break — wherein you stayed at school for extra classes — was filled with talk of Nationals, mostly about Inashiro blowing through the rounds until the finals, where they ended up as runner-up. For the half of the last week of break, you headed back to Tokyo, where you visited your family and managed to avoid working in the bakery under the guise of needing to study (which you actually did need to do).

You knew Miyuki wouldn’t have been back, probably training with the rest of his teammates. When you passed his house on your way to another café to study at (since you’d probably be roped into doing some form of work if you went to your own), you pointedly avoided looking at his home and the factory.

It was time for you to move on.

Despite your best efforts to hide behind the menu, Narumiya’s face lit up upon recognizing you.

He grinned brightly; there was less baby fat on his face than you remember. He looked taller, too, adding to his maturity.

He calls you out — by your surname, thankfully. You didn’t think you’d be able to handle if he called you by your first name. You’d probably walk straight out of the café . . .

“It’s so good to see you! How are you?”

You sunk in your chair as other customers glanced at you, irritated. Narumiya was unbothered by their glares, taking a seat across from you even though you hadn’t invited him to do so. He was just as annoying now as he’d been two years ago.

“I didn’t say you could sit down,” you said, annoyed.

“We need to catch up!”

“We don’t.”

He grinned. “Have you gotten meaner over the last few years?”

Your grip tightened on the menu briefly, but you took a deep breath, turning your eyes back to its contents. You would ignore him for however long you needed. He would get the message sooner or later.

“Are you meeting Kazuya here? I’ll wait with you. Maybe he and I can catch up, too.”

“No,” you replied stiffly. “I’m here to study in some peace and quiet.”

You looked at Narumiya over the top of the menu, then glanced pointedly at your bag sitting in the third seat between you two. He followed your gaze and made a small noise of dissatisfaction.

“How boring. Do you keep up with him?”

You studiously ignored him, turning the page of the menu.

“Is that a no, then?”

You continued to ignore him.

He huffed petulantly. “Come on, don’t tell me you’re still mad about what I said? I was some annoying first year brat in junior high. I’ve changed.”

You looked over the menu again, eyebrow raised in doubt.

“I have!” he protested.

You rolled your eyes. “Whatever. Can you please leave now? I need to study.”

“Study for what?” he frowned, then. “What school do you go to? Shouldn’t you be on break?”

“You’re asking too many questions.”

“Then sate my curiosity and answer them!”

You huffed this time, finally surrendering to your fate. “Fine. I’m going to Mimayama right now and I took extra class over summer break. We always have homework.”

“Mimayama, huh?” Narumiya looked at you closely. “All the way in Kyoto?”

“Yes.” You turned back to the menu, but your head was beginning to ache from switching between squinting to read the small text and looking up to Narumiya. Or maybe that was just Narumiya . . .

“Is that why you and Kazuya haven’t been talking?”

“I didn’t say anything about that,” you said, feeling a frown form on your lips. “It’s none of your business, anyway.”

“Come on! When’s the next time we’re gonna see each other?”

“Never, hopefully.”

He pouted. “You don’t mean that. Come on! Tell me about it. Who would I even tell?”

“Your friends. Your sisters. Miyuki.”

Narumiya laughed, but it sounded forced. “As if I still talk to him too.”

You looked at him this time and he had a bitter smile on his lips. He suddenly looked tired — worn out. You couldn’t imagine from what, though.

His smile tightened. “You’re not the only one with problems.”

You pursed your lips. “Evidently. If you listen, I’ll listen too.”

He frowned, looking away, clearly not liking the prospect of airing out his vulnerabilities.

“It’s a fair exchange,” you added before he could refuse. “And I’m the last person to judge, if that’s what you’re worried about. I wouldn’t judge even you, Narumiya.”

He grumbled. “At least call me Mei.”

You did your best to offer advice but he waved you off.

“I’m doing it because it was fair and I needed to vent. Don’t worry about me. I’ll deal with it.”

You eyed him disbelievingly. “I have no problem helping you, either . . .”

Another lazy wave of the hand. “Don’t worry your pretty little head. I’m fine. Now, what’s the deal with you and Kazuya?”

Mei leaned forward, unabashedly stealing a fry from your plate. You two had ordered your meals before Mei dove into his problems concerning pitching, the team, and the first year catcher he had to deal with now.

You listened intently, finding yourself sympathizing with him, much to your own surprise. You knew, rationally, Mei had his own problems — of course, he was only human — but for him to be this open, you appreciated it. It made you feel at ease. Maybe Mei wasn’t as bad as you’d painted him to be.

You pushed your plate to him, appetite having disappeared, but he pushed it back toward you, pointing at the food with an intense expression on his face. “Eat.”

“I can’t talk and eat at the same time,” you pointed out.

He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest and eyeing you with narrowed eyes. “You can take breaks and eat.”

“Is the famous Narumiya Mei worried about me?”

“Never mind, you can starve!”

You smiled slightly and launched in your story, punctuated with breaks to eat or drink some water. Mei listened to all that you had to say, only interrupting to ask a question to prompt more details. He didn’t seem to judge, but you couldn’t tell for sure; his facial expression stayed composed throughout your talk.

When you finished, you found yourself suddenly conscious of his eyes on you. You squirmed a little in your seat, poking tentatively at the cold fries on your plate. You looked back up when he sighed, slouching in his seat.

“We both can’t catch a break, can we?”

You snorted. “No kidding.”

“If it makes you feel any better, if I was in your place, I might’ve done the same thing. I mean it’s not the right choice, but solidarity or whatever.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“Anyway,” he cleared his throat, evading your glare. “It’s fine. We can actually do something about your problem.”

“You know, we can also do something for you too — ”

He waved you off. “I’ll deal with it eventually. But you . . . We can do something here.”

You didn’t like the look on his face, the conspiratorial smile on his lips beginning to grow as you shook your head. “N-No, definitely not. Besides, why would you want to help me? I’ve been pretty mean to you these past years . . .”

Mei shrugged. “That’s how most of my friendships start.”

You sighed. “Regardless, I’m not — we’re not doing anything about it. I just told you to vent. We’re finished with that.”

“You’re giving up, then?” he asked, unintentionally echoing your sister’s question from last year.

“I . . .” You frowned. “If it’ll save me the heartbreak, then I guess so. He’s not even — not even talking to me, Mei. His message is loud and clear.”

“Well, he’s dumb. You and I both know that. Why should you listen to him? You have to try.”

“I can’t.”

“You don’t want to,” he corrected. “What do you have to lose? Your friendship is already in shambles, you’re going to school all the way in Kyoto so you won’t have to see him if it goes rotten and it’s not like you two live that close. Maybe telling him will fix things.”

“And what if it makes it worse?” you asked sharply. “I’d rather we leave it like this.”

“Assuming for one moment that he doesn’t feel the same — ”

“He doesn’t.”

Mei ignored you. “ — then telling him will yield the same ending to your friendship as it did before. Except now it’ll be official. It’s a better way to break things off, anyway.”

“I have no business to mess his life up like that,” you said stubbornly.

“You want to reconcile, don’t you?” He suddenly asked, scrutinizing you.

“What?”

“Reconcile with Kazuya. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? But it’s not that easy. He’s going to want an explanation and he can be cruel. He’d probably make you choose between him and not explaining.”

You avoided Mei’s eyes. He was right. Miyuki wouldn’t accept you with open arms. He’d be affronted and demand an explanation. Rightfully so.

“So, what? I don’t tell him and we break things off or I do tell him and my feelings aren’t reciprocated so he breaks things off all the same to save us from the awkwardness?”

“Or you somehow manage to reconcile but still keep it to yourself. It’s unlikely, though. I wouldn’t be surprised if this bothered Miyuki. You’d probably do him a favor if you told him,” Mei finished, lacing his fingers together on the table.

“A favor,” you snorted disbelievingly.

“Now,” Mei continued, ignoring your tone, “let’s say he does have feelings for you. Which he does. Honestly, did you see the way he’d look at you when we were in junior high? It was gross.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Mei rolled his eyes. “Because you’re just that unattractive or what?”

You shifted, uncomfortable. “I don’t deserve him.”

“Shut up.”

You blanched. “You — ”

“You and Kazuya are perfect for each other. That sounds like something he’d say about you, too. I’m not here to listen to you depreciate yourself. I’m here to help.”

You softened as he aimed a displeased frown at you. “Thanks, Mei,” you said, truly meaning it.

“You’re welcome. I’m great, aren’t I?” he preened, a happy grin replacing the frown. “Now, assuming he liked you — which he does — he’d want to know if you felt the same. So, telling him maximizes the possibility of reconciling your friendship. Plus, maybe you get a boyfriend out of it, too.”

“Boyfriend!”

“Obviously. That tends to be what happens when two people like each other.”

“Don’t get sarcastic with me, Narumiya Mei!”

Mei’s words left a significant mark on you.

You left the cafe thinking over the possibilities (sparing no thought to the homework that hadn’t been completed). But the thought of confessing seemed . . . strange. Could you be so forward to actually go after Miyuki and tell him? He’d probably avoid you as much as he could.

You weren’t looking to make a fool out of yourself, either, so you certainly didn’t want to try going to Seido. Going to his house and cornering him there seemed to be your best option, but the next break where he’d be home was Christmas and that was four months away. That was okay; there was plenty of time to work things out.

But it also gave you time to back out.

You chose not to discuss this with Akemi, knowing she’d encourage you to tell him as well. For now, you just wanted to make your own decision without outside influences (excluding Mei since you’d made the unfortunate decision of giving him your LINE account).

The rest of August was split between school, Akemi, Mei and your deliberations. Mei constantly kept you updated on the start of the fall tournament, finding every chance to talk about Miyuki — which led to Mei’s usual declaration of taking Nationals next summer. You continued to mull over the decision of telling Miyuki, always finding yourself becoming anxious at the notion of facing him again.

At the same time, you missed Miyuki. If things didn’t go well, at least you’d spoken to him one last time.

It was a decision that demanded great thought. No one was going to have a part in influencing your choice (not even Mei). You couldn’t half-ass it or do it on the fly. You needed to have some organization when it came to deciding.

The call was what threw your entire plan off its axis.

You’d been in the middle of composing a text to Mei, demanding to hang out since he’d seemingly dropped off the face of the earth following Inashiro’s loss to Ugumori. You knew it had to do with those problems he’d told you about in August and you weren’t going to let him deal with it alone.

It was almost funny how much your friendship with Mei had grown in such a short time. While he could be unruly, irritating and arrogant, he seemed to have a softer side when it came to you, toning down his need to get a rise out of someone. It reminded you of Miyuki, but you shelved that thought quickly. It was a comparison that had no reason to exist.

Dutifully ignoring the review for your English class on your desk, you’d been in the middle of typing out a word when your screen changed from the conversation between you and Mei to the call screen. You eyed the number warily. It was from Tokyo, but it wasn’t one you recognized. Your thumb hovered over the decline button but you huffed and answered it. If it was a telemarketer, you could nip them in the bud right now before they got the idea to call you back.

“Hello?”

“Er, is this — ?” The voice on the other line proceeded to give out your full name.

“Yes, this is. May I ask who I’m speaking to?”

“Uh . . .” Another person on the other end said something, but it was too quick for you to grab onto. “I know that, Zono! Shut up!”

Your frown deepened. “I’m . . . hanging up now.”

You went to pull away but the guy spoke again, hurriedly. “No, no, hold on! My name is Kuramochi Yoichi, I’m the shortstop for Seido’s baseball team.”

What the hell was a player from Seido doing you? You glanced at the calendar mounted in front of you, finding the words Seido vs. Yakushi final @ 1 marked down for today. So, the game must’ve been over then. Didn’t these boys have better things to be doing right now?

“How’d you get my number? And what’s the reason for calling me?” you asked, trying to sound as polite as possible. You were a bit irritated, though.

“You know Miyuki, right? Miyuki Kazuya?”

“Unfortunately.”

Kuramochi coughed, though it sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “Right. Well, he sort of mentioned you today, before we went to the hospital, so I figured I should give you a call — ”

“Hospital?” you interrupted sharply. “Why are you going to a hospital? Did something happen? Was he injured?”

“Eh, he was but it’s not too serious. I think. So, yeah, he said to not call you otherwise you’d ‘kick his ass for getting hurt’ so I thought why not? Let him suffer a little bit for trying to hide his injury.” Kuramochi sounded nonchalant about the entire thing, so maybe it was okay, but you were still confused.

“Explain.”

“He was tackled at the plate by a pitcher from Seiko High in our semifinals and trust me, he wouldn’t have said anything unless someone else had noticed. I’m not sure if anyone else noticed, but if they did, they didn’t say anything. I told him . . . Well, I told him not to fall apart until after we’d won,” Kuramochi admitted sheepishly. You pursed your lips in disapproval.

“If he showed any sign of bringing the team down, I’d tell the coach but he didn’t for the most part. Unfortunately, another one our teammates noticed and brought everyone’s attention to it so the coach knew by the middle of the game.”

“Did he continue to play? Or was he benched?”

“No, he played the entire game. Miyuki’s our cleanup, too, so it wasn’t a bad move — ”

“Are you discounting the fact that he struck out a few times?” the other guy on the other end of the line asked.

“Shut it,” Kuramochi snapped. “It was better for our team morale, too. That bastard is aggressive. We might not have won if he’d been benched.” Then he coughed, seeming to suddenly realize that he’d called Miyuki a bastard with you listening. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you muttered tiredly, rubbing your temples to stave off the incoming headache. “So, what? He was taken to the hospital?”

“Yeah. We got here like fifteen minutes ago. He was . . . pretty out of it. Probably from the pain. We’re waiting for him right now. But, uh, I guess I called to see if you’d like to come and see him. Don’t worry about his father, I know someone else took care of that already.”

“Where are you guys?” you asked, more out of curiosity than anything.

“Tokyo General.”

“And how did you get my number again?”

“Miyuki’s phone.”

Kuramochi must’ve copied the number from Miyuki’s and into his own. You were surprised that Miyuki had even kept it. You sighed heavily, turning back to the conversation. “You do realize we don’t even talk anymore, right? Has he even told you about me?”

Kuramochi was silent for a few seconds. “Not really, but he’s always closed off. I did notice the lack of conversation for you on his messages, though. I don’t know, I just thought I’d tell you. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to see him, but as soon as we get his room number, I’ll text you from this number.”

“That sounds fine. Thanks, I guess.”

“No problem. Sorry for bothering you, though.” He hung up quickly before you could reply. You dropped your hand holding the phone into your lap, staring at the calendar. You had two finals this coming Monday and you needed to study. But was this your chance?

The way that Kuramochi has phrased it . . . It sounded like Miyuki was joking about it. In his pain-induced haze, had he forgotten about the ruins of your friendship and joked about you? Or was he conscious about what he’d been saying?

It was all so confusing.

You gritted your teeth at the oncoming headache and stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the wooden floor. You packed up your notebooks that you needed for studying, grabbing your wallet as well. A quick search told you that the next train to downtown Tokyo would leave in thirty minutes. You bought your ticket, sending a silent mental apology to your father who’d see the purchase and probably freak out.

The dormitory wasn’t too lively, meaning you could make your escape unnoticed. You notified the resident assistant of your leave — one of the teachers for your year — and she let you off without much problems, only stressing for you to be back before curfew tomorrow. After boarding the train with no problems and sending Akemi a message about your impromptu leave, you dove into your studies but found that you couldn’t concentrate. You had too many worries, too many thoughts.

This was going to go very well or very horribly.

After the three-hour train ride from Kyoto to Tokyo, you arrived at the hospital at six. You had met Kuramochi in the lobby of the hospital and he led you to the in-patient wing.

Kuramochi was an interesting individual. He was stiff, overly-polite in a way that said he was trying too hard. He probably felt uncomfortable actually seeing you in person.

“Does he have to stay overnight?” You asked, fingers tightening over the strap of your bag. When studying had escaped you, you obsessed over what sort of injury he could have. Was it sprained ribs? Had he torn a muscle? Or was this worse?

“Eh, only one night. He kicked up a fuss about it but we pointed out that he’d fainted from the pain. Better safe than sorry,” he explained as you two stepped into the elevator. He pressed the button for the second floor.

You looked at him sharply. “He fainted?”

Kuramochi grimaced and nodded. “Like I said, he was pretty out of it. He’s fine now. Conscious and all that.”

“What about his father?”

Kuramochi reached up to scratch the back of his neck. “Said he’d come tomorrow.”

You sighed softly. Yeah, that sounded like him.

There was a soft ding as the doors slid open, Kuramochi stepping out and briskly leading the way. His cleats were loud against the tiled floor, disturbing the quiet environment of the second floor. Your stomach twisted uncomfortably.

You made it to a room but just as he’d lifted a hand to pull the door knob, you stopped him.

“Wait.”

He looked questioningly at you, his hand paused in the air. “What?”

“I don’t think this was a good idea . . .” You fidgeted with the strap of your bag, swallowing thickly. Your heart was beating like a drum in your chest and you had the ridiculous thought that everybody could hear how loudly it was beating.

Kuramochi scanned your face and he became serious, seeming to sense that you were genuinely doubting yourself.

“Whatever happened between you two,” he said, hushed. “It’s fine.”

“It was my fault,” you mumbled. “Why we stopped talking.”

“Somehow, I doubt that. But I don’t know your story. Listen,” you looked at him, finding him meet your eyes earnestly. “Now is the best time to fix it. Whether it goes well or not, I don’t know. But at least you tried, right?”

What do you have to lose?

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. “You’re right.”

“You look like you’re about to throw up.”

“Thanks.”

Kuramochi stared at you, then nodded to himself, as though he’d just realized something. “It makes sense now,” he mumbled under his breath, making you frown.

“What — ”

He opened the door before you could ask what he’d meant and you instinctively jumped behind him as several voices floated out of the room.

“Ah, Kuramochi. Is everything okay?” a woman asked.

“Yeah. Just had to pick up one of Miyuki’s visitors,” he replied, staying in the doorway, probably sensing you hiding behind him.

“Is it — ?” another voice asked, sounding like the one you’d heard on the phone.

Kuramochi didn’t respond, simply stepping into the room, leaving you standing in the doorway for everyone to see.

There was only another guy your age in there and he looked utterly panicked at your presence. There was an intimidating man as well, dressed in the Seido baseball uniform — the coach presumably — and then a woman standing next to him, dressed in formal clothes. You turned your eyes to the hospital bed, but instead of meeting those familiar brown eyes, you were met with his bowed head, his eyes averted to his legs. You noticed his clenched fists on his lap and felt your heart drop to your stomach. He was angry.

You bit your lip then bowed to the two adults, introducing yourself, “I’m an . . . old friend.”

The two adults looked at Miyuki for confirmation. The air was uncomfortably tense. You saw him sigh minutely before he nodded.

With his confirmation that you weren’t some stranger trying to sneak in, they introduced themselves as the coach and scout of Seido; the other guy introduced himself as the Zono you’d heard from the phone before. You accepted them politely, but a stifling silence ensued afterward.

You snuck glances at Miyuki in the corner of your eye. He had raised his head, but his eyes remained on the white wall in front of him, eyebrows furrowed.

“Well, we should head out, then. Miyuki, will you be okay here?” Takashima asked, turning to look at him.

“I’m fine.”

His voice had dropped since junior high, but he still sounded the same. Just like the Miyuki you once knew. Except he sounded tired. You felt guilt bubble in the pit of your stomach, knowing you were probably going to stress him about more.

One by one, they all exited the room. Kuramochi had hissed something to Miyuki before he left, sending you a nod of solitude. When the door finally shut, you weren’t sure what to do with yourself. You shifted on your feet awkwardly. The silence was absolutely unnerving. You briefly considered just fleeing and never coming back, but that would be too cruel. Why should you show up abruptly then leave just as suddenly?

Yet, Miyuki still hadn’t spoken.

You took a deep breath, ignoring the racing of your heart, preparing to say something — anything.

Miyuki beat you to it. “Why are you here?”

Hurt pierced your heart. You faltered at the cold tone in his voice, the apathy, the indifference. Miyuki raised his head to look at you and any remnants of a response flew out of your head. He had matured, baby fat disappearing from his face and leaving someone else behind. Miyuki had grown into his looks. Those familiar brown eyes that had often glowed with mirth were hard, almost unrecognizable, burning into you with searing intensity.

You fidgeted with the strap of your bag, dropping your eyes to the floor. “Kuramochi called me. Said you were here so I — ”

“You thought you could come and visit like we were ‘old friends?’” Miyuki finished for you callously.

You dropped your head, trying not to let his words affect you. He was angry and Miyuki never spared his words much thought when he was angry. You certainly deserved his ire, anyhow. You’d been such a shitty friend.

You took a deep breath. “Not really. I know I haven’t been a good friend to you. I just thought . . . I don’t know. I thought you deserved to finally hear an explanation from me, but like I said before, it . . . might not be something you want to hear.”

Miyuki didn’t say anything else, turning to look at the window. You took that as your cue to continue, dragging a chair over to his bedside. You managed a reasonable distance away from the bed, dropping your bag onto the floor with a sigh.

“It’s taken far too long for me to explain myself. I understand if, even if you know, you’ll want to go our separate ways, though my explanation sort of ensures that you probably won’t want to talk to me, anyways.” You glanced up at him and he was still looking out the window, but his eyebrows were furrowed now. He was troubled.

You pushed on, dropping your eyes to your lap. “My reasons weren’t entirely for educational purposes, but I think you’ve picked up on that already, right? It was . . . Well, it was partially because of my sister’s advice, I guess. She didn’t say to leave because of you or anything, just that I had to prioritize my education when it came to picking a high school.”

You’d raised your eyes to his face and saw him raise his shoulders, the furrow of his eyebrows deepening in a way that told you he was ready to protest. You continued speaking before he could. “Seido is a great school. Looking back on it now, it probably would’ve benefitted me as much as Mimayama has. Plus,” you dropped your eyes back to your lap. “You would’ve been there, too.”

“What’s your point?”

You flinched at the sharpness of his voice. It cut deeply, making you feel small and insignificant. Still, you ventured further.

“That was the problem,” you mumbled. “You’d be there and I’d be with you. She — my sister — said not to let my feelings influence my decision. At this point, I’ve clearly missed the mark that she was aiming for. I just,” you paused, leaning forward to brace your elbows on your knees, rubbing your forehead tiredly. Your heart felt like it was going to break free from your ribs.

“I wanted to go to Seido with you. But if I did, I would’ve picked that school because I was in love with you. So, I went to Mimayama because I thought that by leaving, I could get rid of these feelings and we could continue to be friends.”

Finally saying it felt so relieving, like the pressure on your chest had lifted and you could breathe freely. The constraints of your secret were gone. But that left you to deal with the aftermath.

You didn’t raise your head as the silence seemed to echo, broken only by the occasional voice outside the room and the ticking of the clock. Miyuki still hadn’t said anything.

Your liberation ended with the cold revelation that no, he didn’t feel the same and you’d ruined your friendship permanently.

You squeezed your eyes shut, feeling a few tears slid down your cheek. You rubbed them away roughly, though fresh ones replaced them immediately. Your chest and throat felt constricted, making breathing steadily a little difficult. You heard the sheets rustle as he moved.

“Why are you crying?” Did your ears betray you or had his voice softened? He still sounded tired as hell, but he didn’t sound irritated. If anything, his tone was almost exasperated.

You brushed away the fresh set of tears but they just kept coming. Was this two years of pent-up frustration coming to the surface? Or was it because of the imminent end of your friendship?

“I just ruined my friendship,” you muttered, sniffling. It didn’t look like your tears would be stopping anytime soon, so you decided to save yourself the embarrassment; you stood up then grabbed your bag and stood up quickly, covering your face with your arm. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have — ”

“Wait,” he called quickly. You stepped back as you heard the hospital bed creak then a soft ‘fuck’ reached your ears, making you drop your arm away from your eyes.

Your eyes widened once you saw he had sat up and shifted, moving to stand up in front of you. “Don’t get up, you’ll hurt yourself more!” You put a hand on his shoulder, trying pushing him down, but it was all in vain. The strength he had gained over the years — and more recently as the cleanup for Seido — was no match for your own. He stood up and you found yourself trapped with him in the space between the chair and the bed.

You froze. With this proximity, you could lean your forehead on his chest; in fact, you could almost feel the warmth he radiated. You dropped your eyes immediately. Funnily enough, your tears were quickly drying with this new distraction.

Miyuki pried your fingers off his shoulder and your heart fell to your stomach, but instead of dropping your hand, he clasped your hand between his own. His grip was tight and unyielding. The message was clear. You weren’t going anywhere.

(And to be completely honest, you didn’t want to be anywhere else.)

You saw his chest lift and fall as he sighed, the warm air brushing over the crown of your head, tickling stray pieces of flyaway hair. There were too many things going on at once. You felt the coarseness of his palms against your hand, callouses rubbing against the skin roughly, the distinct scent of a generic detergent brand printed on the cotton t-shirt he was wearing. But it was all so Miyuki that you couldn’t complain.

Being this close, hearing his steady breathing, he was here. That familiar comfort you’d always found with him was slowly returning and that was dangerous. You didn’t even know if he still wanted to be your friend. But maybe . . .

“You’re right,” he finally said.

“About what?”

“About ruining our friendship.”

You flinched, taking a step back and running into the chair. It scraped loudly against the floor. Well, then. At least that had been solved, right? You felt the tears that had dried begin to well up again, the hurt piercing your heart like a knife once more. You tried to pull your hand away but he was too strong for you.

“Miyuki — ”

“I don’t want to be your friend if you feel like that.”

Your mouth quivered. “I get it, you don’t need to — ”

He released your hand but before you could step away, his hands were cradling your face, tilting you towards him. You had no choice but to look at him. You inhaled sharply, feeling exposed underneath his gaze. But more than that, his eyes held an unspoken tenderness that hadn’t been there before. His thumbs gently brushed away the stray tears that had escaped.

“I’m not . . . good with this,” he said. “But I don’t want to be your friend because I — ” He stopped, almost seeming to pout at his lack of articulation. You had an inkling to what he was trying to say, to what he was hinting at and it made your chest tighten, made your palms sweaty and your heart race.

“Why?” you blurted out, feeling like you had to know why he would chose you, out of all people, and also because you weren’t sure you could deal with the implications of his words so soon.

Miyuki looked genuinely confused. “What?”

“After all I did . . . Not talking to you . . . Honestly, I understand why you blocked me — ”

“Blocked you? I never blocked you,” he frowned.

“I — Your number didn’t work when I tried to text you for your birthday last year,” you clarified. “No call, either.”

“Oh. Oh.” He seemed to understand and winced, a guilty expression passing over his face. “I got a new phone a few days before that. I broke my old one — ”

“How do you break a Nokia?”

He grinned, tugging on your cheek playfully and your heart skipped a beat at the sight of his grin, so warm and full of mirth. You felt like a little thirteen-year-old again, experiencing the first adrenaline rush of your feelings.

“My teammates broke it,” he corrected. “Dad got me one, said it was partially a birthday present, too. I got a new phone number but I . . . Well, I never texted you my new number. I had yours, I just didn’t . . .” he trailed off and the happy bubble you two had found yourselves in popped.

It hurt, but you understood. Miyuki was the type to need to know — he needed to know why you had avoided telling him for so long, why you wanted to go all the way to Kyoto for school; he was analytical in every aspect of his life. You weren’t going to be excluded from that particular quirk.

But you also wondered what would happen now. If his terrible word phrasing from earlier said anything about it, Miyuki seemed to think of you as more than a friend — but it had been two years since you two had spoken or even interacted face-to-face.

“Hey.”

You blinked, refocusing on him. He was frowning, eyebrows furrowed as he squished your cheeks together. You struggled in his grip, feeling a scowl quickly form on your lips. “Your hands are probably filthy, stop that — ”

He sighed and dropped his hands from your face, stepping back to lean on the hospital bed fully. You were . . . disappointed at the ensuring distance, no longer finding his natural warmth at your disposal. You chided yourself; Miyuki had an injury. He shouldn’t exert so much energy. You weren’t sure about the extent of his injury, exactly, but if he had fainted from the pain, then it had to be worrying, right?

You scrutinized his appearance, too caught up in your worries to be shameful. At least that was one thing that never changed. (And would probably never change.)

“You should sit back down, Miyuki.”

Miyuki huffed softly. “It’s just an oblique muscle tear on my right side. And I’m not made of glass, you know.”

“I know.”

“And hey,” he caught your attention again. “Why do you always call me by my last name? Even Mei calls me by my first.”

You shrugged, shifting uncomfortably at the sudden question. “I don’t know. It was just a thing I always did. Besides, this is Mei we’re talking about.”

He snorted. “That’s true. Wait,” he frowned at you. “Since when do you call Mei by his first name? This is just unfair.” He pouted a little and you huffed.

“I’m relieved to see that you haven’t changed, and well, we’ve sort of . . . become friends.”

“You know we lost our ticket to Nationals because of Inashiro, right?”

You rolled your eyes. “Well, you’re going to Koshien Stadium now, aren’t you? It’s basically the same thing.”

“It’s not.”

“Mei and I are friends, I guess. He was the one who encouraged me to — to talk to you. Try and rekindle our friendship.”

“What exactly did he say?”

You pursed your lips, narrowing your eyes at Miyuki. “Why do you want to know?”

Miyuki shrugged carelessly. “Mei’s the type to incite action in someone else. Would you have come if you hadn’t spoken to him?”

You made a choked sound of disbelief. “You’re assuming — ”

“You said you were in love with me, didn’t you?”

The abrupt reminder of your confession was like a slap to the face. You shut your mouth silently, feeling embarrassed at being put on the spot like this.

Miyuki looked thoughtful. “Whatever he said must’ve resonated with you. I imagine your sister had a hand in this, too. She doesn’t like taking the blame, does she?”

You were worried about nothing, apparently. Miyuki seemed to remember all your ticks now as he had two years ago. In fact, just being with him for these past few minutes have been refreshing. It was like coming home.

Miyuki huffed softly at your lack of response. “Look, I . . . I’m sorry. For everything.”

You stiffened. “What are you — ”

He says your name lowly, cutting you off short.

There was an edge of rawness in his voice, a vulnerability that you hadn’t ever heard before. You swallowed your response, watching him tentatively as he dropped his head, turning his eyes to the ground.

“These last few months were difficult. Did you know I was made captain? The, uh, previous captain — Yuki — nominated me, of all people. You know how I am. As you might imagine, we had a few clashes, but things are coming together now. I mean, we won. Can you believe that?” Miyuki laughed, but it was cold and brittle.

You didn’t like how depreciating this was turning. He may’ve asked for your silence, but if all he was going to do was put himself down, then you would put a stop to it.

As if sensing your climbing ire, he looked back up and the anger simmered, fading to a dull roar as you met his eyes. There was a warmth in there you hadn’t ever seen before.

“We got through it. We’re here now. Things are looking up. This damn injury . . . It’s just a speed bump in a long road. But through it all, I kept going back to you. You never left my mind. I,” he paused again and dropped his eyes, seemingly embarrassed, “I missed you.” It came out like a mumble, a hesitant admission; expected for someone as emotionally closed off as Miyuki.

But you found it charming. His inability to respond in closely social situations, in times like this that were intimate. You knew him well enough to know what he was saying.

“So, I’m sorry. For ignoring you. For prying when it wasn’t my place. For being an asshole about it all, really.”

You took a deep breath. This was it. “I’m sorry, too. No matter what, you deserved to know the truth.”

“Well.” It sounded like Miyuki disagreed as he reached up to rub the back of his neck sheepishly. “It was a deeply personal reason.”

You snorted. “No shit.”

“If it’s any consolation, I’ve always felt the same.”

You froze.

There it was.

Your heart was going into overdrive once again and you found your breath stolen from you when he lifted his head to make eye contact with you. There was still that warmth in there that hadn’t been present before. But maybe it had always been there, you had just never seen it. Miyuki was a master at disguising his emotions and you supposed you couldn’t ever have idealized the concept of him having feelings for you to be able to actually notice it.

“And I think,” he continued quietly, “that we’re not ever going to be the same again. But that’s okay. So, let’s start off with you calling me by my first name, yeah?”

The air left your lungs in a rush and before you could even think to manage an agreement, he lifted his hand to your cheek, settling warmly on the curve, thumb brushing gently over it. He pushed forward and you knew, you knew where this was heading. You didn’t stop him. You weren’t sure you wanted to. Sure, there might’ve been some things that still needed to be discussed but you had settled your battles for the most part.

So when he asked, his voice soft in the tenderness of the moment, “Can I kiss you?” You found it a little hard to keep standing straight, so why wouldn’t you have leaned forward on him — totally mindful of his injury, of course — and met his lips halfway.

There might’ve been a number of things that ruined it for anyone else — having to watch his right side constantly so you didn’t hurt him, the bookbag still weighing heavily on your shoulder, keeping an ear out for the nurses and doctors — but there were other factors that made it perfect for you.

The warm and firm press of his mouth on yours, easily consuming all your senses with everything that was Miyuki Kazuya but retaining a gentleness that was also him. Always making sure you were comfortable. And the way his other hand had easily fallen to your waist to keep you in place was your anchor, powerful tendons of his arm underneath your palm that kept you from falling into the sea.

It was strange. He was both all-consuming and anchoring.

He shifted, angling a little more to slant his lips over yours, deepening and taking you down to the depths of the ocean. You followed willingly, reciprocating eagerly if only to prolong this experience. But the growing burn in your lungs was going to be a problem soon.

That was okay. He was back in your life now, wasn’t he? Miyuki Kazuya wasn’t a stranger, he wasn’t a friend; he was something more, a fixated presence in your life that caused you both immense happiness and irritation. No one was perfect, you knew, but even with all his faults and flaws, he came pretty damn close.

And he was right, too.

You had sort of ruined your friendship, though you supposed it was on his end, too. This was a two-way street, after all.

But as he pulled away, breathing a little faster than usual, his lips beginning to swell, you didn’t find yourself mourning the end of it. No, as he caught his breath and leaned forward again to claim your mouth, you found yourself looking forward to what he’d bring.

Your future was firmly entrenched with his and you wanted it to stay that way.

#fair warning i wrote this when i was in my. sophomore year. in 2019. LOL #its not bad! im actually quite fond of this fic #particularly of my characterizations. mei especially. he grew on me while writing it #its been up on ao3 since 2019 i just thought that since i'm posting dogfish here #i might as well throw up my other oneshots #the shorter content basically. long stuff will be posted strictly to ao3 or wattpad #daiya no ace x reader #daiya no ace #ace of diamond #ace of diamond x reader #miyuki kazuya #miyuki kazuya x reader #miyuki #moss writes

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messrsbyler · 11 months

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green

Will’s eyes always turned a bit greener during sunsets. Although, green wasn’t the correct word to describe them. Beautiful, sparkling, infinite; those were words that could paint a picture of Will’s eyes, but none of them could depict their colour as the sun sank below the skies.

Mike imagined the sunlight of an afternoon seeping through the branches and leaves of a tree in full bloom. He thought of the halos around the green and the oranges from the clouds, the mix of shades and lights all reflected in Will’s eyes, and yet again came empty for a word to describe it all.

He was in the process of pondering over the limitations of the English language and how unfair all of it was, when Will turned away from the sunlight bathing his face and found Mike looking. A nervous smile pulled from his lips and a new shade spread over his cheeks. It was as lovely and as lacking of a name as his eyes were.

“What?” he asked.

Mike kept looking at Will and shook his head. There was so much he could fit in that question alone. He could talk about how ‘green’ was a stupid and plain word, about sunsets and trees and leaves, about heartbeats and old promises made in a basement.

Everything, he wanted to say. But just as ‘green’, the word felt too big and yet too hollow and plain.

“Nothing,” he said instead and smiled back. “Just looking.”

#sweet nothings #< tag for short little drabbles like this one #i'm not back yet but i just wrote this and i'm in a /mood/ so i'm running to post it and then to disappear again huhu #a different type of writing reaaaally out of my comfort zone buuuut i like it so you guys might like it as well #anyhow-#byler #byler tumblr #byler ficlet #mike wheeler #will byers #stranger things #mike x will #byler endgame #byler ao3 #ok logging off now byeeeeeeeeee #my ficlets

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actual-changeling · 7 months

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can i interest the people in some heartbreaking angsty hurt/comfort? post season 2? no? yes?

#alex yells at the void #good omens #ineffable husbands #this was supposed to be a short tumblr post but it's 1k now so i might as well post it as a ficlet on ao3

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whatsagirltoblogabout · 7 months

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Opposite of an Intellectual

“The opposite of an intellectual… you really think you could do that, Caffrey?” Jones asked, reading through the cover description.

“Do what?” Neal responded, blinking at them in confusion. Instead of the overly innocent smile that would usually accompany a question like that from Neal, his face was just blank curiosity. It seemed that for once the con man wasn’t messing with them; he just hadn’t been paying attention.

“Be the opposite of an intellectual,” Diana repeated for him with an incredulous chuckle.

Neal’s brows furrowed lightly in confusion. ‘What’s an… intellectual?” he asked, seeming to struggle to recall the word.

Diana scrutinized him, but despite all the years she had spent working with Neal Caffrey, she couldn’t find a single tell that he was lying. By all appearances, Neal Caffrey genuinely did not know the word ‘intellectual.’

“On second thought, that’s kinda scary,” Jones decided, taking an unconscious step backwards. “Please stop.”

Neal finally broke, giving them a devious grin and a theatrical bow. Diana had to admit, seeing firsthand how convincingly Neal could become someone diametrically opposed to his actual self was a bit terrifying. The short demonstration had left her heart pounding and breathing slightly shallow.

“Remember this the next time you doubt me,” Neal warned cheerfully, winking at them before sauntering away. Diana and Jones looked at each other once he was gone.

“That was scary, right?” Jones asked.

“Yeah,” Diana confirmed, “that was definitely scary.”

Then an idea hit her. “I wanna see Peter’s reaction!”

#white collar #white collar fanfic #neal caffrey #diana berrigan #clinton jones #my fics #why am I like this #it's not exactly what I was talking about earlier - no abs unfortunately #but the idea for this came to me while brushing my teeth and I thought might as well write it you know?#so here's this #my first publicly posted white collar fanfiction #and it's exactly 250 words that I wrote in 15 minutes after being struck by inspiration while brushing my teeth #seems about right #of course my life is chaotic like that #I do eventually plan to post stuff to AO3 #but I want my first wc fic on there to be the multichap that I'm working on #so until then this lives here on Tumblr #go easy on me please I wrote this in 15 minutes in the middle of the night #not to dox my timezone but this was literally written from 12:05 - 12:20 AM #so yeah anyway #I made a thing #hope y'all like it #girlwriting

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themoonking · 10 months

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when people bring up the racism, homophobia, transphobia, romanticization of domestic abuse / rape / pedophilia / incest, literal actual written porn of literal actual real life flesh and blood children, et cetera et cetera on archive of our own, one of the ao3 stannies’ main defenses is “you can just filter out the tags if you don’t want to see that!” when that defense has no fucking legs to stand on.

ao3 is not an archive, it is barely even a website: a rant <3 (very long)

ignoring the fact that it’s a problem that all of that is permitted on the site in the first place (i guess child porn and racism are fine, and the people who allow it on their platform are fine, as long as i, personally, do not see it), that defense literally means nothing. it’s assuming that every little thing on ao3 is tagged properly and it absolutely is not, and if you think it is you are dumber than rocks. i mean for fuck’s sake, just touching on archive warnings and not tags, “creator chose not to use archive warnings” is literally a valid option for fic authors to use when it should fucking not be.

if someone is a freak who thinks that pedo shit is hot, they might not tag it as “rape” (archive warnings OR tags). i’ve literally seen underage father/son rape porn with no trigger warning tags but “child abuse if you squint”. IF YOU SQUINT. if someone thinks that domestic abuse is actually cool and sexy when attractive people do it, they might not tag it as “abuse”. if someone is a freak who likes incest, but bends over backwards to justify it by only shipping adopted family members, then they tell themselves that they don’t view it as incest, and might not tag it as “incest”. if someone is a racist, a homophobe, a transphobe, et cetera and they wrote bigotry into their fic (or else wrote a deliberate troll fic to trigger people on purpose), do you really think they’re going to tag it as racism / homophobia / transphobia / et cetera? and some people get kicks out of writing purposefully triggering content and either leaving it untagged or mistagging it so that people will read it unsuspectingly.

even for just general content tags, it’s a mess. people just forget to tag things all the time. people deliberately won’t tag the endgame ship of their fic because “it’s a spoiler heehee”. people use the romantic or sexual “x / y” tag instead of the platonic or otherwise “x & y” tag, sometimes by mistake sometimes on purpose. it’s a joked about issue how people will tag characters or ships that appear in their fic for two sentences.

there’s no standardization of tags, which is a pretty obvious problem. what first comes to mind is the “dead dove: do not eat” tag which should just not be a tag at all because it just has no meaning. depending on the individual fic writer using it, it could mean anything from “literally the most sickening and depraved thing you’ve ever read in your life” to “horror w/ gore”. but it applies to other vague tags too - different fic writers will have different ideas of what the tag means.

in addition to that, what is and isn’t made a filterable tag, what tags are made synonymous, et cetera, is entirely up to the whims of the site staff. as an example, if you’re trying to look for fanfiction of a singular animated disney movie, the infinite crossovers with other disney movies will not actually be counted as crossovers (which they are) because they’re classified as the “disney theatrical animated universe” (which isn’t a fucking thing), so you can’t filter them out the “exclude crossovers” way. if you try to filter out the fandom tag “disney theatrical animated universe”, it’ll show up with zero fics because that tag is synonymous with every disney animated film (regardless of if the fic author actually used the tag “disney theatrical animated universe” or not), thus also filtering out the one you actually wanted to find.

and do not get me fucking started on the “all media types tags”, which also just shouldn’t be a thing because it makes it fucking impossible to find the specific fics you’re looking for. some people use it in place of tagging a specific canon / adaptation when their fic very clearly draws from one specific canon / adaptation, and you can’t filter it out because it’s synonymous with every fandom tag under its umbrella.

as an example of the issues of both the “all media types” tag and mistagging in general: as a fan of the witcher books, it used to be a fucking ordeal to find fanfiction specifically for the books (post netflix show release). some show fans would, for whatever reason, tag their fics with the book fandom tag in addition to (or even in place of!!) the show fandom tag when their fics were unquestionably show-specific, meaning i could not simply search only in the book fandom tag. i could not simply filter out the show tag, because some show fans would, for whatever reason, tag as fucking “all media types”, when their fics were unquestionably show-specific. and alas, i could not filter out “all media types” and the show tag, so that i see only those fics which have been deliberately and exclusively tagged as the book, not only because as mentioned some show fans would tag their show fics with only the book tag, but also because the fucking all media types tag filters out the book tag as well, leaving me with zero fucking fics REGARDLESS of if the author actually used the “all media types” tag. now, thankfully, i’ve thankfully seen this issue in this specific fandom lessen, but it still occurs in other fandoms and i guarantee that it didn’t lessen in the witcher fandom because of any fixing of the site on the part of ao3 staff.

another common defense of ao3 freaks is that it’s an “archive”, and therefore can’t get rid of anything anyone posts, and disregarding the fact that that is not how archives fucking work, they don’t just allow anything and also ao3 DOES get rid of fics... when they say that they don’t like proshippers, apparently, archives have... you know... archivists. they have someone or a team of someones making sure that everything in the archive is *properly fucking categorized*. they have someone or multiple someones making sure that everything they recieve (1) belongs there and (2) is properly labeled and organized. same for libraries. meaning that if ao3 really were an archive and not a sub par fanfiction website, they’d have something like that in place. something as simple as a report button for fics with a review team that will see if something’s been mis- or untagged. they’d have some kind of standardization of tags (especially the warning / trigger tags) and have proper tagging enforced in some way. and then they could also do something like stop being spineless racists, queerphobes, and pedos have the barest minimum of content guidelines saying that you can’t post fucking hate speech.

if something is mistagged or untagged, the most you can do is leave a comment politely asking that the author fix the issue, and then hope and pray that they do that. and if that person thinks [insert form of abuse] is hot, or if they’re just straight up a bigot that wrote bigotry into their fics to be bigoted, or they’re a troll that gets kick out of deliberately traumatizing people by tricking them into reading their mis/untagged fics, they might not! AND if you see a major tagging issue on an orphaned work, or a work that has an inactive author / hasn’t been updated in forever, good fucking luck getting even a negative response.

you can’t permanently block tags (i mean even tumblr.hell has that), meaning that if you would like to search for fic without coming across something troubling, triggering, or just something you don’t like, you have to either (1) do a work around by having a bookmarked link for every fandom you’re in or every character you like with all of your tags already blocked, (2) download browser extensions that do the work for ao3 because they can’t be bothered themselves, or (3) input every individual tag every time you search ao3 and don’t forget that all of those options only fucking work at all when everything is tagged properly, and we’ve already established its not. you also can’t actually block people (you can only prevent them from commenting) meaning that if there’s a specific person you’d like to stay away from your fics or a specific fic author that you don’t like and would like to stop seeing their fics clogging up the tag, you’re out of luck (though for the latter you could insert “-[username]” into the “search within results” box, but then uh oh we’re right back around to having to input that every time or have a bookmark)

their archive warning system is shit. first of all it’s functionally useless because, as mentioned, “creator chose not to use archive warnings” is an option. what’s the fucking point of special required archive warnings if you’re going to allow people to opt out anyway. second of all, aside from “chose not to use warnings” and “no warnings apply”, the only warnings are “major character death”, “graphic depictions of violence”, “rape/non-con”, and “underage”. disregarding the fact that they shouldn’t be allowing porn of underage characters in the first place (but i’m talking to a brick wall on that issue) and that “non-con” (and “dub-con”) as terminology needs to die, it’s just fucking rape lets not use weasel words... this is a paltry list of possible warnings. there’s no official warnings for depictions of: domestic abuse, animal abuse, depictions of racism / homophobia / transphobia / et cetera, suicide, self harm, et cetera et cetera. and we return to the issue of standardization of tags. in your required archive warnings at very least, there should be a standardization of what these mean, but ao3′s own faq is just like “ehh... you decide. we’ll leave it up to you”. what qualifies as graphic depictions of violence? two people may write the same level of violence, but qualify “graphic” differently, and make different decisions regarding their warnings. and we also return to the issue of: if a freak doesn’t see something that is clearly rape as rape, they might not tag it as such.

this website gets a disgustingly large amount of money every year that it doesn’t fucking do anything with. it’s been over a decade and they’re still in fucking beta. features that would actually be useful, like an actual block system, don’t exist. they technically have a report system for abuse and harassment and such, but apparently what they qualify as abuse and harassment is fickle. ao3 defenders seem to be very proud of the legal work they do for fandom / fanfic authors, but they set aside a very small amount of the money they get every year for legal advocacy, and they actually use even less of that, because it’s not the early 2000s “anne rice hates fanfiction” era anymore - you aren’t going to get fucking sued for writing fanfiction in the first place. based on their own self-reported yearly cost of upkeep, they literally already have enough money to run the site as they are now for the next twenty years.

once again: ao3 is not an archive. it is not a library. it is barely a even a website.

#specifically a website run by freaks #who care more about ppl's 'fannish experience' than they do ppl of color abuse survivors and the real children ppl write p!rn of #anyway here's the rant i promised in the coming days since that one post #also i know people will come at me and say that dddne DOES have a meaning its a signal that the reader knows what theyre getting into #so cant be upset if it upsets them #or something along those lines #but (1) we've already well established that the reader very likely doesn't know what they're getting into #because a lot of the shit on ao3 is untagged or mistagged #and a lot of stuff with the dddne tag specifically isnt properly tagged because authors use dddne as a catch all #and just put that down instead of actually properly tagging their work #and as mentioned the authors that use it that way use it for literally anything that might make something uncomfortable #from the sickest shit there is to a little bit of gore #and you can say that those authors (who use it without also tagging what exactly they're talking about) are using the tag incorrectly #but oopsie! that then circles back around to (2) if someone is using a tag incorrectly there's no way to deal with that #other than a comment and a prayer #i speak #anti ao3 #anti archive of our own #fandom nonsense #my monologues

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crabsnpersimmons · 26 days

Note

I have a question.

What would your CLIP AU voice be like?

probably the voice of your Sun and Moon hairdresser AU is exactly like that of the original daycare attendant sun and moon.

but what about Clip? it's a thin and lovely voice?, or calm and gentle like in the original Eclipse?

Or Is the voice different?

good question! and a tricky one, because i don't have any exact references to pull from and i don't know how much will translate, but i will try to explain the best i can

First: in the hairdresser AU, Sun and Moon actually sound a little different from canon! It's been a long time since their time at their PizzaPlex and they've undergone a lot of change, and that shows in their voices. So they used to sound like their canon voices, but they've changed over time.

Sun's voice is gentler than his canonical voice and it doesn't fluctuate as much (switching from excitable, to sarcastic, to threatening). Overtime, Sun has learned to keep his tone even and approachable. The best way to describe Sun is that he is even-tempered and calm. He rarely gets over-emotional, but Moon and Clip have a way of getting to him, since they know each other the closest. He only ever slips into his old voice and vocal habits (like repeating words) around Moon and Clip, usually in the form of sarcasm to balance their silliness (like his comments in this post). i like to describe Sun's voice as his customer-service voice, light and cheery enough to be appropriate for the situation.

Moon's voice is still a little raspy, but unlike his canon voice, it's less guttural and his pitch doesn't fluctuate as much. He also speaks in full sentences haha. The notable thing about Moon's voice is that it lacks the playful gremlin quality we all love about canon Moon. His tone isn't as playful and he doesn't giggle as much as he used to. Perhaps he'll have a short friendly chuckle when talking to a customer, but it's not gremlin level laughter. i think the closest voice reference i can think of is Corey Wilder's voice dub for Moon. still a little raspy without being too guttural, and more eloquent and charming in his delivery. Overall his tone is kinda dry, but when he begins to open up (like in this post), his voice takes a softer tone, closer to canon.

and finally Clip! In a way, his voice is probably the closest to canon Sun and Moon's. His voice fluctuates a lot jumping around from canon Sun's lofty theatrics to canon Moon's menacing glee. He's dramatic, he's silly, he cackles, he giggles, he rambles, he growls, he makes animal noises, he's all over the place! And there is no rhyme or reason to it, it's just fun for Clip. No matter the time of day, Clip is here to play play play! However, there are rare moments when his voice sounds like canon Eclipse from the Ruin DLC. It's that sweet and gentle tone, but there is a staticky quality in his voice, crackling like someone who hasn't spoken in a while.

...

i hope that made sense!

#ask the crab #New Do Same You AU #Sun New Do Same You AU #Moon New Do Same You AU #Clip New Do Same You AU #admittedly i'm no good with coming up with voices #so i used the canon voices as a base and tweak them as necessary for LORE reasons haha #the question is #why has Sun's voice changed so much?#where did Moon's gremlin laughter go?#how do we hear Clip's sweet voice?#answers to these and more in the fic that i'm procrastinating on writing!!#well #i'm hoping to get something out this month #i've never posted on Ao3 before tho #so i might post a test drabble first #nervous

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ghost-proofbaby · 28 days

Text

“I think…” she trails off, trying to choose her words carefully, “I think we need to talk.” His eyes crack open, an eyebrow lifted, “Perhaps I was wrong, and thinking is a good look on you.” “If you’re going to make a joke out of everything I say, then I can easily go back to avoiding you.” “So you admit it? You were avoiding me?” “I didn’t mean tha-”

summary: aruna finally confronts astarion about his vampirism. how badly could it go?

wc: 5.9k+

warnings: description of a dead animal (the boar from the game)

a/n: another one that's already been on ao3, but this means we're finally caught up across platforms! next chapter is the bite scene (and the bite scene only) my friends <3

ao3 | masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

Aruna avoids Astarion for a whole five days. Impressive, given the gravity he seems to hold that continues to draw her towards him. But a necessary feat – all she can hear, every day and every night, is the echo of his words.

My dearest Aruna.

Her hands are reaching for her letter more often than she’d care to admit, always fearing she’ll find her pack empty. She knows Astarion couldn’t have possibly written the letter, it’s become apparent that he’d never met her before this entire misadventure, but it was too startling to be a mere coincidence . If she were smarter, she’d take the time to figure out what it all meant.

But she isn’t smart. She’s a fool, and she avoids the man that has begun to haunt her at every corner of her days.

She fills her waking hours to the brim with anything but the vampire. Reading, practicing magic, adventuring . She tries to ignore his mildly hurt expression any time she recruits companions to join her in her explorations and pointedly ignores going anywhere near him during the enlistment process. It’s as though he’s been plagued by something absolutely abhorrent to her, and she can’t possibly get far enough away from him in order to breathe.

And so she does what she must. They come across an owlbear den, and the mother nearly mauls them all before Aruna diffuses the situation. They explore more of the Grove, only to end up in battle with Harpies in order to save a lured child. Aruna finds that she fights infinitely better without an Astarion around to worry about saving as well.

She just chooses to ignore the fact that every time she fights with her daggers, Astarion’s muffled voice is there, in the recedes of her mind, whispering instructions that are actually helpful. She knows it’s not the tadpole connection, but that’s all she does know.

Some time during the entire ordeal, Astarion stops sleeping at her side by the fire at night. He must have returned to the Grove without her, because he’s suddenly the proud owner of a tent just like the one from her memory. A deep maroon, the fabric uncannily free of dust. She has no idea where he’s gathered all the trinkets and mundane items that litter both the porch of it and the inside that she catches glimpses of – she doesn’t even know when he set the damned thing up. There had simply been a morning in which she departed for the day with Wyll, Gale, and Shadowheart, and returned to Astarion lounging very comfortably right below the perch of her overlook.

It felt a bit deliberate, given how much time she spent up there in the evenings. The bastard.

Aruna’s terrible tactic only comes to a head when her group of vagabonds for the day stumbles upon the carcass of a drained boar, left behind in the dead center of the dirt path.

The deja vu gives her a headache.

Wyll brushes it off for the most part. Shadowheart seems intrigued, but after finding nothing seemingly intriguing about the dead animal, she’s already wandering off a few paces away. Gale is the only one even an inch within being as curious as Aruna is.

If you could even call her curious.

“Why, that poor thing !” he exclaims just as Aruna has paused to take a knee, only to get a closer look. Just as she had expected, there’s no external clue to the boar’s cause of death, “Do you think this might be the doing of the goblins?”

Aruna only sighs deeply, shoulders dropping and face crumpling microscopically.

No, this is not the doing of goblins. This is the doing of a particularly annoying prick in my side who’s lounging back at camp.

“Goblins would be messier,” is her poor attempt at an excuse.

They would be, to be fair.

Gale hums thoughtfully, crouching down beside her, “I suppose you’re right. I don’t even see any wounds on the ani-”

He cuts off as his eyes zero in on the neck of the boar. The fur there has been smoothed and smooshed enough to lay in an exposing pattern, almost a clear view of the two small puncture wounds that mar the skin beneath.

Astarion’s work, without a doubt.

“Have you ever seen wounds like that?” she whispers quietly, hoping that Wyll and Shadowheart will continue whatever boring chat they were trying to engage each other with.

She doesn’t want them to notice this. It’s not that she doesn’t trust them, but- Well, she simply trusts Gale more.

There had been an empty space at her side left behind due to the absence of Astarion. And Gale had easily taken to filling it in, stepping right into stride with Aruna just as her shadow once had.

After the Harpies, he had opened up to her some. She’d nearly snipped at the young tiefling child at the beach, but something deep within her couldn’t bring herself to be so cruel as her initial reaction had been. Instead of telling the kid to stop crying in such a callous way, she’d only found herself warning him to be careful and to be more mindful of where he wandered. Gale had been at her side not a moment later, murmuring in delightful reminiscence of how he was as a young and curious child.

It was sort of endearing. Almost familiar. Not quite what she felt with Astarion, but close enough for now.

“Never,” he looks dumbfounded. She wonders just how often he’s come up this clueless in his life, given all his prattling about knowledge , “But… well, rather peculiar indeed.”

“Peculiar is one word for it.”

Gale is quickest to agree when Aruna suggests they go back to camp. The day had mostly been wasted at this point regardless; the only thing they’d discovered thus far that was of any interest was a crumbling temple of sorts not far from their camp, right beside the beach in which they’d crash landed on. But they had found people there, other looters, and Aruna hadn’t hesitated to call her group to fall back the moment she spotted the figures arguing in the decaying courtyard.

They don’t need to know why she’s so eager to return back to camp. Or the absolute reaming she plans their entire trek back for a certain companion.

Astarion was either being deliberately dense and playing with fire, waiting for someone to catch on and call him out on his true nature, or-

Well. He was just truly that reckless.

Aruna storms back into the camp, the rest close behind and nearly nipping at her heels, to find Astarion perfectly at peace as he sits in front of his tent. At first, she thinks he’s simply reading. She can see the book opened up in his lap clearly, but his finger isn’t trailing along the words as he usually would. His head is far too tilted back to even be looking at the pages.

She stops dead in her tracks, dust kicking up from the abrupt halting of her steps, the moment she rounds his tent and sees him properly.

Her anger fizzles momentarily at the sight. All the harsh words she was prepared to spit at him, the ravings of his idiocracy and the grand reveal of her knowing his most sacred secret, are lost to the wind.

He looks peaceful . Perfectly, absolutely, at peace.

Eyes fluttered shut, mouth slack, skin bright in the warm afternoon sun. He’s basking in it. She swears every pale inch of him has begun to glow golden as he absorbs all the heat the sky has to offer.

“Have you finally decided you’re ready to speak to me again, or are you just here for a show?”

His voice snaps her from the trance. For just a second, it felt as though the radiant glow of his peace had dispelled every single one of her shadows from existence. But the echo of his words across the otherwise quiet camp reminds her of all her frustrations.

My dearest Aruna.

He’s a vampire. She has to save him. And somehow, he mysteriously has addressed her just as her bizarre letter had. It matter of fact sparks new found anger.

But not at him. It’s the strangest of realizations; none of her negative feelings are capable of being pointed towards him in this state. That golden glow gives him an innocence she had forgotten. She may know new information, she may have some sort of begrudging upper hand on their entire situation it seems, but he doesn’t. Astarion is simply surviving – the boar wasn’t some direct taunt from him. Probably nothing more than a small slip up in the process of keeping himself alive and well.

He had to feed. She couldn’t get angry at him for that.

“I think…” she trails off, trying to choose her words carefully, “I think we need to talk.”

His eyes crack open, an eyebrow lifted, “Perhaps I was wrong, and thinking is a good look on you.”

“If you’re going to make a joke out of everything I say, then I can easily go back to avoiding you.”

“So you admit it? You were avoiding me?”

“I didn’t mean tha-”

Gale interrupts them as he strolls up beside Aruna. He’s not quite a shadow, not quite as reflexive or secure as Astarion, but he nearly fits the mold left behind. “Perhaps Astarion might know more of what we found in our travels today.”

That catches the vampire’s attention. He displays upmost lithe as he quickly widens both eyes and brings himself to his feet, unashamed in his eagerness at the prospect.

The prospect of being useful again. The prospect of Aruna needing him again.

“Oh?” he asks, eyes darting between the wizard and sorcerer, “Pray tell – what did you morons find?”

Aruna is scowling when she replies, “A boar.”

He’s waiting for her to continue on. An act that’s working well enough on Gale, but Aruna catches the sudden stiffness of his spine.

“When you put it that way, it’s as if you want him to turn up his nose at helping us,” Gale mutters, entirely unimpressed. “It was a dead boar, but without any clear wounds. I- Well, I have my guesses as to what might have killed the poor animal, but-”

“It had peculiar marks on its neck,” Aruna finishes before he can start up a ramble.

Astarion is growing more tense with every passing moment.

“ Peculiar marks? ” he nearly scoffs, “And you think I’d be of any help regarding them why? ”

“Because you’re helpful,” Aruna deadpans, leveling him with a bored stare. It takes everything in her to assure that she doesn’t clue him in to the fact that she knows he was the one who killed that boar, that those marks were a bite left by his fangs, “Or at least you’ve proven you can be when you want to be.”

Maybe her faux boredom can be what lures him in. Perhaps the new approach can work in her favor.

“And what if I’m not feeling particularly helpful today?” he grins softly, tilting his head at her. The action is almost feline in nature, “I was quite enjoying relaxing here while the rest of you run around aimlessly, doing all the hard work.”

“That was quite the contradictory statement to your earlier sentiment,” she muses, struggling to keep her amusement from lacing up into her words. She hated that she liked playing these games with him. She hated that his taunts lit something deep within her. A whisper of come play with me, a need to dance along to the tune that he believed himself to be conducting, “Are we being useless, or are we doing hard work? Pick one or the other. As a matter of fact, you can ponder on it as you join me to go take a second look at this boar.”

Alone. An unspoken clause. She was going to get him alone and far from camp, and then she could confront him.

“A second look?” his eyebrows quirk, eyes darting to the horizon, “But the sun is sett-”

She cuts him off, “We’ll be fine. Besides, if we run into any trouble, you’ll protect me – right?”

Gale is biting back his laughter as Astarion’s face falls, eyes narrowing into slits. But he doesn’t protest, much to Aruna’s chagrin. He only spins and ducks into his tent, returning with his own daggers in hand. In the flash of a glimpse she catches before he’s secured them into his holsters, Aruna swears they could pass for her own. Same length, same silver blade, same black leather wrapped around the hilt.

“If we get into any trouble, I’ll leave you to the wolves,” he remarks as he steps up in front of her. Gale falls back, as if Astarion’s mere presence pushes him out of Aruna’s space, making room for the rightful shadow to return to her.

Aruna rolls her eyes, and turns to look at Gale, “Don’t let camp burn down while we’re gone.”

“Won’t be too much trouble,” he still fights a grin, eyes darting between Aruna and Astarion, “Seeing as our natural-born troublemakers will be out. I should be warning you against causing any chaos or arson.”

“No promises.”

Gale sighs, “Of course not. I forget who I’m speaking to.”

It feels right. It feels natural for Astarion to fall into step with her. To turn her back on the camp, and know that he is right there, a hairline fracture behind her and ready for anything that may interrupt their travels. She feels safer this way, she realizes, to hear the lack of twigs snapping behind her or gravel crunching as she paces the path that leads them from the camp and back out into the wilderness. Neither hers nor Astarion’s gear so much as clang a single metallic ring as they thread their way through the trees, both silent as ever as Aruna retraces her steps back to the boar. No complaining from Shadowheart, no nervous rambling from Gale, no tchs from Lae’zel.

They make a good team, as painful as it may be to admit.

“Your stealth has improved in the days you’ve been ignoring me,” Astarion notes as they break through the treeline not far from the entrance to the grove, “Manage to loot a new pair of boots in your misadventures?”

“Nope,” she looks down at the same worn boots she’d been donning since waking up on the beach, “Although, now that you mention it, I could surely use a new pair.”

“Are you sure you have enough gold for a new pair?”

She slows until Astarion falls into a leisurely pace at her side, no longer trailing behind her, “Who needs gold if I have a rogue to conveniently snag me a pair from one of the traders at the grove?”

He nearly trips over himself as he side eyes her. Immediately, she knows she had gotten her guess correctly – he was clearly a rogue, and the night she had spent skimming through the book on the class was decidedly not a waste.

“So you’ve figured out my class. Impressive .”

“It wasn’t hard. You do love feeding into stereotypes, don’t you?”

“Me? Being stereotypical?” Astarion scoffs, raising a theatrical hand, holding over his chest, “Darling, I’m hurt. I’ll have you know I’m absolutely one of a kind.”

She rolls her eyes despite her best efforts, “Right. Of course. You must be unique to be such a sharp pain in my ass.”

“Full of fire today, are we, my dearest sorcerer?”

It’s not quite the phrase from the letter. One word short, and yet it still stirs something in her. Triggering the exact thing she had been battling and trying to bury deep down the past five days.

My dearest Aruna.

If she looks close enough, she swears she can see the endless pathways of wires and threads alike between them, all crossing and knotting past the point of being detangled. There’s too much she doesn’t know; there’s too much she does know. Like how he’s a vampire. He’s a vampire, and for some reason, it doesn’t do anything to deflate her trust in him. As a matter of fact, his usage of that familiar nickname atop the heading of the letter in her pack strikes more wariness in her than his condition ever could.

But it doesn’t change the fact that she needs to confront him now that they’re alone.

She’s saved by the boar, it seems, as they finally stumble upon the carcass. It’s right where she had left it not even an hour prior. Still in the center of the pathway, still dead as ever. And still marked with those two fang-sized holes in what would be considered its neck.

“Is this it?” Astarion raises a brow, stopping a few steps short of the carrion, “This is the treacherous boar that Gale was rambling on about?”

Her throat threatens to close up from her swelling anxiety, “Look at its neck.”

Astarion is soundless, both in voice and movement, as he crouches down. She quickly realizes that his eyes were already glued to the suspicious wounds before she’d even pointed them out, already locked into the location before he had been anywhere near close enough to properly spot them.

For all she could rave about how sly and stealthy he can be, he certainly has his moments.

Did he ever plan to tell them? The admission would surely put him in danger. If she were in his shoes, she’d probably have been counting her days until a stake was aimed her way, always living with the fear of her deepest secret being exposed. He doesn’t know that she already knows. He has no idea that she’s already decided he’s worth the risk, and that his vampirism is just something to deal with. Just like her memory loss, just like Wyll’s heroism. It was a small thing to categorize rather than worry over. And yet, she knows – he never planned to tell them.

It’s practically written in stone as he tsks from his crouch and glances up at her, “I see. Looks like something bit the poor thing.”

“Something did more than simply bite it,” she argues, pushing her luck and desperately trying to make him say the words aloud, “It’s been drained completely of its blood, Astarion. Doesn’t that worry you?”

It does, and for all the reasons not implicated. She sees the flash of fear, the dredging up of anxiety. She’s yanking him from his shadows of safety, one push at a time.

“How do you know it’s been drained of all its blood? Have you even checked?”

“It’s dead, and there’s not a drop of scarlet to be seen.”

“Maybe it was killed with magic.”

“Or maybe it was killed by a vampire .”

Time stands still as she says the cursed word. It’s out in the air between them now, impossible to take back. She hadn’t even meant to spit it out so ferociously; it had simply slipped out as her heart rate picked up as she began her confrontation, knowing exactly what she was about to get herself into-

Could he sense her heart racing? He was a vampire, after all. He must be able to hear her pulse. He must.

He’s staring up at her, dumbfounded, clearly choosing his next words carefully. All she can do is lose herself, bit by bit, crack by crack, in those scarlet eyes.

“You think a vampire is roaming these lands?” his tone has gone hushed, and she must admit – he’s a decent actor when he gives it his best effort, “I… Well, that certainly changes quite a few things.”

Like what? she nearly snaps at him, Like whether we all can sleep peacefully in our camp at night, knowing the vampire was settled into a tent mere feet away?

“I do,” she chokes out over her nerves. He was certainly going to lash out, or run in fear. Her entire purpose since leaving that ship is about to be shattered, left in complete shambles as she fails the one thing she knows as her purpose, “There must be. Nothing else would have killed the boar this way.”

He rises slowly, eyes never leaving hers. He’s tense – just as tense as his neck and shoulders had been the night he’d humored her guessing of his class. Stoic and petrified. “And… what do you plan to do about this revelation? It’s not as though we can… hunt the fool. He surely can’t travel in the daylight, and we rest at nigh-”

She’s quick to catch his slip up.

“Who ever said the vampire was a man, Astarion?”

His entire face drops, the mask evaporating and in its place, a rampant fear spreads. She can see him making his choice in real time, grasping at the formulations of any plan or save he can manage. The excuses are nearly tangible on his tongue.

“Well-”

His voice is lost in the breeze as she turns slowly, facing him head on, “And why do you assume I’d want to hunt him?”

He’s trying to play it off, pitifully so. His hands are dancing out in front of him, arms slinging wildly before words have even begun to slip from his mouth.

“Well- I-” it’s the first time she’s ever heard him stutter, she realizes, “It’s a vampire , darling. A wild beast of the night. A vicious and violent creature. Why wouldn’t you want to hunt it down before it caused any more grief?”

If she didn’t know, it’d be the performance of a lifetime. But she knows, and it strikes a terrible pang of sadness deep within her. He believes what he’s saying – he truly believes vampires to be something vial, something dangerous, something violent. He believes himself to be all of those things. He sees himself as something vicious, as something cursed to creep through the night and leave a trail of bloodshed in his wake. A thing so terrible that he deserves the stake he expects she would drive through his heart if he admitted the truth.

He is annoying. He is exasperating. He is finicky. He calls for trouble to follow him more closely than his own shadow, it seems. He is all of those things, but he is not what he currently describes to Aruna. Not to her.

“A vampire is an undead creature,” she recites from memory. She’d snagged a book on vampires from Gale’s piles, as well. “Undead. Something, someone, once living. I don’t make a business of hunting, in case I haven’t made myself clear in the time we’ve spent traveling together.”

“We’re hunting that devil of Wyll’s,” he’s quick to point out.

“Wyll is hunting the devil, and I’ve simply offered minimal aid in exchange for his help in protecting us.”

Because I’m not enough. Because I can’t protect this group given my current state. And I highly doubt I ever could to begin with.

There are unspoken words drifting into nothing more than smoke and mirrors between them. She nearly reignites the tadpole’s connection just so he gets it . Her tongue nearly slips and simply blurts out that she knows, if for nothing more than to rip the bandaid off and make it clear she doesn’t see a monster when she looks at him. She sees an ally, a valuable member of their little trope. She sees someone worth keeping around. For better or for worse.

The nerves have died down now. The vinery of it all has slowly disengaged, no longer wrapped terribly around her throat or limbs. She chooses to finally crouch back down beside the boar, the source of this entire exchange, and let her fingers glide over the bite mark slowly. The fur lays flat beneath her touch easily.

She has nothing to lose. The only one between the two of them that has anything to lose in what she’s about to reveal is Astarion.

“I know,” she hoarsely whispers, staring down at the mostly healed wound on the animal. Nothing more than pin-prick scars, now.

“Excuse me?”

She clears her throat, taking a deep gulp of air for bravery, “I know about your condition. And I already knew a vampire had killed this boar. I didn’t need your expert opinion on the manner – I needed to get you alone.”

Really, she could have phrased it better.

He’s on the defensive immediately, taking two large steps backwards as he stares down at her, “What do you mean my condition?”

She finally tears her gaze from the boar to look at him as earnestly as she can offer, knees threatening to cry out in pain as she lifts herself back up slowly. It’s hard to imagine Astarion being scared of her – he has an advantage of height, he has an advantage of skill, he has the advantage of speed. He is more than physically capable of fighting her off if she were to attack him. And yet he’s still scared .

“You’re a vampire.”

There’s no taking back the words once she said them. She expected a weight to lift once she spoke them outloud, but the look on Astarion’s face weighs heavier than the knowledge ever did.

“You think I’m-”

“I don’t think you are,” she corrects, “I know you are. And stop reaching for your dagger, because I’m not going to hurt you. I’ve known for a while. If I was going to do anything about it, I already would have.”

Astarion is a vampire, and Aruna is part-drow. Two creatures of the night, two keeper of the shadows, face to face. Two sides of the same damn coin .

His chest heaves, likely out of habit, as he stares her down. He’s waiting for her next move, her next word. His eyes wearily watch as though he might be able to predict such, even if only a moment before it happens. All he would need is a second – he is a vampire, after all.

“When?”

She raises an eyebrow, “When what?”

“When did you figure it out?”

He takes another step back, and she pretends not to notice.

“I just… did,” she pathetically lies. In all fairness, once she knew, she did realize that he hadn’t been the most subtle about it all, “You’ve got fangs, you’re always leaving camp in the night, you never eat. Shall I go on?”

He’s fairly quick to shake his head, “Those things don’t mean I’m a vampire.”

“But you are, aren’t you?”

She’s almost giving him out. If he really wants to lie, now is his chance. He can deny, he can lie, he can ferociously dispel all her claims. And if he does, this can simply stay a secret between the two of them.

Her knowing, and him knowing that she knows.

His hand still twitches by the handle of his dagger, “And… if I am? Then what?”

“Then I tell you to be more discreet, and stop leaving your leftovers-” she pauses, kicking the boar at her feet ever so gently, “-out for others to find out. Just because I’m not in the business of hunting vampires doesn’t mean others share the sentiment.”

She doesn’t even know how everyone back at camp would react. But she knows that if he comes clean, if he simply says the magic words, she’ll defend him. An objectively stupid choice, but the hill she has chosen to die on all the same. Since the day she awoke on the beach, she has known one thing; save Astarion, no matter the cost.

Perhaps this is what the letter meant.

Maybe something happened from that time she has caught glimpses of in her memory she recovered, and it all links back to this pivotal moment. Even though it doesn’t make much sense given the fact she already knew he was a vampire in the memory, he had spoken freely about it and she’d even let him drink from her, it’s something to cling to. A comforting blanket of reassurance that she’s making the right choice.

He bites down on his lip in contemplation, and the tip of one of his fangs catches in the sunlight. It ignites the urge within her to keep speaking, to keep reassuring .

“It’s the same as the way Gale is a prideful wizard, or Lae’zel is a blood-thirsty githyanki, or I am apparently part drow. It doesn’t change anything, Astarion. I just… I’d like to know I’m not crazy.”

When he stays silent, still several paces between the two of them, she decides to try one last tactic.

Her tadpole squirms, almost in defiance, as she focuses her outreach to him. It’s not just to open a line of communication. This time, she has a far different goal in mind. She’s doing far more than just making snide remarks back and forth – she’s opening her mind to him. Inviting him in, beckoning across the ocean between them for him to see that she means no harm.

She only knows that he’s felt the invitation when that same warm pressure of his presence within her mind washes over her, down her cerebral and along her spine.

It’s all hesitant pokes and prods, uncertain wiggles as his face scrunches in simultaneous concentration and shock. She’s completely forgotten her memory that she had meant to hold sacred, has forgotten all the secrets she was drowning beneath the weight of. She trusts him; she knows he won’t go further than necessary, not with so much currently on the line.

And even if he does, she’s decided he’s worth the risk. There are far worse choices to offer exposure of her secrets to.

“You…” he whispers, eyes pinching shut and mouth twisting as she feels him dig deeper, “You’ve known. Hells, you- you’re not lying, are you?”

Not at all, she calls out over the connection rather than out loud.

His eyes snap back open. You’ve known, and you haven’t tried to stake me.

You said you would have preferred decapitation, if I’m not mistaken.

His laugh slips out in real time, and she can tell he hadn’t meant to the guffaw to ring out loud. But it does; it falls from his lips and echoes in the space around them. Pitched high with his shock, and cut short with realization.

“Is this why you’ve been avoiding me?” his tone is soft, as hesitant as all his prodding within her mind. She was right, though, as she feels his presence begin to retreat – he didn’t go further than necessary.

“Partially,” she shrugs, daring to step closer to him and diminish some of the physical distance, “And partially just because you seem to enjoy being a royal pain in my ass.”

“I saved you, if I recall correctly.”

“I thought you were still in the business of denying responsibility for my survival?”

His mouth snaps shut, but he doesn’t even flinch as she takes another timid step forward. Baby steps. He’s not turning heel and running away from her. He knows that she knows, and he’s still here.

Save Astarion. For the first time their entire journey, it almost feels possible.

“I may have been… slightly responsible for it,” he secedes, eyeing her warily.

She hums, looking deeply within his carmine eyes. There’s a flame of trust that flickers beneath the surface that had not been there moments before. Not even when they’d spoken in their private moments. No, it’s something new, something warm . A door unlocked from this entire revelation.

“I wasn’t lying before. Vampires are dangerous,” he reminds her suddenly as she’s managed to sneak her way to nearly be toe-to-toe with him, “I could kill you as easily as I saved you. You are aware of that, yes?”

“I am.”

“I’m the one who killed that boar.”

“I’d hope so. I have enough trouble keeping up with one vampire, let alone two.”

His face twitches as she says it, nose scrunching slightly as he unexpectedly corrects her, “I’m merely a spawn, not a true vampire. Still dangerous but… The devil’s in the details, I suppose.”

That she did not know. He watches her reaction in real time, and clearly mistakes all her curiosity for shock. Or maybe fear. Maybe he’s still waiting for the other shoe drop, she realizes.

“It means I’m less powerful,” he vomits out quickly, holding both hands up, palms facing her, “I swear-”

She breathlessly laughs, reaching up and grabbing his wrists, yanking until his hands are back to being limp as his sides, “I gathered that much, Astarion. I just haven’t heard the terms before. Brain full of holes, remember?”

His entire body relaxes slowly, shoulders slumping as he looks as though he has to fight rolling his eyes at her, “Ah, yes. Pardon my forgetfulness. I suppose this means you’ll be wanting a full history lesson on vampires, then? When we return to camp?”

It would certainly help. She can’t deny the way her curiosity burns and gnaws at her insides, desperate for more knowledge, especially when it concerns him. She could push him to his precipice, force him to exhume all that he is to her as soon as possible. That selfish and ravenous hunger would certainly be delighted. But she can also see all his hesitancy and discomfort with the topic. And for some unknown reason, her heart has no desire to corner him in that way.

“You don’t have to,” she tells him quietly, finally shuffling back an inch and giving him space, “I’d like to know more, of course, but only whenever you’re ready to tell me.”

She means it. Gods, she truly means it, even if the unknown infuriates her to no end.

His lips crack into a lopsided grin, “How… sweet of you. I fear it’ll never be something I’m particularly eager to indulge in, though. The sooner we get it over with, the better.”

She remembers the ache from the memory. The sharp pain, the stabbing twist at his words.

Nothing good. Nothing good awaits him back in Baldur’s Gate.

For all that Aruna wishes to learn more about Astarion, she also fears that it might mean finding out exactly what that nothing good might be. And she’s unsure if her heart, if her soul cleaved in two, will be able to handle the information once more.

“Just tell me when,” she forces herself to say steadily, holding his gaze. Nothing good. Nothing good waits for him. Nothing good. “And I’m all ears, my dearest Astarion.”

Something about her own version of the endearment echoed back in his direction leaves an ashen taste on her tongue.

He must taste it as well, as he cringes slightly. “Perhaps leave the flowery endearments to the professionals, my friend.”

It nearly goes over her head. Nearly the entire walk back to camp, she’s in ignorant bliss. But once she picks up on it, somewhere between Astarion’s grand tale of the night in which he’d hunted down the boar and him scolding her clumsiness as she bumps into yet another tree branch, she revels in the soft whisper of it.

He called her his friend . Something he has already claimed to have never experienced, and yet he’s bestowed the honor upon her .

It’s almost soft enough to override the pestering twisting of her gut regarding the mystery that remains the letter in her pack. Almost.

taglist: @emmaisgonnacry @writinginthetwilight @moonmunson @generalstephkenobi @notthisagainpls

if you'd like to join the taglist, simply let me know <3

#ghost's stories #the moon will sing #astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion x tav #astarion x oc #astarion fanfic #bg3 #bg3 fanfic #astarion is not the sneaky vampire he thinks he is huh #i'm so fuckin excited for the next chapter i'm tempted to double post tonight lol #well. double post on here. it's been a few days over on ao3.#i... just might.

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anachronistic-falsehood · 5 months

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hey guys :3 TEAM SOULFIRE ONESHOT BE UPON YE

Title: family in frostbite

3415 words

Summary:

Freezing cold is something that Bad is, unfortunately, familiar with. That being said, an icy wasteland is no place for a demon. He had enough trouble living in subzero temperatures on his own. Before now, he couldn’t imagine how it must be for mortals to live through it. Now he doesn’t need to imagine. He’s seeing it firsthand.

#qsmp #team soulfire #i've been working on this for a while and i thought i might as well post it #I'M SO DUMB I FORGOT THE AO3 LINK.#THAT IS EMBARRASSING

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signiorbenedickofpadua · 8 months

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Ship: Dreamling Words: 11,764 Rating: Explicit Warnings: Explicit sexual content, canon-typical violence, rape mention (the line about Louise Baldwin)

Hob watches as his Stranger walks away from him in the rain on the seventh of June, 1889. Then he wakes up in a bed at the White Horse tavern, still on the seventh of June, and watches on in confusion as it happens again, and again, and again. Why, and HOW, is it that this night keeps repeating itself, and what must Hob do to make it stop? To make his Stranger stay? A Groundhog Day AU.

Read on AO3

“I'll tell you what,” Hob says as he walks out into the rain, following in the footsteps of the furious Stranger. “I'll be here in a hundred years' time. If you're here then too, it'll be because we're friends. No other reason, right?”

He is almost yelling, half to make himself heard over the rain as his Stranger stalks away, getting further and further away by the second, and half because he’s angry. No, that’s not quite right. Hurt? Confused? Scared that he’s fucked things up beyond repair? Yeah. That’s it.

The Stranger disappears around a corner without so much as a glance back at Hob.

“Fսck!”

The tone of his voice changes to desperation as he stops trying to catch up with his fr— With the Stranger. He’s gone, and he won’t come back for another century, and perhaps not even then, now that Hob has gone and cocked everything up by daring to think that the nameless man might want a friend as much as he does. Well done, Hob. Good job. This is just grand.

He groans and hides his face in his hands.

~*~

Hob opens his eyes.

He’s lying in bed in the small room he’s renting for the night at the White Horse tavern. How queer. He doesn’t recall lying down in it.

Then he remembers the events of… yesterday? Was it yesterday that he met his Stranger? Then why doesn’t he remember doing anything after running after him in the rain? A glimmer of hope ignites in his heart. Is it possible that he just took a nap and dreamt of the catastrophic meeting? Though, if it was a dream, it felt frighteningly real.

He gets out of bed and looks down at himself. He’s wearing the same clothes as he had on in the maybe-dream. He wouldn’t have gone to bed for the night without undressing, so that speaks for a nap. Unless he was spectacularly drunk, that is, but he feels no trace of a hangover.

Looking through the window, he can tell that it’s evening, a bit dark already, but not late enough that the Stranger wouldn’t have time to still show up — if it is still the seventh of June, that is. A familiar melody, sung rather badly, floats up from a nearby street.

“The first I met a cornet was in a regiment of dragoons…”

Didn’t he hear that song in his dream? Curious… Then again, it sounds like it’s Lushing Lou singing, and he must have heard her sing that ditty a hundred times while loitering around the tavern, looking for men to pick up. Not so strange to hear the song again, when he thinks about it.

He forgets all about the song when he spots a familiar figure walking along the street, towards the passage leading to the tavern where Lou must be hiding from the rain. The man is tall and thin and dressed in black. His Stranger. So it was a dream, then.

Hob sighs in relief and vows never to nap in the afternoon again. It only results in bad dreams and disorientation. He smiles as he hurries out of his room, determined to save his friend from the clutches of Lou. He doesn’t want anything to sour the Stranger’s mood, lest his dream comes true and he leaves in real life too.

“—hunting for rabbits again, Fri— Ouf!”

Hob walks straight into a couple of guests in the corridor outside his room, almost knocking them over.

“Pardon!” he says, not slowing down as he heads for the stairs.

“Watch where you’re going, mate!” he hears one of the men call after him, but he’s already heading down to the ground floor.

Lou is already trying to sell her services to the Stranger when Hob approaches them, apparently not very successfully, judging by her sudden switch to insults.

“Lou!”

She turns around to face Hob, and he fishes a coin out of his pocket and tosses it to her.

“Get yourself a drink.”

He doesn’t pay much attention to her as she mutters, “Maybe just the one,” and hurries off towards the tavern. He’s busy studying his friend.

Wasn’t he wearing those clothes in Hob’s dream? Hm. Probably just a coincidence. The cut of his coat is very much in fashion right now, so it’s not strange that he’d be wearing something like it, and he always wears black, why wouldn’t he in Hob’s dreams?

“Sorry about Lushing Lou,” he says and tips his head in the direction of the tavern. The Stranger’s clothes seem to be keeping him dry enough, but Hob left his coat inside and would rather like to get out of the rain.

“Hello, Hob,” is his friend’s only response as they walk towards the tavern.

Hob smiles and rummages through his pockets for a cigar. It’s nice to hear his old nickname again. Deep down, he’s always preferred it to his never-ending stream of aliases, and even to just plain Robert, if he’s being honest.

“Lushing Lou. Is that what they call her?” the Stranger asks a while later, after they’ve settled at a table.

“Well, in here they call her ‘the Hospital’.”

“Why?”

“Because she's in them a great deal, and because she's sent so many men into them.” Hob feels a little funny as he says that, like he’s said it before. “No idea what her real name is,” he continues, but a little voice in the back of his mind whispers, Louise Baldwin.

“Louise Baldwin,” the Stranger says, casual as you like. Hob blinks. “Her father was in the British army. Her cousin raped, impregnated, and deserted her when she was just a child.”

Hob gapes at his friend. He’s not just wondering how on earth the Stranger can know all that — how the fuck did Hob know it? None of the words came as a surprise to him, though he couldn’t have told you any of it beforehand if you’d asked.

“You are staring.”

Hob shakes himself out of it. “Sorry, I just had the strangest déjà vu.” His friend raises an eyebrow, and Hob adds, “It’s a thing this philosopher bloke told me about a couple of years back. I met him in France and— Never mind. How do you know all that?”

How did I?

“Your cup is empty. You need more wine.”

His friend is obviously dodging the question, and part of Hob wants to press on, but he can’t shake this unsettling feeling that this has all happened before. In his dream? Has he gone and become a psychic somehow? No, that French fellow had said something about your brain only making you think you’ve experienced something before. It’s just his mind playing tricks on him.

Nevertheless, the sensation is disturbing enough that he sits back in his chair and signals for a refill of his wine, taking a big swig of it as soon as his glass is full again. He can’t help frowning as he searches for what to say next. God, he’s thrown off his balance by this thing, whatever it is.

“How has the past century treated you?” the Stranger asks, saving the distracted Hob from coming up with something.

“Exceedingly well. I’m still in shipping. Different cargo.” He sighs and has another drink. “You were right, last time. Of course you were. I was too greedy to admit to myself that the whole thing was fucking barbaric. I put some money into lobbying against the practice, after that, then sent a hefty sum overseas to support the Yankees when they started fighting over it.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

There’s something in his friend’s expression that Hob isn’t sure he’s seen before. He looks like… he’s proud of Hob? It makes him uncomfortable.

“Yeah, well. Doesn’t change what I did, does it? And I’m still a greedy prick, same as ever. Always will be.”

He forces a smile and winks, trying to turn the self deprecation into a joke. He hasn’t had enough wine to turn maudlin just yet.

“I think perhaps you have changed.” The unsettling pride is still there in his friend’s eyes.

“I dunno. I may have learnt a bit from my mistakes.” He exhales a bit shakily, both due to the memories of his past missteps and the fact that the spooky feeling of familiarity is suddenly back. “But, uh... Doesn't seem to stop me from making them.”

His friend huffs in response, not a laugh, but as close to it as Hob’s ever heard from him. Even that feels oddly familiar.

Christ, will his mind not let him have a normal conversation without making him believe it’s all happened before? To make matters worse, he’s having a hard time differentiating between the dream and the feeling of déjà vu. Which one is it that’s screwing with his head this time?

Perhaps he should test it, if only to convince himself that he’s imagining things. What was it that happened in the dream? He’d said something stupid, and his friend had run away. But surely he wouldn’t do that in real life?

“I think it’s you that’s changed.”

Yeah, that was what he said in the dream, and his friend had responded with—

“How so?”

Hob hesitates. The almost-smile on the Stranger’s face has turned into cold neutrality, a warning glint in his eyes. What should he do? Say what he said in his dream? Risk ruining the night in real life too? Ah, for fuck’s sake, Hob, it was just a stupid dream. He had been planning on saying something like this anyway, and he’s not about to let superstitious paranoia stop him from speaking his mind.

“I think I know why we still meet here, century after century. It's not because you want to see whether or not I'm ready to seek death. I don't think I'll ever seek death. By now, you know that about me. So, I think you're here for something else.”

His friend’s expression has turned impossibly colder, and Hob feels a chill run down his spine as the man says, “And what might that be?”

Are those tears in his eyes? Uh oh. Perhaps he should have listened to his dream, but it’s too late now, the words are welling out of him.

“Friendship. I think you're lonely.”

The Stranger’s jaw clenches, and when he speaks, his voice is even lower than usual, almost trembling with fury.

“You dare…”

Oh, Christ but that’s uncanny. Hob remembers this from his dream. This voice, this look, these words. He’s gone and done it. His friend is going to leave, for real.

“I’m sorry! Don’t—”

“You dare suggest one such as I might need your companionship?”

Hob gets to his feet, proactively. “I did, but—”

The Stranger rises too. “Then I shall take my leave of you and prove you wrong!”

Hob’s hand shoots out, gripping his friend’s wrist to keep him there, to make him listen, to… To ask what the fuck’s going on, because these are the exact words from his dream. But the Stranger wrenches his arm free from Hob’s grip with superhuman strength.

“Do not touch me, human.”

Then he turns on his heel and stalks out of the tavern, leaving Hob in shock for a few seconds before he collects himself enough to rush out in pursuit despite a sinking feeling in his stomach that tells him that there’s no use. He won’t come back.

“Oi!” he shouts after the rapidly retreating figure, hardly noticing the rain as he steps outside. “Stop!”

His friend — well, not actually friend, as he’s made abundantly clear — does not stop.

“What in the name of the Almighty and the whole bloody angelical host is happeni—”

~*~

Hob opens his eyes.

What the fuck? He’s lying in bed again, back in the room at the tavern. He jumps to his feet, feeling his hair and his clothes for raindrops, but he’s dry as bone. From the window he hears a badly carried tune.

“The first I met a cornet was in a regiment of dragoons…”

He looks out of the window and sees a man approaching the tavern, thin and dressed in black. What?

He turns and walks out of the door.

“— she says, ‘Are you hunting for rabbits again, Friar?’”

The two men at the other end of the corridor burst into laughter behind Hob, who wastes no time in going downstairs, heading straight for the door.

He stops there, looking out into the rain at the two figures standing in the passageway across the street. That’s his Stranger, all right. Wearing the same clothes he’s seen twice now. Hob’s head is spinning, trying to keep up with what’s happening.

A thought hits him. “Louise Baldwin!” he calls, and the shorter figure turns to look back at him.

He waves her over, and the Stranger follows close behind as she walks up to Hob.

“What? Can’t you see I’m workin’? Who told you me surname, anyway?”

He stares at her for a moment before muttering, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“What?”

Hob shakes his head and digs through his pockets for a coin. The memory of what the Stranger said happened to her in her youth surfaces in his mind, and he pulls out a couple more, handing the money to her.

“Have a drink. On me. Get something to eat too, why don’t you? You’re skin and bone, child.”

She peers up at him, looking like she’s trying to figure out the catch, but she quickly pockets the money.

“Cheers, Rob.”

Louise disappears into the tavern, and Hob is left with the Stranger, who has been standing in the rain, silently watching the exchange.

“Hello, Hob,” he says as Hob’s focus shifts to him. Hob doesn’t answer immediately, and the Stranger frowns. “Are you well? You look pale.”

“I— I don’t know.” He shakes his head, as if he could rid himself from his confusion that way. “Let’s go sit down.”

He says nothing as they walk through the tavern, heading for the same table they’ve sat at twice already. He watches the Stranger take off his hat and shrug out of his coat in silence, but when the man sits down, he can’t help but ask what’s on his mind.

“Have you… done something to me?”

The Stranger frowns. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I…” Hob doesn’t know how to even begin to explain. “Nothing. Nevermind.”

He keeps squinting at the Stranger, looking him over as if he could get some answers if he just watched the man long enough.

“You are staring.”

“Sorry,” he says slowly. He doesn’t stop staring.

The Stranger is beginning to look uneasy in a way Hob hasn’t seen him before.

“How has the past century treated you?”

Hob laughs, a little maniacal. “I think I’m going insane.”

That’s putting it mildly. Things aren’t repeating themselves exactly as last time, but they are, undoubtedly repeating. What the bloody fucking fuck?

“Pardon?”

“I need a drink.”

Hob jumps to his feet and heads straight for the bar, leaving the Stranger behind at the table. Hob orders two tumblers of whiskey, only to down them both in quick succession. He winces against the sting of the alcohol, but raps a knuckle against the bar to signal for another. The Stranger joins him at the bar.

“You are acting passing strange, Hob Gadling.”

Hob turns his head to the Stranger. “Am I, now? You know, I’m not sure if it’s me or the world that’s gone mad.” He picks up the third glass served to him, taking a sip this time rather than chugging it.

“And you speak in riddles. It is unlike you.”

“Is it? How would you know? You don’t actually know me, and I certainly don’t know you. We’re not friends, as you’d be the first to remind me.”

Hob is feeling a little hysterical, to be honest. He can’t quite wrap his head around what’s going on. This day has already happened twice before, he’s sure of it now. It wasn’t a dream the first time, nor the second, and here he is, talking to the Stranger for a third time in just a couple of hours. And the man is acting like they haven’t seen each other since 1789, like he has no idea that he has entered the bar thrice today.

“No. I suppose we are not,” the Stranger says, and Hob must actually be going crazy, because he imagines that there’s a bit of disappointment in his not-friend’s voice.

If he’s offended by the suggestion that they could be friends, yet disappointed to hear that they’re not, then what the fuck does he want? He can’t have it both ways.

Hob rubs his eyes, then downs the third drink. If this day repeats for a fourth time, he’s walking straight to the nearest lunatic asylum, he thinks, and orders some ale to chase the whiskey that’s already warming his stomach pleasantly.

“Do you want anything to drink?” he asks the Stranger, as an afterthought.

“No. You appear to be drinking enough for the both of us.” The man’s lips curl in distaste. “I must say your manners have taken a turn for the worse.”

“Oh, well, I’m having what you might call a fucking day and a half. I’m sorry my courtesy isn’t up to snuff,” Hob snaps, harsher than he meant, but quite beyond caring at this point.

“Then perhaps you will be better company next century. Good night, Hob.”

The Stranger puts his hat on and walks out the door. Hob doesn’t follow him, even if his instincts are screaming at him to do just that. If he’s actually insane, and the day won’t repeat again after this, at least the Stranger didn’t run out the door crying this time around. He’s obviously displeased with Hob, but at least not furious.

Hob picks up the pint of ale, touching his lips to the rim—

~*~

Hob opens his eyes.

He does not rise from his bed, which he's lying in — again. Instead, he stares at the ceiling, listening to the faint song rising from the street. There are cracks in the old, wooden beams, and a spiderweb in the corner.

“The first I met a cornet was in a regiment of dragoons. I gave him what he didn't like, and stole his silver spoons.”

There are footsteps outside his door, and a muffled voice says, “— abbits again, Friar?’” followed by the sound of two men laughing.

Perhaps he should go check himself into Bedlam. Perhaps he is going mental. But, then again, the stories he hears of how people are treated in places like that… Not to mention having to hide his immortality while institutionalised… No, it's not actually an option, but he's starting to think that's where he belongs.

Unless this is all one very long and elaborate lucid dream, or there’s something supernatural going on. That feels like the three options, really. Lunacy, dream, or magic. All things he knows very little about. Christ, this is making his head hurt.

He sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. Just lying here won't do him any good. He'd better get down there before the Stranger wonders where he is and leaves without seeing him at all.

On his way downstairs, he contemplates how to approach this. Should he ask the Stranger what’s going on? The man doesn’t seem to even notice that something’s wrong.

There’s a small part of him that considers just saying nothing. It’s tempting to try to simply have a nice evening that doesn’t result in the Stranger storming away for a fourth time. He gets to see his frie— Strang—

Oh, bugger not being friends. He’ll bloody well call him friend if he wants to. He gets to see his friend so seldom. Would it be so bad to use whatever the fuck is going on to just enjoy the company for a turn or two? To wait a bit before finding out what is happening to him?

Still, he’s the only supernatural entity Hob knows, and if there is sorcery afoot, then he’ll be the most likely person to know anything about it. Fuck, as far as Hob knows, he’s the one causing it for some ineffable reason. Perhaps to teach Hob a lesson in impudence or something.

He has not quite made up his mind on what to do when he descends the stairs and finds that his friend is already sat down at the table, waiting for him. He nods at Hob as he walks up to the table and takes a seat.

“Hello, Hob.”

“Hello, Stranger.”

“You see me as a stranger, still?”

His friend seems more amused than offended by the term, which is fortunate for Hob. It would be a personal record to scare him off in less than ten seconds.

“No, ‘course not. I just don’t know what else to call you. You’ve not given me a name, after all.”

Hob smiles, trying not to sound accusatory. Maybe this is what he should be using this unexpected opportunity for — needling information out of the tight-lipped man.

“No, I suppose I have not.” The corner of his friend’s mouth twitches slightly upwards.

“To be fair to you, it seems we get interrupted whenever I do ask the question.” Hob rests his elbows on the table and leans forward slightly. “Were you going to tell me? Last time, before that Lady Johanna barged in?”

“Perhaps,” his friend asks, enigmatically.

“Will you tell me now?”

His friend hesitates, but the question doesn’t seem to have soured his mood too badly, so Hob dares to press on, just a little.

“I’ve called you my Stranger in my head for five hundred years now. Would be nice to have some variety — for the sake of my sanity, you know.”

His sanity went out the window several iterations of this evening ago, but his friend doesn’t need to know that right now. He looks to be fighting some sort of inner battle at the moment, presumably to decide whether he’s going to remain the same cryptic bastard as ever, or if he’s actually going to reveal something about himself for once.

“Morpheus,” he replies after some deliberation. “You may call me Morpheus.”

Hob can’t stop a huge smile from spreading across his face. He hadn’t actually expected to get an answer this easily after all these years. The question of what he is, remains, but one thing at a time.

“Well, Morpheus. Nice to meet you. I’m Hob Gadling, as you know, but nowadays people usually call me Robert Grant.”

“Charmed, I am sure.” Another twitch of his lip. “You are staying here?” his friend asks after a moment, tilting his head slightly to indicate the stairs Hob had descended.

“Only for the evening. I actually don’t live too far away. I’m here all the time, these days, just didn't fancy catching a cab too late at night. There are murderers about, you know.”

“From whom I am sure you have much to fear.”

Was that a joke? Has his friend ever made a joke before?

“Yeah, well. Paid good money for this weskit. Would be a shame to get stabbed through it.”

Hob winks, and the St— Morpheus does another one of those little huffs that aren’t quite laughs, but aren’t not laughs either. This is going well. Perhaps he won’t leave this time.

Hob blinks as he realises he had forgotten his queer predicament for a second there, too caught up in the euphoria of finally squeezing a name out of his friend. Morpheus must have noticed his face fall, because he quirks an eyebrow.

“Something wrong?”

Hob opens his mouth, then hesitates. There’s a selfish part of him that wants to just let this conversation play out, to have a lovely evening with his reluctant friend — for once uninterrupted by cocky playwrights, threatening noblewomen, or Hob putting his foot in his mouth. But an overwhelming part of Hob is quite frankly disturbed by what’s happening to him, and would like some answers.

“Yes, actually. I don’t— I’m not sure how to explain it.” He takes a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. “You don’t… feel like something’s wrong? With this evening, I mean?”

Morpheus frowns. “Whatever do you mean?”

“That’s just it. You’ve already looked at me just like that and said those words, no more than an hour ago.”

Hob is doing his best to keep calm, but he can hear a faint note of hysteria creep into his voice, nonetheless.

“I was not here an hour ago.”

“Oh, but you were. You’ve been here four times tonight.”

“You speak in riddles.”

Hob shakes his head. “You’ve told me that, too.” He leans back in his chair and runs a hand through his hair. “Look, I have no idea why, or how, but this evening is repeating itself. Four times, now, you’ve entered this tavern and spoken to me, and thrice you’ve left. I keep waking up in my bed upstairs, only to hear Lushing Lou singing from the street, and a couple of blokes tell this god-awful joke, over and over and over. Then I go downstairs, and we sit down at this table, the same one every time.”

“Lushing Lou, is that what they call her?”

Hob sighs. “You’ve asked me that as well. Can’t help but feel you’re focusing on the wrong details here, mate. What the fuck is going on, Morpheus? Have I been cursed? Am I dreaming?”

Morpheus studies him in silence for a while. “You are not dreaming. I assure you, this is not my doing.”

What is that supposed to mean? Hob wants to ask, but his friend continues talking.

“If you are speaking true, these are troubling tidings.”

“Of course I’m telling the truth! Why would I lie about something this bizarre?”

“Why, indeed.” Morpheus rises from his chair. “Worry not. I shall investigate the matter. I will return shortly.” With a nod to Hob, he sets off towards the exit.

“I— All right.” Hob remains seated, watching his friend leave again. At least this time he’s not cross with Hob.

He exhales wearily as Morpheus disappears out the door. Will this even work, or will he just wake up again in a few seconds? Well. He’s about to find o—

~*~

Hob opens his eyes.

He’s lying in the goddamn, blasted bed again. Or course he is.

“The first I met a cornet was in a regiment of dragoons…”

“Oh, shut up, Lou!” he groans and covers his ears with his hands.

Fuck’s sake. All right. New attempt.

He gets out of bed and walks out the door.

“—says, ‘Are you hunting for rabbi—”

“Quit it with that joke, will you? It’s bloody ancient, and not that funny,” Hob barks at the men in the corridor.

“Oi, what’s your fucking problem?”

Hob doesn’t listen to them. He just heads downstairs and sits down at what’s quickly becoming their table, waiting for Morpheus. He can’t be bothered going out into the rain just to save his friend from speaking to Lou for a few more seconds than necessary.

“Hello, Hob,” Morpheus says as he approaches the table.

Hob gives him a forced smile. He’s getting a bit tired.

“Hi. Again.”

“Again?” his friend asks, sitting down.

Hob sighs, and explains once more.

“I see…” Morpheus rises from his chair. “Worry not. I shall investigate—”

Hob shoots up from his chair. “No! Don’t go!”

His tone must have been too commanding for Morpheus’ liking, because his expression hardens, and he says, “Do not presume to tell me what to do,” and turns on his heel, walking out.

“Great. Fine. Knock yourself out. I’ll see you in a seco—”

~*~

Hob doesn’t open his eyes.

He can’t be fucking arsed to face the by now very familiar sight of the ceiling over the bed in his rented room. He has it more or less memorised by now. The cracked wood of the beams, the spiderweb in the corner. He’s tired of it. He’s tired in general, actually. Time may be resetting itself for everyone else, but, for Hob, it’s been hours.

He sits up and tries not to listen to the song coming in through the window, or the voices of the joking men in the corridor. He needs to think.

There seems to be a pattern to the madness that is this never-ending evening. Morpheus comes in, they talk, he leaves, Hob wakes up. The reset appears to be tied to Morpheus leaving, not to how much time has passed.

So what? Is he supposed to just keep his friend in the tavern forever to break out of this? Is he supposed to do anything at all? What is causing this? Is there some capricious god watching him that he’s meant to appease somehow? What if he leaves? Can he just go? Not meet with Morpheus at all? Would that break the pattern?

He rises. It’s worth a try. He has a million questions, and this experiment will at least answer one of them.

Morpheus should be entering the tavern about now, so Hob doesn’t take the main stairs down to the ground floor, instead opting for the narrow staircase that leads directly out to the back yard, for use for guests seeking to use the shithouse in the middle of the night.

The evening is turning into night as darkness falls over London along with the steady trickle of the rain. Though it’s a Friday night, the weather seems to have chased everyone inside, save a magpie sitting on top of a lamppost, peering down at him. Hob should have brought his coat, but for all he knows, he’ll just wake up in bed the moment he’s out of sight of the tavern, so what’s a bit of rain?

He doesn’t. Huh. All right. Best keep going, test the limits a bit. Perhaps things will reset if he gets too far away, or when Morpheus tires of waiting for him at the tavern and leaves. Or, just maybe, this is such a disruption of the order of things that time will just go on as it’s supposed to, and he can go about his life again.

There’s a small twinge in his heart at the thought of actually getting out this way. If tonight doesn’t repeat after this, Morpheus will think Hob stood him up, and he doesn’t know how to contact him come morning to explain that he didn’t. What if he won’t show up in 1989, thinking that Hob doesn’t want to continue with their arrangement? What if he rescinds the immortality?

Hob shivers, and it has nothing to do with the rain. Fuck, he doesn’t want either of those things. But this has to end, this ain’t no way to live, anyway. If tomorrow finally comes, he’ll just have to do his best to track down Morpheus and explain. He has a name now, that’s a start.

He’s too engrossed in his thoughts as he weaves through the labyrinth of badly lit streets and alleys to pay attention to where he’s heading, nor does he notice the shadows huddling in a doorway until it’s too late. Two men step out into the rain in front of him, and when he stops and glances behind him, there’s a third figure.

“Hullo, mate. Nice evening, innit?” one of the men in front of him says.

The glint of a knife in his hand does not escape Hob. Perfect. Incredible. Just what he needed to cheer him up after all of this. Exactly when did Lady Luck abandon him?

“Not particularly,” he sighs.

“Well, you could make ours better if you hand over any money you happen to have on you,” the second man says.

This is hardly his first mugging. He lives in London, after all, and he’s learned by now that the easiest way to deal with muggers is just giving them what they want and running in the other direction. He’s wealthy enough that he can afford not fighting over what little part of his fortune he carries in his wallet.

Hob puts his hands in his pockets and blanches. There are only the few coins he’s given to Lou a few times now. His actual wallet is in his coat, back at the tavern.

“Sorry, gents. Seems this is all I have on me.”

He tosses the handful of coins to the men in front of him. If there wasn’t a man behind him as well, this would be the point where he ran.

“That’s what they all say. Fancy bloke like you’s got to have a fat wallet hidden somewhere.”

“Left my coat at home,” Hob says, shrugging.

“Mind if I check?” The first man lunges forward, knife drawn.

So that’s how it’s going to be, is it? Hob steps out of the way with ease, earning himself a split second to make a decision. Try to run, fight, or just let them kill him and trust that him “dying” will reset the evening and bring him back to the tavern?

It’s no decision at all, really. He’s getting rather pissed off at his general situation, and he could frankly use the outlet for his frustration that these nice gentlemen have so kindly provided him with. Just ‘cause he’s trying to be a better man these days doesn’t mean he’s a nice one. Certainly not nice enough to put up with the very real pain of getting murdered, even if he knows it’s only temporary.

Having made his decision in a fraction of a second, he brings his knee up into the man’s stomach, using the forward momentum of his body against him to make the impact that much more forceful. The man gasps and stumbles as he gets the breath knocked out of him, and Hob takes the chance to wrest the knife out of his hand and throw it over the brick wall blocking his escape route to one side.

The less knives involved in this, the better. He’s not looking to actually kill these men. He was desperate enough to try his hand at mugging at one point in his life too (after having been a literal bandit, come to think of it). He gets it. Doesn’t mean he won’t defend himself non-lethally though.

He spins out of the way of the second man’s knife, tripping him with a well-positioned leg in the process. Dodging a punch from the third bloke, he brings his fist up to collide with the jaw of the first man, who has recovered enough to try to grapple him from behind.

He hasn’t fought like this in ages. It’s exhilarating, to be quite honest. Gets his blood pumping, allows him to forget the fucked-up last couple of hours he’s had. He lets himself get lost in the rhythm in it, thinking only of tactics, the next couple of moves ahead, how to hit where it will hurt but won’t permanently debilitate.

He manages to get rid of all the knives with only a small scratch to the back of his hand to show for it. One of the men shortly takes off running with what Hob hopes is a wrist that isn’t broken but merely sprained. The next one gives up after Hob sends him shoulder-first into the brick wall, his arm hanging limply by his side. Dislocated, most like. Ouch.

He twirls around to deal with the last one, but before he has a chance to, the man falls to the ground, completely limp. Hob is confused for all of a second, before he realises that there’s a newcomer at the scene. A thin man in dark clothes who is putting a pouch back into his coat pocket. So much for his experiment.

“How’d you find me?” he pants, running a hand through his rain-drenched hair.

“Jessamy saw you leave the tavern.”

“Jessamy?”

“My raven.” Morpheus nods to a black and white bird watching them from atop the wall. “Thank you, Jessamy. You may leave us.”

The bird takes flight and disappears into the night. It must have been the same magpie — well, raven, apparently — that he saw earlier. So his friend can talk to birds, then. Sure, fuck it. Why not?

“Right. Well. You needn’t have come to my defence, I had it in hand.” He winks at Morpheus.

“Clearly.”

The man is actually smiling this time, but it’s not a comforting smile. It looks almost hungry, and when he walks closer to Hob, he thinks his eyes look darker than usual, though that might just be the dim light. Hob swallows.

“So what did you do to the poor bugger this time? Show him more ghosts?”

He looks down at the man at his feet. He seems to be fast asleep, breathing evenly, eyes closed, facial features relaxed. Not at all like Lady Johanna. It looks like there’s a thin layer of sand stuck to the rain-wet skin around his eyes. The magical dust he used on Constantine the last time, then, presumably from that pouch in his coat. The fight has left him in an analytical mindset, taking in every detail that might be relevant.

When he looks up, Morpheus is very close to him. Close enough that he almost takes an instinctive step back, but he holds his ground.

“He is dreaming of better times. The man is haunted by enough ghosts that I thought it unnecessary to add to them.”

“Right.” Hob licks his lips nervously, and Morpheus’ gaze falls to watch the sweep of his tongue.

“You are a very able fighter, yet you were not fighting to kill.”

“No. As you said, this lot must’ve had their share of troubles. They may have jumped me, but I’m not about to add dying to their list of predicaments.”

His friend is still staring at his lips, and Hob tugs on his earlobe, a tad uncomfortable. He’s never seen Morpheus behave like this, and he doesn’t know quite what to make of it. Actually, that’s not completely true. He feels like he’s seen that hungry look in his eyes before. Last time Hob dispatched some ruffians in front of him, in fact. It resembles nothing so much as lust, but it can’t be… Can it?

“You are hurt.” Morpheus’ eyes have moved to Hob’s hand.

“What?” He looks down at the appendage in question, noticing the scrape from the knife along a few bruised knuckles. “This? But a scratch. ‘S not even bleeding anymore.”

Morpheus keeps surprising him. He grabs Hob’s hand gingerly and says, “Nevertheless, allow me.”

He pulls a handkerchief from somewhere — black, of course — and starts bandaging the wound. Hob just stares at him, flabbergasted. This is the first time Morpheus has actually touched him — voluntarily, that is. There was Hob’s foolish attempt to make him stay by grabbing his wrist, but he’s not sure that counts as having even happened after so many resets between then and now.

It feels surreal, that the man who had — or hadn’t, depending on how you look at it — stormed out in tearful fury and told Hob not to touch him not long ago, now stands here, tenderly wrapping Hob’s hand. He’s a fucking mystery, self-contradictory as all hell, and oh so very close.

Hob can’t breathe. At this distance, he can count the long, dark lashes of Morpheus’ eyes, can confirm that yes, there is the barest hint of kohl around them, making them even more striking. Fuck, they’re pretty. Just like the rest of him. But then, Hob has known that Morpheus is an attractive man for five centuries. He’s not blind, nor indifferent to the beauty of men.

He has been able to keep a lid on that attraction for just as long, but with Hob’s blood still rushing from the high of the fight, standing close enough to his friend that he can feel his breath ghosting over his face, more or less holding hands… Well. It’s making it very hard not to do anything stupid.

“There.”

Morpheus finishes the bandage by tying a knot and tucking in the ends of the handkerchief. He doesn’t let go of Hob’s hand.

“There…” Hob whispers.

Morpheus takes a step closer, forcing Hob to stagger backward a little so as not to lose his balance. Then another step. And another, and another, until Hob is backed into the wall of the dark side alley, an awning shielding them from the worst of the rain. Morpheus’ expression is as hungry as ever, almost predatory, like he’s a fox stalking a juicy rabbit. Hob’s heart is beating quick enough to fit that description as he is crowded against the damp bricks, their bodies pressed together.

“Tell me that you do not want this,” he says in a voice as low as to almost be a growl, half asking a question and half commanding.

Hob’s head is spinning, and he can’t tear his eyes from Morpheus’ mouth. Of fucking course he wants this, even after the way the man has acted during the past iterations of the night. He’s just baffled that Morpheus wants it too. By all accounts, this is the last thing his friend should want from him. He doesn’t even want to be friends, for Christ’s sake!

“And make a liar of myself?” Hob breathes. “No, I don’t think so.”

He’s sure Morpheus must feel the truth of Hob’s feelings on the matter straining against the fabric of his trousers where their bodies are making contact. He is as aroused as he is confused. Immensely, that is.

Morpheus surges in and captures Hob’s lips in a forceful kiss that is just this side of too hard, all teeth and tongue. Hob opens up for him immediately, bewildered but enthusiastic. He whines desperately against Morpheus’ lips when the man rolls his hips against Hob’s.

Even through all of the layers of clothing, Hob can feel the matching arousal rub up against his thigh. Bloody hell, he must really have a thing for watching Hob fight people. There’s no other reasonable explanation — not that he’s sure he’d count that as reasonable either, but who’s complaining?

Morpheus’ hands move to the front of Hob’s trousers, and before he knows it, his cock is exposed to the cool summer air, pale fingers wrapped around it. He gasps and fumbles his way beneath the layers of Morpheus’ coat, searching for his fly. Hob’s fingers are not quite as deft with the buttons as those of his friend, but he manages to free Morpheus’ erection from the confines of his trousers in the end, finally, finally, getting his non-bandaged hand on the soft skin of the firm member.

From there on out, Hob is lost in the sensation of Morpheus’ hand working its way up and down his shaft, with Hob giving as good as he gets. Morpheus’ is kissing him like he needs it more than air, which might be true. What does Hob know about the physical needs of non-human supernatural entities, or whatever it is that he is? He’s far from an authority. For example, he’d never have guessed that one such as Morpheus would even be caught dead rutting like a teenager with a human in a dirty back alley, but here they are.

It’s rough, carnal, raw, and graceless — all attributes opposite those he usually associates with his friend — yet it’s perfect, and Hob finds himself tethering on the edge of orgasm far too quickly for his liking under the nimble hands of Morpheus.

When he comes, his cries are muffled against Morpheus’ lips, and the man swallows them down greedily until Hob has to tear himself away to suck in a breath.

“Please,” he pants, “Let me— My mouth…”

He’s having a hard time stringing words together, such is his overwhelming desire to be allowed to get his lips around Morpheus’ cock, but his friend seems to understand well enough, because he turns them around so that it’s his back against the wall, and then shoves Hob down to his knees.

The cobblestones are hard, knobbly, wet, and dirty, making kneeling on them all but comfortable, but Hob doesn’t care. He’s taking Morpheus’ into his mouth, and that makes up for any and all discomfort. His member is long and slender, a perfect match for the rest of the man, and Hob sets to work on it like a starving man presented with a banquet. Morpheus’ hand finds its way into Hob’s hair, a dominating presence guiding his every move — the attitude hardly a surprise to Hob, nor unwelcome.

His friend isn’t a very vocal lover, even with his mouth no longer stopped by Hob’s lips, but, every now and then, Hob’s skillful tongue, well-practised at the art, manages to wring a gasp out of him here, a soft moan there… Hob will take whatever he can get, store every little sound away in his memory forever.

With a groan of pleasure the only warning, Morpheus’ hips snap forward, and Hob’s mouth is flooded with hot seed which he thirstily gulps down, working his friend’s cock through the aftershocks of his climax. Eventually, the hand in Hob’s hair tightens, and he is pulled off Morpheus’ softening prick.

“Hob…” his friend murmurs, looking down at Hob, relaxed and wrecked in a way that he never thought he’d get to hear.

He licks his lips and clears his throat, finding his voice again. “Christ, Morpheus… I—”

“What?”

Hob blinks. “What?” His brain is still playing catch-up with the present.

“How did you—”

Morpheus is suddenly tense again, and there’s a hint of steel in his eyes along with something that strangely enough resembles fear. He tucks himself away.

“This was a mistake.”

“What? No—”

“Goodbye, Hob.”

“No!”

Hob’s heart sinks like a stone in his chest. It’s happening again? Really? After what they just did? Why?!

He grasps desperately for the fabric of Morpheus’ trousers, the hem of his coat — anything he can hold onto to keep him there — but his friend has pulled that pouch out of his pocket, and the next thing he knows, Morpheus is engulfed in a whirlwind of sand. When the wind dies down, he’s gone — the only trace of him the grains of sand between Hob’s fingers where previously there had been fabric.

That’s new.

Hob racks his brain for what he did wrong this time, and, finally, the penny drops. He called him Morpheus. He hadn’t given Hob his name yet this time around. For fuck’s sa—

~*~

Hob opens his eyes.

He closes them again, then tugs a pillow from under his head and buries his face in it. It helps muffle his scream of frustration. And it prevents him from hearing Lou’s singing and the jokesters in the corridor.

Removing the pillow, Hob sighs wearily. He’s getting tired. Not physically, he’s restored to the exact condition he was in before all this started, as evidenced by the scratch on his hand being gone, along with Morpheus’ handkerchief. But mentally? He’s exhausted. It had been late in the evening even before all this, and now it’s been hours of this madness. He just wants to sleep, to rest, to be free of this fucking thing.

He’s not going downstairs. Not again. Not yet, anyway. He’s going to stay here, in bed, maybe even take a nap. Yes. That’s a good idea. Let Morpheus sit and wait for him down at their table. It’s no less than he deserves after leaving Hob on his knees in that alley. Hob hadn’t actually intended to hide anything from him, everything just happened so quickly that there was no time to say, “Oh, by the way, before you wank me off — you’ve told me your name, but you don’t remember that happening.”

It’s a testament to Hob’s exhaustion that he actually manages to fall asleep with all of the questions whirling in his head, but slept he must have, because when he opens his eyes again and lifts his head, he’s feeling groggy and disoriented, and there’s a man in his room who he didn’t hear come in. A tall, thin man with a black coat folded over his arm and a hat in his hand.

“Oh. Hi.” He lets his head fall back against the pillow. “Can’t get rid of you that easily, eh? How’d you find me?”

Morpheus frowns. “You were dreaming. Were you hiding from me?”

Perhaps his dazed state lets him think in a different manner than usual, because something slots into place in Hob’s mind, and he makes the connection that has been tauntingly just out of reach ever since he learned his friend’s name. Morpheus. Sand. Dreams.

He props himself up on his elbow and looks at Morpheus, suddenly wide awake.

“Are you the fucking Sandman?”

His friend cocks an eyebrow, and Hob thinks he sees a small smile play on his lips.

“You are! You’re Morpheus, the god of dreams, and sleep, and whatnot!”

“So, you figured it out.”

“You admit it? That I’m right?”

“In part. I am far older and more powerful than any god, but yes. I am he whom the Romans called Morpheus, and I do have dominion over dreams, and sleep, and whatnot. I am Dream of the Endless.”

There he goes again. Even when the evening is on seemingly endless repeat, his friend finds a way to surprise him every time. A name, a fumble in an alley, a joke… It’s really hard to hold a grudge when he flees Hob’s company, only to come back with something like this, the fickle, charming bastard.

Hob laughs and sits up properly, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

“Dream, huh? That’s your real name?”

Hob thinks he might like that name more than Morpheus. They both suit him, but Dream feels right, somehow.

“One of them. Perhaps the truest.”

Given his reaction when Hob let slip his name back in that alley, Hob is surprised to hear his friend — Dream — give him this much extra information now. Even back at the tavern when he had explicitly asked for a name, Hob had been given just that, a name — one of many, apparently — and nothing more.

“Hang on,” he says, “Was this some kind of test? Have you been waiting five hundred years for me to figure it out on my own? Is that the reason for all your cryptic half-answers to my questions?”

Dream seems torn between amusement and mild affront. Luckily for Hob, the amusement seems to win out, and his friend sits down on the bed beside him, balancing on the very edge, very prim and proper.

“No. No test.”

��Then why?”

The question seems to stump Dream, and he hesitates for a long moment before saying, “I… suppose I did not think it relevant. We meet so that you may relate your experience, and that I might—” He pauses, and the word learn is unspoken, but Hob hears it, all the same. “Such is the nature of our arrangement.”

Hob weighs his next words carefully. Sure, they can have this conversation all over again, if Dream runs, but he’d rather not go through it all again if it can be avoided. Yet this is something he feels he needs to get off his chest.

“That may be the arrangement, sure, and from your perspective, it makes sense to keep it that way. But… I’m human, Dream. I wasn’t built for immortality—” Dream opens his mouth, and Hob hurries to add, “That doesn’t mean I don’t still want to live! I am still enjoying life, immensely, and I plan to do so indefinitely. What I’m saying is, we humans… We’re made to like constancy. Even the ones that enjoy spending their lives on the move. We meet people, and we latch on to them, so that even if we don’t have a place to call home, we might find one in the friends with whom we take the journey.”

Hob feels like he’s getting dangerously close to rambling, so he pauses to collect his thoughts. Thankfully, Dream doesn’t interrupt him.

“Look,” he continues, after a moment. “Our meetings, to you, may just be a one-way exchange of information. But to me? They’re the constant in this wondrous, ever-changing world that I have been lucky enough to get to experience far longer than most. I have to move around, to stay safe. And, unfortunately, I can’t take my friends with me when I do. I have to move on from them too. It’s against my nature to do so, and yet I keep on doing it.

“The fact that I have this place to return to once every century makes it that much more bearable to live the kind of life I do by necessity. This is home. And you’re part of that. More so than the building.

“I won’t presume to suggest that this is true for you,” Not again, “But I am a human, with human needs, and one of those needs is friendship. I would like to be able to call what we have just that. I want you as my friend, and I won’t seek death if that’s not agreeable to you, but that’s what I’d like, if I had it my way. Which means I want to know you. Your name, what you do, who you are… Things friends know about each other. That’s why I keep asking, keep trying to figure you out.”

Dream is quiet for a long while after Hob finishes speaking, long enough that he starts to worry that he might have offended him even with words so carefully chosen.

“I suppose… It would not be wholly… disagreeable to let you call me friend.”

That’s just about the most meandering and evasive way to agree to friendship that Hob’s ever heard, but it’s a far cry from Dream running away in tears, so he’ll take it.

“Well then. Thank you, my friend.”

Hob grins, and Dream gives him a tentative smile in return — not much more than a twitch of the lips, but it’s definitely there.

“Shall we go downstairs?”

Hob is about to agree, when he realises that he once again lost sight of the whole stuck-in-a-fucking-Sisyphean-nightmare thing. Ah fuck. Well. Let’s try this one more time, then. It would be a shame to lose all this progress if Dream just left at the end of the night and everything reset again.

“Actually, there’s something I need to speak to you about first. And it’s a lot, so I would ask that you make me a promise before I explain it. You’ll see why in a minute.”

“What sort of a promise?” Dream asks with a slight frown.

Hob takes a deep breath. “That you won’t leave until I’m finished explaining.”

Dream’s frown deepens. “Why would I leave?”

“Just— Please. Promise?”

After a moment’s consideration, Dream nods. “Very well.”

“Right. So. Don’t ask me how, or why, but this evening is repeating itself. This is the seventh time we have met tonight, and I’m the only one who seems to remember any of it. It just goes round and round. You visit the tavern, we talk, you leave, I wake up in this bed. Over and over. Thought I was going crazy at first, but it’s real. I can’t figure out how to break the cycle. Tried leaving the tavern myself, but I ended up back here then too. I’m… I’m getting tired, Dream.”

“I see… Why have you not asked for my assistance?”

Dream once again surprises him by immediately accepting what he says, far quicker than last time.

“I have. Twice before. But in order to investigate, you left the tavern, and that’s how it restarts. The moment I’m alone, I wake up in this bed. That’s why I made you promise not to leave. Because if you do, we’ll have to have this conversation all over again, and I’d rather you remembered it, this time. You leave — every time, you leave — and I… I just wish you would stay. Please, just this once. Stay.”

Hob rubs his eyes, weary to the bone now that the excitement of finally figuring out who his friend is has mellowed.

“I… shall stay.”

Dream looks almost concerned, and Hob smiles wanly. “Thank you. So what do we do? How the fuck do we figure this out without you leaving the tavern to do whatever you were going to do?”

“I am not sure. I believe it would behove me to hear a more detailed account of each of these meetings. There may be clues you have overlooked.”

“How am I supposed to tell you about things I haven’t even noticed?”

“You could show me.”

“Show you?”

Dream nods, serious. “Allow me to enter your dreams, and I will be able to access your memories. Then I shall see for myself what has transpired.”

Hob hesitates. His first instinct is to refuse. There are things in his memories he’d rather keep on pretending didn’t happen. This new iteration of their meeting feels like a clean slate of sorts. To expose all of the mistakes he made before this… Then again, there are things Dream ought to know. Deserves to know, in fact, regardless of how he’ll react to learning of them. And Hob does want to put a stop to this madness.

“I— Are you sure? Because you won’t like most of what’s in there. And I mean really, truly, won’t like it.”

“Why?”

“Let’s just say there’s a reason you left. Most of the times it was my fault. If we do this, you have to promise again that you won’t run away just because you get upset.”

Dream scoffs. “I do not run away from things. Nor do I let them upset me.”

Oh really? Seems like this will be a good learning experience in self-awareness for Dream.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Hob nods. “All right then. But first, I’d like to apologise for some of what you’re about to see. I… said some things I shouldn’t have. Made some mistakes. And I’ve learnt from them. So… Just keep that in mind, will you?”

Dream’s brow is furrowed in apprehensive confusion, but he says, “I shall.”

Hob takes a deep breath, trying to steady his sudden nerves. He only just got Dream to agree to some form of friendship. Learning what happened during their past six meetings may very well ruin that. But there’s no turning back now.

“Then let’s do this. You’re probably going to have to put me to sleep with that sand of yours. I don’t think I could fall asleep with you watching me.”

He lies down on the bed again, and Dream retrieves his pouch of sand from his coat pocket.

“Are you ready?”

“No. But fuck it. See you on the other side.”

“Then sleep, Hob Gadling.”

Dream blows a cloud of glittering sand Hob’s way, and the pout of his plump lips is the last sight Hob sees before darkness envelops him.

~*~

Hob opens his eyes.

He can’t have slept more than a few minutes, yet he feels like he’s been dreaming for days. He’s a bit disoriented and vaguely nauseous as he props himself up into a sitting position, leaning his back against the pillows and the headboard of the bed.

Dream is still there, but he’s standing by the door, his back turned to Hob. One of his hands is closed in a fist, resting against the doorpost.

“Not leaving, are you?” Hob says, carefully.

“No. I will not put you through that again.” His voice is calm, measured, but it’s tinted by some emotion Hob has a hard time identifying.

“Are you… All right?”

“Always,” Dream replies, but he does not turn around.

Liar, Hob thinks. Well, that’s to be expected. Hob hadn’t exactly prepared Dream for everything he was going to see in his memories. What they did last time around must’ve come as a bit of a shock. It certainly did for Hob. A pleasant, welcome shock, but a shock nonetheless.

“Any idea what’s going on, then?” Hob asks, eager to steer the subject in the direction of what’s happening to them rather than between them.

Dream straightens up and turns around. Whatever emotions he’s feeling are carefully hidden behind a mask of neutrality.

“There was a… presence. I could feel it throughout your memories, and even now it lingers. Let me just…”

Dream closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. Exhaling, he opens his eyes again, and Hob shudders. They have gone completely black with only star-like pinpricks of light where the pupils should be. He takes a look around the room, and whatever it is he sees appears to infuriate him.

Moving quicker than should be physically possible, he strides across the small room, hand outstretched, and, when he reaches the wall beside the window, there’s a loud thump like a body making impact with a firm surface.

“You!”

Hob is about to ask what’s going on, but in that moment, something — no, someone — materialises in the room, their neck trapped between Dream’s hand and the wall.

“Hello, dear brother. It seems you found me out.”

The person — man or woman, Hob’s not sure. Perhaps both, or neither — is tall and blonde, dressed in a perplexing mix of feminine and masculine clothing. The huge grin on their painted lips is incredibly unsettling.

Hob springs to his feet. “What the f— Who are you?”

“Oh, you know me well, Hob Gadling. Intimately, one might say.”

“Desire!” Dream growls, and the intruder (Desire?) chuckles.

“Calm down, I simply meant that he and I have had such a long and productive partnership over these past five centuries. Your pet human is just chock-full of desire, my darling brother — for life, for pleasure, for you.”

Dream just snarls and tightens his grip around their neck.

“Careful with those nails, Dream. Don’t want to break skin, do we?” they wheeze.

Dream’s expression doesn’t lessen in fury, but his grip lets up just a smidge.

“How did you—”

His gaze drops to their chest, and he lets go of their neck, only to clutch at something that hangs from a cord around it. He yanks at it hard enough that the cord breaks, and when he opens his hand, Hob can see a large stone resting on his palm. It resembles an opal, but the shimmering cloud patterns and specks of light within it move impossibly beneath the surface.

“Father gave you this?”

“Lent it to me. I asked for it under false pretences, naturally.”

“Will someone explain what in the ever-loving fuck is going on here?!” Hob exclaims, running a hand through his hair in lieu of punching a wall.

Dream closes his hand around the opal and tucks it away in a pocket.

“Yes, Desire. Explain yourself.”

Rubbing their neck, Desire laughs. “I don’t know what’s got you both in such a tizzy. It was just a bit of fun. If anything, I was helping you, brother.”

“How does subjecting Hob to this torture constitute helping me?”

“After your last meeting, a century ago, I was dying to see how this one would play out. Oh, don’t look so surprised, Dream. Of course I know what happened last time. You practically invited me over with that wave of desire you felt watching our friend here beat up those thugs. Who would have known that’s what gets you going. Well, I would, of course.”

“Desire.” Dream’s venomous tone carries an unsubtle warning and he glances quickly at Hob, as if he hadn’t already figured that much out on his own.

“Anyway. I thought I’d tag along for this meeting. I had a feeling you would cock it up, and you did. Spectacularly so, I must say. Lucky for you, I had daddy dearest lend me the tools needed to let you try again. And again, and again. It was never Hob who needed to learn from his mistakes, it was you.”

“And how the fuck was he supposed to do that when I was the only one who could remember anything?” Hob asks, anger rising in his chest like hot air.

“Well, if I had done it to my brother, he would have found me out much too quickly. And he did get the memories in the end, didn’t he? I’d say it all worked out rather well, though I must admit I had hoped to get to double digits before being found out.”

“If you are quite finished,” Dream snaps, “I would like you to remove yourself from our presence, post-haste, with the reminder that if I were not forbidden from spilling family blood, your punishment for disturbing me and mine would have been severe.”

Dream using the word mine like that makes Hob’s heart beat a little faster, but his fury still dominates his senses.

“Luckily, I can do whatever I bloody well want,” he says, and promptly headbutts Desire in the nose.

It’s like slamming his head into a tree, and Hob should probably have guessed that trying to cause damage to a being like that would be rather more difficult than hurting a human. Still, he feels something in Desire’s nose crunch at the impact, and when he withdraws, he can see a thin trickle of blood escaping one of their nostrils.

“Ow, what the hell?! Are you going to let a human do that to your favourite sibling, Dream?”

Desire brings a hand to their nose, looking almost surprised when it comes away stained red.

“Sixth favourite, and even that is debatable. Now leave.”

“Fine! Lovely meeting you, Hob. You really must give me head again some time.”

And with that perplexing sentence, they’re gone.

Hob sits down heavily on the bed and rubs his forehead.

“I think I have a concussion.”

“Quite likely. That was incredibly foolhardy of you.”

“That may be true, but it was also very satisfying.”

“Yes, it was rather.”

Concussion notwithstanding, Hob is sure he’s not imagining the smile spreading over Dream’s face as he looks down at him.

“So it’s over, then? Time will stop resetting now?”

“Desire no longer has the means to affect the passage of time.”

Dream pats the pocket that contains the opal.

“That thing? What is it?”

“A very powerful artefact belonging to our father.”

“Your father being…?”

“The anthropomorphic personification of time.”

“Of course.”

Hob almost has to stifle a laugh. If someone had told him five hundred years ago that this would be his life, he’d have recommended them to the nearest exorcist.

“Speaking of which,” Dream says, picking up his coat and putting on his hat, “I shall visit my father at once to return his property. Desire must have told him a pretty tale to make him grant them a loan such as this. He does not usually interfere in or pay attention to our lives.”

“So, you’re leaving?”

Dream hesitates, near imperceptibly, before saying, “I must.”

Hob forces a smile. “Just as long as it doesn’t mean I’ll wake up to Lou singing out of tune. And I’d kill not to have to hear that awful joke again.”

The corner of Dream’s mouth twitches. “No. Time is no longer out of joint.”

Hob ignores the Shakespeare quote and says, “I guess I’ll see you in 1989 then. Shall we say around noon, this time?”

“Very well. Until then.”

“Until then, my friend.”

Hob raises a hand in farewell. It feels almost surreal to think that it’s truly over, that he will have to wait a century to see Dream again.

Dream nods and goes to open the door to the corridor, but he pauses, his hand on the doorknob.

“Even after all that,” Dream says, looking back at Hob over his shoulder, “You would call me friend?”

“Yes. If you’d let me.”

“Not… lover?”

Hob’s heart skips a beat, and he stares at Dream. “I… I wasn’t sure that was still on the table.”

“Nor am I. Time will tell, I suppose.”

And then he walks out the door, leaving Hob gaping like a fish on the bed.

He gets to his feet, debating whether to chase after Dream and do… something. Kiss him? Tell him that yes, he’d like to call him both friend and lover, if he were allowed? Ask to see him earlier than a hundred years from now? He’s not sure, and so he remains standing still in the middle of the room, eyes fixed on the door as if Dream might walk back through it at any moment.

Even so, he’s startled when it opens, and Dream actually does walk back in. Without breaking stride, he pushes Hob up against the wall, cradles his cheeks in his hands, and kisses him. After a split second of surprise, Hob opens up to his tongue and fists his hands in the fabric of Dream’s coat, kissing back hungrily and pulling the man close.

Dream’s hands move into Hob’s hair as he licks into his mouth, tugging slightly as he makes every effort to devour Hob. He pushes a knee between Hob’s legs and rolls their hips together, making Hob gasp against his mouth.

After what might have been seconds or minutes — Hob really isn’t sure — Dream pulls back slightly, dragging a hand down Hob’s cheek and brushing a thumb over his kiss-swollen lips.

“Your memory related only the visual experience. I decided I ought to augment that before I left,” he says, matter-of-factly.

“I— Sure…” Hob replies, breathless.

“I will see you in a century.”

“I’ll count the days.”

Dream smirks. “Fare you well, Hob Gadling.”

“Goodbye, Dream…”

Dream blinks out of existence, and Hob is left alone again.

Leaning his head back against the wall, he tries to catch his breath. He touches his fingers to his lips gingerly, still feeling the phantom touch of Dream’s mouth on them.

A laugh bubbles up within him, and he lets it spill out over his tingling lips. That… That was… That was Dream. The constant surprise in Hob’s life. As he laughs, he’s torn between the residual urge to strangle Desire and the impulse to send them a thank-you card for inadvertently making sure this night ended in a kiss rather than tears.

Christ, 1989 can’t come soon enough.

#Stay Just this Once #GroundHob Day #The Sandman fanfic #Dreamling #Dreamling fanfic #my fic #Posted this on AO3 a while ago #figured I might as well post it here too :)

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