Work Text:
You’re always like this.
Shoulders squared and breathing level, there’s something in the way you pitch, catch, and bat, and yell about orders, that adds two feet to the six you already are. A poised giant. A human Swiss-knife.
But the stones at the top of a mountain would never see themselves as any more superior than the rocks that form the base.
Listen - this is what I’m trying to say:
I hate how you show up with beanstalks for legs and looking far too tall for kids our age. I hate how I remember when I first saw you, that what sticks out in my memory the most was how the sleeves of my jumper had swallowed up the entirety of my fingers, and how my shirt had hovered above my knees. When we first talked, I thought your head must have belonged among the clouds - or that between the two of us, you were closer to the Sun. I remember how my insides burned.
I hate how you could hit home-runs.
And that look of sheer surprise on your face as you returned to the dugout, when everyone had stood to cheer well done— I wanted to knock it right off. Even afterwards, when everything seemed to stand out of its way only to applaud you, to scream at you in sickening neon colours how brilliant, and fantastic, and so loved you are— you shy away from them. They never did anything to swell that impressive head of yours. I’ve been told how my skull is thick, but yours must be of steel, your heart armored.
And I wish you could stop asking me how I’m doing every time we meet. Like it is any of your damn business how well I’m coping with classes; or how my great-grandpa is doing (he’s doing amazing, thanks); or if life is treating me well; or how truly sorry you were when my cat of fifteen years passed, last fall, and I thought your hand had made a motion to hold mine.
I hate that you do this to everyone, your light little check-ups; that this fucking kind habit of yours is not reserved for me only, that you are willing to pay everybody the smallest bit of attention, because you don’t know how far a pinch of kindness can get someone who had once considered giving up.
And I can’t stand the little glimpses I catch of you when you think no one can see you. The nonchalant whistles as you make your way down the hall, hands in pockets; the little infrequent skips; the moment you pause by the window only to follow the movements of a sparrow. You whistle to it, smiling.
Even more: the way you pointed to my face then traced a path to the star-speckled sky, one evening after a late practice, only to tell me how the constellations reminded you of the freckles on my face. You said this with a sheepish guffaw as you shook your head, murmuring,”Every time.” The way I would sometimes catch your gaze drop to our dusty sneakers, the word can’t quietly parting your lips.
(The way I would then look you straight in the eye and say can, and how I would feel my knees buckle pathetically, after, when you’d prove more than the words I could muster.)
I hate them all.
Despite this, there is only one thing I’d beg of you to change:
Will you be mine?