Chapter Text
Telling Daichi is nowhere near as trying as telling themself. Which makes sense. Daichi is like a mug of green tea--warm, soothing without losing a certain acerbic strength. He sits close to them, after club in the empty lot behind the convenience store, and listens, and nods as if there aren’t little fires everywhere.
It goes a long way toward convincing Asahi that there aren’t. Not entirely, though. Never entirely.
Still.
He helps, in untautening their throat, in stilling the wobble of their voice over words that still feel so fetal, half-born no matter how many times they’ve practiced in the mirror.
I don’t think I’m a boy, is the gist of it, when Daichi sweeps away the leaf-litter of their stammering. Or a girl.
I think maybe I’m both. Or maybe something else.
“I-is that weird?” they wince, more than once.
Daichi says no, and--Asahi didn’t know what they were expecting. Something terrible, their hindbrain always offers, calamitous, sickening, but it was never going to be that. His captain’s voice, maybe, all affable command, brooking no argument despite the half-smile in it. It isn’t that, though.
It’s gentle, like warm stoneware against chilly fingers, with just the slightest rasp.
“I’m proud of you,” he says, and Asahi can’t handle it.
They knew they wouldn’t be able to get through this without crying. Glass-hearted, indeed. Nerves of wet crepe paper, bleeding out its dye.
He reaches for them, holds them firm and fast, with his soft shushing, his even pulse leading by example. They nuzzle into the safe plane of his shoulder, and he smells so like sweat and detergent and it’s strange, strange how much it calms them.
Because it’s Daichi. Because he’s not going anywhere. Because he was always going to be the right person, the first person to tell.
The wide flat of Daichi’s palm rubs circles on their back, through the sweat-stained cling of their shirt. Slowing, steadying, riding out.
Inexorable as the ebb of the tide, Asahi stills. Slackens in Daichi’s hold, sniffling.
“Sorry I’m a mess,” they say, when they’ve gathered the fortitude to say anything at all.
“You aren’t,” says Daichi. “You’re fine.”
And that’s all there is for a moment. A warm, solid, stalwart friend against them, the gentlest rocking back and forth.
They’re almost ready to let go when Daichi draws back, laying that hand on the burl of their shoulder, meeting their watery eyes.
“Do you hear me,” he asks, and there it is. The gravity. His lip curls a little, but he won’t cry.
Asahi nods, because they do, because there’s no other way to respond to a tone like that. A face, a hand, a friend like that.
“Good,” says Daichi. “Because you’re fine. There’s nothing wrong with you.”
Asahi wavers--it earns them a heavy sigh, a fond smile. “Not at all,” says Daichi.
“And I’m your captain, and I’m your friend, and I’m the same as you, and that means it’s my responsibility to make sure you’re happy. To make sure you’re okay. And I will.”
They’re certain they’re going to cry again, but it doesn’t come. They just ache, hollowed like a sea-cave, like erosion in overdrive.
I’m the same as you. Asahi knew, ever since first year. Since Daichi showed up to practice three weeks late, because it’d taken him that long to convince the principal he ought to be allowed on the boys’ team.
It’s only half the reason why they chose to tell him first. Maybe even only a quarter. They don’t say so, but it feels like Daichi knows anyway.
For a while all they do is sit, there on the ledge of that retaining wall. Daichi’s hand stays firm on their shoulder, steadying.
Asahi breathes. The fires, still everywhere, seem so much smaller. Just little pinpoints, like distant streetlamps, like stars.
Manageable, almost.
They smile at him, weak and wan. He squeezes their shoulder, smiles back.
There’s a strident something in his eyes, and it’s a second before Asahi places it as pride.
“Anything you need,” he says. “Anything at all.”