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Ziwa won’t let anyone else pick up the trash.
It’s not like they need any more responsibilities, and pretty much everyone else on the team (except Bright, of course) has offered to help, but Ziwa just won’t let them. They’ve got a lot of time to fill with Eugenia gone anyway. Might as well put it to use. And besides, everyone else says they’ll put it out to sea to lure Eugenia back from Elsewhere, but they don’t know all her little favorites. How she likes chewed gum stuck back into its wrapper, so she can unwrap it again. That she doesn’t want the seeds in her apple cores, like a kid who demands the crusts cut off their sandwiches. Of course it’s really fucking gross to go around scraping wads of gum off the underside of chairs and matching it to discarded wrappers, but like... that’s the half the team values for a reason. That’s love. You do gross things and you’re happy that you did, because the opportunity to do gross things with/for the people you love is a blessing.
So Ziwa goes on collecting the trash, carrying a metal stick with a sharpened point, spearing empty slushie cups and potato chip bags. They tuck half-eaten slices of pizza inside sundae cups sticky with ice cream residue. Compact all the trash as much as possible, like they’re trying to cram all their longing and worry into the space of a single garbage bag, make it dense as a neutron star and then drop it into the sea to call Eugenia home.
One day after the game’s ended, Ziwa thinks they’re alone like usual until they reach the away-team bench and find Alston napping on it. Ziwa rolls their eyes - it’s not the first time they’ve found Alston passed out somewhere bizarre, by any means. They shake him gently by one shoulder until his nasal breathing stops with a gasp and he sits bolt upright. “Shit - sorry, sorry, I’ll get out of your way - “
Ziwa laughs. “It’s fine, dude. The Magic are really good about not littering anyway. Doesn’t look like there’s much here.” They’ve turned back, ready to sweep the other half of the stands, when Alston says, “It’s not your fault, you know.”
They stiffen, stand still, but don’t say anything.
“I thought it was because of me. When Cedric went Elsewhere.” A long pause; Ziwa begins poking at bits of peanut shell too small to be worth gathering. “And honestly, it probably was, partly. But... you’re not a fuckup like me. You and Eugenia are really good together. She’s a lot happier now, you know.”
Ziwa laughs, turns slightly back towards him. “Eugenia’s always happy.”
“Yeah. But she’s happy in a different way now. Calmer. You know?”
They don’t really know if they believe that, but they nod, sitting down at the far end of the bench from where Alston has laid back down, arms crossed behind his head. He seems like he’s got more to say. The crows circle overhead.
“I don’t know why you’re always so hard on yourself anyway.”
Ziwa snorts. “That’s cause we’re not particularly close. No offense.”
“Nah, none taken.” Alston yawns. “I bet you’re making a big deal out of stuff that really isn’t, though. Trust me. If you were a real fuckup I’d know by now.” He grins, upside-down, his head tilted back to look at them. “Game recognizes game.”
“God, stop calling yourself a fuckup.”
“Why? It’s like you saying we’re not close. I’m not being mean to myself. It’s just true.”
Ziwa sighs, rests their face in their hands. “I thought you were trying to make me feel better, here.”
“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.” He tips his head forward again, then heaves himself up to a sitting position before reaching into his pocket for one of the flasks he always seems to have invisibly stashed away. “Mostly I’m just trying to say that you’ve got a lot of really good qualities. You’re a good leader. You take on a lot of stuff for the team. Probably more than you should, but...” He sips from the flask, smiles in a loopy self-pitying way. “Doing too much is the kind of problem good people have.”
“Or the kind of problem people want other people to think they have, so everyone will think they’re a good person.”
“Is that it? You think you just got everyone fooled?” Alston tucks the flask away and looks up at the sky. “If you put enough energy into pretending you’re a good person, at some point you’re indistinguishable from any other good person.”
Ziwa shakes their head, stands up. “It’s not... I’m not as good a person as I am in public.”
“So what, you’re like, beating Eugenia up at home? Snorting dope in the bathroom between innings?” Alston laughs loudly. “C’mon, Ziwa, the worst thing you’ve ever done is skateboard in front of a ‘No Skateboarding’ sign.”
That isn’t true, but it gets them to crack a grin anyway. “There are things in between good and cartoonishly evil, you know.”
“Yeah. And you’re pretty far over to the good side.”
“If that was true, I’d actually try and tell you that you’re not a fuckup, instead of being all absorbed in my own shit.”
“Nah.” Alston squints at the dark fluttering spots overhead, the crows still investigating, waiting for the stadium to empty entirely. “That’s what I mean. You’re good enough that you wouldn’t lie to me.”
Ziwa watches him for a long moment. Finally, they hold out the metal stick. “Here. Come be not-a-fuckup. Help me pick up the trash.”
He takes it from their hand gratefully. “See? Good captain. Knows how to help people out if they’re being a self-pitying little asshole.”
They roll their eyes, but chuckle at the same time to soften the gesture. “C’mon. You start on the far end, I’ll meet you in the middle.”
The two of them work in silence for awhile as the sun sinks closer to the horizon. Ziwa kind of wishes for a second trash-picking stick, but mostly dating Eugenia has gotten them used to sometimes touching gross unrecognizable stuff. By the time they meet in the center of the stands, Ziwa’s back is aching; they have to admit to themself that they are a little thankful for the help. Alston tosses them his black plastic bag, knotted at the top, and says, “That actually felt way less miserable than I expected it to.”
“It’s not that bad, faking that you’re a good person.” Ziwa smiles lopsidedly. He laughs and starts heading down to the exit.
“It’s really not. Might even try it again sometime.”
Ziwa unties the knot at the top of the bag he collected to merge the trash with their own accumulation. On top of the heap is a little collection of matte silver papers - gum wrappers, with uneven tooth-marked orbs of gum inside. Ziwa blinks.
Maybe none of us are that bad after all.