Work Text:
lxxiv. a low tide
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Chihiro ties his shoes, zips the front of his jacket, and goes for a jog. It’s been a while since basketball (been a while since anything, really) and he’s already halfway out of breath by the time he gets to the beach.
The morning is as quiet as it is cold, and he stops to listen to the sound of waves sliding in to shore and the sand that quells them. White foam pushes and pulls away, leaving feather-trails of almost frost on the beach before the sand eats that, too. Chihiro stares for a moment, hears the heartbeat that doesn’t stop.
(It reminds him of a training camp, a run on the beach, a boy in the front with a straight, strong back and red eyes. Funny, Chihiro thinks only now. He’s never seen Seijuro look back.)
There’s another trail behind, a pattern of footprints that lead to and stop at him. Bits of shell colour the sand in streaks of pink and blue.
(They knew it was an arrangement, knew there were no promises beyond a late night at a training camp and a pocketful of mistakes, mistakes, mistakes.)
The sky above him swells with the likeness of old ink, and Chihiro feels stupid all of a sudden, standing alone beneath an edge of grey.
(They knew, knew, knew. It still hurts when Chihiro thinks about it, though, and he does more often than he should.)
For a split second, he considers going for a morning swim, too, but changes his mind and continues jogging--though by that point, it’s a run, not a jog.
(Chihiro’s no fool. It’s going to take more than an ocean to wash Seijuro away.)