Work Text:
Hot sun, hot wind. Sunburn itching on his nose, and still, Kakyoin had trouble dragging his eyes from the width of Polnareff’s shoulders.
Practice had been over for a half hour, and Kakyoin had showered off with the rest of the team. The seniors had gone on ahead almost immediately--Caesar to home, and Joseph content to trail along for the promise of food. The locker room had kept up the steady hum of a beehive right up until Kakyoin had retreated back to the field.
It was hard, sometimes, to stay around all that activity.
Coach had worked them to the bone today. He felt it in his thighs, the tops of his legs protesting even now as he sat on the bleachers, his sketchbook out and his pecil stub in hand. There’d been no rests, and even less forgiveness for anyone who hadn’t been able to keep up. Kakyoin had glanced over at the corner of the field when he’d seen Coach approach Caesar, and then he’d quickly looked away.
Coach was tough on them, especially the seniors.
But few people were as tough on themselves as Polnareff.
Out in the batter box, the clean up batter pivoted on his heel as he followed through with his swing, his grip on the bat still sure and controlled. Kakyoin had tried to catch that final pose on paper, the way Polnareff twisted, almost like his torso was on a ball joint, packing power behind each swing that made him a great player on most days.
That made him unstoppable on his best.
The sun beat down relentlessly, even though the digits on Kakyoin’s watch edges steadily closer towards four. He’d given up trying to find shade. There was nowhere except the bleachers with as clear a view of home plate.
And out in the field, Polnareff continued to swing at an imaginary ball.
Kakyoin flexed his fingers, rolling his pencil between his knuckles. How hard would he have to throw to get a ball half the distance Polnareff could bat one when he was fresh up to plate? How fast would he have to run to catch a hit like that? Could he?
Flipping his sketchbook over, Kakyoin started working on the math. He had to guess what Polnareff’s hitting rate was now, but Kakyoin knew his own speed, knew his best time to run deep into outfield. Knew how quickly he could lob a ball back towards first...
“Hey, Kakyoin, get over here!”
His hand twitched, a sharp line appearing through the middle of his work.
Polnareff was already jogging across the field, his helmet and bat tucked securely against his side. He pulled up short as he reached the bleachers, and Kakyoin noticed the white towel in the batter’s hand right before it was tossed over his head.
He fumbled with it, trying to find an edge to flip back so he could see.
“You’re getting red, wear some sunblock wouldn’t you? Do you want my hat?”
Kakyoin kept the towel draped on his head. “I’m alright, I’m wearing sunscreen,” he replied, the furrow between Polnareff’s eyebrows easing a bit, “I was waiting for you to finish up.”
Polnareff’s laugh was a short, breaking bark. A little nasally. A little loud.
“Sorry, sorry,” Polnareff chuckled apologetically, crouching down to scoop up Kakyoin’s pencil. “I didn’t check the time. Let me shower first, then we’ll go?”
“That’s fine.”
Polnareff grinned, "Back in a minute. Try not to fry."
Kakyoin didn't watch him go.
Hot sun. Hot wind. The towel on his head making him sweat worse than both of those combined, and Kakyoin flipped through his sketchbook for a clean page. He had enough time, he thought, to get an outline of a laughing smile down.