Work Text:
“Infinity times infinity.”
“Infinity times infinity times infinity.”
“Infinity times infinity times infinity times infinity.”
“Let there be light, let there be light, let me be right…”
--
You watch the steam curl between the curves of your fingers, documenting its longevity (or lack thereof) in the chilly spring morning. The sky is the color of mountains. If you wanted to, you could blot out the moon with your pinkie.
It’s one of those mornings. It starts slow, graceful even. It’s more than you can ask for, for this kind of anticlimax. You’re not sure if you’re grateful for the reprieve.
You turn your phone over in your hands. You could say you’re sick, or that you’ve familial extenuating circumstances, whatever that means. In the end, you settle for a simple, “Don’t worry, I’ll be at practice,” and you hang up before Reon can respond.
--
The run back from Regionals was a quiet interrupted only by the sound of their sneakers against the pavement. It was also one of the only times the others bothered keeping up with you. As they ran, their pace sped up until they were near flying, maybe to burn off the sluggish movements in the endgame. There was sweat dripping from Satori’s face and for once, he looked straight ahead—no distractions here.
You brushed past Kenjirou, Hayato, Taichi, Satori, Reon, and Eita. You did not look back for whole kilometers.
Finally, you stopped. The rest followed. That was the problem.
“That’s enough,” you said, breaths coming fast and harsh. A stitch had formed in your side. “Walk.”
Tsutomu burst into tears. You pretended not to notice, because you didn’t know how to answer something like, “But I proved I’m worthy of being the ace right? Ushijima-san!”
--
The tea has gone cold, which is apt. Or maybe your hands are cold, which is also apt. You look at nothing in particular and just walk. You suppose you shouldn’t have wandered out of your house wearing your school uniform if you were planning to ditch because an elderly woman shoots you a disapproving look as you go. Yet. It’s not as if you could have predicted this outcome. Such is the natural progression of events. First, a loss, then the stages of acceptance wherein it’s healthy to be surprised at even your own actions, your own reluctance. And humans by nature avoid—
You step out of the way of an oncoming bee and sink into the grass of the park. You watch the bee buzz away. It’s early, just enough that you have the place to yourself for the most part. Every so often, you hear snatches of voices on the breeze. Some of the grass has begun to go to seed prematurely and it tickles at the insides of your elbows.
Your father used to take you here. When you were young enough to be carried on his shoulders, he would sneak you from your bed in the middle of the night. “We’re going on an adventure,” he’d say, scooping you up in one arm and an astronomy text in the other. And you were always the slow starter. You were slow to wake up. You’d spend the walk there nodding off into his shoulder. But you stayed—stay—awake, long into the night. Like testing waters, he’d said. You only grew more alert as the moon rose and as the horizon began to lighten, you packed away the telescope and woke him up.
You are still a slow starter; you suspect that will never change. But you pick up the next call after three beats and say, “I’ll be at practice.”
“Fuck practice,” Eita says. Terse. “I want you here. Now.”
09:45:23. “You’re supposed to be in class.”
A lowering of volume which somehow conveys I’m in the bathroom you tool, worry, fear, and anger all at once, “Don’t avoid the question. We just lost—we’re looking for our captain the day after an important match and he’s disappeared on a whim.”
“It wasn’t a whim.” You’re not sure on the specifics, but this much is true. “I’m thinking.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Eita scoffs. “You can still make it to English if you show up now.”
“I don’t like English.” But you recognize the information for what it is and you don’t want to drag this conversation on, either. You’re aware your absence is tearing at something that binds Eita to the team. (To you. And that’s something to examine later, too, when you’re not here, in this place.) You say, “I need to think about what to say.”
The line goes silent so long you think Eita’s hung up. Then, “Think quicker,” and a beep.
You look at the blank screen. You’ve always been a slow starter in waking up, in conversations, in game. The words are slow to come now, too. You could say, I’m proud, but this is the first year you haven’t been to Nationals since middle school. You could say, I’m glad we made it this far, but there is an unshakable feeling in your limbs (muscle memory) that says you should’ve made it further. You were going to win Nationals this year. It’s a hard goal to retract even if you’ve felt it slipping away since that first near-perfect year. You’re not sure what the significance of winning together is beyond wanting it so badly you ache and maybe that’s why you’re lying in the field, letting clovers stain your uniform.
You close your eyes when the sun migrates to your patch of grass.
You’re proud, you think, but not proud enough. Just as you understand, empirically, how statistically unlikely it is that you’ve made it to the finals for five years and how far-fetched it is to expect to make it past that for all those cases.
It must be different for you, an Eita-like voice supplies. You’re already scouted, you’re on the under-eighteen Japanese team.
“It’s not,” you say aloud, warmth that’s not all from the spring curling in your stomach. You sit up, fish your phone from between a patch of overgrown grass stalks.
You’ve a few apologies to make.
--
Because the first run home is no different than the second or third run home but this team is different than the last and the next. Losing is losing. Because when Kenjirou brushed by Tsutomu, he elbowed him in the ribs for his outburst and Hayato choked on his own spit laughing and Satori’s cheeks puffed out as he tried to keep himself from meeting the same fate. Later, when any reasonable person should have been asleep, Taichi sent them all pictures of Satori’s face, red hair plastered to his sweaty cheeks.
--
Then again, maybe you don’t need to say anything at all. Maybe showing up is the message. Maybe you should take the bus with everyone today, or invite them all back to your house for dinner. Or maybe you should stop thinking and just feel. Here are the facts: a loss, an end, perhaps a beginning.
You dislike being redundant, so you delete your messages.
You are a slow starter, but so you’ve always been. It’s one of those mornings when the moon’s slow to fade and the grass is cool and dry and you know, it will be alright.