Chapter Text
Every part of Satoru's body throbs yet he refuses to move.
It has been at least fifteen minutes since his team called it a day; it has been at least fifteen minutes since he has not only worn out his teammates, but also beaten out one of his personal bests. Naturally with how uncertain his summer break seems, he wouldn’t want to leave the mound.
A slow smile spreads across his face and he blinks the memories away. The intensity of their last practice, the insanity of their last tournament, the anticipation of their next match, and the absolute motherfucking pain throbbing in his shoulder and wrist are all making him feel so alive.
Satoru lies down in the field, facing the flitting clouds in the sunlight-streaked sky and he wonders if this is all his life is going to amount to, if the cure and the disease will always centre on his being an ace. Trying to catch the last wanning crimson rays of the sun, Satoru breathes out a feeble laugh then lets his arm fall. His descent into madness is soon intercepted: A frowning figure hovers over him, blocking the sun.
“It’s been ringing nonstop for the past ten minutes,” Nanami drops Satoru's phone on the latter’s stomach, “It’d be nice if you're not also a nuisance to me off field.”
“I'm gonna miss you too, Nanamin,” Satoru lilts without bothering to get up, “Two weeks without my other half is just too much,”
He can hear Nanami mumble something on his way back to the locker room but Satoru now has bigger fry.
He answers the call, on loudspeaker.
“Why is getting in touch with you such an impossible task now— and no, don’t make a lame joke about you playing a contact sport!”
“It’s a limited contact sport because I suppose not everyone should have unlimited access to me.”
“Okay, Six Balls,” Shoko deadpans and Satoru grins at the nickname, “I wanted to tell you I can't make it tonight; we still have to wrap up this pain-in-the-ass of a project. How’s the shoulder?”
As though on cue, Satoru sits up and rolls his shoulder. He stretches his neck—audibly so—and holds the phone to his mouth, smiling wryly.
“What about the shoulder, Shoko? It’s always there if you want to cry. My wrist, on the other hand? Let’s say I won't be doing any poultry violation soon.”
“You're disgusting.”
“Part of my charm, I'm sure.” Before Shoko could retort, he steers the conversation back, “And the exhibition is this weekend, no? If what I saw yesterday is the most progress you guys have made then you'll need nothing short of a miracle to be done before D-day.”
“Oh, I have my miracle alright. Geto’s here.”
Satoru stops inspecting his nails and puts back his baseball cap. Prince Charming again.
“Ooh. Giving his seven days to you this week, princess?”
“To art.”
“Well if he’s so keen on the arts then he should quit the baseball team and join you for good,”
“But Gojo,” her voice a full-on smirk, “Who’s gonna keep you on your toes if he quits?”
“Trust me, I can name a handful of things that get me going that are not Suguru. Besides, what day is it?”
“Thursday the 18th—it’s thirteen days before your next friendly match with him and from a purely biological standpoint, I don’t think your body will make it before then so keep it in your pants.”
But Satoru wasn’t asking because of the stupid friendly match; he will take that mound by storm even if he was cut in half. As he hears some ruckus on Shoko’s end and while she curses, Satoru drawls with a slow smile.
“Nothing on this godforsaken planet can make me sit out the next match—no injury, no coach, no zombie apocalypse, no nothing. A streak will remain a streak.”
Shoko’s eyeroll is audible through the speaker.
“Keep playing while injured and let’s see how much more your body can take.”
“Maybe not make any assumptions about what my body can or cannot take.”
“Still disgusting.”
“Yet you love me so who’s the real winner here?” Satoru gets to his feet and Shoko snorts.
“Anyway, I just wanted to let you know you're free tonight. Take it easy and give your body a break— You know what? Ask Hime to give you a message. She’s a goddess when it comes to those.”
Satoru chuckles and starts heading to the lockers.
“I know I can be a little insensitive but I don’t think it’s such a smart idea to ask the person you’ve just broken up with to get handsy with you.”
The only reason he knows Shoko hasn’t hung up is because of the background noise—the soft chatter and the classical music and the paper rustling and the markers scrapping.
“When, why?”
Satoru shrugs. “Two days ago. I was just not feeling it.”
“What do you mean not feeling it?”
“Exactly what it says on the tin. I couldn’t fall for her.”
“Oh my god, why are men. Two months in and you break up? I'm not sure if it’s too long or not long enough—”
Satoru bites down the bubbling comment—at least he wasn’t making a gig out of this I'm sorry I'm not your prince charming—because he isn’t about to mention him again and Shoko isn’t through with her lecture anyway.
“This is like your what, Gojo, third serious—”
“Technically it was the fourth serious relationship,”
“Right, but none of them is doing it for you because none are your twinflame—”
The emphasis-slash-quotation isn’t lost on him—and it’s a reiteration of a very deadbeat argument but Shoko can often turn into a broken record—so he waits for divine intervention.
And divine it is: He hears someone calling to Shoko. Suguru. Through the now-muffled speaker, Satoru listens as Suguru asks about Shoko's opinion on the colour palette and he cannot help but wonder if Suguru ever gets riled-up, if he’s ever anything but gentle and calm and understanding. If he’s anything but Prince Charming. Not that Satoru has much interacted with him, nowhere outside their matches anyway.
Before his train of thoughts leads him to delulu jail, Shoko’s voice thankfully retrieves him.
“This is not over but I really have to go. Catch you later.”
And without another word, Satoru hangs up. He is so lost in thought that he doesn’t notice the disapproving way Yaga is appraising him with.