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The summer sun was harsh, casting bright, unforgiving light over the dusty baseball field as Bruce Yamada lifted his bat for yet another swing, his arms tensing with each motion.
The crowd’s cheers were as intense as ever, especially for him—the town's golden boy, the one who often never missed a hit.
On the outside, Bruce had it all. His teammates were always patting him on the back, the girls in the bleachers were always casting shy, flushed glances and smiles his way.
But as he looked down at his hands, gripping the bat tightly, he couldn’t really... see what they all did.
All he saw was a body that wasn’t quite right.
A boy who wasn’t skinny enough.
But that can be fixed.
And so, like any determined teenage boy his age, he’d of course done something about it. He’d started skipping meals, then skipping a little more. A new diet, he called it. It was just a small change, at first. A snack here and there he didn’t need. Then a lunch he could afford to miss. And now... now, he could see the outline of his collarbones clearly. He thought maybe, finally, he was becoming the version of himself that people could actually admire.
The version of himself that he could admire.
But... something had shifted lately. The once-frequent giggles and excited squeals from head-over-heels girls in the hall had faded, their blushed smiles turning to side glances and worried whispers. Bruce tried to ignore it. They probably just couldn’t see the change yet, right? He’d just work harder.
They’d understand soon enough.
After another victorious game, he was picking up his things when he saw Finney Blake — the pitcher from the opposing team, hanging back by the field. Finney was a pretty shy boy, small, couldn't really defend himself. But his arm is mint. Finney almost had Bruce with that swing earlier, but in the last moment, Bruce had managed to hit one out of the park.
Now, oddly, Bruce watched as Finney approached him with a shy but determined look.
"... Hey, Bruce," Finney said, scratching the back of his head nervously. "Can I... uh, can I ask you something?"
Bruce blinked as he caught onto Finney's anxious demeanor, wondering what it could be about. Bullies? Girl trouble, maybe? Whatever it was, Bruce was sure he could help. "Sure, man," Bruce replied, throwing on his easy, practiced smile.
"You, uh..." Finney hesitated, glancing away, as if to check if anyone was listening in, before continuing. "You’ve been looking... different, lately. You okay?"
...
Huh?
That wasn't what Bruce expected.
Bruce’s smile faltered for a second, as he felt almost at a loss for words. But just as quick as the smile fell, he forced it back. "Different? Well, yeah. I mean, I’ve been working on it, y'know? Guess it’s finally paying off, huh?" He laughed lightly, hoping Finney would just drop it.
But Finney didn’t laugh — making the moment far more awkward and uncomfortable. He only watched Bruce, a hint of worry in his eyes. "Just... take care of yourself, 'kay?" He said quietly, before wordlessly walking away.
...
...Right.
The comment gnawed at Bruce, but he shoved it down. They just didn’t understand what he was doing. They didn’t see how much better he looked now — how much more worthy he was becoming.
Maybe he just had to be better.
In the school bathroom a few days later, Bruce walked in just as Finney and his friend Robin Arellano were talking. He’d just meant to wash his hands, but just before he fully rounded the corner into the bathroom, he heard his name.
They're talking about him.
"It’s getting bad, man," Finney was saying, his voice low and anxious. "Bruce... he’s practically skin and bones. You saw him in the locker room, right?"
Robin sighed, crossing his arms. "Yeah, I saw. It’s not normal. He was never like that before."
Bruce’s chest tightened uncomfortably, and a wave of frustration shot through him.
They didn’t get it.
This was good—he was good now. He was almost what he was supposed to be. He clenched his jaw, biting down on his tongue.
Why won't they see?
Bruce quickly left before they could notice him.
The final straw came one humid afternoon during gym class.
Bruce was running track, his feet hitting the running line hard, his mind drifting off. He ran as fast as he could — his legs moving back and forth, back and forth, in that familiar, rhythmic motion. Bruce was usually the fastest in P.E — it came from loads of experience and practice in running for baseball after a hit.
But now, Bruce found himself right at the back of the line, other boys racing ahead of him in a burst, wind hitting his face as he watched the billowing shirts pass him.
Bruce felt a surge of alarm, his eyes widening ever so slightly and his eyebrows furrowing. What the fuck? What was happening? Why can't he run faster?
Bruce forced himself to keep going even as his lungs burned and screamed in protest, trying to push himself ahead of the other boys. He moved his legs faster than he should be allowing them, to the point that he felt as if he was going to collapse. His breaths came out in shallow, ragged gasps as he kept going, feeling rushes of triumph and cheer as one-by-one, he passed the other boys.
The cheers from the other boys at the sidelines rang in his ears, spurring him on. The cheer, the praise — Bruce lived for it.
But he barely noticed the nausea creeping up until it hit him full force.
His head throbbed, his vision blurring. Just as he passed the finish line, he staggered, his knees wobbling.
Oh.
Then the world went dark.
...
...
...
...When he came to, he was on the grass near the track, blinking up at the angry face and the piercing gaze of Vance Hopper.
Vance, the one guy everyone avoided in the hallways, the kid who always looked like he’d just come out of a fight — which he probably did, knowing the shortness of his temper after the pinball incident.
His wild, messy blonde hair framed his face as he scowled down at Bruce, looking like he was debating whether to slap him awake or call for help.
"Bruce!" Vance barked too loudly, his voice hard and unrelenting. "The hell happened to you, huh? I had to fucking drag you over here to get the crowd from stepping on you, you know." He scoffed.
Bruce blinked, still dazed. He couldn't quite process Vance's words, and he tried to sit up — but a sudden wave of dizziness and nausea held him back. "I—I’m fine," he mumbled, but his words felt hollow as he reached a hand up to hold the side of his head. "I just... got a little lightheaded." He shrugged, trying to brush it off. He didn't want to look weak in front of Vance Hopper of all people — Bruce was strong, manly. He could handle a little fall.
Vance’s frown deepened. "You passed out, Yamada. Like, completely. You looked like a goddamn ghost out there." He squatted down beside him, his gaze sharp. "When’s the last time you actually ate, huh?"
Bruce felt his stomach churn, a cocktail of shame and defensiveness bubbling up. Bruce's eyebrows furrowed. "I–I don’t know... lunch, maybe?" He shrugged, his tone a note too defensive.
But unexpectedly, Vance didn't start beating Bruce up then and there — he just shot back a remark.
"Bullshit," Vance snapped, folding his arms. "No way you’re eating like you should be. You look like you’re about to blow away in the wind."
Bruce felt his cheeks flush with anger and embarrassment, and he tried to sit up straighter to prove his health. "You don’t get it, Vance," he said sharply. "I’m fine. Better than fine. I’m—"
"You’re a goddamn fuckin' idiot if you think starving yourself is 'fine.'" Vance’s voice was rough but, oddly enough, not unkind. What alternate universe was Bruce sent to when he collapsed to make Vance Hopper have some remnant of kindness?
There was something in his eyes—something that looked almost... concerned. "Why are you doing this to yourself, huh? To look good for all those people who don’t even give a crap about you?"
Bruce scoffed, looking away. "You don’t understand. I have to look this way. People expect me to be... perfect. I'm just being even more perfect. I'm excelling — like all boys should." He said, with an edge of pride.
"'Excelling'? 'Perfect'?" Vance repeated, almost mockingly. "And you think looking like a damn skeleton is perfect?" He rolled his eyes. "You know what? Screw what people expect. You should care more about yourself than what they think." He scoffed, his words strangely nice for a boy as rude as Vance Hopper.
Bruce was silent, staring at the grass beneath him. No one had ever spoken to him like this before. All his life, he’d been the one people looked up to, the one they envied. But right now, he felt... exposed. Vulnerable. To Vance Hopper. And he hated it.
Vance must have sensed his discomfort because he let out a sigh, the tension in his shoulders loosening as it gave way to something more awkward, uncertain. "Look, man," he mumbled, his tone softer now, almost like he was trying his best to be somewhat gentle. "You don’t have to do this alone, or something like that. If you... I don't know, need help or whatever, I could, you know... hang out. Make sure you’re eating and stuff." He said in a gruff voice that he forced to sound uncaring. (He was unsuccessful.)
Bruce’s heart twisted. There was something... oddly comforting in Vance’s gruff offer, something real. And that made Bruce really feel like he was going crazy. Maybe a dream. He should pinch himself in a minute.
Slowly, Bruce nodded. "Yeah... maybe. Uhm.. Thanks."
They sat in silence for a few moments, the only sound the distant hum of the gym class finishing up.
Bruce didn't know if later, he and Vance would work something out, or if Bruce would go back to normal.
But for now, he could just be.