Chapter 5.11
Another week passes.
Finals suck like always. I’m gonna be spending my spring break in make-up lessons, apparently, but I can’t bring myself to care.
White Day comes and goes. I give Hina-chan the sappiest “aren’t we so happy and in love?” chocolates I can find, and she acts happy to get them.
Still no word from Fujimura.
Through it all, work becomes my saving grace.
I work at a convenience store a couple kilometers from my apartment. Usually I would ride my bike there, but recently I’ve just been walking.
Working harder.
Taking as many shifts as I can get away with without the school finding out.
And every night I flop into bed exhausted, my muscles aching in that delicious way I’ve missed since quitting baseball.
Anything to distract me from the numbness.
-----
Sunday, March 15.
Day after White Day.
Another day, another work shift.
“Sakuragi-kun.”
I’m on my knees stocking cans onto a bottom shelf when I hear the voice of my manager, a balding elderly man whose hair seems to have all migrated from his cranium to his mustache.
I turn to look at him.
“Yes, sir?”
“Sorry, son, slow day. Afraid I’m gonna have to send you home.”
“But… the stocking—”
“Will be fine until tomorrow. Just finish up that shelf and be on your way, okay?”
But… I don’t want to be on my way.
I don’t say.
Obviously.
Instead I just swallow and nod.
“…Yes, sir.”
“Good lad.”
I wait until he walks away before letting the grimace back onto my face.
Fuck.
-----
It only takes me a minute or two to finish stocking the shelf, then I clock out and ditch my uniform jacket in the back room.
By the time I’m out the door, my phone is already in my hand.
“Sent home early,” I message my mom. “Be back in a bit.” I keep the wording a bit vague—I’m still adjusting to having the afternoon free, and I don’t really feel like heading home quite yet.
I slide my phone back in my pocket, then lean back against the storefront as I consider my options.
Spending money seems stupid. Not feeling particularly social. And I’m not hungry enough to justify killing time at a family restaurant or something.
Which leaves…
Wandering the streets, I guess?
Well, it’s free and doesn’t involve talking to people, so fuck it.
I pick a direction and start walking.
-----
Aaand end up in a park.
Aokawa has a thingfor parks. I usually try to avoid them because I’m not a parent or nature-lover or, like, fan of unironic displays of human happiness. But that seems to make me the minority because the city is always clamoring for more.
More playgrounds.
More trees.
More signs and plaques and memorials to educate the public about the fascinating history of blah blah blah who gives a fuck.
Apparently they were originally mostly around the rivers, but eventually the less affluent inland neighborhoods also wanted in on the action, and then—
Fuck. They got me. I’ve been educated.
Whunk.
Something whizzes past my head and bounces off the sign I definitely wasn’t reading.
It takes me a moment to find it a couple steps up the park path, and I pick it up without thinking.
It’s… a baseball?
…
Fuck.
“I’m so sorry!”
Footsteps pound across the grass behind me.
“My catch has been way off today, and I just…”
He trails off. Or he doesn’t. I’ve stopped processing the words and all I can hear is the voice.
It’s a bit scratchier than it has been. It cracks halfway through. But I’d still know it anywhere.
I turn around just as Fujimura is about to yell another excuse.
Fujimura.
Because God or Fate or whatever just loves to watch me fucking suffer.
He comes to a stutter-stop, and it’s clear he’s recognized me because he’s already looking anywhere but at my face.
Great. We’re still doing that, I guess.
We still have classes together, of course, but our seats are on the opposite sides of the room, so this is the closest we’ve been in almost a month.
He’s actually dressed for the park—t-shirt, shorts, baseball glove, and not a work uniform in sight—and even without the added layer of our school blazer, he still looks… normal. Boy-shaped.
He’s started fidgeting with his hands, and the movement of his arm against his shirt hints at another layer underneath. It’s a possible tell, a tiny crack in his persona, but even from this close you’d have to be looking at his shirt pretty hard to notice it.
Which I’m not.
Obviously.
“Hi.” It comes out with more of an edge thanI mean it to, but weeks of anger have already started bubbling up, and keeping a lid on that kind of thing has never been a particular talent of mine.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
He still doesn’t say anything, just kind of stares at my hand—my left hand, the one with a baseball in it—and then down at the ground.
“…Hi,” he says finally.
I wait for him to say something else.
An explanation. An apology. Anything.
But nothing.
Instead, he just kind of… stands there.
I’m opening my mouth to call him on it when he lunges for the ball.
I’m not rusty enough for that shit to work—I yank my hand back, and Fujimura grasps at air.
Clearly not what he was expecting to happen because he loses his balance and starts falling forward.
I step back, and his knee and hand hit the pavement with a thud-whap.
“Ow!” He glares up at me. “What the hell?”
“Serves you right.”
“Can I have my ball back, please?”
He tries to climb back onto his feet, but ends up wobbling over onto both his knees instead.
He knee-walks towards me angrily, and I take an easy step back to avoid him, pulling the ball behind my back.
We’re obstructing the walking path, and more than a few parkgoers are watching now, but I don’t care.
“Sakuragi-kun!” His voice has turned from bewildered to angry. I can work with angry.
“No,” I almost spit. “You don’t get to just show up whenever you want and start making demands.”
“Look, I’m sorry, okay?” he tries. “We didn’t mean to almost hit you!”
“You really think that’s what I’m pissed about?”
“I don’t know! Why else would you be making this so diffi—?”
Fujimura cuts off at something I don’t hear, but the sheer fucking audacity of what he was about to say still strikes me dumb long enough for me to hear that person’s call.
“Ren-senpai!”
“Just a minute!” Fujimura calls behind his shoulder, and…
Sure enough, there’s Hoshino Akira a good fifteen, twenty meters away, a cap on his head and a glove on his hand and calling out to his beloved ‘Ren-senpai’.
Because of fucking course.
Of fucking course Fujimura is still playing the game that I taught him.
Of fucking course he’s now doing it with his new super mega fucking bestie.
Of fucking course this all would happen again.
My jaw tenses, and I squeeze my eyes shut on instinct.
Breathe in.
Breathe ou—
“Hey!”
Those few seconds were apparently enough because when my eyes snap back open, Fujimura is standing again.
And he’s close.
In my space.
His chest is against mine, and my brain goes spiraling into a million other directions of magic and softness and Hina and boy—Fujimura is a boy.
By the time I realize what he’s doing, his arm has not only snaked around my waist, but also re-emerged.
Holding a baseball.
I bring my left hand back out and yep, that sure is an empty hand.
Right. The baseball.
“Sorry!” he calls over his shoulder, but he doesn’t wait around for a response. He’s already halfway back to Hoshino, and somehow his voice seems even farther away.
I watch him reach his friend.
Watch them disappear behind a copse of trees, and…
Fuck, I miss being numb.