run home slow [fic] [oofuri]
> run home slow
> mewling
> { Oofuri, PG, abexmihashi, BL}
> { [future fic, AU-ish] Abe promised Mihashi, that for three years he’d never get injured, never get sick. But Mihashi made no such promise.abe x mihashi, implied haruna x abe and kanou x mihashi}
> { Idea shamelessly stolen from Higuchi-sensei’s other series, Yasashii Watashi. Oofuri is really hard to write. }
Once, Abe made a promise to Mihashi, that for three years he would never get injured, never get sick.
Mihashi didn’t make the same, which is good - because he wouldn’t have been able to keep it.
But this was years ago.
The sound of his glove as Haruna’s fastball hits it is still the same. The grin he receives from the mound is new.
It only takes him a few days until he’s used to catching Haruna’s pitches once more.
It slips over familiar, but Abe just can’t feel comfortable.
“University baseball sure is different,” Mihashi says, awed. The strap of his camera is wound loosely around his wrist.
Abe makes a non-committal noise, and shrugs off his gear. “Pass me a spare under-shirt.”
Mihashi hastily fumbles one from Abe’s bag. While he changes, Abe asks, “How’s your club?”
“It’s good,” Mihashi replies, and avoids meeting Abe’s eyes. His fingers rest on the shutter.
His hands look so small, these days.
It’s after practice in the clubroom, and there’s a fat bruise the size and shape of a baseball, blooming on Abe’s shoulder. It stings with the strength of 145km/h.
Haruna rests his palm over the top of the bruise. “Oops,” is all he says (he’s a prideful guy), but he genuinely sounds embarrassed.
“You’re better than you were before,” Abe grunts, looking away. Haruna grins sheepishly.
He runs his hand through Abe’s hair as he leaves.
It is a family restaurant.
Mihashi keeps biting off more than he can chew. There’s an irony there, but Abe doesn’t care to dwell on it.
“Have you seen a doctor lately?”
He reads on the notices that some of Mihashi’s photographs will be published in a magazine.
“Congratulations,” he says. “I’m happy for you.” He even tries to mean it.
The bruise on his shoulder aches, dull.
Next Wednesday, Abe hits a home run.
His team-mates all slap his back when he gets back into the dugout.
He catches himself looking for Mihashi before he remembers he isn’t there.
( There was a summer, once, when the rain made the field muddy and a pitcher, bent over double on the mound, screamed.
There was an ambulance, once. )
“I haven’t seen Mihashi around much,” his mother says as Abe climbs the stairs.
“No,” Abe answers before he disappears into his room, “Neither have I, much.”
He still keeps a poster of the Koshien on his wall.
He wonders if Mihashi does, too.
Summer trickles down his back, sticks his hair to his forehead.
Mihashi gives him copies of his photographs, fidgets self-consciously while Abe leafs through them.
“They’re really good,” he says at last. Mihashi’s face brightens. He’s still such a simple guy.
“I like how bright the colours are,” Abe goes on awkwardly (he’s no expert on photography, and isn’t really sure what to say). “And-ah…” He recognises a face.
“Isn’t this Kanou?” Abe asks. Mihashi nods, says “Yeah!”
Abe stares a little. “You’ve been going to his games, then.” It isn’t a question.
Mihashi stiffens. He doesn’t understand (probably), but he senses the mood.
“You haven’t been around as much lately,” Abe continues.
“I…guess not,” Mihashi says in small voice.
The photo wrinkles in Abe’s hand.
Hanai still calls from time to time. Abe can sometimes hear Tajima shouting at the other end of the line.
“How’s Mihashi’s arm?” he asks.
Abe always answers the same.
Abe doesn’t see Mihashi for three weeks; no-one waits for him at the university gates.
Haruna pitches a perfect game.
“Let’s get DRUNK!” Haruna shouts after, throwing his hands in the air. “Takaya’s paying.”
“Hey!” Abe protests, but it’s lost amongst the cheers.
Drunk, Haruna tries to kiss him, and misses terribly. Abe makes a face as he wipes off his chin.
Haruna laughs raucously before spinning around and swaying off home.
Abe blinks. He really doesn’t know what to make of it.
Snow crunches underfoot and dusts the university like icing sugar.
Mihashi still can’t make a fist.
“Therapy is helping,” Mihashi tells him, as his fingers tremble. Abe can’t bear to look.
Mihashi starts to become more and more like a real photographer; but he still twines his camera strap around his wrist.
“I’d like to be a sports photographer,” he says shyly.
Abe’s mouth is dry. There was a time, you know, when Mihashi didn’t care about anything as long as he could pitch. And Abe knows, that he had a part in making that dream impossible.
There are still stacks of baseball magazines on the floor of Mihashi’s room, used like furniture and left open, half-read and trodden on.
Abe leafs through the papers on the floor and drinks beer from Mihashi’s fridge. Mihashi ‘cleans’ by pushing the rubbish on the floor into piles with his foot.
He finds a book from Mihashi’s therapy, and flips through it. “I’ll help you with some of your exercises,” he says, casually.
Mihashi wrings his hands and nods. Abe beckons him closer and reaches for his right hand.
It’s not just an excuse to touch him.
He used to say “Abe” like a prayer.
Now, he says it like an apology.
Haruna’s bold grin stares at him from the cover of the university paper.
“Oh,” says Mihashi, “That’s one of mine!”
Abe sighs and flips it over. “I don’t want to see that guy’s face so early in the morning.”
Mihashi opens his mouth and closes it again. He still thinks of Haruna in terms of dazzling fastballs and conviction and those dreams he no longer has.
Abe wants to say something like “You’re a better pitcher than he is.” But he can’t anymore, can he?
( There’d been a hospital bed, once, and a blue sky outside. The doctors had said that there was the possibility of rehabilitation, but they’d said it with eyes full of pity.
Still, maybe it’s that hope that still keeps him alive. )
It’s almost spring but there’s still some grey slush on the baseball field, stringy weeds and cold dirt. Early morning, Abe sees Mihashi on the mound.
Stand; raises his leg, hand tucked into his glove. His form is still sort of awkward.
Abe has a horrible feeling he knows what Mihashi’s doing.
And when he throws, the ball lands meters short, slides in the mud. Mihashi’s shoulders hunch, then heave; and before he knows what he is doing Abe is across the field, grips him tightly. Mihashi’s fingers are cold in Abe’s hands.
Mihashi is crying. “Am I…” Eyes red: just for how long, has he been out here? “Am I so useless, if I can’t pitch?”
“No,” Abe whispers, throat dry, “No, you’re not! I-” and then he says something he’s never said before in his life, something he’s never even thought about and would never have guessed he say to Mihashi, of all people.
And Mihashi hiccups and probably doesn’t believe him, but he does stop crying and he doesn’t pull away.
Gradually, his fingers warm; Abe almost smiles.
Later, there are photographs; Mihashi fidgets as he hands them over. Abe stares at him pointedly, eyebrow raised. Finally he blurts “I really love Abe-kun too!” and the photos slip from Abe’s hand.
“Idiot!” he blushes, knocking the back of Mihashi’s head. “You don’t have to say it back to me.”
Mihashi stutters a “S-so-r-ry”.
Abe smiles, and reaches for his hand.
> mewling
> { Oofuri, PG, abexmihashi, BL}
> { [future fic, AU-ish] Abe promised Mihashi, that for three years he’d never get injured, never get sick. But Mihashi made no such promise.abe x mihashi, implied haruna x abe and kanou x mihashi}
> { Idea shamelessly stolen from Higuchi-sensei’s other series, Yasashii Watashi. Oofuri is really hard to write. }
Once, Abe made a promise to Mihashi, that for three years he would never get injured, never get sick.
Mihashi didn’t make the same, which is good - because he wouldn’t have been able to keep it.
But this was years ago.
The sound of his glove as Haruna’s fastball hits it is still the same. The grin he receives from the mound is new.
It only takes him a few days until he’s used to catching Haruna’s pitches once more.
It slips over familiar, but Abe just can’t feel comfortable.
“University baseball sure is different,” Mihashi says, awed. The strap of his camera is wound loosely around his wrist.
Abe makes a non-committal noise, and shrugs off his gear. “Pass me a spare under-shirt.”
Mihashi hastily fumbles one from Abe’s bag. While he changes, Abe asks, “How’s your club?”
“It’s good,” Mihashi replies, and avoids meeting Abe’s eyes. His fingers rest on the shutter.
His hands look so small, these days.
It’s after practice in the clubroom, and there’s a fat bruise the size and shape of a baseball, blooming on Abe’s shoulder. It stings with the strength of 145km/h.
Haruna rests his palm over the top of the bruise. “Oops,” is all he says (he’s a prideful guy), but he genuinely sounds embarrassed.
“You’re better than you were before,” Abe grunts, looking away. Haruna grins sheepishly.
He runs his hand through Abe’s hair as he leaves.
It is a family restaurant.
Mihashi keeps biting off more than he can chew. There’s an irony there, but Abe doesn’t care to dwell on it.
“Have you seen a doctor lately?”
He reads on the notices that some of Mihashi’s photographs will be published in a magazine.
“Congratulations,” he says. “I’m happy for you.” He even tries to mean it.
The bruise on his shoulder aches, dull.
Next Wednesday, Abe hits a home run.
His team-mates all slap his back when he gets back into the dugout.
He catches himself looking for Mihashi before he remembers he isn’t there.
( There was a summer, once, when the rain made the field muddy and a pitcher, bent over double on the mound, screamed.
There was an ambulance, once. )
“I haven’t seen Mihashi around much,” his mother says as Abe climbs the stairs.
“No,” Abe answers before he disappears into his room, “Neither have I, much.”
He still keeps a poster of the Koshien on his wall.
He wonders if Mihashi does, too.
Summer trickles down his back, sticks his hair to his forehead.
Mihashi gives him copies of his photographs, fidgets self-consciously while Abe leafs through them.
“They’re really good,” he says at last. Mihashi’s face brightens. He’s still such a simple guy.
“I like how bright the colours are,” Abe goes on awkwardly (he’s no expert on photography, and isn’t really sure what to say). “And-ah…” He recognises a face.
“Isn’t this Kanou?” Abe asks. Mihashi nods, says “Yeah!”
Abe stares a little. “You’ve been going to his games, then.” It isn’t a question.
Mihashi stiffens. He doesn’t understand (probably), but he senses the mood.
“You haven’t been around as much lately,” Abe continues.
“I…guess not,” Mihashi says in small voice.
The photo wrinkles in Abe’s hand.
Hanai still calls from time to time. Abe can sometimes hear Tajima shouting at the other end of the line.
“How’s Mihashi’s arm?” he asks.
Abe always answers the same.
Abe doesn’t see Mihashi for three weeks; no-one waits for him at the university gates.
Haruna pitches a perfect game.
“Let’s get DRUNK!” Haruna shouts after, throwing his hands in the air. “Takaya’s paying.”
“Hey!” Abe protests, but it’s lost amongst the cheers.
Drunk, Haruna tries to kiss him, and misses terribly. Abe makes a face as he wipes off his chin.
Haruna laughs raucously before spinning around and swaying off home.
Abe blinks. He really doesn’t know what to make of it.
Snow crunches underfoot and dusts the university like icing sugar.
Mihashi still can’t make a fist.
“Therapy is helping,” Mihashi tells him, as his fingers tremble. Abe can’t bear to look.
Mihashi starts to become more and more like a real photographer; but he still twines his camera strap around his wrist.
“I’d like to be a sports photographer,” he says shyly.
Abe’s mouth is dry. There was a time, you know, when Mihashi didn’t care about anything as long as he could pitch. And Abe knows, that he had a part in making that dream impossible.
There are still stacks of baseball magazines on the floor of Mihashi’s room, used like furniture and left open, half-read and trodden on.
Abe leafs through the papers on the floor and drinks beer from Mihashi’s fridge. Mihashi ‘cleans’ by pushing the rubbish on the floor into piles with his foot.
He finds a book from Mihashi’s therapy, and flips through it. “I’ll help you with some of your exercises,” he says, casually.
Mihashi wrings his hands and nods. Abe beckons him closer and reaches for his right hand.
It’s not just an excuse to touch him.
He used to say “Abe” like a prayer.
Now, he says it like an apology.
Haruna’s bold grin stares at him from the cover of the university paper.
“Oh,” says Mihashi, “That’s one of mine!”
Abe sighs and flips it over. “I don’t want to see that guy’s face so early in the morning.”
Mihashi opens his mouth and closes it again. He still thinks of Haruna in terms of dazzling fastballs and conviction and those dreams he no longer has.
Abe wants to say something like “You’re a better pitcher than he is.” But he can’t anymore, can he?
( There’d been a hospital bed, once, and a blue sky outside. The doctors had said that there was the possibility of rehabilitation, but they’d said it with eyes full of pity.
Still, maybe it’s that hope that still keeps him alive. )
It’s almost spring but there’s still some grey slush on the baseball field, stringy weeds and cold dirt. Early morning, Abe sees Mihashi on the mound.
Stand; raises his leg, hand tucked into his glove. His form is still sort of awkward.
Abe has a horrible feeling he knows what Mihashi’s doing.
And when he throws, the ball lands meters short, slides in the mud. Mihashi’s shoulders hunch, then heave; and before he knows what he is doing Abe is across the field, grips him tightly. Mihashi’s fingers are cold in Abe’s hands.
Mihashi is crying. “Am I…” Eyes red: just for how long, has he been out here? “Am I so useless, if I can’t pitch?”
“No,” Abe whispers, throat dry, “No, you’re not! I-” and then he says something he’s never said before in his life, something he’s never even thought about and would never have guessed he say to Mihashi, of all people.
And Mihashi hiccups and probably doesn’t believe him, but he does stop crying and he doesn’t pull away.
Gradually, his fingers warm; Abe almost smiles.
Later, there are photographs; Mihashi fidgets as he hands them over. Abe stares at him pointedly, eyebrow raised. Finally he blurts “I really love Abe-kun too!” and the photos slip from Abe’s hand.
“Idiot!” he blushes, knocking the back of Mihashi’s head. “You don’t have to say it back to me.”
Mihashi stutters a “S-so-r-ry”.
Abe smiles, and reaches for his hand.