Then the singing starts and the music takes a turn. The sudden shift stuns Uenoyama for a second, his eyes widening in surprise and awe, unable to look away. Before he even realizes it, he’s hooked.
dull gray eyes look up at him, silently begging, pleading; unshed tears close to spilling over. his own face scrunches at that expression—those damn eyes that convey more emotion than those of his peers whose colors he can see—and feels his frustration grow anew.
To every fanfic author who may not receive a thank you today or message in their inbox, to every author who doesn’t receive kudos or comments on their fics, to the author who doesn’t receive notes on tumblr or maybe only a few, to the author who is unsure about their writing and too afraid to post online, to the authors who are only authors in their minds and have yet to write a single word, to every author who is too tired to write right now, to the authors who are just too tired to update their fics, to the fanfic author aspiring to be published, to the fanfic authors who may not receive fan art of their work or may not be considered popular:
The bed shifts but Izuku doesn't stir from his dreamless slumber until just moments later when a resonating beep echoes in the too quiet room. A fraction of the blanket is thrown a little too far up his side, exposing a sliver of skin to the cold air. His body curls up on instinct after a shiver and he tugs at the thin cloth, still mostly asleep as he wraps it around himself more, encasing himself in a cocoon of cotton. Even with his eyes closed, he can tell it's still dark out. Not time to wake up yet.
"Hey, stop hogging the blankets!"
There's a light shove at his shoulder, familiar and warm. His mind doesn't process the words fast enough in his half-asleep state so he isn't able to put up much of a fight when the blankets get forcefully yanked off him.
"Whaa?" Izuku slurs, blinking blearily at the figure looming over him. It's still dark, as he suspected. He reaches an arm out and starts blindly grasping at thin air while trying to get the blanket back.
"The hell, you're fucking weak when you're still half-asleep," the other person comments and even if he's not completely lucid yet, Izuku can still hear a trace of mirth in the otherwise rough voice.
"Kacchaaan~" he whines, lips forming into a small pout. (It's not entirely on purpose, Izuku would argue later on, but Katsuki knows the freckled boy is more or less aware of his weakness to his "not-fucking-cute-at-all" face), "It's cold."
"Serves you fucking right for forgetting to turn the AC off like I said," Katsuki scolds, all bark and no bite.
"Sorry," comes the mumbled reply. The easy apology tumbling out of Izuku's mouth by habit.
(Katsuki hates it.)
"Fucking nerd," Katsuki mumbles back just to say something. Ignoring the gnawing guilt at the back of his conscience.
"Mmm…yeah, yeah, com'ere."
The bed dips slightly and Izuku takes that as his cue to roll over closer to the wall. He only manages half before strong (warm, safe) arms pull him back against Katsuki's chest. Then the blanket gets pulled over their bodies, enveloping Izuku in the kind of heat he loves the most.
"Go back to sleep," Katsuki grunts against the crown of Izuku's head, loosening his one-armed hold around the other's waist.
Izuku does just that, shifting into a more comfortable position before smiling contentedly, a hand over Katsuki's arm.
The soft pit-a-pat of water droplets outside lulls the both of them to easy slumber.
"I thought about what you said the other day," Miyuki starts, voice wavering in that slightly embarrassed way Furuya hasn't heard in a while.
"What are you talking about senpai?" Furuya asks without turning to look. He's busy, he reasons with himself. Trying not to let the older boy's presence distract him.
There's a bird perched on one of his arms, the other hand holding up a handful of birdfood to its beak. He schools his facial expression into that of indifference while doing this, sneaking a glance at Miyuki for a only split second before tending to the birds again. That split second is all he needs to know what the current situation is like.
The older boy's hand is in his coat pocket; deep like he's cold and Furuya doesn't blame him. Even with his years of experience living in mostly cold weather, he has to admit it is a little chilly out for spring. The sound of rustling, his knuckles rubbing against the fabric also tells Furuya that Miyuki's twiddling his fingers: a nervous habit he picked up from Kimura back in high school.
Furuya scolds himself silently, trying not to think back on those days. The attempt is futile as always. It's hard to forget when he still keeps contact with Eijun and Haruichi. It's even harder with Miyuki standing just behind him, reminding him of that night he still hasn't decided if he wants to remember or not.
"Furuya? Hey, at least look at me if you're going to reject me."
"What?" Furuya's voice is still as soft as ever but his actions—eyes wide, body turning 180 degrees to finally, finally look at Miyuki—say everything the brunette needs to know.
"You haven't heard a word I said in the past fifteen minutes have you?" Miyuki teases, cheeks flushed a light pink and that ever familiar grin on his face. Furuya hasn't seen Miyuki smile at him like that since the older boy's high school graduation ("What's this? Is kaibutsu-kun crying? Don't tell me you'll miss me that much?").
"Sorry senpai," he echoes the same words he said all those years ago. Pain immediately welling up in his chest at the memory of what happened after that. Hurting so much that he has to remind himself that 'No, it's not the same this time around.'
Because Miyuki's here, suddenly less than a foot away from him and Furuya is suddenly at a loss for breath. Miyuki is here, pressing his lips to Furuya's cheek softly—all sweet and so so familiar it makes Furuya wonder if this is all a dream. Miyuki is here and he's looking at him with the most sincere eyes, his lips twisting up into the gentlest smile Furuya has ever seen him wear.
Miyuki is here and he's saying the words Furuya has only ever heard him say in his head.
When nine-year-old Hideaki imagined going to his mom’s friend’s neighbor’s son’s birthday party, this isn’t what he had in mind.
He had expected party streamers and balloons, a big handmade banner hanging on the wall with the words “Happy Birthday” on it. A table stacked with presents off to the corner of the room or even just the party being held in a room in general.
Instead he is met with bright green freshly mowed grass on the outside, dirt on the inside with nine people spread throughout. Hideaki knows what a baseball field looks like; has played a game even for gym class but not quite like this.
He watches as the ball travels from one person at a time in a quick pace. Everyone throwing and catching and Hideaki wonders how they haven’t dropped the ball yet with how fast the passes are. Takuya, his mom’s friend’s son and the person who brought him along, is way on the outside of the field—the complete other side of where he’s seated—so he can’t ask him. Even the adults around him are busy chatting, completely ignoring him and Hideaki doesn’t know whether to feel happy about not sticking out like sore thumb or sad that no is paying attention to the lost child.
He chooses the former solely because he wasn’t the type to crave attention anyway.
A quick surveillance around the area tells him that Takuya’s mom is nowhere in sight as well and that the birthday cake is being brought closer to where he is. Which is silly because it’s not his birthday. Come to think of it, he doesn’t even know which of the boys on the field is the celebrant. Takuya had ditched him the moment they rounded the corner by the entrance. How mean.
The cake is laid down on the table just next to his and Hideaki feels mildly relieved. Someone hollers for the kids to hurry and come over because it’s time to blow the candles, Taiyou.
Taiyou must be the birthday boy.
Hideaki jogs over to join the other kids as they huddle around the table with a three layered vanilla cake on top, singing a completely off-tune version of the happy birthday song. His eyes scan the faces of the people around him, tiptoeing a little to see past this one guy’s shoulder in search of that one person who isn’t singing.
And then he spots him, long black locks and all. He must’ve felt Hideaki eyes on him because suddenly they’re staring at each other, neither backing down from the sudden contest. The intensity of his gaze makes Hideaki stumble over the lyrics even when he’s only mouthing them instead of outright singing. Taiyou notices (of course, he does), a smug grin spreading across his face at Hideaki’s slip-up.
The song comes to a close at long last, the other children singing even louder at the final note before clapping and shouting, “Happy Birthday Taiyou!” in unison. Hideaki finds it hard to match-up with them and wonders what it must feel like to be surrounded by this many people.
It must feel great, he thinks bitterly.
A clap to his shoulder brings him back to reality and Taiyou’s face comes into full view.
“Are you with someone?” he asks in a manner which Hideaki likes to think is kindly, the look on his face says otherwise though so he’s just left confused.
“Oh umm…Ta…kuya…?” he manages to blurt out before biting his lower lip, unsure if he’s allowed to drop names in situations like these. Taiyou’s eyes are as intense as ever but there’s a certain softness to them as well that Hideaki missed the first time around.
“Ahh he did say he was bringing someone the other day at practice. What was your name again?”
He doesn’t remember actually introducing himself so he guesses Takuya must’ve mentioned it in passing.
“Hideaki.”
“Hideaki? That’s such a mouthful,” Taiyou’s face scrunches up into what Hideaki thinks is half-annoyance half-amused before lighting up like he just figured out the cure for cancer, “Hide, then. Would you like to play with us? It’s a little boring without someone actually hitting my pitches back.”
The offer is tempting—it beats just sitting around watching them play that’s for sure—but Hideaki really doesn’t want to make a fool of himself, “I don’t know how…” he starts, voice barely above a whisper as the tips of his ears turn a little pink.
“That’s fine. Just swing the bat. No one on this team can hit my pitches anyway so you won’t be the only one,” his voice drips in self-confidence as his lips stretch out into another smug grin. This one weighing more than the last.
“Is that a challenge?” Hideaki asks, meaning to keep the question in his head but his body seems to have other ideas.
“Oh, so you think you can hit it, huh? Come play with us then if you’re so confident, Hide.”
Hideaki nods before he can catch himself and before he knew it, he’s standing in the batter’s box, grip tight on the bat as Taiyou winds up and throws a solid pitch right down the middle of the strike zone. It’s fast; faster than anything Hideaki has ever seen and he’s never been so scared and excited in his life.
He looks back at Taiyou who’s smirking down at him from the mound before setting up again, eyes trained on the ball as Taiyou pitches once more. It curves this time and the catcher calls out, “Ball!” as soon as he’s caught it before lightly throwing it back to southpaw.
(Hideaki swears he hears Taiyou click his tongue at that.)
The third pitch is just a tad bit slower but more precise than the last one. Low and away, he notes. The sound of the mitt sending shivers down his spine. The stupid grin on his face spreading wider as adrenaline runs through his veins as the catcher-slash-umpire calls out a strike. One more and he’s out.
He swings at the last pitch without really thinking, eyes watching the course of the ball and suddenly he’s stepping forward mid-swing. The ball hits the tip of the bat, sending it up and over the foul line. It’s by no means a clean hit. Hideaki even loses balance and falls over before he can catch himself but he hit it and that’s what counts.
He turns his head and looks over to see Taiyou’s stunned face, eyes wide and mouth hanging open as he breathes deeply. The rest of the fielders are frozen in shock and he grins, toothy and triumphant. He pushes himself off the ground before the catcher comes to, dusting the dirt off his pants before picking the fallen bat up. He’s got another chance.
“Taiyou,” the catcher calls as Hideaki stomps on the ground repeatedly to help with his balance like he’s seen on TV, “Sorry, that was my fault,” he says before throwing the ball back at the pitcher, “Switch gears!”
He feels it before he sees it, the hair on his skin stand at attention and Hideaki knows he’s angered the pitcher. That doesn’t prepare him, however, for the intensity of the glare being fixed on him.
This excites Hideaki even more.
He stands on the batter’s box, legs spread and bent at the knees. Matching Taiyou’s glare with his own strong gaze. He adjusts the grip on the bat once, twice before clutching it firmly.
I’m ready.
Taiyou clicks his tongue again in annoyance—a habit, Hideaki deduces—and then pitches with everything he’s got.
It’s fast; the fastest one yet but there’s no curve or dip in this one. It’s a fastball going in a straight course down the middle of the plate. He’s seen this already and Hideaki smiles at the thought.
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