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fushiguruuzzzz · 2 days ago

Text

CHAPTER ONE . CYNEFIN

tags ; emotional turmoil, not proofread, entirety of this chapter was broken into a series of late night yapping

See: heartbreak on the mound

The clang of iron ringing throughout your kitchen was brash and unforgiving as it travelled down the hall, invading your unconscious senses and bringing you back to a noisy, cruel life. It didn’t take much smarts to guess that Sasha and Connie were up to something in the kitchen again, no doubt attempting to fulfill their irrational hunger so early in the day. If you listened closely, you could hear an annoyed groan coming from a barely-sleeping Jean in the next room.

Your eyes felt stiff as you pulled them open, barely willing yourself to resist the magnetic force pulling them shut. You blinked, bleary eyes adjusting to the light seeping in through your curtains as you processed the moment. A soft grumble left your cracked lips, and for a moment, that was the only noise. It was just you and the silky fabric of your bedding and the straps of your tank top falling down your shoulders, as if the chaos had all been a dream. But then there was another clang and a panicked shout and you were reminded that the mayhem was no sort of nightmare.

Your feet met the ground with a gentle groan, hoping to remain unnoticed by the other inhabitants of this zoo exhibit for a moment longer. Far from bothered enough to compose yourself, you padded into the hallway. The noise grew nearer, voices choppy and holding the rasp of a nights sleep as they shot back and forth.

“Look who decided to join us,” Jean quipped as you came into view, still sprawled haphazardly over your couch as he had been the night before. “You enjoying your peace and quiet? ‘Cause I didn’t.”

You quirked a brow, biting back an amused smirk as you advanced further into the common area of your home. Your eyes caught on Sasha and Connie, who were playing a game of tug with a frying pan. There was a smear of powder over Sashas cheek—pancake mix?

“You know, Jean, you don’t have to be here. You could like—sleep at your own place, maybe?” you said, feigning sincerity. He met your eyes, unamused, watching you roll the sleep from your joints.

“But what’s the fun in that?”

You rolled your eyes. Your friends had a way of retorting in a way so illogical that there wasn’t a way to defend it, by now you’d simply stopped trying. It was a battle of egos, one not worth shedding blood for. “Shouldn’t you be preparing for your game?”

He let out a long, drawled out sound of annoyance. “That’s not ‘till later. I’m gonna do well, anyway.”

Humble, isn’t he? You responded with a half hearted hum and moved to the plush chair nearest you, legs beginning to ache from the sudden adjustment in weight.

“Do we still have to go to that, Jean?” Connie cut in, momentarily pulling away from… whatever her and Connie were doing. She shook some baking mix from her hair and eyed him curiously, expression matching that of her grey haired companion.

Jean’s face pulled up in what looked to be an exaggerated form of offense. “Of course you have to go! That’s a given. You guys can drop out of literally anything but that.”

Jean is overly passionate and all too pushy about your attendance, and you’re holding in a groan because you know he’s only going to spend the entire time staring heart eyed into the crowd anyway. At the end of the day, though, he is your best friend. It’s not like your displays of affection are verbal nor are they physical—gentleness a foreign art yet to be learned by your worn hands, so you show up. That’s what you do.

You’ve never been secure in your love language. It wasn’t a lack of fondness stunting your tenderness, no, it was anything but. No matter how much the words to express it simmered inside, crawling up your throat and boiling over, they never spilled. They remained an agonizingly concealed whisper, damned to the confines of your mind and never to be released. So to make up for it, you were there. Always there. You forever lingered where it mattered, whether that be the peripherals or the kisscam, eyes shining with fondness and lenses itching to capture the memory. On late nights, you’d look back to them. Maybe, if your emotional constipation didn’t lead to your downfall, the group of you could reminisce over your college days shared for years to come.

And you’d be there.

So, you peeled yourself from the chair that had just started to feel right and trotted over to the washroom. It was a wordless action, nobody even bothering to ask, instead silently anticipating the squeak of the pipes and the beating of water on ceramic. You would not only be present, you would look half decent while you did it.

The water was hot against your back, searing your skin to ash and washing it down the drain. A sigh of relief left you at the feeling, shoulders decompressing and bones unwinding after the night's sleep had tied them in knots.

It took five minutes to shower, five hours to support your friends in the only way you could, and it was a never ending cycle that had been going on for five years. Yet, with all of these fives constantly surrounding you in a mocking serenade, your circle was made of four. There was a gaping hole in your heart. It beat for five—Sasha, Connie, Jean, yourself, and… and the soul of another who had yet to come by. Eyes that you didn’t know the colour of were ones you’d one day stare into and see the final bit of purpose, see what swirled within and know it was destiny. You hoped so, at least.

“y/n!” the sound of a sharp whine broke into the cage of your mind, sending your train of thought flying free in the wind. “You almost done?”

“Yeah,” you called, voice feeling oddly strained.

You left the washroom feeling unfulfilled. Your skin was clean and flushed from the heat, but your mind was crawling with the infectious bacteria that was your dwelling. But you didn’t have time for dwelling. You only had time for them.

Wake up. Be present. Capture. Click. Repeat.

The roar of the crowd was unfamiliar and suffocating, the simple act of weaving through webs of excited fans becoming treacherous and frantic with the addition of the invading noise. Everyone around you was buzzing with anticipation, the air nearly vibrating. You’d been to Jean’s games before, but this was different. This was the major league, not high school games at the park. There were probably thousands of people here, and yet somehow, they all seemed in their element. They all looked perfectly fitting for their seats in the bleachers, waving hats and banners alike. Every supportive shout knocked you further off your rocker, feeling your knees grow weaker with every step. You felt as if your moves were without purpose, the metal set of stairs you were descending from dipping beneath your feet and swallowing you whole. Not that anyone would notice if it did, anyway. Showing up didn’t seem to mean much when the population of a small town all did the same.

By the time you joined Sasha and Connie in the front row, the masses had quieted. Their cries had dimmed to murmurs, the energy easing in intensity just a smidge. Sinking into your chair—too busy trying not to jump out of your own skin to worry about the uncomfortable rub of the plastic—was, at least a bit, relieving.

“Took you long enough,” Connie spoke, muffled by the handful of popcorn stuffed into his mouth. The buttery fragrance swirled through the space between you and wafted into your nose, the way your stomach clenched in response a dull reminder of your choice to shower instead of eating this morning.

You reached into the bucket with a grumble, eyes barely catching on the large that Sasha had acquired personally. It was difficult to even bat an eye anymore. Generously, Connie tilted it toward you, and you barely missed the concern creasing deeply between his brows. Maybe he was less than bright, but he knew you. He knew that your quick mouth and blunt exterior was a barely-upheld front that you guarded yourself with, evident in the way you pushed yourself for the sake of one game. He knew that you wanted to, really, but he wished you’d learn to balance the love between yourself and your friends.

It seemed that the both of your minds had drifted away from the game at hand, only snapping back to the events within the atmosphere when the swift crack of ball against bat cut through the arena. Eyes immediately drawn to first base, everyone’s attention was captured on the brunette darting across the diamond.

Except for yours.

In the midst of your zoned out, half-intent watching, you’d noticed someone you found far more interesting at first glance. In the dugout, tucked behind a swarm of men in uniform was a head of golden hair. It shone against the overhead light like the sun itself, and although he stood lower than the rest, to you he seemed colossal.

You were stopped mid chew, eyes narrowing at an attempt to observe him through the glass. His features were soft and meek, like he belonged at home, baking banana bread and humming sweet tunes by the fireplace. He looked out of place, the way he eyed the scene before him nervously, but the figures surrounding him seemed completely at peace (both with his behaviour and their impending contributions). His shoulders were tense as though instead of spending hours swinging bats, he’d spent it hunched over a desk, pen in hand. He had the sad eyes of a poet.

Suddenly, those same vehemently dreary eyes were locking with yours. The world stopped spinning for a moment—the waving hands and clusters of people around you fading into slow moving assembles of the background. His lips parted, gentle and pink like a primrose, gaze boring into yours like he’d seen you a thousand times before. You couldn’t pull your eyes away out of the fear that if you did, you’d never get to find him again. This felt like a reunion of sorts, though it was the first meeting, and hopefully not the last.

Later, when you snapped pictures for the school paper, you couldn’t help but seek out his form in the sidelines. A new sort of excitement built in you at the thought of bringing that to life once again—coursing through your veins and shaking your fingertips as you delicately printed the photos.

Showing up to the next game had more purpose now. It wasn’t the chore required of you thanks to your inadequacy, it was hope. It was the faith in the return of your missing fifth, and that was enough to get you through the days between.

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