Sometimes the nights would feel too long and cold without anyone else. Those nights were the ones they spent far away from each other, lonely and wallowing in thoughts that would only trap them in their own consciousness. Those were the nights that they spent shedding tears (only a little bit, though) about each other. Those were the nights where they realized that they had a ways to go, that the future wouldn't ever be as close as they thought (or what Atobe said). Sometimes the wind would blow more bitter than the other nights and they'd talk; out loud to the open windows, softly whispering to walls around them, or in hushed voices over the phone.
And sometimes the nights would stretch together into a panorama of broken hearts - tears and fire blending together into mist. Then they would sing quiet tunes of love and tennis and determination while drinking hot chocolate and Gatorade, dreaming of days and sunsets together. Then they would smile softly or snort, thinking of what the other would say about emotions strewn too tightly and promises kept. Then they would pray and hold their pillows tightly to their chest while it rained and lightning flickered - as if anyone could hear their whispered pacts and wishes. As if anyone would know.
Then there would be days where they spent together in silence - the words they had spoken to themselves at night forgotten. The sun would glitter and sway like the emotions of the two, and the trees would cover them up from the prying eyes of the world (and the tennis team), protecting the innocent and loving.
Then there would be days where they slept underneath the afternoon sun quietly, worries drifting into the autumn breeze like the leaves they laid on. They wouldn't dream - that was for the nights (spent apart). They would sleep like children and smile, smile like it was the only thing they knew how to do.
They had obvious flaws - and they knew it as well. Some days, when it was too cold to step out, they would yell. They would prevent the other from walking into their heart for fear of them leaving yet again. They would shout out their own problems and flaws as if they were barriers (no, no they weren't) but no one really believed. Their flaws weren't what made them them, it was the way they loved and spoke and missed each other. It was the way they kept secrets - not from each other, but about each other. They were lovers, and they were children, they were insecure and sensitive and dependent, but most of all, they were Shishido and Choutarou.
Sometimes the sun would set without any of them noticing. Those were the times they spent apart from the rest of the group, those were the times they spent making memories and being maddeningly handsome, handsome and bright. Those were the nights spent together, reminiscing and kissing under thin blankets, fingers playing imaginary overtures about eternity and promises kept - while wishing for the night to never end.