It is a Sunday, and there is a new boy on his mound.
Mihashi flails around a bit, worried and glad and a tiny bit sad that they've forgotten him so easily. It's only been a short while, he thinks. He's not sure, but it hurts. Then again, he supposes, it's only to be expected. He quivers a bit, shaking to and fro like a leaf blown by the capricious winds. He doesn't like to think about it, but it's his own fault. He has a horrible personality. He'd never give up the mound. He was only ace because his grandfather owned the school. He didn't deserve it. He took it away from Kanou-kun. He was a selfish boy, a nasty, nasty boy, who didn't deserve what he got and didn't once give it up.
He – he – He wasn't even liked. Nobody liked him. Nobody wanted him. Nobody cried.
It's probably for the better, then, that he died.
He doesn't remember it much. Dying was a surprisingly mundane activity. Nothing like the movies. No fire, or flaming brands, or portentous omens. No knives or battles. No car crashes. No fires. No tears or commotion, just a boy falling out of a tree and having the luck – the bad luck – to fall right onto his head. It's like him, his soul, whatever he is at the moment (the boy without a body), just slithered insidiously out of his head, like the innards of a cracked egg. He shivers a bit at that, except it looks more like he's just had a seizure, because ew, his soul is like the white of the egg, or maybe the yolk, he's not sure. He just knows he's not complete.
Other than that, he's just the same as he was before, just more – dead. He tries not to think about it. Not to think about how long he'll be at the park, watching and waiting for… something. He tends to curl up on the mound and look up into the sky if that happens. He cries, too, sometimes, but he tries not to. Even if no one can see him, he doesn't want that to happen. He's not quite sure why; it might be the trees or the skies or the – the – stars. The stars, now, they twinkle at him mockingly, laughing at his plight; he sees Kanou-kun and all of Mihoshi in those dark skies, but at least he's not alone. In a sense.
Sometimes, before he catches himself and hits himself, he finds himself crying, thinking about his mother and father and Ruri and Kanou-kun. Because they'll miss him, won't they? He hopes they will. They're probably visiting his grave every day, keeping it nice and neat, with pretty flowers on top. He hopes they're daisies.
He's always liked daisies.
Sometimes, when he's feeling really down, he thinks of his grave. Strange, how he is both there and here. His body, burnt to ashes, in that little grave, white marble and incense, whilst his – his – soul? Soul. His soul is here, in this park, where he always loved to practice and wait for the days go by. Where he lived, where he loved –
Where he died.
The wind whistles a bit, and Mihashi worries if the boy will be cold, because even though he can't feel it any more, he can remember the feeling of cold air pricking skin. He can't feel a lot anymore, can't even remember it half the time. When he touches the trees and tries to pick the flowers, he can't grasp onto them, can't feel them – not the rough bark beneath his fingers, not the gently prickling of flower stalks protesting at being torn apart. His stomach doesn't rumble anymore, he somehow doesn't drool anymore, and to tell the truth, he really doesn't need to sleep. He doesn't even know if it counts as sleeping, anyway, because surely sleeping isn't like this, feeling as if you're part of the sky and the stars and the sea, one with the land, one with the earth.
He hasn't dreamt for a long time. When he sleeps, he hears the world breathe, but he can't breathe with it. It's… strange, waking up gasping for what should be oxygen but isn't. Like he's breathing, but not. Which he isn't. Because he's dead.
It's surprising, but the lack of heartbeat doesn't really faze him. What does – is – is – is the fact the tears won't fall. He's so used to the feeling of tears rolling down his cheeks, eyes wide and cheeks red, that he feels naked without it.
Still, it's been nice, these past few months. Nobody to glare at him, to mumble harsh words as if he can't hear them; he's finally at peace. Relative peace. Now, at least, he can finally fade into the background. Permanently.
Well. It's a bit sad, he thinks, that he's being ignored and avoided. But. But. At least they have a reason to now, not like before. He feels happy that someone's finally back around, even if they can't see him.
This new boy looks around the same age as him, if a bit older. Younger. He doesn't know. He can't remember how long ago it was, when he d-d-died. He wonders how old Kanou-kun is now, how old Ruri is, how long it's been. If they know this boy, or if they've grown up and moved on. Forgotten about their past lives. Forgotten about their past friends.
Forgotten about Mihashi.
He doesn't want to think about that. It's really lonely. He's glad the boy has come.
The boy is too absorbed in his stretches to notice Mihashi, but that's okay. He probably wouldn't like Mihashi in real life, anyway, because Mihashi is weak and selfish and cowardly. This boy looks strong, determined, and Mihashi would give anything to be his friend. He walked in five minutes ago, striding onto the mound in four long steps, and Mihashi liked him straight away.
The boy stretches a bit, shirt rippling across his back, and Mihashi makes a run for the bench, tucking his legs below his chin and wrapping his arms around his body. He's not out of breath, which was really weird for a while, but then he kind of got used to it.
He's surprised he's not sinking through the bench, because that's what always happened in the movies that his team forced him to watch when they came over. He's not a very scary ghost, because he jumps when the boy walks towards him, and hides his face.
But of course the boy can't see him. He sits down by Mihashi, except it was almost on Mihashi, but he scooted out of the way when he saw the boy coming. He's never been sat on before.
The boy sits there a while, staring off into the distance. Mihashi kind of wants to touch him, just to see what happens, but he doesn't. He takes the time to look carefully at him, trying to memorizing every detail of the face that came to see him first. In a way.
There's black hair, all spiky-looking but probably very soft; tanned skin, because unlike Mihashi he's probably lucky enough not to burn in the sun all the time. He's scowling a bit, which makes Mihashi feel a bit sad, because it means the boy's angry, and Mihashi can't be helping, staring at him as he is. He hates me, he decides, because it's always been like that.
He just wants to curl up and cry.
But he keeps looking, because this might be the last he sees of the boy, before he decides he hates Mihashi. Except he won't. Because he can't see Mihashi, can't feel his scrutiny. It's kind of nice to know that no one will hate him any more. But that would be because they won't see him, either. He's not sure if it's any better. Which hurts most. It's confusing, so he doesn't think about it.
The boy has kind of pretty eyes, except not, because they're stern and commanding, grey like steel, and they're a bit clouded over, like a gloomy sky. But Mihashi likes him anyway.
Suddenly, he springs up, all coiled energy and cannon shots. Mihashi gives a silent squawk, because he's never been good at loud noises. Or quiet noises. Or anything, really. Gah, his mind helpfully supplies, except it doesn't because, technically, it's not there.
He trembles a bit, curled up on the bench, watching as the boy sprints across the pitch and back again, glaring at – through – him, scowling with all the force anyone could possibly muster.
He's a bit scary, but Mihashi is just glad he's come.
He's glad he's dead, if only for a short while, because he can be around people, people like this boy, who he could never even have gotten near to when he was still alive – but – but – then the boy walks away. Away, away, never coming back –
– and Mihashi can't do anything but think no – no – please, no – because he can't talk to him, can't plead for him to stay, to accompany Mihashi for a while, and he hates, hates, death all of a sudden.
But no, it's okay, the boy is coming back, and he's got a baseball bat, and Mihashi suddenly likes him very, very, much, for – for – being the first person to come visit him, even if he doesn't know it, and for bringing baseball back into his life. Death. State of non-existence.
The boy hefts the bat, eyes dark and analytical. He'd probably be a brilliant batter, Mihashi thinks in despair, a brilliant catcher, brilliant pitcher, brilliant person.
B-b-brilliant. Just like the sun. This boy, Mihashi suddenly decides, is very much like the sun. Even though he glowers darkly as he hits, bat connecting with ball with an overwhelming crack, eyes dark, hair dark, dark, dark, dark – he's – he's lovely, brilliant, he's amazing, strong, shining, handsome.
And Mihashi doesn't even know him. Doesn't even know his – his n-name. But he knows he must be all of these, because he has come to see Mihashi, if not personally; and yet it means all the world to him. And it's not just that. He must be brave, so brave, to come to this place, baptised in blood as it is; and he must be dedicated, driven, to come to practice, even when he should be resting – he is nothing like Mihashi, who flails and whimpers and cries constantly, who's weak and despicable and should be dead. This boy is like a second sun, come to warm Mihashi even in death.
Mihashi thinks he loves him, this brilliant boy. Except perhaps he doesn't.
Whatever his feelings, he is grateful towards the boy. Mihashi is feeling a bit spontaneous, but that's just the lift the boy's given him. He owes it all to the boy, the dark boy, the brilliant boy, and he's so, so, happy.
He watches him until the sun goes down: then the dark boy packs up his bat, leaving without a backward glance.
Mihashi looks up to the sky that night. He can see the boy, hung up among the stars, watching him with that dark gaze.
Well. He can't actually see him, but he knows he's there. Just like the sun, the brilliant, brilliant sun, the boy will always be there, even if he can't see him.
He quivers a bit, and hopes his new fr-frien-friend comes back tomorrow.
Then he hits himself, because of course it's Monday tomorrow, and the boy will have to go to school. He flails around a bit, hoping no one sees him before he remembers that no one will.
But still, it's nice to hope. Just like he hopes the sun will come up tomorrow, he hopes the boy will return.