Disclaimer: I wish I did, but you know I don't.
A/N: I have a problem finishing stories, but this one wouldn't get out of my head either. What can I say? It's fun to write birthday-forgotten-thus-very-dejected-Chris. :D
Three Seventeen
No? Then why don't you tell me what I did to you, huh? What, did I, uh, miss a school play? Did I take away your favorite toy? Huh? Did I play favorites with Wyatt?
-- Leo to Chris, Spin City
The ball was an orange blur before him. Feint left, feint right, and he purposely skidded over to the right too much. The player in red and black rushed to get the opening, off-balanced, and he easily reached out, knew where the ball was going to be.
His vision blurred, but he pressed down the court, heard his heart skip to the rhythm of the ball under his hand. Thunk, thunk, good feint, and he got past two confused defenders. He could feel perspiration sting at the back of his neck, his hair bristling, saw the crowd fade into the pink blobs, the noise pounding on his ear-drums like the distant waves on shore.
He thought he saw a flash of a familiar face in the crowd, his own green eyes. He could do this. He sprang up, legs, arms, repeating the action he had practiced to perfection, almost as though in a dream. The ball sailed through the air, cutting smoothly , landing on the side of the rim.
Thunk. Three seconds.
The crowd screamed, some in apprehension, others in desperation, and he knew time was running out. Suddenly, the urge to just flick the ball in with a wag of his finger was oh-so strong, but he wasn't going to do it. If he lost this match, he lost it. Nothing big about today. Nothing big at all. It wasn't going to make a mark twenty years into the future, or a hundred, or a thousand. It's just one ball going through the net.
The ball made one quick twirl, teasingly, and dropped into the net with a spectacular swoosh. Somewhere behind him, he heard the bell ring jarringly, one half of the crowd erupting into cheers. They were singing, off-key, yes, but singing, and it wasn't the traditional victory song, or even the anthem of their school. Something he had half-expected not to hear today.
Happy birthday to you.
He turned suddenly, jerking away, letting his eyes scan the crowd, searching for a familiar blonde head, or perhaps his own green eyes, maybe his dark features. His eyes flicked across the room, and he threw out his undeveloped whitelighter senses. Half-stumbling, he grabbing his bag, accidentally leaving his bottle behind, watching it get mobbed by girls in green and enemy red.
He froze, numbed, making excuses.
Mom wants me home. Nah. You guys can go enjoy the party. It's at Jake's house, isn't it? No, it was nothing. I was just lucky. No problem. See you tomorrow at prac. No, I really don't think I'll go for the party.
I s'ppose I'm celebrating with my family at home or P3.
His last response was a whole lot more mumbled and unclear, felt choked. There was still the crowd surrounding him, and he fought harder to get free. His hand reached in to his bag as he tried to steady his legs, let the headphones fall at the back of his neck as he adjusted the volume as loud as he could without blasting out his ear-drums.
They left him alone when he stopped answering, when he wandered into the darkness of the streets, and although the music was on three quarters to the maximum, he could hear the whispers behind him, the crowd's eyes following each footstep, asking unasked questions each time his foot fell on pavement.
His parent's weren't even here to watch.
I didn't see his brother, did you?
It's his birthday, I guess they're at home, waiting for him.
I think he's walking home alone. No one even came to fetch him.
I heard his Dad is never around.
He turned the music on louder by a notch. When he knew he was out of sight, he leaned against a broken pillar, orbed home, and back into his room, took a bath and fell onto the covers.
He didn't know he hadn't fallen asleep and was still thumbing through the same stack of envelopes until his watch beeped out midnight, signaling the end of a day he once thought was magical and awaited with excitement. He tried to imagine that outside the door, his Mom or Wyatt was going to burst in and apologise, until he realised that today was yesterday.
Five days later, Dad's letter of apology appeared on the table at 3:17 in the morning.
A promise that he would never be there.
Leo and Chris, I Dream of Phoebe --
"Honestly, a letter's not gonna mean a hell of a lot to me. I got plenty of them growing up." "Sorry?" "Uh ... from my father. He wasn't around much."
A/N: C'mon. Click on it. Just do.