Disclaimer: I do not own The Girl who Leapt through Time.
x: fifty-one
Aim
Chiaki had promptly beaten his head against the wall the afternoon he realized it. It had been three weeks ago. Makoto had knocked a baseball straight into the back of his skull, sending him into dusty, pink dirt of the baseball diamond face-first.
"MY BAD!" she yelped from somewhere outside of his ringing temple. He heard the aluminum bat hit the ground and messy, quick steps as she raced over to examine the damage. Chiaki groaned, clutching the back of his head with one hand, the other propping him off the ground. Kousuke abruptly began laughing from his post, clearly amused now that the initial shock had worn off on him.
Chiaki rubbed his head gingerly as Makoto slid to a stop beside him and knelt down. He was never complaining about her weak swings ever again, that was for sure. "Damn, you could have warned me," he mustered, squinting one green eye at her.
Makoto went from concerned to self-righteous. "You should've been paying attention, Chiaki! What the hell were you staring off into space for?" she huffed. He got to his knees and tried to push himself into an upright position, but he wobbled slightly to the right and stopped. Makoto hurriedly clutched at his school uniform.
Kousuke called out, "You okay over there?"
"I'm fine!" Chiaki retorted, grimacing. Makoto didn't hit that hard.
Without warning, Makoto put and arm around his waist and hauled him up. She was tinier than him by quite a bit, so he only came up to slouching position. Sometimes, he forgot how small she was. But it wasn't that or the unexpected gesture that startled him. It was the sharp, sudden sensation of her feminine frame against his, the way her arm looped around his waist protectively, the tips of her fingers making indentations in his skin through the shirt. It wasn't the first time she'd ever touched him. Makoto, being Makoto, was extremely generous with touch—a punch, a kick in the shin, a slap on the back, even a pinching of the cheeks if she felt like embarrassing someone. But this time, he felt hot, uncomfortably hot. He tried to squirm free, but she only responded but pulling him closer. "Stop trying to act tough! I'm just dragging you to the bleachers," she cried, exasperated.
Chiaki hadn't leapt in the while, but at that very moment, it almost felt like he did. The world around him seemed to halt to screeching stop. Chiaki could feel it pressing against his side. Makoto's breasts. He never paid them attention before; it wasn't like Makoto ever did. Between her relentless manhandling, and agonizing space between them and bleachers, Chiaki got a whole lot more of that sensation, as well as a few tingling brushes against her bare legs, and when he tried to awkwardly extract himself a second time, an unintentional but veritable squeeze of her soft waist with his free hand. He quickly decided that his entire body was acting like a traitor and stuck both hands to the most neutral territory he could find: his aching head, and her shoulder.
By the time she dropped him off, Kousuke had gone from chortling to grinning, clearly having a ball with Chiaki's enfeebled condition. At the same time, Chiaki realized it; he liked it. He, Mamiya Chiaki, time traveler from the future, liked the way Konno Makoto, tomboyish best friend who was completely off-limits, had held him. He thrust his head into his hands, hiding his desperate, panicked expression from view. He wanted more of it. And it wasn't just that, he wanted them to be alone. He wanted to make her laugh; he wanted her to curl up against him like those other girls he saw on campus. He wanted to kiss her. It had to be the worst thing in the universe.
"Earth to Chiaki!" bellowed Makoto right into his ear. He swatted her away half-heartedly. Makoto plopped down next to him and stuck a bottle of water in his face. "You think it's serious?" She sounded worried.
"No, I'm fine," Chiaki insisted, unable to squeeze enough willpower out to even remotely dislike the way her leg was leaning against his. "Don't you know how to aim?" he griped sarcastically.
Makoto appeared triumphant, her lips—they looked so pink and fresh right now, he thought with a growing pit of dread—curling up into a smirk. "I got you pretty good, didn't I?"
"Yeah." She didn't know how right she was.
"I didn't mean to, though," she said, eyes honest and open.
"I know you didn't, but you got me anyway," he replied, not meaning to sound sullen.
"Next time, you've got to pay attention!"
"You need a trip to the clinic?" inquired Kousuke, striding up with a quirk of the eyebrow.
Chiaki didn't mean to, but he gave Kousuke sharp look. Kousuke blinked, interpreting his gesture as offense rather than what Chiaki hadn't expected to feel: territorial. He quickly diffused the unfriendly look and got to his feet. Makoto followed suit. "Nah, I'm ready for another round. Just no more thwacks to the face, alright?" he said archly.
Kousuke slapped him on the back. "How about you get to be batter this time? We'll make Makoto the catcher and see how she likes it when she gets one in the kisser."
"Hey!" Makoto waved her arms in front of her, agitated. "I didn't do it on purpose!"
The Chiaki from yesterday wouldn't have had any qualms about giving her a good one as payback. But the Chiaki from now secretly didn't want to. Chiaki didn't want to freak her out by saying so, though. He was freaked out by his reaction as it was. He grinned, not feeling half as mischievous as he should have. "I like the sound of that, Kousuke. I'll be batter."
"Chiaki, you moron, I said I didn't do it on purpose!" she wailed, socking him in the arm.
"Then, I won't do it on purpose either," he said breezily, leaning over her before he could help it. She blinked, and drew back instinctively. He tried not to let that bother him, but it did.
Three weeks after realizing he liked her—as in, let's date liked, not you're cool liked—he stood on the baseball field, trying not to glare at her, trying not to just tell her to like me already! He'd had enough of her brush-offs all day, the stupid cat-and-mouse game she was playing. He didn't even know what he did wrong. He had simply come up to her and asked her if she saw the baseball game the night before, what she thought of it. She did that nervous thing she did with her short hair, blinked a lot, didn't look him in the eye, and muttered some half-assed excuse before high-tailing it away from him like he was a leper or something. Of course, he'd want to go out with Hayakawa after being spurned all day. Who wouldn't? She was a nice girl. Makoto wasn't—at least, not today.
But part of him, the mean, sulking, unhappy part of him, knew what it really was. He wanted to see her jealous. Even just a little, just to know she cared about him.
So, as he cheerfully relayed the story to them of how Hayakawa just got him—she really didn't, though, not like Makoto did—he pitched the ball and aimed it right for Makoto's face, hoping he could knock the like me right into her, too.
The shocked look on her face as the ball connected killed him. He regretted it instantly: the hit, everything he'd said. He wanted to take it all back. A red blotchy bruise swelled against her cheek and she just gaped at him. Kousuke stared at him. He swallowed thickly, trying to act himself: funny, unaffected.
She should have caught that, was all he could think. He would never know that she did.
A/N: This completely veered off track. It was supposed to be about swimming. And definitely not moody. I tampered with the ending a little. I do realize that it was Kousuke who threw the ball into Makoto's face. Sometimes, I wish they just got together already. This piece is a manifestation of that undying sentiment. Comments are welcome; critique is encouraged. Thank you for reading. Have a revelational day.
