Sumire
They don't see each other much anymore. Not in person, at least; their texting history could fill at least a couple of school books. Gripes about practice and choreography; colorful commentary on unreasonable customers. Videos of practice; videos of Sojiro losing his reading glasses on top of his head. Good mornings, good nights, photos of coffee and food, selfies and group photos.
Even so, it was nice to get a chance to see each other in person. Sumire would be off to the next training camp soon, and it wouldn't be long before Akira's next semester started, so they have to take advantage of it while they can. They don't do anything particularly exciting; they don't see much need.
The batting range is a familiar stomping ground. They're both still not great at batting, but that isn't the point. It's something to do without any expectations, even if the expectations are usually welcomed and self-inflicted.
Sumire is up to bat, watching the machine, her bat poised and her eyes focused. On the sidelines, safe behind the net barrier, Akira shouts, "Oh, swing!"
With a startled squeak, Sumire swings. A moment later, the ball launcher churns and the ball flies past the side of Sumire's head, unimpeded.
Slowly, Sumire turns to scowl at Akira, pointing the bat at him. "Rude," she informs him.
He shrugs pleasantly. "You'll learn one of these days."
"Rude," she repeats, more emphatically.
"You should know better," Akira says in a sing-song tone. "You've known me long enough."
For a moment, it looks like Sumire is putting some real thought into clobbering him with the bat, but if any of his friends were THAT impatient, he would have died years ago. Instead, with a sigh, she sees the bat down and steps aside.
Akira takes her place, stepping up to bat. He slides Sumire a glance as he waits for the ball to fire, expecting retaliation, but she just blinks at him, wide-eyed and innocent.
The ball fires and, in Akira's distraction, sails right past him. He stares at it, glances at Sumire, and looks back to the ball. She smiles at him, the picture of good-intentioned innocence.
Before Akira can accuse her of anything, thunder rumbles in the distance. For a few minutes, they debate the merits of ignoring it, until the sky is gray and rain is falling.
Sumire has an umbrella, because of course she does. Before Akira can offer to hold it, Sumire climbs him like a spider monkey and pops the umbrella open from her new perch on his back. They're both already damp, but better late than never.
He reaches back to steady her as he starts walking, mostly for his own comfort rather than hers. She's rock solid; she won't be going anywhere without her express permission, and they both know it.
It means the umbrella is very steady as Akira walks, making the short trek back to Leblanc. They've worked up an appetite, after all, which mostly means Sumire has worked up an appetite, and the least Akira can do is feed her.