Summary: Fatigue has settled deep in Satoru's bones, the only constant he has. On a good day, he can tell his dreams and reality apart. On a bad day, he doesn't know what's real anymore. What happens in a dream usually stays in a dream. But for Satoru, it isn't quite so easy.
Distorted Reality (The Boy Who Dreams Too Much)
A whale is flying through the indigo sky. It's huge and majestic, its fins lazily flapping. The vast blue space it's moving through ripples as if it were water.
Satoru watches it from the bench during a short break in practice, a towel covering his head and sweat dripping down his face. The field is filled with dedicated team members perfecting their swings using wooden bats.
That realisation stirs something within him but he dismisses that strange quiver inside his mind, preferring to continue watching the whale make its long journey through the ocean of the sky. A few wisps of cloudy sea foam stir up in its wake, gathering slowly enough that the storm coming up surprises Satoru even as he sees it building. Wide eyes reflect the dark grey colour the formerly white wisps become, melting together with the whale until the animal is swallowed up completely.
Suddenly, Satoru is afraid. Gone is the peaceful creature, leaving that massive storm behind. The mild breeze from before nearly knocks him off the bench and what felt heat relieving before, now makes him feel cold. He realises the field is empty, completely void of any people or baseball equipment. Satoru looks up again on reflex, just in time to see a flash of lightning behind the dark clouds, illuminating the outline of a great whale. He waits, tense, knowing that the loud sound of thunder will soon follow -
Satoru wakes, a loud and shrill beeping next to his ear. He blinks up at the ceiling for a moment, stunned.
The alarm goes ignored for a few more seconds until he receives a not so gentle kick into the mattress from the lower bunk.
"Hey, Furuya, turn it off! Some of us don't follow the same schedule as you!"
Ignoring the annoyed mumblings from below him, he slowly reaches over to his side to shut off his alarm.
So that was a dream.
He sits up and slowly starts to make his way down the ladder to get ready for his morning run.
Outside, Satoru stretches his arms above his head, joints cracking. The sound vaguely reminds him of very distant, very quiet thunder. He lowers his arms and starts toward the running track.
Satoru fleetingly glances upward when he arrives at the track. The sky is dawning, a light pink breaking through satin-y navy blue.
There are no clouds or a whale in sight.
xXx
There used to be a time when he enjoyed this. Satoru would have the craziest adventures, riding on the backs of mythological creatures and seeing the impossible. Occasionally, he would bring home souvenirs and meet people he would become friends with for the duration of a dream, or at least what they would tell him was a dream. He loved his friends, every single one of them, even if he only met them once, even if they never believed him to exist outside of their subconscious.
Satoru looked for them every night but never found anyone again, never met the same person twice.
It hurt more than it should have because he had always been one of those people who didn't make friends easily.
xXx
The day Satoru lost his trust and enjoyment in his dreams was the day his grandmother died. He had been picking apples with her in his grandparents' orchard when she suddenly let go of his hand.
The basket of apples fell out of her grasp and the red fruits tumbled to the ground in an irregular rhythm reminiscent of drums. The ground turned grey where they touched the grass and the apples dissolved into dark puddles.
Satoru could only watch in shock, mouth open and unable to move. Once he was able to, he crouched down with one hand curiously reaching toward a puddle. He looked sideways, searching for his grandmother – except that she wasn't there.
Later, Satoru's parents received a phone call, starting with a cheerful "Hello, otou-san!", continuing in hushed voices and ending in gasps and crying. Satoru didn't understand what had happened. No one would explain it to him until a few hours later, his nanny taking him aside to tell him his grandmother had passed.
Satoru said nothing but he remembered with startling clarity the vivid red on his hands when he woke up earlier that day.
xXx
His dreams started to turn into nightmares, often causing him to scream and cry in his sleep. His parents took him to a doctor who referred them to a specialist but the visits didn't help. They never did. No matter how many professionals, therapists or psychologists they went to see after that, no one was able to offer a cure.
His parents only saw the exhausted rings underneath their son's eyes, how emotionally fragile he was and those mysterious scratches and other injuries that kept appearing on his body in various places. Satoru swore to them that he hadn't done it to himself nor was he having trouble with his classmates.
To this day, he doesn't know if they believed him.
It became increasingly difficult for Satoru to tell apart the times when he was truly asleep and dreaming from those when he was awake. This was in no small part due to his constant exhaustion.
It was some time after his grandmother's death when his grandfather introduced him to baseball. Satoru had seen the neighbourhood children play it but never dared to ask to join in - he was much too shy and besides, it looked a bit dangerous. But when his grandfather came to him, insisting he should learn how to play, Satoru couldn't refuse.
The first few times, they only tossed one of the numerous baseballs his grandfather had back and forth between them, a practice which was apparently called 'catch'. After a few weeks of this, Satoru's grandfather didn't end their session of catch as he usually did. Instead, he stepped further away from Satoru and crouched down, holding his mitt to his chest.
"Throw the ball to the mitt, Satoru." he told him, unmoving while Satoru blinked at him in surprise. Receiving no further instruction, he did as he was told - and missed by a good few meters. After his grandfather got the ball back, he came toward Satoru and showed him how to throw properly, doing a 'wind-up' which would help him 'pitch'.
It took another couple of hours of uninterrupted practice (which neither seemed to mind or notice) until Satoru managed to do a semi-proper wind-up and pitch the ball to his grandfather's mitt. Granted, it had been by luck more than actual skill, but the sound of the ball's impact on the leather glove resounded in Satoru's ears, loud, firm, real. He stared at the ball in awe, then his tingling hand and finally up at his grandfather.
He was smiling, genuinely smiling, for the first time since his wife's death.
That night, Satoru slept peacefully and didn't even wake once. In the morning, he remembered the pitch from the previous day and his hand tingled warmly at the memory.
xXx
When there's a commotion at dinner, Satoru doesn't even blink at the cause.
He's experienced stranger things than one of his friends (and that's almost stranger to him than the actual event) accidentally revealing he can See the future. But then the team starts to crowd around their table, eagerly demanding answers. So while Satoru does like the camraderie that's been building between them, he still values his space. Besides, a glance at Haruichi tells him that his friend isn't feeling all that comfortable either.
"You don't really believe that, do you?" he finally interrupts the chattering. He doesn't look up as he speaks. He doesn't like being in the centre of attention, like he undoubtedly is now. He can feel everyone's stares on him and it makes his skin prickle. Still, he continues, picking at his bowl of rice to distract himself. "It was a lucky guess. Kominato-senpai is very skilled, after all. Why wouldn't he make first string?"
Silence greets his words and the crowd slowly scatters. Satoru lets out a silent, relieved breath.
Sawamura shifts on Haruichi's other side.
"Hey Harucchi, I believe you." he whispers.
It's uncharacteristically quiet for him and it almost convinces Satoru that this must be a dream.
Haruichi thanks him just as quietly, except it's typical for him. And then Sawamura asks his own question, a prediction of the future, that makes Satoru want to roll his eyes.
"So, I'll become the ace, right?"
He doesn't give into his urge but he can't stop himself from interjecting.
"Of course not. I will. I'm on first string remember?"
Predictably, Sawamura starts protesting in his usual loud manner and, also predictably, it's Kuramochi-senpai who shuts him up.
A little bit of pain doesn't seem to be enough to keep him permanently quiet though because when the three of them make their way back to the dorms after dinner, Sawamura asks once again.
There's another silence but it feels less tense than before. Satoru does nothing to break it. If this is a dream, he hasn't had one this peaceful in a long while. He's curious to see how it plays out.
Haruichi only gives a cryptic answer which really isn't an answer at all. Sawamura starts laughing and it's infectious enough to put a real, if small, smile on Satoru's face.
He wishes he would have more dreams like this.
xXx
At practice, Satoru overhears Haruichi talking to his older brother.
"I had a pretty cool dream the other night, aniki."
"Oh? Is everything alright?"
"Everything's fine." the younger Kominato assures the second baseman, a laughing undertone. "It was a bit weird but still only a regular dream. We were all practising with wooden bats and there was a flying whale…"
Satoru tunes out after that and instead concentrates on pitching to Miyuki. So that was Haruichi's…
Practice continues for a while longer, each time the ball lands in Miyuki's glove giving a satisfying sound.
Soon, too soon, Miyuki stands from his crouch.
"Nice pitching! We're done for today." he calls over to Satoru. He doesn't frown but he is unsatisfied.
Lately, with having to share the mound with many others, Satoru has had more trouble than usual, the line between dreams and reality blurring. It's a little worrisome but the reduced pitching time has also made his eagerness to pitch build up. Now that he's finally gotten his turn, he isn't giving up so fast.
"I can pitch more." he tells Miyuki, voice steady and calm. Just because Sawamura's loud passion has caused his own to rise in response doesn't mean he has to be as open about it.
Miyuki doesn't seem to be convinced. The catcher pinches his lips together until they are nothing but a thin line. Satoru doesn't change his face expression but he can already predict with almost absolute certainty what he will say.
"Just because you can, doesn't mean you should."
No, he really isn't surprised by the refusal but that doesn't mean he likes it. Granted, Satoru is tired, but he rarely isn't. It makes no difference to him if they continue or not, and if has a choice, of course he wants to pitch as much as he can.
"Learn to pace yourself, Furuya." Miyuki adds sternly, taking off his helmet. He holds Satoru's gaze for a moment, the expression behind his glasses unreadable. The strangest thing happens then – everything begins to blur together, colours becoming vivid and bleeding into one another.
Satoru is so surprised, he swiftly breaks eye contact, his breath coming too fast. He shakes his head a little to try and clear it, clutching his glove in one hand and repeating a silent mantra of this is real, this is real, thisisrealthisisreal –
"Miyuki Kazuya! Catch for me!"
Sawamura's loud voice and customary phrase cuts through Satoru's frantic internal chant, distracting him from his mounting panic. Both him and Miyuki glance over at an approaching Sawamura, tire in tow.
"Go run some more if you're not tired enough." Miyuki tells him dismissively, already halfway turned around to leave.
Satoru starts to tune out as the two of them begin their usual squabble and makes for the ball crate, steps light and springy, as if he isn't quite real.
This is real.
This is real.
This is –
Satoru reaches out, trembling a little as sweat drops start to build on his forehead. His fingertips touch the cool, smooth surface of a baseball and the rough texture of thread. The relief he feels is immeasurable.
It's real.
He straightens up, seeing Miyuki finally walk away and leaving Sawamura fuming. Satoru almost smiles. Feeling unusually light and playful, he sneaks up behind his classmate to grab the tire. The tirade of words that spill out of his noisy fellow pitcher amuse him more than they usually do, causing bright bubbles to rise from somewhere in his middle.
Maybe sharing the mound isn't so bad after all, if Satoru has this feeling to ground him.