The park was called Acephale.

It was Harry's idea to walk off the beaten path in Old Silent Hill and look at some metropolitan nature. Through the thick grey fog they wandered, sharing some (abundantly sarcastic) commentary about how nice the park seemed - if they could actually see any of it. The park was small, a senior's easy walk, and not much to bark about until they came across a playground outfitted with blue structures perfect for romping and imagination.

James took the bench, guarding their weapons and collectibles while Harry took to the structures. He watched the pudgy, older man scale the wobbly chain net to the first platform. Being meant for children, Harry appeared a giant amongst the lonely fortress, and yet seemed like he belonged there, too.

Also like a giant - one that liked a cake or five - he didn't really fit anywhere.

But that didn't trouble the father in the least. Harry seemed pleased as punch to simply look out into the grey from his second platform post.

"The location is nice and the view is great," he mused, projecting his voice for James. "Yanno, when the weather doesn't suck."

His companion shrugged. "Got a good deal on it, too," Harry noted. "In case you're thinking of relocating."

"Maybe," James responded, likewise loud enough for him. "Though it looks too big for one person."

"Naaaahhh. I think it's nice! You could use the second bedroom for a personal gym, or an office," he suggested, twisting to look around. "I dunno. Maybe a crafts room?"

He had to chuckle. "You think I look like a guy who crafts?"

"A little bit!" Harry folded his arms over the thick blue rail, cocking his hip as he leaned into it. He smirked. "I bet you knit."

"Knit? Come on."

"What? Knitting is a great hobby!"

James looked dubious. "Yeah, I don't know a lot of guys who knit."

"Pfsh. You're hanging out with the wrong crowd, then."

James grew a smile. That was an easy one. "Already am."

Harry dropped his jaw, taking instant, facetious defense. "Hey!"

The conduit coupled a shrug with a tip of his head. "Personal opinion."

"Yeah? Your personal opinion sucks," the veteran jeered. "I'm great company."

"Mm."

"How am I the wrong crowd?! I'm vanilla as white paper!"

James shrugged. Harry couldn't take that as an answer. "That's all, huh? Can't even name one example?"

"Don't need to."

"And why not?"

The conduit lifted and dropped his shoulders to explain his reasoning. Harry overcompensated his sneer.

"Unbelievable! And just when I thought you were starting to like me."

"Hmn. I only tolerate you because I have to."

"You rip out my heart, James. I'm heartbroken. In shambles. Devastated."

"Okay."

"And here I was, thinking everything was roses, and was even maybe starting to like you."

James ought to copyright his signature shrugs. Harry scoffed, then scoffed again, much grander, to get his point across. "You toad. You murder me, James."

Out of nowhere, the conduit's expression portentously darkened. Its onset happened in the blink of an eye, and was as uncomfortable as it was disconcerting. Their light-hearted horsing around evaporated in a whoosh, putting Harry in a stilted, awkward place. He suddenly had the feeling he needed to get out of James's sight, and he was glad to oblige.

Harry pushed off the rail and put his hands in his pockets. He strolled lazy circles around the platform, scuffing his feet on the painted iron netting, then elected to climb down.

He kicked the wood chips thickly carpeting the adequate playground. They were provided as cushion for falls (but Harry hadn't been the only parent worried about probable splinters and lurking needles), and he decided to repurpose them for slothful punting while he patrolled the structure's perimeter. On a whim, he ducked beneath the jungle gym when he spotted an opening, and smiled to himself.

In his youth, it'd always been fun hiding in the industrial underground, and in fatherhood, chasing his daughter through the maze he'd grown too tall for. Despite that minor hangup, it'd equally been a joy. An aged spine and knees past their prime complained about his choice to hunch so low beneath the deck that he was practically crawling in a squat, and the predetermined aftermath was a problem for future Harry. Present Harry was content with his detour, soon forgetting the minor bad air between him and his cohort.

And then, he made a fantastic discovery.

James squinted at Harry when he emerged, stumbling, out from under the play gym. In his hand was a baseball, and on his face, elation.

"Check it out!" Harry called. "How about that, eh?"

He watched the ball go up and down in Harry's palm. That was kinda interesting: a simple, unobtrusive baseball hidden in a ghostly, abandoned playground, James found, was somewhat charming. Or maybe 'charming' should be replaced with 'haunting,' if not 'creepy.'

The reason for the change was due to the scenario that flashed before his mind's eye.

Allegedly, perhaps on a different plane than their own, there was an uncorrupted, sleepy tourist town that saw pretty seasons and was affable to visitors from all over. Quaint, respectably bustling, and sporting idyllic destinations for a romantic getaway, it was inhabited by normal people who were happy to raise their families there - and who took their children to frolic about at this very park. Somewhere in that unforgettable, dreamy town, there was a child stricken with grief over a lost ball.

James could tangibly imagine their mourning saga.

It was peculiar how this bland, ordinary thing almost breathed color, friendliness, and welcoming into the inhospitable Silent Hill around them. But it was there only for an instant, and the vision simultaneously filled James with gut-sinking dread and longing for a lively Silent Hill that was long gone.

Harry toyed with it, tossing back and forth in his hands.

"You ever play baseball?" he asked, beginning to meander over to his seated companion.

"Nope. I don't remember being good at it, anyway."

"Well, the way you say that sounds like you played."

"Only in P.E.," James replied, then drew a faint furrow on his brow. Blotchy memories, thinned by mental turpentine, of his high school days arose. He tried to pick clarity out of the muddle, but they scattered like bumbling ants when Harry spoke again.

"Bummer. That takes the fun out of it."

James shrugged. The older man hummed, rolling the ball around in his hands.

"Wanna play catch?"

".. catch?"

"Yeah, catch. You stand over on one side, I stand in the other, and I'll thr—"

"I know what playing catch is," he snarked.

"Well, you seemed a little confused."

Pushing a humored frown into his cheek, James regarded his ward inquisitively. Harry's youthfulness within the last day had been infectious. He sighed, looking at their weapons and junk. Surely they—

"They'll be okay, nobody's gonna take our stuff," Harry assured, and smiled at the mildly suspicious glance he got. "We'll stay right here nearby. Just in case."

It was spooky that Harry could read him so well, but maybe it'd just been obvious what he'd been thinking. James consulted their things again. He had no reason to say 'no' to a silly game of catch. Sighing, he sat up and wrangled the backpack off his shoulders, leaving it on the bench when he stood. Harry brightly grinned, backing up several paces, and James took a spot a fair distance away.

The ball landed with a muffled clap in his pale hands. James threw it back, watched the ball transfer to Harry's left hand, and caught its following sail.

Fuzzy, bygone days of a strange childhood consequently crept into his head as their dumb game went on in silence. Frank.. did Frank ever play catch with him? Tossing the ol' ball around was supposed to be a father-son bonding activity, as it had been for perhaps a century or two. Yet in James recalling his youth in images that ebbed and flowed back into his foggy memories, he couldn't confirm the ritual. Moreover, Harry initiating an innocent game of catch felt paternal - like he was acting as a surrogate, to let James experience something he'd missed out on.

Seeing as how their dynamic had been intentionally formed to be guardian and dependent, the feeling was, to put it simply, really weird.

James meditated on it until Harry couldn't take the silence anymore. "You don't have a bad arm," he commented, leaning for the capture. "You're pretty accurate."

James clasped the ball and sent it back. "Thanks."

"I'll bet you've got a pretty good swing, too."

"Dunno. I didn't play baseball."

"Yeah, I know." Harry's aim was true enough. "Doesn't mean you can't hit."

"I guess."

"You probably got enough practice hanging around here.. though I don't think I've seen you use anything but that shotgun."

James grunted. "I guess."

"Hang on— aw, dammit," he muttered, turning to watch the ball bounce across the grass. He'd started to shed his jacket a little too early to stop him, but he didn't seem to mind missing anyway. Harry deposited the garment on the bench, pushing up his sleeves as he went to rescue the ball. "Alright. Let's try that again."

James withdrew his hands from his pockets to receive the toy. Back and forth, back and forth, and a few more passes later, Harry pitched for more conversation.

"So, no MLB," he confirmed. "What about soccer?"

Harry caught the incoming ball. James said, "Nope." It soared.

"Track? Heh, I can't see you playing football."

He tilted his head to the stoic pause from the man on the other side. Traces of deep thought lowered green eyes, the ball distractedly handled, then Harry held out his hands for its return.

"Yeah, actually."

The author perked up. "Yeah? You run hurdles?"

"No.. I don't think so."

"You are a good runner. I guess it makes sense." Harry rolled his shoulder and sent the ball on its way. "But I'm gonna guess you didn't keep it up after high school."

"Nope."

"Yeah. Well, seems you've got a natural talent, anyway."

So many goddamn compliments. James put an end to it. "You don't seem like a sports guy, either."

Harry laughed. "Ha! What gave it away? Nah," he said, spicing up their game with an underhand toss. "Wasn't for me."

"Mm. Your swing's pretty good, though."

"Yeah? You think so? Thanks. Though it's kinda cheating," he admitted. "It's easier to hit a body than it is to hit a baseball. God, that sounds awful."

Back and forth. "Maybe you should try."

Harry looked curious when he threw it back. "Yeah?"

"Well, you've got the pipe," James reminded, nodding at the weapon on the bench. He kept their plaything, jumping it in his palms. Staring at the mellow conduit, muted surprise hovering in Harry's features, his attention then centered on the steel.

It was a short trip to retrieve the piece, and then rapped the hook on the lawn.

"Well, I'll give it a shot," he said, raising it over his shoulder. James continued to hop the ball.

"You hit the radio alright, remember?"

Harry slightly lowered the narrow bat to think. "Uhhh.."

Drawing his lips inward, James briefly thinned his eyes to the delay. It seemed Harry forgot; these lapses were getting too frequent. The patriarch's eyes darted about, searching for the memory, then shrugged. "Eh. Lucky, I guess."

"You sang some kinda.. weird.. song," James helpfully mentioned. He was relieved to see the lightbulb click on.

"Oh, yeah! Yeah, I remember that," Harry chuckled. "Spanish Ladies. Love that one. That was good, huh?"

His green shoulders bobbed. "Don't know it."

"I wouldn't expect you to," he replied. "Sea shanties are kinda niche."

The gesture took an encore. James posed a pitcher's stance, motivating Harry to prime himself again.

"Let's see how good your arm really is, buddy. Lemme have it."

Sniffing, James eyeballed his target, reared back, and threw.

Harry missed, summoning a smirk from James, and fetched the runaway. After tossing it to him, the author grinned, shrugged, and readied. "Just warming up!"

"Okay."

"Probably gonna need another practice swing. Wipe that smirk off your face," he chastised, forcing James's failure to do just that, and widening his own grin. "You're gonna be next after this."

'Sure' said the remnants of that smug twist on his mouth, then the ball flew like an arrow through the air.

Strike two. "Toldja I'd need another one!" Harry justified, picking it up; James stepped to the side to seize the ball.

No banter occurred before the next attempt, and Harry struck out. He groaned the loss, dejectedly dropping his arm to his side. "Augh! Welp, there goes my ego and my fallback plans."

"That sucks."

"Yeah. Guess I'm gonna have to reevaluate my options when I get home."

"Mm. Shoulda planned ahead."

"That's what I was trying to do!" Harry defended, strolling over with ball and bat. "I thought I knew my strengths."

"Hindsight is 20/20."

"Tbhbth."

"Okay."

"Your turn, Sunderland," his ward stated, presenting the rod. It wasn't immediately accepted, and for that, the steel tapped encouragingly on James's pocketed hand. One sigh later he acquiesced, and James stepped up to the imaginary plate.

Turned out he was no better than Harry. Even so, to his credit, it was fun. But not too long afterwards, they decided it'd be a good time to pack up and find someplace to wait out the night, as it was bound to slink up on them soon. On their way to reconvene at the bench, James tossed the bludgeon to Harry.

The ball was likewise hopped to James at the same moment, and by a stroke of luck, Harry caught the pipe in his hand. He beamed like the sun.

"Hey! Check that!" he exclaimed, looking over the weapon, then at James. "Ha. Hm!"

Gathering up the backpack, James pulled it on and watched him give a twirl a go, and subsequently demonstrate poor timing. The shotgun got a lazy look-over, and then its loving owner set his gaze on Harry slipping on the dark brown jacket.

"That's big on you."

The older man huffed his laugh. "Aw, I dunno, it's sort of a tight fit across the shoulders. Yeaah, I got this thing at a yard sale," Harry lamented, worming his hand into his pocket. "I took a long walk and made the mistake of underestimating the weather by way over half. It was freezing cold," he described, animating his face. "I saw a yard sale on the shortcut home, picked out this thing, paid the lady, and off I went."

Looking down to examine it, Harry pursed his lips and shrugged. "It does the job."

"Yeah. It does."

"Better this than nothin'." Harry collected the stacked ice cream cups; James copied him. "Funny how we can't find a damn trash can around here."

"You can write a strongly-worded letter about it to the town council later."

"Oh, you bet I will. The postman is gonna love the stack I got for him."

The two wandered through the park, following the new and improved - and progressively growing more detailed - map. They saw the park entry in the distance; and conveniently, along the trail where it forked, awaited a black wrought iron trash can.

Hot dog boats and ice cream cups stuffed with sticky residue on thin, cheap napkins scraped the bag on the way down to the hollow clunk of an empty bin. Brown eyes looked to green, the owner of which tipped his head in lieu of a blasé shrug. It was mutual and repeated, then they continued on their way, each wrapped up in how throwing away their memorable trash also disposed of weights they didn't even know had been there.