#tanbachris

0.

Chris navigates the lunch crowd until he spots the face he's looking for, already seated at a corner table. He heads over, dropping his bag on the floor as he takes a seat. A quick dig through his things finds his lunch in his hands, and Chris sets it on the table.

When he looks up, Zaizen is watching him with an unreadable expression, brows furrowed.

Chris pauses. "What is it?"

Zaizen blinks at him, and then shrugs. "Number seven was shit."

"Chapter five," Chris agrees. "I was hoping they wouldn't test us on that."

"You and me both," he growls, and stabs his tomato with vengeance.

1.

All his classes are interesting--he'd made a point of making sure of it--but if Chris had to pick a favourite, it would be his literature class. In the beginning, it was having Zaizen at his side, with his snarky remarks and running commentary during class discussions. But now, whenever he allows his attention to wander, he finds his gaze being pulled across the room, over to the cluster of bodies sitting three rows from the front.

His name, Chris finds out, is Tanba.

------

By the end of the first week since the Incident, Chris has made a mental list. It goes something along the lines of this:

1. Friends with Small and Vicious; Protein Shake Expert; Actual Terrible Taste in Literature, formerly known as Class Idiot until Chris had protested; and Shogi Enthusiast Even Though He Really Sucks At It 2. Childhood friends with Manaka from Physics 3. Does not like horror movies. At all. (Chris isn't that big a fan of them either, but he may have a soft spot for Ju-On, and the memory of Tanba's hunched form, legs pulled up to his chest in his seat, and hands covering his eyes, even as he watched the movie from between his fingers.) 4. Likes mango juice. Maybe.

An odd assortment of facts, Chris realises, cheek propped up in one hand as the next group finishes setting up for their presentation. He listens as Tanba stammers through the first few sentences of his introduction to the topic, their third project this term, his gaze flitting all over the room. When Tanba glances his way, Chris nods encouragingly; Tanba's gaze darts away and fixes on the wall opposite, some distance above everyone's heads.

5. Doesn't like public speaking.

Privately, Chris thinks it must take a lot of courage to be so obviously uncomfortable being put on the spot, but still going out there and pushing through anyway. He says as much in his portion of the feedback, and passes the paper to Zaizen, who stacks their cumulative effort into a pile on the front desk.

The last ten minutes of the class is spent going through the pile, and Chris watches as Tanba pauses during his reading, eyes wide.

There's no way for him to be certain, of course, but Chris would like to think that Tanba's reading the one he had written.

2.

"So we'll do some reading over the next few days, and discuss them this Friday," Manaka says, "Sounds good?"

"Yes," Chris agrees, putting away the last of his books. "That should give us plenty of time to find some good references."

Manaka hums. "And you should still have enough time to work on that essay for lit, right?"

"Right," Chris echoes, blinking a few times before he puts two and two together. "Your friend mentioned it?"

"Yeah," Manaka says. "Sounds like a pretty heavy paper."

Chris thinks of the all points he'll have to cover in a smattering of days and a measly 1500 words, and grimaces--it's just not possible. He shakes his head a little, trying to clear it. "It's not going to be easy."

"So I've heard." Manaka shoulders his bag and gives Chris a sympathetic smile. "Good luck."

"Thanks," Chris says, gives Manaka a little wave of farewell, before they part ways. Chris traces his way back to the dorms. Even though it's still fairly early in the afternoon, the main walk is plenty crowded, and Chris lets himself drift with the flow of people, his mind occupied with running his latest conversation over and over in his mind.

He wonders what else Tanba and Manaka talk about.

He's seen the two of them together, all casual laughter and friendly jostling, easy and relaxed in a way he hasn't seen either of them behave with anyone else. It's an endearing sight, but it also strikes a chord in him, deep in his chest.

It's a thought that stays with him, niggling at the edge of his mind when he greets Zaizen, and haunts him throughout their study session, until he's left reading the same paragraph three times, and still not understanding a word of it.

"Okay," Zaizen announces, loud and abrupt in the silence.

Chris looks up from his notebook.

"Listen. I'm only bringing this up because I think you already know what's going on."

Chris waits. When no elaboration comes, he prompts, "What?"

Zaizen raises an eyebrow.

And just like that, he knows Zaizen knows, and Chris feels himself flush hot. "Oh."

"You know you can tell me these things, right?"

"I wasnt sure how to bring it up," Chris admits.

"Hey, Zaizen! Guess what? I think that guy in our literature class is cute."

"Zaizen," Chris goes.

"I mean, not that I'm being discreet when I check him out in class. And I definitely don't get a huge dopey smile whenever it's his turn to present to the class. Not to mention how I absolutely do not look for him in the cafeteria, even though we never sit next to him."

Now his cheeks feel like they might melt right off his face. He says, in a smaller voice. "Nao."

Zaizen sighs, their knees bumping under the table. "He's got shit taste in friends though."

That makes Chris laugh.

"I'm serious," he says. "Isashiki is bad influence."

"Kettle, pot?" he prompts.

Zaizen makes a dismissive sound. "Anyway. You need to help him expand his social circle."

"Do I?"

"Yep." Zaizen grins, wide and bright. "You gonna do anything about it?"

Chris hums, thoughtful. "Maybe I will."

------

And now that the thought's been put in his head, Chris can't seem to stop thinking about it. It hangs in the back of his mind, a constant, restless urge as he glances at Tanba from across the room; it's there when Chris overhears Tanba's conversation with his friends, their playful banter standing out from the background of class chatter.

Chris thinks about it, and hopes.

3.

After an entire week goes by with no progress, Zaizen turns to him with an exasperated sigh. "Have you tried talking to him yet?"

"No," Chris starts, feeling defensive for no reason. "I haven't had the chance."

"We're in the same class, Chris."

"I can't just march over there and introduce myself," he protests. "It would be weird."

"Then get one of his friends to introduce you," Zaizen growls, reaching over to ruffle Chris' hair. When Chris tries to jerk away, Zaizen follows with boths hands, determined. "Aren't you friends with that guy from Physics?"

Chris pauses, hair thoroughly messed up. "Huh."

------

When the class finally comes to an end, they're still trying to finish up their discussion, rushing to pack up their things at the same time.

"--and I still don't really understand the second part," Manaka admits, stuffing his notebook into his bag.

The moment seems to still before him as Chris sees his chance. He takes a deep breath. "If you're not busy, maybe we could talk about it over lunch? Oh but," Chris hesitates, hyper-aware, "you have plans, right?"

Manaka blinks at him. "Yeah, I'm eating with a friend. But you're free to join us, if you want."

Guilt twinges at his soul, and Chris resolutely ignores it. "I don't want to intrude."

But Manaka's already pulling out his phone, saying, "No, no, don't worry about it. Let me just check and see if Kouichirou's made other plans."

Chris' heart does little jump in his chest. Kouichirou, he thinks, and nods. He lets his gaze drift away, trying not to get his hopes up, his fingers tapping against his arm.

When Manaka comes back, he's frowning, brows drawn in unhappily.

"Is something wrong?" Chris asks.

"Turns out my friend's got a last minute change of plans," Manaka replies, tone several shades too light for how irritated he looks. "So we'll have to grab lunch without him."

"Oh." His heart sinks; Chris fights to prevent it from showing on his face. "Alright then."

------

His second attempt follows the same pattern, and by the third, Chris is starting to wonder if he's going about this all wrong--if maybe he's misread things, and that innocent comment Tanba had made that day had been nothing more than that, an innocent comment. Tanba wants nothing to do with him. Nothing at all. And Tanba and Manaka are too kind to say so outright.

Briefly, he wonders if the two of them are together--and if that's the case, he wonders if Tanba's open to more than one relationship. Even if they ever did get to have a real conversation, would they ever end up as friends? Will all his efforts be for nothing after all?

These thoughts weigh down on him, and by the time Chris finishes with his day, Zaizen is already back at their shared flat, his music drifting into the common area. Chris takes his shoes off and trudges in, bypassing his room for Zaizen's open door, and pauses at the sight of his best friend sprawled on his bed, face buried in his pillow. Chris drops his bag outside, and treads into the room, hesitating,

Before throwing himself onto the bed.

The mattress springs squeak under his sudden weight, and Zaizen jerks awake, scrambling to sit up. "What the f--"

Chris presses closer, until he's curled up against Zaizen's side, the hem of Zaizen's t-shirt caught in his fingers.

Zaizen exhales, and lies back down. "Is this about Tall and Handsome?"

"Mmf."

Chris feels the brush of fingers in his hair, nails scraping gently at his scalp, and he closes his eyes.

After a long silence, Zaizen asks, "Do you want my help?"

He sighs. "Please."

"Okay," Zaizen replies, and reaches for his phone.

4.

The party is loud, and noisy, and over-crowded, and they've only been here for half an hour, but Chris is already itching to leave. Irritation builds in his bones, twitching in his fingers, and every word he says in a conversation is one word closer to him snapping at someone, and he knows he'll regret it if he doesn't leave soon.

"Zaizen," he says, snagging his friend by the sleeve of his shirt in a bid to get his attention. "I need some air."

He glances up from his phone, which he hasn't put down since they arrived. "I hear you," he says, "just. Five more minutes. Please?"

Chris huffs, and folds his arms across his chest. Neither of them are paying attention to the conversations happening around them, and Zaizen hasn't put his phone down at all since they arrived, so it's not like he's socialising with anyone here. He can't understand why they can't just leave. At this point, even a quick walk outside would be welcome, because it's so loud in here he can barely hear himself think.

"Chris," Zaizen says, and then again, until Chris turns to look at him. "I swear, this is important. You know I wouldn't have dragged you here if it wasn't."

He sighs, and turns his attention to the party--the massive crowd of bodies crammed into too small a space, the loud pounding bass flooding his ears. It's not that different from the kind of parties he enjoys, but it's been a long week, and he had really been looking forward to getting some rest. Instead, Zaizen had announced that he'd be going about two hours before they had to leave, and then practically begged Chris to go with him.

"Finally," Zaizen mutters.

Chris turns to him. "What?"

"Listen," he says, turning to look Chris straight in the eye. "Can you get us some drinks?"

Chris stares at him, feels it when his expression shifts into a glare.

"It won't take long."

"Zaizen," he starts.

He jumps up, wraps an arm around Chris' shoulder and leans in close. "Do this for me," he urges. "Please?"

Chris squeezes his eyes shut. "Fine."

"I think the drinks are in the kitchen," he says, and then pats his shoulder. "Good luck."

"That makes no sense," Chris tells him, but all Zaizen does is wave his hand, his attention back on his phone.

When he gets to the kitchen, there are bottles littered all over the countertop, stacks of plastic cups overturned, scattered in every available space. Chris is so busy trying to spot a clean cup that he almost misses the figure slumped over the table. "Um," he starts, heart stuttering in his chest.

The figure looks up, and then sits up lightning fast, the curve of his spine snapping back like a spring.

Chris clears his throat. "Sorry. I was just looking for some drinks."

"Oh," Tanba stammers. "They're uh. Over there. Help yourself."

"Thank you," Chris replies, and moves forward. He snags the cleanest cup--just the one--he can find, and goes through the motions of pouring himself a drink as he wracks his brain for something to say.

The music suddenly notches up in volume, and Tanba flinches, shoulders rounding briefly before he pulls them back once more.

Chris takes a step back. "They're really blasting the music tonight."

Tanba glances at him. "Yeah."

"It's getting a little too loud for me," Chris tries again, heart hammering now. "Do you mind if I hang around here for a while?"

This time when Tanba looks at him, eyes wide, his gaze stays. "No, go ahead." A pause. "I was taking a break from the noise too, so. You know."

"Yes," Chris agrees, and climbs onto the stool nearby. "It's a bigger crowd than I expected."

"I think they invited some of the first years too. I heard someone talking about it."

"That would explain it," Chris replies. Belatedly, he remembers the cup in his hands, and takes a few sips.

A silence descends upon them, almost lost in the pounding bass and the constant chatter wafting in from outside the kitchen. Chris fumbles desperately for another topic of conversation, anything to break the silence; he's in the middle of sending silent thanks in Zaizen's direction as well as composing an angry speech for sending him into this without giving him the chance to prepare, when Tanba blurts out, "I'm sorry for the other day."

Chris blinks at him. "For what?"

"For saying. For calling you," he hesitates, cheeks reddening. "You know."

"Oh." Chris feels his own face heating up, and ducks his head slightly. "That's..."

"I didn't mean anything by it," Tanba says, then winces. "I mean. Obviously, I meant something by it. But I wasn't trying to be creepy or anything. It's just. A nickname. That we came up with. We being Manaka and I. Well, he started it really. But it wasn't a joke or anything. We weren't making fun of you. I hope you weren't offended."

Chris stares. "Um."

"Oh god, you probably don't even remember it. You probably have no idea who I am," he groans, pushing away from the countertop as he stands, his face so red it must burn to touch. "I'll stop now. I'm really, really sorry."

Chris, who up until this point had been growing increasingly more confused--or rather, a mixture of confused, embarrassed, and flattered--finally snaps into motion at this, and grabs Tanba's arm. "Wait!"

Tanba freezes.

Chris realises what he's done, and immediately lets go. "I'm sorry. I just." His heart feels like it's about to burst out of his ribcage, he can't breathe. "I didn't mind when you...called me that. I was just surprised. But it was...nice." His face feels like it's on fire. "You don't have to go."

Tanba looks at him; Chris can feel the weight of his gaze on him, but he can't bring himself to meet it, now the entirety of his courage is leaving him.

After what seems like an eternity, Tanba moves slowly back into his seat. "You really didn't mind?"

Here, Chris forces himself to meet Tanba's gaze. "No," he says, as earnest and sincere as he knows how to, "I really didn't."

Tanba exhales, and the line of his shoulder loosens a fraction.

"And I do know you," Chris adds, feeling emboldened. "Tanba, right?"

He gapes at him, his jaw slack. "Yeah," he finally says, the corners of his mouth turning up. "Hi."

The egg looks to be approximately as big as the average person's head, and sits upright in the snug embrace of the cotton cushions arranged around it. Its shell is of a light yellow colouring, with scattered patches of dark grey spots, and emits a soft, magenta glow--even as he is now, Chris will admit, if only privately, that the egg makes for a truly magnificent sight.

As the quiet shifting sounds accumulate into the first visible crack, just above the midline of the egg, the waiting crowd falls silent. Chris himself waits with bated breath, feet rooted to the ground, his gaze trained over the multitudes of heads in front of him, to where the hatching egg sits. When the shell finally peels apart, he hardly dares to blink, not wanting to miss a single moment.

Long and sleek, the dragonet unfurls from the circle of cushioning and stretches out tentatively, its length already about that of a grown human's arm. Along the line of its spine lie small ridges, and its glossy mulberry scales catch the candlelight just right as to shine in the small, dimly-lit room.

Chris watches as the dragonet peers at the crowd, turning its head this way and that, its tail twitching against the ground. When it finally moves, it's only to begin pacing around the room, watching them in wary silence.

As he watches the scene unfold, Chris feels his stomach twist, and insistently ignores it; the room is filled with qualified would-be handlers, each with a potential that had recommended them for this momentous event. Indeed, those deemed most suited for the task had been stationed closest to the front, presenting themselves first and foremost to the dragonet in hopes of being chosen. In a similar fashion, the ranks of candidates fan outwards, and Chris himself is standing closer to the back of the room, a reminder of his own position here: no more than a formality, a respect thought due to his previous accomplishments. Chris should know better than to hope, and he reminds himself of this, steeling his nerves against what is sure to come.

The dragonet completes its circle, and continues into a second one, this time slipping past the front lines to move further into the crowd of candidates. Not a single person so much as shifts their weight, although all of them crane their necks to follow the hatchling's movements.

When the dragonet's slow deliberations bring him further and further back, Chris swallows hard; already he can feel the old ache in his shoulder, and despite his best efforts, his heart is now hammering against his chest. Chris fights to control it, gritting his teeth, even as he keeps his gaze trained on the slow-moving beast.

Their eyes meet, as if by chance.

Chris' heart jolts painfully in his ribcage.

The dragonet looks away, and he sags, stomach dropping--

Until it comes to a stop in front of him.

Chris stares.

This time, the dragonet meets his gaze unwavering, despite the anxious sweep of its tail against the ground. When Chris continues to do nothing more than gape blankly, the dragonet rears back on its hind legs, tilting its head up, and says, "It is cold."

For a few long seconds, Chris can barely remember to breathe, his heartbeat pounding like cannon shots in his ears. His silence stretches on long enough that the dragonet drops down to all fours, head lowering, one claw picking at the ground. The motion snaps him out of his state, and Chris hastens to respond. "Yes," he manages, and clears his throat, finds a steadier voice. "It is rather cold. But if we head outside, the sun will be out in full heat, and you should feel much warmer for it."

The dragonet makes a sound, almost thoughtful, and looks about the room. "I would like that," it says, still hesitant, before returning its gaze to Chris.

"I would be honoured to lead you there, if you'd have me."

"Please," it says, with a little nod.

He almost turns to go, before remembering belatedly that he still hasn't introduced himself. "My name is Takigawa Chris Yuu," he informs the dragonet. "What is yours?"

It considers this, head cocked to one side, tail twitching. "I don't know," it says at last.

"May I give you one?" he asks.

"Yes."

For a moment, Chris freezes in place, uncertain of how to proceed. All the names he's ever considered run through his head, along with all the dreams he's entertained from the moment he read his first book, to the day he saw his first dragon, to the disastrous battle, when he had been told to give up on his dreams. The memory leaves him feeling unmoored, and all of a sudden he is aware of how quiet the room is, how motionless everyone stands--over twenty pair of eyes are fixed his way, watching him with a mixture of surprise, horror, and indignation. Chris swallows hard, his mouth suddenly dry, and offers, "Tanba Kouichirou."

The dragonet straightens its neck, holding itself a little taller. "Yes," it says again, "that is my name."

"Yes," Chris echoes, a touch fainter.

"May we go out now?" the dragonet--Tanba, asks.

"Of course," he replies, and turns.

Practice has ended for the day, but the air still buzzes with private batting sessions. The grounds are empty but not, conversation scattered in the spaces between buildings. Out on the fields, cool night breeze curls lazily through the air, dancing around the space two boys have carved out for themselves, just for tonight. One stands rigid, spine and shoulders ramrod straight, his every word carefully controlled. The other stands before him, listening, head lowered but gaze raised, hopeful.

------

When Chris finishes, Tanba is still taking in the loose curls of his hair, the way it curtains his face, melding with the darkened night sky. A quiet ache clings to his ribcage, threaded into every breath he takes, and Tanba loses himself in years of "have had" and "have lost," from that first day after class, to that terrifying moment on the field, to now. He thinks about all the times he has framed in his memory--of the distance that grew between them, abruptly shortened in the now.

Somewhere in the distance, someone shouts. The sound is muted.

"When I fell in love with you," Tanba starts, finally breaking through the silence Chris left, "I thought you were perfect."

"And now you know I'm not," Chris says, without inflection, his expression unchanging, "so you don't."

"That's not what I meant," Tanba interjects, cursing his tongue even as he half-reaches out, and stops.

Chris' gaze flickers to his hand, and back.

"It was wrong of me," Tanba says, haltingly, "to think that you were. Noone is, and I shouldn't--none of us should have thought that of you. You were just," and here his voice wavers, crumbles at the edges as he looks at Chris and sees him as he's seen him for the last few months--too late to make a difference--"another boy, just like us."

A pause,

Then, murmured, "Just like me."

Now Chris looks away, closes his eyes. "I thought," he begins, so quiet Tanba can barely hear him, "I had to prove..." the end of his sentence falters, and he shakes his head.

"I know," he blurts out, takes with it all the breath in his lungs.

And it's true. He understands, and that knowledge makes him want to pull Chris close, wants them pressed up against each other the way they used to be, the way they haven't been in a very long time. His entire being feels like its shaking with the need, his fingers twitching at his sides.

Chris still isn't looking at him.

"You're still amazing, Chris," he whispers. "You don't have to be perfect to be amazing."

Now his expression twists, brows furrowed, mouth pressed tight.

Tanba swallows, tries again. "And I still love you."

Chris turns to him, eyes wide. "Really?"

And this time, he doesn't fight it.

------

(This is how it happens)

Reaching out with both hands, slowly, deliberately. Golden eyes on him, watching him watching him. Palms brushing tenuous over the sharp line of jawbones,

and Chris shudders, melting into Tanba's waiting hands. His own hands come up, trembling fingers curling tight around Tanba's wrists, hanging on.

Tanba sweeps his thumb over Chris' cheek, savouring the give of skin against skin. Heart stuttering in his chest, Tanba shifts closer, presses his lips to Chris' temple.

A soft, vulnerable sound escaping his throat, and Chris shifts in Tanba's grasp, chin lifting.

Tanba doesn't wait to be asked twice; he leans in.

------

(And ends)

They sit together in discomfiting silence, not looking at each other. Tanba counts the breaths that pass, twisting grass around his fingers. Next to him, Chris is an unmoving presence, and when Tanba sneaks a glance over, Chris is staring out into the horizon, eyes unseeing.

He stands, takes his time wiping his hands clean over his pants. This time, when he turns, Chris is looking straight at him.

Tanba clears his throat. "Are you free later? I've been having some trouble with my English homework, and I was wondering if you could help me out."

Chris blinks at him--and for a moment Tanba worries that he's forgotten, that it's been too long and they no longer share the same jokes, the same thoughts--

But then the corners of his mouth are inching upwards, eyelids hanging low, and he looks soft, so so soft, as he says, "I'd be happy to."

The relief seeps deep into his bones. He holds his hand out, swallows against the warmth that spreads in him when Chris' fingers fold over his palm. Tanba shoulders Chris' weight, and when the two of them are standing side by side, neither of them let go.

(A moment in time)

Lessons have ended for the day. The near-empty classroom is quiet, its walls painted the rich, warm brown of evening sun. Curtains dancing softly in the breeze, skirting teasingly near the last two occupants of the classroom. One has his arms folded over his notebook, his nose buried in the crook of his elbow, shoulders rising and falling in the quiet steady rhythm of sleep. The other has his chin cupped in one hand, pen tilted loosely in his fingers, his own homework forgotten as he loses himself staring.

------

Tanba drinks in the sun caught in Chris' hair, the play of shadows across his face, the gentle curve of his cheek bunched up against his arm. A quiet ache rolls steadily in his chest, and Tanba loses himself in all the times they've spent together, from that first day on the field, to that first day in the same class, to the present. He thinks about framing this one snapshot of time in his memory, a precious fragment he wants to hold onto forever.

Somewhere outside, someone laughs. The sound carries, loud and clear.

Chris shifts in his sleep, frowning slightly.

Tanba reaches over, brushes his fingers over the crinkle in his brow, and catches himself a moment too late. He freezes, incapacitated by horror.

Golden eyes blink at his hand, staring, before Chris slides his gaze towards him.

His heart lurches into his throat, and Tanba jerks away so violently that he bangs his elbow on the table behind him. Pain rings through bone and he hisses, face burning.

Chris sits up in his seat. "Are you alright?"

"Yes!" Tanba stands, stumbles out of his seat. "I--yes, I'm fine! Sorry, I didn't mean to," he says, gesturing at empty air with absolutely no clue what he's trying to say, desperately looking anywhere but at Chris. "W-we should probably go. It's getting late--"

"Wait," Chris interjects, "you hurt your arm, didn't you?"

"What--" he starts, making the mistake of looking at Chris and hastily dropping his gaze to the floor. "No, I just. It stings. A little. No big deal."

"That’s your pitching arm," Chris says. "Sit down. Let me take a look."

"My arm's fine,” he insists, still reeling from the burn of embarrassment.

A brief, hesitant pause before Chris says, "Sit down anyway."

Tanba looks up again--and this time he really looks, is surprised to spot the faint pink tinge in Chris' cheeks as their eyes meet.

He sits down.

Chris inhales quietly, raises his right hand and lays it on the table, palm up.

Tanba stares, feeling every second of confusion trickle by. When he finally catches onto Chris' meaning, his mouth goes dry, and he wipes his sweaty palm on his trousers, once, twice, before carefully placing his hand over Chris. Fingers close over the back of his hand almost instantly, and the small contact makes Tanba’s nerves sing. He holds his breath as Chris slides his other hand up, along the winding curve of Tanba's forearm, rubbing circles over the hard bump of his elbow.

"You know,” Chris begins, “I really thought I was imagining it."

Tanba doesn’t dare lift his gaze, tracking Chris’ thumb as it makes short, soothing sweeps over his knuckles, stealing a little more of his breath with every stroke.

"But I wasn't imagining it, right?"

Now, he looks up.

And that's--

------

(This is how it happens)

The chair scrapes against the floor. The table creaks. The grip on his hand tightens a fraction. The barest whisper of warmth ghosting over his skin,

A quiver of pressure against his lips, the softest, sweetest sensation Tanba has ever experienced. Blossoms of warmth all over his skin, and when Tanba opens his eyes--when did he close them?--Chris is sitting back, his smile shy, tense. He only holds Tanba's gaze for a heartbeat, before looking away, cheeks tinged pink.

His face flaming, Tanba looks away too, heart hammering against his ribcage, ready to burst through his chest, his thoughts racing a hundred different directions at once.

But their hands are still folded around each other's, skin clammy, and neither of them are pulling away. Outside, the sun continues to set, the sky grows golden, the day ages.

------

(And ends)

They gather their things in discomfiting silence. Tanba picks up his bag, and hesitates.

Already, his hand feels empty, missing the weight of Chris' palm in his own. He glances over to where Chris is putting away the last of his books, catches his eye.

Chris straightens, stiff. "What is it?"

Tanba bites his lip, feels too small in his own skin as he raises a hand, palm up, fingers extended.

A brief pause--lasting only a breath's length, but long enough to make his stomach drop, his mouth dry--and then Chris is scrambling to hoist his bag over his shoulder, grabbing Tanba's hand in one rushed motion. Their palms clasped, Tanba looks to where Chris is smiling bright, so so bright, and feels his own lips stretch wide.

They're halfway through the day when the boat they're on rocks viciously with the waves, knocking Tanba off his balance, towards the railing and into Chris. When he doesn't immediately right himself, Chris shoots a concerned look his way and slides one arm around his waist, over the small of Tanba's back. "Are you alright?"

"Yes."

"Tired?"

"Yes," he admits. The sun has been beating down on him all day, and that, combined with the relentless press and chatter of strangers on every side of him at every second has seeped him of all his energy. If he had to tell himself to breathe, he would have given it up hours ago.

Chris presses closer, until he's shouldering a portion of Tanba's weight. "We'll grab lunch right after this and call it a day," he promises.

Tanba nods and closes his eyes.

On their way back, Chris stops by a stall he had been eyeing the other day, and returns with two milky white drinks, one of which he passes over. Tanba accepts it with both hands, gratified by the cool chill seeping into his hands. When he raises the drink to his lips, he spots tiny green beans swirling at the bottom of the plastic. It's a little too sweet for his liking but it quenches the thirst well enough, and the sugar rushes through his system, a quick burst of extra energy.

When they finally reach the chalet, Tanba wearily toes off his shoes at the entrance, and stumbles towards the bed. Four steps in and he reconsiders it, collapsing face first onto the sofa instead. He closes his eyes, barely listening to the footsteps bouncing off the wooden flooring, the sticky sound of a fridge opening and closing. Just as Tanba's neck starts to protest the position he's in, a pillow nudges his nape. Tanba rolls over to take it from Chris with a mumbled, "Thanks," wedges it under his neck, and is out within seconds.

------

Seagulls screeching in the distance, the persistent tumble of ocean waves; Tanba blinks slowly at the sunset-painted living room, tracks the shadows laid out on the floors until he finds the one he's looking for--Chris sprawled in one of the patio chairs, the small table beside him occupied by a nearly-empty glass of water, a book, and his cell phone.

Tanba moves to get up, and just as quickly decides against it. Instead, he digs around in his pockets for his phone, and finds it hidden in between the sofa cushions. He types out a quick message, sends it off, and rolls over onto his stomach to watch.

The phone buzzes, vibrating against the table until Chris picks it up. A few seconds pass in silence as Chris stares at his phone, before he cranes his neck to look back at Tanba.

Tanba lifts his hand in a half-hearted greeting.

The gesture coaxes an affectionate smile out of Chris; he comes over and settles on the edge of the couch, close enough to smooth a palm over Tanba's forehead. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," he replies.

"Did you get enough sleep?"

"Mm." Tanba squints up at him. "What have you been up to all afternoon?"

Chris hums, settles in to lean back on one hand. "I took a shower, called my dad, went for a walk--oh. I have something to show you."

Tanba watches him walk back out onto the patio, turn the corner and move out of sight. And then Chris is back with a bundle of cloth cradled in his hands, and a smile nestled in his lips. Tanba scoots over, making room, and Chris lies down beside him, unfolding the cloth over the flat plane of Tanba's stomach.

"I found these during my walk."

Tanba picks one up, holding it gingerly between his fingers. "Seashells."

Chris hums, tucks his head into the crook of Tanba's neck. "Most of them were broken, though, so I only found a few."

He traces the edge of the shell with his thumb, feels the tiny bumps poking into his fingertip; he can feel the soft tickle of Chris' hair against his jaw, the warm press of sun-kissed thighs against his own. "I can’t believe you've been out collecting seashells."

"Don't worry. We can go together next time."

"Hmm." And then, "So what's the plan for tonight?"

"Well, I was hoping to take you out for dinner," Chris says, shifting until he can meet Tanba's gaze. "Are you feeling up for it? If not, we can just get room service."

Tanba runs a hand through Chris' hair. "I'm good for eating out."

"Alright." Chris presses a pleased kiss to his cheek, and then another, before standing up. "Go get ready."

"Where are we going?" Tanba asks, stretching his arms.

Chris' answering smile is small, a secret pressed into the corners of his mouth. "It's a surprise."

------

The surprise turns out to be a lovely, quiet candlelit table for two by the sea, in a restaurant stretching out past the shores and over the waters. They're seated far enough from the central crowd and noise that the table has an ambience of privacy; when Tanba looks to his left, he sees nothing but the dark sea stretching wide into the horizon.

Chris flips through the menu, and after a few minutes of thoughtful silence, declares, "Let's get the lobster."

Tanba gives him a look. "First you ask me to be your lobster, now you want to eat the lobster. Should I be taking this as a message?"

"You know I'd eat you every day if you'd let me," Chris replies sweetly.

Tanba coughs, and ducks behind the menu. The lobster is at the bottom of the page, and the very top of the price range. He tries not to cringe, and fails. "It's uh, the most--"

"Don't say it," Chris interjects. A hand appears at the top of Tanba's menu, and Chris tugs it down low enough to give him a sharp look, accentuated by furrowed brows and narrowed eyes. "Tonight's my treat, and I want you to pick anything you want. Don't look at the prices."

"But--"

"Anything. We agreed, remember?"

Tanba sighs, "Fine." He tugs the menu back up, hears the plastic thwack against gravity as Chris releases his grip and settles back in his seat.

They end up ordering a dish from nearly every section. Tanba bites back a smile as he listens to Chris parse their order in English, nods along when the waiter tries to convince them to get the butter prawns instead of the grilled kind.

After the waiter turns away, Tanba leans forward, and says, "Your dad would be proud."

Spots of red blossom over Chris' cheeks.

"The next time we visit him, I'm going to tell him all about how much you've been improving."

"Please don't," Chris begs, not quite meeting his eye.

"I'm kidding," Tanba laughs, reaching across the space between them, and laying one hand on the table, palm up. Instantly, Chris' hand finds his, their fingers slotting together as neatly as the last pieces of a puzzle.

Tanba strokes a thumb over Chris' hand. In the background, the ocean waves roll quietly, a constant, soothing sound. The candles cast shadows across the table, and paints Chris in shades of gold, his eyes reflecting the flickering flames. Tanba raises Chris' fingers to his lips for a brief, chaste kiss. When he pulls back, he catches Chris staring.

"Are you blushing?"

"I--yes," Chris stammers, "but so are you."

"I am not," he shoots back, but he can feel how his face is burning, so maybe Chris is right after all. A strangled sound escapes his throat, and Tanba makes to pull back, but Chris' grip tightens around his fingers, holding him fast, and although neither of them are looking at each other, Tanba doesn't pull away again.

At least, not until the food arrives. Tanba watches as the waiter fills their table space with large, steaming dishes, the mixture of aromas drowning his senses and making his mouth water. When he looks up, Chris is watching him, his eyes soft and fond.

"Yuu," Tanba says, "thank you."

Love doesn't last, they say. It sparks, in the beginning, and then bursts into roaring flames, fed by a great many 'firsts', accentuated by dramatic declarations, hushed confessions, and showy gestures. But eventually, they tell him, it fizzles, dies out with a quiet crackle. Then things that were once extraordinary, things that used to send pulses racing, blood rushing through veins--these things become mundane, just another part of everyday life. And people move on.

Once, Tanba believed them.

Now, watching Chris tiptoe closer towards to the lapping sea, he's not so sure.

Well, they're not wrong, not exactly. It's just different.

The first time he kissed Chris, his heart had been pounding so hard, he'd been sure it was going to stampede right out of his chest. And even hours after they had said their hasty goodbyes--neither of them managing eye contact over their stuttered words--Tanba had curled up in one corner of his couch and spent what felt like hours trying to get his breathing back under control. It had taken him days before he could shut his eyes without recalling every instance of that kiss--the soft yield of Chris' lips against his, how warm his skin had felt, the tiny gasp as they parted.

Now they exchange kisses as easily as breathing, hardly thinking twice of it. It's not that the gesture means less than they used to; it's that they've become something else. The lingering touches and stolen glances, the secretive smiles and precious laughter--all of it has changed in the way that life tends to do, but it hasn't driven them apart, only anchored them together, shaping the space they've built with each other, for each other.

The next time he looks up, Chris is watching him from where he's come to a standstill, several feet from the shore. Chris reaches out with both hands, and Tanba goes to him willingly, savours the caress of cold waves lapping at his ankles as he trudges through the water. The night breeze sweeps past them both, sending their shirts flapping, and Chris' fringe dancing over his temple.

"I can see you thinking," Chris says, tangling their fingers, "but I'm not sure what about."

There are no words for his answer. Instead Tanba tugs him closer, until they're pressed chest to chest, foreheads bumping. He tracks the pleased descent of Chris' eyelids, counts the delighted crinkles in the corners of his eyes as he smiles. Tanba's heart beats steady, his mind at ease.

This, he thinks--the weight of Chris' palms resting over his hips as he sighs into Tanba's cheek, the sound barely audible over the murmur of rolling ocean waves,

Tanba was aware that nothing was more alluring to a catcher than something new, something that could easily be honed into an unexpected weapon against an old opponent.  That was why he had worked so hard on his forkball this past year.  

All for nothing, as the swelling, bruising and titanium wire in his jaw reminded him constantly these past few days.    

But it appeared to be more than that, given how much energy Chris was planning to devote to Furuya and Sawamura.  And how much Sawamura, especially, seemed to react to Chris.  

He looked at his feet and breathed in hard through his nose.  

Chris was suddenly in front of him.  "Tanba."

"Chris," Tanba replied with a nod, trying not to act like he'd just been eavesdropping.

It didn't appear to fool Chris.  "You heard the strategy?"

Tanba couldn't pretend ignorance.  "Yeah."  He straightened up and looked into Chris' eyes.  "You planning to act like Sawamura's personal trainer now?"

"Coach asked me to."

"Of course Coach did.  Because he's so 'interesting.'"

Tilting his head, Chris said, "He is.  Promising.  A lot of things could happen for him at this stage."

"Aren't I interesting?  Promising?"  Tanba couldn't help the outburst.  Then he immediately felt ashamed, his cheeks burning.  He could blame the injury, he could blame the crushed expectations, he could blame a lot of things.  Mostly, he decided to accept whatever it was that made him say it.  "I'm sorry - after all the time, I just wanted to be a battery with you and now this - "

"Don't be sorry."  An understanding smile touched Chris's mouth.  "You are a promise already fulfilled."  A golden glint came to his eyes and he leaned forward, one arm against the side of Tanba's shoulder.  His lips lightly brushed against Tanba's cheek, his warm breath against Tanba's ear.

"You know I favor experience, so you should hurry up and heal quickly."