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#sigh back to 33 degree and sunshine tomorrow
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The fact that we wont have this weather tomorrow T-T
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hatsukeii · 4 years
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One where y/n has been obviously in love with Tsuki since they were kids and not afraid to show it, but he’s always been lowkey mean to her and thinks she’s annoying and then finally years later she decides he’s not a nice guy and let’s him know she’s fine with all that crap and then he realizes he’s falling for her and does something really sweet for her and they fall in love? 😭😭🥺👉🏻👈🏻 ty in advance. Sorry if this is too long or specific, if it is, feel free to ignore
I genuinely hope you didn’t think I would actually ignore this<33
IM SORRY IM A MASTER PROCRASTINATOR ILY ALL AND YOU ALL DESERVE AN APOLOGY FROM ME
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Dear diary//Tsukishima Kei x Reader
Word Count: 1.4k+
Warnings: Cursing
Genre: Angst??? I guess???
Summary: He’s an ass, but you still love him to bits, and it’s killing you.
July 16, 2008
Dear Diary,
I got to play with Tsukki again! He had his dino with him, it was super cute! He told me his front teeth came off last night, and there’s a big hole in his teeth, but it’s okay, because he said it will grow back. I tried to hold his hand while going down the twin slides but he said it was sweaty, so next time I’ll wear gloves!
You flip through the hot pink diary, cringing at your young infatuation. Your diary entries were cringey as fuck, but they always rekindle something within you whenever you read them. You can’t even remember when you stopped writing in the book. Was it when you turned 10? Maybe 12? You don’t have a single clue.
April 30, 2011
Dear Diary,
Tsukki refused to marry me in the playground at break:(( I’ve known him for so long though, aren’t we supposed to get married? I just wanna hold his hand and hug him and give him a biiiiig kiss<33
Chuckling at the memory, you recalled the event from that entry clearly. You were seven years old only, still an immature kid. You still thought that getting married in a middle school playground was a huge milestone in life, almost as crucial as a legal marriage.
May 29, 2016
Dear Diary,
Love how Tsukki didn’t even remember my birthday:,) Must be nice getting made fun of. Half the students in my class felt my second hand embarrassment from when he completely forgot about it. God, why am I even in love with this asshole? I’m gonna have to go to school tomorrow and deal with all my classmates making fun of me for being hopeless. Brb, currently digging a hole for myself:)
Frowning at the memory, you think back to when you were twelve. He was an asshole then, still is an asshole to this day. And yet not an ounce of your unconditional love and support for him has faded. Grabbing a tissue, you wipe the remaining tears from your eyes, ignoring the dried tear stains on your cheek. Your hand slams onto the bedside table, lazily feeling for your phone. Tilting it towards your face, you sigh at the empty lock screen, accepting defeat. Flicking through the rest of the book, you are welcomed by pages and pages of white. “So that’s when I gave up on this diary...” you mutter to yourself as you lift yourself up from your bed. Heading towards your desk, you absentmindedly grab yourself a pen, notebook in hand. Slamming the diary down, you open it up to the next entry page after your last one, gently placing the tip of your pen on the first line. You grab your hair out of frustration, the ink bleeding into the thin paper. “What to do, what to do...?” You mumble, starting to form sentences in your notebook.
July 17, 2020
Dear Diary,
It’s been a while hasn’t it? Holy shit, all my entries were about Tsukki weren’t they? Jesus, of course they were. At least I was able to get it off my chest this afternoon. Telling him that I’ve been in love with him for years, that was fucking terrifying. Telling him that although I know he’s an ass, an animatronic dick complete with ballsack, that won’t stop me from falling harder, it was gut wrenching, but also relieving to a certain degree. I’m still waiting for some form of response, although I’m not sure I’m gonna get one anytime soon. I can’t decide whether telling him was the dumbest or bravest decision I’ve made. Maybe it was both. Just wait until I look back on this entry like a decade later and still cry about it lmao. Tbh he’s a genuinely nice person at heart. I know that all too well. He may be an ass most the time, and he may think I’m annoying, but despite how hard he tries to push me away, I’ll never abandon him. Jesus Christ, I sound like a yandere here, but it’s not that. It’s that I care for him a lot. Maybe even a bit too much. It’s ridiculous how absolute and utter shit a crush can make you feel.
Throwing the pen down, you flop back onto your bed, huffing into the thick blankets. You stay silent, not sure of what to think of the situation. “I’ll just deal with it all tomorrow, I’m tired of this shit.”
On the other side of the incident, Tsukishima is currently going through a mental crisis.
The blond sits at his desk, eyes unwavering, but focusing on nothing. It feels as if he hasn’t blinked in what seemed to be hours. Just hours of staring at his wall that led to nothing. Your confession plays in his head nonstop, like a broken record that refused to run out of battery.
“The thing is I like you. I’m pretty sure I always have. And I know that you’re such an asshole and all that, you won’t treat me as well as people would expect, but it’s fine. I’m fine with all that. All the dumb, stupid, careless insults you’ll throw at me, the side eyes and sneers, telling me to shut up and go away, I’m fine with it. I know you’re a good person, and that’s all that matters to me.”
“Well shit what the fuck do you want me to say?”
Maybe he shouldn’t have said that.
Maybe he should have let you down slowly.
But as he stares at his wall, the photos of the two of you framed and balanced on his floating shelves, he starts to reconsider his feelings.
The way your expression faltered then as you hastily took your bag and rushed away without a single word, the way you avoided him in the halls, the way you stopped talking to him throughout the day, it drove him crazy. He couldn’t handle the realisation that he hurt you so incredibly badly, so now all he can do is stare at his empty, blank wall. Did he know why he felt that way? No. He didn’t and still doesn’t. He’s Tsukishima fucking Kei, the emotionless, provoking, unlikeable king, yet a mere girl is somehow able to mess with his mind so badly, that all he can do is wallow in regret and confusion? What is this weird feeling? His throat itches, his heart is beating like crazy, sweat starting to gather around his temples. He clamps his two hands together, slamming his forehead onto them and squeezing his eyes shut.
How could I have been so dense?
How was he unable to see that you were absolutely in love with him? Even with the bento boxes, birthday gifts, constant compliments, he still only ever thought you liked him as a friend. However he never did. He likes you more than that. Way more. Yes, he thought, and still thinks you can be annoying at times, especially when you nag at him about not eating enough or being rude, but it was undeniable that there was something else he felt. But his stupid ass shitty ego would never let him admit it. And now that you finally confessed, he freaked out and fucked up. Even then, he didn’t think it would affect him to this extent.
“It was a stupid middle school crush, I’m over you (Y/N).”
He says that over and over again, desperate to cloud out the disagreeing thoughts in his head that scream otherwise.
“It was a stupid middle school crush, I’m over you.”
“It was a stupid middle school crush, I’m over you.”
“It was a stupid middle school crush, I’m over you.”
The guilt didn’t go away.
In fact, now that he’s said all that, he feels even worse. Oh how much he wants to find you right this second, wrap you in his arms, tell you how incredibly sorry he is, but he can’t. He doesn’t deserve to do that. His heart is begging for him to just get out of the house and run to yours as fast as he could, but his body won’t move. He wants to cry. Scream. Shout. Throw something. Shatter something. But most of all, he wants to get another chance.
Picking up his phone, he hesitates, before typing in your contact, the cleared out, empty chatroom showing up on his screen. Going as fast as his fingers could, he typed out the one sentence he’s been dying to let out.
“It was a middle school crush, but I’m still into you. I always have been.”
Is it just me, or is this bad-
Idk man it seems like all my fics are pretty much the same and I hate it😌
Tags:
@sunshines-and-tatertots @izzyphantomgamer @justachillgirl @trashcanweeb @just-another-bored-writer @poppirocks @majorfangirl37 @kaylacinderella @random-fandomlover @tiger1719 @tiredgr3mlin @itmekisuu @skyeackermans @talks-a-lot-of-stuff @shoutsukii @agentvicinity @sakusasgarbage @kuroo-thought-of-a-better-un @sneezefiction @bokutokoutarou @thirstyvolleyballhoe @iwaixiumi @iwaigroomi @inlwlevi
Feel free to comment or pm to be added to taglist!
I’m back to writing lmao I’m bored in two week quarantine rn
Edit: cue me realising I was half asleep and missed something in the request don’t be surprised if I repost this💀💀💀💀
Btw the hq manga just ended time to cry
💕💕💕💕
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let-it-raines · 4 years
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Catch Me If You Can (38/40)
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298 days. That’s how long Killian Jones was away from a baseball field. It’s less than a year, only part of a season for him, but it might as well have lasted a decade as he alternated between physical therapy and spending an excessive amount of time sitting on his couch.
But then he came back and won the World Series. 
It’s something no one saw coming, and it’s certainly not something anyone who knows about his arm would predict. Now it’s a new season with new possibilities, and anything could happen. On-field reporter Emma Swan will be there to cover it all even if she is not his biggest fan right now.  
Asking her out live on-air will do that.
Rating: Mature
a/n: Thanks to @resident-of-storybrooke​ for being my beta, @imagnifika​ for the cover art, and all of you for being awesome, whether you read this story or not ❤️
AO3: Beginning | Current
Tumblr: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 |15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35| 36 | 37 | 38
-/-
The thing about being a starting pitcher is that Killian rarely plays. It’s every five days usually, and Killian is too competitive to simply be able to sit and watch while everyone else gets to be out there on the field. If it wasn’t absolute murder on his shoulder, he’d be in Al’s office every damn day asking why he can’t be out there.
Understandably, having to watch his teammates play without being able to help has been killing him more in this past week than it did while he was out on injury, and that was actual hell.
Rob did a fantastic job that first night clinching the first game for them by making it nearly impossible for the Dodgers to get on base, and Killian, while he didn’t play his best, pitched a good enough game and had help from Eric’s three-run homerun for them to win the second. It’s simply that everything after that has been a bit of a nightmare.
They lost two incredibly close games in a row in California to tie things up, won the next one, and now they could clinch the entire Series at home in New York.
Tonight.
With Rob pitching and Killian sitting on the bench.
And as much as Killian would love to get to be an active part of it all like he was during the winning game last year, he would give absolutely everything for them to win tonight so that he doesn’t have to get up on the mound tomorrow. The pressure and desire and want  is so damn intense that it makes Killian’s heart ache, but he knows that this isn’t really about him. No part of him could be selfish enough to want to lose today so that he could have the possibility of the glory tomorrow.
That would be ridiculous, and he doesn’t know what the hell he’d do if he wakes up tomorrow morning with a stiff shoulder and he’s got to get out there and play.
Sighing, Killian stretches out his legs to the seat in front of him as a whisper of wind whirls through the stadium to bring in the late October chill. He fiddles with the sleeves of his sweatshirt, pulling them down to cover his wrists where chill bumps are rising, and he wishes that he had a hat on to protect himself from weather, his ears likely red from the cold. It’s only seven in the morning, most of the stadium completely empty except for the maintenance crew and a few people in the offices, but Killian knew that this would be his only time to take it all in with no one around him.
An empty stadium is nearly as magical as a packed one.
He’s spent his entire life building up to things like this. Sure, there were times when he had other goals. He wanted to be a teacher, wanted to get his degree and help others, but that was always the fallback goal. It was never the main one.
Baseball has been his life.
Lately, though, Killian’s been thinking about life outside of the game more than ever. It’s insane because he feels like he’s one of those obnoxious people who only lives and breathes baseball all the time, especially with what’s going on right now, but his mind has managed to find a way to wander elsewhere.
There are saved searches on his phone about going back to Vanderbilt to finish his degree and a sent message in his email to an advisor asking if it would be possible for him to finish in New York instead of having to take classes in person. He hasn’t told anyone that he’s thinking about it, not yet. Telling someone makes it real, and Killian’s not entirely sure that he wants it to be real quite yet. He’s a grown ass man, but change is still terrifying when he’s grown comfortable in his life.
Baseball isn’t forever, though, and while he may still work in the sport later on, he’s not going to be someone who goes throughout his entire life living out the glory days through memory.
Tonight, might be another big moment that defines his life, but the past six months have been pretty life changing as well. Hell, the past year has been.
Things are changing in ways that he wants and ways that he doesn’t, and that’s simply how it is.
“So, we woke up at the ass crack of dawn so that you could sit out here all by yourself?”
Killian twists his head to the side to see Emma standing a few seats over dressed in a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, scarf wrapped around her neck and Yankees cap on her head. He was so wrapped up in his own mind that he didn’t even hear her move toward him.
“Hey, love,” he smiles, reaching up and holding out his hand so that the cool tip of her fingers touch his as he intertwines their fingers while she settles down into the seat next to him and props her feet up on the seat in front of her. “I told you that you didn’t have to come with me.”
Sitting here reminds him of another time in San Francisco when he put his heart on his sleeve and willingly handed it over to Emma to crush before they decided that they would give the two of them a go and simply see how things worked out. If she had said no that day, he could have listened. But damn is he glad that she said yes.
Or, well, technically, he was the one saying yes.
Either way, everything in his life shifted.
“I know, but you get all moody and introspective, and I didn’t want you psyching yourself out.”
“I would not do that.”
“You’re a liar.”
“Just a little bit.” His hand flexes against hers, shifting his fingers the slightest bit so that he can get a more comfortable grip on Emma’s hands. “What have you been doing while I’ve been sitting here being introspective and psyching myself out?”
“I was taking some pictures. It’s kind of cool to see the calm before the storm, you know? And then David called me with some work stuff and to give me shit about us making out being all over Instagram, so I sat on a bench and talked to him for awhile.”
“He called you this early? Is he crazy?” 
“I think David forgets that not everyone wakes up this early, and he has no qualms about waking me up. Usually I’m much meaner to him.”
“I’m surprised you’re not being mean to me.”
“The coffee we had at home really works wonders.”
Killian almost opens his mouth to say something about Emma referring to his apartment as home. But only almost. They’re both aware of the living situation, have joked about it to each other and others before, and they don’t need some kind of official discussion about things. It’ll all happen naturally, and when the time comes, they’ll talk about it. For now, things are perfect just as they are.  
Life has been crazy with his injury and then Walsh and Brennan and the aftermath of them being absolute assholes. It’s gotten crazier with the World Series and how much press he’s now getting, both for the games and for his relationship with Emma, much of which is now weirdly being caught on camera. All Killian really wants is a bit of normal here.
The sun continues to rise in the sky, darkness shifting into an orange glow that will eventually turn into bright sunshine that makes it difficult to see without a pair of sunglasses perched on his nose. The grass on the field is wet with condensation, water coating the blades, and if it wasn’t freezing out there, he thinks he’d go out and sit along the edge of the back wall instead of in a stadium seat.
Bringing Emma’s hand to his lips, he presses a kiss to each of her knuckles before pulling their joined hands back down to rest on his thigh.
“I think,” he starts, not entirely sure where he’s going, “that I could stay out here forever. I don’t know…maybe I feel things too deeply compared to everyone else, but this place has always felt like home. I can’t imagine what things would be like if I’d been drafted somewhere else or if I’d never been called up at all.”
She hums next to him, and Killian looks down to see Emma’s thumb rubbing across his knuckles like she always seems to do. “What’s that thing you’re always saying? There’s no such thing as ‘what ifs.’ Not in life and not in sport. What happened, happened.”
“Doesn’t keep me from wondering.”
“It doesn’t keep anyone from wondering, twenty-nine.” Her hand squeezes his again, and Killian’s mind dares to ask once more what his life would be like had he not met Emma. It’s a question he doesn’t want an answer to. “What if my parents had kept me? What if Ruth had never decided to foster a shitty teenager with an attitude issue? What if I had never met Neal or Walsh or Ruby or anyone who has impacted my life they the way they have? What if I never met you?”
“You’d be missing out on the best sex of your life.”
Emma knocks her foot into his as he snickers at his own awful joke. “You’re full of yourself.”
He shrugs. “It happens. And I know. I’m just – my stomach has been in knots over all of this for an entire month. I’m not sure my body is going to make it ten more hours. Or hell, possibly even thirty-six. I’ve had to hype myself up for all of this, and I’m a little…fuck, Swan, I’m exhausted and excited, and I’m scared I’m going to have some kind of adrenaline crash.”
It’s Emma’s turn to bring their hands together so that she can brush her lips over his knuckles. His heart stutters at the movement.
God, he loves her. It’s actually insane how much. Truly, it shouldn’t be possible.
“For one, getting up and coming to the stadium before the sun even fully rises is not something that’s going to help with your exhaustion.”
He twists his head to look at her, and she’s got mischief in her eyes and a smirk stretched across her lips that he has to kiss away. She still tastes like coffee.
“Also,” she whispers against his lips, kissing him again, “you’re not going to crash. Not yet. I know you’re really big on not riding on what happened last year, but you’ve got to do that. You’ve been through this before, and you made it. Those butterflies in your stomach are being felt by everyone who’s involved with this team, and hanging out by yourself the entire time isn’t going to help things. Why don’t we go get breakfast together? Or maybe go back to bed?”
“How about a game of catch?”
“What?” Emma laughs as she pulls back from him with furrowed brows? “I am not playing catch with you. Are we five?”
Killian shakes his head and chuckles as he stands from the seat and begins to stretch his shoulders out, letting go of Emma’s hand and rolling his shoulders back as he laughs at himself.
“We’re twenty-eight. I know you remember your birthday last week. And come on, Swan. I play a game of really expensive catch for a living. It’s part of my job to work on my arm today, just in case, and I need a practice partner.”
“That’s what Will and Eric or August are for.”
“Yeah,” he smiles, reaching forward to tug her up only for her weight to go dead so that he can’t move her, “but they’re not here. You are.”
Emma closes her gaping mouth, and her lips move in different directions while her nose scrunches up so that little crinkles appear around her eyes under the shade of her hat. “Okay, but if there’s one misogynistic quip about me throwing like a girl, I’m breaking up with you on the spot.”
“There’s nothing wrong with throwing like a girl, Swan. It’s pretty badass. But there’s something wrong with throwing like shit.”
“I’m not going to throw like shit.” Killian starts walking over the chairs, easily maneuvering through the stands with Emma following behind him. “But I ask you to remember that while I pride myself in my fitness, it’s in things like Pilates and running or boxing. It’s not in baseball. You, meanwhile, do this for a living.”
“These sound like a hell of a lot of excuses.”
“That’s because they are.”
“There’s no excuses in baseball.”
“I thought it was crying.”
“Fuck no,” Killian scoffs. “There’s a lot of crying in baseball, and anyone who tells you something different is a liar.”
“I can’t believe you just called Tom Hanks, America’s sweetheart, a liar.”
They have to go back through the tunnels to get a bucket of balls and some gloves as well as a few towels to wipe the grass in the bullpen down since it’s wet and neither of them are wearing the right shoes for this, but they do eventually get to the point where he can lightly toss the ball back and forth between the two of them. He’s not going to pitch at full speed, not until he has Will later, but it’s soothing to simply be out here getting a little movement in. He’s been back for two weeks, practicing for four, but it’s still all brand new again to him and shaded under a light that wasn’t there before.
Emma isn’t bad at all. She’s actually rather good, a natural some might say, and he jokes with her that if sports broadcasting doesn’t work out for her, she might take up a career in this. Naturally that gets him an eye roll or two, but she keeps on throwing until the sun is high in the sky and the day has truly begun.
Killian’s ready for it.
Everything seems to pass quickly then. The entirety of the Dodgers team walks out onto the field for their scheduled practice while he and Emma are still messing around in the bullpen, somewhere between still doing a bit of practice and Killian backing Emma up against the wall to make out with her. No one sees them, though, the loud blaring of music startling the two of them away from each other, and Killian presses Emma a little further into the wall while he buries his face in her neck so that he can muffle the sound of his laughter.
He’s not entirely sure that works, especially when Emma is doing the same, but they eventually manage to grab their things and slip inside so that an entire professional team isn’t aware of the fact that he was using the early morning stadium to kiss his girlfriend.
That would certainly have been something.
There is an actual practice that Killian has to attend today, an hour of which needs to be spent with him running on the treadmill and then getting massaged by Archie to work out any knots and kinks in his shoulder and to make sure that it’s not inflamed. Killian is always terrified that he’s going to be told that his shoulder is inflamed again and that he won’t be able to play on a day where he thinks he’s going to be able to. That would completely screw up the lineup, and…No, now isn’t the time to think about that.
Killian tells Emma that he’ll see her later, that he’ll probably come bother her wherever the network has her sitting even though he’s splitting the time in the game between the dugout, the clubhouse, and the suite where his family is going to be sitting. She has to go home and get ready for the day, and even if she didn’t, he very much doubts that she’d like to stick around and watch him run.
And then they’re both off.
Let the game begin.
-/-
“Are you guys going to win today?”
Now, that’s the question of the day, isn’t it?
Killian looks down at Roland who is dressed in head to toe Yankees gear, all his dad’s of course, and there’s a nervous smile on the kid’s face. Roland is almost never nervous. He has that childlike faith in everything even with all of the tragedy in his life of having lost his mom, and he nearly always believes that things are going to work out. There’s no good or bad, just the belief that things will work out the way you want them to simply by the power of wanting them to.
If only it were that simple.
“I don’t know, lad,” Killian answers honestly as he reaches down to pick Roland up, easily putting him on his shoulders as Killian walks him down the hallways to the suite he’s staying in for the game. Roland was in the clubhouse for all of the pre-game celebrations, and the kid heard and saw things that he probably didn’t need to hear for several more years.
A decade, really. Maybe two.
Yeah, definitely two decades. There was some creative swearing.
“Why not?”
“Well, because we can’t predict the future, and the other team is really good too.”
“But I want to win.”
“Me too,” he sighs as he pushes open the doors to lead to the suites. “And everyone is going to try their best. But you know what?” “What?”
“I think if you cheer extra hard, it might help your dad out, okay? He might lose because the other team is good, but you’ve got to cheer him on no matter what.”
Roland’s ankles hit against Killian’s collarbone, and Killian pretends that the bony lad doesn’t hurt like hell when he hits him. “I can cheer really  loud. Like, Grandma says that it makes her ears hurt.”
“If you’re not making Grandma’s ears hurt, you’re not cheering loud enough.”
That sentence pretty much sums up why he’s the best uncle in the world, Killian thinks. It’s basically the equivalent of giving kids a pint of ice cream right before they go back to their parents.
Killian pushes open the suite doors and ducks down underneath them so that he doesn’t knock Roland out. Everyone is situated on the couches and around the tables in front of the TV, and no one pays him any mind as he puts Roland down so that he can run to where Addy, Lucy, and Leo are. He imagines that between the four of them, they’re going to make everyone’s ears hurt from their screaming.
Maybe Killian will go spend time sitting in the dugout instead of in here, but it’s a long game. He’s got time to move around as long as he does make time to study Robin’s throwing patterns against each batter.
“Hey,” he murmurs to Elsa in the kitchen area while she pops a chip into her mouth. “I don’t know that it’s good that you’re playing hooky from work and letting the girls do the same with school.”
“Shut up,” she says in between crunchy bites of food, her hand covering her mouth. “You think that joke is funny every time, but it’s not.”
“It is.” Killian dips his head down and presses a kiss to Elsa’s cheek. “But I fully approve of the skipping work thing, especially when your husband’s lazy ass took the entire week off.”
“He’s supporting his baby brother.” 
“Younger, Els. Younger. I don’t need you encouraging that.”
Her bottom lip sticks out. “But it’s so fun to see your ears get all red with embarrassment.” 
“Every single thing I’ve ever said about me being glad to have an older sister in you and Anna? Yeah, I’m taking all of those back.”
“You can’t.” She swipes another chip through the dip. “They’ve been said, and I keep them all in my heart right next to where Addy told me that even if she got to choose her mom, she’d still choose me.”
“Classy.”
“I know,” Elsa laughs. “Where’s your better half?”
“She’s working.” Killian pinches his brows together. “So we’re not even going to pretend that I could possibly be the better half?”
“Nope. Just like Liam isn’t the better half either. And don’t make some quip about being equals. Just let me have this. I’m already stress eating chips.” He laughs while reaching forward to drag the bowl away from Elsa so that she can’t eat anymore, but she doesn’t let him, grabbing onto it and pulling it back. “I didn’t say to stop me. World Series week is like the holidays. The calories don’t count until my jeans feel a little snug next week.”
“Ahh,” Killian sighs in understanding. “That’s likely a good thing for how many baked goods I’ve sent your way.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be in the dugout?” Ariel questions as she steps up to them with her glass of water in her hand. “It’s kind of a big game.”
“It’s also kind of the top of the first inning, and I’m not playing.”
“Excuses.”
“A legitimate one. How’re you holding up, A?”
She waves him away and reaches for the pitcher of water. “I’m fine. Eric is the nervous wreck. I have enough confidence in you guys that I won’t worry until, you know, we’re losing.”
“Only worrying when we’re losing? What kind of method is that? You have to worry all the damn time.”
“That’s how you have a heart attack, and I have not suffered eating healthily and exercising so much to have a heart attack this young.”
“This is where Liam would tell you that it can happen to anyone in any age.”
“Where is Liam?” Killian questions as he looks around the suite for his brother only to have him nowhere to be seen.
“He and David are sitting in David’s regular seats because David was complaining about Mary Margaret and Leo not wanting to use them. I imagine he’ll be up here soon when he realizes how expensive food is to buy.”
“They’re such old men.”
“Says the man who was wearing a sweater while drinking a cup of tea and reading in his apartment last night instead of coming out to dinner with all of us.”
Killian sputters a bit as he narrows his eyes at Ariel. “First of all, there is nothing wrong with doing any of that. Second of all, how could you possibly know that?”
Ariel shrugs, mischief in all of her features. “Emma sent it in the group text.”
Of course she did. A man can’t even relax in his own home without being called out for it.
“Who is in this group text exactly?”
“Oh, just me, Elsa, Anna, and Belle. Don’t worry. Not everyone gets to see the embarrassing pictures of you drooling in your sleep.”
He’s going to kill Emma.
Or get his revenge. Somewhere in between those two.
There’s a loud groan from everyone watching the game, and that’s when Killian is reminded that there’s a game going on. He didn’t know that he could possibly forget, but apparently being teased about how he spends his nights will let him do that. When he sees what’s happening out on the field, though, Killian wishes that he’d been able to completely and totally forget about the game.
There are three men on base for the Dodgers, only one out, and one of their best hitters is up to bat.
Fuck.
This is not a good start.
This is a long game, but bad starts can change the momentum of absolutely everything. It gets in everyone’s head. The losing team is convinced that they’re going to lose, that they can’t come back from this, and the team that’s ahead gets all the belief in the world with their abilities.
Momentum shifts are everything, and it’s not time for the momentum to shift. Not yet.
And yet it does.
Robin throws what Killian knows is a good fastball and Rob’s specialty, but Stewart hits a sharp line drive down past third base that Arthur doesn’t get to. By the time that he does, the Dodgers already have two runs, Stewart is on second, and Ferguson is sliding into home before the ball can get there.
0-3 for the Dodgers eleven minutes in.
Shit.
Now it’s time for Ariel and everyone else to get nervous.
And it never gets better. Not really. There are times and chances and shots that have Killian grabbing onto his hair in frustration, but nothing comes of it. Nothing at all. Every single time there’s a real chance, something happens: the Dodgers have an unbelievable get, someone fumbles when the Yankees should have an easy chance at a double play, or every single person somehow forgets how to hit.
Until they don’t.  
Because now it’s the bottom of the ninth, and after an absolutely incredible eighth inning, it’s now 7-9.
They’re only down by two runs.
(Two runs.)
Killian is pacing back and forth in the dugout now exhausting every bit of emotional energy he has left in him. He left the suite the moment that first inning was over, texting Emma and Liam that there’d been a change of plans and he wouldn’t be meeting up with them after all. There was no way that he was going to be anywhere other than with his team when things were going to hell.
Being two runs behind is both nothing and everything.
There have been plenty of times when they’ve come back from a deficit like this. There have been plenty more when they’ve blown a two-run lead. And yet, like fifty-five thousand people in this stadium know, this isn’t any other game. This is The Game, and they’re closing in on the golden hour of chances.
It’s win now or come back tomorrow for one last chance of glory or crushing defeat.
Best of seven means nothing when there’s the possibility of there only being one game left.
“You’re going to exhaust yourself if you don’t sit down,” Robin tells him from his seat behind him on the bench.
Will has just stepped up to home plate, his bat in hand and feet in position, and Killian can’t breathe. His lungs have stopped taking in air.
“How could you possibly be sitting down for this? Is your blood not on fire?”
“I just pitched five innings, mate. My adrenaline high is gonedown. I’m exhausted.”
The ball is launched through the air toward Will, and Killian immediately knows that he shouldn’t take a swing at it.
He does.
Strike one.
“Shit,” Killian murmurs, kicking his foot at a water cup on the ground. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“You’re going to give yourself a heart attack.”
“Funny, Fisher, I told your wife the same thing. Aren’t you supposed to be warming up?”
Killian doesn’t even have to look to know that Eric is rolling his eyes. “I’m grabbing my stuff to do just that.” There’s a warm hand on Killian’s back, and he turns to look at it just as a “ball” is called. “Take some deep breaths, man. We’ve got this.”
“Aye,” Killian sighs, “we’ve got this.”
Strike two.
“Shit.”
Ball two.
Ball three.
Foul ball.
Killian’s phone buzzes in his back pocket, and he opens it up to see Emma’s name.
Emma: They’re having to censor you on television right now.
Emma: Just thought you might want to know that. Literally every time they show the dugout, you’re cursing. Ruby is getting a kick out of it.
Killian moves to text her back, to say something witty in response, but then the wood of Will’s bat is making contact with the ball and it’s flying gone, gone, gone…
Until it’s caught in the outfield.
Out one.
“Fuck.”
They’ve still got a shot. They have to. And as much as Killian hates cheering for Arthur King and hates that he only got a monetary fine for what he said to Emma and about her, he’s exactly who Killian has to cheer for now as Arthur hits a line drive that enables him to get on first base.
That’s progress.
It’s even more progress when Eric hits a triple sending Arthur into home.
8-9.
Holy fuck.
They might do this. They just might.
Killian still can’t breathe, but this is obviously his natural state now. This is how he’s going to have to live out the rest of his life.
Emma: Okay, now I understand all of the cursing. I’m freaking out.
Killian: Me too. We make quite the pair.
Emma: The best pair. It’s all going to be okay, twenty-nine.
He smiles down at his phone, his lungs taking in a bit of air at that.
Killian: It will be. I love you.
Killian: A frankly ridiculous amount.
“Out,” the umpire yells, and Killian immediately rests his head against the dugout railing, his nails digging into the hem of his sweatshirt as sweat drips down his back even with the late October chill whipping through the stadium as the night fully comes into effect, the sun long since gone.
Out two.
“For fuck’s sake,” Al yells, throwing his hat to the ground and slapping his hand against the railing. “Why would you swing at that, Whale? You could have fucking walked, and then we’d have two men on base with one out. That changes everything.”
It’s not Whale’s fault. It’s not. He messed up, sure, but it’s a team effort. Killian doesn’t always believe that when he’s the one pitching. It’s hard to get that out of your head when you’re being yelled at by managers and fans and people online sending death threats, but it’s true. It’s not one person out there even when it feels like it.
Killian’s going to have to remind himself of that tomorrow.
No.
He can’t go there. They’re not going to play tomorrow. Booth is up to bat, and he’ll get Eric home. Then it’ll be tied up, and they’ll have their shot to close this out right here and right now.
Hope bubbles up in Killian’s chest, his throat closing up with excitement and anticipation, and that lack of breathing thing comes back again as his knuckles go white from the strength of his grip on the railing. When he looks to the right, he sees that Robin’s knuckles are just the same.
They might do this.
Roland and Addy have to be screaming their heads off up in the suite. Killian almost wants to text Elsa or Liam to see what’s happening, but his eyes are glued to the field as August swings his bat at the very first ball.
It’s a fucking foul.
Strike one.
“Come on Booth,” Will shouts out, clapping his hands together. “You’ve got it, man. Be smart about it.”
“I’m not entirely sure that’s helping, Scarlet.”
“It is, Professor Jones. I’m a great motivational speaker.”
Killian’s lips stretch into a smile, a bit of calm returning, until the ball flies from the mound again, whipping through the air and curving into the strike zone at the last minute.
August doesn’t swing.
Strike two.
The stadium absolutely erupts then, hands clapping together and feet hitting against the floor while thousands of people scream, a mix of cheers and boos for August. If anyone can handle this kind of pressure, can handle the weight of world on his shoulders and the pressure, it’s August.
Pressure is a privilege.
He’s likely not feeling too privileged right now.
And as suddenly as the noise started, it calms down. While there are still people talking and cheering and making all kinds of noise, Killian can’t focus on any of it. All he can focus on is what’s right in front of him.
One. Two. Three.
Foul.
One. Two. Three.
Foul.
Killian’s stomach flips, his entire hand going white, and Will is grabbing onto Killian’s forearm so tightly that he could break the bone there.
One.
Two.
Three.
There’s a thwack of ball against Booth’s back, and it absolutely flies into the air. It’s flying, and Killian nearly jumps out of the dugout to get a better view of where it’s going. It’s got to be a home run. It’s got to be. That’s where it’s headed, and Killian’s arms break out in gooseflesh beneath the thick material of his sweatshirt.
They’re about to win the fucking World Series for the second time in a row.
Holy shit.
But then the ball dips.
It dips, right at the line of the back fence, and the ball is caught.
The. Ball. Is. Caught.
The ball is caught, Booth is out, and the game is over.
And just like the ball, Killian’s mood dips, every high hope crashing down around him and weighing down on his shoulders while his stomach flips before everything heavily settles in its place. This isn’t how today was supposed to end. They were supposed to come back from their bad start. They were supposed to win.
They didn’t, though. They lost, and even though Killian tries to be encouraging to everyone around him as they all finish up their post-game on-field routines, in his head he knows that they’ve only got one more shot at this.
They’ve got one more shot, and a lot of it is resting in the palm of his hands. Killian has been a screw up for this team so many times before, and he doesn’t know if he can do that again.
He can’t let everyone down again.
The mood is subdued in the clubhouse as everyone strips out of their clothes, just a constant murmuring of curses and complaints. Even Al is quiet when he’d usually be fired up yelling at everyone, a combination of disbarring comments and encouragements, and that may be the most shocking part of it all.
Reporters begin to fill the room as well as agents and wives and the occasional child, and Killian sits in his locker with his head between his legs taking several deep breaths to calm himself down. His heart is beating far too quickly. It’s thumping in between his ears, and that’s not how it’s supposed to be.
It’s simply not.
“Hey.”
The voice is soft and very much Emma’s, and Killian looks up to see her softly smiling down at him, Jeff no longer trailing behind her with his camera.
The smile that stretches across his lips is forced and half-assed, and he knows that Emma can tell. She steps in between his knees so that his head rests against her stomach while her hands brush through his sweaty hair. They don’t say anything else, simply stay there together while Killian breathes in the scent of Emma’s perfume on her sweater and shivers run down his spine at her touch.
He is undeniably a fan of every part of her, but being able to simply be, to exist, with her is one of his favorites. There’s nothing quite so soothing as knowing the person you love will always be by your side no matter what happens.
They lost. They did. It’s what happened, and there’s no changing it.
Tomorrow is the last chance.
It all comes down to the last one.
-/-
-/-
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wisepuma23 · 5 years
Note
Prompt: Logan v Virgil, maybe something like Virgil panicking over one of Thomas's tests? And maybe he either pushes Logan to overwork until he snaps or he and Logan end up fighting over how prepared Thomas is for it?
omg thanks for the prompt, anon!!
Warnings: Language, Abuse, Manipulation, Violence
Pairings: Platonic LMP 
“We have studied the material enough times!” Logan shouted as he paced around his room, “If we study it anymore, it’s not productive at that point.”
Anxiety sat perched on Logan’s desk, “His professor said chemical engineering is incredibly hard and most people drop out.” He studied his fingers, “If we don’t ace this test, Thomas will drop out, and then he’ll starve, and then die on the streets.”
Logan turned on his heel sharply, “That is a falsehood. Stop pestering me with your cognitive distortions!”
Anxiety’s eyes narrowed, “I’m just telling you the truth, Einstein.” He stood up and stalked closer, “Is it or is it not true, that if Thomas doesn’t pass this course, his whole degree plan gets pushed back? If he gets it at all?”
Logan adjusted his tie with a growl, “Thomas can move at his own pace. He can take the course again next semester.”
“And who’s going to pay for it?” Anxiety’s hand shot out and yanked down on his tie, “His parents? His scholarships?” Logan couldn’t breathe, “Most of all, Thomas is gonna pay for it. We’d be shitheads to let him fail.”
Logan glared down at him, “You’re wrong, Anxiety.”
Anxiety threw him against his desk, sending papers up in a flutter. Pain shot up and down Logan’s side as he bit back a hiss. Damn him. Did he know how long it took to organize these?! Logan opened his mouth to let him know, but Anxiety raised a fist and his lips pulled back in a snarl.
Logan clicked his mouth shut.
“I’m right and you’re wrong,” Anxiety said, acid dripping from his tone, “Got it?”
The door slammed shut behind the dark side. Logan swiped at his eyes and ignored how his hands shook. He wouldn’t let it get to him. Fearmongering and false information all meant to herd him into doing whatever Anxiety wanted. Well, it wasn’t going to work! Logan got on his knees and started to pick up his papers.
Rebellion, it is then.
Logan spent the next few days whispering to Thomas to take walks outside on campus. A few naps out in the sunshine. A long shower to scrub out the suds of frustration and stress. Anything at all to put Thomas’ needs first and his priorities second. Logan ran the numbers and they did not need to run any more study sessions. He even checked up with Patton daily to see if the study memories were still there. Their light never fading.
He put Thomas first, which was something a dark side like Anxiety could never understand. Logan even let himself relax for the past few days as the exam date grew closer. Thomas didn’t need the extra stress, especially if Roman wanted to go see that play tomorrow. Valuable time for Thomas to forget his stress and allow him to experience a modicum of happiness despite mid-terms.
Logan knew it couldn’t last.
The TV flickered the warm and fuzzy colors of a Disney movie. Patton snored against the armrest of the couch, his soft blanket wrapped around him in a cocoon. Roman slept on the other side of him, his legs flopped over Logan’s lap. Logan drifted on the thin edge between wakefulness and sleep. Nearing midnight, he really needed to sleep. But he wanted to see how it ended.
A hand closed around his throat and pulled him up and over the couch. Logan’s eyes shot open as he clawed at the iron-clad hand. Roman’s legs slipped away as Logan’s world tilted. Anxiety slammed him against the floor behind the couch, his fingers squeezing until Logan gasped.
Anxiety held up a finger to his lips, “Shut your ever talking gob for once, or Thomas won’t see for you a few days.”
Logan nodded as his lungs burned.
Anxiety smiled, a strange feature splitting his pale face in half. His dark eyeshadow in the near darkness of the living room made the back of Logan’s neck shiver. Anxiety wasn’t someone to trifle with. Especially since Logan had made near blatant efforts to get rid of him and his influence the last few days. Self-care, Logan’s best weapon against the evils that plagued Thomas daily. And his best defense. Second only to knowledge.
Anxiety pulled him with a crack through the folds of the mindscape. Logan fell onto his bedroom’s floor as he coughed. Logan ran a finger over the blossoming bruises against his throat. Anxiety ignored his wheezing and instead locked his room with a click. Definitely not a good sign then.
Anxiety turned around and pulled him up by his shirt and onto the bed. Logan glared, he didn’t see the point in Anxiety manhandling him like a sack of potatoes but he found over the years it was best not to resist. The dark side took up his usual perch on his desk, and Logan bit back a growl at the papers crumpling under his weight. He let his black hoodie fall back as he rolled up his sleeves to reveal pale arms scarred with past battles.
“We need to talk, Logic,” Anxiety drawled as he flexed his fingers, tendons dipping in and out of his flesh, “I really do enjoy playing the villain, so I have to thank you.” Logan swallowed as Anxiety’s fingers elongated into black claws, “It’s been a while.”
“Anxiety, think about Thomas,” Logan said, not pleading, never pleading, “Think about him for once! Working from sunup to sundown isn’t healthy. Humans die younger from too much stress.” He knuckled his dark blue duvet, “At least I care about him more than you’d ever do.”
Anxiety shot up, “Excuse me? What did you just say?”
Logan’s shoulders shook with contained anger, all traces of sleep gone, “I said I care about him than you ever could.”
Anxiety grabbed his chin, his pitch black eyes stared down at him, “At least I do my fucking job. I’m protecting him from failure and what are you doing?” Logan ignored the spittle splattered on his glasses, “Smelling the goddamn flowers?! Pretending is everything is fine?? But it’s NOT!”
“It is–”
“Shut up!” Anxiety growled, “I don’t care? Oh, I care, I care a lot, which is why I’m even here! What, you think I’m going to let Thomas fail because of your incompetence?” Anxiety yanked on his head until Logan whimpered. Anxiety dragged him over to his desk and thrust him into his ergonomic chair not too kindly. The dark side snapped his fingers and his papers flew off his desk in a whirlwind. Until there was nothing left but his textbooks, his notebooks open, and the study guide on top of it all.
Logan turned to look at his messy room behind him but Anxiety pulled him by the hair and shoved his face down into his study guide. The words blurred just beyond his nose. Anxiety blew out a soft sigh, almost out of relief.
“Keep your nose to the grind,” Anxiety bit out, “And maybe Thomas won’t think you’re a pea-brained loser like the side you really are. I’m helping you fool him with your smart schtick.” His claws scratched his scalp as Logan struggled against the desire to read chemical equations until it burned, “Do your job, alright? Nothing is more important than this test. It’s Thomas’ future.”
The worst part about it all, Anxiety was right. All sides who spent time in Logan’s room grew only more honest and logical. So it stood to reason that Anxiety spoke the truth. There was more he could do, and Anxiety was only showing him that. Chemical equations spun in his head, acids fizzled and popped, conjured into existence as his eyes traced the first of the lines on the study guide. Logan ignored the sound of a door clicking closed behind him.
Nothing was more important than this exam. Not even Logan. He was nothing, just another cog in the grand machine meant to do his job. And he would do it. Logan’s pencil scratched in his notebook well into the morning.
Roman knocked on Logan’s door, “Hey, we haven’t seen you in a few days. Are you Gucci, nerd?”
Silence answered. So that was a no. He rolled his eyes as he bit back a sigh. Roman pressed his ears to the wood, but only the sounds of pages being flicked made it through. He dropped his forehead against the door and made a pitiful sound. So that’s why Thomas missed the play, then.
“I’m coming in!” Roman called, one hand on the hilt of his sword, “It’s just me, Roman.”
Roman opened the door and his shoulders dropped at the sight of the room inside. Papers and papers of information and equations were pinned up on the walls. Miniature models of various molecules littered the floor and a particularly large DNA model laid on Logan’s bed. Almost like a lover. Roman shook his head and ignored the thoughts of Logan again being sexually attracted to the weirdest things. Like deadlines.
The side himself sat at his desk. His back hunched and bent like some kind of gremlin. Roman bit back a noise of disgust at Logan’s oily slicked back hair. Did the nerd even take a shower? Logan muttered to himself as Roman laid a hand on his shoulder. Logan didn’t even look up.
“Logan?” Roman whispered, then kneeled down to his level, “We can’t keep going like this. Thomas can’t either.” He put both hands on Logan’s shoulders, not even a glance in his direction, “Please. Just–just snap out of it, my good man!”
“Roman,” Patton called from the doorway, “It won’t work. This is just what happens sometimes…”
Roman shot up, “This isn’t healthy!” He blew out a breath of hot air as he rubbed his temples, “He goes on and on about self-care yet this is what he does in the end! He’s a hypocrite.”
Patton tugged off a blanket from underneath the DNA model on Logan’s bed. He draped it around Logan’s coiled shoulders. His mutterings and recitations never ceased in its tedious rhythm. Patton ran a hand through Logan’s hair and dropped a kiss against his temple.
Roman rolled his eyes as Patton glared at him to do the same. Fine, then. He could be an utter sap for Patton’s sake. Only because he loved his honey puff so much.
Besides, It’s not like Logan would remember him in this strange state in any case. Logan would claim amnesia even if Roman griped about how convenient it all was. In any case, he had to bend to Patton’s sweet demand. Roman ran a tender hand down Logan’s bent spine and dropped a kiss against his sweaty temple. His skin was oddly hot for some reason. Eugh.
But Patton’s beaming smile made it all worth it.
“Come on,” Patton tugged on Roman’s hand, “We have to leave him to it.” His fingers twisted around Roman’s as his smile grew sadder, “I’ll have Thomas call his parents after all this is over. And then Logan will be right as rain.”
“Are you sure, Pat?” Roman said, his voice soft as Logan’s felt comforter, “I thought…we actually agreed on something for once. He said he wanted to go to that play,” He buried his face into Patton’s shoulder as they walked back to the door, “Never mind I suppose. Next–next time I’ll find something more impressive.”
Patton kissed Roman’s hairline, “He’s proud of you. I know he doesn’t say it but he does.” His hold tightened, “I swear it.”
Roman scoffed. He heard Patton’s soft sigh, aw great, he disappointed yet another person today. A headache grew behind his sockets. Roman only hoped this crazed last-minute cramming nightmare ended sooner rather than later. Hardly anyone could be creative under these abysmal conditions!
Patton pulled him out into the hall and closed the door behind them with a quiet click. The two sides drifted away to talk and find a quiet place to ride the brainstorm out. Until Thomas could finally breathe and break down. And Logan could finally eat, talk, and laugh again. Like nothing ever happened.
However, the mystery as to exactly why Logan turned into that frightening state never had an answer. Patton thought it’d always been, and always would be. Roman hated anything that could twist his friend into some..some…control freak. However, he had to chalk it up to Logan’s often weird quirks. Even if niggled at him how could a such a logical and orderly side like Logan fall into chaos the minute something important loomed close. Deadlines, exams, and interviews.
Logan couldn’t answer Roman’s questions and had long grown used to Patton’s sad smile as his recollections failed him. His memories fractured and broke every time he tried. Patton could only pat his hand and tell him it was okay now. As if he wasn’t okay then.
Logan brushed his fingers against his throat for days afterward. Feeling for bruises that were never there. The ghost memory of flames that licked up his back and nipped at his heels. A sense of being burned as his fingers and eyes worked beyond his control. Trapped, silent, and tortured. Perhaps it was for the best he didn’t recall the searing orange flames that kissed his cheeks as his bitter tears evaporated, and didn’t pull away until he finished reading chapter seven. Again and again, burnt, flayed, until he finished eight volumes back to back. Flames on the side of his face.
No. Logan didn’t remember. And the memories were lost to a filing error that he couldn’t bring himself to restore. Instead, he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep with his family on either side of him. Roman pulled him tighter as Patton buried his nose into the back of his neck. All he wanted to remember was right here.
Anxiety, in his dark candlelit room, couldn’t quite go to sleep just yet. He pulled out a dark purple chest covered in emo band covers, from underneath his bed. Anxiety took out a purple lighter from the back pocket of his jeans. He flicked it on and off, the flames whooshing in and out, lighting up his smirk. Finally, he opened his hand and let it drop into the chest. The lighter disappeared into the inky blackness depths with a pop.
A dark curl of satisfaction sat in his chest as he closed it with a click. Anxiety slipped the box back under his bed. Out of sight, out of mind.
Logan was just another workaholic. Nothing more, nothing less. A mystery that wouldn’t be solved, because there was no mystery. Patton and Roman never looked into the matter further. While years later, Virgil shifted uncomfortably whenever he brought it up. Logan didn’t understand why. Virgil simply went all quiet and instead ask to be excused.
Logan didn’t bring it up again.
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