outstretched: (SASO ♥ [daiya no ace] Nori)
For every mile of ocean crossed ☆ ([personal profile] outstretched) wrote in [community profile] thingwithfeathers2017-05-23 03:57 am

Secrets (KuraMiyu, Daiya no Ace, G, unfinished)

Title: secrets
Fandom: Daiya no Ace
Rating: G
Word Count: 347
Genre: Character Study
Characters/Relationships: Kuramochi/Miyuki
Warnings: kind of morose
Disclaimer: Daiya no Ace isn't mine.
Summary: When they're still first years, Kuramochi sees something he shouldn't.
Author's Notes: From SASO 2016, for the prompt "Remember that time Miyuki was crying in the dugout at night and how Kuramochi was the lucky unlucky guy to find him?" But I couldn't figure out where I wanted to go with it, so this is a wip that will probably never be finished.



Kuramochi rushes down the steps into the dugout, careless of where he places his feet. It's nearly eleven at night, but most of their second-year senpai have just finished up training for the evening, and he can hear their voices echoing across the empty field behind him as they head back to the dorms. Kuramochi had passed their group at a jog, ducking his head respectfully and flashing a grin as some of them clapped them on the shoulder, teasing and encouraging him by turns.

Now he stands inside of the dugout and hesitates, listening. It's too quiet, suddenly. There was some kind of noise his ears had picked up, before, even under the rattling of his feet on the steps, and now it's gone.

The back of his neck prickles. He takes another step forward, cautiously, scanning the shadows of the dugout. "Hello?" he ventures.

No response.

Normally he's the kind of guy who rolls his eyes at ghost stories, likes to tell them but hardly believes in them. It's hard not to be a little nervous, though, when you're fifteen and alone in the dark. He thinks about backtracking towards the steps and picking up one of the bats, just in case, before the silence is broken by a wet gasp.

Kuramochi's eyes narrow. "Who's there?" he says again, louder, stepping forward with his fists clenched. His night vision is pretty good—all his senses are—and it isn't long before he can make out a black shape against the dark gray behind the benches.

"Go away," someone snaps, but the attempt at menace is ruined by how choked-up and thick his voice sounds. Kuramochi moves closer and crouches down in front of him.

"Miyuki?"

"Go away," he says again, and Kuramochi's close enough now to see how he's huddled into himself, arms looped tight around his knees, a defensive and miserable ball.

It's not like they've talked much. They're in the same year and run in the same circles—they're popular in the way that all handsome, talented athletes are popular—but Kuramochi can't help but dislike him.

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