The streets blurred under the drizzle, but Ryota didn’t stop. His sneakers slapped the pavement, fast and uneven, the rhythm of a man running from something he couldn’t bear to face.
But tonight, every step hurt. The cheers still echoed in his skull.
Sawakita! Untouchable Ace!
— until they didn’t sound like praise, but chains.
His hands trembled at his sides. He wanted to punch something, scream, anything — but all he could do was keep walking.
The city lights smeared through his wet lashes. The wristband Eiji had given him rubbed against his skin, its fabric soaked but stubbornly clinging, as if refusing to let go when he wanted to. He brushed it with his thumb — and that tiny gesture, that memory of Eiji’s fingers fastening it around his wrist, split him open.
He remembered that quiet laugh, the tenderness behind it.
“Consider it a promise,” Eiji had said.
“Not to run too far ahead of me.”
His throat closed. Tears mixed with rain.
The ache burned and the wristband seemed clutching like a wound.
“You’re too far now,” he whispered to no one. “Way too far.”
Ryota’s chest tightened, breath shallow.
He could still see Eiji on the court, calm and steady, every movement perfect, untouchable. And when that last shot sank—the one that sealed Shohoku’s loss—Eiji didn’t even flinch.
He just looked at him.
That look—controlled, empty, unreadable—cut deeper than any defeat.
“I tried so damn hard…” Ryota muttered, voice cracking. “I gave everything. And still…”
The words broke apart in the rain.
It wasn’t just losing the game—it was losing the person he thought knew him best. The one who used to smile softly after practice, who would murmur,
“Don’t burn too fast, Ryota,”
while brushing sweat from his hair.
But tonight, that warmth had vanished.
All that stood on the other side of the court was Sawakita Eiji, Sannoh’s Ace.
Not the man who once kissed him under flickering lights.
Not the quiet voice that said,
“You’re enough.”
The wristband. The one Eiji had given him. He stared at it through the downpour, rainwater blurring the engraved initials that once made him grin like an idiot.
Eiji’s face flickered behind his eyes—the calm eyes that softened whenever Ryota laughed, the rare smile that only belonged to him. For a second, he could almost feel that touch again.
The warmth. The tenderness.
Then the ache hit.
Hard.
He didn’t even realize the tears until they mixed with the rain. His breath hitched, sharp and uneven. With trembling fingers, he tugged at the wristband. It resisted, snug around his wrist— as if refusing to let go.
“Don’t…” he whispered, voice breaking.
But he pulled anyway.
The band slipped free, and in that single motion, it felt like he was tearing something out of himself—his chest hollowing, his breath stolen.
For a long moment, he just stood there, staring at it in his palm. His reflection shimmered in the rain pooling at his feet: a captain, a loser, a fool.
His fingers clenched around the band, knuckles white. His whole arm shook.
“I thought I could reach you,” he choked out. “But maybe I was wrong.”
The street stretched ahead, the faint glow of Eiji’s apartment just visible at the end— close enough to touch, but already a world away.
Ryota turned his back on it. The rain poured harder, hiding the tears he couldn’t stop.
“Not today,” he whispered. “Not after this.”
And for the first time, he walked away from that familiar street—
the one that used to mean Eiji,
the one that used to mean home.
---
The game had ended. The roar of the crowd still echoed in his ears.
Eiji stepped out from the court, mask still in place, hands steady. But inside—his chest ached. The memory of Ryota’s glare burned sharper than any bruise.
He pulled out his phone. His thumb trembled, but he pressed the number he knew by heart.
The line clicked.
“Hel—”
Cut. Dead.
Eiji froze. Stared at the screen.
Tried again. The call connected, silence on the other end—then his voice broke out, soft, urgent:
“Where are—”
Another click. Harder. Final.
The silence that followed was louder than the crowd had ever been.
“…Ryota…”
His whisper cracked, swallowed by the storm beginning outside.
He tried again.
And again.
Until finally, the screen flashed:
Number not in service.
Blocked.
Eiji’s breath shattered. His hand shook around the phone. His chest squeezed tight, an ache so sharp he pressed his palm against it, as if to hold it together.
He pushed me back — not just my body, but all the warmth I ever gave him.
He went home.
The apartment was dark, quiet, waiting. The place where Ryota always came, after every practice, every game, win or lose.
Eiji sat there in silence, shoes still on, waiting. Listening. Hoping. But the door never opened. He tried calling again. Straight to voicemail. His hand clutched tighter at his chest.
His lips trembled.
This chest was meant for you. And tonight, it’s empty.
He couldn’t stay still. His body dragged itself to Shohoku’s dorm. As he was riding his motorbike, his fingers brushing the matching wristband still clasped at his wrist, matching with the one Ryota had worn through every practice, every fight. He hadn’t taken it off, not even tonight.
The rain beginning to drizzle as he knocked.The door cracked open.
A dormmate stared. Hesitated.
“…He’s not home.”
Eiji’s gaze held for a long, silent moment. He wanted to press, to push past, to demand the truth. But he didn’t. He stepped back. And the door closed.
So he waited outside. The drizzle turned to rain. The rain to storm. Still, he waited.
I told myself I had to be captain.
I had to be the ace,
the untouchable one they all cheer for.
If I falter, Sannoh falters.
If I stumble, the school’s pride falls.
So I wore the mask. Again and again.
Until even you couldn’t see me.
The rain blurred the streets into streaks of silver. Each drop stung cold against his skin, but none of it cut as deep as the memory still echoing in his chest.
Ryota’s shove. His voice, breaking:
“What am I to you?!”
Eiji’s hand clenched over his shirt now, right where Ryota had pushed him away. That chest... the same place where Ryota had rested, where he had listened to his heartbeat, where Eiji had thought warmth alone was enough. He had given it freely, again and again. And Ryota’s hands had thrown it back at him.
Eiji’s lips fluttered. He had answered on the court, as calmly as he could:
Don’t lose yourself.
But the words that filled him now were different, rawer, truer.
This chest was never a shield against you, Ryota. It was yours. It will always be yours.
The rain poured harder, masking the tears that finally broke free. His steps slowed, then faltered, his body swaying with exhaustion, not just from the game, but from the weight of everything he carried: the mask, the duty, the ache of trying to shape Ryota and failing, the hollow silence of being shut out.
He tilted his head back, eyes squeezed shut. The sound of the crowd still rang in his ears, chanting his name, praising him as the untouchable ace. But all he could hear beneath it was Ryota’s voice — furious, breaking, asking what he was worth.
Sweet moments cut crueler now, flashing in fragments:
Ryota’s cocky grin at the chain-link court.
Ryota flushed red as he kissed him between equations.
Ryota’s voice muffled against his chest, whispering his name like a prayer.
Hours later, with rain pouring so hard it blurred the world, Eiji finally turned away. His steps faltered. His body shivered. Rain blurred the streetlights into smears of white and gold.
Eiji’s breath hitched. His chest burned under his palm, as if the shove had left a wound no mask could cover. He whispered inside the rain,
What are you to me?
You are the fire, the ache,
the reason this chest still beats.
You’re everything. And yet,
even when I give you everything…
it’s still not enough, is it?
The rain swallowed his words. His legs gave, body lurched, crashing to the pavement, cheek striking cold stone. His fist stayed clutched to his chest, as if holding the shattered warmth in place.
“…Ryota…”
he whispered into the storm.
And then everything went dark.
