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His face scrunches in discomfort. His lips allow a grunt to escape from them, deafening in the quiet of his bedroom.
His eyes take a moment to adjust to the dark, staring up at the ceiling fan where the blades blur into one. The fan hums uselessly, doing little to cool the room. Violet strands of hair cling to his forehead and the back of his neck, damp with sweat. The sensation had irritated him enough to the point of waking up.
The bedside alarm clock glows an angry red, displaying the hour 02:52.
He swallows. A bitter taste clings to his tongue, and his face contorts again in distaste. That’s the final straw. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, which were already half-dangling off it due to his size anyways, and hisses as the cool tiles sting under his feet, even though he expected the chill.
He heads straight for the shower, stepping in the second the faucet turns on. No waiting for the water to warm up. Cold water rains down his body, and he leans against the wall, letting it hit him. His vision blurs, purple hair clinging to his face, water slipping past his lashes.
He stays like that long after the sweat is gone. He waits for the cold to jolt him awake, to sharpen his mind.
Two drops of water race each other across the wall. He watches them, silently placing a bet, until they merge and slide down into the drain, along with the others trickling from his eyes. Down his cheeks. Off his chin.
He doesn’t know why his eyes well up every day. But he’s stopped trying to wipe it away. Stopped praying it would end. Now he just waits.
When it does stop, he steps out, throws on a loose tank top and a pair of gym shorts. He avoids tighter clothes, the touch of fabric against his skin still too much. His eyes burn, but he ignores it. Bad sleep, or the tears. Probably both.
Without thinking, he finds himself heading out the door.
He doesn’t make a sound. He knows exactly where each piece of furniture is, sidesteps them like it’s muscle memory. Not that anyone would wake if he did make noise. His late-night, or well, early morning escapes now routine.
The bell above the convenience store door chimes, announcing his entrance. The clerk doesn’t concern himself with lifting his gaze from his magazine to greet the newcomer. He already knows it’s Atsushi.
The teen roams the aisles, the crown of his head just visible above the shelves. He scans the merchandise like it’s unfamiliar, like he doesn’t already know every item’s place from countless nightly visits.
He heads to the freezer at the edge of the store and pulls out a pack of melon-flavored popsicles.
Once, he used to haul armfuls of sweets to the register, dumping them onto the counter as he ignored the wide-eyed expression the cashier gave him as they scanned each item.
But lately, even sugar doesn’t fill the pit in his stomach. The dopamine not hitting the same. Something’s missing. Something he’s buried, layered over, silenced.
Lately, the mask is slipping.
The lid he’s kept clamped over his emotions is starting to tilt. Bit by bit, things have started to seep through.
He silently hands a bill over when asked about his method of payment. As soon as he is handed his bag, he takes his departure, not wasting a moment on pleasantries.
He doesn’t realize where he’s going until he’s already there, standing by the same familiar stream, popsicle between his lips. He bites into it, the cold a welcome distraction. Around him, petals float on the water’s surface, carried off to wherever the current leads.
Everything’s in motion.
Everything except him.
The Generation of Miracles have all moved on. Found new meaning in the game they once shared.
But for him, the goal remained the same along with its means.
Dynamics change, yet he can’t seem to change with them, cracking the same inside jokes even when he is no longer “inside.” Always missing the tone shift. Always scolded for it. Why can’t someone just explain instead of getting mad?
He’s always the last one to the finish line, if he even reaches it at all. And he doesn’t know what he’s lagging behind in. Doesn’t even know how to catch up. In some things, he never will.
He says losers should quit. People around him, especially Kuroko, think it’s harsh. But is that judgment really fair when that’s exactly what they taught him?
They all grew up. Fast. And they let go of his hand just as quickly when he couldn’t match their pace in the race to adulthood, leaving him behind.
“Grow up.”
He hears that more than anything else.
But no one tells him how.
If they’re all so desperate for him to mature, why does no one guide him?
He wants to scream, but it would look like he had lost his voice somewhere in all the times he was shut up for not adjusting to the changes he didn’t even know were made.
It just became easier to stay quiet, to stuff his mouth with candy that offered the comfort people never had and go on.
He chucks the empty popsicle box aside and grips his hair in both hands, pulling at the roots, just enough to cause pain, to provide some relief from the thoughts inside his head.
It was better when he didn’t care.
Or at least when he could pretend not to.
When morning comes, his world will stay the same. So he just closes his eyes as he tugs slightly harder at the strands before dropping his hands to his sides and starting to walk back home.