[team four] like dust
I was really trying to finish this up but I gotta post and go to bed. Hopefully I will finish this someday.
“Time to hit the shower, boys!”
The coach’s yell comes not a second too soon. As his voice still echoes off the bleachers, droplets of rain start to fall from the skies.
The team runs off the pitch in a heard, yelling with laughter as they try to avoid getting drenched to their bones from the sudden downpour. It becomes a race to be the first one to the door that leads to the locker room.
Tai is the first one, as he always is, driven by his extreme urge to win. He plays forward and with his competitive personality, it usually means he scores at least one goal during a match. Tai also plays better when they’re losing. Key and First play forward with him, and they’re also the ones hot on his heels. Macau laughs loudly with joy as he follows his team through the door and towards the locker rooms.
A hot shower, two towel-induced bruises on his ass, and a change into dry, clean clothes later, Macau feels like an entirely new person. His body is a bit sore from the penalty practice, which means getting out of bed tomorrow will be a bitch.
He bids two of their defenders, Nuea and Cap, goodbye before he exits the humid locker room. Most of the team had already left, but Macau had stayed to discuss the upcoming match with their captain, who had taken much more time than Macau had anticipated.
The locker rooms are located on the lower ground floor of the old part of the school. It mostly houses locker rooms used for the sports teams, due to the easy access from the pitch, but it also has a couple of old classrooms that can be booked by the after-school clubs. Mostly it’s empty, especially this late in the afternoon. Macau had briefly checked his phone before leaving the locker room, and it was almost six in the afternoon.
As he heads through the corridor, passing doors to empty classrooms, with the soft noises of his teammates still hanging out in the locker room following him, Macau wonders if he should text Vegas to ask if he can pick him up. His brother hasn’t fully healed yet and is mostly bedridden, more by force than by choice, but he told Macau he could pick him up whenever. Pete had told him the same thing before he left this morning, and Pete wasn’t healing from getting shot like a hundred times in the stomach so Macau thinks maybe he’s the best choice out of the two.
Macau pulls his phone out of the pocket of his uniform shorts, unlocks it, and flicks through his LINE messages until he finds P’Pete („• ᴗ •„) in the list. A grin spreads on Macau’s face as he sees their last conversation, completely made out of idol stickers. He’s scrolling through the stickers again, watching thoughtlessly as the animated k-pop idol faces change on his screen. His thumb is hovering over a sticker of an EXO member when a soft, gentle sound reaches his ears.
Pausing to silence the sound of his own steps, Macau listens again.
It sounds like someone singing. It’s definitely a song, Macau thinks. It’s a consistent, even tune that goes on and on. He can’t recognize the melody or the lyrics, he’s too far away for that. The song grows louder the further down the corridor Macau walks, his phone still clutched in his hand, with Pete’s chat room open on his screen.
Just a little bit further ahead, Macau discovers a door that’s slightly ajar, looking like it was supposed to be closed but that the user of the room didn’t shut it firmly enough when they entered. Macau knows that sometimes the school band or students who study music use the empty classrooms here to rehearse, so as to not disturb anyone else with their music.
The music is much clearer to him now, as he stands next to the door, music seeping out through the tiny crack between the door and its frame. The tinny quality that the music has makes Macau think that it’s coming from a speaker and not a particularly good one. However, in addition to the recorded song, there’s also the gentle hum of a guitar playing along. There’s a guitar in the song as well, but there’s an additional guitar that’s following along to the recording in real-time. Someone’s singing along to the song too, Macau thinks, as there’s at least one other voice in addition to the singer on the recording. The voice follows the song but it’s not following the tune of the song at all.
As Macau reaches out to quietly close the door to the classroom and leave its occupants to themselves, he hears it.
If the whole world falls apart, that’s fine.
There’s a split second where the recording is completely quiet. There’s no music, no singer. There’s nothing save for a gentle silence. And then someone sobs. The music returns with full force as the singer, who sounds awfully familiar to Macau, starts singing again. The song crashes over him, bathing the room and the corridor in the sore, apologetic voice that belongs to the singer. The music is back, but the sobs haven’t stopped. They’re easier to pick out now.
The voice that had been singing along to the song hadn’t been singing. It had been crying. Now that Macau has heard it, it’s much easier to separate from the singer.
Macau should probably leave. If someone’s hiding out here to cry, it’s because they want to be left alone. Another sob cuts through the music. Macau can’t leave.
Even in a world without stars …
His fingers curl around the doorknob as he gently pulls the door open.
The classroom looks like it hasn’t been used in a while, as there are dust particles floating in the air, made visible by the setting sun that bathes the room in a warm, yellow color. The desks and chairs are stowed in the back of the classroom, making it seem oddly naked and empty.
In the front of the classroom, by the teacher’s desk and the blackboard, by the roof-to-floor window, sits a boy. He’s wearing the exact same uniform that Macau is wearing, with the blue short-sleeved shirt and the black shorts. He sits with his back against an old shelf filled with books whose knowledge probably are out of date. The boy sits cross-legged on the floor, an acoustic guitar in his lap. His long fingers are curled around the guitar’s neck as if he’s playing, as if he’s in-between chords. Only he’s not, because he’s halfway bent over the guitar’s body, his face twisted in anguish as he sobs. Macau can see the physical effect the sobs have on his body, can see how they tremble through his body, escaping through his mouth as the sorest, heart-wrecking sobs Macau has heard in a while.
There’s a phone lying on the floor in front of him, showing a video of someone playing guitar.
Why don’t you stay?
Macau steps fully into the room, hand curled around the frame of the door, still.
“Are you okay?”
alchemicink, you're up <3
“Time to hit the shower, boys!”
The coach’s yell comes not a second too soon. As his voice still echoes off the bleachers, droplets of rain start to fall from the skies.
The team runs off the pitch in a heard, yelling with laughter as they try to avoid getting drenched to their bones from the sudden downpour. It becomes a race to be the first one to the door that leads to the locker room.
Tai is the first one, as he always is, driven by his extreme urge to win. He plays forward and with his competitive personality, it usually means he scores at least one goal during a match. Tai also plays better when they’re losing. Key and First play forward with him, and they’re also the ones hot on his heels. Macau laughs loudly with joy as he follows his team through the door and towards the locker rooms.
A hot shower, two towel-induced bruises on his ass, and a change into dry, clean clothes later, Macau feels like an entirely new person. His body is a bit sore from the penalty practice, which means getting out of bed tomorrow will be a bitch.
He bids two of their defenders, Nuea and Cap, goodbye before he exits the humid locker room. Most of the team had already left, but Macau had stayed to discuss the upcoming match with their captain, who had taken much more time than Macau had anticipated.
The locker rooms are located on the lower ground floor of the old part of the school. It mostly houses locker rooms used for the sports teams, due to the easy access from the pitch, but it also has a couple of old classrooms that can be booked by the after-school clubs. Mostly it’s empty, especially this late in the afternoon. Macau had briefly checked his phone before leaving the locker room, and it was almost six in the afternoon.
As he heads through the corridor, passing doors to empty classrooms, with the soft noises of his teammates still hanging out in the locker room following him, Macau wonders if he should text Vegas to ask if he can pick him up. His brother hasn’t fully healed yet and is mostly bedridden, more by force than by choice, but he told Macau he could pick him up whenever. Pete had told him the same thing before he left this morning, and Pete wasn’t healing from getting shot like a hundred times in the stomach so Macau thinks maybe he’s the best choice out of the two.
Macau pulls his phone out of the pocket of his uniform shorts, unlocks it, and flicks through his LINE messages until he finds P’Pete („• ᴗ •„) in the list. A grin spreads on Macau’s face as he sees their last conversation, completely made out of idol stickers. He’s scrolling through the stickers again, watching thoughtlessly as the animated k-pop idol faces change on his screen. His thumb is hovering over a sticker of an EXO member when a soft, gentle sound reaches his ears.
Pausing to silence the sound of his own steps, Macau listens again.
It sounds like someone singing. It’s definitely a song, Macau thinks. It’s a consistent, even tune that goes on and on. He can’t recognize the melody or the lyrics, he’s too far away for that. The song grows louder the further down the corridor Macau walks, his phone still clutched in his hand, with Pete’s chat room open on his screen.
Just a little bit further ahead, Macau discovers a door that’s slightly ajar, looking like it was supposed to be closed but that the user of the room didn’t shut it firmly enough when they entered. Macau knows that sometimes the school band or students who study music use the empty classrooms here to rehearse, so as to not disturb anyone else with their music.
The music is much clearer to him now, as he stands next to the door, music seeping out through the tiny crack between the door and its frame. The tinny quality that the music has makes Macau think that it’s coming from a speaker and not a particularly good one. However, in addition to the recorded song, there’s also the gentle hum of a guitar playing along. There’s a guitar in the song as well, but there’s an additional guitar that’s following along to the recording in real-time. Someone’s singing along to the song too, Macau thinks, as there’s at least one other voice in addition to the singer on the recording. The voice follows the song but it’s not following the tune of the song at all.
As Macau reaches out to quietly close the door to the classroom and leave its occupants to themselves, he hears it.
If the whole world falls apart, that’s fine.
There’s a split second where the recording is completely quiet. There’s no music, no singer. There’s nothing save for a gentle silence. And then someone sobs. The music returns with full force as the singer, who sounds awfully familiar to Macau, starts singing again. The song crashes over him, bathing the room and the corridor in the sore, apologetic voice that belongs to the singer. The music is back, but the sobs haven’t stopped. They’re easier to pick out now.
The voice that had been singing along to the song hadn’t been singing. It had been crying. Now that Macau has heard it, it’s much easier to separate from the singer.
Macau should probably leave. If someone’s hiding out here to cry, it’s because they want to be left alone. Another sob cuts through the music. Macau can’t leave.
Even in a world without stars …
His fingers curl around the doorknob as he gently pulls the door open.
The classroom looks like it hasn’t been used in a while, as there are dust particles floating in the air, made visible by the setting sun that bathes the room in a warm, yellow color. The desks and chairs are stowed in the back of the classroom, making it seem oddly naked and empty.
In the front of the classroom, by the teacher’s desk and the blackboard, by the roof-to-floor window, sits a boy. He’s wearing the exact same uniform that Macau is wearing, with the blue short-sleeved shirt and the black shorts. He sits with his back against an old shelf filled with books whose knowledge probably are out of date. The boy sits cross-legged on the floor, an acoustic guitar in his lap. His long fingers are curled around the guitar’s neck as if he’s playing, as if he’s in-between chords. Only he’s not, because he’s halfway bent over the guitar’s body, his face twisted in anguish as he sobs. Macau can see the physical effect the sobs have on his body, can see how they tremble through his body, escaping through his mouth as the sorest, heart-wrecking sobs Macau has heard in a while.
There’s a phone lying on the floor in front of him, showing a video of someone playing guitar.
Why don’t you stay?
Macau steps fully into the room, hand curled around the frame of the door, still.
“Are you okay?”
alchemicink, you're up <3