Dr. Shimazaki's been skirting around the prominent bruises on Abe's forearm for the past two sessions. He'd meant to change before she saw them, when his skin first started coloring, but his mom picked him up early that day and changing wasn't an option. The imprint of a baseball is remarkably clear, though, so he's pretty certain she's not mistaking it for child abuse.

He hopes.

"How did you come across that bruise?" She finally asks. Her wording confuses Abe. It's not like he collects them in his free time.

"I play baseball," he answers, smartly.

"You're not… being teased, are you Takaya?"

Oh.

Actually, the guys are pretty nice, all things considered. They don't talk about Abe's 'special gifts.' Then again, none of them attend his middle school.

Besides, baseball makes him happy. He's actually pretty great at it, too, if he drops all the empty modesty.

It's middle school, actually, that's more of the problem. He knows most to all of his classmates and they remember him well enough. Kids aren't so forgiving of past mistakes as much as he wishes they were. Then again, he's not exactly a practitioner of the virtue himself.

And that's another reason Abe loves baseball: It makes him appear tougher. Makes him manlier. No one's going to dare mess with a bonefied jock.

"No," He tries to say quickly. "They're fine. It's just the pitcher: He's got a… wild arm."

The good doctor leans back in her chair, which looks just a bit more comfortable than his own. She scrutinizes Abe with a stare he doesn't quite appreciate. She puts her pen against her lips as she asks, "Are you protecting them because you think you deserve it?"

Abe doesn't think that Haruna's missing his glove on purpose. He's the one who egged the wild teen to throw his hardest. So he can't call it abuse or bullying; it's his choice with a lack of accuracy that causes him to take a few extra hits for the team than necessary.

He self-consciously pulls at his sleeve anyway. His therapist must take this as a sign of admission because she tells him, "You don't have to feel like that, Takaya. It's not your fault."

Maybe Abe really is punishing himself by putting up with the pretentious dick bag. It's not like it's been a picnic.

But he feels alive when their on the field together. Abe forgets about silly things and focuses solely on the pitch, on the pap in his mitt. The pain is just a price he pays for being paired with someone so… talented. Even if he is a dick with a strict pitch count.

So maybe he is punishing himself. It sounds like a less selfish alternative to his conscious motives. Because the truth is, he really is the driving factor behind his parent's contempt-or general apathy-towards their eldest son. He's probably the force behind their failing marriage, too. If he's paying the price for it, at least he's pretty happy doing it. Even if he's just deluding himself a bit longer...

"I guess not," Abe chooses to say out of nowhere. It takes a minute, but he sees it in her eyes when Dr. Shimazaki catches up. She writes something down in her notebook and Abe goes back to starring out the window.

Abe found himself hard pressed to sleep that night. His eyes would close, his body finally relax, but then something scratched inside his head. Suddenly his body was wired. This activity ran itself in circles for several cycles before Abe finally gave up.

His sleep had been disturbed all week. Probably a mixture of grief and lack of exercise- he'd even spent all today training the new pitcher instead doing anything worthwhile.

Mihashi.

The thought of the new pitcher reminded Abe of his new discovery and pinched something inside his gut.

He raised his hand against the back drop of his ceiling. Aside from the different shades in the dark, there was nothing discernible about Abe's hand and the gray around him. No protruding colors that made him cringe.

Abe was used to the sight. Or lack thereof. He'd spent most of his childhood prepping himself for the forever long nights. To be alone. But that was okay.

Abe was okay.

He'd been training for this longer than he'd been playing baseball.

It was fine.

The teacher's lounge was surprisingly empty when Abe entered first thing in the morning. The lights had been switched off and the few rays of sun that shone through the early fog casted a soft glow. Someone had seemingly moved the furniture to each side of the room for no visible reason to the young catcher, leaving the center space completely open.

Abe ignored the quick shivers that raced each other down his spine and entered the room with a hoarse, "Hello?"

In the hollowed center it almost felt like his voice had echoed. Morning baseball practice had made Abe accustomed to quiet classrooms when most of the other students were still sleeping or starting their morning commutes, but this was almost ridiculous. He couldn't place his finger on why, but the school had felt… abandoned?

Practice! Abe had skipped practice! At least, he didn't remember attending. He'd probably been called here to discuss something with Momo-kan. Maybe she was giving up on this season, what with their inept new pitcher and inability to find a voluntary club advisor. It was a sobering feeling—Abe had almost believed they'd be just enough. At least for a match or two until next year when they'd be a (hopefully) stronger force. But he knew that dreams didn't just fall into place so easily. They took work. Skills. And a game meant for nine players couldn't be held on the back of three decent players. Tajima had been the miracle that fell into their lap, but hoping for anything more was truly just a pipe dream.

Abe walked to the window, cupping his hands against the glass to try to squint through the fog at the baseball field. The batting cages and fences stood just over the fog, but making anything else out was impossible.

He wondered if the rest of the boys were down there practicing their hitting and throwing. Were they aware their extracurricular activity was about to be cut? Had they decided to just stay home and catch up on sleeping in?

What was Abe supposed to do without baseball?

…Come to think of it… Abe couldn't remember being called to the faculty lounge. His commute to school was as foggy as the condensation outside, which he found rather odd. He didn't think being on "auto pilot" would excuse forgetting almost literally slicing through the air—this sort of weather called for attentive safety protocols. And what's more-

"What the hell?" Abe heard himself exclaim, tearing himself from the view with a knee jerk reaction as it settled in his mind: The field can't be seen from school.

He barely registered stepping on something thick on the floor with his heel until he felt himself slipping backwards, bracing himself for a harsh impact that never came.

The floor was soft for tile. And sort of warm, as opposed to cold and slick as he remembered them feeling. His right hand squeezed at his side, tightening around a group of thick objects—leathery and rough against his calloused fingers. Turning his head met Abe with a sea of off-white—almost gray- and well… red much to his chagrin.

These are… he brought his right hand closer to his face to examine the bunches of leather. His suspicions had been correct: He'd landed in a pile of baseball leather. A pile that hadn't been there when he'd first walked across the room.

It appeared as though someone had dissected hundreds of balls, discarding of the actual center while somehow expertly keeping each side relatively intact with, well, the red string.

Abe was certain of it now. He'd landed smack dab in the middle of a nightmare, in a horror movie setting.

The catcher was going to be skinned alive. He was just hoping he'd wake up before any of the real horror began.

Honestly, though, for feeling rather conscious about the scenario, the raven haired boy didn't feel like he had much control over anything. Usually by this point he could manipulate himself to go flying or imagine himself at a game, or re-imagine a scenario where he actually broke Haruna's arm in a dugout bathroom after a particularly infuriating game—but he hadn't felt very sore about the guy in question for a while now. So long as he didn't think about it…

Scritch, scritch, scitch… started ticking in his ears. It started out light, somewhere from over his head, but soon the noise got denser. It sounded like someone was cutting wood. It occurred to Abe that it might be about the time in his nightmare where the axe murderer came to knock down the door and make an attempt for his (subconscious) life.

But it didn't happen.

The noise continued at the same tone for a long while, neither moving closer nor away. Plus, he reconsidered, the door had been opened when he entered earlier and he hadn't attempted to close it.

When the dream didn't seem to want to pick up its pace, Abe decided it was probably time to explore for the source. It wasn't like he had anything (physical) to lose anyway.

All it took was for the catcher to turn over on his stomach to find out he wasn't alone. Someone (a teacher, he figured) sat quietly hunched over a desk on the side of the room. From the broad shoulders and a coat that look liked something his father would wear to work, Abe assumed it was a male teacher. His figure alone looked rather imposing, but he hadn't seemed to notice the baseball player at all, nor did he seem interested in looking up from his work.

It looked like he was writing, at least from the short jerks of his left shoulder.

"Excuse me?" Abe tried getting his attention. The man didn't even flinch. "Hey!"

Careful of his leather flooring, the catcher slowly stood up and precariously made his way over to the professor.

Now that he was standing, Abe could see that the pile stretched out beyond the open doorway, going down either ends of the hall.

Beside the man's desk sat several hills of the off-white material, standing proudly half way to the ceiling. Honestly, the imagery gave the catcher the creeps. It was giving him second thoughts about trying to blow off therapy for so long—he seemed to be in some desperate need of it now.

Upon reaching the desk, Abe hesitated to place a hand on the man's shoulder. He could have actually been dangerous. Though, Abe reconciled, it didn't actually matter so long as he still woke up. Instead, the catcher chose to look down. The tabletop was in no better condition than the rest of the room- items were shoved every which way and leather pieces and strings were strewn around with no sense of order to be found.

He picked up one end, holding it high enough for the other side to become untangled from it's neighbors. He hadn't been in an investigating mood when he first stumbled on the material, but he could almost make something out in the dim light: There was writing. On each side was very faint font in a different shade of white-words that Abe couldn't understand, and yet something about all of them seemed familiar at the same time.

Abe leaned over to try to get the professor's attention, giving a rather loud (and admittedly brash) exclamation of, "Excuse me?" but the words went cold on his tongue.

The man, from what he could see, had a rather bulky looking appearance. His eyes were downcast and hidden under the thick rim of his glasses. His fore head seemed long and drooped as far as the youth could tell- almost neanderthalic. It would have been a humorous position to see this sort of man hunched over a desk, one hand stretched out as though he were trying to discourage someone from cheating off his test-

It wasn't his appearance that frightened Abe, though.

He was writing characters. Right into the desk.

The catcher couldn't explain why he suddenly felt like running, but he never got the chance as the man's hand suddenly shot out, grabbing at one of Abe's arm and holding it rather tightly. An (almost) silent scream rippled through the smaller males throat as he tugged against his captor. The leather he'd forgotten he'd been holding involuntarily dropped to the floor.

At first it seemed as though the man were angry-this was it, this was the part of the dream where he got, well, killed-but the harsh face dissolved into a long, odd smile that seemed almost… insidious to the frightened catcher. It felt like a block of ice had frozen around the organs in his gut.

"I think it's time you got ready for practice now, Abe," the man stated, matter of factly.

"Why?"

Abe mouthed the words as he starred up at his bedroom ceiling. His phone alarm went off, followed shortly by the clock on his bed side table.

It took a minute for him to realize the whole thing had been a dream. The memory of the man's eyes sent a shiver down his spine, but Abe couldn't spare too much time dwelling on it. He had a pitcher to train.

I'll probably try editing this again by the end of the week, but I decided if I hold on to it any longer I probably wouldn't upload it at all unu Sorry if the character seems out of… well, character… I hope it was enjoyable on some level~! And Happy Holidays!