Hisashi can still hear Eijun chirping from the bench outside, sits curling and uncurling his fingers from the edge of it.
It's cold, now, wind at his nose, and moreso in the evenings when there's no desperate running, just chatter about tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. He glances at the scorebook beside him, edges started to batter, back pages warping from the moisture.
He sighs and leans back, rests his head against the wall and closes his eyes to Tokyo's winter smog.
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It's cold, now, wind at his nose, and moreso in the evenings when there's no desperate running, just chatter about tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. He glances at the scorebook beside him, edges started to batter, back pages warping from the moisture.
He sighs and leans back, rests his head against the wall and closes his eyes to Tokyo's winter smog.
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