12 Second Record (A GenMui Fanfic | Highschool AU) *NEW*

Not so Usual

GENYA SHINAZUGAWA

It stayed tranquil as my eyes wandered longingly across the layout of the track. Dust congregated around the broad edges—the parakeet field beyond it complimenting the lemon‐like sun rays. I had relish for the seclusion and quietness this view gave me from the top of the bleachers. During school hours the silence that was present right now was nonexistent. The peace and tranquility this spot gave me was remained my inducement of belonging here.

Almost daily, had I been visiting the vicinity of this quarter in the school grounds. I utilized the bleachers as a recalling of prior hours the same day—everyday. Today was nothing of change equated to other days, although the sun was much more lustrous. Having rarely gotten any sunny days in November; the weather was noticed, pristine. However, it still remained natheless normal.

Until somebody made it not so normal.

A teenage boy suddenly arose from the dilapidated doors of the bleachers. On him was a crimson track suit—on his arm; an ebony training bag slunged across his shoulder. It wasn't made palpable I'd seen him on the track, but my eyes could swear to seeing the mane of black and blue in the corridors of the school building. He was in the peculiar hands of a friend group in particular, but always repudiated communicating.

On his head, was a cluster of black long hair; blue being a partial add-on halfway of it. I observed him set the training bag down and take hold of a black hair band from its inventory. Looking up to the sky with his eyes shut, he then pursued locking his hair into a ponytail.

He fumbled with the jungle of his training bag once again, taking out grandeur jogging shoes. The ivory-colored shoes on his feet were soon substituted by the jogging ones. I began to wonder why he was out at this time in particular. The track team never got out this early, having been my motive for coming out here. Had I been out too late? Cautiously, I peered at the display of my wristwatch, nudging two hours before track meet.

Evidently, he was polishing his stability prior to his usual practices. I didn't know much about that subject since I rarely partook in the trend of extracurricular activities. I had a history of basketball but ceased when my doctor said it would be detrimental for my leg.

He laid off the crimson outer garment enveloping the track shirt beneath and sighed. Even from afar, my attention was drawn to the fetching attributes of his face, as he closed his eyes. Leisurely, he bent down and clutched the beige dust into his palms. Periods of suspiring passed before he snicked his feet onto the grown twice and ran off—a series of dust trailing behind his shadow.

Having not been familiar to this sort of celerity amongst highschoolers, I was baffled. Maybe some of the seniors, but scanty; concerning freshmen. Or, was he a freshman? His looks had thus far given a reply for itself. His physical features contained a young face and short genes. But that remained the only authentication that really came with the likelihood of occurring a freshman. The entirety of his ponytail bobbed in a substantial amount of velocity. And with all of his might, he came trotting back to the very beginning of the track.

His breaths grew dented and uneven, as he lounged his hands onto his knees. A curse was distinguished after his eyes found itself on the shutter of his phone.

He received subtle and serene sips out of the basil green water bottle, lounged on the bleachers. Once again, a chiffon shaded white cloth exposed itself of the caved training bag. He mopped the sweat off the surface of his balmy face—hastily, surveyed his phone for awhile, before positing a stopwatch once again.

As was usually performed—he held the screen of his phone, rapped the ground twice with his feet, commenced his stopwatch, and abruptly sanctioned his phone to drop onto the dust—preparatory to sprinting a following time. This behavior pursued for minutes followed by more minutes, and after a while he was back at the posterior part of the track for the 15th time. At the finish line. He dissected his stopwatch for a final time, and groaned in defeat as before.

Having been occupied of failure; he raised up his water bottle to take an additional sip from it, cursed, and hurled it towards the ground.

"It's already empty?"

Oh.

On instinct, I reached into the labyrinth of my sangria bookbag and brought out an Alkaline water bottle. It remained one more, or at least, the sole bottle able to fit in my bookbag inhabited of binders and notebooks. The dimensions of said bookbag weren't sufficient. Even so, I fit as much as possible into each component—ruckling a few papers or assignments.

"Hey!" I called out from the bleachers, grasping the bottle into my hand.

The long haired boy who had been flaring the top hem of his garment so that air could slip in, jolted in fret—perceiving my voice and staggered, before glancing up at me.

I skyed the water bottle towards his direction attentively; as to not welt him. His hands had gained on it, and with the assistance of reflexes he clutched it. He was instantly inclined and unfastened the water bottle before taking measured gulps.

The slick ponytail from not so long ago, was now intricate and disarranged—bijou locks finding their way out of the clutch of the hair band. Sweat dribbled down his nose and down his neck complimenting his physical facets. His face was entirely salmon pink and fatigued, perhaps from the vitality used up. I'd be lying if I said it didn't look the least bit attractive.

Howbeit, I loathed thinking that way about peers after Sanemi prohibited me from folding relationships with others. There exists nobody you could trust abundantly as to not damage you mentally in the end, according to him. No matter how much he toyed me about it, I hoped there'd be someone in particular.

I zipped my bookbag and set out to vacate, heading down from the bleachers. The minute the sole of my shoe had abutted the rugged way out, a velvety hand clutched onto my sleeve slightly. I turned around to discern the freshman glancing at me; his hand kipped on the hem of my sleeve. He hurled my emptied water bottle onto the surface and mopped the sweat off his face, displaying his tan but almost concealed freckles. (I know Muichiro doesn't have freckles, but I'm a big fan of them and so I decided to throw them on him.)

"So, how long have you been up there staring at me? Be honest," He asked.

I was quite taken aback from the unexpected question.

"I wasn't staring at you—I mean, I guess I was but I wasn't intending anything wrong. Sorry if I scared you...," I apologized, scratching the back of my head.

Leisurely, he creased his eyebrows and released my sleeve with a sigh. He'd discarded his hair band and gathered up the very few unbound locks that'd broken free, retying his tortuous hair. It went tranquil for a moment as I observed him rake back the forepart of his hair within his hands aid. He sponged his face using the white chiffon cloth preceding to sitting back down on the bleachers.

"Oh no, you're fine," He said with a reassuring smile. "So you were just watching me struggle and couldn't lend a helping hand?"

I failed to decode if he was in all seriousness or not—having been beaming all the while he spoke. Not to mention, he wasn't mistaken. He appeared to flounder during each sprint. Despite how experienced he looked to be, it occurred he had his own little foibles. I'd also beared in mind how difficult it'd been for him to run out of breath. It was quite impressive, to say the least. However, he never appeared to be contented with his results whenever he concluded his sprint throughout the track and confronted his phone.

"Alright, well... I'm Muichiro, and you?" He announced, crossing his arms.

"Genya," I said in response.

Word Count: 1392