Âme || {Sousuke x Reader}

Chapter 1

Just a little further!

The wall looms in front of you, the black and yellow touchpad urging you to go faster. Pain flares behind your eyes, and your muscles scream under the strain you're putting on them.

Turning your head to the side for breath, you see the white marked lane line signaling 15 meters left to go. Steeling your resolve, you take one last breath and charge for home.

Five yards left.

Now four.

Your lungs are wracked with pain, begging you to fill them with air. Your eyes tear up, fogging up your vision. Stubbornly, you close your eyes. You can feel your way to the wall; your eyes would only hold you back.

Two yards.

One.

With a last burst of energy, you lunge forward and slam your hand on the touchpad. Quickly, you lift your head from the water, water streaming down from your face and your chest heaving. Looking at the, a small smile plays on your lips.

The number '1' sits next to your name, along with your time- a new personal best. You slip your cap off and shake your head, letting your hair float in the water.

You didn't win the event. Actually, you'd go on to place 20th overall. However, being heat winner was more than enough for you. You were elated that you even made it this far.

Grabbing the backstroke bars, you bounce twice and use that momentum to haul yourself over the blocks. You stand there for a few seconds, trying to calm your spinning vision. Once the black spots slowly fade from your eyes, you walk slowly through the crowd, trying hard not to make contact with other people's half-naked bodies.

You walk across the bustling pool deck, your flip flops squishing in various puddles of water. With each step, your leg muscles tighten, trying to keep you upright. Heading towards your team, you see an empty spot on the bleachers. To your relief, your [color] towel is still neatly folded and untouched. A familiar bag sits next to the towel, with the letters [N-A-M-E] printed on it.

Reaching your seat, you sit down. Your fingers brush over an empty can of Coke and accidently brush it over the bench. It clatters to the floor with a metallic clunk.

"Oops," you mutter to yourself, picking it up. You can see your reflection staring back at you in its aluminum surface, your face oddly distorted. Without meaning to, you suddenly break into a giggle.

You get up again to throw the can away, patting your towel down so nobody stole your seat. As the Coke can clatters in the empty garbage bin, you see the official put his mouth to his whistle. He blows it once, and the clamor in the natatorium dies down.

The swimmers step up to the blocks, some of them still doing their pre-race routine.

The official blows his whistle twice, and the heat calms down, their fingers gripping the edge of the blocks and their feet twisting into position.

"Take your marks..."

Beep! The crowd roars and the swimmers leap off the blocks, slicing into the water. To your dismay, they're still on your event- meaning you were one of the earlier heats.

"Still behind..." you sigh to yourself. You amble back to your bag and put on your warmup suit, wringing out your hair and watching the water stream into the gutter. A loud squeal on your left piques your interest, and you look over to see a few of your teammates hugging each other.

Looking at your celebrating teammates, a pang of jealousy and sadness builds in your chest, sitting in your windpipe like a cement block.

Everyone is laughing, smiling, and cheering for each other.