Some say that there’s nothing worse than a sore loser. The kind of people that will piss and moan about their loss, cut down the winner and everyone else involved, blaming everyone but themselves for the task they either did not complete, could not complete, or couldn’t complete well enough.

The kind that berate the champions, the judges, their peers. The people that carried them, trained them, gave them ‘false hope’ that they could be number one.

But what about the sore losers that aren’t as vocal, the ones that brood and keep quiet, the ones that blame themselves - with smiles that don’t reach their eyes, empty gratitudes for the ‘job well done’s they receive, and the broken-hearted feeling they carry with them away from whatever it is they didn’t quite make it as?

The ones self-marked as failures, beating themselves up in solitude for something they gave their all to, and came up short?

“You carry that failure with you,” you whispered to yourself; your sad, quiet reflection in the mirror that watched you with dull, blue eyes. “You are nothing, Manami Sangaku.”

And you believed it.

The days past since the Inter-high were long; empty; meaningless. Your failure had cut you deeply, and a part of you felt silly - It was just a race, after all. A race that had been fun, a race that, logically, bore no mark on you as an individual, or even a cyclist. There were people that would have given anything, material or otherwise in their lives to come in second like you had.

The other part of you hated that first part. The childish part, the fun part. Foolish. Naive. The Inter-high was clearly what you were born for, and you fucked. That. Right. Up. Not only had you let yourself down - it would have been different! Things would have been different if this were some personal milestone you attempted, something on your own time that you could win or lose - but you’d let Hakogaku down, too. Toudou, Arakita. Fukutomi. A part of you even broke for Izumida and Shinkai. They had sent you in, not as a last resort but as their hope, their last bastion against Sohoku.

You hadn’t left your room in days. It reminded you of when you were little, sick and weary and unable to do anything for yourself. Toudou had called. Fukutomi had tried to stop by, but you made your mother tell him you were out. It was a feeble excuse, seeing as you weren’t even in school, but he’d stopped coming - he stopped caring. No one else really… Seemed aware of what was going on. And that was fine with you. Better to fade away peacefully than to go out kicking and screaming, leaving a mark on the face of Hakogaku that shed them in a poor light.

You thought it was fine with you. It… Hurt. But then there was that part of you again, sneering and telling you you didn’t deserve it anyway, didn’t deserve the pity and the words of kindness or encouragement. You didn’t want that. Maybe you wanted the companionship. But you didn’t need someone telling you you did your best, you did just fine, <i>everything was <b>okay</b>.</i>

Hauling yourself off the floor, you head to your bed. The bitter nostalgia of childhood hits you even harder, like a chill, climbing up your back and throwing itself over your head like the bag before an execution. You climb onto your bed - facing your tv, eyes roving over the game systems piled next to it. You hate video games. They remind you, again, of your childhood. You were very sick as a child, bedridden and only had video games to pass the time. Your resentment of the heroes and anti-heroes alike stemmed from one thing: you wanted to suffer like they did. You wanted to feel alive - live your own life, make decisions that were good or bad, painful and rewarding.

Your empathy needed work.

Not knowing what else to do with yourself, you started up a game and decided to subject yourself to the torment. Six lives lost later, you were just as miserable as you had been when you started.

Though, in a moment of self-preservation, you decide to get some fresh air. It reminds you that you are /not/ helpless, and that maybe there is hope for you and your mood yet.

The optimism lasts until you get to your bike, hand on the seat as you stare at it. You don’t really deserve to ride your bike, do you?

“You lost that privilege,” you mumbled with a small frown, turning away from it and heading to the street. Hands get shoved into your pockets, and you walk.

Like in animes or dumb romcoms, it was a fittingly grey day; the air heavy but not uncomfortable with an occasional breeze that ruffled your hair. It would have been a nice day for biking. But you’re content to walk, the sound of your shoes hitting the pavement a solemn song to accompany your penance. The noise around you was easy to shut out, your eyes focused on the ground. You had no idea where you were headed, had no real goal in mind… You kinda just wanted to move. Move, be moving. The thought of being as sedentary as you were as a child was actually somewhat terrifying to you; afraid you could actually regress to your sickly self from years ago in your… depression.

You made a face. Was it really depression? You felt a little guilty calling it that when the feeling of utter, crushing defeat was your own fault, but you couldn’t think of a better word for it. It seemed unfair to call it that when there were people going through much worse than you were. This made you feel like a brat, and you sat down the first place you could to rest your elbows on your knees, your face in your hands. You had it so good, compared to some people.

“How dare you, Manami.” Your hands balled into fists, clutching blue locks tightly. How dare you feel this way.

“Kid. You getting on, or what?” The voice from above pulled you from whatever dark tantrum you were about to throw, blue eyes locking with… the bus driver’s. Apparently your choice seat had been a bus stop, and without realizing it the vehicle had pulled up. You wonder how long he’d waited for you before saying something.

Figuring you had nothing better to do, you stood - climbing the stairs and seating yourself near the door in back. You didn’t quite know where it was headed (you hadn’t bothered to look) but anywhere would be better than around here. Nothing exactly reminded you of your misery, nor did it exacerbate it. Just keep moving. Maybe, eventually, you’d feel better.

------

Your hand slipped off the window with a bump in the road, causing your forehead to thunk against it - pulling you from the sleep you’d managed to fall into somehow. Moving not under your own power had a tendency to lull you, bore you. A drowsy gaze tried to give you some hint as to where you had ended up, but again, without looking, you stepped off the bus at the next stop.

Unfamiliar streets greeted you as you rubbed sleep from your eyes, studying your surroundings. Before long your feet were moving again, hands once more in your pockets as you kept on your trek. You had decided, some point between getting off the bus and just now, to completely disregard traffic safety; only stopped to avoid head-on collisions with other people and stationary obstacles. A car could hit you, you conceded. That would probably be okay.

“My body is useless for anything else.” A sigh. “It may as well be bedridden again.”

Apparently, someone had heard you.

“Oi oi oi,” you heard, from somewhere beside you. Eyes glanced over to a small storefront. No, just a little further - there. Grouped in the opening of an alleyway were a handful of kids relatively close to your age in appearance that… you… thought you recognized. “Ah… Sangaku. Manami Sangaku.”

Your walking stopped, staring at the group. It took you a moment to recognize them without their jerseys.

“Hiroshima.” The only word you could manage. So you were in Hiroshima. That would account for the unfamiliarity. And the one talking to you… “Ibitani.”

The kid in question staggered back melodramatically, clutching his chest.

“The Wonder Boy recognizes me! Catch me, Miya, I might faint!” Snickers were heard amongst the team, and Manami looked away. Wonder Boy. What a stupid name. You were no wonder.

“Right,” you mumble, “I’ll be on my way now.” Out of all the places you could have wandered…

“Oi oi! You’re just going to leave? Why not stay and chat awhile? I’m sure Miya would loooove to talk to you! Isn’t that right, Miya?”

You looked up again, catching the gaze of the ace. He was watching you, and finally stepped forward.

“Manami doesn’t have to talk to me if he doesn’t want to.” Machimiya’s arms were crossed over his chest, and he looked down his nose at you. “And I’m sure he wouldn’t. Isn’t that right, Wonder boy?” His eyes bore into you, actually sending a chill down your spine. “You beat me, after all. Why bother with a loser?”

You swore your heart stopped at those words, mouth falling open slightly. Equal parts confused, hurt, and infuriated, you spoke before thinking.

“I’m the loser.” Your chest ached admitting it. “I lost to Onoda-kun. Not you.” Machimiya sized you up for a moment, chuckling to himself eventually.

“You’ve lost your stars, Wonder Boy. I wonder what else you lost to that megane.” He stepped up closer, and for some reason it made your skin crawl. You held your breath, even as he touched your hair, then your face. With an exhale, any sense of self-preservation left you. Impassively, you watched him as he touched you, deciding anything that could happen, anything that he could do would be no worse than how you felt right now. How your loss made you feel. You even stared him down as he picked up your chin with long, thin fingers. His eyes reminded you of a fox.

“Miya -” Ibitani tried to interject, but Machimiya cast him a look. It must have told him enough, because Ibitani, as well as the other Hiroshima members, began to slowly head off. “...Yeah. We’ll see you later.”

Eyes were back on yours, and in the brief moments of the half-silent conversation you’d managed to find enough feeling to be miserable all over again; you could feel that you’d lost your stars. (Whatever that meant.) Machimiya could see that you were nothing as much as you could feel it yourself, and your impassive, blank countenance cracked. You felt your bottom lip quiver, quickly tugging it between your teeth. The corner of his mouth twitched, and the grip he had on you tightened by an almost immeasurable fraction.

“I don’t get you, Wonder Boy.” His posture straightened and he let go of you, beginning to walk around you in a slow circle. “You beat me, you beat hundreds of other riders. And you lose to one.” Index finger was held up as he came round to your front again, wagging it in your face. By now, you feel the prickling heat of shameful tears welling in the corners of your eyes. Your eyes burn, but you don’t blink. “Is this my chance to beat you?” The finger came closer, dragging up your throat and the underside of your chin, the very tip supporting your head. “Are you delivering yourself to me? You’re so thoughtful. So, so modest.”

“I don’t care what happens to me,” you hear yourself say before you can stop your mouth from moving, “my body can’t do the one thing I thought it was good for. It’s useless to me.”

He appraised your words silently, and after what felt like ages grabbed your wrist hard enough to bruise.


note maybe: what happened next is what he’d call a ‘good deed’, giving his stars back, making his body useful. can’t decide between graphic and just implied, and then graphic with onoda