Chapter Text
Let's play a game of stay and go,
of coded words you almost know.
Each dot a wish, each dash a cost—
we speak in Morse when we are lost.
".— . / .— . .-. . / .- .-.. — —- ... -"
(Don't look up what it means, it will be revealed in the end)
The city lights of New York burned far brighter than the stars above them. From the window of his apartment, Shu Kurenai leaned on the sill, pen in hand, a half-finished letter on the desk beside him. The room was silent except for the faint hum of traffic below. His days as the new manager of the Raging Bulls left him drained, his evenings filled with strategy discussions and schedules. But every night, when the world was quiet, he found time for the only thing that kept him steady—writing to Valt.
Shu's phone buzzed on the desk, its screen lighting up with a new notification. For a moment, he reached for it, then stopped. They could have just messaged each other—quick updates, little emojis, late-night calls across time zones. That would have been easier.
But somehow, "easy" didn't feel like enough.
He remembered the last time they spoke on the phone. Valt had been rushing between practice sessions, his voice cutting in and out with the poor connection, laughter in the background as Rantaro called for him. Shu had tried to tell him something—something small, like how the city smelled of roasted chestnuts that evening—but the words got lost, swallowed by static and interruptions.
After the call ended, Shu sat in silence, the moment unfinished.
Letters didn't get interrupted. Poems lingered. The ink stayed on the page, carrying pieces of themselves that no glitchy phone line could erase.
And besides—Valt had once said, half-jokingly, "It's way more romantic, right? Like those old movies where people wait for the mail every day!"
Shu had rolled his eyes at the time. But now, with his pen moving across paper, he found himself smiling. Maybe Valt had been right.
The paper in front of him was already covered in neat, elegant handwriting, but he wasn't satisfied. Shu had crossed out half his attempts, redrafted stanzas, tried to make his words feel less heavy. Valt deserved light, warmth, joy. That was what poems between lovers should feel like, wasn't it? Not the exhaustion or loneliness Shu carried on his shoulders.
Finally, he let the words come as they wished. His pen scratched across the page, rhymes stringing themselves together:
Across the seas, your laughter rings,
A brighter song than daylight brings.
Though I am here where night is long,
Your voice remains my morning song.
The court is loud, the matches tough,
The city life is fast and rough.
But even here, my heart beats true,
For every beat belongs to you.
Shu set the pen down. His chest felt lighter, the tension easing from his brow. He folded the paper carefully, slipping it into an envelope. Before sealing it, he added a brief note in his regular handwriting:
"Don't laugh at my rhymes. I'm out of practice. But they're all yours. —Shu"
He sealed it, imagining the way Valt would smile when he read it.
Across the ocean, in a lively dorm of BC Sol in Spain, Valt Aoi was sprawled on his bed, hair still messy from practice, his body aching but his grin wide. A stack of unopened fan letters sat on his desk, but the one letter he had been waiting for lay right in his hands. His heart skipped as he tore it open. Shu's handwriting stared back at him, familiar and careful.
Valt read the poem once, then again, and by the third time, he was grinning so wide his cheeks hurt. He sat up quickly, rummaging through his desk for a pen.
He wasn't nearly as elegant as Shu. His letters always came out messy, crooked, words running off the page when he got too excited. But that was fine—Shu had always said his energy was contagious.
Valt tapped the pen to his chin, muttering under his breath, "Okay, rhymes... rhymes... what rhymes with Shu?" He chuckled at himself, then scribbled down a response, words tumbling over each other.
The sun is hot, the sky is blue,
But nothing here shines as bright as you.
Your words arrived, they made me grin,
Like winning Bey, like victory's spin.
I train all day, the battles roar,
But nights are ours, I ask no more.
Though seas divide, my heart still flies,
To meet your gaze, your beautiful eyes.
Valt scratched his head at the last line. "Beautiful? Or pretty? No, beautiful sounds cooler." He underlined it twice for emphasis, then leaned back, proud. He added, in his usual scribbled scrawl at the bottom:
"Don't even think I'll laugh at your rhymes. They're amazing. You're amazing. But I'm totally going to outdo you in the next one, so get ready. —Valt"
A laugh bubbled out of him as he sealed the envelope. He couldn't wait for Shu to read it.
Weeks passed in this rhythm. Shu would send careful poems written late at night, his verses tidy and deliberate, the rhymes balanced like puzzle pieces. Valt's replies would arrive bursting with energy, uneven stanzas that sometimes bent the rhyme just to fit in another joke or memory.
One evening, Shu returned to his apartment after a long day with the Bulls. He dropped his bag, loosened his tie, and found an envelope waiting on the table. His heart jumped—Valt. He tore it open, exhaustion forgotten.
The poem inside read:
The stadium roars, the crowd's alive,
They cheer my name, I spin, I strive.
But when the match is said and done,
I miss your voice, my only one.
The night feels long, the moon is high,
I see your face up in the sky.
If poems could make the distance small,
I'd send a thousand, break it all.
At the bottom, Valt had drawn a little doodle of himself holding up a letter with "To my beloved Shu!" written in huge, exaggerated letters. Shu smiled despite himself, fingertips brushing the sketch.
He sat down at once to reply. His words came slowly at first, then faster, as though Valt's messy rhymes had given him courage to loosen his own.
The city sleeps, the world is still,
Yet here I write, my heart to fill.
Your voice would chase the dark away,
If only you were here to stay.
No crowd, no cheer, no shining stage,
Could match the warmth you still engage.
Though worlds apart, my soul won't hide,
It beats for you, it's on your side.
This time, he didn't sign off with a serious note. He added a small line at the bottom: "And for the record, my rhymes are winning."
When Valt read it days later, he burst out laughing so loud that Rantaro banged on his wall, yelling for him to quiet down. Valt just shouted back, "It's Shu's fault!"
And so, their letters continued. With every exchange, their poems carried different flavors—sometimes tender, sometimes playful, sometimes full of longing. But always, each rhyme was another bridge across the vast ocean that separated them.
One night, Valt stayed awake far past midnight, staring at Shu's latest poem. His hands itched to write back, but instead, he pressed the page to his chest, whispering into the darkness, "We'll see each other soon. I'll make sure of it."
And in New York, Shu sat at his window with pen in hand, thinking the very same thing.
"W . / .— e .-. . / .- .-.. — —- ... -"
The summer heat in New York was heavy, pressing against Shu's shoulders like an invisible weight. He had spent the entire day drilling the Raging Bulls, planning strategies, fixing disputes, all while keeping the team's ambitions alive. By the time he returned to his apartment, the night was already deep, his body sore and mind frayed.
Still, he sat down at his desk, lit the small lamp, and pulled out fresh paper. His fingers lingered on the pen for a moment. The letters from Valt sat stacked neatly in a drawer, edges softened from how often Shu reread them.
It had been two weeks since Valt's last reply. Shu told himself it was normal—Valt was busy, BC Sol was busy, the season was heavy everywhere. But as he lowered the pen to the page, his words carried an edge of longing he hadn't intended.
The nights grow long, the hours slow,
Your silence lingers, yet I know.
Your fire burns on distant stage,
While I remain in a quiet cage.
I tell myself you're simply late,
That fate is kind, that I can wait.
Yet still I write, though shadows near,
A voice inside still hopes you'll hear.
He paused, staring at the ink, then forced himself to add a lighter stanza:
No sea, no sky can block my view,
I still believe my path leads to you.
Folding the letter, he hesitated before sealing it. For a moment, he wondered if he should simply call instead, but the memory of static-filled lines and interrupted laughter returned. No—he would keep faith in their words.
When the reply finally arrived, Shu opened it quickly, a spark of relief flickering inside him. But as he read, that spark dimmed.
The days are full, the matches fly,
I barely see the Spanish sky.
But thinking once of you each day,
Is more than words I ever say.
I'm sorry if I write so late,
The team is wild, the hours great.
But don't you doubt, my bond is true,
My strength is built on thoughts of you.
The rhymes were still there, playful in parts, but the lines were hurried. Shu's eyes traced the smudged ink where Valt must have scribbled too quickly. At the bottom, there was no doodle this time, only a rushed scrawl: "Sorry again. Training's crazy! I'll write more soon. —Valt."
Shu's hand lingered on the paper, his chest tightening. He told himself it was fine, that the effort itself meant something. Yet, when he sat down to reply, his words carried both warmth and a faint tremor of fear.
Your fire burns, the crowd is loud,
I see you shine before the crowd.
But when the night is dark and deep,
It's you my restless thoughts still keep.
If time is short, then send but one,
A single line, a setting sun.
For silence cuts where battles fail,
A heart alone grows thin and frail.
He stopped, realizing how heavy the stanza sounded, and scratched out the last two lines. Instead, he forced himself to end with something brighter:
So write when you can, no matter when,
And I'll reply with ink again.
This letter traveled across the ocean, and when Valt received it, he bit his lip, frowning. He read it once, then a second time, and felt a knot tighten in his chest. He hadn't meant for Shu to worry. He hadn't meant for the delay to feel like neglect.
But the days really were flying. Between coaching younger Bladers, managing the expectations of BC Sol, and pushing his own limits, he barely had time to breathe. He told himself he would write more often, make the next poem shine.
He sat down at his desk late that night, pen scratching with determination:
The crowd is fierce, the battles hard,
Yet in my chest you're still the card.
I fight, I laugh, I spin, I play,
But think of you at the end of the day.
I know my lines are far too small,
I want to write, I want it all.
But don't you fear, I'm by your side,
My heart's with you, no sea can hide.
He added, underneath: "Next time, I'll write more. I won't let you wait again. Promise."
When Shu received it, his fingers lingered over those last words. "Next time." He wanted to believe them. He needed to believe them.
And so the rhythm continued, slower now. Shu's letters grew longer, filling the pages with careful rhymes that ached with longing. Valt's still carried warmth, but they came less often, sometimes late, the stanzas trimmed, words rushed.
One evening, Shu sat by the window, rain tapping against the glass, rereading one of the earliest poems Valt had sent him. The doodle of himself holding a letter stared up at Shu, bright and foolish. It felt like a different world, those first weeks when their words had danced across the page without hesitation.
He took up his pen again, heart heavy, and wrote:
Do you recall those first bright days,
When words were games, in endless plays?
When every line was flame and cheer,
And distance small, though oceans near?
I keep them safe, each rhyme, each note,
They weigh me down, they keep me afloat.
If silence grows, if words should fade,
Then all our bonds are under shade.
He stopped, staring at the ink, torn between sending it or crumpling the page. But in the end, he folded it, sealed it, and sent it, because he had nothing else to offer but honesty.
When Valt opened the letter days later, his chest squeezed painfully. He wanted to write back instantly, to fill pages with apologies and promises. But another knock at his door pulled him away—Kit yelling for him to hurry, practice starting in five minutes.
He scribbled a rushed reply, half of what he wanted to say:
I know I've slipped, I know I'm late,
But trust in me, don't call it fate.
My flame's for you, it burns as strong,
Even if words take far too long.
Hold tight to me, don't let it go,
This bond's the truest thing I know.
And then he ran out the door, leaving the letter behind for delivery, guilt heavy but hope still alive.
"We / we .-. e / .- l — o ... t"
The autumn air in New York carried a chill that cut through Shu's coat as he walked back from the Bulls' training hall. His breath fogged in front of him, the sky above hidden by clouds and city haze. Normally, he would have gone home and let the quiet settle over him. Tonight, though, he felt restless, his chest tight.
He hadn't heard from Valt in three weeks. Not even a short stanza, not even a single line.
When he finally reached his apartment, the sight of a letter on the table made his heart leap. He tore it open, hungry for the words inside.
The days are long, the matches strong,
I've barely time to sing a song.
But still I write, though late, though small,
To let you know I care through all.
Don't think I've gone, don't think I've strayed,
It's just the life that I've now made.
You're with me still, though far away,
You're in my heart each night, each day.
Shu stared at the page, his hands tightening. The rhymes were neat enough, but the energy, the spark that had once filled Valt's poems—it wasn't there. There were no doodles, no messy lines of laughter squeezed into the margins. Just clean, rushed words, as if written out of duty rather than joy.
He sat down at once, pulling a blank sheet toward him. His pen pressed harder than usual, carving the letters deep into the paper.
Three weeks of silence, empty skies,
A thousand nights, no word replies.
You say you care, you say you're near,
Yet all I hold is doubt and fear.
Do battles steal the time we knew?
Do crowds and cheers replace what's true?
If letters fade, then what remains—
But broken rhymes and empty chains?
He paused, chest heaving slightly, then added another stanza, softer, almost pleading:
I don't demand the world of you,
Just words enough to know we're two.
So write me more, don't let me wait,
Or else our bond may test its fate.
He sealed the letter before he could change his mind.
When it arrived in Spain, Valt read it slowly, his brow furrowed. He knew Shu worried, but the words felt heavier than before. His eyes caught on the phrase "broken rhymes and empty chains." A part of him wilted with guilt—but another part bristled.
He wanted to shout that he wasn't neglecting Shu, that he wasn't betraying him. He was just busy, exhausted, carrying too many weights already. Why did Shu's words feel like another chain around his neck?
He gripped his pen, frustration spilling into ink.
I fight, I train, I lead, I spin,
The world won't wait, it drags me in.
Yet still I write, though time is thin,
So why's my effort called a sin?
I care for you, I always will,
But must I prove it with a quill?
Your doubts cut deep, they weigh me down,
They turn my smile into a frown.
I need your trust, not constant fear,
Don't cage me close when I'm not near.
My flame is bright, it burns for two,
But it grows weak if smothered too.
He sat back, chest tight, and stared at what he had written. His hand hovered, tempted to tear it up, soften it, rewrite it with gentler words. But honesty burned sharper now. He folded the letter, sealed it, and sent it away.
When Shu read it days later, the words hit him like a blade. His hands trembled as he held the page. He had never thought of himself as controlling—but the lines screamed of Valt feeling trapped.
Was that what his poems had become? Chains instead of bridges?
Still, his pride would not let him stay silent. He wrote back, more carefully this time, but the sting remained between each rhyme:
If care is chains, then call me bound,
For I can't bear when none's around.
If trust I lack, it's not my choice,
It's silence that consumes my voice.
Yet if my words weigh down your flame,
Then tell me so, don't play a game.
I only write because I fear,
A world where you're no longer here.
But if my love is much too tight,
Then say it clear, don't dim the light.
He sealed the page, his stomach twisting. For the first time, sending a poem didn't feel like relief. It felt like dropping a stone into an endless sea.
When Valt received it, he sighed heavily, raking a hand through his messy hair. His friends noticed his distracted face, but he brushed them off, locking himself in his room with the letter.
He read it once, twice, and his chest ached. Shu was hurting, but Valt was too.
He wanted to remember those first letters—the ones that had made him laugh so hard, that had painted warmth into every sleepless night. But now, every poem felt like a test he couldn't pass.
His reply came slower this time, and the rhymes faltered, carrying both love and exhaustion:
I never left, I never strayed,
But I can't live by fears you've made.
I need to breathe, I need my space,
Or else I'll break in this same place.
I love your words, I always did,
But not when wrapped in doubt's cold lid.
So if you trust, then let me be,
And love will find its way to me.
There was no doodle, no note at the bottom this time. Just his signature: —Valt.
Shu folded the letter slowly, pressing it to his chest, though it felt colder than paper should. His crimson eyes stared out the window at the distant skyline, his thoughts looping in circles.
He had wanted closeness, reassurance, love.
Instead, he had drawn out distance, silence, and hurt.
And across the ocean, Valt lay awake, staring at the ceiling, torn between guilt and anger. He still loved Shu—he knew he did. But with every heavy stanza, every worried plea, the warmth between them dimmed a little more.
Their poems, once bridges, were starting to feel like walls.
"We / were / .- l — ost"
The winter winds howled outside Shu's apartment, rattling the glass panes. Snow had begun to fall in quiet sheets across New York, the city muffled under its weight. Shu sat at his desk, shoulders hunched, staring at the blank page before him.
He had been rewriting for hours, scratching out stanza after stanza, none of them enough. Every word felt either too desperate or too weak. But tonight, he had resolved—no accusations, no chains. Just love, pure and steady, the kind that had carried them this far.
Finally, he let the pen flow.
The nights are long, the world is wide,
But still my heart is on your side.
Though distance cuts and silence grows,
It's you my every heartbeat knows.
I've stumbled, yes, and feared too much,
But all I crave is just your touch.
No letter rushed, no poem small,
Could change the fact I love through all.
So here I stand, with words in hand,
Across the seas, across the land.
No matter what, no matter when,
I'll wait for you, I'll wait again.
He exhaled, setting the pen down. For the first time in weeks, his chest didn't feel so tight. Folding the page, he sealed it with trembling fingers. He told himself—this one would fix it. This one would remind Valt of everything they had built, everything they still were.
The days dragged. Shu threw himself into managing the Bulls, his mind occupied but never settled. Every night he returned to his desk, staring at the drawer where Valt's old poems lay. Sometimes he took them out, reading them again until his vision blurred.
Then, one evening, when the snow had thickened into icy piles on the streets, a letter arrived. Shu's pulse raced as he tore it open, desperate for the familiar spark.
The paper inside was neat, uncreased, Valt's handwriting careful this time. Shu's eyes traced the words, his breath catching.
I read your lines, I felt their flame,
But something's changed—it's not the same.
The more you cling, the more I fall,
And now I barely feel at all.
Shu froze, the lines blurring in front of him. He forced himself to keep reading.
Our poems once were light and free,
But now they're chains surrounding me.
I tried to fight, I tried to stay,
But somewhere love has slipped away.
The words cut sharper than any blade. His hands trembled, threatening to tear the paper, but still he read on.
Don't think you failed, don't think you wrong,
We shared our hearts, we both were strong.
But distance turned our rhymes to stone,
And I can't hold what's overgrown.
So let this be my final line,
A parting gift, no longer mine.
I wish you joy, I wish you flame,
But I can't love you just the same.
—Valt.
The signature lay at the bottom, plain and final.
Shu stared at the page, the room spinning around him. His heart pounded in his ears, drowning out the world outside. For a moment, he thought he must have misread it. That perhaps he had skipped a stanza, that maybe there was another page hidden behind the first.
But there was nothing. Just Valt's careful handwriting, a poem that ended everything.
His chair scraped against the floor as he stood, clutching the letter to his chest. He paced the room, his breath sharp and uneven. This couldn't be real. Valt wouldn't—couldn't—end it like this.
Yet the words were undeniable. Cold, final, devastating.
Shu stumbled to the drawer where he kept the other letters, pulling them out in a rush. He spread them across the desk, paper overlapping paper—doodles, rushed lines, messy rhymes, warmth pressed into every stroke. He traced the ink with trembling fingers, his crimson eyes burning.
"Was it all..." His voice cracked, empty in the quiet apartment. "...a lie?"
No. He knew it wasn't. Those poems had been real once. The laughter, the longing, the warmth—they had lived in every line. But somewhere, as the weeks dragged, as his fears grew and Valt's patience thinned, something had snapped.
And now, it was gone.
He sank into the chair, burying his face in his hands, the breakup letter still clutched tightly between his fingers. His mind replayed the lines over and over, each one carving deeper into him. "Somewhere love has slipped away."
Outside, the snow kept falling, indifferent, covering the city in silence.
Across the ocean, Valt sat in his own room, staring at the ceiling. His letter had been sent days ago, but guilt still gnawed at him. He remembered the first poems, the laughter, the fire they had shared. He remembered doodling little stars and writing until his hand cramped.
But he also remembered the weight that had followed—the accusations hidden in rhymes, the desperate pleas, the fear that suffocated instead of soothed. He had written the breakup poem with steady hands, but his heart had wavered all the same.
Still, he told himself, it was kinder this way. Better a clean cut than to let Shu drown in false hope.
Yet even as he whispered those words to himself, he couldn't stop his hand from reaching for the drawer where Shu's letters lay. He pulled one free—the very first Shu had sent him. The one with the line, "Your voice remains my morning song."
Valt pressed it against his chest, eyes closing.
"Maybe I'm the one who failed," he whispered into the silence.
But he didn't write again.
And in New York, Shu sat alone, surrounded by a sea of letters that once sang with life, now drowned by a single poem that silenced them all.
Across the ocean, two drawers of letters remained: one in Spain, one in America. And though neither boy wrote again, both sometimes wondered what might have changed if just one more poem had been sent.
The ink has dried, the pages torn,
What once was love is now forlorn.
But still I write, though none will see,
A rhyme that ends with only me.
"We were almost."