InuKai, 300 words.
"I miss you," Inui says and the phone nearly slips through Kaidoh's grasp. Kaidoh bends over, bracing one hand on his knee, catching his breath. It's been nearly six weeks since Inui called him.
"Senpai," he says, instead of hanging up.
"That's all I had to say." And Inui's gone. His photo is still on the screen, the one from the time they were in the sports store and Inui was going on about string gauge and tension and natural gut. He was surprised when Kaidoh took his picture.
Kaidoh puts away the phone. He has 3K left to run. Two blocks later, he cuts one street over and the light is on in Inui's bedroom. He finds a rock and arcs it up, too hard, maybe, and it clinks against the glass.
Inui comes to the window -- what's disturbing his important high school homework? -- and Kaidoh has another pebble in his fist. He looks up and Inui looks down. Inui waves. Kaidoh presses the stone against his palm.
He moves back into the shadows to wait. His phone buzzes against his thigh and he turns it off without looking. Inui jogs around the corner, pulling his arm into his jacket, pushing his glasses up his nose. Kaidoh steps forward, six weeks, you bastard curling in his fists.
"Kaidoh," Inui says and smiles, like he used to, his whole strange face gone soft and happy. It hurts Kaidoh like a tear in his skin, like the time he cut his ankle on a rusty can. He had to get a tetanus shot.
The stone falls from his hand and he grabs Inui around the chest, pushing his forehead into Inui's shoulder and biting his lip to stop the pain. Inui puts his hand on the back of Kaidoh's neck and his cheek against Kaidoh's hair.
"Why didn't you call me?" Inui says and Kaidoh holds on tighter.