Word Count: 1000

Some days were better than others. Some days he could enjoy being with his family, playing with Henry and Abby, who were growing so quickly, talking to his brothers about what was going on in their lives, spending time with his parents, his father finally retired after working for most of his life. And then there were times in which Chris found himself doubled over, in pain, unable to breathe, grasping at his chest as if that would provide him some kind of relief.

There was never relief. There was just continued agony that he desperately tried to hide. From his family, from his friends, whom he avoided talking to these days, from Paris, whom he was sure knew there was more going on than what he was allowing her to see. He could see in her eyes the sadness and helplessness she felt when she looked at him. Sometimes that was worse than the pain, because he knew she loved him and only wanted him better, but so far nothing seemed to help.

Other people were worried about him, of course. His agent flitted about anxiously whenever Chris would press his hand to his chest, although they both knew there was nothing wrong with him. His manager insisted that he had every test in the book run, just to make sure there wasn’t anything physically wrong; doctors always chalked it up to just being exhaustion and no reason why his chest should be causing him so much pain, and suggested that he slept more and had less caffeine.

His performance had been slipping steadily all year. He went from being the best starting pitcher the team had had in years, to his long contract being questioned, as he gave up hit after hit and walk after walk. Some games he didn’t even make it to the fifth inning before he was called off the mound and replaced.

Paris made sure anything negative in regards to his baseball career was not mentioned or observed at home, and he knew she watched his games on mute so that she wouldn’t have to listen to the commentators making bets on when “number 12, Chris Gallo” would be taken off the mound that game.

He supposed he was lucky that they were letting him pitch at all, with his performance fluctuating from still pretty good, to abysmal. He hated himself for it, knowing that this was something he wanted to do, and he probably didn’t have much time left to do it. Part of him wondered if he should be taking the time he had left to spend with his family, with Paris and Abby and Henry, but that felt too much like giving up, and he couldn’t face Paris like that.

The game was only in the second inning. It was the second to last game he would be scheduled to play that season. He’d struck out two batters in the first, and a pop up to right field meant quick progression. But now he was facing his third batter of the second inning, having walked the first two unintentionally, and was already at full count.

It was because he wore down so quickly these days. Over a year ago his starseed had been damaged in a failed corruption attempt by Laurelite. He hadn’t even known the extent of the damage done until the day in the subway when Cinnabar managed to pull it from his chest. For some reason, maybe out of pity, she had spared his life. Or perhaps she didn’t want to find out what Princess Ganymede would have done.

Either way, he knew he was lucky. And thanks to that he was able to try and find answers on how to stop the damage from getting worse, but so far nothing had come to light. Even Cosmos wasn’t entirely sure what to do.

And now, he was panting heavily, sweat beading and dripping down his face, his vision blurring around the edges as he tried to keep his eyes focused on the catcher’s mitt. He wasn’t even sure what sign he was given, but nodded anyway, knowing the likelihood that he would actually be able to get the ball over the plate was not good.

He knew he should take himself out of the game, but he was stubborn and determined to last as long as possible. His first inning was fine, but extra exertion he put into the two strike outs left him ragged.

Chris tried taking in a breath, but it was difficult, his chest throbbing painfully. Energy was seeping out of the crack in his starseed; not as quickly as it did when he was powered, but still wore down fast during strenuous activity.

His hearing went first; everything was suddenly muffled, and not like it was when he was intently focused on something, but fading quickly. Then his vision started going dark at the edges.

Once again he tried to focus, drawing in another painful breath as he prepared for his windup, sure that people were already complaining with how much he was stalling, and then the world seemed to drop out from under him.

The whole event was being broadcast live. It wasn’t often that a player suddenly collapsed with no warning, when the weather was fair and there were no prior injuries reported.

Chris didn’t know what happened after that, but he was told later that his catcher was the first one to reach him, having dropped his gear to the ground in order to get to him faster. It wasn’t until six hours later that he was fully awake and lucid again, a weepy Paris by his side, having seen him collapse on television and dropped everything to fly out to meet him.

It might have been that moment that he fully accepted the fact that he was dying, and without help, and fast, he probably wouldn’t last through the end of the year.