Archive of Our Own

i.

“Ball,” Chris-senpai calls out for the fourth time in a row, throwing it back across the bullpen in a well-practiced motion. “You’re too tense, Sawamura. Something on your mind?”

Eijun glowers at his left hand, because this is beginning to feel a bit personal. He was doing so good earlier today — Coach Kataoka actually nodded at him before dismissing them all for lunch, the kind of nod of acknowledgement he usually reserves for starting players, and Eijun spent the better part of his meal vibrating with excitement on his seat instead of focusing on eating the three required bowls of rice. He ended up late for afternoon practice, because Kuramochi-senpai locked him in the cafeteria until he was done.

And now, four balls called in a row. If this were a real match, Eijun would’ve just allowed a walk the team may or may not have been able to afford.

God.

Eijun breathes slowly, the way his mother used to do with him whenever he got too worked up as a kid. Inhale, exhale. It’s all good as long as you keep breathing. That’s how you know you’re still kicking.

“When I figure it out you’ll be the first to know, Chris-senpai,” Eijun says, loudly, even though there’s really no reason to. They’re the only ones in the bullpen at this time; Coach wants to try starting Furuya as pitcher for one of their first-string games, so he was told to rest up for the night; Kawakami-senpai is currently on leave from school, visiting his eldest sister who’s just given birth to twins. When the second and third years moved indoors for batting practice, he and Chris were allowed to stay out so long as they cleaned up after themselves.

Though that was probably just a jab at Eijun more than anything else. Coach Kataoka trusts Chris in a way that goes without saying, and Eijun is well aware he’s got no ground to stand on being upset about that. Not only because Chris is his upperclassman, but because he’s just good in all the ways Eijun isn’t. Not yet. 

It’s frustrating to consider himself a rookie player, when he played baseball all the way through middle school, but they had no coaching to speak of, and most of his friends learned the basics of it through games broadcasted on the TV at Wakana’s family’s conbini. They weren’t good at it. Hell, they could barely be called a team at all, looking back on it, and Eijun sometimes still struggles to understand why he was the one that was singled out, ‘cause things like that just don’t happen to him. His old teachers called him “a delight to have in class,” but “rowdy and restless,” and his lack of an indoor voice did just as much to scare people off as it was an endearing quality to his closest friends. 

His mother’s words, not his. Eijun isn’t endearing. He’s obnoxious, loud, and well aware he can be a little too much. But people still hang around him, for some reason, and Eijun isn’t enough of an idiot to complain about it. 

Despite what people might say, Eijun isn’t dumb. He’s aware there’s a difference between the sport he played for fun to spend time with his friends, and the sport he plays now, where nationally ranked players are a dime a dozen, where they live and breathe baseball, where the purpose is not only to get better, but to be great. Eijun knows it wouldn’t have been a problem if all this hadn’t happened to him — if he hadn’t gotten home to a strange woman with glinting glasses and a sharp smile, if he’d refused to even visit this school at all. Maybe he’d have become someone else entirely. 

Maybe. If it’d been what he wanted.

Now, Eijun, his mother had told him, serious in a way she rarely was, round face kind and young. He gets his eyes from her, but where hers are like a dawning sun, his are all fire. If it’s there for the taking, isn’t it your responsibility to do so?

Anyone who feels responsibility isn’t free. But Eijun doesn’t know how to be afraid, so he isn’t.

The thing about home is that you don’t know you can leave it until you do. Eijun grows up in a town smaller than his heart; when he leaves, it’s the easiest he’s ever breathed. 

It’s not like he doesn’t miss it. God, he misses it so much it hurts sometimes. The mess hall doesn’t have his mother’s special spicy noodles, or the shouts Grandfather aimed at the trivia games on TV, and though the sheets Eijun brought with him from Nagano are his own, the smell of his father’s favorite brand of detergent started to fade about a month in. It’d been no comfort at all, that time when Harucchi commented that Eijun was starting to pick up Tokyo speaking mannerisms and Eijun needed to give some lame ass excuse to go into his room and have a good cry. 

He misses home. After visiting Seidou, he couldn’t have stayed. Both things are true. 

Miyuki-senpai, Eijun had asked, on his first day as an official member of the Seidou baseball club. What does it take to play baseball like you all do?

Oh, nothing much, Miyuki had answered, all lazy smiles and sunburnt face, larger than life in a way a second year shouldn’t be. Once Eijun looked at him, it was sort of hard to look away. Just everything. Just absolutely everything. 

“Sawamura,” Chris-senpai says, with the tone of voice that indicates he’s probably been calling his name for a while now. “Enough, okay? Let’s wrap this up.”

Eijun splutters, feeling like someone just dumped a bucketful of cold water — bucket included — on his head. “Shishou! It’s fine, I can keep going!”

He scrambles to get a proper grip on the ball, which is heavier than normal because he’s been holding it unmoving for so long, but Chris-senpai’s eyebrow raise is visible even through the catcher’s guard he’s wearing. 

“You could, but you won’t,” he says, standing up from his crouching position with barely a wince. “I’ve got PT in the morning, and you’ve got Golden Week coming up soon. No need to stress yourself out and end up snowballing it.”

Eijun laughs, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck. It hasn’t been that long since he found out the truth about Chris’ absences and the way that whenever he thinks no one’s looking, he just looks sad. Eijun would be annoyed at how Chris managed to still be so vital to the team even after his injury got him out of the playing roster, if he were a little less kind. But he isn’t, so he doesn’t. Chris indulges him by playing catch until it hurts; Eijun’s already been enough of an asshole about it.

“You really think the boss’ll let me pitch?” Eijun asks instead, stepping down from his side of the bullpen and stretching his arms behind his back till they pop. 

Chris looks at him oddly. “I don’t see why not.”

Really, how was Eijun ever scared of him at all? Chris-senpai is so nice when he wants to be. Eijun’s starting to think all that litany of him being known for making pitchers quit was just supposed to scare him off.

“I mean, I’m not going to lie to you,” Chris-senpai continues, and Eijun immediately discards the thought. “You’re not a perfect pitcher. You’re not going to be the most reliable player on the field by a long margin. Coach Kataoka might want results, though, but he also wants heart.” At that, he smiles, and he always looks younger when he does so. He reaches out his gloved hand, and Eijun tries not to feel too much like a starry-eyed kid as he rushes forward, just so Chris can knock it lightly against his chest . “And you’ve got that. Don’t throw it away.”

Eijun isn’t sure if he should feel bashful or told off, so he just blurts out, “Yes, sir!” and rushes away to do his cool off stretches. 

By the side of the bullpen, the earth of the field has already been swiped and tidied by the second string, so Eijun makes sure to step carefully until he gets to the bench he usually uses as support to stretch properly. Chris-senpai has his own cooling down routine, what with his still healing shoulder and wrist, and Chris is the sort of person that doesn’t really need to say anything in order for you to understand him. Eijun knows Chris isn’t fragile for having been injured, but all he’d gotten when he told him so — out of the blue and so loudly that it jumpscared Isashiki-san and made him miss a strike (a funny anecdote with an unfortunate ending) — was a sad smile and a shake of the head.

Well. This isn’t about Eijun, anyways. He’s only ever known the Chris that deals with it, because he only met him after the fact, and it’s not his place to prattle on about proper coping mechanisms. Chris is his mentor before he’s his teammate, and he’s his upperclassmen before he’s Eijun’s friend; that’s just how it works. Chris doesn’t need Eijun to worry about him. The other third years do that plenty.

Seriously. Isashiki-san does enough (decidedly aggressive) fretting for the entire team on his own. Yuuki-san is a little more awkward about it, but the both of them make sure that all first and second string players are properly fed and hydrated with iron-clad determination. Really, there’s no need for Eijun to mind at all.

He still does, though. It’s just that no one else realizes, because the thing about being too loud for your own good is that no one notices you when you go quiet. So Eijun keeps track of the changes in Chris-senpai’s expressions, and the winces he hides behind too-hard blinking, and goes along accordingly. He’s reckless about everything else, but he’s careful about things like this.

(The first thing about Chris is that nobody’s supposed to see how much he needs. The second is that he absolutely does play favorites, but only when it comes to Sawamura Eijun.

Coach Kataoka looks near impressed the first time Chris mentions he feels like Sawamura is  almost ready to be moved up to the first string, which is almost gawking and gaping for him. Chris has been responsible for the freshmen pitchers ever since the worst of his injury came to light, since in the off season, there’s no much use for his managing skills. He’s sure the actual managers appreciate being useful, in their own way; regardless, this duty means periodically being called over to the coach’s office, where he gives his reports, and then answers monosyllabically to whatever questions Coach Kataoka has about physical therapy, or his upcoming surgery.

It’s not Coach’s fault. Chris is mature enough to see how much he actually gives a shit, how much of his stern and practical demeanor is just a front he’s chosen to deal with having to let a part of his kids leave every year. Chris just hasn’t figured out how to speak of it.

“Is there something about him, then?” Coach Kataoka asks. “Not even Kawakami got through you that fast. Rei-san did tell me she’d found a diamond in a rough, but diamonds aren’t polished in a single day.” His eyes are thoughtful, even behind those sunglasses of his. It’s a sunny day, warm even indoors, and Coach’s office overlooks the outfield, glowing in the afternoon. “I trust your judgment, Chris. What’s your honest opinion on him?”

“Honestly, sir,” Chris says, “I think he’s a teenage boy.”

Coach Kataoka blinks. Chris keeps going, eyes following the two figures out on Field B, running and sprinting in random bursts of energy — Sawamura and Furuya, the only first year to make the first string so far. “He’s somewhere completely new to him. He’s still finding his footing, and he wants to prove himself, but he doesn’t have the skill to back all his talk up yet.”

“But?”

“But,” Chris says, turning to look Coach. There’s something buzzing in his stomach, and it takes him a few moments to realize that it’s excitement. “He’s got the most raw talent out of anyone else on the team.”

He doesn’t say anything else, because he doesn’t need to. Coach Kataoka knows it as well as he does — talented players with bad habits sometimes are more trouble than it’s worth. Raw talent isn’t something you just find anywhere, and coaching someone is one thing. Teaching them is another thing entirely.

So when Sawamura gets promoted into the first string, Chris has another name for that buzzing in his stomach: pride. There’s no way to describe how cathartic it is to dip his hands into someone’s future, to help shape them and define their corners and firm their boundaries. Ryosuke tells him he looks happier, these days, with a teasing smile. Jun grumbles over breakfast how it was about time, even though they all know how glad he is. Chris doesn’t like to think about his injury more than he absolutely needs to, but he’s well aware he wasn’t the most pleasant person to be around leading up to it and in the aftermath. Even so, these guys never left him alone or behind.

What makes a team? How many chances do we get to love something like this completely unconditionally?

Sawamura gets a jersey with the number eighteen on it, and Chris watches from the sidelines. When the team meeting is done, he rushes over to Chris immediately, smile warm and sunny and gestures clumsy, like he’s so happy he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Shishou,” he says, breathlessly, and Chris doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to hear the old-timey word again and not smile. “I did it. Wait, no.” Sawamura shakes his head, bright eyes widening. “We did it.”

This kid.

“Sawamura,” Chris tells him, rapping his knuckles softly on the back of his head. “I’m really looking forward to it, okay?”

Sawamura’s face is like the sun. “Okay.”

There’s no more words needed. When playing baseball becomes part of Chris’ past, he thinks he might already know what he’s going to do.)

Chris is waiting for Eijun at the edge of the field, stripped down from his catcher gear but still as sweaty and gross as Eijun himself is, which is a comfort. They walk back to the dorms together, Eijun chattering away about how he’s sure Kuramochi-senpai has been messing with the time on Eijun’s alarm clock, because every time he wakes up at “six a.m.” for his morning run it’s way darker than it should be, considering it’s not Winter. Chris-senpai seems to be only half-listening, but that’s okay. Eijun has always been able to talk enough for two, and right now, he’s trying to not spiral.

Ball, it rings again in his head, but instead of Chris’ voice, it’s an umpire. Instead of the dry sound of a catch on a baseball mitt, it’s a disappointed groan from the dugout.

Eijun can’t stand to be like this.

Here’s the thing about baseball: it’s both the fairest and most unfair sport in the world. Eijun doesn’t know a lot about the technical terms and game strategies around, but he doesn’t need to be a genius to know that there’s a world of difference between theory and practice. There’s a rhythm to baseball, and a plan, and most of all, expectations—how many walks a certain pitcher will allow, how quick he can get the outs he needs, how many strikeouts he can manage. But it’s a sport played by people, and people are made up of complicated stuff. In baseball, hindsight is a doozy. 

It’s a nightly tradition for him and Chris to stop by the vending machines between the indoor gym and the dorms, for reasons Eijun can’t fathom. It’s probably just to make sure they cool down enough before hitting the showers, but also Eijun can’t help thinking to himself that maybe Chris-senpai doesn’t not like to spend time with him. Maybe. He thinks maybe a lot, but most of the situations involving him require him to do so. He only knows what’s going on maybe a quarter percent of the time, and the other seventy-five percent consists of being made fun of by Miyuki-senpai, Kuramochi-senpai, or both of them at the same time. Arguing with Furuya doesn’t count, because that’s a given. 

Eijun flops down on the bench while Chris gets drinks for them — they alternate semi-weekly —, tilting his head upwards. There’s a very narrow slip of sky that goes through above them, between the two cement blocks the dorms and gym are made of; sometimes, when it’s cloudy enough, everything just looks like a big, endless splash of gray. It used to be stifling, when Eijun first got here, because Nagano is known for its wide, open fields and clear blue skies. Around here, the only green Eijun ever sees are the grass and trees on school grounds. 

He’s gotten used to it, though, and tonight’s nice out. That slice of sky is just dark blue, ‘cause you can’t see stars in Tokyo even on a good day, and it’s just warm enough that he doesn’t even get goosebumps even though he’s only wearing a short-sleeved t-shirt. The lights coming from the gym are bright but not unpleasant, and these days, the noise that comes with living amongst so many people is so comforting he doesn’t know how he ever lived fifteen years as an only child.

Fuck, that’s so sappy. It’s a good thing Chris-senpai can’t read minds, or it’d be too embarrassing for Eijun to handle it.

The bottle of orange juice comes flying towards his face, and it’s only ingrained habit and reflexes that make Eijun not get a concussion, because injury or not, Chris-senpai’s throws are never measured. Eijun catches it right as it touches his cheek, chilly cold, and mock glares at Chris, who’s leaning against the vending machine with his eyebrows raised and a devil-may-care look on his face. 

“You’re spacey today, aren’t you?” he asks, uncapping his own drink — decaf iced tea — and taking a small sip. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eijun says, shaking his head in an attempt to focus. “My internal monologue is sort of wacky today, I guess.”

He knows at least eight people on this team alone that would either look at him strangely or ask if he’s sure he knows what an internal monologue is, but thankfully, Chris is not one of them. He just huffs a quiet laugh and takes another sip of his drink.

Eijun looks up at the sky again. From inside the gym, there’s a loud crash, and for a full minute, Isashiki-san and Kuramochi seem to be competing to see who can yell the loudest, until something that Eijun can neither see nor hear — probably Ryo-san, either making a threat or smiling that sharp-toothed smile of his — makes them both shut up so promptly it’s almost hilarious. Eijun has to muffle his giggles into his hand. Chris-senpai just looks amused.

Sometimes, he’s so glad he came to Seidou he feels giddy with it. It’s not that it isn’t hard, or stressful, or that slow progress isn’t so frustrating it makes Eijun nearly rip his own hair out, because it is all that. It’s all that, and it’s the most fun he’s ever had. It’s the fullest he’s ever felt.

It’s so much not enough, though, because there’s no such thing as good enough. That’s one of the only things he and Furuya agree on.

“Hey, Sawamura, I was wondering,” Chris-senpai says, and Eijun stops watching Kuramochi threaten Miyuki with a baseball bat inside the gym in order to pay proper attention to him. “Why do you play baseball?”

Eijun blinks. “Eh?”

“I mean, it’s not like it’s the only sport around,” Chris continues, twirling the nearly empty bottle between his hands. “You could’ve gone for soccer. Swimming. The volleyball Spring Tournament makes a lot of noise whenever it comes around, and you’ve got the reflexes.” Chris-senpai clicks his tongue. “So, why baseball?”

Eijun frowns. “Well,” he begins, slowly, “Why not?”

It’s Chris-senpai’s turn to blink. “Why not?” he echoes.

“I mean,” Eijun says, “It’s not like it was this huge decision for me. Or as if there was a moment where it just hit me that I want to play baseball until I die. I was—” At that, he falters. Clenches his hands into fists, in compass with his heart, opening and closing, opening and closing. Chris-senpai is still looking at him with that strange gaze he sometimes gets, as if when he looks at Eijun he sees way more than there actually is. “I was in the middle before I even knew I’d started,” Eijun settles for, a few moments later. “It was just — the view from the mound. And the weight of the ball on my hand. Just — I don’t think I understand the question, Chris-senpai. Why baseball?” He looks up at him, eyes wide. “How could it not be baseball?”

For a few long moments, all Eijun can hear is Chris-senpai’s steady breathing, and the hum of the vending machine, the echoing sounds of baseball bats hitting their marks and the voices of their team. He feels his face redden, but doesn’t stand down.

Chris-senpai looks stunned. Then he smiles slightly, and his whole demeanor softens in such a way that Eijun can’t see the high school baseball celebrity, intimidating upperclassman in him at all. He just sees Chris: his heavy brows and steady hands, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat from the bullpen, mouth stained pink-ish from the tea he was drinking.

“You dream so big about being the ace,” Chris-senpai says, voice quiet and warm. “Some of the guys think you’re all talk, but then you say something like this.” His eyes are twinkling when he looks at Eijun, and it’s maybe the happiest he’s ever seen him. “Sometimes I can almost see it, you know.”

The fuzziness in Eijun’s stomach at the praise is overridden by the sheer bewilderment he feels at this entire conversation. It’s like failing — or acing? — a pop quiz he doesn’t remember any of the questions to, and then having to explain his thought process or lack thereof to the class. 

“Huh?” Eijun says, very eloquently.

Chris-senpai laughs that soft laugh of his. “Don’t get a big head about it,” he says, and Eijun almost thinks he sounds fond. “The ace number’ll fit you yet. You’ve got time.”

You’ve got time. Huh.

You don’t, Eijun thinks, but doesn’t say. You’re graduating soon. You won’t get to see me get there while we’re still a team. You won’t get to see me make you proud.

Instead, he fiddles with the cap of his orange juice, and asks, “Why do you play baseball, Chris-senpai?”

Chris tilts his head, looking thoughtful and a little bit shocked, as if no one’s ever asked him that before. Considering he’s the son of a baseball legend, that’s pretty likely.

“You know, when you take it down to its bare essentials,” Chris-senpai says, “when you take away all of the things that make it special to us, baseball is actually quite simple. Two teams. One ball. Us against you.” He fiddles with his fingers; Eijun knows he’s trying to break out of the habit of cracking his knuckles while he thinks. “Why do we play sports? What makes a team? What can all of this ever give us, other than a few odd moments of transcendence?”

Eijun doesn’t dare speak. All other sounds seem muffled somehow, and the surreal-ness of it all is what makes it so real; it’s the sort of memory that stays stark and sharp even across the years, even after the people in it have grown up and older and maybe a little bit wiser. It’s the sort of moment that screams ledge.

Chris-senpai is looking somewhere beyond Eijun’s head, and the pinch of his eyebrows is both parts wistful and sad. “Which is to say, I guess,” he continues, voice softer and softer, “That I play baseball for the same reason you do.” He smiles, and that strange look disappears as if it were never there in the first place. “I don’t know how not to.”

Eijun’s face feels slack. He twists the cap of his bottle around, just for something to do with his hands, and when he manages to speak again, his voice sounds odd even to his own ears. He’s almost shy. 

“If we play the same kind of baseball,” Eijun says, “does that mean I’ll become as good as you are, someday?”

He doesn’t see how Chris’ eyes narrow a bit at that, because he isn’t looking for it. It isn’t even his fault for missing it, really. Some people are just too practiced in how to cover up pain.

Chris-senpai’s bottle makes a dry sound as it hits the bottom of the trash can, and for the life of him, Eijun can’t figure out what sort of expression he’s wearing. He’s silent for a moment, then two, then several, and Eijun has to wipe sweaty hands on his pants. Chris’ silence sometimes means more than whatever he says out loud.

Finally, Chris-senpai meets Eijun’s eye. He’s got that strange look on again. “Don’t be good like me, Sawamura,” he says, and it has a tone of finality to it. “Figure out how you can be better than I was. Become good like you. ”

“Yes, sir,” Eijun answers, because he doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Now hit the showers before you catch your death.”

Eijun has to stop by his room to pick up clean clothes, and for once, he’s sort of thankful Kuramochi and Masuko-senpai are out for practice. Usually, an empty room like this feels lonely. Now, he’s just glad they don’t have to see how lost he looks.

Become good like you. Sound advice.

Eijun’s got no idea what he’s supposed to do with that.

ii.

Miyuki Kazuya is a smug, stubborn, self-important bastard, and Eijun is stupidly, irrevocably, head over heels in love with him. It becomes painfully obvious to everyone and Eijun himself sometime between the semifinals and them actually earning a spot at Nationals.

Well, not in love. Infatuated, maybe. Interested, in the very broad sense of the word. Whipped, as Kuramochi-senpai would put it, if Kuramochi-senpai were the kind of person Eijun goes to for romantic advice, or really any advice at all, which, alas, he is not. 

It’s not a butterfly-in-your-stomach kind of thing, or even a mushy, sentimental sort of thing. Eijun isn’t afraid to mention it or fall into it, like in those shoujo manga the girls in class are always thrusting into his hands and saying stuff like, I know you’ll like this one, Eijun-kun, I’m sure of it. It’s not like that at all, because Miyuki isn’t like anyone else at all. How can you not love someone like that?

Eijun has been loved well and often, by the people he grew up with, by his parents, and all that just means he doesn’t know to be scared of it. When it comes down to it, love is just the first response he has — because, sixteen or not, he’s a kid. His heart may be twice as big as his lungs and sturdy, but it’s still growing into its spaces, finding its footing when it comes to things that are complicated. Eijun just doesn’t know how to not love something with all he is. 

With a heart like this, you get used to loving everything all at once. In a way, it sort of makes sense that he didn’t fall in love with Miyuki so much as he just sprinted headfirst into it, the way he does when he’s trying to prove a point to Furuya during their morning runs. It’s like baseball, in that sense — he’s in the middle before he even knew he’d already begun.

If he had to tell the story, it starts like this: with the contraband of several decks of Uno cards into the dorms, an unjust raid into Eijun’s precious, carefully protected stock of candy, and the peer-reviewed living dorm rules being finally posted on the board outside the mess hall.

Now, Eijun’s not entirely sure how the living dorm rules are decided upon. He knows it only happens after the current third years have retired from the club, because Kuramochi-senpai only started bragging about it after they lost the finals against Inashiro, when he, Miyuki, Shirasu, Kawakami, Zono, and a few other upperclassmen would gather in the common room by themselves after night practice. Eijun and Kanemaru nearly managed to sneak in before someone locked the door, but Zono-senpai only picked both of them up by the arm like they were newborn puppies and carried them out to the hallway.

“And stay out! ” Kuramochi had hollered, a little too into it.

Some of the living dorm rules are permanent and implemented by the Coach himself, like the laundry and litter duties, or by the managers (who get said privilege because they have to “deal with all of our shit,” as said by Isashiki-san), such as keeping the common rooms organized and cleaning up after yourself. Others are not permanent, but just common sense, like “Don’t buy from the vending machine every day, they only restock it once every two weeks,” or “Personal alarm clocks are provided by the school for a reason, do not wake up your entire floor by playing weird ass Brazilian songs no one’s ever heard of.” And, of course, the third years-to-be are responsible for writing them all down and handing them to Coach Kataoka. 

Eijun’s no genius, but whoever came up with that idea is a fucking idiot.

“I don’t think you understand how embarrassing this is,” Kuramochi says, eyes extremely wide as he stares down Miyuki from across the makeshift table Shirasu brought over with him to their room. On top of it are six separate decks of Uno, each box signed by the person who gifted it, and Eijun’s unfortunately dwindling stock of candy. He did not volunteer to put it there, and Kuramochi did not ask. It’s definitely personal.

Good thing about having roommates: Eijun never has to be alone. Bad thing about having roommates: his room isn’t only his, and complaining gets him absolutely nowhere. If anything, it makes it worse, because currently, the number of people in Eijun’s room that do not live in Eijun’s room is batting four to two. Kuramochi he’s unfortunately stuck with forever, and Miyuki he sort of understands, but the reason why Zono-senpai is currently revising his History notes on the floor next to Eijun’s desk is completely going over his head right now. Shirasu apparently came for the candy he was promised, and Furuya just wanted to ask if Miyuki wanted to catch for him, but somehow got stuck and unable to leave.

“Dude,” Kuramochi repeats. “Do you realize how embarrassing this is?”

“Oh, don’t worry, I do,” Miyuki answers, but Kuramochi cuts him off.

“Do you?” he says. “Do you, really? Living dorm rules have to be reviewed and approved by the coach. That means Coach Kataoka read, reviewed, and approved that Miyuki Kazuya is not allowed to play Uno. Do you understand what that means? You’re not allowed to play Uno. Coach said so, and he’s basically God. We have contraband right here.”

“You know, I’m not so sure you understand what the word basically means,” Miyuki says.

“Maybe so,” Kuramochi acquiesces, “but at least I’m still legally allowed to play Uno.”

“For the last time, Yoichi, Coach Kataoka does not make the law. He has never written a law. He can’t do that. He’s a high school teacher.”

“This conversation is stressing me out so much,” Shirasu says, voice strained. “Please, the two of you, stop talking.”

“I will not be silenced,” Miyuki exclaims, before being promptly smacked over the head by Kuramochi’s pillow. He falls to the ground far more dramatically than it’s called for, and Kuramochi laughs that sharp laugh of his. Eijun’s smile comes so easily these days he barely notices when he’s wearing it, but it freezes on his face almost immediately when he catches Miyuki’s eye.

Because Miyuki is playing, and having fun, but since the game against Seiko, sometimes he just gets this look. His smile is a little too wide and his cheeks are a little too flushed, and Eijun has spent hours upon hours staring at Miyuki’s face across the bullpen and beyond the mound. He knows each tick and slight of the eyebrow as well as he knows his own. And after the semifinals, Eijun is always, always able to tell when Miyuki is in pain. 

“Kuramochi-senpai!” Eijun calls out, widening his eyes as much as he can. He’s been told he looks pretty freaky like that, because his eyes are too bright or something. “Knock it off.”

There must be something about his tone of voice that leaves no room for argument, because Kuramochi just makes a face at him and helps Miyuki up. His touch is gentler than it usually would be, but they all know enough not to mention it. 

Eijun changes gears before anyone can dwell on it, pouting at the mess of wrappers and empty candy bars in front of him, because this is just unfair. “Why are you guys even in my room? Don’t you have somewhere better to be?”

“They’re not visiting you, dipshit, they’re visiting me,” Kuramochi-senpai says, or tries to. His mouth is stuffed with a handful of Eijun’s sour candy, and oh, Eijun hates him.

“It’s my food! Stop eating it!"

“Sawamura, do you still have those green tea flavored kit kats?” Miyuki asks.

“Yeah, sure, they’re inside the purple bag under my bed,” Eijun answers, absently, too busy glaring at Kuramochi. Miyuki flashes him a thumbs up and moves to get it, draping himself over Shirasu-senpai as he does so. Shirasu looks at the ceiling, seemingly questioning most of his life choices, but not doing anything to change the outcome. Zono-senpai mumbles something about goddamn bitchass Napoleon, and keeps scribbling on his notes. Furuya has been trying to open up the wrapper of a chocolate bar for the past minute without much success, and it’s hilarious.

Kuramochi raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“All you do is bully me,” Eijun says, batting away his hand when Kuramochi tries to rub sugary, damp fingers all over his face. “Miyuki-senpai also bullies me, but he makes up for it by catching for me if I ask him to.”

“Aw, how sweet,” Kuramochi drawls, but it doesn’t sound like what he means. His eyebrow is still raised. Eijun ignores it.

“Anyway,” Eijun says. “Is it really that big of a deal? How much Uno did you play on a regular basis?”

“It’s about the principle of the thing,” Miyuki says conversationally, settling back to his normal position with one leg hugged to his chest. “I didn’t hurt anyone by playing Uno, I’m just annoying as fuck.”

Eijun laughs. “Can people even get hurt by playing cards? Or board games?”

“The Monopoly incident,” Shirasu, Kuramochi and Miyuki utter, terrifyingly, in unison.

“Don’t ask Yuuki-san about it,” Miyuki warns, pointing a finger at Eijun, even though they’re so close he’s nearly jabbing it into his eye. “He’ll cry.”

“Masuko-san still has nightmares,” Kuramochi laments, pointing at the bottom bunk bed that used to be Masuko’s.

“Right,” Eijun says. 

“Does this chocolate have coconut in it?” Furuya asks, eyes wide. His face has smudges on it, but he looks delighted. Eijun has half a mind to worry about a sugar high. “I love coconut.”

Zono-senpai, who’s sitting the closest to him, pats his head absently. Furuya seems to be satisfied with that answer.

Kuramochi shoves another handful of sour candy into his mouth. “Oh no, Miyuki without Uno,” he deadpans. “What will he do first?”

“I mean, we could play truth or dare,” Miyuki says, and everyone around him utters some form of the word no at the same time. Shirasu, whose default expression is something of a stoic teddy bear, looks near tears.

“Dude, that’s somehow worse,” Kuramochi-senpai says urgently, and Eijun nods in agreement until his teeth rattle. Furuya looks startled like he always does when he misses a social cue, straight-faced and wide-eyed, so Eijun just nods even more forcefully at him until Furuya starts nodding along. Eijun’s pretty sure the last time truth or dare was played in the dorms ended with everyone needing to cook their own meals for two weeks, per Coach Kataoka’s orders, since they were all “so eager to leave footmarks on the kitchen ceiling.”

“Seriously,” Coach Kataoka had told them, eye twitching, and he was almost impressed. “What.”

Miyuki smiles at Kuramochi, and Eijun can hear him audibly gulp. It’s the kind of smile Miyuki saves for when they win a game by a landslide, or when he calls a miracle play, or hits a home run: lopsided, teeth bared, a little too wide for his face in a way that makes his glasses look crooked on his nose. He looks unhinged. 

He also looks sort of hot, but Eijun gathers that thought with two of his metaphorical hands, and places it inside the metaphorical “come back to later” box in his chest.

“Bet,” Miyuki says.

“No,” Kuramochi answers.

“There were so many other high schools in West Tokyo,” Shirasu-senpai whispers, staring at the table in front of him with glassy eyes. “So many of them.”

“Yo, Toujou!” Miyuki calls out, hands cupped beside his mouth as he tilts towards the window. “Come here for a minute!”

Before Eijun can start prattling on about how Miyuki’s probably experiencing some sort of pulled muscles-induced hallucination, since Toujou isn’t actually anywhere in sight, Toujou’s head pops in through the window, messy haired and red faced from the common bath. Eijun does not scream.

“Shut up,” Miyuki still tells him, and Eijun pouts. 

“Hey, Miyuki-senpai,” Toujou greets, unfazed, eyes very wide and earnest. There’s a towel over his shoulders, and they probably caught him before he could even catch his bearings after leaving the blissful warmth of the onsen, by the way he’s shivering just a little. “Need me to come in?”

“Nah, this’ll be quick.” Miyuki flashes a smile at him, leaning forward on his knees. “So, Toujou-kun. Truth or dare?”

Toujou blinks, and all the earnestness he reserves for the upperclassmen seems to fade away instantaneously. “What.”

“You heard me.”

“If I pretend I didn’t, can I leave this conversation?” Toujou asks, but it sounds halfhearted.

“Nope,” Miyuki says, popping the word.

“Hm,” Toujou hums, slumping forward so his forehead touches the window sill. “Oh, fuck me, I guess. Dare.”

Miyuki barely hesitates. “Get your phone out and press play on the last song you were listening to.”

Toujou’s face goes blank, though Eijun can’t really understand why. Considering Miyuki’s track record, this is pretty mild. Unnervingly so, if the way Shirasu looks even more stressed is any indication; Eijun finds himself waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

There’s a moment where everyone seems to be holding their breath, except for Miyuki, who’s staring a hole into the top of Toujou’s head as he searches for the playlist on his phone, and Furuya, who mentally checked out of the conversation about five minutes ago and is snoring softly with his head on Zono-senpai’s shoulder. Zono is lucky enough to have headphones on, and therefore not part of whatever the hell is going on, but he looks a little misty eyed.

Eijun gets it, really. Furuya is the textbook definition of emotionally inept, and the first time Coach Kataoka told him he needed to trust his teammates more, he’d just stared back blankly, as if he didn’t understand what that was supposed to mean, or how he was supposed to do it. And Eijun might envy the guy more than a little — for his talent, and how he’s leagues ahead of him when Eijun promised himself it’d be a fair race — but he’s not cruel. Seeing Furuya like this, sleep-soft and comfortable and surrounded by people, Eijun can’t find it in himself to be bitter.

Finally, Toujou sighs, phone in hand. “Okay. Here goes nothing.”

He looks heavenward, as if praying for patience, or hoping something very heavy falls from the sky and crushes him instantly, and clicks play. 

Eijun doesn’t recognize the song immediately, and Kuramochi seems to be on the same boat, straining a little so he can hear better. It’s definitely in English, and it sounds familiar, but Eijun gets so distracted by Miyuki’s growing smile that it takes him all of thirty seconds to begin parsing out the words. 

Eijun blinks. Squints in Toujou’s general direction. Blinks again. “Is that…Hannah Montana?”

Toujou pauses the song so forcefully he almost drops his phone to the ground. His grip on the window sill is white knuckled, and his neck is flush with embarrassment. “You can’t prove anything.”

“Oh, I knew it,” Miyuki breathes, as if his birthday came early. “I knew you were singing the lyrics to Nobody’s Perfect during fielding practice last week, but you were just like I don’t know what you mean, Miyuki-senpai, and Shouldn’t you be resting, Miyuki-senpai? ” Miyuki crosses his arms, glaring at Toujou. Eijun knows him well enough to see there’s no heat in it, but Toujou still shrinks back. “Gaslighting the injured guy. Are you proud of yourself?”

“Oh, I see how it is,” Kuramochi-senpai says. “I can’t make up words when we’re playing Scrabble, but you can make up words whenever you fucking please.”

Eijun blows a raspberry. “I don’t think gaslighting is a made up word.”

“Yeah, you don’t,” Kuramochi says. “Who’s flunking Japanese again?”

“It’s not a Japanese word,” Shirasu tells him, “and literally all of you, except for Miyuki.”

At that, Miyuki grins, and everything inside Eijun moves. Oh, love. Love. 

Wait.

Oh.

Eijun’s a fucking idiot.

He makes some sort of squeaking noise that’s thankfully covered up by everyone still squabbling around him, and since he wasn’t really contributing to the conversation all that much, it’s easy to just slip into the background and just…try to process that. 

It’s not the guy thing. Eijun’s always known he just likes people that are interesting, and it’s an ongoing joke between his parents that bisexuality runs in the family, so that one’s out. It’s not the other people knowing it’s a guy thing either, because Eijun’s yet to encounter a single straight person in this God forsaken dorm, and that includes all the managers and one of the cooks. And Eijun’s had crushes before, so it’s not like the feeling is completely foreign.

Except it is. Because the most surprising thing about it, in hindsight, is that it isn’t a surprise at all.

Oh, Eijun thinks, watching Miyuki throw his head back and laugh, face alight and shoulders shaking. Of course it’s you.

And then he smiles to himself, shakes his head, and swallows that sweet, wonderful, slightly terrifying newfound knowledge down. It settles on his chest like a warm, heavy weight, and Eijun is so giddy with it he forgets to be scared at all, because he doesn’t know how to.

Miyuki Kazuya. Eijun likes him. Eijun really, really likes him.

He can’t stop smiling for the rest of the night.

When baseball comes into his life, it brings Miyuki Kazuya four things: the drive to get better, the notion of being good at something, a team, and Sawamura Eijun. That last one starts to become a problem somewhere halfway through the spring semester of Kazuya’s second year at Seidou.

Sawamura’s heart is too big for his body, and isn’t it a match made in Heaven, truly, because boys like Kazuya will never settle for being loved as a second choice, as a surrender. Kazuya’s spent his entire life not being loved at all — tolerated at least, well-liked at most, by his own goddamn effort. He’s never been a fool to think being loved enough would satisfy him; it will not. He doesn’t want to be loved enough. He wants to be loved overwhelmingly. Social niceties are something he learned by touch-and-go, and sometimes, he’s afraid he’s fooled everyone else into thinking he’s someone reliable, someone worth looking up to, maybe even worth staying around for. 

Well, maybe not afraid. It sits just below his skin, settling over his bones, because these people — because his team believes in him. It’s both the easiest and hardest thing in the world. 

He’s not stupid. He sees how they all gravitate toward him; Yoichi snarks him into next week, but he’s still somehow always just there, looking over Kazuya’s shoulder and sneaking out of his dorm way past curfew just so he can help Kazuya with his own batting practice. If Zono and Kazuya ever see eye to eye it’ll be a cold day in Hell, but whether Zono hits a home run or strikes out during a game, Kazuya is the first person he looks back to. Furuya follows him around like a very stubborn, very stoic, very “the weight of the world rests on my shoulders, and on my shoulders only” duckling.

It’s both endearing and enough to make Kazuya consider: the Bahamas. The possible consequences of passport forgery. A life with no affiliations to the Seidou Baseball Club. 

It’s not all all-encompassing and terrifying like that. He has many teammates, and that means he’s got a lot of people to be aware of: the most reliable thing about Shirasu is just how reliable he is; Haruichi — who insisted to be called by his first name and not just “the smaller Kominato,” because despite what he may say, he does have a height complex — treats Kazuya with the same awkward warmness he treated his big brother, and it makes Kazuya’s chest feel all light and fuzzy and shit. He’s always been an only child, so he doesn’t know what to do with the feeling. He’s sort of clumsy with it.

But here’s the thing about Sawamura Eijun: he (and this was almost unbearable) saw Kazuya, and Kazuya saw Sawamura see him. 

Kazuya knows what he is. Batting fourth, catcher, Miyuki-kun, as it rings through the stadium every time he steps up at-bat. He calls the plays. He keeps the game going. He helps the pitchers pitch their best. He’s good at baseball. He’s great at it. He wants to keep playing it until he dies. He can’t stop thinking about Sawamura, and it’s becoming a problem. 

Back home, there were always dishes spilled out of the sink, from meals shared between slices of silence and absence. It’s how Kazuya discovered this kind of hunger.

He knows that Sawamura isn’t fragile, regardless of what Sawamura himself might think — after Yakushi hit those home runs off him, when he froze up and crumbled right there on the mound, or the hit-by-pitch that tied the Inashiro game all the way back at finals. 

He still sees it sometimes, when he closes his eyes. Sawamura’s blank, glassy stare, the litany of I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, how eventually he stopped speaking at all, but seemed to not be able to stop mouthing it, searching for some forgiveness no one knew how to offer him. Back then, Kazuya had only looked back at Coach Kataoka and shaken his head — He can’t play like this. Not because he’s weak, but because he’s sad. Because he hasn’t learned how to deal with this yet.

Kazuya heard what the other teams had been saying about Sawamura, up until that game. The fearless pitcher. He’s got as much talent as he’s got guts; not necessarily a compliment, but it didn’t negate the fact. He heard so much about it he forgot to look out for something he should’ve from the very beginning: Sawamura’s heart.

You don’t play like he does if your heart isn’t as big as it gets. And for Sawamura, all that fearlessness paled in comparison to the thought of hurting someone — and he was suddenly just a fifteen year old kid in a high level stress situation he’d had no preparation for. How could Kazuya think less of him for that?

‘Course, he’s never said any of those things out loud. It’s not his style, and Kazuya would never hear the end of it if he did. Doesn’t stop him from thinking it, though. And it certainly doesn’t stop him from being scared.

Everything he’s ever let go of has claw marks on it. Gentleness, like other kinder things, is what he learned on the touch-and-go, and he’s not good at it. People like Sawamura deserve things that will not harm them and are not messy and clumsy and not pretty to look at — no one is promised happiness, but Sawamura deserves it. For a smile like his, Kazuya thinks I want and I won’t on the same breath, and settles on neither. 

Kazuya knows what he is. A good catcher. A good cleanup. A good teammate and student. He’s heard it all before, and he’s also heard what’s not said. 

No one’s ever called him a good person.

So when Sawamura goes quiet, sometimes, when Kazuya’s around — his ears turning pink, a smile lasting a few moments too long, the way he perks up whenever Kazuya walks into a room, all the tiny things that make Kazuya’s fingers shake and his heart pound — he does something he’s always been particularly skilled at: he says nothing. It kills him, but he says nothing.

Because Kazuya is many things, and brave is not one of them. It’s hard to have more chaos in oneself than that.

But then again — Sawamura’s always had this way of surprising him when he least expects it. Kazuya tries not to think of it, but sometimes, he can’t help himself.

iii.

“Why am I here?” Furuya asks. “I don’t want to be here.”

“You’re stupid and wrong about everything all the time,” Eijun tells him. “Please be quiet, Furuya. Harucchi and I are trying to have a real conversation here.”

“No, we’re not,” Harucchi says, the asshole. “You dragged both of us into your room and just started talking. You also shut the door on Kuramochi-senpai’s face, so good luck dealing with that when he manages to tear it off its hinges.”

“When, ” Furuya agrees solemnly, nodding along with his words.

“You’re both awful and I don’t know why I’m friends with you,” Eijun says.

“Who else would you be friends with?” Harucchi asks, a small grin on his face. He only gets teasing like this when they’re alone, and even though Eijun is sort of touched that Harucchi feels so comfortable around him and Furuya to do so, he also wishes their senpai were able to see how much of an absolute piece of shit he can be. 

And Harucchi is not being completely fair on his version of the story. Sure, Eijun didn’t exactly “call them over” or “communicate his intentions,” but he found Harucchi and Furuya walking down the hallway opposite of him and his brain went, Great! Perfect timing, you two. So he grabbed them both by the wrist, led them to his room, and only closed the door on Kuramochi-senpai’s face because he hadn’t seen him coming, and was too embarrassed to open it up again afterwards, so he just sort of panicked and locked it. 

Eh. Anyways. That’s a problem for future him. Right now, he’s got bigger fish to fry, and he’s not even sure that’s how the saying even goes. What a mess.

Case in point: Eijun’s huge, ridiculous, overwhelming crush on one Miyuki Kazuya. It’s fine and normal and he can deal with it, only he really can’t, because he got so distracted looking at Miyuki from across the bullpen this morning that Ono-senpai accidentally nailed him on the side of the head with a baseball. Explaining that to Coach Kataoka was the cherry on top of the cake.

Enough with the food metaphors. A few months ago, he couldn’t fathom still being hungry after dinner, but recently, he’s started to dream about carbs and sugar; it’s someone’s fault for destroying all of his candy stash in one night, but that’s beside the point. 

The point is that Eijun liking Miyuki is one thing, and actually talking about it is something else entirely. It’s not that he feels like he owes it to Harucchi and Furuya, but at the same time, it feels like the sort of thing they should know, because they’re his friends. Not everything has a bigger motive to it.

Eijun clicks his tongue. “You’re not the only first years around! I could talk to Kanemaru. I could call him over right now.”

“Kanemaru,” Harucchi echoes, tilting his head. “Half the time he looks like he wants to punch you.”

“He does not!” Eijun exclaims. “We have nicknames for each other. He’s my bestie.”

“He’s your what,” Furuya says, flatly. It doesn’t sound like a question.

“Never say that word again,” Harucchi adds, smiling brightly, and Eijun shuts up. When Harucchi starts looking like Ryo-san, it usually means danger.

“You know, for the record, I could just as well have this conversation with Toujou,” Eijun informs them, ‘cause he’s not a coward. “He’d be much better at emotional support than you two.”

Harucchi raises an eyebrow, or Eijun thinks he does. It’s hard to be sure with the bangs on the way. “And yet you’re still talking.”

Eijun sits down like a marionette with its strings cut off, hiding his face behind his hands and pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes till he sees stars. A loud bang comes from outside the door, followed by a cut-off pained yell. The three of them categorically ignore it.

“Unfortunately,” Eijun says, muffled, “you’re the ones I’ve formed emotional connections with.”

“Did you have to?” Furuya asks, with absolutely no inflection on his voice. He’s sitting seiza position on the floor, stiff but not awkwardly so, while Haruichi hugs his knees to his chest right beside him. Sitting on the bed, Eijun sort of feels like a kindergarten teacher. “I’m going to be late for practice.”

“Hush, you,” Harucchi stage-whispers, nudging Furuya’s shoulder with his own. “He’s being emotionally vulnerable.”

“I don’t want him to,” Furuya says. “Tell him to stop doing that.”

“That’s not how friendship works, Furuya-kun,” Harucchi tells him, in his never-ending benevolence and patience. “Eijun-kun is a bit weird, but I’m sure all he wants is for us to hear him out.”

“Hell yeah, Harucchi, that’s why you’re my favorite,” Eijun says. “Also, hey. ”

He can feel the annoyance coming off Furuya in waves, but the guy’ll tire himself out in five minutes tops. His ability to just mentally check out of whatever conversation he does not want to be having is something Eijun admires as much as he envies it.

Well. Story of their friendship. Or rivalry. Whatever.

Harucchi, who’s also well aware of that, turns back to Eijun with an open demeanor, shoulders relaxed and hands upturned. Since he knows no one can usually see his whole face to tell what he’s thinking, Harucchi has other tells to him. “So, Eijun-kun,” he says, voice light. “What’s up?”

Eijun opens his mouth. And then, when it comes down to it, it happens again: he stops. He doesn’t hesitate. He just stops.

Somehow, that makes it worse.

Someone bangs at the door again, hard enough to make it tremble. “Let me in! ” Kuramochi yells from the hall. “Are you fucking serious right now?”

“Sorry, Kuramochi-senpai,” Harucchi calls out. “Eijun-kun has the key!” He turns back to eijun, and then he does something weird: he tucks the longer ends of his bangs behind his ears, just enough so Eijun can see a slightly furrowed brow and sharp ember eyes. “Eijun-kun?”

Furuya’s head lolls forward, and the change in gravity startles him out of a light doze. “Huh,” he mumbles, as if nothing has happened. “Can I leave now?”

“Eijun hasn’t said anything yet,” Harucchi says. “Wait, it’s nothing serious, is it? ‘Cause if so, maybe you would be better off talking to Coach. I’m sure we could call him—”

“I have a crush on Miyuki-senpai,” Eijun blurts out, and immediately moves to bang his head against the bed frame. Just — fucking nailed it. That’s how you do it. Just rip the bandaid right all at once. 

An even louder bang comes from the door, which is starting to look maybe a bit more crooked than it should. “Yeah, no fucking shit, idiot,” Kuramochi-senpai calls out, banging a few more times in quick succession, as if to make a point. “I could’ve told you that. Anyone with two functioning eyes could’ve told you that! Now let me in, it’s fucking freezing out here.”

Forehead smarting — that really wasn’t his best moment —, Eijun opens the door. Kuramochi-senpai looks like he wants to commit a murder, and would be extremely good at hiding the body. There’s a heart-shaped green sharpie drawing on his left cheek, probably courtesy of someone in his class, and he doesn’t seem to have noticed it yet.

Eijun goes for a smile. “Hey there, Kuramochi-senpai. Sorry about that.”

Kuramochi tilts his head heavenward as if praying for patience, and sighs. His face is red from the cold, and Eijun feels a bit bad. “No, you’re not,” Kuramochi says, knocking his shoulder against Eijun’s on his way in. He kicks off his shoes and leaves his bat by the door, before reaching out to his own bed, yanking down a blanket, and burrowing into it until he looks like a weirdly-shaped onigiri.

“You look like a weirdly-shaped onigiri,” Eijun tells him, because he’s never been one for internalizing.

“Fuck off,” Kuramochi answers. “I’m so not interested on your huge gay crush on Miyuki, but I’m still offended you went to these two for advice instead of me. What the fuck do they know? Not you, Haruichi, you know you’re my ride or die.”

“Thank you, Kuramochi-senpai,” Harucchi says, and his voice only breaks a little bit. Furuya is, once again, in the process of falling asleep with his eyes open.

Eijun blinks. and blinks again, because his eyes are sort of burning and his face feels hot and he doesn’t know why. He scratches at the back of his neck, laughing awkwardly. “Guess I wasn’t subtle at all, huh?”

“You wouldn’t know subtlety if it punched you in the face,” Kuramochi-senpai says, muffled, but when he meets Eijun’s eye again, he doesn’t look entirely unkind. 

Kuramochi has this way of making Eijun feel like he can see right through him, and it sort of makes him wonder what he used to be like as a first year. He’s always looked at the upperclassmen through rose-tinted lenses, but the more time he spends with them — seeing the cramming routine Nabe-senpai organized by having the second years memorize mathematical formulas through batting drills, the ongoing betting pool to see who manages to fall down the stairs on the way to breakfast the most till the end of the semester, that one time Yuki-san started a prank war that ended up with all of the third years’ hair dyed bright pink — the more he realizes just how…well. How childish they are. They’re just kids. They’re like Eijun, in that sense, and it’s hard to be anything but fond of his team after all this time.

“Eijun-kun?” Harucchi says, and it makes Eijun realize he’s been silent for too long. “Is everything alright?”

Eijun flashes a smile at him. “What? Of course I am.”

“You look like you’re about to cry,” Furuya says. “Please don’t do that.”

It would be sort of sweet if he didn’t sound that panicked about it. Figures.

Eijun wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand, relieved that he hasn’t actually spilled any tears, but when he’s done, he finds he can’t quite make himself look up from the ground. Those floorboards are actually pretty neat. Dad complains all the time about how Eijun “better be making all these goddamn bills worth it,” so it’s only fair the living conditions are high quality. Huh.

“The longer you take to answer, the less I’m going to believe you,” Harucchi says, voice pitched a bit higher than usual. He looks both concerned and nervous, and Eijun hates it. Hates it, hates it, hates it. He wants to go back in time and punch Past Eijun in the face for ever thinking that this conversation was a good idea.

He stays silent. His arm itches, but he can’t make himself move to scratch it. He feels warm all over, and it’s not the sort of warmth Miyuki makes him feel — it’s just heavy. He wants to stay still until everyone forgets he’s there at all, until he can breathe and not taste shame, until the day ends and he can put all of this back into that corner of his chest and come back to it when he’s stronger. If he is stronger.

“Alright, ” Kuramochi-senpai says, drawing out the word. Eijun isn’t looking, but he can feel the air shift and knows he must be signaling something furiously at Harucchi and Furuya. “We’ll unpack all of that, but we’re gonna start by not staring at Sawamura like he’s about to drop dead. Seriously, Furuya. Cut it out.”

“He’s sad,” Furuya hisses, sharper than Eijun thought him able to, and Eijun can’t stop himself from wincing a little. The three of them go quiet for a moment or two, and when Furuya speaks again, his voice is softer. “Why is he sad?”

“I’m not,” Eijun tries, but it sounds rough even to his own ears. He wipes down his hands over his sweatpants, still staring at the ground next to kuramochi’s feet. “I’m not — it’s fine, Furuya, seriously. You can go to practice if you want.”

“No,” Furuya says, sharply, but he sounds uncertain. “I shouldn’t — you don’t leave friends alone when they’re sad.” 

“Eijun-kun,” Harucchi stars, voice soft. Eijun is so, so ashamed. “Do you want us to leave? We’re not mad at you. I wasn’t even annoyed, I was just teasing.”

Eijun shoves his hands deep in his pockets, so they don’t see the way he’s clenching his fists. “Sorry,” he says, shaky. “I don’t know.”

He does know, though. He just doesn’t want to think it.

God, he really is an idiot.

“Okay,” Kuramochi sweeps in, firm hand a sudden warm and heavy comfort on Eijun’s shoulder. “Haruichi and Furuya are gonna go to practice now, and you’ll go to them when you’re ready. Okay? No judgement.”

“No judgement,” Harucchi parrots, and Eijun doesn’t need to look to know he’s shaking his head the way he does when he’s flustered, bangs bobbing up and down, face flushed and earnest.

“That okay?” Kuramochi-senpai whispers, just low enough for Eijun to hear, and Eijun nods. He can’t stop nodding. He wants to dig a hole in the outfield of the dorms and bury himself there. 

(Outside the room, where Sawamura can’t hear them, Satoru asks Haruichi, “Am I a bad person?”

Haruichi looks bewildered. Or concerned. It’s hard to tell, with the way his hair covers most of his face, and Satoru has never really been the best at figuring out expressions, anyways. “Why would you be a bad person?”

“You don’t leave friends alone when they’re sad,” Satoru repeats, just a little bit frustrated. It’s a rule he learned not that long ago, because he didn’t have anyone to apply it to before coming to Seidou. Ono-senpai is patient with him when it comes to that. He’s patient with Satoru about many things. “You don’t, but I wanted to leave just then.”

Haruichi pokes Satoru on the arm. “You were panicking,” he points out, not unkindly. Satoru likes how he never says a thing he doesn’t mean. “I’ve never seen Eijun-kun like that, either. It’s normal that you were nervous. I was too. And you were already stressed about being late to practice.” Haruichi tilts his head. “It’s not a bad thing to want to leave situations you don’t know how to handle.” 

Satoru blinks. Haruichi smiles. 

When Spring comes, Satoru will stand on the mound with the number one on his jersey for the last time, though he won’t know it. If he hadn’t forgotten those words, maybe everything would’ve turned out differently. Maybe he would’ve figured out another way of becoming stronger, and maybe it wouldn’t have become such a lonely path.

But nobody lives on maybes. For now, Satoru is the ace, and an ace is responsible for carrying his team. Anyone who feels responsibility isn’t free.)

The moment Harucchi and Furuya are out of the door, Eijun buries himself under his comforter and tries to suffocate himself with his own pillow. He doesn’t try hard enough.

God, what was that? His head feels like it’s full of static, and his hands are sort of clammy and numb, and everytime he thinks back at the words, he’s hit with another wave of Oh, no, so big it threatens to swallow him whole. He’s not that prone to panicking, but it’s happened once or twice, and the only thing he can remember that came closest to this is how he felt after that game with Yakushi: like someone’s just knocked his feet out from under him and his mouth is full of the red earth of the infield. He’s so scared he barely feels his heart at all.

Kuramochi-senpai sits down on the edge of Eijun’s bed, which is a nice gesture, but he also miscalculates because of the comforter between them and ends up settling halfway on Eijun’s stomach. Eijun opens one eye to glare at him.

“Hey, loser,” Kuramochi-senpai says, raising one eyebrow. “Talk to me.”

“Hmm,” Eijun hums, and goes to hide his face again. Kuramochi squawks indignantly, yanking Eijun’s head back by his hair hard enough for him to see stars.

“Stop being a baby,” he says, as if Eijun is the unreasonable one in this situation. “The agreement was that Haruichi and Furuya would leave and you would actually talk to me about whatever the fuck you’ve got going on.”

“There was no agreement!” Eijun exclaims, voice an octave higher than usual. “You literally just made that up!”

Kuramochi grabs Eijun by the face before he can make another dive for it, and guides him into a sitting position so they can meet each other’s eye. Eijun very pointedly looks at the wall behind Kuramochi’s head, and wishes with all he has that this conversation isn’t as painful as he’s expecting it to.

He can’t say what he means, anyway. He just hopes Kuramochi figures that out soon enough and gives up.

But moments pass, then minutes, without either of them saying anything. Eijun can’t fidget because he doesn’t want to call attention to himself, but he’s never been the best at sitting still, and Kuramochi isn’t making it any easier by just letting it simmer. 

Is this some sort of questioning technique? Eijun thinks, half-heartedly. Do they teach you how to do that when you’re not a freshman anymore?

Eijun cracks first. His eyes flit over to Kuramochi’s face, and then down to where he’s sort of holding on to Eijun’s forearms, and in spite of himself, he breathes a little easier, because all he finds on Kuramochi’s face is a nervous sort of concern. He doesn’t look angry, like he did when Miyuki — shit — hid his injury after being tackled by that Seiko player, which in hindsight makes much more sense in context than out of it. Eijun doesn’t know why he expected it to be the same with him. 

“Hey,” Kuramochi-senpai whispers, and that might be a half-smirk on his face when Eijun finally meets his eye. “Right. You ready to start talking?”

Eijun’s breath hitches, and he opens his mouth, but there’s just nothing there. He closes it again and shakes his head, looking back at Kuramochi’s hands, rough and calloused and warm.

Kuramochi seems to take it in stride. “Okay,” he says. “So I’m gonna talk, and you just tell me to fuck off if I’m wrong. All good?” Eijun nods slightly, and Kuramochi’s eyes sharpen, though he’s a little less rough around the edges than he usually is. “The way I see it, there’s a few possible reasons why you’re like this right now. I didn’t hear the whole conversation, but bear with me. You either expected a certain reaction when you told them, and when you didn’t get it, you panicked. Or you panicked because I said it was too obvious.” Eijun frowns, but Kuramochi keeps speaking. The more he talks, the sadder he sounds. “I know it’s not the guy thing, because you were pretty loud about how hot you think Yuki-san is just a few weeks ago. So there’s only two more reasons.” Kuramochi takes a deep breath, and looks Eijun straight in the eye. “You either freaked out because you like Miyuki, ” he says, “or because you like Miyuki.”

Eijun flinches, a full-body thing. Kuramochi huffs out a breath, but he doesn’t sound amused at all.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Hit the nail on the head, huh?”

Eijun’s chest is tight. “I can’t — it’s like,” he says, and stops, and takes a deep breath. In, then out. “Inashiro. Bottom of the ninth.”

He doesn’t know how to talk about it, but he knows how to talk around it. He remembers the feeling; he’s sure Kuramochi does, too, and the understanding hum that he makes as soon as Eijun says it makes him want to hide in his friend’s chest and never be seen again.

He and Kuramochi might be roughhousing pretty much nonstop, and personal space is a faraway tale for them, but they’re not too big on hugging. Still, when Eijun makes a small widening gesture with his arms, Kuramochi gets it immediately. He’s not that much bigger than Eijun himself, but between the blankets, the rough softness of the mattress and the familiar, wooden smell of his clothes, Kuramochi’s embrace is somehow just big enough. Eijun’s eyes sting.

The only light in the room is from his bedside table, and he’s not sure who turned the rest of them off — probably Furuya, on his way out; the guy’s got a pathological need to put out the light of every room he leaves, to the endless chagrin of everyone else — but the yellowish, warm glow is somehow steadying. Eijun looks over Kuramochi’s shoulder at their shared TV, still on the paused screen from the videogame they’d been playing earlier, and for some reason, everything else feels a bit smaller than before.

“I think,” Eijun says, as loudly as he dares, and though Kuramochi jolts a little in shock, he doesn’t let go. “That it’s both. Like. The last thing you said. I like Miyuki, and I like Miyuki. Uh. I never stopped to think about what it means. I didn’t plan ahead.” He laughs a little, but there’s no mirth in it. “God. You’re — you’re really good at that, eh, Kuramochi-senpai?”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t change the subject,” Kuramochi drawls, pulling away just enough to look at him properly. He keeps his arm around Eijun’s shoulders, which he’s sort of thankful for. “And sure. Feelings are complicated and they don’t always make sense, but everyone has them.” He takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself. “Now, I’m going to tell you something that’s really important, but also really sappy, so if you ever tell anyone this conversation happened, I’ll hunt your ass down. Clear?”

Eijun huffs a laugh. “Crystal.”

“Yakushi was not your fault.” Something in Kuramochi’s eyes make Eijun’s protest die on his tongue. “Inashiro was not your fault. The yips you got were not your fault. People were worried about you after it not because they were worried you wouldn’t be able to deliver, but because they were worried about you. You were not weak for reacting the way you did. You were a rookie saving our asses when no one prepared you on how to deal with it, and you’re not lesser for stumbling and falling on your face. You know what you are?” Kuramochi punches Eijun’s shoulder with his left hand, softly. “You’re a person.”

“Kuramochi-senpai,” Eijun whispers, and for once, he’s completely speechless.

“As for Miyuki?” Kuramochi shrugs, as if he didn’t hear anything. His arm tightens around Eijun. “First time we had a real conversation was when we were both first years. He walked to the mess hall, sat down with his bowl of rice for two minutes, and excused himself. Half an hour later, he still wasn’t back, so I went looking for him. Found him in the bullpen by himself, hugging his knees, and tried to pretend everything was all fine and dandy when I asked him what was wrong. But where I’m from, these cases are a dime a dozen. I got out of him that he didn’t remember the last time he ate with so many people, and that his old man didn’t like noise when they did eat together.”

“Oh,” Eijun says, and his heart hurts. He looks at Kuramochi with wide eyes, trying to see if he can spot what’s implicit on his face. “Was his father…?”

“Not my place to tell, and not the point,” Kuramochi says, pulling away from Eijun and standing up with a muffled groan. Eijun has no idea how much time has passed, but when he steals a glance at the window, it’s decidedly darker than it was when he invited Harucchi and Furuya in. “The point is,” Kuramochi-senpai continues, “that Miyuki is human. Complicated. A pain in the ass. With issues as far as the eye can see. But he’s just a guy.”

“Oh,” Eijun says, suddenly, and his body feels like lightning. “Oh. So if — yeah?”

Kuramochi blinks at him, a bit dazed. There’s a damp spot on the shoulder of his t-shirt, but for once, he’s nice enough not to mention it. “Backtrack there. I think I missed about two minutes of this conversation you just had with yourself.”

Eijun jumps up to standing, heartbeat thrumming on his fingertips. The change is so sudden he almost gets whiplash, but — he gets it. He thinks he gets it.

“If i don’t know how to carry him,” Eijun says, “then I just carry him like a person.”

Kuramochi is silent for a moment, and then a smile takes over his face, crooked as it always is. “Yeah, loser. You carry him like a person,” he says, crossing his arms, “and then you take it from there.”

Eijun rubs at his still stinging eyes with the back of his hand. When he breathes, his bones ache in a good way, like he’s just got done exercising. Somewhere down the hall, there’s a burst of laughter, and like a golden stream between a skyful of storm clouds, he can recognize Miyuki’s voice as well as he would his own. By this point, Eijun could recognize him by touch alone, by the way his feet strike the ground and the pause between his breaths. 

He thinks, Of course, and he thinks, Okay, and he thinks, This is where it gets complicated. 

But Eijun knows a few things, if a few things only, and he’s well aware that if you don’t have to work for it, then it’s probably not worth having in the first place.

“Alright,” he tells Kuramochi-senpai. “I think I can do that.”

iv.

Eijun has no idea where to start.

It’s one thing to like Miyuki in theory. It’s another thing entirely to consider the actual, real-life implications of liking someone, which usually include flirting, asking them out, and hopefully dating them by the end of it. That’s officially three out of three things that Sawamura Eijun does not know how to do.

“Not with attitude, you don’t!” Kuramochi-senpai, self-elected president of the “Get Sawamura That Ass” Association (self-titled), told Eijun the morning after his sort of emotional breakdown. “Do I have to do everything around here?”

“Will you?” Eijun had asked, and he’d only sounded a bit despairing. In the weeks after his injury, Miyuki had taken to running in the morning — earlier than even Eijun himself and Furuya — and he’d come back to the dorms looking a sight: still somehow sleep-ruffled even as his hair stuck to his forehead and neck in sweaty clumps, voice soft and uncharacteristically gentle as he wished other early risers good morning, face freckled and tanned from spending his whole days under the sun.

Kuramochi had watched Eijun watch Miyuki walk down the hall (through a gap in their dorm room window; he’s not that brave) with something between exasperation and bemusement on his face. “I hate that I can’t fault you for your taste in men,” he’d said, “but this is getting ridiculous.”

Eijun knows, okay? But it’s not like he can do anything about it, not without putting his foot in his mouth, completely ruining his own reputation and probably embarrassing Miyuki to death in the process. Not that he hasn’t done any of those things before, but — not like this. Not when it comes to this. Because he’s reckless about everything, unless things that are important.

The first thing on Eijun’s to do list is to find a time where he can have an actual, honest, heart to heart conversation with Miyuki about their feelings — which both of his parents had annoyed into him from an early age, because “miscommunication is the actual worst thing that could ever happen to you, Eijun,” and “it doesn’t even make it interesting, it’s just painful for everyone around you,” — but it’s been nearly two weeks and that’s proven virtually impossible. Miyuki is just never alone, and he also always seems to have a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why he’s never alone, so Eijun can’t even call him out on his shit, even though he wants to. He knows Miyuki is the captain now, but sometimes it just feels a tiny bit personal.

And somehow, that makes it worse. Because the thing about time is that it passes, and the third years always graduate, and chances are always missed, and though the fields never end up empty, because the story doesn’t end with them, not really — something still ends. And it’s always before you’re truly ready for it. 

Eijun’s always been good at doing both what’s expected of him, and what is not. But it’s the same as it is when he goes quiet: everyone expects him to not think things through and then either make or break everything. They don’t expect him to be careful, and because of that, or maybe in spite of it, he’s really, really good at it. So he waits, though he won’t wait forever, for a better chance.

It happens during the Winter training camp. In a way, it’s almost ironic, because everything is inherently horrible at the Winter training camp.

“Holy shit,” Toujou says, teeth chattering. “Holy shit. Holy shit. I can’t believe Coach made us practice in this weather.  I can’t feel my face.”

“Bold of you to assume he gives a shit,” Kanemaru bites out, and then promptly sneezes so hard he drops the weight braces he’d been carrying for their run.

Furuya levels them all with a flat stare. He’s only wearing the school jacket over his undershirt and uniform, and Eijun hates his guts. “None of you would ever survive in Hokkaido.”

“Fuck off and die,” Kanemaru says. “Haruichi, help me with my cool off stretches.”

It’s just after ten at night in Winter, which means it’s pitch black anywhere beyond the lampposts circling the outfield. It hasn’t snowed yet, but the ground has started to freeze over in places, so not only do they have to run while carrying weights, but they also have to watch their step. When Shirasu-senpai mentioned it offhandedly to Coach Kataoka, during dinner, he only said that it would help them train their minds as well as their bodies. He was wearing an overly stern face, which means he was probably just fucking with them, but Eijun can hold a grudge.

Eijun moves his arms and legs up and down, trying to shake some feeling into them. He needs to cool down properly and then help Toujou with his stretches, but he takes a moment to just tilt his head back and breathe. It’s just cold enough for it to hurt his throat a little, but it makes him feel sharp in a way that breathing on a warm day doesn’t.

He can hear Furuya walking away from the rest of them, probably to run a few more laps — he’s got a responsibility complex, if that’s a thing, and a chip on his shoulder; as much as Eijun envies him, he doesn’t really want to be him —, while the second years clear out the field and move indoors for their weight training, barely chattering amongst themselves. Everyone’s too tired to do more than complain and wish for the sweet release of death since the second day of the training regimen from hell, and Eijun can’t fault them. He raises his arms above his head and then bends down, touching his toes.

“Kominato, stop doing that!” Kanemaru barks out. “You’re gonna slip and fall on your ass!”

“What’s he doing?” Eijun asks, falling down from his stretching position so he can peer at the both of them. 

Kanemaru rolls his eyes. His nose is red from the cold, and it makes him look like an irritated rabid dog. “Standing on his tiptoes again. Talk about a height complex.”

Harucchi huffs from behind Kanemaru’s shoulder, an inch taller than he usually is. “I do not have a height complex,” he says, “and I am not standing on my tiptoes. I’m completely normal about my height.”

Next to Eijun, Toujou stretches his arms behind his back until they pop. “That would be more convincing if you weren’t standing on your tiptoes, like, right now.”

Harucchi, who is decidedly standing on his tiptoes, blushes beet red all the way down to the root of his hair and stops doing so immediately. Eijun takes pity on him, putting one foot in front of the other — a feat in itself, since winter training has his legs feeling like they’re made of the grape jello they serve in the mess hall at the best of times — and pointing a finger at Harucchi.

“Harucchi, you’re perfect sized,” he says, emphatically. Harucchi takes a step back, for some reason.

“Please stop saying things,” Harucchi answers. “Please.”

“I’m so serious right now,” Eijun says. “Come here. No, I said come here, not run away.” 

Once he’s certain Harucchi won’t make a run for it, he settles his hands on his friend’s shoulders, looks him deep in the eyes — or in their general direction — for a moment, and kisses him on the forehead. Harucchi is just tall enough to reach Eijun’s jaw, so he barely even has to lean down for it. 

Eijun beams at him. “See? Perfect sized.”

“Ah,” Harucchi answers, faintly. He’s so red it’s almost purplish. “On an unrelated note, I’m leaving right now. See you at breakfast, Eijun-kun.”

He ducks beneath Eijun’s arms way faster than he should be able to, considering they’re all exhausted, and Eijun is left holding onto air at Harucchi-level height. He pouts, because no one’s ever called him mature.

Toujou watches Harucchi go, moving faster than it should be humanly possible while slipping on slick ground, an amused expression on his face. “Dude,” he says, “I think you broke him.”

“You shouldn’t play with Kominato’s feelings,” Kanemaru drawls, bending sideways to stretch his legs. “You know he’s sensitive.”

“Careful, Shinji,” Toujou sing-songs. “You sound like you care.”

“Gentlemen,” Eijun says, “I think I need to go too.”

Kanemaru looks at him oddly, and then he follows Eijun’s gaze. On top of the staircase behind the dorms, right before the grass turns into hard concrete, a lone, almost indistinguishable figure stands with their back turned to them, head tilted up to the sky. Or it would be indistinguishable, if Eijun weren’t able to recognize Miyuki by the way he takes up space. 

Eijun flashes a smile at the both of them. “Sorry,” he says. “I have to go see about a boy.”

He ignores the way they both wait until they think he’s out of earshot to start speaking over each other at lightning speed, and focuses on keeping a foot in front of the other and his breaths even. Unbidden, his Grandfather’s voice comes to mind: You’ve already got the no. Now chase after that yes as if it’s the last thing you’re ever going to want.

See, there’s a few reasons for this stalemate between them: both Eijun and Miyuki have pointedly said nothing, and kept everything normal, but Eijun isn’t enough of an idiot to think Miyuki doesn’t know, because it’s Miyuki. So Eijun knows Miyuki knows, but he’s not sure Miyuki knows that Eijun knows he knows, and this situation is so complicated it makes his head spin — but why the hell would Eijun want anything else? It’s not complicated because of Miyuki; it’s just complicated and Miyuki. And if Eijun needs to have both, then he’s having both. 

“Are you spacing out right now, Cap?” Eijun demands as soon as he’s within earshot, climbing the steps two by two until he’s right behind Miyuki, close enough to hear him breathing. “Am I startling you? Is it detrimental to your health? Do you want me to shut up?”

Miyuki glares at him, but there’s no heat in it. He’s changed out of his uniform for normal gym clothes, and his hair is clumped and messy with dried out sweat. “I can’t believe my health is a punchline now. Sure makes a guy feel loved and appreciated.”

Eijun elbows him on the arm, softly. “Shouldn’t have hidden your injury, then,” he says, diplomatically. “All starting players have I told you so rights now.”

Miyuki rests his arm on Eijun’s head, even though the height difference between them is not that big and it just makes him look petty. Eijun is so gone for him. 

“If anything, I have I told you so rights,” Miyuki says, smiling cheekily and looking sideways at Eijun. “I still played the whole game and we won, didn’t we?”

Eijun frowns. “That wasn’t you being strong. That was you being stupid. Just because you managed doesn’t mean you should’ve had to.”

Miyuki lets go of Eijun’s head, and looks at him the way he sometimes does — like he can’t quite figure him out, and it both amuses him and leaves him a bit lost. 

He’s warm, and the night is cold, and Eijun finds himself moving just a bit closer, until they’re arm to arm, watching over the edge of the field and being silent with each other. Beneath his glasses, Miyuki’s eyes are very brown and very bright.

“Who knew you were so wise,” Miyuki murmurs. It’s hard to tell with the dim lights that don’t completely reach where they’re standing, but the tips of his ears are red.

“I’m a lot of things,” Eijun says, smiling.

Miyuki smiles back, but on him, it looks more like a smirk. “That you are.”

And then he just looks at him. And Eijun just keeps looking back, and it’s the sort of moment Eijun feels like a breath caught in his throat. Like the way his fingertips buzz before throwing a pitch, or the singular sound of a baseball hitting a mitten just right. Like the way he and Miyuki fit together. 

In baseball, you either win a game or you lose. In real life, you either take a chance or you don’t.

Eijun thinks, Okay, and he thinks, Here goes nothing, and then he takes Miyuki’s hand, and threads their fingers together. The moment he does, it’s both a relief and mortifying; he’s sure he’s as red as he feels, and it takes all of his willpower to not to crack. He just keeps looking at Miyuki, and waits.

Miyuki is quiet, for once. His jaw is slack, and his eyes are fixed on their joined hands, so intently he doesn’t even notice when his glasses start to slip down his nose. Eijun sort of wants to fix it, but he doesn’t want to test his luck.

The first thing Miyuki tries to do, a moment or a hundred later, is pull away. Eijun holds on tighter.

“Miyuki,” he says. He’s never been the best with words, but still. “I know.”

“You don’t, Sawamura,” Miyuki says, and his voice is pained. If it were anyone else, Eijun would think he sounds panicked. “No one does.”

“I want to,” Eijun answers, simply.

Miyuki doesn’t look at him, but his fingers squeeze Eijun’s as if he’s asking for help. And because Eijun is careful with things like these, he just steps a little closer and rests his head on Miyuki’s shoulder. And he finds, impossibly, that he isn’t really afraid at all. That for once, level-headed, practical, laid-back Miyuki Kazuya is the one that needs to be handled with care — not because he is fragile, but because he is scared. And because Eijun loves him.

Miyuki breathes. Holds Eijun’s hand on his left, and then puts his right arm around Eijun’s waist, so tentatively that the touch is barely there. says, “You’re impossible, Sawamura.”

Eijun smiles, face pressed against Miyuki’s shoulder, and hopes he can feel it through his shirt. His stomach is both knotted impossibly tight and so light he feels like he’s walking on air. “You say such sweet things to me.”

“Don’t try your luck,” Miyuki says, quietly, and Eijun can tell he’s trying hard to be brave about this. It sort of makes him want to cry.

Eijun doesn’t know how much time has passed, but he’s pretty sure that curfew is soon. There are barely any sounds coming from the dorm behind them, and he knows Kuramochi probably has a crowd gathered in their room watching their every movement from the window, but for now, he can pretend there’s no one else. He can even be grateful that, betting pools or not — Eijun knows they exist, and he’s so pissed he never cashed in on one — their teammates are letting them have this.

He presses closer to Miyuki, nuzzling his face on his neck, and Miyuki freezes. Eijun pulls away at once, enough to look at him head on, and Miyuki’s pupils are blown wide, either because of the darkness or because of Eijun himself. His arm is still holding on to eijun, though, and he makes no move to let go. So Eijun just stays like that, and waits for Miyuki to gather his thoughts.

He’s no poetry buff, but he thinks he remembers something. How does it go — he’s sitting next to a beautiful boy, and he…

“I’m not sure we should do this,” Miyuki whispers, and it’s the most vulnerable Eijun has ever seen him. His chest aches.

But he smiles, and presses his forehead against Miyuki’s, and says, “I might convince you tomorrow. So you should stay just in case.”

This isn’t something he’s particularly skilled at. But the night is cold and Miyuki’s hand is warm in his, and when it comes down to it, Miyuki just makes Eijun feel brave.

Miyuki huffs a laugh, barely an exhale. “Cheeky,” he murmurs, but there’s no heat in it.

“You like it,” Eijun says, because he knows the more difficult word may do more harm than good when it comes to this. Miyuki’s arms tighten just a little bit more around him. 

“I do,” Miyuki answers. “I really, really do.”

(Kazuya is not good at this. He knows his gestures are clumsy. He knows his words are tentative. He feels like that one time he was eight years old, when he climbed up to the roof of his house and watched the people come and go for hours, until his father called for him. It scared him so much he slipped and fell, and the fear in his father’s eyes as he picked him up from the ground — red-faced from sobbing, arm broken, but so hungry for that gentle touch that it all paled in comparison — is something he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget.

He doesn’t remember the pain, but he remembers the falling. It feels a bit like this. 

This is not a joke, Kazuya thinks, looking at Sawamura in his arms, but doesn’t say. If we’re going to do this — love me. Love me.

Sawamura has this way of always surprising him, anyways. Who knows? Maybe he will. Maybe he even will.)

Eijun sort of feels like the sun should be rising — that this moment should be bleeding into day, so he can be sure it’s not just a dream or the sort of thing people only get the courage to do when it’s too dark to see their face properly — but it isn’t. It’s still pitch dark, and freezing cold, and Sawamura Eijun is still in love with Miyuki Kazuya.

He doesn’t say so, though, not yet. He’ll have time for that later. They’ll have so, so much time.