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It happens because they're drunk on warm beer in the sort of lazy summer humidity that blurs the edges between late evening and just late. It's past sunset, but not quite dark, as the cicadas drone on and the individual shadows become impossibly long.
Somehow things had shifted, and neither of them are quite sure when exactly that happened.
They had been halfway celebrating the end of the summer when most of the first string had inevitably crowded into Miyuki's room and someone had produced a case of beers. The cans had circulated quickly, Eijun passing him one with a trepidatious kind of smile that was caught somewhere between nervousness and excitement.
The pitcher had gagged audibly on his first sip--to the sadistic delight of Miyuki and Kuramochi--and Haruichi had grimaced into his, but the mood of the room was infectious and he found himself taking a second drink and then a third. To his left, Eijun had resorted to chugging his, smiling broadly when he caught his eye. Haruichi had grinned back so hard his cheeks hurt and he thought his face might end up freezing that way, but Sawamura Eijun had that effect on people. On him. Haruichi ducked away, but not quick enough as he felt his trademark blush creep up from his neck.
Koushien still felt like some sort of fever dream, heady and fragile in his memory. Haruichi was half-afraid he might wake up in his dorm to find the last few weeks had never happened, the details draining like sea water through his fingers. But the whole thing had been so hyper-real--each pitch, the smell of dirt, the sting of a catch--that he doubts he will ever forget any of it.
Studying the room through the shield of his bangs, Haruichi was confident he wasn’t the only one that felt that way.
At some point, the beers had run dry and the stifling heat of too many bodies in a small space had become overwhelming. The group migrated outside for fresh air before lazily dispersing. Haruichi and Eijun found themselves heading to the far side of the equipment shed, the muggy heat pressing down like a blanket.
It was a habitual spot, the north-facing wall good for blocking out the sun on the rare days practice finished before dark. Along the way, the dying light distorted their shadows as they walked, turning Eijun's silhouette into a Goliath against the field, impossibly tall and steady even as the sun was sinking out of sight.
It struck Haruichi then that he would follow this boy anywhere, if only he asked.
But then Eijun had turned and the moment passed and they were just two teenagers tipsy-drunk on flat, warm beer again. They settled in the shadow of the equipment shed, as close as the low-hanging heat would allow. Even in short sleeves sweat prickled at the back of Haruichi's knees and the crooks of his elbows, and fruitlessly he stretched his legs out in an attempt to discourage it. Sawamura was in no better condition, and Haruichi watched with fascination the way a bead of sweat wended its way down his face to his jawline before Eijun irritably wiped it away.
His eyes flicked to the side and he grinned, lopsided and unbearably charming, and Haruichi found himself breaking away quickly for a second time that day to hide his growing blush. The alcohol was only partly to blame for his pulse drumming in his ears. The rest was Eijun's singular focus. It was nothing like batting against him during a practice match, when he wasn't so much "Haruichi" as a nameless opponent, someone to pitch against, to strike out, to beat.
Off the field he was so rarely the subject of Eijun's focus, content to fade into the supporting ranks. But right then, in ratty sneakers and a too-big T-shirt, he was just--just Haruichi. And it was more than a little disconcerting, because he’d always been a creature of the sidelines; not quite invisible, but part of the background. Unremarkable, until he chose not to be in the crack of a bat, the whump of a ball in mitt. Haruichi was used to slipping quietly into where he's needed, and inconspicuously filling the gaps.
And on a team full of former star players, it's almost too easy to melt into the first string line up. Haruichi minded a little--mostly at the thought that everyone else was growing so quickly they might end up leaving him behind--but he'd grown used to being simultaneously essential and overlooked.
So it was strange to have someone looking at him like this. But when he thought about it more carefully, Eijun was always doing that. During lunch the pitcher would regularly track him down, Furuya sometimes in tow, and fill the break with animated chatter about anything and everything. And at practice he was always going out his way to catch Haruichi's attention: waving, shouting across the field to him, pulling faces at the senpai behind their backs (and even, on one memorable occasion, coach Kataoka) when he knew Haruichi was looking.
Eijun talked non-stop about their teammates; about Chris, Miyuki, Furuya. But he was always glancing sideways at Haruichi, or squeezing in next to him at the dinner tables or volunteering to help him get drinks for the senpai and suddenly it hit Haruichi that that almost certainly meant something, and he was pretty sure he knew what, even before he fully considered it.
The half-formed thought startled Haruichi out of his reverie and sent his stomach into knots. At some point their conversation had petered out (what had they been talking about, again?) and Eijun was studying him with an almost thoughtful expression before his face split into a grin. It was softer, less blinding than his usual one, and some part of Haruichi’s mind wanted to think that this smile was just for him.
It gave him the nerve to stop his gaze from darting away a third time. Eijun’s eyes were warm, and open, but more than that they were nervous and a comfortable weight settled across Haruichi’s shoulders as he wondered when, exactly, he became so competent at reading Sawamura.
It felt like stepping up to the plate--two outs, bases loaded--but also nothing like that at all, except for the familiar feeling of teetering between no pressure and too much only to find the invisible balance between the two. Sink or swim. Make the move, or neither of you ever will.
Haruichi pressed forward--hands curled tightly into the grass, nails digging into the dirt beneath--and he knew it wasn't just wishful thinking when Eijun swayed forward ungracefully to meet him in the middle. Their kiss was clumsy, too many teeth and then too much apologetic hesitation as they broke apart, laughing nervously, breathlessly. With relief.
But he had spent too much of his life losing out for lack of truly trying and Haruichi pushed forward again, bringing his hands to settle on Eijun’s shoulders as their mouths met a little more confidently, a little less anxiously. Sawamura tasted warm, the last traces of beer lingering in the corners of his mouth. But more than that he tasted like Koushien, like endless training and sweat and the midday summer sun.
Kissing him was the sort of thing he could happily do forever.
Pulling away, there was a blush crawling up over the collar of Eijun’s shirt, delightful for how unsurprising it was. Haruichi may have been more notorious in his embarrassment, but Sawamura had always worn his heart on his sleeve, broadcasting it for anyone that cared to look. It was one of the things Haruichi liked most about him, the way he was so thoughtlessly open.
Like the way Eijun laughed as he focused on Haruichi’s hands, his knees--anywhere but his face. They were alone still, with nothing of interest nearby save the baseball field, but with the way his gaze flicked nervously across the grass Eijun must have been expecting Kuramochi to materialize out of the long shadows like some sort of omnipresent chaperone. The idea made Haruichi snort with laughter, and Eijun snapped his attention back to him.
He grinned at Haruichi--soft, hardly more than a quick flash of teeth--and he could see the way the a little of the tension bled out of Eijun. It was obvious he’d never done anything like this before, but then neither had Haruichi, who could feel the blood rushing to his face as Eijun cautiously laced their fingers together.
It felt like some sort of tiny miracle, the way their hands fit together so neatly.
Somehow their conversation trickled back in, not quite as if nothing had happened, but close enough that Haruichi found himself glancing at their hands as if to prove that this was all real. Eijun squeezed his hand, laughing uproariously at the way it made his face heat up, but Haruichi couldn't find it in himself to mind. Instead his eyes dropped to the long tanned column of Eijun’s throat, down to the lines of his collarbone where the barest sliver of pale skin peeked over the neck of his shirt.
It was the sort of thing he has caught himself doing idly before, but this time it was layered with a deeper meaning, even as it felt only fractionally less illicit. He wondered if Sawamura had ever done the same thing, and his stomach twisted pleasantly at the thought.
But then Eijun slid over to rest his head on Haruichi’s shoulder, though, and he filed away the thought for investigating at a later date. Something in the back of his mind resonated, pleasantly, at the thought of there being a later.