Chapter Text
with outstretched wings ablaze
Kazuya has only rarely seen him like this.
There’s a faint droop to Eijun’s shoulders, a slight downward pull to the corners of Eijun’s eyes and mouth. A barely-there sag to the usually strong pitcher’s fingers as their tips push against the steel locker door until it clicks shut. The metallic sound rings into silence, hanging like a period in the air between them: the final close of the pages of a book.
It’s a deafening conclusion in many ways.
‘… That’s it,’ Eijun says, voice tipping over half-unsteady. ‘Wow, that’s really it. I don’t really know how I’m supposed to feel right now.’
Kazuya peers at him in contemplation from under a flick of dark lashes.
‘You had a great run,’ he points out.
‘… Yeah.’ Eijun’s answering smile is soft, wistful. A largely different color to the loud, boisterous vigor that’s usually simmering in his blood and in his bones – but it’s understandable, at this moment. ‘I totally did, didn’t I.’
The locker room almost doesn’t feel as empty as it is, as though either of them could turn around to look at the open doorway at any time now, and the wheels of history will turn and fill into the stagnant open space: the always-vibrant chatter and the creaks of shifting leather among flurries of footsteps, back and forth, back and forth, oddly and paradoxically permanent in its supposed impermanence. In the end, they both know that baseball isn’t going anywhere, even if the players do. It’ll live on in the locker rooms, the bullpens, the fields, the bats and mitts and uniforms; in every beating heart that’s been fortunate enough to have thrived and grown within it all.
There’s an unshakable immortality to it that’s both breathtaking and poignant, all at once.
‘It just – sucks that my body can’t keep up.’ Right now, Eijun looks almost defeated. ‘Getting old in general sucks. It’s like age is stealing all this stuff away from me.’
‘Idiot. That’s not gonna happen,’ says Kazuya frankly, slanting his mouth. ‘Being pro isn’t integral to enjoying baseball for the rest of your life, and you know it. We can still play it whenever we want. We just have to adjust.’
Eijun purses his lips, large gold eyes studying Kazuya with intent. ‘Hey, I remember that quitting was rough on you too, at the start.’
‘Of course it was. I’m only human. But it is what it is – everyone retires after they’ve had their time. I can only make the most of what I’ve got now.’
The end of Kazuya’s journey in the professional league a year prior had been signaled by more frequent aches in his joints, slower reactions, increasing fatigue; every anatomical burden and inconvenience that’s part and parcel with the curse of age, even though he’s not really that old. Honestly, he’d call himself pretty energetic and agile for a man who’s pushing forty-three. And his career of two full decades had been more than he could ever ask the world for.
Even then, hanging up his uniform and retiring had still dimly stung.
But that was a year ago, and Kazuya hasn’t wasted a minute since. ‘Pretty sure I’ve told you enough stories about how rowdy the boys I coach are. They’re literal terrors. More or less the same as how we were when we were teenagers too,’ he says in a level tone, idly picking a loose thread off the hem of his sleeve. ‘But those kids are my world now. I’m doing well – better than, really. There are always other places to find a sense of meaning, you know.’
Eijun huffs out a crisp breath at that. ‘Huh, maybe I should try to get a job as a coach at your club too.’
‘I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I actually miss the ridiculous nonsense of having to sneak into the equipment sheds at school just to make out with a moron like you, so you absolutely should. Inflicting horror on my boys would just be like retribution, if they find us,’ Kazuya answers with mild amusement. ‘But more than that, you should do it if you reckon you’ll love the job. I know you. I think you might, if you decide to go for it.’
The tense seams holding Eijun’s edges together had visibly slackened slightly to start with, what with the faintest beginnings of a grin emerging in response to the first portion of Kazuya’s statement. But Eijun falls back into obvious unease before long: a sudden continuous bounce on the balls of his feet, fingers twisting restlessly into the strap of his sports bag, creases etching into the edges of his eyes – telltale hints of an unswerving disquiet.
‘… Yeah, I’d really like that,’ he blurts out after a while, seeming genuinely convinced. ‘It’s just … y’know. I wish I could just stay young and play forever! I know it’s time, and I’m fine with leaving the pro stage. I swear I am. But at the same time … God. This isn’t easy.’
‘Honestly. What’ll I do with you,’ Kazuya murmurs under his breath, although there’s more subtle appreciation and traces of hidden affection than any real jab underlying his words. He swivels his own backpack around, undoing the zip and slipping a hand into it; Eijun’s pupils quickly awaken with a flaring flicker of light when he sees the ball and catcher’s mitt that’s consequently produced from out of the bag, and Kazuya knows at once that everything will be worth it. ‘I guess I’ll just have to show you this way.’
‘You brought those along with you?’
‘Good thing I did. I figured you could probably use a bit of extra reassurance today, and I was right.’ A curl ghosts at the corners of Kazuya’s mouth, the barest wisp of a content half-smile. ‘Come on. Come with me.’
There’s a kind of pristine divinity to the diamond: an expanse that holds the blood and sweat and tears of players who willingly throw their lives into the one thing they feel worthy of their devotion, such that the history imbued into its surrounding air is always stirring alive within the space like a bright tinkling of bells. Kazuya gazes at Eijun sidelong, notices that the whites of Eijun’s eyes are already glittering; he’s very much the kind of guy who would’ve possibly believed, as a young child, that the diamond birthed a kind of magic that can’t be found anywhere else on earth – pure, earnest, blood-deep. A collective love too great to be measured. Toil and greatness and loss too raw to ever lie in the dust forgotten.
Such a guiltless, untainted belief would’ve carried nothing less than truth in it.
‘Damn,’ Eijun says in appreciative awe, even though he’s been on this field more times throughout his professional career than either of them can count. On any normal day, Kazuya may have subjected him to some light, harmless teasing for the cheesy and corny sentiment – but today’s a wholly different type of day, and Kazuya feels it thrumming in his body too. The sturdy and comforting weight of that lifelong romance they’ve both held with such a simple, modest sport, surging through the branches of his veins, smoldering in the marrow of his bones.
‘Pitch to me,’ says Kazuya outright. Clean and straightforward, devoid of any nonsense.
Eijun carefully sidesteps across to the mound, planting both feet steadily upon its surface; but he proceeds to flick a vulnerable glance into Kazuya’s direction after that, seeming somewhat uncertain. ‘Uh, which—’
‘—Any kind of pitch you like. I’m not calling for anything in particular at this point,’ Kazuya answers, turning on his heel and promptly making his way over to the catcher’s box. He settles into a crouch and presses on, calling out: ‘Whatever feels good to you. Just – make it count. That’s the part that matters.’
A blink or two of gradual comprehension, but then, Eijun slowly straightens his spine and squares his shoulders, and it’s apparent that he doesn’t need to be told twice.
He gets it well enough.
The darkened, empty stadium burns with illusory firelight. Leather creaking, limbs winding into position, sinuous and nimble: a single beat of a phoenix’s wings. Kazuya can almost see the ember-warm fantasy of Eijun’s feathers, kindling red and gold, smoke curling against its barbs as Eijun’s leg curls into himself. Licks of flame rise in the dilated pools of his gaze, luminous and potent, the fleeting prelude to an inferno.
Then he throws. The ball moves with fierce momentum, smooth and fluid when it leaves the crooks of long pitcher’s fingers, as though Eijun’s the eye of the storm. As though scorching wings have unfurled to full length, sweeping flecks of ash off its plumes. It trills, whistles, thrums. A white-hot pitch, soaring on the rolling wind like vibrant birdsong.
Instinct shifts Kazuya’s hand across. He braces for impact. And swiftly captures that simple fastball in all its searing power, in all its thunderous might.
It’s like they’re fifteen and sixteen again, back at Seidō with stars in their eyes.
Dust settles along the stretch between them. Heaving breaths fill the stillness and silence; glimmering gazes hook and slot together, an innate impulse. The passing seconds tick in time to the pulsing beat in their chests, loud and quick and relentless.
And just like that, from one moment to the next, Eijun’s unceremoniously flinging his mitt aside. Breaking into a run. Crossing sixty-odd feet of distance straight into Kazuya’s direction.
Kazuya unfolds himself, pushes back up onto his feet. His lips unroll into a brilliant grin all on their own, and he doesn’t make to stop them. Because Eijun’s coming, sprinting toward him with abandon as if the heaviness and worry and despondency that’d weighed his limbs down before had never laid a finger on him at all. He’s grinning too, pearly and summery and vivid – a phoenix risen from the ashes; the fervent fire singes Kazuya delightfully when Eijun finally closes in, collides with him and kisses him for all it’s worth, warm and slick and feverish. Alive.
‘Miyuki Kazuya.’ Murmured in sunny spirits between one kiss and another. ‘It’s annoying, what a genius you are.’ Sighed out with heat and fulfilment between the following kiss and the one that comes after.
‘Huh. I suppose that after well over two decades together I should still take that as a compliment,’ Kazuya drawls in satisfaction, kissing back a final time before finally pulling away, a smirk curling one corner of his lips. The intensity of the moment transcends their long years in a strange, lovely way; crow’s feet and other natural lines have started to faintly carve themselves around Eijun’s eyes, and a subtle hint of sagging skin touches the curve of Eijun’s jaw, but right now he looks as young as the day they’d met for the first time on Seidō’s fields. Seasoned but entirely ageless, as though he’s come into being after a second birth. Both an unstoppable force and an immovable object all at once. Immortal.
Kazuya almost feels that blaze of outstretched wings at his own back, too.
‘I can’t wait to follow you to your club,’ Eijun grins, honey-sweet and genuine. ‘Who knows, maybe your players will end up preferring me.’
‘In your dreams,’ Kazuya shoots back in pointed amusement. ‘Though undoubtedly they’ll be excited to have pitching legend Sawamura Eijun coaching them. If you get the job.’
A mounting flush and healthy glow lights up Eijun’s skin, certainly an organic reflex to the word legend; Kazuya’s instantly glad for not having sugarcoated anything. There’s an extraordinary, near-mythical characteristic to Eijun’s continuous years of arduous work and dedication – his legendary quality had been hard-won, and not at all lightly gained.
‘… Do you regret anything?’
‘Not one bit,’ answers Eijun cheerily, brimming with renewed energy. ‘We really have had a good run, haven’t we.’
And Kazuya knows that they’ll have many, many years of baseball ahead of them yet.
A heartfelt, easy smile crosses his mouth.
‘Damn straight.’
