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There was something about Raichi that drew Sanada to him.
Sanada suspected that was why his eyes always followed him in passing—through the halls, during practice and after, when Raichi would swing his bat, over and over, enough to the point where his knuckles and wrists seemingly creaked in protest.
There were days where it felt as if Raichi was the only person in his line of vision.
It wasn’t as if Sanada wasn’t aware. He prided himself with being fully aware of his feelings at all times, because to be a pitcher, you had to be in control. It also meant that, ultimately, Sanada realized his gaze would wander to find Raichi, and his ears would fight to pick up the faintest of nervous laughs. The implications were not lost on him, even on the days Sanada struggled to control the impulses, even if it could hurt Raichi, or himself.
Today was no different than any other, of course.
Sanada lets his gaze linger as he stands by the dugout. There was nothing else to do here, no, but who was he to deny himself of something that, all at the same time, calmed his nerves yet made his heart race? It was no coincidence, that there was this hopeless tug on his chest as his fellow teammates filtered out one by one, calling their good-byes and groaning about another hard practice. He was aware of the familiar sensation upon the fact that it was easier to breathe when Raichi’s usual laughter steadily became easier to hear.
The tranquility of the moment is lost, however, as Sanada senses someone approach.
He ignores them, opting to watch Raichi swing. It was amazing to watch, really, how Raichi could imagine various pitches hurdling toward him only to adjust his body for the perfect swing. His gaze settles on Raichi’s shoulders—not as broad as they should be, but Sanada knew how heavy that bat was. Muscle was prominent, curving and flexing easily beneath the uniform—his arms to his waist, to his legs, and—
“You’re staring.”
“Huh?” It escapes him on impulse. Sanada doesn’t avert his gaze. He watches Raichi move fluidly, as if the bat was simply something connected to the center of his core, and honestly, it couldn’t be far from the truth.
“You. Are. Staring.”
Sanada tears his eyes away from where Raichi is batting with a huff. His eyelids are heavy as he’s greeted with the sight of Mishima. He doesn’t miss the look on his teammates face—the raised eyebrow, the smirk, the glint in his eye that speaks even if his mouth wasn’t moving. Sanada tilts his head, mimicking Mishima’s expression as he crosses his arms. “What are you talking about? Misshiima.”
“H-Hey—“
Sanada drops his arms, turning in time to completely block out the rest of whatever it was that Mishima was going to say. He doesn’t look behind him as he attempts to shorten the distance between himself and Raichi, and something in the back of Sanada’s mind tells him that Mishima was calling out for him, but he doesn’t look back right away.
When Sanada does chance a glance behind him, however, all he sees is Mishima’s back as he walks away—and maybe there is this triumphant smirk on his face, and maybe it morphs into something entirely softer once he’s able to watch Raichi in solitude.
*
The only indication that time had passed at all was the sky.
Sanada never imagined he’d be sitting there in the grass, sweat dried to his forehead and matting his hair, watching Raichi swing his bat until the sky darkened and the air cooled—but he was doing exactly that. He lost count of his swings after a while, wondering how in the world Coach so easily kept count, and instead simply watched the way Raichi moved, or perhaps the right word was admired.
There is a smile that’s trying to form on his lips, so Sanada looks away, a breath leaving him easily as he tilts his chin to the air. He wasn’t as surprised as he should have been, seeing the faint traces of stars starting to peek through the clouds.
“S…Sanada-senpai!”
The sound of Raichi’s voice shocks Sanada.
He almost yelps, nearly jumping out of his skin, laughing as he directs his wide eyes toward Raichi—and it is completely endearing, seeing the surprise on the baseman’s face. Raichi’s eyes are wide with confusion and something else Sanada can’t quite make out with the few security lights that actually work illuminating the field.
“R—Raichi.”
“What are you doing here…?” Raichi mutters, and Sanada barely hears him, too focused on the sweat that runs down Raichi’s temple.
Sanada coughs, giving a lopsided smile because he just knows he had stared a beat too long. “Uh, watching… you.” He understands immediately how the words sound once they leave his mouth. “I mean,“ he laughs here, uncharacteristically shaky as he brings up a hand to scratch at the back of his head—a nervous habit. Sanada tugs at his own hair, mind scrambling to come up with something to say before he gives up. “Do you want me to leave, Raichi?”
Raichi shifts from foot to foot, looking anywhere but directly at Sanada.
“Raichi?”
“Ah—“ Raichi hums, nervous kahaha’s escaping his lips in a rush. Sanada isn’t sure if it’s the glare of the security lights in the corner of his eye, or if it was truly as he saw, but he could have sworn up and down, left and right that there were the faintest traces of pink on Raichi’s face. Raichi clears his throat, pulling Sanada from his frantic thoughts. “I’m done… swinging for the day, Sanada-senpai.”
“Oh! Already?” He says that as if the sun hadn’t set as he sat in the grass, watching idly.
Raichi nods, watching the way Sanada hoists himself from the ground, and then he has to force himself to look away as Sanada stretches in front of him. “Well then, come on,” Sanada’s saying, and it only confuses Raichi further. He looks up, brows knitted as Sanada simply smiles at him, and it definitely shouldn’t be as bright as it was. “I’ll walk you back.”
“Huh?” he mutters, but Sanada’s already walking back to the dugout, and Raichi can only hurry after him, his bat heavy on the curve of his shoulder. “S—Sanada-senpai…!”
“What is it, Raichi?” Sanada calls, turning with both of their bags already on either shoulder. His smile is wide, too much for Raichi to take in all at once, so he looks away, fearful of the heat he feels on his face as Sanada stands in front of him, cheerful and composed.
Raichi stutters, mumbling under his breath; this feeling throughout his blood is foreign, and there is something there that Sanada seemingly understands, as something else entirely tugs at his own chest. Sanada bites the insides of his cheeks, walking to Raichi slowly, carefully as if he could bolt away at any minute. “Sorry, Raichi. I can go on ahead, if you want.” Sanada slips Raichi’s bag from his shoulder just as Raichi steps forward.
“N—No,” Raichi says immediately, eyes wide and he isn’t really sure why the word came from his mouth so easy and so quickly, but it did. It happened, and there was no way he could take it back, or try to morph it into something else, because Raichi’s brain was currently several paces behind his impulses. He clasps his hands together on the base of the bat, rubbing rough fingers against the wood. “I-It’s okay, Naada-senpai! Let’s walk back together, okay?”
Sanada hums, easily softening at his nickname. “Okay,” he agrees, ducking his head to look Raichi in the eye. Ah, he thinks, eyes wide because the flush was there, on Raichi’s face. He really is…. Sanada smiles at the guy in front of him, straightening his spine before Raichi could jump back. He slips Raichi’s bag on his shoulder once again. “Come on, then,” he sing-songs, turning on his heel.
He hears Raichi rush to catch up.
*
Their walk is mostly silent, and it ends almost too quickly.
Sanada wants to say more, anything really, to get Raichi to look over at him—but his tongue feels heavy in his mouth, and he feels hyperaware of everything. He swallows the lump in his throat, trying his best not to look ahead as he opens his mouth only for Raichi to cut him off.
“S…anada-senpai.”
“Yeah?”
“Why… uh, that is…” Raichi hesitates, coming to a stop so abruptly that Sanada has to back track, skidding to a stop only to walk backward. Raichi glances the pitcher’s way, a quiet kahaha slipping through his defenses as the nervousness rises in his throat. The look on Sanada’s face was too much—the way Raichi’s own heart hammered against his chest was too much. The adrenaline from baseball was leaving Raichi’s system quickly, causing his brain to toss thoughts from one side of his skull to the other about things not related to baseball at all. He glances to Sanada again, his nerves calming gradually until he gains the confidence to speak: “Why were you… watching me… that is…”
Sanada’s thoughts leave him easily: “You’re honestly amazing, Raichi.”
“Huh?!” Shock is apparent in Raichi’s voice, overflowing in his eyes and flooding his face. If the grip on his bat hadn’t been so tight, he would have dropped it then and there. “Uh—that—“
Sanada steps forward, honesty in his voice as he tells him, “It’s true. You’re very powerful. I would know. I’ve—I was watching you, Raichi,” and Sanada doesn’t have a moment to lose, because his words are flooding out of their own accord. He wants this to be his moment to confess, because the words that had almost came out were the ones of, I’ve always been watching you, Raichi, and his next words come out of his mouth in a rush: “Teach me out how bat.”
“Teach you—?”
Ah, Sanada thinks, trying not to lose his mind, those were not the words I wanted to say.
“But, Sanada-senpai…” Raichi starts slowly, and he tries not to smile, or laugh, and almost fails. “You are already a great batter…” Raichi’s words come out slowly, confusion laced in every breath because his words really weren’t far from the truth.
“What I mean is—“ he takes another step, leaning down the tiniest bit so he’s able to look directly at Raichi. The space between their faces is almost nonexistent, and Sanada feels uncharacteristically shy under Raichi’s watchful gaze as he continues, “I want to practice with you.”
“Wha—“
“After practice, I mean. Does that make sense? Am I even making sense, Raichi?” Sanada asks, and he can’t help the breath of laughter that escapes his lips, because although he asked, Sanada’s sure he knows the answer. Raichi’s a bit of a mumbling mess in front of him, brows drawn together in thought as he casts his eyes downward, fingertips making circles on the wood of Money Tree again. “I would like to practice with you. Raichi.”
“Oh,” Raichi exhales easily, and the frantic expression on his face smoothes out as a small smile tugs at his lips. Sanada watches the corners of Raichi’s mouth twitch, watches his eyes as they dart this way and that before meeting Sanada’s gaze. Quiet kahaha’s leave his lips as his smile tugs wider, more genuine. “Okay, Naada-senpai.”
***
The realization that the practice-after-practice plan was flawed only came to Sanada several days later.
He’s been swinging his bat alongside Raichi for a while now, not thinking much of it as he glances toward Raichi more often than he really should. Sanada’s stance becomes half-hearted and the grip he has on the base of the bat loosens gradually as he watches Raichi move. He makes it look like nothing at all, Sanada thinks, trailing his gaze upward. The adrenaline in Raichi’s eyes is plain to see, as well as the easy, rhythmic motion of his limbs that almost seem mechanical.
Raichi seems so lost in the count of his swings that Sanada figures he can slack off a little, especially as his leg begins to burn in protest.
Sanada eases out of his stance, turning and walking as steadily as he could toward the dugout. He flops onto the bench, rummaging through his bag for the extra water he is sure that he brought, that he is equally sure Mishima stole. Sanada shifts uncomfortably, an all too familiar pain shooting up his leg. He figures he will just have to dry swallow the pain killers he keeps on hand before heading back to where Raichi is, but a shadow in the entryway of the dugout scares him out of his own thoughts.
He jumps, mouth opening around a sharp inhale before he vaguely recognizes the shape. “Raichi?”
“S-Sorry, Sanada-senpai! I didn’t mean to scare you!” Raichi fusses, brows raised in surprise as he steps forward, out of the shadows with his hands splayed out in front of him.
Sanada laughs, but he can’t deny the racing of his heart. “No, it’s okay—it’s my bad, Raichi.”
“Are you… okay?” Raichi’s words are soft and somewhat hesitant—strange, considering how powerful his swings had just been.
“Huh? Oh, I’m fine,” Sanada says, but he’s never been a confident liar.
Raichi closes the distance between them, eyes narrowed in disbelief as he trails his eyes downward, resting his gaze on Sanada’s leg. “You… uh, you’ve been in here… a while.”
It is then that Sanada realizes that, maybe, Raichi was watching him, as well.
He isn’t sure what to do with the thought, and what it suggests, and the immediate hope that blooms in his chest, so Sanada buries it down, a weak laugh shaking the silence around them. He shifts, bending his knee so his calf isn’t stretched out. As if hiding it from view would vanquish any doubts. “I’m—“
“Your leg…” Raichi interrupts, seemingly on auto-pilot. He isn’t sure why he’s upset that Sanada lied to him, or why he is so persistent with being told the truth, from Sanada’s own voice. “…it hurts, doesn’t it, Naada-senpai?”
Raichi really isn’t sure as to why Sanada laughs, carefree and airy as he says, “Can’t put one past you, Raichi.”
“I’ll—“ The words are hard to get out. Raichi feels completely out of his element, even moreso now that the words are forming on his tongue, and he ducks his head, too embarrassed to look at Sanada in the eye. “I—m..g..r…l…” he’s mumbling, face on fire.
“Huh?” Sanada hums, brows knitted in confusion. He seems to have forgotten just how perceptive Raichi could be. Sanada leans forward, trying to look at Raichi’s face, to catch his gaze—anything, when Raichi drops to the floor on, legs folded beneath him. “R—Raichi, what are you doing?!”
Raichi bites the insides of his cheeks so hard he hears the crunch of his skin breaking. He snaps his head up, eyes narrowed as if the gesture would strengthen his resolve; he leans forward, trying his best to ignore the way his hands shake as he places his hands on Sanada’s knee. “I said, I’ll massage your leg, Naada-senpai!” The words come out easier the second time around, for which Raichi is both surprised and grateful.
He tries not to focus on the flush that burns at Sanada’s face, nor the sweat he sees running from Sanada’s temple and onto his uniform. However, Raichi knows that he is, undoubtedly, aware of Sanada, even during the moments which he tries desperately not to be.
“Y—You don’t have to, Raichi,” Sanada insists shakily, the image already too much for him to handle. This would be stuck in his mind for days and Sanada isn’t sure whether or not he’ll be able to not think about it. Sanada goes to move, to shift left or right, he isn’t certain, but Raichi’s hands slide down his leg, fingers wrapping around his ankle like an iron cuff.
This sucks, Sanada thinks. The skin on the back of his neck prickles at the touch. Raichi wasn’t even touching his skin directly and it’s still a lot to handle. I’ll be thinking about this for months.
“I don’t mind, Naada-senpai! I am surprisingly good with m-my hands.”
Sanada tries not to dwell on Raichi’s choice of words as he gives in, embarrassment thick in his voice as he speaks. “Well… uh, alright then. If you’re… sure?” Sanada doesn’t mean for it to come off as a question, but really, how else was he supposed to say it?
He soon learns that Raichi wasn’t lying.
It honestly does feel nice, Sanada concludes. Raichi is a bit clumsy, and while it’s especially endearing, the intent to relieve the pain is there. He can feel Raichi’s fingers move against his calf through his uniform, fingertips applying pressure to the taunt muscles beneath his skin. Raichi trails along Sanada’s leg, never going up past his knee as he applies pressure, circling the pads of his fingers as he moves down either side of the other’s leg. The burning he feels doesn’t go away completely, but he can already tell how much better it is.
Sanada couldn’t resist asking. “Where did you… learn how to do this?”
It catches Raichi off guard, fingers stilling in mid-circle but he recovers quickly, swallowing the lump in his throat only for nervous laughter to spill out. “When you… when we first found out about your injury…” Raichi flushes, the palms of his hands suddenly very sweaty. It takes him a while to rid of the kahaha’s. “Books…”
Sanada nods, but there was something about the way Raichi stiffened that he just can’t shake off. He ignores the way his heart pounds in his ears—he was unsure whether or not it was his feelings or the threat of upcoming anger. “Do you still have the books?”
“Oh.” The breath comes out on its own. Raichi hadn’t expected the question, momentarily forgetting just how well his senpai could read him.
“Raichi?” Sanada means to be patient, but—
“I—uhm, don’t. Kahaha…”
Reading in between the lines wasn’t difficult. It wasn’t as if the whole team wasn’t aware of what Raichi went through, for the short couple of months before the whole school realized that Raichi could easily crush their skulls as easily as he could hit a homer, clear over the fence, clear into the sky.
“Did you ever get them back?”
Raichi pays close attention to Sanada’s ankle before answering. There was a heaviness in his chest, thinking about the two sides of himself: out on the field, and inside the walls—but he didn’t particularly mind. Baseball was his, and he found something in baseball in which he wouldn’t have inside the classroom. Raichi wonders what that means, and kind of understands, but opts to push it away quickly.
“It’s okay, Naada-senpai,” Raichi tells him, lifting his head with his usual, huge smile.
Their eyes meet immediately. Sanada can’t not believe in those words full heartedly, so he does. Raichi’s hands still in their movement, and soon enough drop from Sanada’s leg altogether and back into his lap. Sanada doesn’t mean to stare—really, he doesn’t—but he simply can’t push away his emotions now. It’s a shame, Sanada thinks, as he lifts his left hand only to extend it toward the other. That not everyone realizes.
Sanada smiles at Raichi, trying for soft and maybe he tries to put every ounce of his emotions into his actions—but it’s so overwhelming that he can’t just reign it all back in and contain it. He tilts his head, cupping Raichi’s scarred cheek in his hand, thumb grazing the flush of his cheek before he finally drops his hand. Sanada has to dig his blunt nails into the palm of his hand to calm the shaking. “Thanks, Raichi. For the massage.”
Raichi can barely hear him over the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears.
***
There is something about Sanada that Raichi can’t quite wrap his head around.
He realizes, of course, that his admiration for Sanada Shunpei is not actually admiration, but instead something else entirely.
Perhaps that’s why he got so angry.
Raichi had told himself not to listen, with all his might. He tries to focus on the teacher’s words as she explains something to his classmate two rows away and the sloppy notes he had taken—but the words filter in and it is strange, to feel anger rise hot and quick in his chest.
“He’s not that great of a pitcher.”
Anger was different—it was rare for it to be simmering in his blood.
“It can’t be that hard. I could do it, and I play basketball.”
Raichi tries to calm it—baseball is special, he thinks to himself, Sanada’s face flashing through his brain.
“How did he even become the ace?”
Raichi doesn’t realize that he stood up so quickly his chair got knocked back onto the floor, doesn’t realize he’d slammed his hands against his desk until he feels his palms sting. Anger fades into embarrassment until there is very little red in his vision anymore. His face flushes, murmurs from all around the room reach his ears, and all Raichi can think about is doubling his amount of swings as he bolts out the classroom door.
*
Sanada notices something is wrong immediately. Even before his teammates gather around him, Sanada can tell.
The whole team circles around him, and he really isn’t sure why he’s the one they all rush to when it should be—well, Coach, but as he scans the field and the benches, Coach isn’t in sight. Sanada’s eyes are wide as everyone bombards him with words and he keeps glancing over to Raichi, who stands in his usual spot, rigidly swinging his bat, over and over.
“What’s wrong with Raichi?!”
“Did you do something?!”
“He didn’t—“
“Shut up, idiots!” Mishima’s the voice of reason, and surprisingly, the team listens. The only sound in the air is muffled laughter from the school and the woosh of Raichi’s bat in the air. Sanada’s stomach does flip after flip as he waits for Mishima to speak again. “Coach said practice was cancelled. Raichi’s been here for—we don’t know how long… He won’t listen—isn’t listening… to anyone. Coach said he had better things to do than, uh…”
“Cool Raichi’s jets,” Akiba supplies as the whole team nods in unison.
“Yeah,” Mishima says, shrugging.
“We thought that maybe…” Akiba starts, hesitating as he glances from Sanada’s face to anywhere that wasn’t Sanada’s face. “…you could… do something.”
“…Me? You guys are his best friends.” A weak comeback, considering all things.
“You.” Mishima stresses the word, taking a step forward only to poke Sanada in the chest. “You can do something, can’t you? That best friends can’t.” There is a lot of meaning behind his words, Sanada knows, and kind of hates Mishima for it—but he gives in the end, scratching at the back of his head and tugging at the short strands there.
How could he say no, when the bastard in front of him puts it like that?
“What are you guys waiting for, then? Get out of here.”
His teammates filter out one by one, much like the day Mishima pointed out to Sanada that he was staring—and just like that day, Sanada couldn’t tear his eyes away from where Raichi stood, moving too much like a robot for his own liking.
The field was quiet with the other’s gone, only the sound of wood rushing through the air between the two of them now.
Raichi didn’t retain anything that was happening around him.
Anger was really strange, he thought—the way it settled deep in the pit of his stomach, still heavy although the incident happened hours prior. A fire pulsed ugly and bright in his core as he swung his bat, never ceasing even if he tried his best to think of other things. Raichi wondered when the last time he felt like this was, and comes to the conclusion that maybe he had never felt like this at all.
He’s not that great of a pitcher—
The moment keeps replaying; so much that time feels foreign, so much that it’s like he never ran out of the classroom, his classmates laughing right into his ears. How long has he been here, swinging his bat and adjusting his body for each cruel pitch he imagined? His hands are stiff, the calluses on his palms hurt in a way they shouldn’t, and his fingers feel like they could fall off any moment.
How did he even become the ace?
Raichi can feel his body stiffen, his shoulders are hunching and he knows, in the back of his mind, that this is not the way he was taught to bat. His breath comes out harsher and shorter, and Raichi is aware of each swing: too much raw power, swing after swing with no thought in between.
He misses every pitch he imagines.
“…chi?”
Baseball is special, Raichi thinks to himself, over and over. He swings Money Tree a bit too hard, throwing himself off balance. Raichi’s stumbling to the side when a voice tells him: c-calm down, Raichi, you’re going to hurt yourself, but in the back of his mind, Raichi thinks he already has—his ankle stings, his palms burn, and all Raichi wants to do is stop but the fire is raging, clouding his vision, igniting his muscles to the point where he knows he’s overdoing it.
“…ichi!”
How did he even become the ace?
“Raichi!”
The hand on his shoulder startles him mid-swing. Raichi spins, the smoke from his inner flame blinding him further as he awkwardly flings Money Tree to the side, connecting open palms to something solid and warm. What’s in front of him makes a noise, stumbling back, and then Raichi hears nothing through the fog. It takes several breaths for his vision to finally clear, for his chest to stop heaving, and Raichi is sure the way his face loses all color and burns bright red seemingly all at the same time is hilarious.
“Did you… get stronger…somehow?” Sanada asks, trying not to laugh.
“I—“ Raichi starts, his eyes wide on the calm expression of Sanada’s face, to the cheek that is just a bit red, and back again to his expression. There are several things running through his mind, ranging from why is Sanada-senpai here to the ache he feels all over.
“Raichi,” Sanada says, his voice gentle. It effectively pulls Raichi from his inner turmoil. “You’re bleeding.”
“I—huh?” Raichi fumbles with his words, tearing his eyes away from Sanada to look down at the palms of his hands. The calluses have been there for as long as he remembered, but they never gave him any difficulties until now. Raichi stares down at them, watching as blood sluggishly oozes out of the deep cracks. He blinks twice, squinting down at where he threw Money Tree to the side, and there is something about seeing his blood smeared on the wood of the bat that makes it all more real. Raichi can feel Sanada’s hands circle his own; he tries to ignore the heat in his face (embarrassment, shame, a mix of the two, he isn’t sure) as he turns to the other, more frantically than he anticipated. “I’m sorry, Naada-senpai,” he blurts out.
At that, Sanada raises a brow. He handles Raichi’s hands delicately as he guides him to the dugout, seating him in the exact spot where Sanada had received the leg massage. Sanada doesn’t fail to notice the limp in Raichi’s step; the one Raichi didn’t have when they had seen each other earlier that day. Raichi looks up only for his vision to flood with the sight of the back of Sanada’s jersey—and he’s not sure why anxiety rises in his throat, but it does.
To Raichi’s surprise, Sanada doesn’t leave him, and the anxiety dies down.
He watches silently as Sanada looks under the benches, cursing under his breath until he opens the door to the dingy, rusted cabinet in the corner of the dugout. Raichi hears every sound—the squeak of the door, the old mitts sliding against the cleaning cloths, and the triumphant aha! that spills from Sanada’s lips.
Sanada turns with a first-aid kit tucked under his arm and a bottle of water in his hand.
In that moment, Raichi can’t look at anything but criss-cross lacing of his shoes. A flood of emotions whirl around in his chest much like an angry stampede. He tries his best to calm it, to not act any different than he has been as Sanada sits down next to him, but he can feel the other’s gaze on the side of his face. Raichi stares down, eyes tracing each lace as if it were something incredibly fascinating, until he feels Sanada’s fingers touch his wrist.
“I’ve gotta say,” Sanada starts, and Raichi is a bit surprised to find that his voice is calm. He watches as Sanada pours water onto the towel he uses for practice. Raichi narrows his eyes, confusion all throughout his expression as he follows Sanada’s hand upward, only to wipe away what Raichi now realizes is his own blood. Sanada easily wipes it off his cheek, giving Raichi a star-dulling smile as he meets his gaze and says, “that was the first time you ever hit me!”
“Na—“ Raichi opens his mouth, his brain grasping at the millions of things he wanted to say, but Raichi’s throat tightens around each and every word that settles on his tongue. So instead, he clamps his mouth shut as Sanada continues to level him with the same tender, patient gaze. He can feel something like warm water rush over his skin, embarrassment and fear itching at the back of his throat because he realizes what he did, in the mist of his own anger.
I hit Naada-senpai—!
“It’s okay,” Sanada tells him, because it was. After all this time, Sanada’s (a bit too) proud to say that he has a grasp on the kind of person Raichi is. Something happened, he thinks as he looks at Raichi’s profile. Something definitely happened, he agrees with himself, taking in the pink stain on his towel, the dried blood that’s caked on the rough patches of Raichi’s palms. Sanada clears his throat, dropping the towel in his lap and turning his hands over, palms up. “Can I? Raichi.”
There’s no hesitation as Raichi moves, placing his left hand in Sanada’s, the back of his hand to his open palm. Raichi wonders why he didn’t hesitate, and Sanada can’t quite believe it happened that quickly. A moment passes, and then three, and then five—Sanada doesn’t move and neither does Raichi, until Sanada finally does, tentative and if the word even applied to someone like him, embarrassed.
“This might sting,” Sanada says, and before Raichi can raise an eyebrow in question, Sanada is quickly but effectively dabbing at the open cracks on the rough patches of Raichi’s palm with antiseptic.
When Raichi gasps and tries to jerk his hand away, Sanada laughs, curling his fingers against the side of the other’s hand. He tries not to think about how Raichi’s hand is rough in his own. “I did warn you,” he says, but it lacks heat, so Raichi takes the opportunity to peek up at Sanada. The expression of his face is different than usual, or maybe Raichi just doesn’t want to admit he’s seen that look before, so instead of admitting the things he isn’t ready to admit to himself, he looks down at their hands.
He… he’s not mad.
Sanada’s careful as he wraps gauze around Raichi’s hand, and maybe he’s being too thorough—it wasn’t like the cracks in Raichi’s calloused palms were anything new, but there’s a thought in the back of Sanada’s head, that this is just an excuse to touch Raichi’s hands, to take up Raichi’s time and make it their own.
“N…Naada-senpai…” Raichi mumbles. He tries to fight the way his hands begin to shake—but Sanada feigns ignorance, doesn’t say anything and simply tightens his hold as if to give comfort. Raichi watches as Sanada tears off a piece of medical tape from the roll with his teeth, and he ends up staring at Sanada’s face although Raichi tells himself not to.
It wasn’t as if Raichi wasn’t aware that Sanada was—well, handsome.
He’d always thought that.
Even now.
“What’s wrong?” Sanada’s voice pulls Raichi from his inner thoughts. He can’t help but think too much about the way the corners of Sanada’s lips twitch as he shakes his head, swallowing the nervous laughter as it crawls up his throat.
“S..sorry, about… earlier—I didn’t mean…” His words die on him until he is only able to glare at Sanada’s knee.
“Raichi. It’s okay,” Sanada tries to comfort him, smoothing the tape over with his thumb. He reaches over, taking Raichi’s other hand in his. This time, when he swipes the antiseptic along the dried blood, Raichi doesn’t react. It’s a bit disappointing. Sanada clears his throat, shoving those thoughts away because there is something more important at hand. He stares at the creases of Raichi’s hand, trailing down along his wrist and forearm.
He doesn’t say anything about the litter of faded scars along Raichi’s forearm. Something tells him it’s from being shoved onto gravel, and for some reason, Sanada has the inkling feeling that he’s right.
“I know it was an accident,” Sanada says instead. He tears his eyes away from the scars and instead focuses on Raichi’s hands. “I know you aren’t… a loose cannon.”
Raichi shifts uncomfortably as his other hand gets the exact same treatment as the one prior did. The words didn’t bother him—not really; nor did the memory that came with them. Raichi remembers the day he hit a homer at a practice game with another local school—he remembers his teammates laughter, the roars from the dugout, and how it felt afterward to have fellow classmates avoid him and mutter under their breaths, he’s faking it, don’t let him fool you.
It didn’t bother Raichi, because even that stopped. He’s sure Mishima and Akiba had something to do with it, though.
Raichi wasn’t troubled, because baseball was, and continued to be, special.
Sanada thumbs over the second piece of tape, and he finds himself thinking once more: it’s a shame… that not everyone realizes.
“Something happened…. right, Raichi?” Sanada asks. He doesn’t return Raichi’s hand, nor does Raichi take his hand back. It’s electrifying and terrifying all at the same time.
Raichi nods, chewing at his bottom lip. “You… you aren’t going to ask… what?”
Beside him, Sanada shrugs, absent-mindedly drawing circles on the back of Raichi’s hand with his fingertips. “If you want to tell me, it’s fine. If you don’t, it’s also fine,” Sanada says, and it is as simple as that. He was curious, sure, but a bigger part of him was more concerned about the guy sitting next to him than anything. He tries to phrase his next words carefully: “I know… what people say about you… isn’t true.” Sanada is more surprised, above all else, that it’s still happening—
Raichi’s head snaps up and the quick motion makes Sanada jump a little.
“It wasn’t about me, Naada-senpai!”
Sanada’s at a loss. He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes and it’s then that he realizes, with Raichi’s hand shaking in his own, what he means. “Oh.”
“I—“ Raichi sucks in a breath, frantic as he speaks. He shifts toward Sanada, narrowing his eyes down at his hand encased in Sanada’s own. “You—about you, my classmates…they said—Naada-senpai, you deserve to be the ace! You—you’ve worked h-hard!” He doesn’t mean to shout the words in Sanada’s face, nor does he mean to wrap his fingers around Sanada’s wrist with a vice grip, but it all happens so fast and Raichi can’t think.
A moment passes. Out of all things that could have happened, Raichi doesn’t expect Sanada to laugh.
As he watches Sanada laugh, his outburst begins to quickly morph into confusion. He can’t help the nervous laughter that bubbles up his own throat; Raichi lets a few kahaha’s slip, brows drawn together because he wasn’t quite sure what to do as Sanada throws his head back, snorting as he tries to control himself. Raichi fidgets, face flushed; he wonders if there was any possible way of sneaking away unnoticed, because this embarrassment is too much, but as sweat builds between his hands and Sanada’s, it appears unlikely.
“That—“ Sanada starts, forcing his laughter down. He clears his throat, biting the insides of his cheeks as hard as he could stand. “That surprised me. I—“ Sanada pauses here, averting his gaze because he finds that he can’t look Raichi in the eye. “I hadn’t… expected you to defend me.”
If possible, Raichi’s face flushes deeper. He squeezes his eyes shut, tightening his grip on Sanada’s hand and wrist on impulse as he shakes his head profusely.
The reaction was too cute. Sanada couldn’t help but tease him further: “I must be pretty important, huh?”
“It—It’s because I—“ Raichi clamps his mouth shut, hesitating. His skin prickles with sweat and his heart hammers against his chest. The words were there, on the tip of his tongue, and Raichi recalls the look Sanada had given him earlier, and how he has seen that expression on his teammates face countless times, and how he wasn’t ready to admit to himself why his skin flushed hot and pink, why his heart pounded against his eardrums. The phrase should not be hard to say, but right now, with Sanada staring at him wide-eyed, it proved to be the most difficult thing ever. “I—“
“C-Calm down, Raichi—“ Sanada cuts him off, trying not to sound as frantic as he feels, and he’s sure it fails, especially as the next words leave his mouth: “It isn’t anything I can’t wait for.” Sanada freezes immediately, regretting it only a little bit because this is the first time he has ever practically confessed to someone, if this could even count, and—Oh, shitshitshit, Sanada thinks, his stomach dropping, there is no way Raichi doesn’t know now—
To his surprise, Raichi doesn’t snatch his hands away; though, he isn’t surprised to notice that Raichi, too, seemingly turned to stone.
Naada-senpai knows.
Raichi can feel his eyes widen the same time he witnesses Sanada’s eyes widen, and suddenly, in the back of their minds, it clicks for the both of them.
***
The team huddles around Raichi upon sight the next day.
“There he is!”
“Raichi, are you alright?” Akiba says, expression far too serious.
“A-Akki—“ Raichi mutters, then gets cut off.
“You are okay, right? No one we gotta take care of—“ Mishima starts, only to also get cut off.
“Dude, shut up, if someone from another club hears you…” Masuda warns, elbowing Mishima in the side.
“What? Coach wouldn’t say anything.”
“Not the point, man!”
Raichi opens his mouth only to press his lips together.
Sanada stands at the back of the huddle, watching the commotion, and a thought comes to him: that at least the team realizes, for the most part. It is a private moment with himself, one that he feels in the core of his being; it is small yet so much all at the same time. Sanada goes to turn around—they were at practice, after all—only to feel someone grab his bicep, fingers digging in.
“Oh. Misshiima.”
For once, Mishima ignores the nickname. He lets his hand drop, not sure what he should feel under the stone gaze of the guy in front of him. “You did something, right? That best friends couldn’t do.” He means for his words to bite, but Sanada doesn’t seem fazed.
Sanada raises an eyebrow, heart hammering in his chest because a lot had happened the previous night. He can feel Raichi’s hand in his own, another on his wrist—he can still feel the shaky exhale ghosting against his cheek. But, that wasn’t for anyone to know. “Yes,” is all Sanada says.
Mishima narrows his eyes, knows there is more under what Sanada says but doesn’t dare to dig as much as he wants to. “Something happened.”
It isn’t a question. However, all Sanada does is hum in response.
“I’m not blind. None of us are. Raichi’s hands—“
“I took care of it,” Sanada interrupts, leaving Mishima with wasted air. He smiles, all teeth, nothing like how he had been the night before. “Like how best friends couldn’t.”
Mishima opens his mouth, but Sanada turns away, not giving him the chance.
*
Practice ends quickly enough, but the sounds of his teammates calling their goodbyes and picking up their bags doesn’t pull Sanada from his seat in the dugout. It is the same seat as yesterday, and weeks prior.
He glances toward the field and then glares at the tops of his cleats because this could or could not be a good idea. It’s only when the last person on his mental count leaves that he hoists himself up, patting his pockets to make sure it was still there before heading out to where he knew Raichi would be.
It’s a strange sight, not seeing Raichi carrying Money Tree. It was even stranger to see Raichi jogging laps all throughout practice.
“Raichi.”
“Oh!” He sounds surprised, his eyes wide as he turns around. “Naada-senpai!” Raichi shuffles toward him, showing his hands, palms up. “Like this… are we still—“
“About that; I actually got you something,” Sanada says, cutting off the other’s words. The look on Raichi’s face is almost too much—surprised once again, brows knitted in confusion. Raichi watches as Sanada digs in his pockets, pulling out a lumped ball of… something. Sanada shakes them out, apologizing about possible lint on them, and extends them out in offering.
“Batting gloves…?”
“I thought—uh, maybe… it’d help… your hands?” Sanada doesn’t mean for it to come off as a question, but the longer Raichi looks at the gloves with confusion, the more Sanada feels like an idiot.
“Oh…Well, uh—“
Sanada steps forward immediately, no hesitation as he reaches out to take Raichi’s hands in his own. He peels the tape and unwraps the gauze from each of Raichi’s hands before retracting his own. “Try them.”
Raichi nods, slipping the batting gloves over his hands and instantly making a face.
“C-Come on!” Sanada says, a weak laugh filtering into the air. He was afraid this would happen; his stomach drops and he wishes desperately that it wouldn’t. “I’m sure it’s not that bad.”
“It’s…” Raichi mutters, squinting down at the black material covering his hands. They fit well, snug but not too snug, and the fact that Sanada knew which ones would fit his hands makes Raichi have to swallow down a stampede of kahaha’s. He moves his wrists, curling his fingers into his palms experimentally, and finds that it’s really not that bad, just—“different…”
“I—can take… them back, if you want?”
“Huh? No!” Raichi’s response is immediate, and Sanada finds that it’s a bit endearing, the way he sounds offended. Raichi brings his hands closer to him, against his torso as he attempts to look Sanada in the face. “T—Thank… you, Sanada-senpai.”
Sanada raises a brow, tilting his head. He’s teasing as he says, “Don’t be so formal. I wanted to do it.”
The words aren’t lost on Raichi. “Y-Yes... Thanks, Naada-senpai.”
After that, it becomes a little easier to breathe.
Sanada clears his throat, the moment hanging around them, soft and simple. He wipes his sweaty palms against his thighs and says, “So, today… teach me your stance.”
*
It was worse than he imagined.
Raichi was reluctant at first, a smile he was trying to fight against spreading across his face regardless, words of Naada-senpai, you are already a great batter, and the words have been said before, but Sanada laughed it off, saying come on, come on, teach me! Raichi’s face had flushed a deep red, his laughter a little more genuine and a little less nervous before he ultimately agreed.
Sanada hadn’t thought about the fact that he would have Raichi’s undivided attention. He tries desperately not to think about it as he lifts his bat, shuffling his feet outward in his usual stance—the not thinking about it part proves to be rather difficult, especially since he can feel Raichi’s eyes on him.
Raichi circles Sanada, and from the glimpses he can see from Raichi’s expression, he’s taking this seriously. Sanada stays as still as he can, sweat building in the palms of his hands and suddenly he is very terrified of the possibility the bat will go flying from his grip if he takes a swing. He bites the insides of his cheeks, quelling the laughter that wants to spill.
When Raichi takes a step forward, Sanada startles a bit.
“Ah—S..sorry, Naada-senpai.”
Sanada laughs. “It’s my bad.”
This, too, had happened before.
“I’m—uh…”
“Go ahead and adjust me, if that’s what you’re doing,” Sanada tells him. He kicks himself mentally, cursing himself because who just goes and says that, go ahead and adjust me?
Raichi gives a hum of acknowledgment before reaching out, lifting Sanada’s right elbow a bit. He points to Sanada’s left leg, brows narrowed as he mumbles, “this leg… out a bit more… bring in your knee more, too…” Raichi frowns deeply, not a thought in his head as he steps even closer, bringing a palm to Sanada’s stomach and pushing slightly. “Hips… lower…”
Sanada does as he’s told, proud of himself for keeping such a straight face at the touch although his heart hadn’t been calm at all. He stays in that stance as Raichi takes a step back only to circle him once more before finally standing in front of him, a confident kahaha bursting through his lips. “Naada-senpai, that is my stance! Or, at least, I think it is!”
“Huh?” Sanada can’t help but laugh weakly, heart racing and stomach flipping as Raichi is all but smiles in front of him. “What do you mean, ‘or at least I think it is’?”
“I mean what I said, Naada-senpai!” Raichi laughs loudly, imitating the stance and swinging with a bat that isn’t in his hands. “Like this! Fly away!”
Sanada swings his bat, and it isn’t surprising that the pull of his swing is much different than normal. Muscle memory allows him to take on the stance again. He furrows his brows, shifting the tiniest bit to lessen the burden on his leg—other than that, and the fact that they bat opposite sides, Sanada could tell that his swing seemed more powerful.
“It is different,” he admits, and Raichi’s smile is enough to light the sky.
It continues like that for a while longer. Sanada swings with a different stance and Raichi stands opposite of him, swinging without a bat. The air around them is comfortable—it’s kind of hard to believe the previous night had even been real.
It isn’t anything I can’t wait for.
The memory replays in the back of his mind—rough hands in his own, the smell of antiseptic, the feel of gauze in his hands and the unspoken words that were somehow shouted directly into their ears. For a moment, Sanada wonders if Raichi put the pieces together, and upon remembering the widening of his eyes and how the tips of his ears turned pink, Sanada is sure it’s the case.
He wonders if it was possible to even feel this much like an idiot.
Sanada isn’t paying attention to his stance or his swing. His foot slides back a bit too much, and on a particularly rough swing, he sucks in a breath and winces at the pain.
“Naada-senpai?”
“I—I’m alright!” Sanada laughs, plays it off like the first time but through the months, his skill in being a liar hadn’t improved. He drops his stance and his bat, letting it roll away; he shifts, favoring the better leg. “I wasn’t paying attention, is all.”
“Naada…” Raichi mumbles, gaze shifting to Sanada’s legs. “Your… leg?”
Sanada tells himself he shouldn’t be as surprised as he is. He realized, in their time alone together, that Raichi was more perceptive than he seemed. Instead of laughing and saying the millions of things to attempt to advert Raichi’s attention, Sanada simply nods. “Yeah.”
Raichi threads his gloved fingers together, and it’s then that Sanada realizes that he had kept them on. He looks away from Raichi’s hands just in time to see the flush spreading across his face. Raichi looks this way and that, swallowing the lump in his throat—it’s frustrating, how the words were still hard to get out although he had spoken them before. “Do you… uh, want another… massage?”
The thought is tempting, but as Sanada’s heart hammers in his chest, he isn’t sure whether or not he’d be able to handle it again. He gives Raichi a smile and shakes his head, trying his best to will his voice even as he speaks, “I think I’ll be okay if I just…” he pauses, racking his brain, “uh, sit down, probably.”
Was it just him, or was there disappointment in Raichi’s face?
Idiotidiotidiot, Sanada thinks to himself. He doesn’t step away, opting to turn around and sit down right where he had been standing. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea, to practice after practice—but he wasn’t about to give it up. Selfish as it may be, it was his time to make the time him and Raichi spend together their own. He swallows the lump in his throat, stretching his injured leg out and kneading the muscles of his thigh.
He’s so lost in thought he doesn’t hear the footsteps behind him.
Raichi is aware, no matter if that awareness is always present or not.
It—It’s because I—
The words had almost come from his mouth. Raichi remembers, before, he hadn’t been ready to admit to himself what his emotions honestly meant, although he knew his admiration wasn’t something as simple as that. It was strange, he thought, how complex his emotions could truly be; it was unexpected.
However—in the back of his mind, there hadn’t been a reason to admit anything, because the words had almost been spoken aloud. That enough meant so much.
Raichi wonders how long it had been like this. He takes another step forward, eyes focused on the number on Sanada’s back. Raichi watches as he stretches his leg, trying to lessen the burn of his muscles.
It isn’t anything I can’t wait for.
He replaces the word baseball with a name, and it makes sense. It’s frightening, just a little bit, but Raichi realizes that without overcoming such a fear, the unspoken words from the two of them would fester and become something intangible.
Sanada is special.
Raichi reaches forward, the air between his fingers and Sanada’s skin electrifying. His touch is light as he grazes his fingers against the base of Sanada’s neck. Oh, he thinks, throat tightening, the gloves… He retracts his hand quickly, just as Sanada’s hand comes up to cover the back of his neck.
Sanada’s eyes are wide as he looks over his shoulder, and Raichi isn’t certain if he’s actually seeing the flush on Sanada’s face or if his brain is playing tricks on him in the midst of his fret.
“I—I—“ Nervousness crawls up his throat. He shifts from foot to foot, eyes wide as he focuses on the stitching of his batting gloves. “Ka…hahaha… hahaha….” Raichi doesn’t notice Sanada move—doesn’t know the ace even had moved from his spot on the ground until Sanada’s hands come into his vision, taking one of Raichi’s hand in his own. “N—Naada—“
Sanada doesn’t speak, keeps his gaze on Raichi’s gloved hand and there’s that look again, Raichi thinks. He tries to relax his muscles, overly conscious of the way Sanada cradles his hand, of the way Sanada tilts his head and furrows his eyebrows.
Time seems to stop—the wind dies down, the birds hush and the insects pause in their evening choir.
Raichi doesn’t move as Sanada unfastens the glove. He keeps as still as he can as Sanada slips the glove off his hand. There’s no telling what could happen next—Raichi’s brain is struggling to keep up, especially as Sanada’s thumb grazes his palm and the calluses there. They stay like that for a moment, Sanada’s fingertips against Raichi’s palm, and the back of Raichi’s hand against Sanada’s palm.
Sanada isn’t sure what he’s doing, not exactly. He’s mostly on auto-pilot, his desires taking over because his brain isn’t connected to his muscles.
Hesitantly, Sanada lifts Raichi’s hand, maneuvering his hand so that he’s able to press it against his own chest.
Raichi releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
The drum of Sanada’s heart is strong against his palm—quicker than normal and the sensation makes Raichi’s head spin, as does the meaning.
“Ah…” Raichi opens his mouth, but nothing concrete escapes. He blinks rapidly, pressing his palm against Sanada’s chest as if to even more clearly feel the thudding of his heartbeat.
It—It’s because I—
With his free hand, the one that isn’t bare, he reaches for Sanada’s other hand. Raichi begins to wonder if this gesture is too personal, but then he realizes Sanada did it first, and then it’s too late to back down. It’s clumsy—his nerves get the better of him and he means for this to go as smoothly as possible, but Raichi isn’t that type of person. He presses Sanada’s hand to his chest, and can see the instant Sanada feels the rapid drum of his heart.
To Raichi’s surprise, Sanada begins to laugh. It’s slow and bubbly—the kind that starts from deep within the chest and soon, Raichi comes to find that it is contagious.
***
Two months pass and nothing changes. The word intangible becomes something like a constant horror, until one evening, after a rough practice, Sanada turns to Raichi and says, “Let’s do something different.”
Raichi hums in question, uncertainty causing him to frown. “Something… different…” he mumbles, but nothing really comes to mind. He takes off his batting gloves, and Sanda can’t help but think that it is incredibly endearing, the way Raichi presses them together carefully before putting them in an inner pocket of his tattered sportsbag.
Sanada laughs shakily, a fire in his chest as he rocks to the side, gently bumping their shoulders together. “I have something in mind.”
He takes them to a nearby park.
“I didn’t even know this was nearby…” Raichi glances around them, eyes wide as he takes it all in—a bit rundown, and there isn’t a lot of equipment. By the looks of it, most of it is rusted and dented, but it is quiet and oddly peaceful although it was just the two of them—or, perhaps that’s why it was peaceful.
Sanada nods, a bit proud of his discovery. “There’s a clearing farther that way,” he tells him, pointing over his shoulder.
Raichi furrows his eyebrows upon hearing the words, shifting his gaze from the crooked swingset and to Sanada. “Did we come here to play baseball?”
I came here to confess to you—
Sanada swallows the words, another shaky laugh escaping him. “No. Let’s see who can find the most shapes in the clouds.” He turns on his heel, leading the way without looking back.
“What?” Raichi says, rushing to catch up. He adjusts the strap on his shoulder before jogging the rest of the short distance between them. “Huh?”
“The clouds,” Sanada says, as if it were as simple as that. He glances beside him, the corners of his lips tugging further upward as Raichi looks at him, confused. “You’ve never looked for shapes in the clouds?” he asks, ducking under a hanging branch.
Raichi shrugs, ducking as well. “I… uh, maybe…? I don’t… know,” he finally admits.
Sanada nods, moving a brush of leaves to the side, gesturing for Raichi to go first before he says, “That’s gotta change.” He follows Raichi through the opening, and quite like Raichi, he stops and stares—but not at the scenery that Raichi’s focused on.
He watches as Raichi takes it in. It isn’t much, not really—a small open field, a clear view of the sky; there is nothing much here besides grass swaying in the breeze, a few ‘flowers’ that are probably just weeds, but he supposes that thinking of them as flowers deems this as romantic. Sanada turns and walks a bit farther; standing in what he guesses is the center of the clearing before dropping his bag and lowering himself. He’s settled, laid back against the grass with an arm bent to cushion his head.
A few minutes pass before he hears Raichi’s footsteps. Sanada doesn’t watch his every movement once he’s close enough—keeps his eyes to the swirl of clouds and the blue surrounding them, trying to see shapes that are surely there. From the corner of his eye, he sees Raichi set his bag down carefully, shifting from foot to foot before finally lowering himself.
Raichi fidgets, brain on fire. He tries not to think too much about anything at all as he lays back, fingers twining together on his stomach.
Sanada smiles—can’t help himself as he lifts his arm, pointing to a misshapen cloud. “That kind of looks like a lion.”
Raichi laughs. He tilts his head, the feel of grass against his ears almost ticklish. “Naada-senpai is right,” he says, lifting his own arm, pointing at another cloud. “Mishima.”
“What?” Sanada snorts, shaking his head. “Looks like tonkatsu to me.”
“Misshiima is tonkatsu?!”
They both laugh, going back and forth until it becomes rather ridiculous, naming off things that pop into their heads rather than trying to form a shape on the cloud with their imaginations. It dies down, their brains too wired on laughter and smiling, knocking each other’s hands to the side in mid-air to try to get first dibs on a cloud.
Raichi lets his hand fall, and he doesn’t mean for his thoughts to come rushing back to him, but ultimately, they do.
Like…
He sits up, back hunching the tiniest bit as he focuses on the hands in his lap.
I—I don’t… need to run…away.
Raichi isn’t sure how many times he’s repeated the words to himself. He clears his throat, opening his mouth and it’s then he is suddenly aware of how dry his throat is. “Naada…senpai.” His words come out hoarse; he swallows the saliva in his mouth and clears his throat again. Raichi makes himself sit up straighter—I don’t need to run away. The courage running through his veins is strange, and some part of him thinks that it’s thanks to the one sitting beside him.
“Naada-senpai, I have something I—“
“No!” Sanada yells, rushing forward. Raichi’s eyes are wide as he looks over to him, stomach dropping and he can feel the blood drain from his face at the intensity of the ace’s voice. “No, I mean, that’s not what I meant, Raichi—what I mean is, uh—me! Me first! I have something to say to you!”
“What?! No! Me!”
“No, no no no, me!”
Raichi stutters all through his next words. “W—Wha—why?! Why you, Naada?!”
“Because, I’ve had these feelings longer than you have!”
“W—n—that—unfair! Naada, you’re cheating! You—Naada, you can’t know that!”
“Huh? How?” Sanada says, and he’s sure his face is on fire—his heart is beating faster and faster and he isn’t sure how this happened, how they ended up sitting next to each other in the grass, screaming at each other because—
“’Cause, Naada! I’ve h—had these feelings, too!”
—they’re the same.
Leaves rustle in the wind and the insects seem to scream in their ears.
It’s Sanada who breaks the silence first.
“You… too?”
Raichi’s glaring at him, but Sanada doesn’t think anything negative about it. He looks away only to look back immediately. He stammers, “M—Me… too…”
Slowly, Sanada nods. His mind isn’t really processing anything, aside from how pink Raichi’s face is and how heated his own face feels. He wonders, if he leaned forward and pressed his ear to Raichi’s chest, would he be able to hear the beat of Raichi’s heart through the sound of his own heart?
He’s tempted to test out his theory—but in the end, he simply nods again, opening his mouth and closing it because he’s sure he would only stutter and mumble. Sanada shifts, lying back against the grass once more, turning his head slightly to take in the bewilderment on Raichi’s face; he gives the guy a smile, extending a hand and patting the ground as if to say, you lie back, too.
Raichi does, hesitantly—the distance between them is less, now, their arms almost pressed together.
It was nothing like an accident.
Time passes and neither of them is fully aware of it until the breeze is cool against their skin, calming the flush but hardly the one beneath the surface. The sky darkens a little, and suddenly Sanada thinks that is it such a shame, that he will have to see Raichi off sooner rather than later.
He glances to the other, skin on fire because there is the tiniest smile on Raichi’s lips.
“Hey…” Sanada says, lifting a hand. “That cloud, it looks like a heart.”
“A heart?!”
“A heart,” Sanada repeats, the smile on his face somehow genuine and mischievous at the same time.
Raichi flushes, stammering words as shoves Sanada’s shoulder with no ill intent, and all Sanada can do is laugh, catching Raichi’s hand in his own and threading his fingers between the empty spaces because that was where they belonged, now.