Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Miyuki’s having a water break when he hears the tell-tale signs of chaos happening over on the other field. So naturally, he has to drop everything to go see what all the fuss is about.

It’s better than he expected.

Takashima-sensei is giving a pair of middle-schoolers a tour — most likely players she’d scouted for next year. He openly cackles as one of them starts mouthing off against Azuma. The third-year batter, predictably, takes the bait. Never mind that his opponent is a preteen.

“Who the hell are you?” Azuma yells, red with fury. “I’ll have you know, I’m going pro straight out of high school, you brat!”

“Yeah, right fatso!” the kid yells back, glaring back with what Miyuki can only assume to be a death wish.

“Eijun,” the other boy says. He grabs the ‘Eijun’ kid’s arm. “He’s four times your size. You’re going to die.”

“Akira! You’re really gonna let this jerk get away with spewing crap like that?” ‘Eijun’ protests.

“What, you think I’m lying? Think I’m all talk?” Azuma smirks. He stands proud, casting a large shadow over the two middle-schoolers. “I’m the best batter at this school!”

“Even if that’s true, you’ll never get to play pro with that piss-poor attitude,” says ‘Akira’. He turns away from his brother to give the third-year a lazy stare. “I doubt you’re good enough to get away with being an asshole.”

Eijun gasps. “Which one of us is dying now?”

Miyuki is immensely glad that he doesn’t have siblings. Kids are a riot, but he doesn’t think he’d be able to put up with this level of idiocy 24/7.

“This is a good chance,” Takashima-sensei murmurs. “Azuma-san, do you think you could show these two your true batting power?”

“W — what?” Eijun stammers.

Miyuki watches it all unfold with glee.

“This is a baseball field,” Takashima says. “We solve our problems through baseball.”

Eijun continues to stammer. “What!?”

Akira mutters something that Miyuki is too far away to catch, but he’d bet anything that it’s a quiet I hate my life.

The Eijun kid, who is apparently a pitcher, blusters his way onto the mound. Gloves and gear are produced. Miyuki’s about to offer his services as a catcher, but then he sees Akira grab a catcher’s helmet, and he’s tentatively intrigued.

Two brothers — probably twins, going by how they look practically identical — as a battery pair. They’d probably been playing together for their whole lives. He wonders how good they are. If Takashima-sensei brought them here, there must be something special with at least one of them.

Miyuki sidles up to the scout. “Where’d you find these clowns?”

“Nagano,” she answers, amused. “Sawamura Eijun and Sawamura Akira. Eijun-kun’s a pitcher; Akira-kun’s a catcher.”

“A twin battery pair, huh?” he wonders aloud. “Now I’m curious. You think they can strike him out?”

Takashima taps her chin. “To be honest, I’m not sure. I scouted Eijun for his interesting pitching style. I haven’t had a chance to observe Akira’s play in detail.”

The twins’ toss a hardball back and forth for a bit as a warm-up. The tosses gradually get stronger and stronger before Akira nods. The catcher looks over at Azuma, appraising. Then he turns back to his twin.

“If you mess up, you take out the trash for the next month,” he says.

“Wh — I won’t mess up! What if you mess up?”

“Then I guess I get to take out the trash,” Akira deadpans. “But I’m not going to mess up.”

“Shut up,” Eijun says, flicking his brother in the head. Akira huffs.

“Ready to go down?” Eijun yells out, challenging Azuma with a fiery glare.

Azuma bristles at the confidence. “More like ready to show you brats your place!”

Miyuki leans forward, grinning with anticipation.

The catcher settles down at home while the pitcher strides up to the mound. He tosses the ball up and down a few times before hiding his grip behind his glove. He looks up, eyes blazing, and grins.

“Ready when you are!”

“Bring it, brat!”

The catcher holds his glove up. A fastball, straight over the plate — directly in Azuma’s sweet spot.

Oh boy, Miyuki thinks, because the second-hand embarrassment of these idiot first-years getting crushed on their first pitch is as awful as it is entertaining.

The pitcher doesn’t hesitate for a second. His windup is fluid, and the ball flies true.

But Azuma’s a pro-level batter for a reason. He swings, and judging by the course of the ball, it’s an instant home run — except there’s a weird twang as the ball skims the top of his bat, turning into a pop-fly instead. The catcher merely stands up, doesn’t even have to take a step forward, and he lets it fall into his glove.

“Out,” he announces, voice even — as if he and his brother didn’t just get fucking Azuma out on his first swing.

“Ha!” Eijun yells from the mound, pointing obnoxiously at Azuma. “Looks like this guy is all bark and no bite! Take that, ya fatso!”

“What the hell,” Azuma says. He looks around, then at his bat, then at the pitcher. “That’s — clearly that’s a fluke!”

“We can throw you another, if you want,” Akira offers, tossing the ball back to his brother. “I’m sure you’ll get your home run. Eventually.”

Despite the calmer demeanor, this kid is equally as stupid as his brother.

Miyuki moves a little closer. He wants to get a better look at that pitch. It must have been a breaking ball, somehow, with how a clear hit turned into a pop-fly.

“I was just going easy on you,” Azuma grumbles. He settles into his batting stance and grits his teeth.

Akira doesn’t answer. He lazily holds his glove up in a slightly different place and holds up two fingers. Eijun throws the ball.

Azuma’s obviously flustered at this point because he swings even more aggressively — and misses it by a mile. Changeup.

“Strike one,” Akira announces. His face is blank, but there’s a hint of smug amusement in his tone.

Eijun cackles from the mound. “You sure you’re alright, old man? We should have let you warm up!”

Azuma is sweating. When Miyuki looks around, the crowd of spectators has doubled in size.

“There’s no shame in backing down now,” Akira offers quietly, as he tosses the ball back to Eijun.

Azuma’s face is red.

Akira calls for another pitch. Inside fastball. Eijun doesn’t even blink as he sends another ball hurtling down.

Miyuki watches the pitch closely. It doesn’t seem that fast, but Azuma doesn’t swing.

“Ahh, good call, Azuma-san,” the catcher says, tone almost mocking with its lack of emotion. “That’s a ball.”

Eijun rolls his eyes.

The next throw is another fastball, quick and sharp, and, again, Azuma only watches as it slams into Akira’s mitt.

“Now that was strike two.”

“You bet it is!” Eijun declares with a dazzling smile.

Azuma’s grip tightens around the bat. He presses his lips together. Maybe he’s got the timing down, now.

“What the fuck,” someone from behind Miyuki says. Miyuki turns to look — it’s Tetsu-senpai.

“Who are these kids?” Ryousuke mutters, apparently having been watching for some time. “I don’t recognize them from articles or anything.”

“They’re from the countryside,” Miyuki says. “… Might have some competition for catcher next year. Kid’s alright.”

“Was their first pitch really a pop-fly?” Tetsu asks him. “I wasn’t here for that.”

Miyuki turns his attention back to the show. “It was.”

Akira’s holding his glove right down the middle, with no signs.

“No way,” Tetsu breathes out. “This kid has balls.”

“They both do,” Miyuki comments, watching with impressed horror as the pitcher winds up without any hesitation. There’s something in his eyes that wasn’t there before, and his grin is feral.

Azuma swings. And misses.

Miyuki’s left trying to figure out how he missed — because that was just a fastball, right? What happened there? — while Azuma throws down his bat and stalks away in embarrassment. Some other third-years run after him, but he doesn’t seem to be in the mood for small talk.

The predatory gleam in Eijun’s eyes fades away, replaced with a sunny smile. He runs up to home plate, beaming, and with his arms spread wide.

“Akira, we did it!”

When Eijun pulls close, Akira swats his head.

“Ow! Aki!”

“That’s for causing trouble,” Akira grumbles. He tilts his head.

The twins turn to look as Takashima-sensei walks up.

“I thought you said your school had good baseball!” Eijun complains. “That guy was crap!”

(Behind Miyuki, Tetsu snickers at Azuma being dismissed as ‘crap’. Miyuki just grins.)

“We have more to offer,” Takashima says. “Imagine getting to test your skills against the best of the best. Everyday. Think of how much you’d improve.”

“I’m not betraying my team for personal gain like that!” Eijun yells, crossing his arms. “‘Sides, if that was ‘the best of the best’, y’all clearly need more work!”

“Eijun,” Akira says in a warning tone, but he doesn’t offer an apology.

Takashima’s hands curl around her clipboard. It’s then that Miyuki understands.

These kids aren’t taking a tour. They don’t even want to attend. She’s trying to impress them because Seidou doesn’t have an ace.

And like it or not, that idiot loudmouth that was standing on the mound had the potential to be one.

Impulsively, Miyuki walks up to join the conversation. The sound of his cleats on the dirt draws their attention, and two pairs of brown eyes pin him down.

“Now that was some impressive pitching there, kid,” he drawls. He glances over the catcher for a second before turning his attention back to the pitcher.

Lean. Tanned. Brown hair. There’s nothing particularly remarkable about him, except for the way his eyes seem to glow despite being dark brown.

“Uh, thanks,” the kid says, suspicious. “Who are you.”

“Miyuki Kazuya,” he announces, keeping up his charismatic grin. He slings a casual arm over both of the twins. “Are you two coming here next year?”

“No!” Eijun yells, knocking out Miyuki’s eardrums. “Why would I want to come to this elitist craphole!”

Takashima presses her lips together. Miyuki runs through words in his head, trying to put together something to convince this pitcher to stay.

“Listen. I’m a catcher, too,” he says, turning to look at Sawamura Akira. “So I understand. The best pitches are works of art, created by two people.”

“Hell yeah, they are!” Eijun yells, again, and Miyuki tries not to wince at the volume.

“So wouldn’t it be a shame,” he continues, “if you two hoarded it all to yourself in the countryside?”

“Eh?” Eijun knits his eyebrows together in deep thought. “What are you saying?”

Akira’s mouth quirks up. “He’s saying that people don’t watch hick idiot baseball.”

Miyuki’s smile twitches with annoyance. “Oi, don’t twist my words like that! I’m just saying, I think you two would be a good addition to our team!”

“Well, obviously,” Eijun says. “You need all the help you can get if everyone’s as bad as that stupid batter.”

Miyuki and Takashima exchange a glance. She was obviously hoping to impress these kids with the quality of their team, but since they’d gotten Azuma out so easily…

“Hey, Miyuki-senpai,” Akira says, and Miyuki turns his head in surprise.

“Quit dancing around. There’s plenty of interesting players out there.” Akira tells him. “So why don’t you give us a straightforward reason? Why us, and why would we come here?”

Why indeed, Miyuki thinks.

“We’re a powerhouse baseball school,” Miyuki says, bluntly. “But we haven’t gone to Koshien in a long time.”

“So?” Eijun says. “That just means you guys suck, right?”

“We don’t,” Miyuki says immediately, offended with the dismissal. “But the reason we keep choking is because we need a pitcher. We need an ace.”

Silence.

Eijun seems to be lost in thought, so Akira pokes his brother once more. “That means you, Eijun.”

Eijun scowls. “Whatever! It’s not like I’m interested. I’m already the ace of our team back home.”

“One inning,” Miyuki blurts out.

Eijun blinks. “Huh?”

“One inning,” Miyuki repeats. “Play with us. And you’ll see baseball you’ve never seen before.”

Akira blinks in surprise.

Eijun crosses his arms. “Why would I want to play with a bunch of pretentious —”

“You’re loyal to your team,” Miyuki cuts him off, letting a hint of steel into his tone. “And I’m loyal to mine.”

At that, Eijun falls silent. That sunny smile from earlier has all but vanished, in its place is something else. Respect. Curiosity. And even more — a thirst for competition.

Inwardly, Miyuki smirks. Hook, line, and sinker.

“Fine,” Eijun grits out, glaring up at Miyuki without fear.

Miyuki turns around to look at his fellow teammates — the ones that had gathered to watch these two brats take down Azuma. There’s Tetsu, and Ryousuke. Jun’s there, too. Kuramochi and Masuko. Not enough for a team, but enough to fill the infield and for a couple batters.

“You’re always dragging us into shit,” Kuramochi grumbles. “Fine. I’m in.” he turns a toothy grin to the two junior high students. “Don’t think we’ll go down as easy as Azuma.”

Eijun nods, and the corner of his mouth tugs up into a grin.

They don’t manage to finish the inning, but it’s honestly one hell of an experience. Eijun and Akira make a great battery. Masuko and Ryousuke both get singles, but neither twin cracks at the pressure. Instead, they rise to the occasion with reckless enthusiasm. Some of the calls Akira makes are terrifying. Eijun's ability to meet those demands is just as insane.

Soon, they’re all loosened up, and getting ready for the good part. Miyuki’s about to step up to the plate as a batter when Takashima-sensei cuts the game short.

"Sorry," she says. "I have to bring these two home."

And also leave them wanting more, Miyuki finishes in his head. But that doesn't make him any less disappointed. He really wanted to see those pitches from behind the plate.

What’s surprising is that Eijun looks equally robbed. The middle-schooler opens his mouth to protest — until he remembers that he’s supposed to hate Seidou, at which point he pouts and pulls on a grumpy frown.

Their ragtag group of players circle up and start exchanging their ‘thank yous’ and ‘goodbyes’.

Finally, Eijun ends up in front of Miyuki. Miyuki holds out his hand to shake, and Eijun takes it.

Eijun’s hands are rough and calloused with long, lean fingers. It’s as though he were born to be a pitcher. Once again, Miyuki wishes he’d gotten a chance to see Eijun pitch from the batter’s box.

“Hey,” Miyuki says, squeezing Eijun’s hand with a smirk. “I’ll hit a home run off of you next time, alright?”

“Like hell, you will!” Eijun snaps.

Miyuki laughs while Eijun rages. A couple seconds pass, and the humor dies down, leaving only quiet.

“… Good game,” Eijun says, breaking the silence, and they let go of the handshake.

“Yeah,” Miyuki agrees. “Good game.”

Eijun nods. For a moment, it looks like he’s about to say something else.

But then the moment passes, and he walks away. Miyuki watches him go.

“Huh. Interesting.”

Miyuki jumps in shock at the new voice. He turns to his right, where Akira has materialized out of thin air, and he tries to regain his composure. “Where’d you come from?!”

“Nagano,” Akira deadpans, and. Okay. Miyuki walked into that one.

“So? What’d you think?”

“He’s thinking about it now,” Akira says. He tilts his head and looks over Miyuki as if sizing him up for a fight. “Appealing to his sense of teamwork was smart. You got a good read on him very quickly — I guess it’s to be expected, being a top catcher and all.”

Miyuki lifts an eyebrow at the phrasing. “What about you?”

Akira shrugs. “I just follow my brother,” he says, voice even.

“You know, if you both come, we’d be rivals,” Miyuki tells him. “Can’t have two catchers on the field. You might be able to play with your brother, but it won’t be as exclusive as it used to be.”

“That’s fine,” Akira says, and Miyuki stares at him with surprise. Akira catches the look and grins. “We’ve gone as far as we could on our own. If we’re ever going to improve at this point, we’d have to practice with other people.”

“And you’re okay with that?” Miyuki asks.

“I am,” Akira nods. “It’s just practice. At the end of the day, we’re the battery pair. It’s not like that will ever change.”

Miyuki can respect that point of view. It reminds him of his own ambition, the way he might come off a little abrasive for the sake of the team. He wonders if Eijun feels the same way, about practicing with people other than his brother.

Then he sees Eijun’s petulant pouting, and decides, no, he probably doesn’t.

“We’ll see you next year,” Akira says, turning to walk away.

The certainty in the statement catches Miyuki off guard. “Oh, so you’ve already decided to come?”

“No,” Akira says. “But no matter where we end up, I’ll probably see you on the field at some point. Until next time, Miyuki Kazuya.”

‘Next time’ turns out to be on the first day of school, because Sawamura Akira gets assigned as his new roommate.

By the time Miyuki wakes up — late, no less — his room is empty and Sawamura Akira is nowhere to be seen.

“That bastard!” he hisses to himself. “That asshole left me here to rot!”

He dresses as quickly as possible and then runs to the practice field. He bumps into a familiar figure behind the fence, and immediately he flies into the rant he’d been scripting in his head all morning.

“Sawamura, you damn traitor, you didn’t wake me —”

“MIYUKI KAZUYA?!”

Miyuki flinches at the volume. He shoves a hand over his roommate’s mouth.

“Shut up, dumbass, do you want to get —”

Wait a second.

This is not his roommate. They have the same face, but this kid wears his emotions on his sleeve and radiates more energy with one expression than Akira did for all of last night. And his eyes gleam, dark brown and impossibly bright.

“Sawamura… Eijun?” he tries.

The boy shakes off his hand and glares at him. “Yeah! You remember me!”

How could he not? That was one of the most interesting days in his entire first-year.

Miyuki chuckles. “Late on the first day, huh?”

“Shut up! You are, too!”

Sawamura Eijun is much easier to rile up than his stoic twin. Miyuki laughs and charms his way into the kid’s good graces and manages to convince him to follow his plan. Poor sucker.

Of course, it backfires when Kataoka notices him anyway, and then Masuko, Kuramochi, Akira, and Miyuki all end up joining Eijun for laps around the field with tires tied around their waists.

“You totally ditched me!” Miyuki hisses to his upstart first-year roommate, as they run around the field. “I can’t believe you didn’t wake up your senpai.”

“I didn’t want to disturb you, Miyuki-senpai,” Akira deadpans. “Didn’t think it was my place. You know, as a first-year.”

There’s no change in his expression, but Miyuki knows. He knows he’s laughing on the inside. “Why you little —”

“Why didn’t you wake me up!” Eijun whines to Kuramochi and Masuko, his loud complaints effectively drowning out Miyuki’s string of insults. “You’re so mean! You made me stay up late with that video game tournament!”

Kuramochi and Masuko just laugh at their predicament.

After the punishment, Miyuki, Kuramochi, and Masuko make sure that they give their coach their most sincere apologies. Miyuki takes extra satisfaction in seeing how the Sawamura twins are told to run for the rest of the day.

“Serves him right,” Miyuki laughs, looking at how Akira’s stoic facade slips for just a second, revealing his frustration.

Beside him, Kuramochi rolls his eyes. “You’re a shitty guy, you know that, right?”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t know why I bother,” Kuramochi mutters.

Still, that’s not the end of the affair. Eijun loudly protests his right to stay at practice — seriously, does that kid have a death wish? — and Coach Kataoka challenges him directly, daring him to hit the fence in a single throw, or else give up being a pitcher.

Eijun perks up at that, loudly declaring his intention to be the ace. But next to him, Akira’s eyes widen with panic.

“Wait, Ei, don’t forget to —”

Too late. The ball soars through the air, flying high. For a second, Miyuki almost thinks that it’s going to succeed.

And then it veers off-course, curving to the right. The field is dead silent as the ball hits the dirt.

“… Check your grip,” Akira finishes with a resigned deadpan. He looks ready for death.

“Ah!” Eijun yells, wringing his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry! I forgot!”

Miyuki doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry at the sheer stupidity. But then Coach Kataoka delivers the most painful dressing down of all time, and — yep, decision made. He laughs.

Eijun glares at him as they start running laps. The sight of it just makes Miyuki laugh even harder.

When Miyuki makes it back to his room, Akira’s lying on his bed, flipping through a shoujo manga with a blank expression.

It’s silent for a bit. Miyuki sets his stuff down and flops onto his chair. He turns to look at his first-year roommate, who doesn’t seem to react at all to his presence.

“… So much for being a battery pair,” Miyuki says, breaking the silence, and Akira immediately slams the book shut and sits up.

Miyuki stifles his laughter. Eijun’s been barred from pitching, effectively shattering the possibility of their battery. Judging by the look in Akira’s eyes, he’s as pissed as he is embarrassed.

“I’ll be back later,” Akira says, his voice still even despite his obvious frustration. He must have been bottling this up all day. “I have to go kill my brother.”

Miyuki sees his chance and snags a seat next to the Sawamura twins for dinner one night. Eijun angrily stuffs himself with food, as usual, while Akira casually eats his dinner.

“What are you doing here?” Eijun grumbles, when Miyuki takes the seat next to him.

Miyuki calls up a bright grin. “What, can’t I say hi to my roommate and his brother?”

“Oh, right!” Eijun says, snapping his fingers. “I forgot that you’re roommates!”

“Sometimes I forget, too,” Akira agrees, which makes Miyuki twitch.

Dinner continues in silence. Miyuki takes a bite out of his rice and chews, waiting for the inevitable question.

“Everyone’s pretty quiet,” Eijun comments. “Did something happen?”

Miyuki plasters on his best ‘confused expression’. “You haven’t heard? The first-years are playing the upperclassmen tomorrow.”

Akira chokes on his rice, and Miyuki cackles.

“I’m your roommate,” Akira grumbles. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

“Sorry, I forgot,” Miyuki replies. Payback. “But it’s a crazy idea, isn’t it? There might be an opportunity for a first-year to become a regular — whoa.”

Eijun grabs Miyuki by the collar and shakes him vigorously. “What about us?” he demands, looking a little crazed. “Do we get to play? We get to play, right?”

“I’m not the coach, dumbass, how should I know?”

“Hey, is it okay if I sit here?”

The table falls silent as Miyuki and the Sawamura twins turn to look at the newcomer. Eijun’s face immediately shuts down while Akira’s eyes sharpen with interest.

The newcomer shoves his way in between Miyuki and Eijun. “Miyuki. I don’t feel like anyone here will be able to hit my pitches tomorrow,” he announces, uncaring of the rest of the room. “If I’m right, will you be my catcher?”

What is it with these crazy first-years? Miyuki wonders, as whispers begin to pick up around the room.

The other members of the club start issuing threats to the first-year pitcher known as Furuya Satoru. Eijun sulks, and Miyuki cracks a smile at the sight.

Akira, though, is watching Furuya with something like curiosity. It’s the first time Miyuki’s seen his roommate take an interest in someone other than his brother, and he frowns.

While Furuya draws the ire of the entire Seidou baseball club, Miyuki watches the Sawamura twins. Eijun glares at Akira. Akira lifts an eyebrow, looks over at Furuya, and looks back. Eijun grits his teeth and nods, and Akira shrugs and picks up a bit of rice with his chopsticks.

Miyuki wonders what they said in that unspoken conversation.

Later, back in their room, Miyuki asks his question as soon as Akira gets back from the bath. “Did you two know that Furuya kid?”

“Not really,” Akira says, shaking out his still-wet hair. “Eijun met him while he stayed back for one of your games. Apparently, his pitches are crazy fast.”

“Oh?”

Akira drops down onto his bed and stares at the ceiling. “It sounds interesting,” he says. “I think I wanna try catching for him.”

Miyuki blinks again, surprised at the admission, but then he recalls Akira’s words from that first day.

If we’re ever going to improve at this point, we’d have to practice with other people.

“Furuya Satoru, huh?” Miyuki says. “I wonder what his pitches are like.”

“Hopefully I get to find out tomorrow,” Akira says, and — yep, Miyuki’s not imagining it. That’s actual excitement in his voice.

“Coach is letting you two play?”

“Oh, right,” Akira says. “Uh, Eijun and I ran into him in the baths and he’s gonna let Eijun pitch tomorrow.”

Miyuki stiffens. He’s never known Kataoka to be lenient like that for anything. “Really? Why?”

“I dunno, something poetic?” Akira yawns. “Something, something, ‘ace’ or whatever.”

Miyuki rolls his eyes. “Can’t you remember more than that?”

“Honestly, I zoned out the moment he told me I could play,” Akira shrugs. “You’ll have to ask Eijun for the rest of it.”

Wow, Miyuki thinks. I see the family resemblance. You’re both idiots.

Still, they’re interesting idiots, and as Akira knocks out, Miyuki finds himself silently looking forward to tomorrow’s game.

Kuramochi and Miyuki stand on the sidelines, watching as the first years set up for defense. They openly cackle as Eijun gets rejected as a pitcher and ends up in the right field.

“Idiot,” Miyuki says.

“Oh, definitely,” Kuramochi laughs. After a moment, though, he sobers up. “I do want to see them as a battery pair, though,” he admits. “They struck me out swinging, they’d better do well.”

“I remember that,” Miyuki says, thinking of that initial game with the Sawamura twins. “It was hilarious.”

“Fuck off.”

Coach Kataoka calls Furuya up to the mound. At this, Miyuki straightens up. He wonders what Furuya has to offer.

As it turns out — he has one hell of a fastball. The poor catcher behind the mound fails to even touch the ball, and it knocks the helmet clean off of Kataoka’s head. Furuya Satoru gets promoted to first string right then and there, and promptly gets kicked off the mound.

Absently, Miyuki wonders if Akira could have caught that monster fastball, but it seems as though he won’t get the chance to find out.

The upperclassmen are shaken by that terrifying pitch, but the game still drops into a lull. The first-years are seemingly dead, their plays lifeless and lackluster. Miyuki and Kuramochi start to zone out, and soon it seems like the game’s ready to end.

But then Sawamura Eijun walks up to the plate.

He’s loudmouthed and brash, uncaring of the defeated atmosphere. Still fighting with all he has despite his atrocious batting.

Seriously, his batting is pathetic. It makes Miyuki want to hide his face in embarrassment, but he’s not that kind of guy, so he laughs instead.

Still, Eijun doesn’t give up. When there’s a fielding error, he sprints for first with all his might, just in case — and he’s safe.

“Go Eijun!” A familiar voice calls from the dugout, and Eijun beams.

It’s not enough, though. The next few players are lackluster, not even trying. Miyuki can see Eijun’s frustration radiating from first. One single isn’t enough to break the first-years out of their funk.

And then a new voice pipes up.

“I’m calling a substitution!”

“Fucking firsties,” someone says. “Calling their own subs.”

“Hey, Kominato, isn’t that your brother?”

A pink-haired kid with bangs in his eyes walks out to the plate, brandishing a wooden bat. Kominato Haruichi, pinch-hitter. Whispers break out among those who are still watching, wondering what he can do.

After a tense moment, the catcher holds out his mitt. Fastball to the outside.

“Oh, that’s a mistake,” Miyuki mutters to himself.

Kuramochi looks at him. “What?”

Kawakami winds up and throws the ball. Kominato Haruichi swings, and the bat connects.

The volume in the dugout immediately triples. Everyone’s shouting as Sawamura Eijun comes hurtling around the bases like a rocket. In the end, he barely touches home. But he’s safe. The first years have scored their first run.

The younger Kominato is now stranded on third base, but Miyuki can’t help but grin. His batting revitalized the team. Plus — the next person up is Sawamura Akira.

Akira walks up to the plate. Unlike his brother, there are no loud declarations, no unnecessary challenges. He just settles into a batting position and stares out at the pitcher with a quiet focus.

“… Do you think he’s good?” Kuramochi wonders. “Because Eijun sucked.”

“They learned baseball together, so he probably sucks at batting too,” Miyuki says. “But at least he hasn’t given up.”

The ball zips down. Akira doesn’t move, just watches the ball go by with a blank expression. Strike one.

“Akira!” Eijun yells. “Aren’t you gonna swing, you coward?”

“Hey, Eijun,” Akira calls back, without looking toward the dugout. “Remember fourth grade?”

“Oh!”

With that, Eijun settles down. Miyuki wonders what that’s about.

Despite the interruption, Kawakami stays collected on the mound. He winds up, and Miyuki swears he can see Akira smirk. The ball is thrown.

The first-year seamlessly switches his stance and executes a perfect bunt, letting the ball roll to first. Kominato runs for home as the infield scrambles over the ball. He’s safe.

The inning ends with Akira getting taken out, but the first years are ecstatic over their two runs.

Even so, Coach Kataoka threatens to end the inning. Eijun, naturally, speaks up, daring to continue. His unbridled enthusiasm is infectious, and all the first years are clamoring for their second chance.

Their coach caves in. Well, why didn’t you play like this from the beginning?

Positions get shifted around. The defense is decided.

“Oh, here it comes,” Kuramochi mutters, as Akira ends up behind home plate and Eijun stands proud on the mound. “The battery from hell.”

Eijun’s grin is bright and fierce. Though Miyuki can’t see his face, he knows that Akira’s smirking like a cat that got the canary. It’s their first time as a battery since the school year started. With the twins back where they belong, both of them start loosening up. Miyuki can practically see the tension slide out of Eijun’s shoulders.

Eijun casually tosses the ball up and down. Akira shifts his weight, eyes glittering with anticipation. A batter steps up to the plate.

And from then on out, the upperclassmen fail to score a single run.

Later that evening, Miyuki finds himself at the vending machine, reflecting. He keeps thinking over the pitchers, wondering which one he’ll be catching for in the games. Tanba? Furuya? Kawakami?

Mostly, though, he finds himself thinking of Sawamura Eijun. He still hasn’t had a chance to see that pitch from behind the plate. The fact that it’s a moving fastball is obvious, but he aches to witness it for himself. Eijun doesn’t seem to have much control over it, and it still was effective on the field. It makes him wonder what it would be like if Eijun did have control.

Although, Eijun can do a reliable changeup. The Sawamura twins had gotten several of their upperclassmen out with that changeup. Seeing it makes Miyuki greedy. He wants to polish it to perfection. He wants to add to Eijun’s arsenal, wants to see those breaking balls for himself. He wants to be the one calling for those pitches.

Miyuki hopes Sawamura Eijun makes it to the first string. After that impressive performance today, Miyuki thinks he’s got a pretty good chance. He can’t help it, he’s curious. And Takashima-sensei was right — he did have the potential to be an ace.

The sounds of shouting in the distance break through his thoughts, and he turns his head. Someone’s out on the field.

Or make that two someones. As if summoned by Miyuki’s inner monologue, Eijun stands on the mound, excitedly yelling at the figure crouched down by home plate. Miyuki can’t make out what he’s saying, but he can see what happens next — Eijun’s impossibly flexible windup, followed by the smack of a fastball hitting Akira’s mitt. Akira says something, and Eijun whoops, punching the air.

At the end of the day, we’re the battery pair. It’s not like that will ever change.

Miyuki wonders what it’s like to be part of a battery like that. Complete synchronization. Complete trust. He thinks of Akira’s aggressive game calling, his unwavering belief that his pitcher would meet the challenge. He thinks of how Eijun never hesitated after seeing a signal, never doubted his catcher for a second.

Miyuki’s been waiting his whole life for the perfect battery partner, but these two kids were born like that. They’ve been partners all their lives.

… If he were to be honest with himself, he’s a little jealous.

Miyuki shoves his money into the vending machine, suddenly eager to leave.

It’s another half-hour before Akira returns to their room. Miyuki looks up from his phone as Akira walks in and plops his gear down by his bed.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

The silence that follows is awkward, to say the least. Miyuki’s not the best at opening up, and neither is Akira. In the few weeks since the start of the year, most of their conversations were short and practical, with the occasional sarcastic commentary slipping in. Miyuki’s not friendly like Kuramochi, and Akira isn’t loud like Eijun. They won’t be winning awards for ‘closest roommates’ anytime soon.

Miyuki still has questions, anyway.

“Why did you come to Seidou?” he asks.

Because after seeing the twins’ battery, he has to wonder why. Seidou doesn’t need a catcher. Eijun might find a place on the team, but Akira’s presence is almost unnecessary. And they’ve made it clear that they’d rather play together than separately. Eijun and Akira could have easily made first-string in their hometown with their friends. Why leave that all behind to fight in a cutthroat battle for a regular position? Why threaten their partnership like that?

Akira shrugs, noncommittal. “I just follow my brother.”

“That’s it?” Miyuki says, skeptical. “So why did Eijun come to Seidou? He didn’t have much love for us the first time.”

At that question, Akira meets his eyes.

It’s strange, Miyuki thinks, how similar and how different the twins are. The same lean build. The same face. But where Eijun’s eyes seem to burn with a fiery passion, Akira’s eyes are like crystals. Sharp and calculating.

“You should ask him yourself, senpai,” Akira suggests. After a pause, a smug smile crosses his lips. “I doubt he’ll have a real answer, though.”

Miyuki frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that he’s a baseball-obsessed idiot, just like you,” Akira says. “So it might be a while before either of you put it together.”

“Hey,” Miyuki protests. “Don’t lump me in with your dumbass of a brother.”

“Figure it out, then.”

With that cryptic statement, the conversation ends. Akira settles in for the night, and Miyuki.

Miyuki turns the question over in his head. Why did Sawamura Eijun choose to come to Seidou?

He thinks over Eijun’s sunny smile, his competitive pride. How Eijun had spent weeks running, early in the morning, with no guarantee that he’d be allowed back into practice. He thinks of Eijun’s blunt charisma, changing the defeated atmosphere of the team out of pure stubbornness. All he can think is that Eijun could have done that anywhere.

When Miyuki finally falls asleep, he’s not any closer to an answer.

A week later, the first string is lined up. Miyuki spots a trio of familiar first-years standing just behind Coach Kataoka, and his heart picks up its pace.

“These are the newest members of the first-string,” Kataoka announces. “Sawamura Eijun. Sawamura Akira. Kominato Haruichi.”

Miyuki grins and waves at the Sawamura twins. Eijun waves back, beaming with pride. Akira nods, face stoic.

Kataoka starts listing off their practice regimen for the day, and the team begins to group up based on what they’re doing. Batting practice. Fielding drills. The group slowly whittles down, until only four players are left: Miyuki, Furuya, and the twins.

Miyuki holds his breath. Beside him, Akira is chewing on his lip with a thoughtful expression.

Kataoka announces the battery pairs. “Furuya Satoru and Sawamura Akira. Sawamura Eijun and Miyuki Kazuya.”

“What?!”

Both Eijun and Furuya break into loud protests, but Miyuki’s smile threatens to overtake his face. Akira shifts over and looks up at his roommate.

“Looks like we’re both getting what we want,” he mutters, quiet enough that his brother can’t hear him.

“‘What we want?’” Miyuki echoes. “I never said I wanted to catch for your brother.”

Akira rolls his eyes, as if that statement were too ridiculous to dignify with an answer. And maybe it is. To be fair, though, Miyuki can’t think of a single catcher who wouldn’t be interested in an idiosyncratic pitch.

“Break him, and I’ll kill you,” Akira tells Miyuki. “Teasing’s fair game though. You are encouraged to tease him as much as you want.”

This comment is loud enough to catch Eijun’s attention, and the pitcher stops mid-tirade to glare at them.

“I am older than you, Aki!” Eijun snaps.

“Really?” Miyuki wonders.

“Ugh! Shut up, you shitty bastard! You’re not my catcher!”

“Give him to me,” Furuya speaks up.

“Gladly!”

“I’m not a toy,” Miyuki grumbles, but it goes unacknowledged.

“Furuya, there are many catchers who can handle your pitches,” Coach says. “Do not underestimate Seidou. And Sawamura… you’ll never grow if you only practice with your brother. Do as I say.”

“But —”

“I could give you laps, instead.”

Fuming, the first-years comply.

Akira and Furuya vanish off to some other stretch of the field, leaving Miyuki and Eijun standing on the dirt by themselves.

“You ready?” Miyuki asks.

Eijun huffs and crosses his arms.

Despite the frigid welcome, Miyuki can’t help but smile. He’s been itching to see this pitch for a year. He grabs Eijun by the arm and drags him over to the bullpen. Eijun reluctantly picks up a ball.

“Come on,” Miyuki says. “I’m a really good catcher, you know. There’s probably dozens of pitchers who’d kill to play catch with me.”

“And so humble, too,” Eijun says, in a perfect imitation of Akira’s deadpan. Miyuki barks out a laugh at that.

“Don’t you wanna pitch?” Miyuki asks. “Or are you only good when your brother’s telling you what to do?”

“Shut up!” Eijun yells. “An arrogant jerk like you wouldn’t understand. I bet you’ve never had a real battery before.”

Miyuki’s smile falters for just a moment.

“Even so,” he says, ignoring the sting in his chest. “What kind of lousy pitcher can only pitch to one guy?”

Eijun bristles at the insult. “Fine,” he hisses. “I’ll pitch to you. But this is just practice. Don’t take it personally.”

“Why would I take it personally?”

“Ugh, you know what I mean!”

With that, Miyuki walks to the other side of the bullpen. He squats down some distance away and holds out his glove. Right down the middle. No signs.

“Alright,” he calls out, one part request and one part challenge. He focuses his gaze on the pitcher before him, and the rest of the world fades away.

“Show me what you can do.”

Chapter Text

Miyuki walks into his dorm room and closes the door behind him, breathing out a tired sigh. He vaguely registers a Sawamura-shaped lump on Akira’s bed.

All at once, the frustration comes flooding back in. All day he’d been brooding over practice, and finally, he has a target to rant to.

“Did you know,” Miyuki hisses out, “that your brother is a massive — whoa, what the hell happened to you?”

“I’m fine. It’s just a bruise.” Akira’s voice is muffled under the ice pack resting on his cheek. He’s on his bed, with two pillows stacked beneath his head, and in his hands is a copy of last month’s Shonen Jump. “I can still play tomorrow.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Miyuki says. “What happened?”

Akira looks up from his manga and directly into Miyuki’s eyes. “I tripped.”

“Really,” Miyuki drawls, unimpressed.

A pause.

“… I tripped into Furuya’s fastball,” Akira elaborates.

“You tripped into his — fuck, are you okay?” Miyuki asks, suddenly alarmed. “He throws ridiculously hard.”

“I already said that I’m fine,” Akira states, looking unimpressed. “The faceguard got most of it, and it wasn’t even that fast.”

“His average pitching speed is over a hundred-forty.”

“He has no stamina,” Akira announces. “Furuya gets real pathetic after a while.”

“… How long were you playing catch?” Miyuki asks. At practice today, they’d only done pitching for the first half-hour before moving on to other drills. “Did you meet up after practice?”

“It was only for two hours,” Akira says, as if that weren’t a ridiculous amount of time for a sleepy first-year to spend on constant pitching. “Eijun and I can practice for much longer than that.”

“Because both of you are insane,” Miyuki mutters under his breath, and he shakes his head. “Never mind. At least you and Furuya are getting along?”

“Eh, not really,” Akira says.

Miyuki waits for an explanation.

“What were you saying about Eijun?” Akira asks, adjusting the ice pack on his face.

Do they do this on purpose, Miyuki wonders, or are both of them genuinely bad at conversation?

Still, he shakes his head and lets it slide. Akira’s okay, and he’s willing to work with Furuya. That’s all the team needs, it doesn’t matter if they’re friends or not.

On the other hand, he can’t say the same for Eijun.

“Your brother,” Miyuki says, refusing to mince his words, “is a massive idiot.”

“Show me what you can do.”

Miyuki’s voice rings across the bullpen, full of challenge, and Sawamura doesn’t disappoint. He begins his windup, and Miyuki gets his first look at Sawamura Eijun’s pitch.

First-hand, he can see how deceptive his form is. It should be illegal to be that flexible; his throwing arm vanishes from sight, and he lifts his leg so high it almost looks like he’s about to fall over.

Then he swings his arm, and the ball spins its way down. Miyuki watches it carefully, expecting it to move. True to form, the trajectory breaks left, and the ball lands in his glove with a solid smack.

God, no wonder why so many batters were caught off guard. Eijun’s form is annoying as hell.

In his mind, Miyuki can already hear the complaints from the opposing dugout. This is going to be fun.

“Well?” Eijun asks, grinning fiercely. He’s obviously waiting for a compliment.

Miyuki tosses the ball back. “Do it again,” he says, raising his glove to the same exact spot. He holds back the praise. Pitchers already have big enough egos.

Eijun grumbles something under his breath, but he winds up anyway. It’s the same form — he’s consistent in that sense, at least. Miyuki can’t see the ball until it’s already flying toward him, and he watches it carefully.

This time, it breaks downward. He reacts fast enough to catch it, though that one was a little harder than the first.

He frowns. “How much control do you have over the breaking at the end?”

Eijun blinks. “You can do that?”

So none, then. But —

“You know it changes based on your grip, right?” Miyuki asks, thinking of Eijun’s embarrassing curveball from that first day. “You should know already. You can do a changeup, this shouldn’t be new information.”

“What’s a changeup?”

“You’re joking, right,” Miyuki says.

Eijun stares back at him, completely blank. Oh god, he’s not joking.

“Your number two?” Miyuki prompts. He holds up two fingers, just in case Eijun doesn’t know how to count.

Eijun’s eyes light up with recognition. “Oh! The slow one!”

Apparently, the Sawamura twins have no formal training. When Miyuki asks, Sawamura can only describe his pitches with unhelpful onomatopoeias and vague gestures. When Miyuki tries to teach him the proper terms, Eijun just huffs.

“Does it matter what it’s called?” Eijun grumbles. “Changeup, curveball, whatever. Aki doesn’t make me care about that crap, we just use the sign.”

“It’s not crap,” Miyuki says, feeling a vein throb in his forehead. “How do you expect to work with other catchers if you don’t know what you can pitch?”

“Why would I need to work with other catchers?” Eijun asks, baffled. “I have my brother.”

It must be nice, Miyuki thinks, to have a battery like that. But all he can hear in his head are Akira’s words from last summer. If we’re ever going to improve at this point, we’d have to practice with other people.

“Like it or not, I’m the main catcher of this team,” Miyuki reminds him. “If you want to get out on the mound, you’re going to have to work with me.”

Eijun pales. “Wait, really?”

“You didn’t think I’d give up my position for you and your brother, did you?”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Miyuki knows it’s a mistake.

The full force of the situation seems to slam into Eijun all at once. His open book of a face runs through stages of grief: shock, denial, anger. It would have been funny if he didn’t get stuck at ‘bargaining’.

“Well, then,” Eijun says, seeming to have come to a decision. He clenches his jaw, stubborn. “I just have to make sure Akira’s a better catcher than you.”

That’s… Miyuki doesn’t even know where to begin with that.

“Just throw it to me, okay?” He says, the words coming out a little harsher than intended. He holds up his glove, calling for another pitch.

Eijun winds up, but there’s something different about it now. That same annoying wall, that same whip-like motion. But his eyes are dark. And he’s not smiling anymore.

Smack.

The ball slams into his mitt even harder than before. It’s a good pitch — a great pitch, even — but it’s also a challenge. So that’s how it’s gonna be, huh?

Miyuki throws the ball back as hard as he can. Eijun’s eyes widen as it comes flying at his chest, forcing him to take a step back to catch it.

Miyuki smirks at him. Challenge accepted.

The session is informative, but they don’t get much done. They chuck the ball back and forth with increasing aggression, and then Kataoka gathers the team for physical conditioning. The moment he’s released from pitching, Sawamura turns away without looking back. Then he sticks with his brother and Kominato Haruichi for the rest of the practice.

If Miyuki’s ever going to refine Sawamura into the ace that Seidou needs, he’s going to need to gain his respect, first.

“Oh, good luck with that,” Akira says when Miyuki finishes his mini-rant. There’s a bit of a challenge in his voice, too, but he sounds more amused than anything. “We’ve been a battery pair since before I can remember. He’s not gonna give up easily.”

“Like you?” Miyuki says, leaning back in his chair. Even with the ice pack on his face, Akira doesn’t seem to be bothered at all.

“I go with the flow,” Akira shrugs. “We have to learn new things from new people, but we’ll end up back together eventually. I know how to be patient.”

“You should tell your brother that,” Miyuki grumbles. “He won’t listen to me.”

Akira stares at him. Then he bursts into laughter, startling Miyuki.

“What?” Miyuki asks, irritated.

“You think he listens to me?” Akira gets out between his laughs. “Eijun only does what he wants. He’s the worst big brother ever.”

“You’re twins,” Miyuki says. “You’re literally the same age.”

“Spoken like a true only child.”

“He listens to you on the field!”

“Yeah, because we want the same thing,” Akira says, and his laughter finally trickles off. But he’s still grinning. “That’s how you get him. You find out what he wants, and you give it to him.”

Miyuki grits his teeth. God, no wonder Eijun’s so stupid and demanding. His catcher’s been spoiling him for his whole life. But Miyuki can’t cave to Eijun’s wishes here. Because Eijun wants Akira on the field.

There’s no way in hell Miyuki’s going to give up his position for some spoiled pitcher and his brother.

“Don’t worry, Miyuki-senpai,” Akira says, in a tone that’s borderline condescending. “I’ll help you out.”

Miyuki doesn’t quite buy it. “You just said that he doesn’t listen to you.”

“You know how it is with pitchers,” Akira says with a shrug. “But seriously, I know my brother. I think I can at least get him to listen to you.”

Kuramochi openly cackles when Miyuki sits down next to him at breakfast the next day.

“Dude, what did you do?” he asks. “Eijun complained about you for a whole hour yesterday. I got it on video.”

“Pitchers,” Miyuki scoffs. He’s not surprised to hear that. Eijun has a flair for the dramatic, like all idiots of his kind. “They’re all spoiled brats.”

“He’s a piece of work, isn’t he?” Kuramochi grins. “Kid never shuts up. It’s so easy to set him off.”

Right on cue, a loud shriek sounds around the dining hall. Miyuki and Kuramochi turn toward the first years’ table, where Eijun is frantically shaking Akira by the shoulders.

“What happened to your face?!”

“Tripped,” Akira says, using the same stupid excuse he tried to pull last night.

“Into what?” Eijun yells. “A boxing glove?”

“It looks worse than it feels,” Akira answers, dodging the question. He pointedly pokes his purple cheek. “See? Doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

Eijun scowls, but he sits back down next to Haruichi. Haruichi tries to wheedle some answers out of Akira, but all his concerns get waved off. Breakfast resumes.

“Wow,” Kuramochi says, turning his head back around to look at Miyuki. “What kind of senpai are you, letting your roommate get beat up like that?”

“Like you don’t try and suplex Eijun every chance you get,” Miyuki says, rolling his eyes. “And it’s not my fault. He got clipped by a stray ball, it happens sometimes.”

And speaking of Akira’s bruise, Furuya walks into the room. He loads up his tray and walks over to his usual lonely corner. But then something else happens to break the status quo.

“Hey, Furuya!”

Once again, Miyuki finds himself looking toward the first-years’ table. Only this time, it’s Akira standing up. He waves Furuya over and gestures to the seat next to him.

Eijun splutters as Furuya shrugs, slotting into the empty space next to Akira. They don’t exchange any further words, and both of them continue to eat their meals in silence.

“Hey!” Eijun hisses, grabbing Akira’s arm. “The hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Eating,” comes Akira’s flat reply. “It’s breakfast.”

Eijun lets out a wordless noise of frustration.

“It’s okay, Eijun-kun,” Haruichi speaks up. “We’re all in the same year, right? So we should try and get along.”

“With that jerk?” Eijun mutters, glaring at Furuya. Furuya doesn’t even look back, though that’s probably because he’s still sleepy and not because he’s ignoring him.

“Oh, he’s not so bad,” Akira says.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Eijun says.

Akira lifts his head up, and his eyes are sharp. Miyuki suddenly feels a sense of foreboding trickle down his spine.

“It means,” Akira says, with an impossibly even tone, “that I like catching for Furuya.”

Eijun’s chopsticks clatter to the table.

What the fuck, Miyuki thinks. Haruichi chokes on his rice, and Furuya actually turns his sleepy head to listen to what’s happening.

“Wh — what the hell, Aki!” Eijun shouts. “I thought we were partners! What are you saying? Praising the enemy?!”

“Furuya’s control is good,” Akira continues without mercy. “Catching his fastball is super fun. You could shut down a whole team with that fastball.”

“This is betrayal!” Eijun wails.

Akira smirks, and Miyuki realizes he’s about to spit the last nail in the coffin. “I bet Furuya and I will be the starting battery, and you and Miyuki-senpai will be watching us from the dugout.”

“That’s it!” Eijun screeches. He gets to his feet and grabs a stammering Haruichi’s hand. “Farewell, traitor! See if I ever pitch to you again!”

Eijun grabs his tray and drags Haruichi away, down the table. It doesn’t take long to figure out where he’s headed.

“I hate you, you know that, right?” Kuramochi mutters to Miyuki.

Miyuki smiles brightly.

Eijun drops his tray into the empty space directly to Miyuki’s right.

“Miyuki Kazuya!” He announces. Loudly. “You’re catching my pitches! Let’s get to know each other!”

“Can you please be quieter,” Kuramochi says, rubbing his temples. “You are killing my eardrums.”

When Miyuki looks down the table, Furuya’s back to eating. Akira catches his eye and gives him a discrete thumbs up.

Well, he thinks. It’s nothing I wouldn’t have done…

“Ah, so now you wanna work with me?” Miyuki says, turning his attention back to Eijun.

“I’m not letting Furuya step foot on that mound,” Eijun growls, and the fire in his eyes is back.

“Hmm,” Miyuki says, just to be contrary. “That’s a big ask. You sure you’re up for it?”

“I’m up for anything!” Eijun announces.

“Well, I guess I can work with that,” Miyuki says, and Eijun finally sits down.

So that was Akira’s plan. A little shady, perhaps, but Miyuki’s not going to complain if it gets the job done.

Never mind, Miyuki thinks. I’m going to kill Akira.

Credit where credit is due: Eijun is no longer busy hating Miyuki’s guts. Akira succeeded in that much. But Miyuki’s starting to suspect that he didn’t think this through all the way, because Eijun is completely distracted. He spends most of his time glaring at Furuya and his brother, who are going through their pitching practice. Eijun, meanwhile, is supposed to be doing the same thing. With Miyuki.

… And he’s not doing it.

“Oi, Eijun,” Miyuki says, snapping his fingers. “Ignore your brother and focus.”

“Can you believe him?” Eijun says instead. “Fifteen years of history down the drain!”

“Eijun.”

“What’s so fun about Furuya, anyway?” Eijun complains. “All he does is sleep all day! I’m fun! I’m the most fun!”

“You’re a riot, Eijun,” Miyuki says, looking up to the sky for patience. “Come on.”

“All Furuya can do is throw fast!” Eijun says. “Ha! I can throw a fastball, too!”

“Please throw me a fastball.”

“Argh!”

Eijun winds up, still scowling, and he slams his foot down on the dirt.

The ball comes hurtling down, spinning wildly. Miyuki prepares himself for the breaking at the end, and then —

It swerves to the right, sharp. He barely gets it in his glove, and he blinks. Was that a…?

Eijun holds up his glove, nonchalant. His pitches really do just go anywhere. It makes Miyuki wonder.

“When did you learn the changeup?” Miyuki asks.

“Uhh, maybe two years ago?” Eijun says, thinking hard. “It was after our grandpa took us to a baseball game. Aki saw it and thought it’d be useful.”

“Did someone teach you?”

“We looked it up on YouTube!” Eijun says, proudly. “And then Akira helped me figure it out! He’s really smart, you know! He can take one look at a person and immediately know what they had for dinner, it’s like he’s psy — ahh!”

Halfway through, Eijun cuts off to yell unintelligible sounds. “I forgot I’m supposed to be mad at him!”

Miyuki wishes that he could laugh at this. It’d probably be funny. You know, if it were someone else’s problem.

“Forget him,” he says. “Throw me your changeup. I wanna see it.”

“The slow one?”

“Yes,” Miyuki says, done with life.

Eijun starts his windup. Miyuki breathes out of his mouth and leans forward on his toes, preparing himself to catch —

A whistle blows, high and shrill. “Alright, everyone to infield! We’re practicing defense!”

Eijun eases out of his windup and pouts.

Oh my god, Miyuki thinks. We really wasted this entire session. Why did I want to catch for this guy, again?

He stands up and walks over to where Eijun is rolling out his shoulder.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Miyuki grumbles, “but later today —”

“Miyuki Kazuya!” Eijun yells. “Catch for me after dinner!”

Miyuki’s face twitches in irritation. I was going to ask that, you moron!

“I’m going to be better than Furuya!” Eijun declares, with all the sincerity of an airhead. “I have to practice more!”

“Glad to see you’re taking the initiative,” Miyuki mutters.

Eijun beams and gives him a thumbs-up, apparently oblivious to the sarcasm.

They take a quick water break before joining the rest of the team. It’s a pretty standard infield practice.

Eijun, predictably, is shaky on his fielding. He’s not the best at catching, but at least he can throw to the base quickly and accurately when it counts. Furuya’s not so bad himself, even if he does fumble the ball at times.

Akira, on the other hand —

“You know, I thought you were joking when you claimed that you tripped,” Miyuki says, the umpteenth time Akira trips when trying to throw to third. “But this is honestly pathetic.”

Akira scrambles up to his feet and completes the throw. The ball flies straight, but not very fast. The runner’s safe by a mile.

“Again!” Kataoka calls out.

Akira stumbles back to home plate and squats into position. Tanba throws a grounder, and Akira expertly receives the ball — only to eat dirt the second he tries to stand up to throw.

Miyuki laughs. It’s a little shitty, but Akira’s not exactly on Miyuki’s nice list right now.

“Shut up,” Akira huffs. He rolls his left shoulder before settling back into place. “I’m not used to fielding.”

“You’re a catcher.”

“Let me rephrase that,” he grumbles. He catches another pitch from Tanba, and this time he manages not to trip over himself. His throwing is still weak though. “I’m not used to dealing with runners on base.”

He squats back down and blows a strand of hair out of his face.

“It sounds like you’re trying to brag, but it’s hard to take you seriously when you’re covered in dirt,” Miyuki tells him.

Akira glowers up at him. Half his face is smudged with dirt, and the other half is purple from his bruise. Miyuki laughs again — Akira just looks too pathetic like this.

“Switch out!” Kataoka shouts, and Akira backs away from the plate, breathing hard. “Miyuki, show him how it’s done.”

“Yes, sir!”

Miyuki runs through the drill, easily getting the ball to third before Ryousuke can make it to the plate. He takes the time to throw Akira a superior smirk once he finishes.

Akira crosses his arms. “How’d it go with Eijun?”

The smirk falls off of Miyuki’s face.

“That bad, huh?” Akira says, expressionless.

“You knew that was coming, didn’t you?” Miyuki accuses. Another ball rolls his way, and he catches it. “You knew he was going to be a mess.”

“I told you I’d help, not that I’d do all the work for you,” Akira says. “You’re a sneaky guy, right? Shouldn’t you be good at this sort of thing?”

“What gave you that idea?”

“The first day of practice.”

“Switch!”

They swap places. Once again, Akira stumbles on the drill.

“Watch your footwork,” Miyuki warns.

Akira mutters something rude under his breath, and Miyuki pretends not to hear. The rest of their fielding practice is equally inspiring.

It’s nice to know my position is stable for now, Miyuki thinks. Akira might be good at calling, but the rest of his skills leave a lot to be desired…

“Hey, you’re catching with Eijun later, right?” Akira asks, during a water break. He takes a gulp from his bottle. Then he splashes some onto his face so he can wipe the dirt off with his sleeve.

It doesn’t help, since his sleeve is also dirty, but Miyuki’s not going to be the one to tell him that.

“Yeah,” Miyuki answers the question. “What, are you planning to ‘help’ again?”

“Maybe,” Akira says. “How bad would it be if I showed up, too?”

“I’ll lock you out of our room if you do that,” Miyuki threatens. “Don’t you dare distract him.”

Akira takes another sip from his water bottle.

“Seriously,” Miyuki says. “I just need one good session with him.”

Akira shrugs. “I can’t help it, I’m curious,” he says. “It’s not often I get to see Eijun’s pitching from the outside.”

“Well, you can wait a little longer,” Miyuki grumbles.

I have to figure Eijun out, he thinks to himself. For such a straightforward guy, he’s really a pain to work with.

Akira looks up at him again. He presses his lips together, as if trying to decide what to say.

“… Have fun, Miyuki-senpai,” he says.

With that, he tosses his water bottle back down and runs out to the field. Miyuki rolls his eyes before following.

After practice, Akira gets called up by the coach. Probably a conversation about his crappy defense, no doubt.

So Miyuki trudges back to the dorms by himself, trying to plan out how he’s going to handle the Eijun situation.

Eijun’s willing to work with him — for now. But he’s running on spite, and spite can only go so far. What Miyuki needs out of a pitcher is trust, and right now the only catcher Eijun trusts is his brother.

Well, if there’s one thing Miyuki’s good at, it’s helping a pitcher show off. If he can push Eijun far enough in their session tonight, maybe things will start looking up.

As soon as dinner is over, Eijun barges into Miyuki’s room and together they head over to the practice halls. Eijun stretches silently, his mind a million miles away, and Miyuki thinks of what he can do to win over the stubborn first-year.

“You ready, Miyuki Kazuya?” Eijun says, once he’s properly stretched out his shoulder.

“You know, you don’t have to call me by my full name.”

“What else would I call you?” Eijun scoffs. “After tricking me on that first day, I’m not calling you ‘senpai.’”

“Wow, so little respect for your elders,” Miyuki singsongs, as he sets himself up by the net. “What an impudent firstie!”

“I don’t want to hear that from you,” Eijun snaps. “Just catch for me.”

Tackling this head-on, huh? Miyuki thinks. He holds his mitt up. Alright then. Throw your worst, Eijun. There’s nothing you can do that I can’t handle.

The smack of the fastball in his mitt rings out loud and clear. Miyuki tosses it back, carefully watching Eijun’s expression.

It’s easy to get someone to do what you want. Most pitchers follow Miyuki’s lead whether or not they like him as a person: it’s simply how the game works. A catcher is supposed to take the lead when it comes to defense, and Miyuki never shies away from that responsibility.

But it’s a lot harder to get someone to listen.

Eijun sends another fastball into Miyuki’s mitt. The break at the end is sharper than it normally is, and Miyuki suddenly remembers that breaking pitch from earlier today.

“Did you ever try to learn anything else?” Miyuki asks. “Besides the changeup?”

Eijun thinks for a moment. “… I did want to learn something new,” he admits. “But then we came here and got really busy, so Aki and I never got around to it.”

“A cutter, right?” Miyuki says, thinking of the ball’s course.

Eijun stares blankly back.

Miyuki tries not to roll his eyes. “It’s a type of breaking ball,” he explains. “It looks like a fastball, but it breaks into the batter’s chest.”

“Yeah, that!” Eijun says, snapping his fingers. He mimics the motion with his pitching hand. “Where it goes across like fwoom.”

“It’s called a ‘cutter,’” Miyuki says, determined to get this one fact into Eijun’s thick skull. “And I think it’d be a good ball to add to your —”

“… Ah.”

Both Eijun and Miyuki look up at the new voice. Furuya Satoru is standing in the doorway of the pitching hall, with a bag of baseball gear slung over his shoulder.

Oh, shit.

“Oi!” Eijun snaps, and Miyuki can see Eijun’s focus drain away. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Akira said he would catch for me,” Furuya says, and, yep, Miyuki’s officially locking the brat out for the night.

Eijun looks like he’s about to breathe fire, wildly looking around. “Where is he? I’ll kick his ass!”

“I don’t know,” Furuya says. “I don’t know why he didn't show up, since this was his idea. I didn’t even want to —”

A phone vibrates. Furuya pulls his phone out of his bag and checks his screen.

“…”

“What?”

“… He canceled,” Furuya states, and for some reason, this sets Eijun off even more.

“He’s sending me a message,” Eijun says, narrowing his eyes. “He thinks he can beat me without even practicing! This is sixth grade all over again!”

“A message, huh?” Miyuki says to himself. Eijun’s too busy losing his cool to hear him, but Furuya looks up at Miyuki’s muttered words. He looks from Miyuki, to Eijun, and then back to Miyuki.

Then he drops into a bow. “Miyuki-senpai,” he says. “Will you catch for me?”

“Absolutely not!” Eijun yells, breaking back into the conversation. “I got here first! Go bother that traitor if you wanna pitch so bad!”

“I’d rather pitch to Miyuki-senpai.”

Eijun sends a furious glare at Furuya. “Hey, are you saying that Akira can’t catch?”

Are you mad at him or not? Miyuki wonders. Make up your damn mind.

“… He can catch,” Furuya admits. Reluctantly.

Miyuki wonders what exactly is up with Akira and Furuya, that they’re willing to meet up after practice but still don’t get along.

“I’d feel bad if I hit him again, though,” Furuya finishes.

Silence falls over the room. Miyuki slowly turns to look over at Eijun, who is staring at Furuya with blank eyes.

“You?” Eijun asks, voice low. “You’re the one that hit Aki in the face?”

“Hey, hey, I’m sure it was just an accident,” Miyuki says, desperately aware of how this whole situation is spiraling out of control.

Eijun doesn’t seem to hear Miyuki’s words. His hands curl into fists.

“Akira’s not even mad,” Miyuki tries. “Furuya sat with you at breakfast!”

Eijun takes a step closer to Furuya. Furuya, idiot that he is, stands his ground.

“It was an accident,” Furuya says. “My pitch slipped. I took him to the nurse afterward.”

“What kind of pitcher are you?” Eijun yells, grabbing Furuya’s collar. “What kind of shitty control do you have? You can’t even throw to your partner’s mitt?”

Miyuki looks around the room, searching for something, anything that can help him out here. His eyes land upon Furuya’s bag of baseball gear.

“You’re the one with shitty control,” Furuya replies. “Didn’t you nearly get kicked off the team for throwing a random curveball?”

“I never bruised someone’s face!” Eijun growls, tightening his grip on Furuya’s shirt. “But there’s a first time for everything, you di —”

“Baseball!” Miyuki blurts out, gears turning in his head.

Eijun and Furuya turn to look at him.

“This is Seidou High,” Miyuki declares. “We solve our problems through baseball.”

Eijun narrows his eyes, and Miyuki feels a chill run down his spine.

He swallows. Then he calls up a grin that he doesn’t quite feel and stares down both first-years.

“Eijun and I are practicing pitching,” Miyuki says. “Furuya, why don’t you bat for us? Make it a little more interesting?”

Furuya’s hand brushes the handle of his baseball bat, and his eyes narrow ever so slightly.

“I’ll strike you out looking,” Eijun hisses.

“You can try,” Furuya says, voice icy cold. His facial expression doesn’t change, but there’s an air of intensity about him.

“Great!” Miyuki says, breathing out in relief. He forces himself between the first years, breaking them apart, and he slings his arms around them both. “Let’s head over to the batting cage, then.”

Furuya’s been on the first string for one week longer than Eijun has, and in that week, he’s proven to be a well-rounded, if inexperienced player. He has decent game sense and there is, of course, his monster pitching. But there’s also his batting abilities.

Furuya’s not as consistent with his contact as, say, Tetsu or Ryousuke, but when he hits, he hits hard.

Miyuki’s crouched behind Furuya. In the distance, he can see Eijun standing on the mound, as stiff as a board. His mouth is curled into a ferocious snarl, and his arms are trembling with rage. Furuya is calmly gripping his bat, watching Eijun with lidded eyes.

Miyuki’s not trying to take sides here. To be honest, he’s not entirely sure what he’s doing. But he’s here now, and he has an opportunity, so he’s going to make the best of it.

Sorry, Eijun, he thinks. Let’s loosen you up, a bit.

Miyuki holds his glove up, low and just a little away, and right where Furuya likes it. It’s a bit of a risk — it’s either going to shock Eijun out of his anger, or make him fly off the handle. But Miyuki’s known for taking risks. He nods to Eijun.

Eijun winds up. Miyuki can see the tension in his shoulders, and he crosses his fingers behind his back, hoping for a good outcome.

The ball crashes into the ground. Miyuki catches it, startled by the dirt flying up.

“What?” Furuya calls out. “Running away?”

“Like hell!” Eijun snaps.

Miyuki lifts up his catcher’s mask. “Sorry, time out.”

Furuya huffs, but he eases out of his batting stance.

Miyuki jogs over to where Eijun is standing, frowning the whole time. “What’s up?” he asks. “You forced it into the ground just then.”

Eijun grits his teeth, and his eyes are trained on the ground. “I just… I felt like he’d hit it if I threw it there.”

Miyuki looks up to the sky for a moment. Then he looks back to Eijun.

“You’re right,” he admits. “That was his sweet spot.”

“What?!”

“Look at you,” Miyuki says. “You’re stiff as hell, and you’re not thinking clearly. I thought if we let him hit, you’d loosen up.”

“You’re such an asshole!” Eijun yells. “What the hell!”

“Look, Eijun —”

“You think I’m overreacting, don’t you?” Eijun snarls. “He hit my brother in the face!”

“On accident,” Miyuki insists. “Akira’s fine. He’s not even mad about it.”

Eijun frowns at the reminder.

“You know he’s not abandoning you, right?” Miyuki says. “He’s just messing with you.”

Eijun grits his teeth and runs a hand through his hair. He closes his eyes, and after a pause, he lets out a frustrated breath. “… I know. He’s annoying like that. Worst little brother ever.”

Miyuki can't help but smirk at that comment.

“But that’s not the point,” Eijun says, shaking his head. “Furuya hit him in the face. Accident or not, I’m not gonna let that go!”

“Great,” Miyuki says. “How?”

Eijun pumps his fist. “I’ll shut him up with my fastballs!”

Is this guy for real? Miyuki wonders.

“Do you know why you got Azuma out?” he asks, trying to steer the conversation.

Eijun blinks. “Because I’m a good pitcher?”

“No,” Miyuki says. He places his hands on Eijun’s shoulders and stares him directly in the eyes. “You got him out because you trusted your catcher.”

Eijun rolls his eyes.

“Don’t give me that,” Miyuki says, annoyed. “Let me lead, Eijun. I know Furuya’s habits. Work with me, here.”

“This has nothing to do with you,” Eijun grits out. “This is a fight between me and him!”

Miyuki tightens his grip on Eijun’s shoulders. “Are you planning to play baseball all on your own?”

The blood drains out of Eijun’s face.

Miyuki’s not sure what it is that Eijun’s reacting to, but he pushes forward with his speech. “It takes two people to make a great pitch,” he says. “A battery, working together in sync.”

“Partners,” Eijun says, quietly.

“Partners,” Miyuki repeats. He lets go of Eijun’s shoulders and takes a step back. “I’m not your brother, but you can trust my mitt, okay?”

Eijun looks up at him. His eyes are blown wide, and that familiar glow is back. Eijun nods.

“Good,” Miyuki says, and the smile that crosses his lips is genuine. “Let’s do this together.”

This is what it feels like to catch for Sawamura Eijun:

Sounds fade away. The only things left are the rhythm of your heartbeat, steady and sure, and the low, even breathing of the batter in front of you. Up on the mound, your pitcher is watching you with blazing eyes, waiting for a signal.

You hold up your mitt. Your arms are steady and your feet are rooted into the ground, like there’s nothing in the world that can knock you over. When he catches your sign, you meet his gaze, unafraid, daring him to go beyond your wildest expectations.

He smiles.

He pulls his arm back. The ball disappears from your sight, but you’re not worried — you know where it’s going. There’s a moment of pure silence, when it feels like the whole world is holding its breath — and then his arm shoots forward like a whip.

The ball spins, straight and true, and the batter tightens his grip one last time. You can’t help yourself — you grin, and your pitcher grins back at you like you’re sharing a joke that only the two of you can fully understand. The batter begins his swing, so sure of his own abilities, but it’s too late for him. He never stood a chance.

The ball breaks, dropping down at the last possible moment. The bat swings uselessly through the air as the ball slams into your mitt, and the sound of it echoes through the silence.

The batter is frozen, pale with shock. Your pitcher straightens up, still smiling. You exhale, and the clarity fades away, leaving you breathless.

You swear you would do anything to feel that way again.

“I’m sorry about hitting your brother in the face,” Furuya says, after a thoroughly educational practice session. “I still have to work on my stamina.”

“You’d better,” Eijun says, slapping Furuya on the shoulder with unnecessary force. “Next time, I won’t be so lenient!”

Furuya looks at where Eijun slapped him. Then he looks back. “You and Akira are exactly the same.”

What the hell are you talking about? Miyuki thinks to himself.

“Thank you for letting me join your practice, Miyuki-senpai,” Furuya says. “Good night.”

“Thank you for helping,” Miyuki calls out as he walks away. “Don’t forget to stretch your shoulder.”

Furuya lifts up an arm in acknowledgment, and then he starts heading back to the dorm. Miyuki breathes out, glad that the tension is over. He’s not cut out for this sort of drama.

Eijun looks up at Miyuki, grinning. “That was pretty fun, huh?” he says with a laugh. “Ha! I thought he would explode when he missed that second fastball.”

“It was good,” Miyuki agrees. “See how it feels when you work together with a catcher?”

“I —” Eijun pauses. Then he scratches the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “I haven’t been the best battery partner, huh?”

“No,” Miyuki says, bluntly. To be fair, it’s only been one day. To be fairer, it’s been one, long, hell of a day.

“It’s just…” Eijun kicks his toe into the dirt. “… For the longest time, Akira was the only one who could catch my pitches. No one else even wanted to try. He was the only one I didn’t have to hold back with.”

Miyuki keeps quiet.

Eijun twists his mouth. “I knew Aki wasn’t going to abandon me,” he continues. “He does bratty stuff like that all the time. But… I knew he could catch anything. Anyone would want to pitch to him. And I guess I was scared that no one else would want to catch for me.” Eijun laughs, slightly sad. “Stupid, isn’t it?”

“Your fastballs are hard to catch,” Miyuki admits. “But that’s what makes them interesting, you know.”

Eijun’s eyes widen. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Miyuki says. “Although, we have our work cut out for us.”

Eijun frowns. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve got a lot to work on before we can put you out on the field,” Miyuki tells him. “Furuya’s right, your control gets shitty at times.”

“Ugh,” Eijun whines. “And just when I thought you were being nice.”

Miyuki grins at him. “Who, me?”

Eijun shouts at him while Miyuki laughs. They walk back to the dorms together, chatting all the way, and they only part ways when Miyuki has to split off to head to his room.

When he opens his door, Akira is once again lying on his bed with a new manga in his hands. He looks up.

Something must be showing on Miyuki’s face, because Akira smiles, small, but soft.

“Oh, good,” he says. “It went well, I see.”

“Out,” Miyuki says.

“What?”

“Get out,” he says. “I wasn’t joking, earlier. I’m locking you out, go find someone else to room with for tonight.”

“Hey,” Akira protests. “I didn’t show up!”

“No, but you definitely sent Furuya,” Miyuki says.

“What?” Akira asks. “No! I actually wanted to catch for him tonight, but then Coach made me do something else.”

“Really,” Miyuki says, disbelieving. “So it was a coincidence that Furuya showed up as soon as Eijun and I started.”

“I told him to go to the bullpen on field B,” Akira says, and he pulls out his phone to show the proof. “You and Eijun went to the indoor pitching hall, right?”

Miyuki scrolls through the messages. It looks like he’s actually telling the truth. Furuya must have gone there first before wandering around to look for Akira.

“… Fine, but you’re on thin ice,” Miyuki mutters, handing back Akira’s phone.

Akira huffs.

“So what did Coach want you to do?” Miyuki asks.

Akira’s mouth curls into a frown. “He wanted me to go talk to someone about working on my fielding or whatever. I got lost trying to find his room. It took forever.”

“Well, you seriously need the fielding practice,” Miyuki says. “Who was it?”

Akira blows a strand of hair out of his face and leans back into his pillows. “Some third-year manager,” he says. “I think his name is Takigawa Chris Yuu?”

Chapter Text

So.

Akira is pretty sure that Chris-senpai doesn’t like him.

It’s not like the guy goes out and says it to his face. It’s just that the first words out of Chris’s mouth when they meet is, “You don’t have what it takes to be in the first-string.”

Sure, but you didn’t have to put it like that, Akira thinks to himself.

On the bright side, that blunt statement manages to reveal three things about the third-year manager.

One: Chris is a proud guy. He has a lot of respect for Seidou’s first string — respect that doesn’t extend to Akira. Maybe he’s jealous that Akira got picked when he didn’t. Maybe he doesn’t think Akira is good enough to play with the other third-years. Maybe it’s both. Point is, Akira’s an outsider and Chris isn’t a fan. This means Akira’s facing an uphill battle, getting on Chris’s good side.

Two: Chris must be a very shrewd catcher. Kataoka sent Akira here for a reason, and it’s obviously not because Chris is a good teacher. The only other reason why Akira has to work with this sad-eyed asshole is that Chris is good enough for everyone to overlook his gloomy jerk attitude. He must know what he’s doing — why else would Akira be here?

And three: Chris isn’t going to pull his punches when it comes to teaching. The thought makes Akira nervous. He’s never had a coach or a mentor like this before. He’s not looking forward to being criticized to hell and back. But if he’s being honest… the idea of getting real feedback from someone who knows what they’re talking about is a little thrilling.

This is Seidou, he thinks. Nobody holds back here. Not even the managers.

So even while Chris shakes his hand with a grip that could crush stone, Akira looks him right in the eyes. He calls up a polite smile and bows.

“Please take care of me.”

Three times a week, Akira ends up doing conditioning with Chris-senpai and the second string. It’s not the worst thing in the world, but it also isn’t the best. For one, nobody wants him there.

It’s obvious that no one thinks Akira should be on the first-string. They don’t tell him this, of course, but they talk behind Akira’s back, bitter whispers that Akira tunes out. It’s nothing new. Akagi Junior’s baseball team was the laughingstock of all of Nagano Prefecture; Akira can still remember the jeers from other schools.

(He also remembers the lectures he and Eijun received for slapping Narushima’s baseball team to kingdom come. Still worth it.)

But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is that Chris won’t let him touch a damn baseball.

Chris runs him through workouts the way Akira runs through manga. There are certain constants and repeated exercises. But each day has its own specific focus and the focus is never on catching. Sometimes it’s a core workout. Sometimes it’s leg day. It’s the most boring thing ever, and throughout it all, Chris silently takes notes in a thin black notebook and hands Akira training menus that make him want to scream.

Still, Akira puts up with all the tiring exercises and the lack of baseball. He’s itching for a catcher’s mitt, but he’ll be damned if he’s the first one to crack in this silent battle of wills.

Akira’s stubbornness finally pays off two and a half weeks into this arrangement.

“Alright,” Chris says, in a voice so quiet Akira almost misses it. “Let’s go to field A.”

Finally! Akira perks up. His step is slightly springier as he follows behind the gloomy third-year. This whole partnership has been painfully awkward. Akira doesn’t like speaking first, and Chirs doesn’t like him in general, which leaves them with nothing but silence. The quiet makes Akira want to vibrate out of his skin.

As they walk up to field A, Akira sees the team setting up on the diamond. He grins as they approach, eager to finally do a baseball drill, but then Chris steers him away from the diamond. Instead of going onto field A with the rest of the first-string, Chris leads Akira to the bleachers behind the home dugout. Akira feels his mouth starting to frown.

Chris sits down on the bleachers, and Akira remains standing.

“What are we doing here?” he asks. “I thought we were going to practice fielding?”

Chris points at the seat next to him. “Sit.”

Akira sits.

Out on the field, Coach Kataoka is running the team through a game simulation. That third-year pitcher with the scary face is on the mound, with (Miyauchi? Akira’s pretty sure that’s his name) as his catcher. Up to bat is Eijun’s bigger roommate, Masuko-senpai.

Masuko is scary as a batter. Eijun and Akira barely won their battle during the upperclassman game. If the timing were just a little bit off, Masuko’s hit would have been a home run. But he’d been jammed and stranded on second, and the batter that came after him was nothing special.

Coach Kataoka yells out some other information — bottom of the ninth, up by one, runner on first, no outs — and Akira leans back in his seat, just a little.

Chris is watching him with a blank expression. “What would you do in this situation?”

Akira runs through everything he can remember. From the game against the upperclassmen, he knows that this pitcher has good control and a terrifying curveball. And Masuko has enough power to blast away a ball even while choking up on the bat.

“Low fastball, in the zone,” Akira decides. “Masuko-senpai likes timing on the first pitch. It’d be a good time to get a strike.”

“Wrong.”

Akira winces. Chris’s voice is monotone and dead. Not that there was any life to it earlier, but hearing that word in that tone of voice isn’t comforting at all.

“Didn’t you hear the coach?” Chris asks. “Ninth inning, up by one, and a runner on first. They’re going to try and get into a scoring position. Look at that leadoff — you want to stop the steal.”

Like a prophecy, the catcher stands up, calling for a pitchout. The ball slams into his mitt, and he shoots it across the diamond to second base, getting the runner out.

“What’s wrong with retiring the batter?” Akira asks. “It’ll get us an out, wouldn’t it?”

“We want to stop their offense,” Chris corrects. “It’s near the end, and we only have a lead of one point. We need to defend that with all we’ve got.”

Akira chews on his lip. “Right.”

Ninth inning, up by one. Akira comes through his memories. He can’t remember a single time Akagi Junior was ever ahead in the score; no one on their team could bat.

“There’s more to catching than retiring the batter,” Chris says, voice cold. “Do you think baseball is that simple?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?” Akira asks, the cheeky response being dragged out of his mouth against his will.

Chris stares at him.

“I mean, no,” Akira backpedals, feeling his face heat up. “No, baseball isn’t that simple.”

Chris doesn’t respond, but at least he looks away. Akira shivers. He is not a fan of that soulless gaze.

Below, on the field, Coach Kataoka sets up another simulation. When Chris asks for his opinion, Akira answers and feels his teeth grind when his responses get dismissed without a second thought.

Dinner is a rather glum affair. Akira’s gotten better at getting through his food, but it’s still difficult at times — especially on evenings like this when he’s busy replaying Chris’s cold criticisms through his head.

Akira can’t even argue with it. Chris has way more experience than Akira does; he has some brilliant answers for any situation.

Once Akira finishes his last bowl of rice, he gets to his feet and makes his way out of the dining hall. He’s about to start walking back to the dorms when, out of nowhere, Furuya appears and cuts him off before he can walk through the exit doors.

“You were gone again,” Furuya says, the words coming out like a demand.

“I was polishing my defense with Chris-senpai,” Akira says. It sounds a lot cooler than ‘watching everyone else practice while I got schooled in baseball theory’. “Why? Did you wanna play catch?”

Furuya unconsciously twitches his right shoulder at the thought of pitching. “I was just wondering.”

“It’s not like you need me,” Akira tells him. He sidesteps Furuya and walks out into the cool night, patting the pitcher on the shoulder as he brushes by. “There’s two other catchers on the first string that can handle your pitches. Just because we got paired up day one doesn’t mean you have to wait for me.”

Furuya tenses up at that, and Akira turns around, confused.

“What? Did you make the senpai mad?”

Furuya shakes his head.

“So, what’s up?” Akira asks.

Furuya clenches his jaw and looks at Akira’s face. Akira waits for him to respond. He’s good at that, waiting.

“… I thought maybe your face got worse.”

“Gee, thanks,” Akira deadpans, fighting the urge to laugh at the unintentional insult.

“Huh?”

Sarcasm just flies right over this guy’s head, huh? “Never mind. It’s pretty much faded, by now.”

“I see.”

“I’m really not mad,” Akira tells him for what seems like the thousandth time. Honestly, after he got hit in the face, it seemed like Furuya was closer to passing out than he was. “If anything, it’s my fault — I knew you were tired, but I pushed you anyway.”

Furuya doesn’t respond. The lull in the conversation stretches from awkward to uncomfortable.

Akira shifts from foot to foot. “Uh, okay then. I’m just gonna —”

“Do you want to catch my pitches?” Furuya suddenly offers.

Akira lifts an eyebrow. Ever since Furuya hit him in the face, they hadn’t met up to catch outside of regular practice. Akira figured that he’d felt too guilty to ask, and he didn’t want to press. “Right now?”

Furuya doesn’t look too sure of himself, but he nods anyway.

“… I’d have to get my gear,” Akira says, slowly. “And not for too long, since it’s kind of late.”

“But still a yes.”

“Yeah,” Akira responds, letting himself warm up to the idea. “I haven’t touched a baseball all day.”

They meet up in the indoor practice halls. Akira pokes his head in first to make sure Eijun isn’t lurking around. Once he decides the coast is clear, Furuya starts loosening up his shoulder while Akira sets up by the net.

“Ready when you are.”

The words are barely out of his mouth before Furuya starts throwing his signature fastball. Akira catches it, enjoying the way it slams into his mitt. The course is easy to predict — Furuya throws straight— but it still comes in fast in a way Eijun’s pitches never have.

That’s one, Akira thinks. He’s planning to keep this at around a dozen; Furuya had probably been throwing earlier today, too.

As always, the catching session continues in silence. They don’t know each other well enough for anything other than small talk, and Akira’s much better at quick-fire responses than actually initiating a conversation.

Tonight, though, Furuya seems a little restless. He takes his time between pitches, but there’s a sort of agitated air about him that keeps Akira on his toes, expecting some sort of confrontation. Maybe along the lines of, why is your brother so weird and annoying, to which Akira can only respond, you haven’t seen anything yet.

“… Is it good?” Furuya finally asks after about four throws.

“What is?”

“My pitching.”

Akira blinks at that. If he had any expectations for what Furuya wanted to talk about, it wasn’t that.

“Why?”

“You never say anything about it,” Furuya says.

“No news is good news, right?” Akira shrugs. “Your pitch is fast, and it’s catchable. But I won’t have much of an opinion until I see it in a game.”

“… You said that it’s ‘fun,’” Furuya says, quietly. “To catch my pitches.”

“Catching is fun in general,” Akira says absently, thinking of the feeling of a fastball against his mitt. But then Furuya’s shoulders shift, and Akira realizes how that statement might come across. He finds himself backpedaling for the second time today. “I do like catching for you. You put all your effort into your pitching, even when you’re tired. It’s nice catching pitches like that.”

Furuya tilts his head.

“Lots of, uh, passion,” Akira finishes. He wishes he had a fraction of Eijun’s charisma — that’s probably the dumbest thing he’d said all month.

Furuya keeps quiet. Akira wonders if that’s a good sign.

The next pitch comes in like a bullet. But Furuya throws really fast anyway, so it’s not like the forceful throw is indicative of his emotional state.

They hit eleven pitches. After that, Akira calls it a night. Furuya just nods and starts rolling out his shoulders once more.

They walk out of the pitching halls without saying a word. Akira desperately wishes for something to pierce the quiet, but he can’t come up with anything that isn’t a sarcastic joke. Why did Eijun get all the friendly and outgoing tendencies?

They reach the dorms. Akira lingers at the bottom of the steps before the stairs. He turns to Furuya.

“Good night, then,” Akira says, quickly. Once again, he brushes past Furuya and awkwardly pats his shoulder as he passes by. “See you in class tomorrow.”

“Good night.”

God, Akira thinks, as he walks up the stairs. I never know what to say with that guy.

When he gets a chance, he decides, he’ll finish up the joke and apologize to Eijun. It’s much easier to have his brother run all the social, sentimental interaction stuff in his stead.

Tomorrow finds Akira and Chris stretching on field B. It feels like hours pass, as Chris runs him through increasingly difficult poses that stretch out muscles Akira didn’t even know he had. Chris always spends a disproportionate amount of time stretching. Akira can’t tell if he’s just trying to annoy him, or if it’s something deeper than that. It makes him think.

But once they finish the last of those grueling stretches, Chris hands Akira a scroll. Akira rolls it out and skims over the contents. It’s — surprise — the arms and core training menu.

“All of this?” Akira sighs, trying hard not to roll his eyes.

Chris lifts an eyebrow. “You’re not going to do it?”

Akira inwardly winces, realizing how rude it might have sounded to question Chris’s training menu. “I will,” he says out loud, trying for politeness. “But I like playing baseball, too.”

Chris stares at him.

“… Right. I’ll just get started, then.”

With that, Chris walks away to watch over the second-string drills, leaving Akira on his own.

It’s really, really weird to be doing exercises all by himself. Back in Nagano, everyone circled up and did workouts as a team. Even when he’d been banished from Seidou’s practice for a few weeks, he still had Eijun running laps with him. Oddly enough, even though he’s alone it feels like he’s in the spotlight or something. Like someone will pop up and judge him.

Despite the strangeness, Akira perseveres and continues to make his way through the menu. Shoulders, arms, core. It’s a long list, but the repetitions are short. He gets through the first few easily enough, but then Chris comes out of nowhere and adjusts his posture in the middle of a pushup.

“You’re doing it wrong,” he says, voice quiet and disapproving. “Straighten out your back and make sure you keep your elbows in tight.”

As he speaks, he lightly pushes Akira’s muscles into the right position. The exercise immediately becomes ten times harder.

“Good.”

Crap, did he say that out loud? Akira sheepishly looks up at Chris, ready to mumble an apology — but he’s already looking away.

“If you don’t do it properly, you risk injuring yourself,” Chris says. As he speaks, Akira catches the way he stiffens. He watches Chris walk away, his hand unconsciously drifting up to rub his right shoulder. A gesture so small it could have been nothing, except that Akira happened to be watching.

Chris is doing that brooding thing again, glaring out at the second-string while they run around the field. Every time one of them looks over, they pale before dashing off even faster than before. Maybe that’s why he’s a manager; he inspires fear. Or maybe it’s something else, some other reason.

Chris knows baseball, and he knows a lot about exercise and fitness. Why is he a manager?

Akira shakes his head and returns his focus to the workout. This time, he tries to pay attention to his form, hopefully preventing Chris from judging him even further. At some point, the exercise becomes mindless and his brain checks out.

By the time he wraps it up, Chris-senpai is already gone.

It’s quiet in room 203 that evening.

Miyuki prefers quiet when he needs to focus, and Akira has headphones so he can drown out the silence without bothering him. It works out well on Thursday nights like this when they have Friday’s homework to complete. They work on their respective assignments for a good amount of time. Or, at least Miyuki works. Akira stares at the questions on his literature worksheet with zero comprehension. Maybe he should have done the assigned reading instead of reading manga for the past two weeks.

He fudges the answers for a bit, skimming through the book for one-half of the questions and making stuff up for the other. In the meantime, there’s a corner of his mind replaying Chris’s movements. The slight hesitation. The twitch of his mouth. It could just be Chris being a doom-and-gloom machine. But there’s something else that bothers Akira.

He pulls off his headphones and turns to look at Miyuki.

“Hey,” he says. “Did something happen to Chris-senpai’s shoulder?”

Miyuki looks up from his homework, startled. The shock on his face is enough of an answer, and Akira winces in sympathy.

“He tore a tendon in his shoulder and near his wrist last year.”

“Oh,” Akira says. Wow, that is much worse than he thought it would be. That explains so much about why Chris is such a mood-ruiner. “How bad is it?”

Miyuki looks away. “He had to take a year off for rehab.”

“That’s a long time.”

“It is.”

Akira thinks of Chris’s dead-eyed stare, the depression that hung around him like a cloud. “Can he still play?”

“He can catch a few pitches, but he can’t be in a full match —” Miyuki pauses. He turns around and frowns at Akira. “Why do you want to know?” he asks, narrowing his eyes.

Oops. Too many questions, abort mission.

“Just curious,” Akira says. He presses his lips together, holding back the flood of inquiries he wants to let loose. Maybe he can get away with one more.

But in the end, he doesn’t try to. The proceeding silence feels more tense than it should be for a conversation like this.

Miyuki breaks eye-contact with Akira. Akira pulls on his headphones and goes back writing nonsense down on his homework.

It’s obviously not fun for Chris to be here, so why does he stay? A lump forms in his throat. It must be torture to have to train someone as lacking as me, Akira realizes with horror. Even worse, I’m on the first-string and he isn’t. No wonder why he seems so bitter.

A series of firm knocks on their door breaks him out of his thoughts. Miyuki tosses an expectant look at him. Akira sighs, resigned, and gets to his feet anyway.

He opens the door.

“Hello, traitor!” Eijun’s loud voice shatters the quiet, and he smiles wide. “Is Miyuki Kazuya here?”

“It’s for you,” Akira calls over his shoulder. Miyuki groans and gets to his feet. Akira steps out of the doorway but doesn’t return to his desk, instead leaning against the wall to watch the show.

“Eijun,” Miyuki says, as though he isn’t happy to have a distraction from his work. “What do you want.”

Eijun bends over in a perfect ninety-degree bow. “Catch my pitches, Miyuki Kazuya!”

“Right now?”

“No time like the present!”

Akira checks the time. It’s past eight p.m. and the sun has long since set. Eijun took his sweet time coming over here. Either that, or he cried over the latest volume of Kimi ni Todoke before remembering that baseball was a thing.

“I’m busy,” comes Miyuki’s response. “Get your brother to do it.”

Eijun clears his throat and sends a fiery glare to Akira. “Who?”

Akira makes sure to send Eijun his most annoying grin. His brother, true to form, rolls his eyes and scowls.

“Eijun,” Miyuki says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Don’t you have work to do —”

“Work to become the ace!” he shouts.

“Well, I have work to do,” Miyuki tells him, and now he’s starting to look annoyed rather than amused. Akira had better step in before some miscommunication shatters their truce.

So Akira huffs, catching their attention. “I’ll catch your pitches, Ei,” he says once they’re both looking at him.

Eijun crosses his arms, glaring.

Akira grins back. “Do you remember that time with Nobu?”

Eijun frowns even harder, trying to put the pieces together.

Akira sighs and tilts his head. Eijun splutters in indignation, and Akira smiles, this one feeling less smug and more apologetic.

“I hate you, you know,” Eijun grumbles. But his shoulders drop, relaxing. Acceptance.

“Yeah, I know,” Akira says. “Lemme grab my gear. Meet you on the mound.”

Eijun scampers off. Miyuki watches as Akira grabs his bag and pulls on a baseball cap.

“… That’s it?” Miyuki asks with a wondering look in his eye. “A little anticlimactic, considering the fuss he kicked up.”

“That’s how most of it goes,” Akira says, stepping out the door. “And Eijun likes to be dramatic, but it’s not like that was an actual fight.”

Miyuki frowns. “So what does an ‘actual fight’ look like?”

Akira looks at his roommate one last time and smiles without humor. “You’ll know when you see it.”

He lets the door swing shut behind him, and then he runs for the baseball field without looking back.

“Hey, Ei?”

“Hm?” Eijun looks up from where he’s fiddling with his grip — Miyuki’s apparently been teaching him a cutter, and he wants to get it right. “What’s up?”

Akira isn’t sure. He’s been thinking about Chris, about his injury. He had to take a year off for rehab. That’s practically all of his high school career.

“Aki? Something wrong?” Eijun narrows his eyes. “You’re not gonna do something stupid again, are you?”

“… What would you do if you couldn’t play baseball anymore?”

Eijun makes a face. “What kind of awful question is that?”

“I was just wondering.”

“I’d do whatever I can to keep playing, of course!”

“And if you couldn’t?”

“I still wouldn’t give up!” Eijun nods, his eyes blazing. “As long as there’s a chance, I’d keep trying. Even if I could only pitch once a game, that’s better than nothing, right?”

Akira has the sudden image of Eijun getting subbed in for the very last inning. He’d be excited and frustrated in equal measure — happy to get on the mound, but frustrated that his time was so short. It’s exactly the type of thing that gets Eijun fired up: a fleeting taste of victory that only leaves him wanting more.

“What about you? What would you do?”

Akira can imagine the frustration and the depression of being unable to do what you want to do. He can’t imagine quitting baseball. Both are awful, but when it comes down to it, there’s really only one choice, isn’t there?

“Well?”

“I’d keep trying, too,” Akira decides. He holds up his glove and nods at Eijun.

Eijun throws. The ball breaks. It slams into Akira’s mitt, and he can’t help but grin at the feeling.

“Alright, do that again,” Akira says, tossing the ball back.

Maybe I understand you a little better now, Chris, Akira thinks. No matter how badly it hurts, I wouldn’t be able to quit, either.

At breakfast the next morning, Akira drags Eijun over to where Chris and some of the third-years are sitting.

Chris looks up when he sees Akira standing next to his table. He lifts an eyebrow. “… Did you need something?”

“Hi,” Akira says. Then he turns to Eijun. “This is Chris-senpai. He’s cool.”

“Okay!” Eijun says without hesitation. He drops into a formal bow. “Hello! This Sawamura Eijun is pleased to make your acquaintance!”

Chris blinks in confusion. It’s the first time Akira’s seen something besides depression on his face.

“You’ve been helping Akira with fielding, right?” Eijun asks. “That’s great! He needs it!”

“You need it too, dumbass,” Akira responds automatically.

“Yeah, but you need it more.”

Akira rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Chris-senpai, I’ll see you at practice. Have a good breakfast.”

“… Thanks?”

Akira nods. He spots Haruichi saving seats for them and starts dragging Eijun away.

“Bye, Chris-senpai!” Eijun calls out. “Please take care of my brother! You should catch my pitches sometime!”

Chris frowns, but it’s more confused than it is gloomy. Akira will take that.

As he and Eijun move out of earshot, Akira turns an amused smirk onto his brother. “Is that the only way you know how to bond with people? Throwing a baseball at them?”

“The only way you bond with people is by throwing me at them,” Eijun counters. “If you want to be friends with that Chris guy, you could just try talking to him on your own.”

“One: this is also for your benefit, I think you’d get along with him. Two: it’s faster this way.”

“You literally practice with him. You’re gonna see him way more than I do.”

“So?”

“You’re such a loner.”

“Guilty.”

They sit down next to Haruichi, who tilts his head at the two of them. He looks over at Chris and the other third-years.

“What was that about?”

“Aki’s using me,” Eijun whines. “Again. Even though you just manipulated me into getting along with Miyuki Kazuya.”

“Hey, you like Miyuki Kazuya.”

“As if!” Eijun growls, immediately bristling at the mention of his name. “What a bastard! Just because he’s a good catcher and has a pretty face doesn’t mean I’d want to be friends with that asshole! We are teammates and nothing more!”

Haruichi gives Eijun a look. “What was that middle part?”

“He’s a good catcher?”

“No, after that.”

“… I don’t want to be friends with him?”

“Don’t bother,” Akira tells Haruichi. “It’s gonna take another year at least.”

Ever since Miyuki Kazuya pulled Eijun into an impromptu baseball game last year, Akira’s been quietly suffering.

It’s not like Eijun talks about ‘that elitist tanuki bastard’ all the time. It’s just that, when he does, it’s with a complete lack of self-awareness that makes Akira’s head spin.

Haruichi looks thoughtful. “I’d give it six months.”

“You’re putting way too much faith in him.”

Eijun crosses his arms. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Akira opens his mouth to respond, but Haruichi beats him to it.

“We’re betting on how long it’ll take you to reach third base,” he says, his face turning pink.

Eijun gasps, offended. “Are you making fun of my batting? I’m not that bad, am I?”

“Compared to Haruichi, we are,” Akira points out, laughing at Eijun’s predicament.

Haruichi frowns at Akira.

Akira lifts an eyebrow. “What?”

“Do you…” Haruichi begins, hesitantly. “You understood that, right?”

“You were teasing Eijun about his batting…?” Akira answers, just as hesitant.

Haruichi’s face, which was already pink, begins to turn a darker shade of red. Eijun and Akira exchange a glance, equally confused.

“Really, I don’t think I’m that bad at batting,” Eijun insists. “I’ve never hit a home run or anything, but I can totally steal third! I don’t think it’ll take a year to get to third base! You’re so mean, Aki!”

Akira sarcastically pats Eijun’s back. “If it makes you feel better, Ei, I’ve literally never been to third base in my life.”

Haruichi drops his head onto the table.

“Whoa, are you okay?” Eijun asks, concerned. “Harucchi, you’re going to bruise your face!”

“Yeah, it’s not fun,” Akira tells their pink-haired friend. His bruise is healed now, but he was getting tired of all the stares from the people in class.

“I’m fine,” Haruichi mumbles, slumping down and hiding his blushing face behind his hands. “I’m fine.”

“You get embarrassed too easily,” Akira informs him. “I don’t think insulting Eijun’s batting is something to get all flustered about. I do it all the time.”

“Never mind,” Haruichi says loudly. “It’s fine, never mind, just… forget it.”

“Okay,” Akira says, with the distinct feeling that he’s missing a large part of the picture. But Haruichi seems like he’d rather die than talk about it, so he lets it slide.

Despite Eijun’s complaints, he receives the news that ‘Chris-senpai is a friend’ with enthusiasm, taking every opportunity he has to visit field B. He’ll sprint over during a water break, shout nonsense for a few minutes, and then sprint back to field A. With every visit, Chris looks more and more confused. It takes only two days of this for him to finally ask.

“What exactly did you tell your brother about me?” he asks, after Eijun refers to him as ‘Master Chris’ for the first time.

“You’re nice, and you appreciate baseball,” Akira says. “That’s really all we look for in friends.”

That statement makes Chris’s eyes widen in alarm, which — okay, that’s not ideal, but again, it’s better than that dead-eyed glare he used to have.

“‘Nice?’” Chris echoes. His quiet voice is even quieter when he’s confused.

“You could be nicer,” Akira informs him. “To be fair, though, I’m also not that nice of a person.”

Chris opens his mouth, pauses, and then closes it. He shakes his head. “Three laps, and then we’ll talk more game theory.”

Akira sighs and starts to run. When he made the first string, he’d hoped that there would be less running involved, but unfortunately, here he is.

He rounds a lonely corner of the outfield and starts the stretch leading back to the dugout. Up ahead of him, he can see the members of the second string taking a water break. They’re chatting lightly in between sips of water, but as Akira starts pulling closer, he sees their main pitcher, Kuwata, look up at him. Akira’s guard goes up.

He continues to run, because he’s never talked to anyone here and it’s too weird to try and change that now. But to his surprise, Kuwata throws down his water bottle and starts running alongside him. Akira wipes his face of expression and braces himself for the inevitable confrontation.

Kuwata smiles. All teeth. “You don’t look happy.”

Akira glances at his new running companion, wondering how he’s supposed to respond to that.

“Haven't touched a baseball in a while, huh?”

Akira shrugs. “I’m used to it.”

“Ha! I don’t doubt that."

Akira can't tell if that's a jab at his unbalanced skills as a catcher, or a jab at the early weeks he and Eijun spent running around this very field.

"Chris is really grinding you down, isn’t he?"

How exactly is Akira expected to answer this question?

"Don't worry, I get it," he says. "I had to work with him for a bit, I know how he can be."

"He is hard to talk to,” Akira admits, although that probably says more about Akira’s social skills than Chris’s.

“You want to catch a baseball, right?”

“Yes,” Akira blurts out even before he finishes asking the question. “So badly.”

“You should be our catcher, then.”

Akira nearly trips at the suggestion.

“Just for a scrimmage,” the pitcher continues, ignoring Akira’s unfortunate stumble. “One of our catchers is out for the day.”

“You’re asking me?” Akira says, alarm bells ringing in his head.

“What, too good to play with the second string?” Kuwata asks. His tone is joking but his eyes are sharp.

“‘Course not,” Akira answers carefully. “But I’m here to practice under Chris-senpai. I don’t want to get in the way.”

“It’s still baseball practice, isn’t it?”

“I still have more laps —”

“You’re just going to take what that depressed mess throws at you?”

“I finish what I start,” Akira states, refusing to budge.

Kuwata lifts his hands up in surrender. “Whatever,” he shrugs. He starts to turn away, rolling his eyes. “No wonder you and Chris get along, you’re both cowards scared of a little competition —”

“Excuse me?” Akira says.

Both of them skid to a stop. For a moment, they stare at each other, equally tense.

“It’s a fucking waste that you’re on the first string, you know,” the pitcher snaps. “There are dozens of us who’d kill to take your spot, and you’re here fucking around and being a crappy fielder —”

“No, I don’t care about that,” Akira cuts him off, irritated. “What kind of bullshit are you spreading about Chris-senpai?”

Kuwata blinks. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Why the hell do you care?” Kuwata rolls his eyes. “He’s not even teaching you. The only thing you do here is run.”

“You don’t have to like someone to respect them,” Akira says.

“Why should I respect a guy who’s given up? Miyuki takes his spot on the first-string, and he takes out his frustration on the rest of us,” Kuwata snarls. “Do you know how many pitchers have quit because of him?”

“Are you including yourself in that number?” Akira asks, voice even. “You seem like the type of guy who would cave at the first sign of difficulty.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’d probably be a better pitcher if you listened to him, you know,” Akira says. “Chris-senpai knows his stuff.”

“What —”

“Of course, there’s always the possibility that you were shitty to begin with,” Akira continues, unable to stop running his mouth. “I’ve seen you pitch. I could probably do a better job, and I’m not even a pitcher.”

Kuwata’s eyes narrow into thin slits. “Would you like to put that to the test?”

“Why not?” Akira says. “It’s not like you’ll put up much of a fight.”

“Seven p.m. at the batting cages,” Kuwata says. “Bring that depressed jerk you’re so fond of. He’ll probably fumble all your lousy pitches, anyway.”

Akira’s mouth moves before he can think it through. “You’re on.”

One hour later, Akira stands in front of Eijun’s door with a set of clothes and an apologetic grin. “Hey, remember in sixth grade when we said we’d stop switching around unless it was for an emergency?”

“You’re literally the worst,” Eijun informs him, but he turns his baseball cap backward and starts changing his shirt without having to ask for any further context.

“So.”

Akira automatically winces at the pure disappointment dripping from that singular word. Luckily, he’s already bowed down with his head to the floor, so Chris can’t see it.

Unluckily, he’s in the middle of receiving the most embarrassing lecture of all time. From the very person he was trying to defend.

Yeah, there are times when his mouth runs faster than his brain. It’s probably genetic.

“Care to tell me why I was catching ‘Akira’s’ pitches just now?” Chris asks, arms crossed.

“Kuwata was badmouthing you!” Akira blurts out. “I couldn’t let that stand. I sincerely and humbly apologize for dragging you into this.”

“But not for making a scene.”

No, Akira thinks. I won’t apologize for that.

He probably shouldn’t say that, though. He’s already in deep shit, he doesn’t need his stupid mouth to dig the hole any deeper.

“... I’m honestly confused,” Chris continues. “You spent the first two weeks passive-aggressively trying to undermine me.”

“Sorry!”

“And now you and your brother are fighting to defend my honor?”

“Sorry, again!”

“I don’t understand,” Chris says. “I don’t think I did anything to deserve this kind of thing.”

“You don’t deserve to be a manager, either,” Akira says, voice muffled by the floor. “You should be in my spot. Do people really not know how good you are?”

Chris is quiet for a moment. Akira doesn’t dare look up.

“You’ve never seen me play?” Chris says, still confused.

“You didn’t even have too much of a warmup with Eijun and you caught all his pitches, and you haven’t played in a year. You’d be unstoppable given the chance.”

“That happened after you started this whole thing.”

“You know a lot about baseball!”

“I’m — Akira-kun,” he says, with a sigh. “I’m just trying to understand what you’re trying to do here.”

At that, Akira finally looks up. Chris is crouching down in front of him, waiting for an explanation.

“Is your shoulder okay?” Akira asks instead.

Chris’s eyes widen, and his hand drifts up to his right shoulder. “You know?”

“I asked Miyuki-senpai about it,” Akira says, guiltily. “Sorry.”

“I’m not mad,” Chris says. “It’s not like it’s a secret.”

“Oh.”

“And it's fine. I can catch a few pitches, it’s no big deal.”

“That’s good.”

Another awkward pause.

“Why did you challenge Kuwata like that?” Chris asks.

Akira shifts into a sitting position. He thinks over his explanation, trying to form the words.

“He called you a coward,” Akira says slowly. “Which is bullshit, because you’d have to be pretty brave to stay with the baseball club after getting injured. And also — you’re part of the team! You’re supposed to support your teammates, what kind of asshole says shit like that?”

Chris shakes his head. “That’s it?”

“I don’t have a four-volume tragic backstory regarding the depth of my hatred for Kuwata Ren, so yes, that’s it.”

Chris exhales and pinches the bridge of his nose. It takes him a long while to say something, and when he does speak up, it’s not what Akira was expecting it to be.

“I was wrong.”

Akira looks up, startled.

“You can be on the first-string.”

“Because I used trickery to humiliate the second-string pitcher in a pitching contest?” Akira asks.

“No, that’s not what I meant. And don’t do that. That’s bad.”

“Yes, sir.”

Chris looks at Akira directly in the eyes. “Baseball is a team sport,” he says. “I thought you only cared for yourself and your brother.”

Akira frowns.

“You don’t deserve to be out on the field if you don’t trust your teammates,” Chris warns him. “So just… expand your little circle, alright? I’m flattered that you consider me part of your team, but I’m not the one who’s going to be out there with you. Make sure you talk to everyone else, too.”

Akira nods slowly. “Okay.”

“Now I know what Miyuki meant,” Chris says, sighing.

Akira blinks. “You and Miyuki-senpai talked about me? What did he say?”

“He said you were ‘a little shit,’” Chris deadpans. “I bet your brother wouldn’t have been this much trouble.”

Akira snorts. “Obviously, you didn’t talk to Miyuki-senpai for long.”

“Maybe so, but you are a handful.”

Akira ducks his head, hiding an embarrassed blush.

“I’m not going to tell the coach about this,” Chris says. “But you’re going to be running many laps this week.”

“Ah.” Akira tries to hide his disappointment. “Yeah, that’s probably fair.”

“Just don’t do it again,” Chris says. He awkwardly reaches out and pats Akira’s head. “... And thanks, I guess.”

"Hm?"

"It's been a while since I've had an excuse to catch," Chris says. "And your brother is a good pitcher."

"Don't say that to his face," Akira says. "He'll worship you forever."

“I think I can handle your brother.”

“But can you handle both of us?”

Chris thinks over that statement. He winces, looking pained.

But his eyes don’t look dead or confused anymore, so Akira’s going to count that as a win.

Akira nervously stands in front of Furuya’s door. His hand twitches by his side as he tries to gather up the courage to knock.

It would be so much easier to let Eijun handle all the social interaction stuff. Or to wait around for someone else to make the first move. Akira’s comfort zone is quick-fire responses and sarcastic commentary, he doesn’t do this kind of stuff.

Akira has friends, but he’s never really made one on his own.

Expand your little circle, alright?

He knocks.

Furuya opens the door. He’s wearing a loose t-shirt, and his hair sticks up in the back, like he’d just woken up from a post-practice nap.

“Hey,” Akira says, and he holds up a baseball. “Wanna play catch?”

Furuya stares back. Akira waits patiently, hoping that his social ineptitude isn’t showing through.

Something in the atmosphere loosens up.

“Sure,” Furuya says. “Let me get my glove.”

Akira breaks out into a smile.

Chapter Text

Eijun is the first of their year to get out on the field.

It’s a practice match against Yokohama High. In the sixth inning, Kataoka surprises everyone by subbing Tanba out — and subbing Eijun in. Akira and Haruichi shove their way up to the front of the dugout to cheer. Furuya joins them, silently watching the show.

Yokohama’s not even close to prepared. Akira smirks at the looks on their faces. Clearly, no one was expecting a southpaw first-year with an idiosyncratic pitch. Under Miyuki’s lead, Eijun demolishes Yokohama’s lineup without a single moment of hesitation.

Akira knows that Miyuki and Eijun get along, but it’s an entirely other thing to see their battery in an actual game. Eijun’s unique pitching paired with Miyuki’s skills as a catcher is an impressive sight. He’s proud of his brother, of course, but also a little jealous. Seeing Eijun out there makes Akira want to work even harder to get on the field.

In the end, Seidou loses the game, but Akira likes to think that they win the war — Yokohama isn’t smiling when they shake hands.

The entire bus ride back is just Eijun rambling about the game directly into Akira’s ear. Haruichi and Akira keep count of how many times he talks about ‘the sound of his fastball in Miyuki’s mitt’. It’s at a humble twenty-two. Akira supposes he should feel lucky that it didn’t break thirty.

Six months, Haruichi mouths, poking Akira on the shoulder.

Akira shakes his head. It probably makes him a bad brother, but he’s pretty sure Eijun isn’t that self-aware.

When they get off the bus, Eijun loudly announces that he’s ready to be the ace. As if he were waiting for this, Kuramochi-senpai knocks out Eijun’s knees and twists his arms behind his back.

“We get it,” he says, grinning wide. “You really don’t shut up, do you?”

“Never!” Eijun says, except that only makes Kuramochi grip his arm harder.

“I’ll kick your ass in Mortal Kombat when we get back to the room,” Kuramochi threatens. “Can’t let your head get any bigger than it already is!”

“My head is normal-sized!” Eijun roars. “You’re so mean!” Kuramochi cackles as he drags Eijun away, and Masuko follows them with an equally amused expression.

Akira openly grins at the sight. Haruichi sighs.

“What?” Akira says. “Like you’ve never laughed at your brother’s pain.”

“I think my brother and I have a different relationship than you and Eijun,” Haruichi says.

“Yeah, I guess so,” is all Akira says, but he thinks he can still draw a few parallels.

After all, Eijun and Ryousuke were the ones on the field today, not Akira or Haruichi. As fun as it was to watch Eijun show up their opponents, Akira has no desire to be stuck in the dugout while Eijun has all the fun.

Akira clears his throat. “Hey, can you help me practice batting after dinner?”

“Yeah, sure. Are we bringing Eijun?”

“If Kuramochi-senpai doesn’t break him, maybe,” Akira says, thinking. “But he got to pitch today. Probably better to let him rest. We should bring Furuya.”

“Hm?” Furuya looks up at the sound of his name.

“Batting practice, after dinner,” Akira says, letting his voice carry. “Are you in?”

Furuya shrugs. “Sure.” After that single word, he walks away, leaving Haruichi and Akira standing in his metaphorical dust.

Akira frowns. “Am I doing something wrong?” he asks. He’s been — against all his instincts — initiating conversation with Furuya, seeking out the pitcher for extra practice, and inviting him to sit with their group during meal times. But Furuya doesn’t really talk.

“I think he’s just shy,” Haruichi says. “He doesn’t say ‘no’ when you ask.”

“Yeah,” Akira says. “Yeah, I can definitely do this social interaction thing. I don’t need Eijun to make friends for me.”

Haruichi laughs lightly and pats Akira’s shoulder. “See you at dinner, then. I’ve got some homework to wrap up.”

“See ya.”

Haruichi scampers off in the direction of the dorms. The team starts to disperse, but Akira lingers behind, adopting a slow pace that leaves him walking back to the dorms by himself. He shoulders his bag and breathes out for a moment, reflecting.

All of the other first-years have something that they’re good at. Haruichi has the best instinct for baseball out of all of them, and his batting is incredible. Furuya can pitch and bat. And Eijun’s pitching, as showcased today, is good enough to shut down an entire lineup of strong batters. At some point, they’re all going to get out on the field. And then they’re going to stay there.

Akira hopes he won’t get left behind.

Just a few weeks after Eijun’s debut, the Seidou High School Baseball Team begins the training camp from hell.

On the bright side, Akira can now do a fielding drill without falling flat on his face, thanks to Chris-senpai’s training menu — turns out, it’s all in the footwork. On the other hand, this week is killing him.

Akira always thought he had decent stamina, but starting every morning with a five-kilometer warmup is quickly dismantling any illusions about that. He and the other first-years group together at the back of the pack while the upperclassmen push forward, seemingly with ease. At first, Furuya and Eijun duke it out, competing to be the best, but at some point, they all become too tired to keep it up.

And then there’s the evening.

After running and jumping and fielding all day, Akira can barely eat the mandatory bowls of rice. He manages to stay awake in the baths, and after that, he stumbles back to his room, looking forward to passing out.

When he opens the door, he’s greeted with the sight of his senpai having a game night of all things.

Kuramochi and Zono are parked in front of the TV, mashing buttons. Akira spots Haruichi’s older brother dealing out cards to some other third-years. There’s an arm-wrestling contest happening at Akira’s desk. Jun slams Miyauchi’s hand down with great force, and Nori dutifully adds another tally mark to a sheet of notebook paper.

“Oh, good, you didn’t drown in the baths,” Miyuki says upon seeing him. “Go get us some snacks, will you?”

Akira stares back. “What.”

“Hey, other Sawamura!” Kuramochi calls out, not even turning his head away from his Mortal Kombat game. “Are you getting snacks? I want milk bread!”

“Oolong tea, please!”

“Chips for me!”

“Ah,” is all Akira can manage to say.

“Hurry up, Akira,” Tetsu says, from where he’s setting up a shogi board. “Miyuki said you play shogi.”

Akira frowns, mentally reviewing every conversation he ever had with his roommate. “I don’t think I ever mentioned —”

“You heard the captain!” Miyuki says, smiling wide. He shoves Akira out the door. “Be a good roommate and get me a soda, will you?”

Akira tries to push his way back into his room, but he’s too tired to put up a decent fight. “Miyuki-senpai —!”

The door slams shut in front of his face.

Akira gets the snacks.

A loud cheer sounds around the room as Akira passes out the food. He tries to slip into his bed, but it turns out Masuko-senpai is already there. Before he can even try to kick him out, Captain Tetsu somehow maneuvers him into a game of shogi.

While Tetsu ponders over his first move, Akira slips his phone into his hand and fires off a text to his brother.

help me.

WHATS HAPPENINNGG???>,?

Akira discreetly snaps a photo of Tetsu and the shogi board and attaches it to his next message. It only takes a second for Eijun to reply.

P-76!!!!

thats not what i meant and you know it!! get over here!!!!!!

SORRYYY AKI 🥺 IM SLEEPINNG I CAANT!!! HAVE FUN WITH THE SENPAI😋

HOW ARE YOU RESPONDING IF YOURE ASLEEP DUMBASS

😴😴😴😴

Akira glares at the screen.

“Your turn,” Tetsu announces, and Akira puts his phone away. It only takes a moment before he makes his move.

(He moves his pawn to 7-6 because even if he’s a lazy jerk, Eijun is still right about that.)

The game continues. Akira’s not thinking clearly — it’s been a while since he’s played, and his brain is fried from practice — but it doesn’t affect much because Tetsu is not particularly good.

“Wow,” Miyuki says, peering over the board, ten minutes in. “What happened to your defense, cap?”

“I’m still setting it up.”

“It’s a little late for that, senpai,” Akira says, dropping in a pawn. He turns a longing gaze over to the poker game, where Haruichi’s older brother is collecting a rather large pile of snacks and favors. Akira likes poker — he's good at figuring out people’s tells.

The click of wood on wood draws his attention back to the game. Tetsu nods at him.

Akira moves his rook. Miyuki grins, and the two catchers keep silent, waiting for Tetsu to notice.

“Ah,” he says, furrowing his eyebrows together. “Mate in fifteen. I concede.”

Miyuki snickers. “Should have stopped his pawn when you had the chance.”

Tetsu takes the comment with a solemn nod. He starts resetting the board. “How long have you been playing shogi?”

“Er, a few years, I guess? My grandpa taught me,” Akira says. He shifts his weight, getting ready to get to his feet, but Miyuki beats him to it.

“I’m gonna go join the poker game,” he announces. He stands up and fires off a cheeky salute before turning away. “Have fun, you two.”

Tetsu frowns. “Oh, I was going to ask him to play me next. Are you up for another game?”

Akira opens his mouth, getting ready to turn down the offer and go kick Miyuki’s butt in a game of cards, but then he looks up and freezes in place. Tetsu’s looking at him with silent expectation in his eyes. It’s not aggressive enough to be a challenge, or an order, or anything like that. It’s not like Akira’s scared of him.

Tetsu just looks at him with a neutral, but firm hope. Like he wouldn’t mind if Akira ditched him, but he wants to keep playing shogi with him anyway. And suddenly, Akira has the distinct feeling that he doesn’t want to let him down.

“Sure,” Akira answers, and Tetsu nods as he finishes setting up the board.

So that’s a captain’s charisma, Akira thinks. Making people listen without even saying anything.

Their next game is even shorter than the first one, but Akira finds that he’s a little more focused on what’s in front of him.

(Even if his face twitches every time he hears Miyuki win another round of poker.)

When the upperclassmen finally leave, Akira faceplants into his bed.

“Just so you know: they’ll be back tomorrow,” Miyuki says from the top bunk.

Akira grunts into his pillow.

“It’s the curse of having the biggest room.”

Akira has to lift his head at that comment, baffled. “It’s a dorm, they’re all the same size.”

“Technically, since we’re on the second floor, we have an extra half-meter in height.”

Akira can’t even dignify that with a response.

“Ryou’s words, not mine.”

“Doesn’t he live on the second floor, too?”

“The corner rooms are smaller, apparently.”

Akira sighs. “Can’t we rotate rooms or something? Why does it have to be ours?”

Miyuki barks out a laugh. “You try kicking out Jun and Tetsu.”

Okay, fair. If Akira can’t say no to a simple shogi game, he has no clue how he’s supposed to say the words ‘get out of my room’ into Tetsu’s face.

“Besides, it’s nice to know who’s out in the field covering your mistakes,” Miyuki continues. “Even if they do make you play shogi and buy snacks.”

“You made me play shogi and buy snacks.”

Miyuki laughs again. “Hey, I was in your shoes once,” he says. “I bet you’d be worse than me.”

“I’d be the perfect senpai,” Akira mumbles into his pillow. “All I’d have to do is be stoic and cool, like Chris-senpai. I do that anyway.”

“Yeah, about that,” Miyuki says, and he pokes his head over the edge of his bunk bed to squint at Akira. “How come you only mouth off to me? Nobody believes me when I tell them you’re a little shit.”

Akira stares back at him. “What kind of crap do you say behind my back?”

“Nothing I don’t say to your face, don’t worry,” Miyuki waves it off. “Seriously, though. Even Kuramochi doesn’t believe me, and he rooms with Eijun.”

“I only fire back when someone deserves it.”

Miyuki pouts. “What did I ever do?”

Akira thinks of the twenty-two name drops on the bus ride home from Yokohama and a whole summer of Eijun randomly shouting out ‘Miyuki Kazuya’ when they played catch at the park. He dies a little inside.

“I’m going to sleep,” Akira mumbles, and he pointedly rolls over so he’s not facing Miyuki.

Miyuki huffs. The bunk creaks as he pulls himself back up.

Akira can’t remember when he finally knocks out, but he can remember Miyuki throwing a pillow in his face when he fails to turn off his alarm.

Every night of the training camp, the upperclassmen of the first string barge into Akira’s room. He gets very good at carrying armfuls of snacks up the stairs and becomes painfully familiar with the ‘fatality’ screen in Mortal Kombat. He learns that Kuramochi used to play center field in elementary school, and that Jun used to be a pitcher. He also learns that Tetsu started playing shogi a year ago for reasons he refuses to explain.

It gets more exhausting as the week goes on, though. Training’s already hard enough, and while Akira’s grown used to game nights, he would prefer to fall asleep at an earlier time.

“You should do something about it,” Akira says to Miyuki one night. “Do your roommate duties.”

“Yeah, I’m getting tired of it too,” Miyuki says. He thinks for a moment before breaking out into a wide grin. “I’ll help you out.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry about it!” Miyuki says, still smiling. He pats Akira’s head, and his smile turns borderline menacing. “Your cool, reliable roommate will take care of it.”

Akira spends the rest of the day worrying about what Miyuki will do.

He gets his answer that very same evening. Miyuki’s ‘help’ arrives in the form of Eijun and Furuya, who tentatively poke their heads into the room after dinner.

Miyuki beams at the sight. He gets up and drags in the two confused pitchers. “Glad you two showed up! Why don’t we get some team-bonding done tonight?”

Eijun frowns, trying to process the words.

Akira, seeing his chance, vacates the space in front of the shogi board and grabs Eijun’s arm.

“Look, captain, a new challenger,” he says quickly. “Have fun.”

Eijun protests. “But I was gonna pitch to Miyuki —”

“Oh, you don’t want to play?” Tetsu asks, looking up with that expectant hope in his eyes.

Eijun stammers out a ‘no, it’s fine’ and sits down in front of the shogi board — captain’s charisma strikes again.

Furuya gets roped into massaging Jun’s feet. Akira’s about to claim his bed before Masuko can pass out in it when he sees Miyuki grab a pillow out of the corner of his eye.

“Wait, where are you going?” Eijun yells, twisting around to look at the doorway.

“Take care of our senpai for me,” Miyuki calls over his shoulder. He steps outside and jingles someone’s room keys. “I’m gonna go sleep in another room! Night!”

Eijun splutters and Furuya stares as the door swings shut. Akira, meanwhile, is kicking himself. Why didn’t I think of that?

“Snacks, firsties!” Kuramochi shouts. “You know the drill, other Sawamura!”

“Please don’t call me that,” Akira says, but it goes unheard in the chaos of the room. Masuko brushes by him, patting his head, and drops into Akira’s bed. He’s out instantly, and Akira envies him.

Snacks it is, he thinks. He’d hate to be roped into giving everyone back rubs.

“Go help Akira,” Jun says, waving Furuya away. “And don’t forget my oolong tea!”

“Okay,” Furuya says, and the two of them step out into the night.

For a moment, they stand there in silence. Akira looks at Furuya. He feels kind of bad; this wasn't what he expected when Miyuki said that he'd help.

“If you don’t wanna stay, I can cover for you,” he offers, despite himself. “I’m used to bringing the snacks up by myself.”

“No,” Furuya says, and there’s a light in his eyes when he says that. “It's fine.”

Akira blinks. “You look awfully excited about getting snacks.”

Furuya looks down and presses his lips together. Akira’s learned to recognize this as his ‘thinking face’.

“I don’t mind getting snacks for the team,” Furuya says quietly. Somehow, the words feel more significant than they sound. “I’ll help you carry everything.”

Akira smiles at that, and he starts the walk down the stairs. “I guess I can’t complain about that.”

“You’re catching on Saturday, by the way.”

Akira’s cup slips out of his hand, spilling water all over his pants. He picks it up and stares at it sadly. There’s nothing left.

“I’m what?” Akira asks, turning to Chris-senpai.

“We have a practice match against Osaka Kiryuu,” he says. “Coach is starting you and Furuya. Eijun will close.”

“Oh.” Akira tosses his paper cup into the trash and grabs another one from the water station. He mechanically fills it up and gulps it down.

Chris lifts an eyebrow at the lackluster response. “You don’t seem very excited.”

“You, uh, caught me off guard,” Akira says, wiping some water off his face with the edge of his sleeve. He looks back up at Chris, questioning. “I didn’t think I’d get to play so soon?”

He supposes it makes sense. It’s a practice match — a low-stakes way for the first-years to get experience out on the field.

“Their batting line-up is one of the best in the nation,” Chris says, watching him carefully.

Oh, joy, Akira thinks. “Do we have footage on them?”

“No, but we have their data,” Chris answers. He narrows his eyes. “You’re taking this very calmly.”

Akira takes his baseball cap and turns it around so it faces forward. Then he looks at Chris. "AH! I won’t let you down, Master! I shall prove to the world that your training of me was not a waste of time —”

“Never mind,” Chris cuts him off, an alarmed expression on his face. “Don’t do that, that’s creepy.”

Akira drops the Eijun impression. “Yes, sir.”

Chris sighs. “Miyuki can help you go over the data,” he says. “And don’t forget all the game theory we talked about.”

How could I? Akira thinks, remembering the days spent on the bleachers watching other people play baseball. It was only the most annoying part of training under you.

“Do you have any —”

“Chris-senpai!” A familiar voice cuts into the conversation.

Akira and Chris look over to the bullpen, where Furuya is pitching to Miyauchi. Eijun waves excitedly, vibrating with energy.

“You should catch for me!” He yells, showing off a toothy smile. “Right now! So I can be ready for Saturday!”

“Don’t overdo it, Eijun,” Chris calls back. “You don’t want to strain yourself before the game.”

Eijun’s eyes widen before he fires off an ecstatic salute. “Of course! I won’t let you down, Master! I shall prove to the world that your training of me was not a waste of time!”

Akira carefully keeps his face blank when Chris stares at him.

“Not planned, I swear,” Akira says, and Chris shakes his head.

“Do you have any questions?” Chris asks, finishing his interrupted statement from earlier.

Akira thinks for a moment. “You’re gonna watch, right?”

“Yes. Why?”

The confirmation makes Akira’s heart rate pick up with anticipation. Even if he was joking earlier, the sentiment is still true: he wants to show Chris that the time spent training him was worth it.

“I’ll call strikeouts just for you,” he offers. “We’ll get them out swinging.”

“Pitch with the intention of letting them hit the ball,” Kataoka tells Akira and Furuya, and Akira instantly has to bite his tongue to prevent himself from saying something stupid.

“You’re both tired from the training camp,” Kataoka continues. “Don’t pressure yourself with the outcome of the game. So go ahead and let them hit.”

Akira clenches the face guard in his hand and glances over at Furuya.

Furuya looks back at him, eyes cold, and a wave of understanding passes between them. They're both thinking the same thing. Like hell, we’ll let ‘em hit!

The match starts with Seidou’s defense and Kiryuu’s offense. Akira crouches down by home plate, silently fuming over the coach’s instructions.

The leadoff batter walks up to the plate and settles into position. From the mound, Furuya stares at the batter with a cool expression, betraying nothing but competitive spirit. His shoulders are stiff, though.

The batter, meanwhile, is unconcerned. Akira’s heard the whispers from the other team, the complaints against Seidou’s decision to start with a first-year battery. Akira thinks for a moment, trying to decide how to approach this first pitch.

“Hi,” he says lightly, buying time.

The batter looks at him for a single confused second. Akira waits for him to look back at Furuya before continuing.

“Sushi dinner last night, huh?”

At that, the batter stiffens. His eyes flicker back to Akira, wide and panicked. He opens his mouth to speak, but then he changes his mind and shakes his head, tightening his grip around the bat.

Behind Akira, the umpire clears his throat.

Furuya is still waiting for a signal, so Akira holds up his glove close to the inside. The batter’s already spooked by Akira’s comment — Furuya’s fastball passing close to his space is sure to shake him up even more.

Furuya winds up.

The batter swings, too low, and the ball lands securely in Akira’s mitt.

“Strike one,” the umpire announces. Whispers break out in the opposing dugout, but Akira’s frowning.

Furuya’s not throwing at his usual speed. Akira tosses the ball back, pondering.

He lifts up his mitt. Over the plate — it’s a risk, but Akira wants to check something.

Luckily, the batter doesn’t swing. The pitch lands in the strike zone — barely. Akira has to move to catch it, and again, it’s slower than usual.

Oh, Akira realizes. It’s the training camp.

Furuya’s stamina isn’t the best, even on a good day. But after this week’s hellish training, he’s probably running on even less than he normally is. Hence the lack of speed and control.

“Tekkamaki is my favorite, too,” Akira says out loud, hoping his apprehension isn’t showing through.

The batter’s so startled that he swings at Furuya’s obvious ball. He whips his head around. “How the hell did you know —”

“Lucky guess,” Akira says. Maybe it’s an asshole move to use his psychic dinner powers for this, but Furuya’s not pitching well, and they’re gonna need every advantage they can get. He holds his arms up in surrender. “Sorry. Better luck next time.”

The batter storms away without saying anything further. Akira watches him mutter to his successor, sees the wary stare from the next player in the lineup.

Akira purposely keeps quiet as this one settles in, left-handed. Out on the mound, Furuya continues to stare, a bead of sweat dripping down his face.

Oh, boy, Akira thinks. This is going to be a long game.

“Hey,” Miyuki says, as Akira slumps back into the dugout. “Did you say something to their batters? They look unsettled.”

“It’s not gonna last,” Akira says, mentally replaying the inning in his head. It’s only the first and Furuya can’t throw a strike. Forget his monster fastball, he’s so tired that he can’t even beat Eijun in speed. They’d walked the third and fourth batters and managed to strike out the fifth — but only because Akira got under his skin by listing off the ingredients found in chicken katsu curry. He’s going to identify all their evening meals, and then he’s going to run out of things to say the second time around the batting lineup.

How is he supposed to work like this?

“Well, of course it’s not gonna last,” Miyuki says, leaning back into the bench. “I’m actually surprised you managed to hold them off this inning.” He glances at Akira out of the corner of his eye, and the corner of his mouth tugs up into an amused smirk.

Akira stares at him. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Who, me?”

“Furuya’s tired, and psychological warfare can only go so far,” Akira says. “He can’t stay in the strike zone. We’re set up to fail.”

“So what are you going to do about it?” Miyuki asks him, eyes gleaming. His smile cuts in a way Akira’s not used to, and for the first time, it really sinks in, who he’s talking to.

This isn’t his roommate, or Eijun’s unfortunate crush, or a teasing senpai. This is Miyuki Kazuya, genius catcher, and he won’t give up his starting position without a fight. It probably burns him to see Akira out on the field, even for a practice match.

Akira looks over at Furuya. His expression is stony as ever, but the way he fiddles with his batting gloves betrays his nerves. Behind him, Eijun paces around with a frown.

“I’m going to go talk to our pitcher,” Akira says stiffly. He tries to ignore Miyuki’s smugness as he walks away.

Eijun looks up as Akira approaches, mouth pulled into an unhappy line. “Aki,” he says, but Akira shakes his head.

This is my job.

His brother nods, and he continues to pace the dugout.

Akira takes the seat next to Furuya.

“So…” he says, scrambling for words. “Stamina, am I right?”

“I know,” Furuya says, his hands curling into fists. He stares out at a spot on the floor, dissatisfaction radiating all around him. “I know.”

Furuya goes all out when pitching. But that also means when he crashes, he crashes hard.

If Coach Kataoka sticks to his word, they still have time before he switches Eijun in. This is Furuya’s chance to show their coach what he’s made of. Akira refuses to let it fall apart.

“I’m not going to give up another point,” Furuya insists, and Akira feels a chill run down his spine.

“Okay,” Akira says. “Pitch a strike, then.”

Furuya glares at a specific part of the dugout wall, intense and focused. “Of course.”

Furuya and Akira give up eight runs in the next two innings. At the top of the fourth, the lineup resets again, and the leadoff comes back to the plate for the fourth time.

“Being psychic doesn’t mean much when your pitcher can’t pitch, huh?” the batter says, as he settles into position.

“Don’t talk about what you don’t understand,” Akira snaps. He holds his mitt very close to the inside in the petty hope that he’ll get freaked out by the course. Instead, the ball goes to an entirely different corner, and completely outside of the strike zone.

“Ball,” the umpire says, and even he sounds like he’s pitying Furuya and Akira.

The Seidou dugout is frustratingly silent. Akira can’t help but look over. Eijun’s warming up in the bullpen and has been since the beginning. Furuya’s clearly off his game today. Why isn’t their coach subbing in Eijun?

Actually — why isn’t anyone saying anything?

Akira calls for another pitch. Furuya winds up, sweat dripping down his face. The ball slams into Akira’s mitt.

“Ball.”

Akira looks over to the outfield. He sees the senpai resting on the balls of their feet, still alert even after consecutive walks. He sees Kuramochi and Ryousuke on the other edge of the diamond, anticipating anything. He sees Tetsu-senpai over on first base, watching the batter with sharp eyes.

And none of them look tired.

Furuya throws another wild fastball, and Akira catches it.

“Ball.”

The count is 3-0, now, and Akira turns the ball around in his hands, thinking hard. He looks back at the outfielders, patiently waiting for the game to continue. Then at the coach, with his arms crossed and his face tight.

And then something clicks into place.

Throughout its short existence, the Akagi Junior High Baseball Club had never won a single game.

To be fair, though, it wasn’t until their second year that they were an actual club. Before, it was just Eijun and Akira and a handful of friends messing around in the park after school. Then they started hearing rumors about Akagi closing down, and somehow they got the idea that winning Koshien would save their school. It was a two-step plan: one year to gather and train their team, and one year to win the regional tournament and make it to the national stage. If Akagi could conquer Koshien, then it could continue to exist. It was the kind of beautiful promise that only a naïve pair of baseball-obsessed middle schoolers could make.

But then they lost. Over and over and over.

It was easy for Eijun to jam a batter with his fastball, but jamming a batter didn’t help if your fielders couldn’t catch. If your teammates blamed themselves for every loss, every mistake. If your friends weren’t having fun being the Losers of Nagano Prefecture.

Akira can’t remember when he pulled the burden of the defense onto his own shoulders. Wakana couldn’t fumble the ball if it landed in Akira’s mitt; Nobu wouldn’t have to sprint through center field if the batter didn’t swing. Akira threw all of his energy into getting strikeouts so that his friends wouldn’t have to feel guilty about dropping a ball.

‘Don’t let them score’ became ‘don’t let them get on base’ which became ‘don’t let them hit’. What was baseball? Eijun, Akira, and a batter. Runners ceased to exist the second they left home. The only guaranteed out was one that Akira could make himself.

When did Akira stop trusting his teammates? When did he start counting runners as lost runs rather than part of the play?

Miyuki’s question echoes through his mind. Why did you come to Seidou?

The easy answer is that it was Eijun’s idea. Which, to be honest, isn’t a lie. Eijun said, ‘let’s go to Seidou’ and Akira just shrugged and filled out the application form.

But deep down, Akira wanted to come here, too. He remembers every detail of that little scrimmage on day one. The easy camaraderie between a shortstop and a second baseman. The assured confidence of a batter who knew he could hit the ball. It was something he’d never witnessed before, the way the Seidou players could jump into an impromptu game and seamlessly work together. Akira had friends at home that he loved, but he’d never had a team he could trust — not like this.

Akira thinks of the game nights and the training camp and the endless baseball drills, of Chris’s lessons. He remembers seeing Eijun out on the field, scaring batters in a way they never really managed back in Nagano.

Why did you come to Seidou?

Because there’s more to baseball than retiring a batter. Because this sport is so much bigger than just Eijun and Akira. Because baseball, at its best, is a team sport.

And more than anything else, Akira wants to be a part of that.

“Time out,” Akira requests. The umpire nods, and Akira jogs up to the mound.

“Sorry,” Furuya says, as Akira pulls up.

“Don’t apologize,” Akira says. “You doing alright?”

“I’m fine,” Furuya insists, and Akira looks up at the energy in his voice.

He blinks. Even now, after pitching an embarrassing inning, after giving up consecutive walks, Furuya’s eyes still burn with determination.

If only we had his speed right now, Akira thinks, silently admiring Furuya’s resolve. They wouldn’t stand a chance.

Still, as it stands, they don’t have Furuya’s speed, which leaves them with very few options. But options, nonetheless.

“You need to switch gears,” Akira says bluntly. “You’re trying to overpower your pitches, and all it’s doing is making the ball go wild. Focus on control, not speed.”

“Speed is the only thing keeping them from swinging,” Furuya counters. “If I make them even weaker, then it’s easy to hit.”

“If you don’t, that happens,” Akira says, pointing over at the scoreboard.

“Then what are we supposed to do?” Furuya asks.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Akira says carefully, “but we should let them hit.”

“What.”

“It’s the top of the fourth, your pitch count is in the nineties, and you can’t throw a strike,” Akira says, not bothering to sugarcoat his words. He thinks of Chris’s lessons, of the hours spent watching the team play from the sidelines. “Pitching to contact is the best way to slow that down.”

“You think I can’t strike them out,” Furuya says.

“I know you can,” Akira says. “I’ve been catching your pitches for a while now. If you weren’t tired, this game would be over before they could blink.”

Furuya’s expression loosens.

“But you are tired,” Akira says. “And I think the senpai should start pulling their weight.”

Furuya nods slowly.

“I will admit, I kind of forgot that we had an outfield,” Akira says. “Don’t tell them that I said that. But it’s kind of their fault for keeping their mouths shut. Seriously, isn’t it weird that none of them have said anything to us since the game started?”

Furuya looks around. The senpai are still waiting, watching as Akira and Furuya talk on the mound.

“Not a single complaint about our admittedly pathetic playing,” Akira says, looking at Tetsu on first base. “They know you can pitch better than this. They’re just waiting for our battery to recharge.”

Furuya looks at him, baffled. “What?”

“You know, ‘battery,’” Akira says. “Like in baseball, but also like a AA battery — never mind.”

Furuya shrugs and lets it go.

“Just relax your shoulders and pitch to my mitt,” Akira says. “Let’s try and send it to center field. Jun-senpai should be ready to run, we’ve been massaging his feet all week.”

Furuya actually cracks a grin at that.

“So are you in?”

Furuya adjusts the cap on his head and nods. “I’m in.”

“Good.” Akira slaps Furuya on the shoulder. “Hey, you wanna know what would be really funny?”

“What?”

Furuya turns around and faces the outfield.

“We’re gonna let them hit,” he says, raising his voice. “So everyone in the field, I’ll be counting on you.”

A familiar voice pierces the air. “AKI, I’M GONNA KICK THAT STUPID SMILE OFF YOUR STUPID FACE —”

“Good talk?” the leadoff batter asks when Akira returns.

“Better than the six rolls of tekkamaki you had last night,” Akira retorts, pulling on his mask and squatting down behind home plate.

“Seriously, how are you doing that?”

"Lucky guess?" Akira shrugs, carefully taking note of his body language.

The batter's grip is loose. He’s not planning to swing. Which makes sense, because the count is 3-0.

Akira holds up his mitt and prays that Furuya won’t mess up. 

Furuya nods and begins his wind-up.

Even before the ball’s in the air, Akira knows there’s something different about it. Furuya’s form is nice and clean, and his eyes gleam under the shadow of his hat. His foot drops to the dirt, firm and balanced. The ball flies forward, straight and true — and even though Furuya’s tired as hell, it’s his fastest pitch yet.

The batter swings automatically, and a metallic twang rings out. The ball flies high, and Akira watches it arc through the air — and directly into Jun’s mitt.

“Out!”

The batter grits his teeth and walks away, face red with embarrassment. Akira looks back at Furuya and gives him a thumbs up.

Furuya hesitates for a moment before returning the gesture.

“Ha! Can you hear that?” Akira says, elbowing Furuya in the side as they jog back to Seidou’s dugout. Behind them, Kiryuu’s coach is chewing out his batters for swinging. Their opponents stammer out half-hearted excuses.

“That’s the sound of fear,” Akira says with a grin. “They’re terrified of you.”

Furuya knits his eyebrows together, concerned.

“It’s a good thing,” Akira promises him. “No more runs for them! We’ll just knock it out of the park on offense, and then we’ll win, easy.”

Furuya shoots him a strange expression at that. “‘We’?”

Akira frowns. “Are you — are you teasing my batting?”

Furuya ducks his head. “… Sorry.”

“No, no, it’s fine!” Akira says, and he means it. “Please, continue.”

“Your batting sucks.”

“That’s not teasing, Furuya, that’s just an insult.”

They’re going to be part of the batting lineup this inning, so Akira quickly removes all the catching gear and grabs his helmet. Once he’s got everything he needs, he reaches for his bat — only for someone else to grab it before he can reach it.

“Miyuki-senpai,” Akira says, flatly.

“You finally figured it out, huh?” Miyuki asks, twirling Akira’s bat around in his hands. “Gotta say, I was worried about you two. That was the ugliest game I’d ever seen.”

“Thanks for your support,” Akira deadpans. “If you were so worried about it, you could have just said something.”

Miyuki smirks. “How else would the lesson sink in?”

Akira stares at him, unimpressed. “Can I have my bat back?”

“Yeah, sure,” Miyuki says, and he hands it to him, handle first. “Just don’t forget about the fielders, okay? Otherwise, all those nights you spent bonding with them would be put to waste.”

“Wha — did you invite them?” Akira asks. “On purpose?”

Miyuki winks. “I’ll never tell.”

“I have hours of sleep debt to catch up on,” Akira says. “You made me massage Jun’s feet.”

“Would you believe me if I told you it was Chris’s idea?”

“No,” Akira says. “Because Chris-senpai is a firm and fair teacher, unlike you.”

“You wound me, Akira,” Miyuki laughs. “Why don’t you go bunt us a homerun?”

“Did you know that I’m holding a metal baseball bat?” Akira asks him, entirely unamused.

Miyuki holds his hands up in surrender, but he’s still laughing at his own unfunny joke.

Furuya and Akira shut down Osaka Kiryuu’s batters for the fifth inning, even managing to strike out their cleanup. The momentum shifts in Seidou’s favor, and slowly, but surely, they start scoring runs.

The fifth inning ends all too soon. Furuya starts icing his shoulder, and both Eijun and Akira are buzzing, excitedly looking forward to their first time playing together in a high school match.

They talk lightly in the corner of the dugout, discussing pitches and signals and how they’re going to systematically destroy the rest of Kiryuu’s remaining confidence — only for it all to get cut short when Kataoka informs them that, no, Akira isn’t playing for the whole match. Miyuki will be catching for Eijun.

“Oh. Okay, boss,” Eijun says.

(“Boss?” someone else says, listening in.)

Akira sits next to Haruichi and Furuya as their defense sets up on the field. He’s aware that he’s frowning, but he can’t help it. He wants to be out there, behind home plate.

“I thought you didn’t mind sharing your brother with Miyuki,” Haruichi says.

Akira sighs. “Did you know,” he says quietly, “that we’ve never won a baseball game?”

Furuya and Haruichi look at Akira, startled.

“Really?” Haruichi asks. “But you two completely shut down the upperclassmen!”

“It’s really, really hard to pitch a perfect game,” Akira says. “We’d let a run through, here and there. Not a lot, but our team couldn’t bat so we’d end up losing, anyway. And now, here we are, and Seidou has the momentum — and Eijun’s playing with his not-boyfriend.”

“You wanted your first win to be with your brother,” Haruichi says understandingly, while Furuya chokes at Akira’s comment.

“I mean, I’d still be happy if we win,” Akira says, “but I’d rather be out on the field.”

“Me too,” Haruichi says, and Akira winces. Out of all the first-years, Haruichi is the only one who hasn’t gotten a chance to play — and he’s arguably the best out of all of them.

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Haruichi shrugs. “But it’s understandable that you’re frustrated. You were doing pretty well, the first three innings aside.”

Furuya and Akira both cringe in embarrassment.

“Think about it this way,” Haruichi says. “You and Furuya shut them down for the last two innings. We’re only four runs behind right now — and that’s because of you.”

Akira blinks.

“So if we win,” he continues, “it’s because you kept the score low enough for us to catch up. You don’t have to be playing with your brother to be playing with him.”

“I guess you’re right,” Akira says. “We’re all on the same team.”

Furuya nods.

“Thanks, Haruichi,” Akira says, suddenly feeling much better. “You know what? Let’s go watch from up close. If Miyuki-senpai messes up, I need to be able to describe it to him in perfect detail.”

Haruichi makes a face, but he stands up anyway. “You’re kind of scary, Akira.”

Akira holds out a hand and helps Furuya to his feet, taking care not to jostle his shoulder too much. “Look, if you had him as a roommate, you’d be doing the same exact thing.”

Together, they walk up to the front of the dugout. Akira leans against the wall, getting ready to cheer on Eijun — and the rest of their team, too.

Chapter Text

Miyuki didn't know it'd turn out like this when Eijun first got assigned to the first-string, but he's been catching for Eijun in actual match situations and he's living.

Akira and Furuya had found their groove. They’d managed to regain the momentum and strike out Kiryuu's cleanup. It's perhaps the easiest situation to get subbed in, and with Eijun riding the excitement of watching his brother succeed out on the field, calling for him is a delicious piece of cake.

He knows that a lot of it is due to Eijun's status as an unknown first-year, but he still revels in the looks on their opponents' faces. The easy confidence, followed by confusion, then shock, then fear.

It's the same look they had when Furuya and Akira got their act together, except better, because now Miyuki can see it from up close. When Eijun jams their 5-hole, he can see the exact moment the batter’s soul metaphorically leaves his body.

Seidou's got pitchers now, Miyuki thinks, grinning behind the faceguard. We're not the same team we were last year.

Miyuki is blessed to come into contact with this idiosyncratic pitch. He gets to baffle the best batters in the nation with a simple fastball — how cool is that?

The sixth inning ends far too quickly. Miyuki knows he shouldn’t complain, not after Eijun knocks down three batters in a row without wasting a single pitch, but even so. Catching Eijun’s pitches is the most fun he’s had in a long time. He doesn’t want it to end.

Seidou overtakes Osaka Kiryuu in the eighth inning, and they end the game with a two-run lead. Shaking hands has never been so satisfying. He sees the way the opposing team eyes Eijun and Furuya with respect and fear, and he smirks.

"Hey, Eijun," Miyuki says, after wrapping up the obligatory ‘goodbyes’ with Kiryuu's team.

Eijun's head snaps up like lightning, and his eyes lock with Miyuki's, blazing and bright.

"That was good, right?" he demands, staring down Miyuki with expectant determination. "I pitched really well, didn't I!"

"Hm," Miyuki says, and he puts his hand on his chin and pretends to think. "It was alright."

"Alright?!" Eijun screeches. "We didn't let a single person on base! What the hell do you mean, 'alright?!'"

Miyuki stifles a laugh and smirks. "It could have been better," he says, just to watch Eijun squirm. "You gave poor Jun-senpai a workout in center field."

"Spitz-senpai can take it," Eijun announces, bafflingly, and Jun materializes out of nowhere to punch the obnoxious first-year on the arm.

"Who are you calling 'Spitz-senpai?' What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s because you shout so loudly!” Eijun says with a wide smile. “Your spit flies everywhere and it’s super encouraging!”

A few feet away, Akira facepalms. Next to him, Haruichi giggles. Jun walks away grumbling, but Miyuki knows he's secretly flattered by the nickname.

“You, though,” Eijun says, turning a glare onto Miyuki. “You’re not encouraging at all!”

Miyuki laughs. “Did you want me to be?”

“A good catcher encourages their pitcher!” Eijun says, poking Miyuki in the chest. “What if I was nervous, huh? What if I needed reassurance?”

“But you weren’t nervous,” Miyuki says. Eijun didn’t hesitate for a second out on the mound. He pitched to Miyuki’s mitt with the same fiery enthusiasm he had in practice.

Really, besides the louder-than-average yelling on the mound, Eijun showed no signs of the typical first-year jitters. Come to think of it, neither did Akira. Maybe it was genetic.

“Yes, but —!” Eijun huffs and crosses his arms. He looks away as he pouts. “You could at least ask.”

Miyuki just grins. He slings a casual arm around Eijun’s shoulders and pulls him in close. “I’ll encourage you when you need it,” he says. The tone is joking, but the meaning is sincere.

Eijun rolls his eyes and detaches Miyuki’s arm. “You’re so stingy with your praise,” he complains.

“It’ll make it taste sweeter if I ever have something to say.”

“‘If?!’” Eijun shrieks. “The word is when, you four-eyed bastard!”

God, Eijun’s so easy to rile up. Miyuki can’t help but laugh.

Eijun sticks his tongue out. Then he turns over to his brother and beams. “Hey, Aki! What did you think of my pitching?”

“Scary,” Akira deadpans, and Eijun’s smile grows even wider, if possible.

“Of course it was!” Eijun shouts, bouncing forward like an overgrown puppy. “You did good, too! You did the thing, didn’t you?”

Akira’s only response is a smug smirk.

Eijun cackles and slaps Akira on the shoulder with enthusiasm. “Just like against Midorisaki!”

(Again, Miyuki wonders what Akira said to the batters.)

Miyuki watches the first years for a moment. Eijun babbles about baseball. Haruichi listens, patient and soft, while Akira cuts in with witty commentary. Eijun, once again, starts directing his rambling into announcing his desire to be the ace. The sound of footsteps on dirt draws Miyuki’s attention, and he’s just in time to spot Kuramochi rolling up his sleeves to give the kid a thrashing.

But then someone else beats him to it.

“If you’re going to be the ace,” Furuya threatens, “you’re going to have to get through me, first.”

Eijun turns a startled gaze onto the other pitcher, and the two first-years stare each other down.

A tense silence follows. Akira and Haruichi carefully take a step back, not wanting to choose sides. Miyuki watches with sharp eyes, a delighted smile working its way onto his face. And Eijun —

Eijun’s startled expression slips into something else. He grins at Furuya, sharp and feral and full of promise, and his eyes glow with competitive spirit.

“Challenge accepted,” Eijun says, and Miyuki can’t wait to watch the show.

Their second day of practice matches starts off pretty well. Miyauchi and Nori take the first match and perform admirably. The game ends early, leaving them with slightly more free time than they know what to do with.

Miyuki, Kuramochi, and the rest of Seidou are headed off to find some post-game snacks when, out of nowhere, Kuramochi suddenly pulls to a stop.

The shortstop frowns.

“What is it?” Miyuki asks.

“My roommate’s doing something stupid,” he says, turning around and making a beeline for the dugout. “I gotta go make sure he doesn’t get killed.”

Miyuki snorts but follows Kuramochi anyway. “What, do you have some sort of ‘Sawamura-sense’ or something?”

“My logic is: if I haven’t heard him for a while, something’s gone wrong,” Kuramochi states. “And Akira’s not with to keep him from getting into trouble.”

“I don’t know why you think Akira would be the one to hold him back.”

They head back toward the dugout, jogging. As they turn a corner, Miyuki spots a very familiar figure harassing their chaotic first-year.

Or, maybe it’s the other way around. Eijun is wearing that smug grin of his, and Mei and that catcher look vaguely confused.

“… So you’ve heard of that first-year pitcher, huh?” Eijun says, looking quite satisfied. His cheeks look like they hurt from how wide he’s smiling. “The southpaw that shut down Yokohama High? The one that stopped Osaka Kiryuu in its tracks?”

“Yeah,” Mei says, looking impatient. “So he’s not playing today? Damn.”

The catcher rolls his eyes. “You just wanted to see if he’s better than you.”

“Shut up! I’m just curious, okay! What kind of first-year has a changeup?”

“Mei —”

“And he’s gotta have more than that, to shut down Yokohama,” Mei continues. “What kind of breaking balls does he throw? How fast can he pitch? I wanna see him play!”

Eijun’s going to split his face if he smiles any wider. “He’s not playing today,” he says, beaming. “But I can confirm that he can do a changeup, and he can pitch a ton of different —”

“Shut up, you brat!”

Kuramochi leaps forward to kick Eijun. Eijun yelps and clutches his butt in pain.

“What the hell?”

“Don’t give away information about the team, you dumbass!”

Mei turns red. “So it’s all true?” he yelps. “That Sawamura kid can do a changeup?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Miyuki drawls walking up and sliding into the conversation. “It’s a real money shot, that changeup. Super consistent and everything.”

(It’s technically true, but Miyuki knows how to say the truth without giving anything away.)

Eijun’s head snaps up, honing in on the implied sarcasm, and he opens his mouth to yell. Kuramochi, dutiful friend that he is, chops Eijun on the shoulder before he can get out another word.

“Kazuya,” Mei says, shaking his head. “You always make everything sound so questionable.”

Miyuki laughs. “Heard you’re playing today,” he says, changing the subject. He smirks up at Mei’s catcher, just to be annoying. “We’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

The catcher tugs on Mei’s arm. “Let’s go, Mei,” he grumbles. “I hate this guy.”

“Oh right, Kazuya sure played you last year,” Mei says, eyes lighting up. “He totally read you like a book —”

“Fuck off!”

Mei grins at Miyuki, as if to say ‘what can you do?’

“See you around, Mei,” Miyuki, lifting his hand in a casual farewell.

Mei smiles and fires off an equally casual salute before getting dragged away. Miyuki laughs as they leave.

“Did you know that guy?” Eijun asks, looking from Miyuki, to Mei, and then back to Miyuki.

Miyuki grins. “Something like that,” he singsongs.

Eijun squints at Mei’s retreating back, a slight frown on his lips.

“He’s also a southpaw, you know. You should watch how he pitches,” Miyuki suggests, amused with Eijun’s pout. He tries to rile up Eijun with a sarcastic comment. “You’d probably learn a lot from him — god knows you need it.”

But instead of focusing on the subtle teasing, Eijun continues to frown. His eyebrows are scrunched together in thought. “… You’ve caught for him before, haven’t you?”

“Huh?” Miyuki blinks.

“You’ve caught for him,” Eijun says, his voice certain.

“I — uh, yeah,” Miyuki says, startled by the insight. “A few times, yeah.”

“I see,” Eijun says, twisting his mouth. The first-year wears his emotions on his sleeve, but that doesn’t make him any easier to understand.

“See what?”

Eijun looks at Miyuki out of the corner of his eye, incredulous.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about?” Miyuki says, his voice coming out more questioning than he’d like. “We didn’t even go to the same junior high. We were on an all-star team together for a season, but that’s about it.”

Eijun tilts his head at Miyuki. “Did you like it?” he asks. “Catching for him?”

“He’s a great pitcher,” Miyuki admits. “He’s good and he knows it. But it’s more fun to try and kick his ass.”

“Ah,” Eijun says, nodding. He looks strangely introspective, his face relaxed and quietly curious. “That’d explain it.”

“Explain what?”

But Eijun doesn’t answer. He turns to Kuramochi instead. “Are you here to help me finish cleaning the dugout?”

“Why would I?” Kuramochi huffs. “We only came back here to rescue you from your own idiocy.”

The insult snaps Eijun out of his pensive mood. “I didn’t need rescuing!” he yells.

“No, but you needed someone to deflate your damn ego,” Kuramochi says. He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Can’t believe there’s rumors flying around about you! Share some of that glory with your senpai, hmm?”

“It’s not my fault that people don’t talk about you! Play better!”

Eijun and Kuramochi continue to banter. Miyuki desperately wants to rewind the conversation, to ask Eijun about what he meant, what he saw, but it’s too late now. Instead, he’s left watching Eijun and Kuramochi fire shots back and forth. In a way, it reminds him of his conversations with Akira, but there’s something more open about it that he can’t quite put his finger on.

“Well, I’m gonna go get food,” Miyuki says. “We’d better hurry if we still want some. Forget the dugout, Eijun — we’ll just throw Akira and Furuya at it, later.”

“Ha!” Eijun says. “Freedom! Let’s go, I’m starving.”

He thumps Miyuki on the shoulder before he scampers off, as boisterous as ever. Miyuki looks at his shoulder, and then looks up to watch Eijun run off. He can’t help but scowl.

“What’s got you all twisted up?” Kuramochi asks, and Miyuki blinks out of it.

“Nothing,” Miyuki says, wiping away the confusion and discomfort. “He’s just a weird kid.”

Kuramochi doesn’t seem to buy it, but at least he has the decency to keep his mouth shut.

A mere hour and a half later, Narumiya Mei reveals his changeup on the field, much to the ire of his coach and team. Miyuki remembers the bratty pitcher’s frustration when hearing that Eijun could do a changeup himself, and he grins.

It’ll be nice to flex on Inajitsu, later. He may not be catching for Eijun in the next game, but Tanba’s got some new pitches for Miyuki to play with. Even if the third-year pitcher is annoying to work with, he’s still a great pitcher, and Miyuki knows that it’ll piss off Mei to see that Seidou’s not messing around. So he shows off the curveball, the forkball. He shows off Tanba’s control with well-placed fastballs that leave the batters grumbling in annoyance. All in all, Tanba’s playing well, and it gets Miyuki excited until —

The season opens with a dead ball to Tanba’s face.

The practice game, going so smoothly, comes to an abrupt halt. Before they know it, they’re watching Tanba get carried off on a stretcher and loaded into an ambulance. It happens so quickly that Miyuki can barely process the series of events until he’s sitting in the back of the bus with an atmosphere so oppressive it makes it hard to breathe.

The third years, in particular, are sullen and gloomy. Jun’s stony silence, so different from his typical hotheaded persona. Chris’s newly dead eyes, aimlessly staring out the window, watching the road pass by. Even Tetsu-san looks shaken, with his hands clenching and unclenching for the entire ride.

And for once, no one has to tell Eijun to be quiet.

It’s dark by the time they get back to campus, and the Seidou High School Baseball Club splits off with zero enthusiasm. Miyuki skips dinner, planning to eat something on his own later, and he walks back to the dorms by himself. He grabs his clothes and a towel so he can take a bath and wash off all the sweat and dirt he’d collected on the field today, and then he makes his way down the stairs and to the bathroom.

“I’m a real idiot, aren’t I?”

Miyuki freezes halfway down the stairs. He hadn’t expected anyone to be here — most of the team was either eating dinner or sitting holed up in their rooms, processing the sudden turn of events. Startled, he turns toward the source of the sound. Two familiar figures are talking quietly underneath the tree in the courtyard — one frustratedly pacing back and forth in the dirt, and the other sitting down, back against the tree trunk.

“All that stupid boasting about being the ace,” Eijun mutters as he walks, quiet enough that Miyuki can only barely make out the words. “Tanba-san was going to be the ace. Everyone knew it, too. Now I just seem like an idiot asshole.”

“You are an idiot, Ei,” Akira says tiredly, staring up at the branches of the tree. “But you’re not an asshole.”

“I am.”

“You’re not,” Akira says. “It’s not like you were hoping for Tanba to get hit in the face. Everyone knows you wanted to earn it fair and square.”

“I’ve been talking big all this time,” Eijun says, running his hands through his hair. “But I’m not — he’s really good, Aki. Did you see that, that — what was it called? The one that dropped —”

“Forkball?” Akira supplies.

“He got so many of them out like that,” Eijun says, continuing on. “And he has the curvy one, and his fastballs are consistent, and he can field, and he can bat — and I’ve been shouting about taking his spot this whole time, and I’m nothing like that. How am I supposed to help fill those shoes?”

“I dunno about filling his shoes,” Akira says. “But you’re a good pitcher, you know.”

“Yeah, but —” Eijun cuts off. He stops his pacing and looks at the dirt. “Is it enough?”

Akira huffs. “What, is my word not good enough for you anymore?”

Eijun turns a blank stare onto his twin. “You’re not catching for me. He is.”

Miyuki holds his breath. He probably shouldn’t be eavesdropping like this. He really shouldn’t be eavesdropping like this. But now Eijun’s gone and made him curious.

“He’s a better catcher than me, you know,” Akira shrugs. “You two shut down Yokohama.”

“Yeah, but —”

“And Osaka Kiryuu,” Akira adds on. “Which is more than Furuya and I can say.”

“Furuya was tired, you were at a disadvantage.”

“We’re not talking about me,” Akira counters. “You make a good battery. And you said there’s rumors about you now, right? ‘That tricky first-year southpaw?’ Means you’re doing well.”

“I dunno,” Eijun mutters. “It still doesn’t feel like enough.” He kicks his toe in the dirt, surprising Miyuki with the sudden bout of insecurity.

Akira’s voice is steady as he speaks. “Just do what you always do. You’ve gotten this far.”

“I guess you’re right,” Eijun says, so quiet that Miyuki has to strain to hear the words. “Nothing else I can do but pitch to his mitt.” He lifts his head as he speaks, frowning hard. He looks so miserable as he says that, with his posture drooped and his eyes dark with dissatisfaction.

Miyuki turns around and sneaks back up the stairs. He shuts the door behind him as quietly as he can and stares at the floor of his dorm.

I should’ve gone to dinner, he thinks.

He’d been having the time of his life catching for Sawamura Eijun. Apparently, the feeling isn’t mutual.

Well, it’s not the first time a pitcher’s disliked him. It’s fine. As long as Eijun is willing to pitch to him, Miyuki can work with that. He’s here to play baseball and win Koshien, and that’s all.

(He tells himself this over and over as he lays awake in his bed that night, pretending that the words make the uncomfortable pit in his stomach go away.)

Coach Kataoka gives Tanba the ace number, but the burden of the Fall Tournament falls on their three remaining pitchers. Nori’s obviously nervous, but he at least has some experience to fall back on. It’s the first-years that need the most work.

On top of the extra conditioning Chris has them doing, Miyuki also has to get them mentally prepared for the pressure of the mound. He’d thought before that Eijun didn’t seem to mind pressure too much, but that overheard conversation has him rethinking everything.

Eijun’s still loud, still determined, still pitching with everything he has — but there’s something desperate in his blazing eyes, an edge that wasn’t there before. Or maybe, Miyuki couldn’t see it before. It seems obvious, now. In every outburst, in every throw: Eijun pitches like he’s got something to prove.

“Let’s see that cutter again,” Miyuki calls out, hoping that the breaking ball will help him get a better read.

Eijun’s face lights up with excitement. He winds up and throws — but he’s a little off. The ball goes high, and Miyuki tells him so. Eijun snarks back with his usual loud enthusiasm, but the words seem to swim around the edges of Miyuki’s hearing.

He can’t get Eijun’s dark expression out of his head, the unhappy slant of his shoulders. Nothing else I can do but pitch to his mitt.

Miyuki thought that Eijun had gotten the antagonistic attitude out of his system when they first teamed up against Furuya, because ever since Eijun had tackled everything Miyuki and Seidou had thrown at him. Even now, the southpaw is fearlessly trying to make up for what he lacks, and he’s doing it without letting that unhappiness show. But it scares Miyuki. He’d thought Eijun was an open book, but it seems that their rambunctious first-year has more sides to him than anyone ever suspected.

Maybe I should pass this off to Tetsu, he thinks. I’m not the captain, I don’t have to deal with issues like this.

But you do, another part of his brain says. You’re a catcher, the pitcher’s emotional state is your problem.

Ugh. Why did I decide to be a catcher again?

Because you thought the glove looked cool, dumbass.

Miyuki tosses the ball back to Eijun without saying anything. Instead, he signals for another cutter and crosses his fingers behind his back.

Eijun throws. It’s shaky.

“Ah, my bad!” Eijun yelps. “Lemme try again.”

The next one is also shaky, and Miyuki tells him as much. Eijun’s face tightens, exuding determination. His pitches come a little sharper after that, and Miyuki nods at him, satisfied with the adjustment.

He starts calling for low fastballs. Eijun doesn’t even blink at the switch — he just starts pitching lower and lower, yelling curses when the ball goes too high and shouting apologies when it hits the ground.

One of his throws lands in Miyuki’s mitt, and Miyuki tosses the ball back.

“Nice pitch,” he says, breaking the weird not-silence between them.

Eijun narrows his eyes in suspicion.

“What?” Miyuki asks.

“You don’t have to sugarcoat it,” Eijun says. “That one nearly skimmed the dirt.”

“It’s still good. Now do it on purpose.”

“Ah, there it is,” Eijun grumbles. He fires off another pitch, faster but with less control. Miyuki shoots him an unimpressed look, to which Eijun huffs.

“You alright?” Miyuki asks.

Eijun looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “What?”

“Are you alright?” he repeats, drawing out the words and enunciating them with painful clarity.

“Yeah?” Eijun says, bewildered. He glances down at his pitching hand with horror. “What, am I being worse than usual or something?”

“You just… you seem distracted,” Miyuki says, half-lying, half-probing.

“You’re the distracted one, you asshole,” Eijun fires back, but immediately afterward his face softens. “Are you worried about Tanba-senpai?”

“I —” Miyuki blinks. Well, yes, he thinks, but —

“He’ll be fine!” Eijun declares. “The boss said he’d be back for the quarterfinals, right?” He beams. “So we just have to make it there! Focus on what’s in front of you, Miyuki Kazuya!”

“Why the hell are you giving me advice?” Miyuki asks.

Eijun’s sunny smile turns amused. “Am I wrong?”

“I’m not distracted,” Miyuki snaps, and he inwardly winces at how defensive it comes out. He wipes his face of expression and raises his glove. “Do the four-seam.”

Eijun cackles at him. The ball flies, quick and straight and true. Eijun’s pitching shows no sign of the insecurity Miyuki had overheard last night, and Eijun… well, he doesn’t seem like he hates Miyuki’s guts or anything. But even so.

“Swap out!”

Eijun eases out of his stance and steps back, letting Furuya take his place. Miyuki lets Furuya chuck fastballs at him, and occasionally he calls for the splitter he’d shown the kid before. It’s still awkward, as Furuya tries what’s best for him, but each one gets more and more stable as he starts to find his groove.

Just behind Furuya, though, Miyuki spots the twins. Watching.

Akira mutters something to Eijun, and Eijun elbows Akira in the side. Akira swats Eijun in the head. Eijun grumbles under his breath, but Miyuki can see him smile, soft and sure. Even after just a five-second interaction.

Furuya’s windup calls his attention back to the practice. Miyuki turns his mind off and focuses entirely on baseball. He makes calls and gives Furuya advice, and he lets himself settle completely into being a catcher. By the time it’s Nori’s turn to step into the bullpen, the Sawamura twins are nowhere to be seen.

For Seidou’s first game in the Fall Tournament, Kataoka declares Eijun as the starting pitcher against Maimon High, with Nori next in line as relief.

Miyuki’s not surprised by the coach’s decision. With Tanba gone, Nori’s the most experienced pitcher on the first-string. But it’s clear that he wasn’t prepared to be a starter. With a tried-and-true relief pitcher waiting in the dugout, some of the pressure should be taken off of Eijun’s shoulders.

“There’s a lot of thought that goes into this, huh,” Akira comments, after Miyuki’s explanation.

“Well, yeah. It’s baseball.”

They’re sitting in their room just after Kataoka’s announcement, reflecting upon the starting lineup. Akira’s scribbling down all of Miyuki’s insight on a half-crumpled sheet of notebook paper. He taps his pen on his desk.

“So Nori-senpai’s used to relieving…” Akira mumbles, studying his notes. “He throws a lot of ground balls, huh?” he asks. “Guess that makes sense, if he’s relief. He’d be used to runners. Good for double plays.”

“You’re being oddly diligent about this,” Miyuki says, amused at Akira’s random bout of academic fervor.

“Chris-senpai made me take these kinds of notes on every pitcher in the NPB,” Akira complains. “I failed my math quiz because of him.”

“That sounds like a ‘you’ problem and not a ‘Chris-senpai’ problem.”

Akira shoots him that unamused stare, and Miyuki cracks a grin.

“What about Furuya?” Akira asks.

“What about him?”

“What’s your take on him?” Akira presses. “He’s a strikeout pitcher, right? But Coach had him pitch to contact that one time…”

“Eventually he’ll be a strikeout pitcher,” Miyuki agrees. “It’s kind of hard to call strikeouts with questionable control and only a fastball.”

“You’re teaching him the splitter, though.”

“The control issue stands.”

Akira hums at that, adding another line to his notes. There’s a short pause, and then Akira takes in a deep breath.

“How about Narumiya Mei?”

Miyuki clears his throat and stares at Akira incredulously.

“Eijun told me about his ‘encounter,’” Akira explains, using air quotes as he says it. “He said that you caught for him before.”

“He’s — Narumiya is a formidable pitcher,” Miyuki grumbles. “He’s incredibly consistent, his pitches are fast, his control is fantastic, and he’s got a variety of breaking balls. An extremely annoying pitcher to go up against.”

“No, I mean, what’s your opinion as a catcher?”

“Why does that even matter?” Miyuki asks him. For some reason, it feels like he’s walking into a trap.

“It sounds like it’d be fun to call for a pitcher like that,” Akira muses. “If he’s really all he’s hyped up to be.”

Miyuki makes a face. “He doesn’t listen.”

Akira clicks his pen. “Is that what you want? A pitcher that listens?”

Miyuki frowns. “What’s this about?”

“What, can’t I get to know my roommate a little better?”

“Chris-senpai asked you to do team bonding again, huh.”

Akira keeps his face blank. “Maybe.”

Miyuki rolls his eyes.

“What kind of pitcher do you wanna catch for, anyway?” Akira asks him. “Obviously, you’re good with what you get. But you and Tanba-senpai don't get along, did you?”

“You noticed that?”

“Kinda hard to miss when you two were arguing about his splitter in the middle of the dugout.”

“I… Tanba-senpai is very serious, and I respect that,” Miyuki says. “But there’s no senpai-kouhai out on the field. He doesn’t like it when I ‘boss him around.’”

“And he’d rather be pitching to Chris-senpai,” Akira finishes.

“Okay, how’d you notice that?”

“I think that anyone would want to pitch to Chris-senpai,” Akira says.

His tone is light, but the words sting anyway. Akira may suspect, but he really has no idea what they lost when Chris got injured.

“I like pitchers with guts and good control,” Miyuki says, returning back to the original question.

“Hey, Eijun’s control is pretty good,” Akira says, and Miyuki’s guard immediately goes up.

“It still needs some work, but he is good,” he hears himself say. “He learns quickly, too, I’ll give him that.”

“Hm,” Akira says. He levels a steely gaze onto Miyuki. “I’d tell him that, if I were you.”

“Why would I have to? Don’t you two tell each other everything or something?” Miyuki asks, forcing a teasing grin.

“Hell no,” Akira says, without missing a beat. “But I’m not saying this as a brother. From one catcher to another: you should tell him.”

“I’ll tell him when he needs it,” Miyuki shrugs. “He’s been doing well so far.”

“You never know.”

Miyuki thinks of the conversation he shouldn’t have heard. Of the insecurity, of the secret resentment Eijun’s been harboring this whole time. Akira and Eijun have been fighting for the chance to play together; it’s only natural that Eijun’s starting to chafe under Miyuki’s lead — even if he never let it show.

Of course, he can’t concede the point without admitting he was creepily eavesdropping on them, so he keeps quiet instead.

“Well, I guess that’s it for baseball notes,” Akira says, tossing his crumpled notebook paper onto his desk. He grabs his headphones and starts scrolling through his music selection on his phone. “I’m gonna read for a bit, I’ll turn the light off when I’m done. Night.”

“Night.”

Akira pulls on his headphones, grabs a manga, and plops on his bed. Miyuki, meanwhile, climbs up the ladder to the top bunk and lays flat on his back.

He stares up at the ceiling for a long time.

The first half-inning against Maimon is tricky — Kuramochi, Ryousuke, and Jun all get struck out in quick succession. But despite the scoreless start, Miyuki’s not too worried. They’ll just repay the favor.

“You ready?” Miyuki asks Eijun, as they run out.

“Yep!” Eijun shouts. He pumps his fist in the air. “I was born ready!”

“Remember, you’ve got Nori behind you,” Miyuki tells him.

“I know, I know,” Eijun says. He adjusts the baseball cap on his head. “I know exactly what I’m here to do.”

The phrasing is a little dramatic, but, well. As long as Eijun understands what’s up. “Let’s rough ‘em up a bit, shall we?”

Eijun jumps and loosens up on the mound. Miyuki watches him breathe and shake out his wrists, trying to settle in. The pitcher takes one last breath and then turns to face the outfield.

“I’m gonna let them hit!” He shouts out. “So everyone in the field — I’ll be counting on you!”

“Shut up and play, Sawamura!” Kuramochi yells back.

Eijun shoots his roommate a thumbs up before turning around once more to face Miyuki and the batter. The stadium is quiet. Eijun tosses the ball up and down, and Miyuki follows the motion with his eyes. Up, down. Up, down.

Is it nerves? Is it fear? Or is it confidence? Eijun’s smile is as fearless as ever, but again: there’s that desperate edge.

The batter is standing pretty close. Miyuki’s first instinct is to make him sweat with Eijun’s inside fastball, and a week ago, he wouldn’t have had to think about it.

But for the first time since he’d formed a battery with Sawamura Eijun, he hesitates.

Shut up, brain, he thinks, as the time stretches on. Forget it. He’s a pitcher, you’re a catcher, and this is the West Tokyo Tournament. Nothing else matters.

He shoves away the doubt and places his mitt to the inside. Eijun throws.

“Strike!”

He goes through the motions. One. Two. Three.

At the third out, they jog back to the dugout, and Miyuki starts pulling off the protective gear, getting ready for his at-bat.

“Hey.”

“Hm?” Miyuki looks up and then stiffens.

Eijun’s face is directly in front of his, mere centimeters away, and his eerie eyes pin him down with frightening intensity.

“Shit.” Miyuki curses and backs up in surprise. “Geez, Eijun, don’t stand so close.”

“You seem out of it,” Eijun demands. “You alright?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Miyuki says, scrambling for control. “You were kind of stiff up there.”

Eijun frowns. “Quit dodging the question!”

“I’m fine,” Miyuki says, waving off his concerns. “No need to worry about me.”

“You can trust me!” Eijun declares. “It’s okay, I won’t tell anyone!”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Miyuki says, and he calls up his signature grin. “No need to project your worry. I saw you jumping around on the mound. It’s okay to be nervous.”

Eijun draws his mouth into a flat line, and his eyes blaze with determination. “I know I’m not Tanba-senpai,” he says. “But you don’t have to coddle me, Miyuki Kazuya.”

Whatever cheeky response Miyuki might have had dies in his throat.

Eijun continues to stare him down. “Partners, right?” he asks, and the question hangs in the air. Miyuki opens his mouth to respond —

“Miyuki! Get over here!”

Miyuki grabs his bat and straightens up. “Worry about yourself, Sawamura,” he says, and he thumps Eijun on the shoulder. Then he walks out of the dugout and pretends that he’s not running away.

So Miyuki may have made a mistake.

It’s really, really subtle, but Eijun’s pitches are suddenly flying in faster than he’s used to. The breaks are sharper, the courses tighter, and while it’s bad news for Maimon’s batters, it feels like bad news for Seidou, too.

But Eijun still has that fighting spirit, and they’ve got two pitchers waiting in the wings. It’s a safe situation to let Eijun tire himself out.

Until it isn’t.

The stadium breaks out into shocked whispers in the bottom of the third. Miyuki and the rest of Seidou silently watch as Maimon’s eighth batter walks to first after getting hit with Eijun’s fastball. Up on the mound, Eijun’s face is pale with shock.

“Time out,” Miyuki requests. The umpire grants it, and he jogs up to the mound.

“Sorry,” Eijun says, even before Miyuki can say anything. “That was my bad.” He turns a sheepish grin onto Miyuki. “Guess I was nervous, after all.”

“Just breathe,” Miyuki says. “Relax, and pitch to my mitt.”

“Right,” Eijun mutters. “Right, just — that’s all I can do. Pitch to your mitt.”

Miyuki suppresses a flinch at the almost-familiar phrasing.

He tries to think of what to say, tries to think of what can put Eijun at ease. How would Akira handle this? Last night’s conversation comes filtering in.

“You’re a good pitcher, you know?” Miyuki says, finally giving away the praise he’s been cheekily holding just out of reach. “Remember shutting out Yokohama? And Kiryuu? You’ve been doing really well so far. This team doesn’t stand a chance.”

“Thanks, but you don’t have to force yourself,” Eijun says. “I know I’m doing badly.”

“Eijun —”

“Like I said, Miyuki Kazuya,” Eijun says. “You don’t have to coddle me.”

The grin on Eijun’s face feels entirely too natural considering the words coming out of his mouth.

Fuck, Miyuki thinks. Too little, too late — the pressure’s already gotten to Eijun. If the compliment won’t work, then maybe a reminder will.

“We’ll be alright,” Miyuki tells Eijun. He holds up his glove. “Partner.”

Eijun nods, and lightly taps Miyuki’s glove with his own. “Partner.”

His eyes are gleaming, as they usually do, but Miyuki doesn’t like it. It’s not the relaxed glow or the competitive spirit he’s used to. He can’t unsee the desperate challenge, the blazing fire fueled by insecurity.

Eijun lets another batter walk. The next batter scrapes a double, the one after hits a home run, and Maimon scores their first three runs of the game.

They manage a pick-off after that, and they end the inning. Seidou’s lead is still massive, and they've got Nori in the dugout, so Miyuki isn't worried about that. But when he looks at Eijun, wavering on the mound, he can't help but feel nervous himself. The cracks have already started to show.

Apparently, Furuya and Akira have been aggressively warming up in the bullpen this whole time. Despite the original plan, Eijun gets swapped for his rival.

This is the first time Furuya’s been in a real game with full stamina. Any momentum Maimon could have gained is halted in its tracks when that one-fifty fastball comes flying at their heads. The stadium goes wild with this sudden debut — a monster pitch from a monster first-year that literally no one saw coming.

They win, they shake hands, and they leave. And even though Miyuki should be happy — he is happy — there’s still one little thing that’s bothering him.

And it’s bothering Akira too, judging by the blank stare on his face. They’re trailing behind, slightly separated from the rest of the team.

“Hey, I tried,” Miyuki tells him. “Not my fault he didn’t believe me.”

“This is your shitty personality coming back to bite you,” Akira informs him.

“Show your senpai some respect,” Miyuki automatically responds.

“No senpai-kouhai on the field,” Akira reminds him. “And here I was thinking you and Eijun made a good battery. Are all city boys this repressed?”

“Not all of us were raised side-by-side with our battery partners,” Miyuki snaps back, a hint of bitterness in his voice. “We can’t all form the perfect team straight out of the womb.”

Akira blinks at that, and he looks genuinely startled. “Are you — is that it?” he asks. “Seriously?”

“What?”

“This whole time,” Akira says. “Do you know how much Eijun’s been whining to me about you?”

“Ouch,” Miyuki says. He’d heard some of it, but he didn’t think Akira would really just go out and say it to his face.

“Not like that, you dumbass!” Akira groans. He closes his eyes, looking pained. “I can’t believe this,” he mutters. “This whole time it’s been mutual. Bad enough when it was just him, but now I have to put up with you too?”

What the hell does that mean? Miyuki wants to ask.

Akira opens his eyes and breathes out. Then he stares Miyuki down. “Miyuki-senpai, you are never going to have the same battery Eijun and I have.”

“Is this some sort of weird power play?” Miyuki snarks, ignoring the sting in his chest.

“No,” Akira says, shaking his head. His face turns red, and — for the first time since they’d met — Akira looks legitimately and entirely embarrassed. “Listen, senpai, you do not want the same battery that Eijun and I have.”

“I don’t —”

“Shut the hell up and go talk to my brother,” Akira cuts him off. He grabs Miyuki’s arm and drags him forward, to where Eijun, Furuya, and Haruichi are walking together.

“Miyuki-senpai,” Furuya greets him. “Akira.”

“Hi,” Haruichi offers.

Akira drops Miyuki’s arm and slings his arms around Furuya and Haruichi. “Sorry, I’ve got business to settle with Furuya and Haruichi,” he says. “So I’m gonna steal them from you.”

Eijun narrows his eyes. “What kind of business?”

“The gambling kind,” Akira says, and Haruichi chokes on air.

“Are you saying that it’s —?”

“No, not yet,” Akira says. “But there’s some new information and we have to restructure the bet. Bye, Ei.”

Eijun tilts his head. “Bye?”

Akira drags Furuya and Haruichi away. The younger Kominato keeps looking back over his shoulder, but Akira steps on his foot and they disappear into the crowd, rushing toward where Seidou’s bus is parked.

“Do you know what they’re betting on?” Eijun asks him.

“No clue,” Miyuki says.

They fall silent for a moment, quietly trailing behind the rest of the Seidou Baseball Club. Miyuki bites his lip.

“I meant what I said, on the mound,” he says, after a long pause.

Eijun looks up at him and frowns.

“Look, I’ve been…” Miyuki grimaces. “You asked me to be more encouraging. I should have listened.”

“If you’re just saying words to make me feel better —”

“I’m really not,” Miyuki says. “Your control still needs work, your fielding is shaky, and apparently, you let your nerves get to you.”

Eijun makes a face. “This is your encouragement? I don’t think I want it.”

“I’m not done yet!” Miyuki says. “Listen. You’re far from perfect. But you learn really quickly, and I’m genuinely impressed with how you handle yourself on the mound. Nerves aside, you did really well for your first official high school match.”

When Eijun doesn’t respond, Miyuki looks over — only to find himself looking directly into wide, brown eyes flecked with gold.

“I like pitching to you, too,” Eijun says. The smile on his lips is soft and small.

Miyuki swallows. “Really? Whatever happened to making Akira a better catcher than me?”

“Are you still on about that?” Eijun asks, blinking in confusion. “Wait, was this what was bothering you?”

“I wasn’t bothered.”

Eijun laughs, loud and obnoxious. “Akira’s Akira,” he says, waving it off. “We’re a good team, and I like having him catch for me. But, you know. You’re you. Pitching to you is different, but —” Eijun shrugs helplessly. “I like it.”

While Miyuki’s left processing that statement, Eijun slaps him on the shoulder. “Don’t be so stingy with your feelings, Miyuki Kazuya! I thought you secretly hated me or something.”

I thought you hated me, Miyuki thinks.

“Next time we’ll do better,” Eijun says. “Now that we’re on the same page.”

Eijun beams up at him, wide and bright and full of challenge. Miyuki immediately picks up on the difference. That desperate edge to Eijun’s smile is gone.

(At the next team meeting, Coach Kataoka makes Furuya their starting pitcher against Akikawa Academy. Eijun's grumbling, Furuya's smug, Akira's pining for home plate — and Miyuki hides his amused grin behind his hand.)

Chapter Text

“Five-hundred yen says it’s gonna hit thirty degrees,” Akira announces, looking out the bus window on the way to the stadium. He stares up at a cloudless sky, clear and blue, and he wonders.

“Ew, gross.” Eijun huffs and leans back in his seat. “Don’t jinx it. If it goes above twenty-five, I’m going to cry.”

Akira throws him a superior smirk. “If it goes above twenty-five, you’re going to want to save your water.”

Haruichi chimes in from the seat behind. “Especially because there’s no shade on the mound.”

“Assuming you’ll even get on the mound today,” Furuya mumbles, half-asleep.

Akira silently holds up a hand for a high-five. Furuya doesn’t even open his eyes as he smacks Akira’s open palm.

“I liked you two better when you weren’t friends,” Eijun hisses.

Akira’s mouth moves before he thinks. “That’s funny, I never liked you at all.”

Haruichi hides a smile behind his hand as Eijun pulls Akira into a sudden chokehold.

“That four-eyed bastard has been rubbing off on you!” Eijun complains as Akira gags for air. “Why couldn’t you have been Chris-senpai’s roommate?”

“Why couldn’t you?” Akira grunts out, elbowing his brother in the side in an attempt to escape his grip.

(Somewhere, near the front of the bus, Kuramochi-senpai is laughing his ass off.)

Akira and Eijun continue to bicker until the bus pulls into the parking lot, at which point Jun-senpai politely requests that they 'shut the hell up.' So they fall silent and resort to making faces at each other.

Their wordless war doesn’t last for long, though, because they both know where they are and what’s at stake.

The team is almost silent as they unload the bus, and the atmosphere thickens as everyone starts focusing on the game ahead of them.

Akikawa Academy. Strong defense. An ace with peerless control.

In the days leading up to this match, Akira and the other catchers had spent quite a bit of time going over data and forming a plan of attack. (Which mostly meant that Miyuki, Chris, and Miyauchi said intelligent things while Akira aggressively took notes.)

Even now, the numbers and percentages and strategies are flying around his brain. It’s thrilling and strange and new. Going over data wasn't something the baseball club did in middle school.

On paper, Akikawa is going to be their toughest match so far. It's intimidating, but it’s also a little exciting. Especially knowing that he’s with a team that stands a chance.

As he follows the team to the locker room, Akira keeps his eyes on the sky. Still no clouds. It’s early in the morning with the sun still low in the sky, and a humid breeze brushes by. It reminds him a little of home, of baseball in the park after school, of chucking a ball back and forth with his friends and putting off homework until the sun went down. The memory almost makes him smile, but… it doesn’t.

He’s getting ready for a baseball match on a clear, summer day. It should feel familiar, it should feel safe.

… So why does it feel so ominous?

The game starts off with a bang. Literally.

The sound of Furuya’s fastball slamming into the back of Miyuki’s mitt echoes throughout a silent stadium. The batter stands there, tense and shocked and sweaty, and for a moment, all is still.

And then the crowd goes wild.

Akira lets out a low whistle. “Did they record the speed on that one?” His voice is almost lost in the din of the stadium. “It sounded pretty good.”

Eijun grips the railing of the dugout as he glares out at the mound. His teeth grind, and Akira grins as his twin juggles admiration and envy in equal measure.

“It is good,” he mutters. He runs his hands through his hair. “Ugh, I wanna be out there so bad!”

Across the diamond, in the opposing dugout, Akikawa’s coach looks shaken, but resolute. There’s a stiff frown on his face. Still, he makes a series of signals. The batter nods and shifts his grip on his bat.

Right. Since Furuya debuted in the Maimon game, at full stamina, he can’t exactly be their ‘secret weapon’ anymore.

Even so, it’s entertaining to watch the batter stand there, completely unable to swing. Akira sighs and wishes he was there to make them sweat up close.

But then the game goes on, and that wistful frown turns into a worried one.

Furuya walks the first batter. Then the second. No one’s swinging at Furuya’s fastballs, which means that, unless he gets his act together, he’s going to be walking the whole lineup.

Akira runs through the scenarios in his head.

“Splitter,” he mutters, thinking of the breaking ball Miyuki and Furuya had been working on during practice.

Eijun looks at him. “What?”

“He needs to call the splitter,” Akira explains, “or they’re not going to bite.”

Furuya stiffens up on the mound. Then he nods. He winds up, and the ball comes hurtling down — and then it drops.

“Strike!”

At the unveiling of this new pitch, the crowd breaks out into renewed shouting.

(Akira mentally pats himself on the back for a call he didn’t make.)

Beside Akira, Eijun watches the aftermath with wide eyes. “That splitter looks way more dramatic on the field than in practice.”

“Ha, you should see what the slow ball looks like from the outside,” Akira says, elbowing him in the abdomen.

Eijun brightens up. “My changeup?”

“Yeah, that one.” Akira tilts his head. “Hey, when did you start remembering the names?”

Eijun laughs and scratches the back of his neck. “Uh, Miyuki gets annoyed when I don’t know what they’re called, so…”

Akira rolls his eyes. “I should have known.”

They go back to watching the game, both of them restless. Eijun drums his fingers on the dugout railing. Akira’s leg bounces up and down. They last one more batter before giving up and heading out to the bullpen.

Haruichi shoots them a thumbs up as they brush by, and Eijun beams at his friend.

“Don’t overdo it,” Coach Kataoka calls, as they step out into the sun.

“Yes, Boss!”

“Yes, sir.”

Akira pulls on the faceguard while Eijun stretches his arms, and then they start tossing the ball back and forth.

It’s more an excuse to move than it is to actually warm-up. Akira hates sitting in the dugout with nothing to do. It’s not a feeling he’ll ever get used to.

“How’s the cutter feeling today?” he asks. “You and Miyuki have been working on that during practice, right?”

Eijun brightens. “I’ve got something cool to show you!”

“Oh?”

Eijun nods and then looks down at his left hand. He frowns for a moment, carefully adjusting his grip, and then looks back up, grinning wide.

“If you let it pass, you’re paying for my snacks for the next week.”

Akira narrows his eyes and crouches down, gloved hand up. “If I catch it, you’re paying for mine.”

Eijun’s eyes blaze — excitement, challenge, joy. Akira grins back, ready to tackle whatever new pitch he has in his repertoire, and then Eijun begins his windup.

Akira rests on the balls of his feet, taking in every detail, preparing to jump into action the second the ball breaks. Eijun’s pitches have flown at him for years; he’s more than used to unpredictability.

Eijun’s foot slams down, pointed slightly away. His arm is invisible up until the point it whips forward, and then the ball is flying straight for Akira’s chest, fast and sharp, and then —

It breaks.

It’s instinct, not thought, that has Akira sliding his glove left, and even then, he barely gets it. The ball threatens to slip out of the tips of his glove, and it’s luck more than anything else that stops it from falling out.

He stares at his mitt. Slowly, a smile overtakes his face.

“Aw, you caught it!” Eijun pouts. He straightens up and frowns. “Even Miyuki didn’t catch it the first time!”

“I’ve been catching your crap for years,” Akira reminds him, but he’s still staring at the ball in amazement. He pulls it out of his glove and mentally replays the moment in his mind. “What the heck was that?”

“Cutter!”

“That was not a cutter.”

A cutter from a left-handed pitcher breaks to a catcher’s left. A cutter does not break into the sixth dimension.

“Miyuki and I were playing with grips earlier,” Eijun explains. “This is the one we’ve been working on! It’s more consistent than the other ones, at least.”

Akira throws the ball back, almost vibrating with energy. “I don’t think even the captain can make contact with that! Can you do it again?”

“Yeah!” Eijun beams at him. “But just one more of those, I wanna save my energy for when Coach subs me in —”

The rest of his sentence gets drowned out by the roar of the crowd. Eijun and Akira immediately drop what they’re doing and rush to the edge of the bullpen — just in time to catch two of Akikawa’s batters crossing home plate.

Meanwhile, Akikawa’s ace is on base, still breathing hard from his run.

“Oh, crap!” Eijun says. “We missed the hit!”

But the hit isn’t what Akira’s worried about. While Eijun yells about the score, Akira’s more occupied with the teen on the pitcher’s mound.

Furuya’s face is as unreadable as always, but he seems to be taking his sweet time after giving up the runs, and a bead of sweat makes its way down his forehead.

Akira presses his lips together. Is it nerves? A hit from their opponent’s ace is enough to shake any pitcher, especially after giving up so many walks.

Furuya adjusts his baseball cap. The shadow falls dark and harsh across his eyes as the sun continues to beat down around them.

Their joking conversation from the bus replays in his head. Twenty-five degrees.

Hey… Isn’t Furuya from Hokkaido?

Finally, Akira understands that ominous feeling in his gut. It’s going to be one of the hottest days of the year. How will Furuya fare on the mound?

Both Eijun and Akira hold their breath as Furuya winds up for the next pitch.

Strike. Ball. Ball. Foul.

“You’ve got ‘em cornered, Furuya!” Eijun yells. “One more!”

The atmosphere is enough to rattle anyone, let alone a nervous first-year experiencing his first Tokyo summer. But Miyuki knows what he’s doing. Akira watches, fascinated, as he draws out Furuya’s competitive spirit, and ends the half-inning with a splitter.

“Strike!”

Akira lets himself relax.

“C’mon,” Akira says, lightly tugging on Eijun’s arm, and they head back into the dugout to check on their friend.

When they get back in, Tanba-senpai is talking to Furuya. Since he seems to have it covered, Akira and Eijun go straight to Miyuki.

Eijun speaks first. “Miyuki Kazuya!”

“Why do the firsties love you so much?” Kuramochi asks from beside him.

“Hell if I know.”

“Ha! As if I could love this shitty bastard!” Eijun shouts, making a face at the idea.

Miyuki scoffs, a gesture halfway between amused and dismissive. But now that Akira knows it’s there, he can see the way Miyuki’s fingers curl around his batting gear. And Miyuki doesn’t even seem to be aware of it.

(Akira wishes he could go back to last week, when he thought Miyuki was only interested in catching Eijun’s pitches. Life was simpler, then.)

“Do you think Furuya will be alright?” Akira asks, ignoring the tsundere romance in favor of baseball talk. “His pitch count is pretty high for the first inning, isn’t it?”

“He’s good,” Miyuki says, casting a glance over Furuya and Tanba. “It’s his first time starting in a stadium like this. He’s bound to be nervous.”

“Yeah, but…” Akira trails off and frowns. “It’s summer.”

The implication flies over Eijun’s head, but Miyuki just sighs and breathes out.

“He’ll hold out a little while longer,” Miyuki murmurs. Then he grins and wiggles his eyebrows at Eijun. “‘Sides, we’ve got other pitchers waiting in the wings.”

Eijun puffs out his chest. “Hell yeah, we do!”

“I meant Nori.”

Eijun gasps and grabs Miyuki by the collar. “Why, you smug asshole —”

“Not so loud,” Kuramochi says, flicking Eijun in the head, but he’s grinning. He pulls on his batting helmet and grabs his bat. “And quit worrying so much. Have a little faith in your senpai, will ya?”

Kuramochi tries to bunt on the first pitch and fails.

As he walks back to the dugout in shame, Eijun and Akira send him identical expressions of disappointment.

“Oh, shut up.”

“We didn’t say anything,” Eijun and Akira say at the same time.

It probably shouldn’t be a surprise when Kuramochi pulls Eijun into a headlock.

As usual, the four first-years end up grouping together at the front of the dugout. Haruichi is speaking in low tones to Furuya, probably saying something encouraging. As a catcher and a teammate, Akira should be doing the same. He would be doing the same. Except for the fact that he’s completely distracted.

Because You Shunshin’s pitching is fascinating to watch.

At some point, Eijun tries to drag Akira back into the bullpen. Normally, Akira would concede, but.

You Shunshin is a really good pitcher. Akira can’t take his eyes off of the way his pitches land in the furthest corners of the strike zone.

Which demon do you sell your soul to, to get that level of control?

“Aki,” Eijun whines, tugging on his sleeve. “Ryou-san’s just tiring him out with fouls. We’ve seen this before, he does this every game.”

“No, check this out,” Akira says. He leans forward and tightens his grip on the dugout railing, and his eyes are fixed on the catcher. “They’re about to strike out Ryou-san.”

Beside him, Haruichi turns away from Furuya and frowns. “What makes you say that?”

“This happened in their Tokamiyama match, too.” Akira sighs, resting his chin in his hand. “Catching for this guy must be nice.”

“What?”

You winds up. Ryou doesn’t swing, and the ball slams into the catcher’s mitt. Ryou straightens up, already turning toward first base, when the umpire makes the call.

“Strike!”

Ryou looks confused, and the Seidou stands break out into whispers — Jun in particular lets out a frustrated grunt at the implications.

Akira pokes Eijun’s arm. “You should improve your outside pitching, Ei. I wanna try that, it looks fun.”

“What are we trying?” Eijun asks.

“The catcher’s been shifting the inside and outside while the pitcher paints the corners, and it’s swaying the umpire,” Akira explains. “It’s framing on steroids. Isn’t that cool?”

He turns to look at Eijun — only to falter when he sees Miyuki standing on Eijun’s other side, glaring at him.

“Akira,” he says, unamused. “You noticed that from watching their game against Tokamiyama?”

Akira clears his throat. “Um. Yes?”

“Why didn’t you bring this up during the team meetings, you brat?”

“Oh, uh.” He tilts his head. “I thought you knew? Everyone kept booing the umpire when we were watching, so I figured you noticed already. Sorry.”

Tetsu-senpai cuts into the conversation as he brushes by, baseball bat in hand. “Share your observations next time, Akira. Even the little ones are valuable.”

Akira nods seriously. “Yes, sir!”

“And Miyuki, stop bullying your roommate. He’s shy.”

“Seriously, am I the only one who remembers the whole thing with Azuma?” Miyuki asks, but it’s too late. Tetsu’s already outside, waiting for his at-bat.

(Miyuki glowers at Akira. Akira shrugs, carefully keeping a smile off his face.)

But the amusement fades when Tetsu gets out and Seidou fails to score. It’s two to zero, now, in Akikawa’s favor, and the momentum is against them.

This scenario, along with the weather, is also familiar. A low-scoring match coming down to just a couple of runs. Akira hopes someone will be able to score in the upcoming innings.

As their players get ready to take to the field, Akira glances over at Furuya. He’s sweating in the heat, but he’s still determined. Still steady.

Akira debates with himself for a bit, trying to find the right words.

“Furuya,” he says, and the pitcher looks up, quietly curious.

“Uh, keep it up!” Akira pairs the encouragement with a thumbs up and a smile that feels more teeth than emotion. Furuya returns the gesture before adjusting his cap and stepping out of the dugout. Akira lets out a breath and grimaces at the awkward interaction.

“Kick ass, Furuya!” Eijun yells, as Furuya steps onto the mound. “Remember, I’m ready to come on whenever!”

Akira elbows him in the side. “Eijun.”

“What,” Eijun says, laughing. “It’s true!”

Eventually, they end up back in the bullpen.

Half of the time is spent lightly tossing the ball back and forth, and the other half is spent watching the game. Furuya and Miyuki and the rest of the team manage to prevent any more runs, but Akikawa’s defense is equally strong. And still, the sun continues to climb higher in the sky.

So it’s no surprise when Haruichi comes out of the dugout to deliver the message.

“Coach wants you to start warming up for real,” he tells Eijun. “If Furuya lets another runner on base, he’s switching you in.”

Eijun nods, and Akira dutifully switches gears from casual catching to helping Eijun prepare. He backs up and starts calling for fastballs, letting Eijun get a feel for his pitching, while Haruichi stands in as a phantom batter.

“Think Miyuki-senpai will call for that cutter?” Akira wonders aloud.

“Not anytime soon,” Eijun admits, in between throws. “It’s not ready yet — I lose control most of the time, and he doesn’t react as fast as you do.”

“But it would be really cool.”

“Pfft, you say that about every pitch you see.”

Akira grins. “Gotta catch ‘em all.”

The two of them shake Haruichi up with a couple of inside pitches, and then Coach is yelling for Eijun. Before they know it, he’s stepping out onto the field.

As he leaves the dugout behind, Akira and Haruichi sigh, longing to join him.

“Soon, hopefully,” Haruichi mutters under his breath. Akira wants Haruichi to be right, but he also doesn’t want to get his hopes up.

Eijun jogs toward the mound, eager to get a piece of the action. He parks himself at the base of the mound, clearly ready to be pitching —

But Furuya isn’t stepping down.

Akira’s rising to his feet even before he’s aware of the action.

“Is he okay?” Haruichi asks, concerned. He, too, is standing, trying to get a better view of the commotion.

Miyuki’s saying something to him, eyes sharp, and still Furuya doesn’t move.

Akira’s fingers curl. He can’t see Furuya’s eyes, shaded underneath the brim of his cap, but he’d bet anything that they’re burning ice.

Another set of words from Miyuki. Tetsu-senpai adds to it. But Furuya is tense, gripping the baseball like his life depends on it.

Finally, Eijun steps up and holds out his hand.

A beat passes.

Then, slowly, Furuya presses the baseball into Eijun’s glove. And then he walks off the mound and back to the dugout.

Akira and Haruichi rush over to where he’s sitting. Nori’s already tossing Furuya the ice wrap, and Haruichi hovers.

“I’m fine,” Furuya says, waving off Haruichi’s concerned inquiries. “Thanks, Nori-senpai.”

“No problem,” Nori says, helping him put the ice wrap into place. “You did good out there.”

Furuya twists his mouth at that, and doesn’t respond.

Akira takes the seat on Furuya’s left. “You sure you’re okay?”

Furuya looks up and holds his gaze, silently questioning.

“I’m a catcher,” Akira says. “Poking my nose into a pitcher’s business is kind of my life’s calling.”

Nori-senpai frowns at that. “… Should I be worried?”

“Poking my nose into a pitcher’s baseball business is my life’s calling,” Akira amends. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone that you had half a bag of potato chips last night.”

Nori looks at him, alarmed, and Akira silently curses his inability to keep his stupid mouth shut.

Furuya adjusts the ice on his shoulder, as stoic as always. “I’ll be alright.”

“You did pretty well,” Akira tries. “You held them off. Except for the first inning, but who’s counting?”

“The whole stadium is counting,” Haruichi mumbles, looking at the scoreboard.

“You know what I mean.”

Furuya shakes his head. “It’s fine, Akira.”

He turns his gaze back to the field, and the first years watch the rest of the inning in steely silence.

Eijun ends the half-inning with a pop fly. Miyuki brings in two runs in the bottom of the fourth. Haruichi gets subbed in as a pinch hitter in the seventh, and, one after another, the runners start pouring in. The final score is two to seven, Seidou’s win, and the sun shines down on them like a spotlight. As if it were always meant to be this way.

When they get off the bus, Kuramochi-senpai swings an arm around Miyuki’s shoulders.

“We’re celebrating in this idiot’s room tonight!” he yells out. “Be there, or be square!”

Miyuki and Akira speak at the same time. “We are?”

Kuramochi grins at Miyuki with laughter in his eyes. “Dude. We just trounced the clockwork pitcher. Don’t be a party pooper.”

“You have the console setup. You host.”

“You have the biggest room!”

“They are all the same size,” Akira points out, joining forces with Miyuki. “Plus, your room is downstairs, so we don’t have to worry about being too annoying jumping up and down or whatever —”

“Thanks for hosting, Aki!” Eijun yells in Akira’s ear, and he steals the hat off of his head.

“Eijun!”

Eijun beams at him and ruffles his hair. “You’re my favorite brother!”

Akira shoves away Eijun’s hands. He steals back his baseball cap and glares. “I’m your only brother!”

Eijun and Kuramochi let out identical cackles. Masuko-senpai pats Akira on the head, and the three of them head off, presumably to continue their dumb roommate shenanigans elsewhere on campus.

“I’m stealing all your socks!” Akira yells at Eijun’s retreating back, but the threat either goes ignored or unheard.

But even as he’s planning his revenge, Tetsu slaps Akira’s back, causing him to splutter.

“I’ll be beating you in shogi tonight.” Then Tetsu raises his voice, just enough so it carries, and says, “Eight p.m.”

And that’s that.

A chorus of ‘yes, sir’s and ‘okay, captain’s ring out. Akira turns to his roommate, looking for solidarity.

“Clean the room, firstie,” Miyuki says.

Akira stares blankly into the distance.

No one respects me, he thinks, and he begins the long trek back to the dorms.

“One day,” Akira mutters to himself, as he’s shoving all his loose papers into a drawer in his desk, “I’m gonna say, ‘let’s host the party in Eijun’s room!’ And people will listen to me.”

He clears out the top of his desk because he knows that it will probably end up as an arm-wrestling center again. Then he goes around the room and kicks whatever is out in the open into the corners. Once he’s done, he straightens up and surveys his handiwork.

To be honest, the room wasn’t that bad to begin with. But Mario Kart is the type of game where people pick up the nearest object to use as a weapon, so it’s better safe than sorry.

There are still a few hours before eight p.m. He wishes he could catch for Eijun or Furuya, but they’d pitched earlier today. He ends up pacing the room, picking up crumbs and rearranging things. Right when he’s about to give in and go for a restless run, his phone vibrates.

It’s Wakana.

AKIIIII i heard you guys won!

yeah we did. did eijun tell you?

NO YOUR MOM DID! TELL YOUR DAMN TWIN TO CHECK HIS DAMN PHONE

the last time he texted me was two weeks ago?? >:((( miss the days when he was blowing up my notifications

really?

just a little. maybe. no not at all.

were you able to get out on the field today?

Akira reads the question. After a short moment, he responds.

nah. eijun got to pitch from the fourth all the way to the end though!

PROUD OF MY SON!!!

now he just needs to text me back

he’s pitching to that miyuki guy, right?

yeah

Akira glances over at his roommate’s empty bed. He still can’t get over the fact that the whole thing is mutual.

(It seems obvious in hindsight, but to be fair — it’s not like he wants Miyuki Kazuya to like his brother romantically. He’d traded one idiot pining roommate for another. It’s like the universe is conspiring against him.)

HA don’t worry akira. it’s just your first year! you’ll crush him eventually

get it? crush him? because he’s eijun’s crush

😑

it’s funny!

oh, sorry. AAHAHHHA OMGGggG WAKANAA IM DYINGG

SDKJAJ if you weren’t such a badass baseball player you could probably make money doing impressions

The words make Akira’s stomach twist. He chews on his lip and types.

am i, though?

i mean like. miyuki’s really good. there’s a reason he’s kind of a big deal.

i’m not good enough to compete with him. what if i don’t get to play until third year?

A moment passes, then two, and no reply comes. Akira panics.

sorry, you can just ignore that please. thanks.

He tosses his phone onto his desk and starts rearranging the books on his shelf, but there’s a constant, low-level scream playing in the back of his mind. Every second of silence feels like an eternity. He should have put music on.

(When his phone vibrates again, he’s a little embarrassed to admit that he dives for it.)

okay first of all: you’re badass aki. shut up. i know, eijun knows, everyone knows. even if we lost every game we ever played people still hated playing against us because you and eijun are on some nonsense baseball shit.

second!! even if miyuki is objectively better than you that still isn’t the end-all-be-all. skills and batting avgs and whatever are only part of it. it’s what happens on the field that counts! and i know the second you get out on the field youre gonna knock everyone dead and then miyuki will be the one sitting in the dugout.

third. “ignore that please. thanks.” i sure hope that isn’t how you talk to your teammates up there because you sound like an alien

👽👽👽

PFFFFF

Akira reads over Wakana’s messages over and over again, letting the words sink in. It doesn’t make him smile, but that uncomfortable pit in his stomach settles. Wakana always knows what to say.

After a long pause, he fires off one last message.

thank you.

anytime! now go bully your brother into texting me back!!

“Oh my god!” Eijun moans when Akira delivers the message. “I forgot to text Wakana back!”

Eijun reaches for his phone, but Kuramochi sticks out his foot and trips him.

“Oi! Stop texting your girlfriend and help me set up the Wii!”

“She’s not my girlfriend!” Eijun protests. Still, he starts rolling out wires and passing them to Kuramochi.

Miyuki, who is leaning against the ladder of the bunk bed, frowns. “Who’s Wakana?”

Akira rolls his eyes and starts to turn up the volume of the music blasting in his headphones. Eijun whips his head around and chucks a Wii remote at him.

Akira catches it before it can hit, but he looks at Eijun with a blank stare and opens his mouth anyway. “Ow.”

“Turn down the sound or I’m telling Dad! You’re gonna ruin your ears!”

“Eijun, you idiot, don’t throw my shit around!”

“Sorry, Mochi-senpai!”

He tries to turn his attention back to finding the AV ports on the television, but Miyuki sighs and throws his head back with unnecessary drama.

“Does no one listen to me when I speak?”

“Shut up, you bastard!” Eijun says, unable to ignore Miyuki’s obvious baiting. “Wakana is our friend! She was our right fielder!”

And then, as if the floodgates were opened, Eijun goes down the list of their old teammates, extolling their virtues and reminiscing about Nagano. He waves his arms around, completely drawn into his explanation of their old team’s dynamics and approach to defense.

Akira ends up taking pity on Kuramochi, left alone with a game console and a bundle of loose wires, so he helps him finish setting up the Wii.

“I’ll let you win a round of Mario Kart for helping me with this,” Kuramochi tells him.

“No, you won’t.”

Kuramochi cackles and slaps Akira on the back. “You’re right, I won’t! Now let me kick your ass in Brawl while we wait for everyone else.”

Eijun and Miyuki’s conversation filters into background noise while Akira mashes buttons in a desperate attempt to survive for longer than thirty seconds. Kuramochi doesn’t bother to hold back, happily knocking Akira off the platform over and over again. Akira manages one K.O., but he loses the round anyway. After the game over screen comes up, they go back to the menu to swap characters.

“Hey,” Kuramochi says, his voice pitched low enough that Eijun and Miyuki can’t hear.

Akira looks up.

“He’s not with that friend of yours, right?” Kuramochi says. “Because if Eijun has more dating experience than me, I’m gonna riot.”

Akira narrows his eyes. “Did Miyuki put you up to this?”

Kuramochi sends him a confused look. “What? What does he have to do with this?”

“Never mind,” Akira says, careful not to rush his words. “Eijun’s not dating Wakana. He’s not dating anyone.”

“Okay, good,” Kuramochi says. He chooses Wario as his character. Akira selects Jigglypuff just because. The match starts, and the button-mashing begins anew.

“Wait,” Kuramochi says, after a moment. “Are you dating Wakana?”

Akira laughs so hard that his character runs straight off the map.

“Is that a ‘yes’?”

“I don’t do the dating thing, senpai,” Akira says, still laughing. “Also, she has a girlfriend.”

“Man, everyone cute is either taken or not into me,” Kuramochi grumbles. “What am I doing wrong?”

“You’re literally asking the worst possible person.”

“No one on this team has game,” Kuramochi grumbles. “Except Nori, but I think people just like his squishy cheeks. I thought bad boys like me were supposed to be cooler!”

“‘Bad boy?’”

Kuramochi throws him a feral grin. “Don’t tell anyone, but I was a delinquent in middle school.”

“Oh. Surprising.”

Maybe he laid the sarcasm on a little too thick because Kuramochi executes a particularly brutal combo.

“I’m a good guy, now!” Kuramochi says. “I’ve turned over a new leaf. I’m adjusted.”

“Well, there you go,” Akira mutters. “Not a ‘bad boy’ anymore.”

Kuramochi chuckles. On-screen, Wario sends Jigglypuff flying into the stratosphere.

“You could ask Miyuki, maybe,” Akira suggests. “People like him. I get a lot of questions since he’s my roommate, but I just pretend that I don’t know who he is.”

Kuramochi snorts. “You’ve heard that bastard talk, right? Nobody has a crush on him for longer than two weeks.”

Akira wishes that were true.

“Ugh, whatever,” Kuramochi says. “Who needs romance, anyway? We’ve got baseball.”

Wario runs over Jigglypuff with a motorcycle. One devastating attack later, they’re staring at the end screen.

“Another round?” Kuramochi offers.

“Eh, why not.”

Akira loses again, but at least he lasts twenty seconds longer than before.

Halfway through Akira and Tetsu’s shogi game, someone (Zono) starts demanding cookies. The lust for food travels around the room, and the four first-years end up huddled in front of the doorway, forced to decide who’s getting the snacks.

“I’ll go,” Furuya offers.

“You don't have to,” Haruichi says, still flushed with excitement over his hit and run from the match. “You and Eijun pitched today. And you got snacks last time, we can take turns.”

“But I like getting snacks.”

“Okay?”

With Furuya volunteering, the remaining three first-years begin an impromptu round of rock-paper-scissors.

Akira, somehow, loses three rounds in a row, which means that he’s paired up with Furuya for the snack run. Eijun laughs until Akira reminds him that he’s paying.

“This is so lame,” Eijun complains, handing over his wallet.

“That’s what you get for betting against me,” Akira says, sticking out his tongue. “Also, tomorrow I wanna practice catching that not-cutter.”

“It is a cutter!”

“It’s witchcraft.”

“Hurry up, firsties!”

Akira and Furuya scramble out of the room and down the stairs before Kuramochi-senpai starts breaking out the wrestling moves.

Even though it’s dark outside, it’s still warm. The air is sticky compared to the dorm: a typical summer night. Akira looks up at the sky, half-expecting to see stars, but they’re barely there. It’s his least favorite thing about Seidou. All the Tokyo lights ruin the night view.

Furuya and Akira walk the now-familiar path to the vending machines, their shoes crunching on the gravel. Once they get there, Akira fishes coins out of Eijun’s wallet and holds them out.

Furuya starts shoving the coins into the machine. They clink into the collection box, almost deafening in comparison to the quiet. Akira’s about to open his mouth just to kill the silence, but Furuya beats him to it.

“I didn’t have an excuse.”

Akira blinks and tilts his head. “What?”

“Today,” Furuya says, voice low. He punches in the numbers for an orange soda. “I wasn’t tired this time. But I still wasn’t good enough to stay on the mound.”

“You did good,” Akira says, the encouragement falling out automatically. “Your fastball hit — what, one-fifty-one? And they didn’t score after the first.”

“But they could have,” Furuya says. “And they wouldn’t have scored at all if I just struck them out from the start.”

“Hey, you did your best.”

“It wasn’t my best,” Furuya says, his voice sharp, and he looks up. “We both know that.”

He puts in a few other coins and starts entering in other numbers.

“Eijun is better than me, isn’t he?” He asks, after a short pause.

Akira isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say to that. He looks around for some sort of distraction, but there’s nothing to see outside of what’s illuminated by the vending machine. “Uh.”

Furuya gathers up the other snacks and straightens up. Then he sends Akira an expectant expression.

What do you want to hear? Akira wonders. Furuya didn’t play well, after all — he got pulled because he was walking batters.

“It’s okay,” Furuya says, as if reading his mind. “Just be honest. I won’t get mad.”

Akira considers the question and the way he’s asking it. If he were Eijun, Akira would be encouraging him, firing him up. But Furuya isn’t Eijun.

Be honest.

It feels like forever passes before Akira finally answers.

“Someone told me that it’s what happens on the field that counts,” Akira says.

Furuya lets out a breath and nods. “So he is better than me.”

“Today, he was,” Akira admits. “But you were better than him in the Maimon match.”

Furuya shakes his head. “He has better control, stamina, and he has a variety of breaking balls. Objectively, he’s a better pitcher.”

“Objectively, the best pitcher out there was You Shunshin, but that’s probably not giving him any comfort tonight,” Akira counters. He breathes out, searching for the words to explain. “… You’re right, you didn’t play your best today. But you still have a chance. You’ll get out on the field again. Today doesn’t matter anymore.”

Akira looks Furuya in the eye. “So the next time you get out on the mound, don’t waste it.”

The words hang in the air, one part dare and one part challenge. Furuya will have chances. And, hopefully, one day, Akira will get a chance, too. It’d be a shame to let it slip out of reach.

Akira breaks eye contact, sticks Eijun’s money into the vending machine, and punches in the numbers for Kuramochi’s milk bread. When they have everyone’s snack orders, they start the trek back to room 203. Once again, it’s silent… but somehow, it’s not as awkward as it could be.

As they walk, Akira stares up at the sky. He can’t see the stars, but it’s still a clear summer night. Cloudless.

“Hey,” Akira says. “Eijun and Miyuki are working on a cutter. We should try a new pitch, too.”

“Like what?”

Akira thinks for a moment, remembering every last scrap of information Chris shoved into his brain during their lessons. The arsenal of every single pitcher in the NPB flashes before his eyes.

“I think a slider would be fun,” Akira decides, after thinking it through. He bumps open the door to his room with his shoulder and holds it open, letting Furuya pass through.

The corner of Furuya’s mouth twitches up. “Sounds good to me.”

Chapter Text

The beauty of baseball lies in its unpredictability.

Some people would argue otherwise. Entire businesses are dedicated to crunching the numbers, trying to calculate their way to victory. Statistics and strategy, plans and plays. Scouts traveling up and down the nation, carefully crafting the perfect team.

But the truth is, nothing is set in stone, and even the most airtight of plans can fall to the whims of fate.

Miyuki watches the baseball match before him with an almost hungry gaze. Two teams, wrestling for the upper hand, all the way to the bitter end. Each side brutally taking advantage of every misstep, every slip. When a first-year cleanup lands an impossible hit, all of Seidou is transfixed by the way the foundation of the future begins to crumble.

A hit. An injury. A run.

It’s not Ichidai Sankou that advances. It’s a dark horse, an unknown.

Yakushi High School walks out of the stadium with their heads held high, and the entirety of the Japanese baseball community holds its breath in the aftermath. They cement their spot in the quarterfinals of the West Tokyo Tournament, and something begins to itch under Miyuki’s skin. A challenger approaches.

He can’t wait to meet them on the field.

“Again!”

Miyuki chucks the ball back to the pitcher’s mound, where Tanba is waiting. Jaw healed and thirsty for blood, he throws himself into the drills with a laser-like focus.

The team eases their newly returned ace back into the swing of things, favoring his recovery. Despite his passion, his senses are off, and it takes everything they have to bring him back into shape.

Tetsu steps up to the plate and opens his mouth. “No outs, runners on first and third!”

Tanba throws.

Their captain lands the hit, and Tanba curses under his breath.

It’s not the same, Miyuki thinks. He might have to regain his senses back on the field.

They run through a few more simulations before taking a water break. Miyuki shakes out his arms as he jogs over to the water station. He grabs a paper cup and turns toward the jug — only to bump right into a brown-haired blur.

“Oof, Eijun,” he says. He looks at the first-year curiously. “Why are you standing so close?”

Eijun doesn’t back away, and he stares right into Miyuki’s eyes. “I want to use the cutter against Yakushi.”

Miyuki nods. “Of course,” he answers. He starts to fill his cup at the water station. “That’s why we’re practicing it —”

Eijun shakes his head. “Not that. I want to use the Cutter.”

Miyuki freezes.

Eijun’s Cutter. It’s not a bad idea, especially considering who they’re up against.

If Eijun can keep it under control, and if Miyuki can catch it.

Miyuki straightens up and takes a sip from his cup. He flicks his gaze over to Eijun, who continues to stare him down like a wall he’s trying to climb over.

“… You think you can do it?” Miyuki asks.

Eijun bites his lip. “It’s… not as consistent as I want it to be,” he admits. “But you saw their lineup! We’re going to need everything we have.”

Eijun gets the Cutter right one time out of a dozen, which isn’t even close to ‘reliable’. Miyuki’s gotten better about getting it in his glove, but the risk of a passed ball is still high. Especially when it fails and Eijun ends up throwing wild.

But he thinks about Yakushi’s explosive batting. And when he meets Eijun’s eyes, there’s nothing but determination behind those burning irises.

“I’ll think about it,” Miyuki says, and immediately Eijun breaks out into a grin.

“Hell yeah.”

“Not so fast,” Miyuki warns. “If we can’t get it before the game, we’re shelving it until we have the time to focus on it.”

“Deal!” Eijun says, and he grabs Miyuki’s hand to shake. His palm is warm and dry, and he pumps Miyuki’s arm up and down with enthusiasm.

Then he runs off, shouting for ‘Master Chris’ to help him refine his form.

Miyuki drains the rest of his water and tosses his paper cup into the trash. Then he heads back to where he was practicing with Tanba.

The ace of the team lifts an eyebrow as he settles back down into a catching position.

“What?” Miyuki asks.

“Nothing.” Tanba shrugs. He rolls out his shoulder and adjusts his grip on the baseball. “Let’s practice the forkball.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Practice runs long and hard in preparation for the quarterfinals.

Their defense is polished to perfection. The fielders work until their bones give out. It’s not uncommon to spot teammates out on the field in the evenings, or doing extra work in the practice halls.

That’s why Miyuki doesn’t even blink when a short triplet of knocks sounds on their door after dinner.

“Door,” he calls out, not looking up from his summer reading.

Akira rolls out of bed, grabs his sports bag, and opens it up.

“You’re early,” he says, and Miyuki looks up, half-expecting to see Eijun dragging his brother out to play catch. Instead, Furuya is there, glove in hand.

“Saito-senpai was having a video call with his girlfriend, so I left.”

Akira snorts. He grabs his room keys off his desk and spins them around his fingers. “Gonna go practice,” he calls out. “See ya later.”

Miyuki lifts up a hand in acknowledgment. “See you.”

The door clicks shut, and Miyuki goes back to his novel. Not even five minutes pass before someone else is banging on his door. He gets up to open it and is greeted with the sight of Sawamura Eijun, with a baseball and a glove in hand.

“Akira’s not here,” Miyuki says.

“I’m here for you!” Eijun declares. “Catch my cutter, Miyuki Kazuya!”

He holds up the baseball and beams.

Miyuki grins back at him. “Alright, let me grab my gear.”

Eijun gasps and Miyuki frowns. “What?”

“You said ‘yes!’”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“I dunno!” Eijun laughs, sheepishly scratching the back of his neck. “C’mon, the practice hall is empty.”

“Really?”

“It’s the evening before the match,” Eijun points out. “Everyone’s probably getting some rest.”

“But not your dumb ass.”

“Look who’s talking, jerk!”

True to Eijun’s word, no one is in the practice hall — Akira and Furuya must have opted for the outdoors. Miyuki shakes out his legs while Eijun stretches his shoulder.

“Don’t strain yourself, okay?” Miyuki asks. “Can’t have you getting injured right before the quarterfinals.”

Eijun fires off a cheeky salute. “Yeah, yeah, I know the drill,” he says. He flicks his wrists and starts tossing the ball up and down. “You ready?”

Miyuki holds up his glove as an answer.

They start out with light tosses, loosening up, and gradually start working their way to real pitches. Finally, when he feels like Eijun’s hitting a good rhythm, Miyuki signals for the Cutter.

Eijun throws. The ball goes high, and the break is barely there.

“Watch your step,” Miyuki says. “I think you moved in a little too far.”

“Gotcha.”

The next one is a little better, but it’s still not the Cutter.

“Ugh,” Eijun grimaces, as Miyuki tosses the ball back. “Sorry. I think that one was the release.”

They continue working on it, adjusting Eijun’s form and keeping track of what works and what doesn’t. When he finally recreates that insane break, Miyuki ruins it by fumbling the ball.

“Ugh,” he mutters, as it clips the edge of his glove. “It’s always sharper than I expect it to be.”

“If you don’t see it coming, neither will the batters,” Eijun points out.

“But if they don’t swing, we’re screwed.”

“Ha! Better work on those reflexes, huh?”

“Catching for you is such a workout,” Miyuki mutters, tossing the ball back to Eijun.

They try it out a few more times. Another wild pitch, another passed ball, and finally, finally, they both get it right. The ball smacks right into Miyuki’s glove, and they both let out an excited whoop. Miyuki throws the ball back to him.

“Do that again!”

Eijun throws, but even before the ball leaves his hand, he’s wincing. “Shit!”

The ball hits the net, and they both groan in frustration.

“Why is this so hard?” Eijun complains. He clenches and unclenches his left hand. “Maybe I’m just overthinking this.”

“Your normal cutter works,” Miyuki says.

“Yeah, but imagine two cutters, though,” Eijun says. He spreads his hands wide, starry-eyed. “The cutter and the cutter kai.”

Miyuki grins at that. “‘Cutter kai?’”

Eijun flushes and looks away. “Shut up! It’s cool, okay?”

“No, no, I like it, too!” Miyuki says. He repeats the title, testing out the words on his tongue. “Cutter kai. It sounds like you.”

Eijun beams.

“But we’re not going to use it tomorrow.”

Eijun sighs and his shoulders slump down. “I really thought we could get it down in time.”

“We can beat them without it,” Miyuki says, thinking he might need another round of verbal reassurance, and he opens his mouth to start going down his curated list of ‘nice things to say to Eijun that probably won’t inflate his ego’. But Eijun beats him to it.

“I know,” he says, and he smiles. “I trust you, Miyuki Kazuya!”

Miyuki closes his mouth, taken aback by the straightforward admission. Then he laughs.

“We should probably go to bed,” Miyuki says, his voice sounding distant in his own ears. “Since you’ll be starting.”

“Yeah,” Eijun agrees. They start their cooldown stretches, and a comfortable silence falls over the two.

In fact, the silence doesn’t break until they reach the dorm staircase. Miyuki places his foot onto the first step, headed upstairs to his room, and Eijun clears his throat.

Miyuki looks back, curious. “What?”

“Let’s kick some ass tomorrow,” Eijun says, his eyes lit up in the evening glow. He holds up his hand for a fist bump and grins, all teeth.

A slow smile spreads across Miyuki’s lips. Gently, he bumps Eijun’s fist, meeting that challenging gaze with one of his own, and something warm settles in Miyuki’s chest.

“Wait, wait, go back,” Haruichi says, frowning at Akira. The first-string of the Seidou High Baseball Club is all lined up, waiting for the bus, and the incredulous tone in Haruichi’s voice draws Miyuki out of an aimless daydream. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“What doesn’t make sense?”

“You’ve never felt nervous about a baseball game?” Haruichi asks him. “That sounds fake. Everyone gets nervous.”

“It’s baseball. Why should I be nervous?”

Haruichi splutters while Akira tilts his head. His confusion seems genuine.

“Smug little jerk,” Miyuki mutters, unheard by the first-years.

Haruichi turns to Eijun for confirmation, and Eijun nods.

“But don’t worry, he’s still human!” He tacks on. “It’s after a match when he gets all twitchy.” Eijun pulls on a bland expression and switches up the cadence of his voice. “Don’t talk to me. Stop looking at me. Oh my god, I made the wrong call in the fourth inning, and I’m gonna have nightmares about it for the next two weeks and wake my brother up at two in the morning to tell him exactly what I should have done —”

“That was a while ago, shut up.”

Eijun cackles, grinning wide.

Akira scoffs. “Better post-game nerves than pre-game nerves,” he says. His voice turns smug, and he looks to Haruichi and Furuya. “That’s why he’s always yelling at the fielders before he pitches. He tried to pitch without it once, and he loaded the bases on walks. Now he thinks that we’re cursed if he forgets.”

Eijun turns an entertaining shade of red. “It’s called being polite!”

Miyuki cracks a smile at the conversation. He’d wondered about Eijun’s insistence on thanking the fielders before the match.

“Whatcha lookin’ at?” Kuramochi asks, and Miyuki jumps, almost guiltily.

“Just keeping an eye on our first-years,” Miyuki says, keeping his tone neutral.

“Oh, good idea,” Kuramochi says, and then he raises his voice. “Oi, Eijun! You’re not doing anything stupid, are you?”

Eijun’s hair catches the sun as he whips his head around. “No!” And then, as an afterthought: “Why are you blaming me?”

Kuramochi cackles.

The bus pulls up. Miyuki, Kuramochi, and Nori take a seat near the back of the bus, the three second-year first-stringers grouped together. Eijun and Haruichi take a seat a few rows ahead, on the opposite side, with Akira and Furuya in front of them. The four of them huddle in, chatting the whole time.

“You ready for Yakushi?” Kuramochi asks Nori, and Miyuki tunes back into the conversation closest to him.

Nori laughs. The sound is light, if a little pitchy. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Honestly, I don’t know how you do it. Relief sounds terrifying.”

“I’d rather relieve than start,” Nori admits.

“Yeah, but what if you get subbed in at a bad time?”

Nori shrugs. “You know what you’re in for when you get out on the mound.”

Kuramochi shakes his head. “You pitchers are crazy.”

“Absolutely insane,” Miyuki agrees. He watches Eijun make a sweeping gesture with his hands, nearly hitting Furuya in the face.

“Get your head out of the clouds, asshole,” Kuramochi says, flicking him in the head. Miyuki shoots a frigid glare at his friend, and Kuramochi laughs.

“Dare you to hit without runners on base,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows.

Miyuki grins back. “I dare you to get on base.”

“Why, you piece of shit!”

Kuramochi grabs him by the shirt collar while Nori rolls his eyes with a smile.

A few rows away, Eijun throws his head back, laughing at something Haruichi said. The sound is loud and genuine, and Miyuki can’t help but laugh along.

“Let’s have a good game!”

Miyuki pulls out of the bow, already feeling the familiar rush settling in. Staring down at Yakushi’s lineup, he’s suddenly overcome with the urge to kick their ass.

It’s a sentiment that everyone shares. Yakushi glares back at Seidou with equal intensity — the aura of competition, egged on by the roar of the crowd in the stands.

Eijun and Furuya hold a short staring match with Todoroki Raichi. The first-year batter smiles back, unhinged and full of anticipation.

“Okay, let’s go!” Eijun says, pumping his fist. His enthusiasm is infectious, and Seidou’s defense takes their positions. As always, Eijun turns around and bows to the outfield.

“I’m gonna let them hit, so I’ll be counting on you!” Eijun shouts.

“Kill them, Sawamura!” Jun shouts from center field, and Eijun obnoxiously delivers a thumbs up.

Miyuki smirks.

“Top of the first inning, Yakushi High School on the offensive,” the announcer says, as Eijun fiddles with the rosin bag. Miyuki bows to the umpire before crouching down behind home plate, and Yakushi’s leadoff batter steps into the batter box.

“Number 1. Third-base, Todoroki-kun.”

They’re really going all out, huh? Miyuki thinks to himself — setting Todoroki as the leadoff means that he’ll have the most chances to bat.

Miyuki wants to strike him out as much as anyone, but he also doesn’t want to be reckless — not yet, at least. The first pitch is arguably the most important in the game, and this batter in particular is not someone to mess around with.

Miyuki holds up his glove. Let’s see how he reacts to a ball.

Eijun stares back, eyes glowing under the shadow of his baseball cap, like he’s staring down a dragon only he can slay. He winds up, smile feral, and the ball comes hurtling down —

Miyuki’s eyes widen as he shifts his glove.

“Strike!”

The crowd roars, but it’s faded behind the adrenaline. He holds the ball in his hands and slowly gets to his feet.

He winds up, pulling his arm back as far as he can — and then he throws it.

Eijun yelps as he catches the ball. Miyuki glares back at him, unafraid.

What happened to last night? He thinks, clenching his jaw. Do you trust me, or not?

Eijun swallows, eyes blown wide like a deer in the headlights. He shakes his hair out of his eyes and nods, adjusting his cap as he does so. Message received.

Todoroki laughs to himself as Miyuki calls for another moving ball, high and to the inside. This time, it goes right where he asked for it, landing in his mitt with a satisfying smack.

Miyuki steals a glance at the batter. Todoroki’s lips are pulled back, baring his teeth in a fierce grin. He hadn’t moved a muscle — not even with the pitch threatening to skim his face.

Skill, or insanity? he wonders. Maybe a bit of both.

He throws the ball back to Eijun. Todoroki takes an experimental swing, fast and full.

He thinks he has the timing down. The count is 1-1.

Miyuki shifts the position of his glove and nods at Eijun. Again.

There’s no hesitation as Eijun winds up. That familiar right arm wall, that flexible movement. His arm snaps forward, and the ball comes flying —

Todoroki swings.

Miyuki watches, wide-eyed, as the ball hurtles down the third baseline like a bullet. Masuko dives for it. It bounces just out of reach — but on the wrong side of the baseline.

“Foul!”

Both Miyuki and Eijun let out a quiet breath. That was close, Miyuki thinks. But now Todoroki is cornered. If they can get him out, here and now, then Seidou can take the initiative.

The time for caution is over.

Miyuki holds a finger down and places his mitt. Four-seamer to the inside.

If it were any other pitcher, Miyuki might have hesitated. If it were any other pitcher, they might have shaken off the call.

But Eijun’s never ran away before.

And he’s not about to start now.

“You two give me a heart attack,” Tanba comments, as Miyuki plops down onto the bench in the dugout.

He takes a small sip of water and smirks up at the ace of the team. “Thanks!”

Tanba rolls his eyes and walks away.

It’s the bottom of the second, and the score is 0-4, in Seidou’s favor. Eijun’s on fire today. After Todoroki, he’d only let one runner slip onto first, and even then, he’d pulled off a textbook pickoff even Chris-senpai would approve of.

And it’s not like it’s easy. Everyone in Yakushi’s lineup is a monster in their own right. Not a single one swung on a ball, and though they had trouble, Miyuki could already feel them adjusting to Eijun’s timing.

But there’s more to Eijun than a fastball. Miyuki tossed in a couple of changeups just to keep them on their toes, and — to Eijun’s delight — they’d slipped in the normal cutter right before the end of their half-inning. Just a little parting gift to remind them who they were dealing with.

Miyuki pulls on his batting gloves, grinning to himself. With the pitcher relay in place, it’s possible that the third inning will be Eijun’s last. Still, it’s a strong start against a strong team. He couldn’t be having more fun.

Out on the field, Tetsu lands a hit and skids onto second base. Masuko takes his spot in the batter’s box and Miyuki waits on-deck.

There’s a short commotion in the Yakushi dugout. Their coach steps up and barks out a name. Behind him, a tall teen with broad shoulders pulls on a glove.

“Yakushi High School announces a player change. Replacing pitcher Mino-kun is pitcher, Sanada-kun.”

A loud cheer rises up from the opposing dugout, and something in the air shifts.

Ace, Miyuki thinks to himself. He runs through everything he knows about Sanada — a righty who throws shuutos, baiting the batters with balls to the inside. It’s a bit of a surprise that he’s getting subbed in so soon, but maybe it shouldn’t be. After all, Eijun completely shut down their offense. If they let it sit for too much longer, it’d be too late to change the flow of the game.

So naturally, Sanada hits Masuko’s elbow guard with a dead ball.

“Aw, fuck,” Sanada whines from the mound. He scratches the back of his neck and smiles sheepishly. “Sorry, guys!”

“Do your damn job!” their coach yells from the dugout.

Sanada laughs.

Miyuki steps into the box and looks out at the mound. Sanada’s smiling — seriously, Yakushi’s players always seem to have unhinged grins on their faces — and his shoulders are loose and relaxed.

He’s not shaken at all, Miyuki realizes. A pitcher with a wild shuuto and good control.

And a clear head, apparently. One out with runners on first and second, and he doesn’t even seem to recognize the pressure.

Miyuki pulls the bat in close and smiles back as cheeky as he can manage.

Sorry, ace, but I’m not in the habit of making things easy for people like you.

Sanada starts off with a shuuto so sharp he’s forced to duck out of the way.

“Ball!”

Miyuki shakes his head and settles back into position. Sanada licks his lips and winds up once more, and the ball comes hurtling down. Another ball, though this one was less wild than the last.

2-0, Miyuki thinks, tightening his grip on the bat. Now if I were you, I’d want a strike.

Sanada closes his eyes and breathes out, once. When he opens them, the smile is gone, leaving only a blazing glare filled with focus.

Miyuki swings.

It’s a mistake.

“What was that?” Coach Oota asks, when he walks back into the dugout. “The timing was perfect, wasn’t it?”

Miyuki answers his question, but it’s Eijun he’s looking at when he speaks. “Cutter,” he says, simply.

Eijun pouts, personally offended. Miyuki can’t help it — he laughs.

“What?” Eijun snaps. He’s already pulling his cap back on, and he has his glove in his hand.

“Don’t worry, Eijun,” Miyuki tells him, and he slaps Eijun on the shoulder before grabbing his catching gear. “We’ll just repay the favor.”

There are several things to keep track of when you’re on the field. Who’s on base, who’s up to bat. How your pitcher is doing.

The plan was to sub in Furuya after one time around Yakushi’s lineup. Miyuki knows this. Eijun knows this, too.

But plans, for better or worse, rarely survive first contact with the enemy.

Eijun’s pitching really well today. Jamming Todoroki first thing in the game has lit a fire beneath him. Even with Sanada shutting them down, it’s hard to ignore how fluidly Eijun throws.

At least, until their ninth batter gets on second after hitting one of Eijun’s fastballs.

The crowd roars at the sudden opportunity. And next up is Todoroki Raichi — coming around for his second battle against their tricky first-year southpaw.

Do they go with the plan? Or do they go with the flow? It’s not like Miyuki wants Eijun to get subbed off, but even he knows that Eijun’s not quite ready for a full match. Sooner or later, Eijun will have to give up the mound. All that’s left to decide is the timing.

Out of the corner of his eye, Miyuki can see Kataoka and Oota discussing in the dugout. Eijun waits for the verdict, tossing the rosin bag up and down.

“C’mon, cowards,” Todoroki mutters. His voice is low, but not low enough to escape Miyuki’s hearing. Still, that eerie grin is fixed upon his face. “Keep him in!”

Finally, Haruichi steps out of the dugout. He runs to the mound, and Seidou’s defense pulls in to hear the message.

“He’s entrusting the inning to you,” Haruichi says. “Just two more outs.”

“Two more outs,” Eijun repeats, and his face is more serious than Miyuki’s ever seen.

Todoroki’s cackling when Miyuki comes back home. As Miyuki crouches down, Todoroki swings his bat through the air, as if tasting the pitch.

“Play ball!”

One out, runner on second. Up by four.

Eijun throws.

Clang!

Wind brushes by Miyuki’s face as Todoroki swings. The ball arcs through the air before hitting the edge of the stadium.

“Foul!”

God, this kid is terrifying.

He holds up his mitt and calls for a changeup. Eijun presses his lips together and pulls his arm back.

Another foul.

“Oh, c’mon!” Todoroki shouts, enraged. He points his bat out at Eijun, teeth bared. “Wrong pitch! Give it to me!”

How the hell did he get used to Eijun’s pitch so quickly? Miyuki thinks to himself. The speed difference between Eijun’s fastball and his changeup is enough to throw off anyone.

Sure, the count is in their favor, but the strength of those foul balls is no joke. Todoroki Raichi’s adjusted with style.

Lure him in, Miyuki thinks. He sets himself up for the next pitch and holds down a finger. Four-seamer, to the inside —

Eijun shakes his head.

What?

Miyuki repeats the call, thinking that he might just be seeing things, but once again, Eijun shakes his head.

You’ve never shaken my calls before, Miyuki thinks with annoyance. He moves his mitt to a different location. Outside?

Eijun frowns.

What the hell are you asking for?

“Time out,” Miyuki requests. The umpire grants it, and he jogs forward, confused.

“He’ll hit the four-seamer,” Eijun says, as soon as Miyuki pulls up to the mound. “I can feel it.”

“Okay,” Miyuki says. “Changeup?”

“After the last one? No way.”

“Then what?”

Eijun takes in a deep breath. Then he lifts his gaze — fierce and gold and glowing with drive — and Miyuki suddenly knows what he wants.

“Eijun.”

“If he hits here, we’re done for,” Eijun argues.

“He bats left,” Miyuki counters. “It won’t be as effective.”

“Coach gave this inning to me.”

“You don’t have to one-up Sanada —”

“I’m not trying to one-up Sanada!”

His knuckles are white around the hardball. Miyuki bites his lip.

One chance out of a dozen. And he wants to use it against Todoroki Raichi?

What if it goes wild? What if it’s a meatball? What if Todoroki doesn’t swing, and Miyuki fumbles the catch?

As if sensing his thoughts, Eijun takes his gloved hand and taps it against Miyuki’s chest.

“We can do it,” Eijun insists, eyes burning like twin suns. Then he tilts his head, grinning wide. “Tell me it wouldn’t be cool as hell.”

Miyuki barks out a laugh. “You crack me up, Eijun,” he says, unable to deny it.

"Is that a yes?"

Miyuki lets out a fond sigh. “Fine. Don’t mess up, partner.”

“Right back at you, partner,” Eijun snipes back. He bumps Miyuki, shoulder-to-shoulder. “Now get off of my mound.”

“Pitchers,” Miyuki says to himself, on his way back home. “Crazy, all of them.”

But if he were to be honest, he might be a little crazy himself. After all, it takes two people to make a great pitch. A battery, working together in sync.

He crouches behind home plate. Todoroki laughs, fierce and low, but Miyuki can barely hear it on account of the blood rushing through his ears.

Let’s do this.

Eijun throws. Todoroki swings. The ball breaks.

The crowd’s cheering has nothing on the triumphant roar Eijun lets out from the mound.

Eijun gets subbed out for the fourth, much to Miyuki’s dismay and Yakushi’s relief, but even with him coming off the mound, Yakushi never quite manages to regain their rhythm. The final score is 3-8.

The whole way back to the bus, Eijun chatters away into Miyuki’s ear.

“Did you see that?” Eijun says, reliving his moment of glory. He rambles away, describing every detail, as if Miyuki weren't right there with him. “The first time around! When we jammed him! Their whole dugout was pissed as hell! Ah!”

Miyuki smiles, amused. “I remember.”

“And then their third guy,” Eijun says. “When he swung at the changeup, I thought he was going to explode. His face was so red.”

“Remember their fourth batter?”

“Ha! Pop-fly to first! Easy out! Thank you, Leader!”

Up ahead, Tetsu tips his baseball cap.

“And then!” Eijun says, continuing with his retelling. “The cutter kai! He totally looked like he was about to cry!” Eijun points to the sky, at nothing in particular. “You hear that, Todoroki Raichi? I saw your tears! I feast upon them!”

“Shut up,” Miyuki says, but he’s laughing too hard. “They’re gonna beat us up if they hear you!”

“Don’t worry, I have experience!” Eijun pulls on a stupid face and holds up his arms in a boxing stance. “I nearly got suspended for clearing the bench, once! Takashima-sensei said that my forceful slaps were a sign of a good pitcher!”

“You have got to tell me that story.”

Eijun vibrates. “God, I can’t wait until the next time we play them. I bet Raichi’s waiting for another cutter kai!”

Kuramochi’s voice rings out from behind them. “I can’t believe you named your pitch. Which anime did you pull that one from?”

“Shut up, it’s cool!”

“You should have let me name it,” Akira complains from a few meters ahead.

Eijun pulls on a pained expression. “Aki, your names suck.”

“I think we should call it portal-to-hell.”

“That’s so gross!” Eijun grabs Miyuki’s arm and sticks his tongue out. “Miyuki Kazuya’s on my side!”

Akira rolls his eyes. Haruichi takes out a small notepad and, bafflingly, adds a tally mark to its pages.

“In fact,” Eijun continues, ignoring the action, “Miyuki Kazuya thinks it’s cool, too! So there!”

“Do you have to use my full name?” Miyuki asks. He stares at Eijun’s hand, gripping his arm, and wonders if he should pull away.

Eijun smiles back, all teeth. “I could call you tanuki bastard.”

“Miyuki Kazuya is fine.”

Eijun laughs and lets go of Miyuki’s arm. Then he breaks out into another monologue. Akira, Haruichi, and Furuya all indulgently let him talk, clearly accustomed to this behavior.

But for Miyuki, it’s a novel experience. He’s never inserted himself into the first-years’ post-game rituals. He’s seen it from afar, of course — no one can really ignore Eijun when he’s on a roll — but it’s different, somehow, to have Eijun talking with him. To witness this from the inside.

Miyuki doesn’t even realize that they’ve boarded the bus until he’s sitting next to Eijun like it’s the most natural thing in the world. There’s no time to think over his decision, though, because Eijun immediately launches himself into another riveting play-by-play.

And Miyuki, somehow, can’t look away.

This is what it feels like to fall for Sawamura Eijun:

You’re sitting on a cracked leather bus seat, on the inside row. Right next to you, framed by the window, he rambles about the game with a fire in his eyes. The only thing you can hear is the sound of his voice in your ears, light and musical and full of passion. When he talks, he gestures with his hands, animated and bright and so very alive.

Normally, you’d be joining in. Poking into his conversations with witty commentary. Pushing buttons just to see how he’ll react. You open your mouth to butt into his incoherent monologue, but something stops you.

Is it the way his hair catches the light? The way his eyes flash, brown and gold? Or maybe it’s his impossibly sunny smile. His laugh, hearty and sincere.

Something flips in your gut, warm and tight at the same time. You want to cry. You want to laugh. You want to run your hands through his hair and feel his calloused fingers intertwine with yours.

He looks up, and your eyes meet. You can’t help the way your breath hitches, can’t stop the words from being stolen straight off your tongue. What would you say, anyway? You could spend the rest of your life writing pages upon pages, and it’d never be enough.

You call him your ‘partner.’ What you really mean is, ‘You’re incredible. You’re an inspiration.’

What you mean is, ‘I trust you with everything I am.’

The moment hangs, suspended in time. You think you could live here forever, staring into the eyes of the only pitcher you ever want to catch for.

But then the bus brakes, jolting you out of that perfect moment, and suddenly you’re back in reality. Back to being on a bus with two-dozen high school boys, with post-game fatigue settling into your bones and the salty taste of sweat on your lips.

He laughs at you. You let out a quiet chuckle, and maybe it comes out more fond than amused, because he has a million questions in his eyes that you couldn’t even begin to answer.

Finally, he looks away. A shiver goes down your spine, and you lean back in your seat. Your heart hammers away in your chest, your breathing is borderline panicked, but in spite of everything, you feel like you’re living on top of the world.

You swear you would do anything to make him feel the same way.

Miyuki doesn't remember getting off the bus. The typical jokes and cheers get tossed around when they make it back to Seidou, and he only puts up a token protest when the upperclassmen claim his room for a celebratory game night.

Tetsu takes one look at him and orders him to take a nap.

It’s not exhaustion causing Miyuki to check out right now, but it’s not like he’s going to say otherwise. He trudges back to his room in a giddy daze. Images flash through his mind: laughing with Eijun, catching for Eijun, taking a water break in the dugout with Eijun, sitting next to him, shoulder to shoulder, turning his head and leaning forward to press his lips against Eijun’s own —

What the fuck is wrong with me? Miyuki thinks, somewhere between exhilarated and horrified. He opens the door to his room, locks it behind him, and shoves his burning face into his pillow.

That wide-eyed look on Eijun’s face after striking out Todoroki Raichi is ingrained into his mind. That lion’s glare he gets on the mound. That competitive grin.

I trust you, Miyuki Kazuya!

Miyuki’s spent the whole year chasing that trust. Aching for a taste of that feeling. Now that he has it, all he wants is more, more, more.

Maybe it’s just the energy, some part of his brain says. You’re conflating the game’s triumph with… whatever the hell this is.

You never imagined kissing Nori after a win.

Oh my god, I’m trying to maintain stability of mind, alright?

Never imagined kissing Tanba after a win.

The voice in his brain scoffs.

Fine! You wanna talk feelings? You like Sawamura Eijun! How does that make you feel?

Invincible.

Fucking hell, you got it bad.

Miyuki chucks his pillow back onto his bunk bed and starts pacing the room. His hands twitch, restless. He wants to scream. He wants to run.

He also wants to kiss Eijun on the lips, apparently, but some of those options are more reasonable than the others.

In the end, he does what he always does when he has a problem to think through. It’s probably a bad idea after playing a full match against Yakushi High, but he needs this right now. He’s always thought more clearly on the field.

So he grabs his gear and heads for the batting cages.

Kuramochi and Nori find him, later, surrounded by stray baseballs. His palms are red from gripping the bat too hard, and the whir of the pitching machine fills the cage.

“Are you some sort of idiot?” Kuramochi asks him. He flips the switch on the machine and makes a face. “The hell are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” Miyuki counters.

“There’s a post-game celebration in your room,” Nori offers, “and no one knew where you were.”

“Oh, is it that late already?”

Nori looks at the baseballs scattered over the ground. “How long have you been here?”

Miyuki refuses to answer. He takes off his batting helmet and shakes out his hair. His bangs are plastered to his forehead, sticky and sweaty. He needs a shower.

Kuramochi watches him with narrowed eyes, the weight of his gaze pressing down onto his shoulders.

“... You okay?” He asks. “You can crash in my room, if you’re really tired. It’s probably too late to move the game night out of your dorm.”

“I’m fine,” Miyuki says, trying not to think about sleeping in the bunk above Eijun’s bed.

Kuramochi lifts an eyebrow. “Really? Because you only do this to yourself when you’re thinking too hard.”

“I am thinking,” Miyuki admits.

“Yakushi?” Nori guesses. He squints. “Or about the semifinals?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, it’s not like you ever think about anything other than baseball.”

Miyuki swallows.

“Oh my god!” Kuramochi says. “Nori, start recording. Miyuki’s processing an emotion!”

“Fuck off,” Miyuki scoffs. He starts picking up all the stray baseballs and tossing them back into the bin. Kuramochi and Nori join in, and before long, they’ve cleaned up the batting cage.

… The same batting cage where he and Eijun first struck out Furuya. Miyuki sucks in a breath at the memory.

It takes him a moment to realize that Kuramochi and Nori are both staring at him.

“What?” He asks. It comes out more defensive than he’d like.

“Seriously, you can crash in my room if you need to,” Kuramochi says, eyebrows knitted together with concern. “And I can host the party next time.”

“I don’t need to,” Miyuki decides. “It’s fine. I’ve made my peace.”

“‘Made your peace?’” Nori asks him. “Did somebody die?”

“My sanity did,” Miyuki mutters under his breath.

Kuramochi rolls his eyes. “No loss there. C’mon. We’re trying to take down the Sawamura twins in poker and we need your bluffing skills.”

They start the walk back to the dorms. Miyuki fiddles with the strap of his bag. Part of him wants to go back to the cages, to keep swinging until he can’t stand anymore. The rest of him is a little more reasonable. He has to get some sleep tonight, after all.

Though he doubts it’ll be a restful sleep. He has a crush on his pitcher. On his roommate's twin brother. It’s like the plot of that bad shoujo manga Eijun was rambling about during dinner the other day, and fuck, he can’t even go thirty seconds without thinking of him.

Miyuki doesn’t even remember paying attention to that. Why does he remember that?

“We should ban the twins from all future poker games,” Kuramochi says, oblivious to Miyuki’s internal crisis. “They’re kicking our asses. It’s an embarrassment.”

“Akira got Jun to do a snack run,” Nori tells Miyuki. “Masuko owes him a foot massage. Luckily, he only asked me if he could catch my pitches outside of practice.”

“Eijun, though,” Kuramochi grumbles. “No one was expecting him to have a stone-cold poker face.”

“Really?” Miyuki asks, picturing Eijun in front of him, dealing out playing cards with a confident smile.

“Yeah, he shuts up and gets all smug. Can’t tell what he’s thinking, except that he thinks he’s going to win. And he’s right. Every time.”

“It’s kinda terrifying,” Nori tacks on. “Eijun cleaned out Ryousuke in two rounds.”

“That’s hot,” Miyuki blurts out, because romance turns you into an idiot.

“What?” Nori asks, stopping in his tracks.

Kuramochi trips and slams his face into an inconvenient pole.

Chapter Text

At six-thirty in the morning, Akira trudges into the cafeteria, fills up a tray of food, and drops into the spot across from Kominato Haruichi.

Haruichi looks up and frowns. Akira stares back, dead-eyed.

“Furuya won,” he says, voice flat.

“What?” Haruichi asks. “Wait, are you sure? I had a lot of money on Eijun!”

Akira hides his face in his hands. “Do you know where Miyuki-senpai is right now?”

“Uh, sleeping?” Haruichi tries. “Like he normally is at six-thirty in the morning?”

“No,” Akira groans. “He’s out on a morning run.”

The words sink in. Haruichi slumps down in his seat, weighed down with defeat, and Akira mirrors the action.

There’s only one person dumb enough to go for a run the morning after the quarterfinals.

… Well, two people, now.

Miyuki’s the opposite of a morning person, which is why he had clumsily knocked over every loose article in the room on his way out. Akira shoved a pillow over his head to block the noise, but it didn’t help. Especially once his brain kicked in and he realized that oh, my roommate is going to try and flirt with my brother first thing in the morning.

It’d probably be funny if it weren’t happening to him.

“I can’t believe Furuya called it,” Akira mutters, as Haruichi pulls something out of his pocket. “I didn’t think Miyuki had that much emotional intelligence.”

“You took all my money in the poker game last night,” Haruichi says, peeking into his empty wallet. “I can’t believe this. I put half my allowance on Eijun realizing first!”

“I’ll give your money back,” Akira mumbles. “I hope Furuya uses it on something other than the senpai’s snacks.”

“He won’t.”

“No, he won’t.”

Miserably, they start eating breakfast. At some point, Furuya sleepily wanders into the room and joins them at their table. They work through their food without speaking.

One second of silence. Two seconds.

“Was that Eijun and Miyuki-senpai running around the field?” Furuya asks.

Akira slams a thousand-yen bill down without saying anything.

Furuya pockets the money, face blank, but Akira knows he’s laughing underneath the mask.

Practice that day is lowkey, as their players recover from the match from Yakushi. There’s a lot of running and some basic fielding drills, and short sort-of scrimmage where Akira gets his fielding critiqued to hell and back. And then practice is over.

Akira doesn’t bother to head back to his room, though. He catches Furuya’s eye and they head over to their unofficial practice spot: the bullpen on field B.

“Okay, so I looked it up,” Akira says, and he pulls out a crumpled sheet of paper. “I found a bunch of tutorial articles and then I watched like, three hours worth of pitching footage for this.”

In front of him, Furuya sits cross-legged in the dirt. Akira spreads out his notes on the ground like a map.

“Here are my notes on the slider,” Akira says, proudly presenting the fruits of his labor.

Furuya peers over the words for a few moments, silently taking them in, and Akira waits with bated breath. Finally, Furuya lifts his head.

“… I can’t read your handwriting,” he says.

“Of course you can’t,” Akira says, snatching the paper away. Slightly embarrassed, he crumples it back up and shoves it into his pocket. “But that’s okay! I helped Eijun figure out a changeup. This’ll be a piece of cake.”

He pulls out a baseball and turns it around in his hands.

“Alright, see these seams?” He points it out to Furuya. “You wanna put your middle and index fingers over them. Try it.”

“Okay,” Furuya says. He takes the ball into his hands and fiddles with his grip. Then he holds it up. “Like this?”

Akira studies Furuya’s grip. It looks about right.

“We’ll try it out,” he decides. He pulls on his faceguard and scrambles some distance away. Furuya gets to his feet and flexes his wrist, as if testing the feel of the ball in his hands.

“When you’re ready.”

Furuya winds up.

The ball comes flying forward, and Akira stands up as it lands in his glove.

Furuya frowns. “Was that bad?”

“Yeah.” Akira replays the pitch in his head and tosses the ball back to him. “The break was kind of lame. How did it feel?”

“Kind of awkward,” Furuya admits. He catches the ball out of the air and plays with his grip a little more.

“Throw it off your index finger,” Akira says, remembering the advice from all the baseball forums he’d explored.

“Index,” Furuya repeats. He checks his grip one last time.

Akira crouches back down, and again, Furuya winds up.

The break is a little better this time, though it bounces twice. Akira stops the ball and secures it in his glove before spitting dirt out of his mouth.

“Hm,” he says, tossing the ball back. He replays the trajectory in his head, a little surprised. “That had a lot more vertical motion than I was expecting. Not bad?”

“That one didn’t feel good, either,” Furuya says. He frowns and swings his arm slowly, testing out the motion.

“Uh, gimme a sec,” Akira says. He pulls his notes out of his pocket to read over them.

“Don’t come ‘around’ the ball. Are you coming around the ball?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“I think it’s an issue with form?” Akira says, scratching his head. “It causes elbow tension.”

“Okay?”

Akira reads another bullet point. “‘Picture it like you’re throwing a football.’”

“American?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve never thrown a football before.”

Akira goes back down the list.

“This one says, ‘visualize throwing your fingers at the catcher.’”

They both make a face at the same time.

Akira shakes his head. “Okay, the imagery is weird, but does it help?”

“I’ll try it,” Furuya says.

He winds up and throws. The ball hits the dirt, and Akira stops it with a frown.

“Maybe we need another perspective,” he muses. “Okay, you throw at the net, and I’ll film it with my phone —”

“Are you flicking your wrist?” A new voice cuts in, and Akira nearly falls over in shock.

Furuya and Akira whip their heads around, only to see Coach Kataoka, arms crossed and face utterly unreadable.

“Coach,” Furuya says, dipping his head in acknowledgment.

“Hi,” Akira says, like an idiot. A bead of sweat drips down the back of his neck. How long was he standing there?

Coach nods back and walks closer. He glances between the two of them before turning to Furuya. “You’re trying a slider, right?”

“Yes.” Furuya holds up the ball, and Coach Kataoka looks over his grip.

“Don’t force the break,” he says, after a short pause. “The ball will move naturally. Just follow through all the way and keep your wrist upright.”

Furuya nods.

Coach steps back and waits, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses.

Furuya lets out a quiet breath before beginning his windup. He pulls his arm back, face still with concentration, and then snaps it forward.

It comes hurtling down, nearly as fast as his fastball, and then it moves.

Akira’s glove moves with it, and it slams into the back of his mitt without hitting the dirt. He looks up, buzzing with excitement.

“It broke,” Furuya says, stating the obvious.

“It broke!” Akira repeats, because someone should sound excited about this. “Wait, do that again. And watch your control — I think we might be able to get this in the strike zone eventually.”

Coach stands on the sidelines like a silent guardian. Akira looks at him one last time before tossing the ball back to Furuya.

“Okay,” he says, ignoring Kataoka’s presence. “Go ahead.”

Akira leans forward, resting on the balls of his feet, and he focuses on the pitch. His eyes follow the ball, starting off in Furuya’s hand before flying out. It slices through the air, once again breaking down and right. Akira, now expecting this, barely has to move his glove to catch it.

“More like a slurve,” he comments, grinning at the new pitch in Furuya’s repertoire. He tosses the ball up and down once before throwing it back. “Ha! At that speed? Batters are gonna hate us.”

“Why a slider?” Coach asks, looking between the two.

“It was Akira’s idea,” Furuya says, throwing him under the bus without shame.

Coach turns his unreadable face into Akira’s direction.

“Oh, uh,” Akira scrambles for his brain cell. “Well, Furuya’s main weapon is his fastball, right? And a slider is supposed to look similar until the last second, so I thought it’d be a good way to catch batters off-guard. And I didn’t want to lose Furuya’s speed, so I thought it’d be better than a curveball?”

Coach Kataoka stares. Akira squirms under his gaze.

“Smart,” Coach says, simply, and Akira breathes out. “Next time, you two can ask me for help. I was a pitcher myself.”

Oh, right, he’d forgotten. The coaches here actually know what they’re doing.

… Wait, did he really spend three hours trying to reverse engineer a slider when they had an expert available this whole time?

Coach Kataoka walks over to Furuya and gives him a few tips. Akira listens in and wonders how a slider from Eijun would compare. Nori-senpai’s isn’t as dramatic as Furuya’s, but it’s really consistent.

“Also, that’s enough for tonight,” Kataoka tells Furuya. “You should rest. The game is in a couple days.”

Furuya eases out of his pitching stance, eyes wide with the implications of that statement. “Yes, sir.”

“Nice catching, Sawamura,” Kataoka adds, and Akira stiffens.

“Er, thank you. Sir.”

With that, Kataoka walks away.

Akira jogs up to where Furuya is standing. They watch until Kataoka turns a corner. He hadn’t looked back once.

Akira pulls off his faceguard and wonders aloud. “D’you think he’d let me catch for him, if I asked?”

Furuya shoots him a strange expression.

“What? I’m curious.”

“He probably would,” Furuya says, thinking through the question seriously. “He’s not mean.”

“He sure looks it, though,” Akira says. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

“I don’t have a death wish.”

Akira cracks a grin and thumps Furuya on the shoulder.

The very next morning, Coach announces the plan for the semifinals.

Eijun’s going to be on the sidelines, resting up after pitching all season, and Tanba will be starting the game.

That leaves Furuya and Nori-senpai next in line for relief — a fact that delights Furuya and leaves Eijun sulking.

“It’s a sign of faith,” Akira tells him during lunch, as Eijun pokes at his rice. “There’s only two days between Sensen and the finals, he wants you to be fresh.”

“But I want to play!”

“Don’t we all?”

In the meantime, Seidou’s first-string runs through batting and fielding drills in preparation for their match against Sensen Academy. It’s tough work, but Akira likes to think he’s gotten used to it. The training camp seems like ages ago.

Between drills, Akira heads over to the water station to get a sip. He fills up a paper cup and leans on the fence, casting an observant eye over the field. Quietly, he sips at the water. At least, until, he feels the weight of someone watching him.

He turns his head, just in time to catch Nori-senpai headed his way.

“Akira!”

“Hi?”

Nori-senpai jogs up and fills up his own cup of water. He leans on the stretch of fence next to Akira and takes a quick swig.

Akira stares, waiting for him to deliver whatever message he has.

“So…” Nori starts off, voice meandering. “Nice weather we’re having?”

“Is that all you wanted to say?” Akira asks, confused.

Nori bites his lip. Akira narrows his eyes.

Nori cracks. “Does Eijun have a crush on Miyuki?”

“Damn it, Nori, you can’t just say shit like that!”

Kuramochi materializes out of nowhere, running up with a fierce scowl on his lightly bruised face.

Akira snorts. “You’re his roommate. Shouldn’t you already know?”

“Are you gonna answer the question?”

“Why should I?”

“Because Miyuki’s an idiot and he’ll never ask himself,” Kuramochi says.

“Wait,” Akira says. “Did he tell you that he likes Eijun?”

Nori bursts into laughter while Kuramochi rolls his eyes.

“Kind of,” Nori says, in between laughs. “Oh, god. I’m gonna die.”

“It’s not that funny,” Kuramochi hisses.

(Akira thinks he might know where the bruise on his face came from.)

“I didn’t think Miyuki talked about feelings,” Akira says, after a pause.

Kuramochi shakes his head. “He doesn’t. But that’s not the point. The point is, I’m going to go insane if nothing happens. Look at them. They’re disgusting.”

The three of them look out at where Eijun is trying to run with a tire. Miyuki is scolding him, but there’s a stupid little smile on his face even as he calls Eijun an idiot.

“Welcome to my world,” Akira mutters, already over it.

“So does Eijun like him back?” Kuramochi asks.

“He hasn’t said anything,” Akira says. It’s technically true.

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

“Sorry, Kuramochi-senpai,” Akira says. He sends the two second-years a flat stare somewhere between disappointment and disdain. “He’s an idiot, but he’s my brother, and I’m not telling you anything. Take that as you will.”

“Miyuki was right,” Nori says, fascinated. “You are a little shit.”

Kuramochi squints at him, mouth pulled into a flat line. Akira looks back, even and unshaken.

“… A thousand yen says Miyuki asks him out,” Kuramochi says.

“A thousand yen says Eijun does,” Akira blurts out before he can think it through.

Kuramochi cackles and Akira closes his eyes in pain.

Curse my weakness for gambling.

Nori chimes in with another vote for Miyuki, and Akira tiredly waves Haruichi over from where he’s tying his shoe.

“What are you doing?”

“Haruichi probably wants in,” Akira says, as the younger Kominato runs up. “Oi, we’re betting on who’s gonna pop the question first.”

Haruichi straightens up. “Oh, really? Three thousand yen on Eijun!”

Nori chokes on air. “Three thousand?”

“Look, I’m trying to redeem myself,” Haruichi says. “I underestimated his obliviousness the first time around. But he definitely has more guts than Miyuki-senpai.”

Nori points to the field, where Miyuki is dragging Eijun away from the tire and toward the batting cages. “I dunno. Miyuki seems kind of desperate.”

“Hm, well. Guess we’ll find out,” Haruichi says. He turns to Akira. “Should we call in Furuya, too?”

“Yeah, I guess. But if he wins again, I’m gonna scream.”

Nori looks between them, looking both confused and horrified. “How long have you been keeping track of this?”

Haruichi and Akira exchange a tired glance.

“Too long,” they say at the same time.

Of course, it doesn’t stop them from throwing more money into the pot for a second time around.

Sensen Academy is a restless affair.

Eijun’s banned from the bullpen since he’s supposed to be resting. Which means that Akira has no choice but to squirm in the dugout, watching Tanba struggle to place his fastballs in the strike zone.

His leg bounces up and down. They’re down by one run in the bottom of the fifth, and the only thing keeping them alive is Tanba’s curveball.

Another batter gets on base, and the part of Akira that’s still allergic to runners makes a face.

“Ah,” he says, in lieu of screaming.

Haruichi pats his shoulder. “The senpai have it figured out.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t make this any less yikes.”

As the inning progresses, Coach Kataoka casts a look over the first-years.

“Haruichi,” he says, and the pink-haired boy squeaks at the sudden callout. “We’re subbing Tanba out in the sixth. Get ready.”

“Yes, sir!” He pulls on his batting gloves and reaches for his helmet.

“Furuya, start warming up.”

Oh, thank god, Akira thinks, reaching for his own mitt. Something to do.

“I’m guessing you got this?” Miyauchi-senpai asks, chuckling from behind.

“Oh, did you want to catch, senpai?” Akira says, stopping halfway from picking up the rest of his gear. He tries not to let his disappointment show.

The older catcher waves him off. “It’s fine. Go blow off some steam, you make me restless just watching you.”

Akira smiles back, quietly grateful. “Thanks.”

“Miyauchi-senpai, you can catch for me if you’re feeling restless!”

“Eijun, stay out of the bullpen.”

“Sorry, boss!”

Akira and Furuya rush outside and start their warmup. The summer sun beats down on them, but Furuya’s too determined to let that deter him for long. Despite the sweat, he’s geared up and ready to go.

Akira lets him loosen up for a bit with some casual tossing. Once Furuya signals that he’s ready, they switch to fastballs, aiming for an imaginary strike zone.

“Did you ever get a chance to practice the slider with Miyuki-senpai?”

“Yeah, but it’s hard to control,” Furuya says. “It either hits the dirt or goes wide.”

“Then he’s probably not calling it today,” Akira says. Unveiling an unstable pitch in the semifinals of a do-or-die tournament while Sensen has the momentum isn’t exactly sound baseball theory.

Furuya shrugs, so Akira sticks to calling for fastballs.

When Haruichi gets subbed in for Tanba, they take a break from the warmup to watch the show.

Haruichi’s only played twice in the tournament so far, but he’s also hit both times. Akira takes in the situation — two outs, with the bases loaded, and a freshly tied score. It’s probably the most high-pressure situation for a batter to get subbed in.

But Haruichi isn’t the type of batter that gets phased by something like this. He holds his wooden bat over his shoulder and watches Sensen’s ace with cold eyes.

The first pitch is a straight. Haruichi lets it go by, taking the strike, but the one after is a ball that he lets through.

Eijun cheers him on from the dugout, praising their friend’s discerning eye.

“He’s really cool, isn’t he?” Akira says. “Pinch-hitting like this, as a first-year.”

Furuya nods silently, eyes fixed on the field.

“Foul!”

“He’s cornered,” Furuya says, with a hint of concern.

Akira squints at the pitcher on the mound. Sensen’s ace stands there, tall and loose. So far, he’s been in top form, with clean consistent pitching. But there’s a certain fragility in his frame that Akira can’t quite describe.

“I think their ace is spiraling,” Akira says.

“Really?” Furuya turns his attention to the mound. “How can you tell?”

“You know when you’re doing really well, but then your brain checks out?” Akira says. “It’s like that.”

The pitcher pulls his arm back. The ball flies forward.

Haruichi swings.

In one fell swoop, the tables are turned. Four to one, in Seidou’s favor. Sensen manages another out, but the mood’s already shifted. All they need is to carry that energy through to the next inning.

“Hey,” Akira says, as Furuya gets called back.

The pitcher looks over his shoulder.

“Don’t waste this, alright?”

Furuya nods once, eyes clear and sharp, and then he’s running onto the field with the rest of the defense.

Akira trudges back into the dugout and sits next to Eijun. He pulls off the catcher’s gear and leans forward, drumming his fingers on his knees.

“I’d warm up with you if I could,” Eijun whispers.

“It’s fine,” Akira replies, even though his leg has started bouncing against his conscious will.

Eijun presses his shoulder against his in a show of solidarity, and they turn their eyes onto the game before them.

“Strike!”

Akira snickers at the shocked look on the batter’s face. Furuya’s fastball always catches them off guard on the first encounter. For such a skinny guy, he throws like a beast.

The batter shakes his head, as if to clear his thoughts, and then he settles down, gripping the handle of the bat. Behind him, Miyuki smiles and calls for another fastball.

“Strike!”

“Whoa,” Eijun says. “He’s throwing really well today, isn’t he?”

In front of them, Furuya steps back onto the rubber and starts his windup.

“Strike three! Batter out!”

“Ooh, that was fast,” Akira says, silently commending Furuya’s control. “I think Miyuki-senpai’s trying not to give them time to think between fastballs.”

“That Miyuki Kazuya!” Eijun says, huffing. “Always thinking!”

Haruichi stifles a laugh at the comment. That’s a new one — Eijun must be running out of things to say.

The next batter skids onto first, but the one after gets taken out with a fly-ball that lands right in Kuramochi’s glove. Furuya and Miyuki strike out the following batter, and the sixth inning ends as quickly as it began.

In fact, it seems like the whole game blurs by after that. From the sixth to the ninth, Furuya shuts down Sensen with sixty-three fastballs and a single splitter. The screams from the Seidou side of the stands quadruple in volume the second the game ends. For the first time in three years, Seidou High is headed for the West Tokyo Tournament Finals.

Furuya’s silently smug on the bus ride home. Eijun angrily (supportively) gives a detailed play-by-play of Furuya’s half of the game. He then spends a few minutes cheerfully extolling Haruichi’s batting prowess. Haruichi’s face turns pink to match his hair, and Akira smirks at his pleased embarrassment.

Once Eijun’s finished embarrassing them, he starts shouting out other plays to the rest of the bus: Ryou-san’s equalizing run, Masuko’s dramatic double in the third, Tanba’s admirable resolve in the first five innings, the way ‘Miyuki Kazuya!’ got walked for the entire game.

“We should keep you in the dugout more often,” Kuramochi says, from two rows behind. “It’s like having our own personal highlight reel.”

Eijun squawks, offended. “Shut up, Mochi-senpai! You fumbled a fly ball in the first!”

“What was that, you brat?”

Akira leans his head against the window, letting Eijun’s words filter in through the back of his brain. His attention starts to waver, and he ends up staring out at the traffic passing by.

A lot of people watch these games, huh, he thinks. He’s used to metal bleachers and six-car parking lots. High school baseball really is an entirely different world.

“Hey,” The quiet voice cuts through Eijun’s enthusiastic shouting. Akira looks up and catches Haruichi watching him with a concerned frown.

“Hi,” Akira says.

“Are you alright?”

Akira considers the question. “I think I’m just tired,” he admits, after thinking it through. Though he’s not sure why. All that restless energy from the dugout seems to have drained away — maybe he’s hit his social interaction limit for the day?

“You wanna nap?” Haruichi says, and he starts digging around through his sports bag. “I think I’ve got earbuds if you want to listen to music.”

“Oh. I have my own, thanks,” Akira says. “Actually, that’s a good idea. If I fall asleep, wake me up when we get back?”

Haruichi gives him a thumbs up. “I’ll let you know how many ‘Miyuki Kazuyas’ you miss out on.”

Akira snorts. “If you want.”

He plugs in his earbuds and hits shuffle on his music selection. Then he rests his head against the window and goes back to watching the cars pass him by.

When they return to campus, Akira ends up conking out as soon as his head hits his pillow. But his nap doesn’t feel like a nap. An hour passes in the blink of an eye, and then suddenly he’s become aware of a series of chaotic knocks on his door.

He lifts his head and groans.

“Sounds like Ei,” he mutters, tossing an arm over his eyes.

Miyuki chuckles and hops out of his desk seat. “I’ll get it.”

I bet you will, Akira thinks. He throws a pillow over his eyes. There’s a shuffling sound, then the turning of the doorknob, and then Eijun’s voice pierces the room.

“Hi, Miyuki Kazuya! Where’s Aki?”

“Napping,” Miyuki says. “Are you looking for someone to pitch to —”

“Aki!”

Akira groans and pulls the pillow tighter over his head.

“Oi! Get up! Catch my pitches!”

“Can’t. I’m tired.”

The bed shakes as Eijun thunders into the room with all the energy of a wild elephant.

“Up and at ‘em!” Eijun shouts, and he rips the pillow out of Akira’s grip.

“Hey!”

He feebly tries to grab the pillow back, but then Eijun grabs his arm and yanks him out of bed. Akira tumbles onto the floor with a yelp.

“Can’t we do this later?” He moans, refusing to get up from the floor.

“I’ll throw you the cutter kai!”

“I’ll catch the cutter kai,” Miyuki offers, but it goes unheard.

“Please,” Eijun begs, drawing out the words. “Aki, I wanna throw!”

“There are two catchers in this room,” Akira points out with his face smushed into the rug.

“I wanna throw to you!”

“What am I, chopped liver?”

“Nah, just a bastard!” Eijun insults Miyuki without missing a beat. “Here! I’ll carry your gear for you, let’s go!”

Akira rolls over onto his back and squints up at Eijun’s face.

His brother is smiling, as usual. But there’s something else there, too. His shoulders seem tense and there’s something hesitant about his grin.

Eijun doesn’t want to pitch. He wants to talk.

“Ugh, fine,” Akira grumbles, sitting up. “But not for too long. Aren’t you supposed to be resting?”

“Yeah,” Eijun says, but there’s a subtle tinge of relief in his tone. “But it’s okay! I’ll hold back, I’m responsible!”

Akira pulls on his baseball cap and tosses his sports bag to Eijun, who catches it with a light grunt.

“Sorry, senpai,” he says, grabbing his keys. “We’ll be back later.”

“Have fun.”

Akira tries not to smirk at Miyuki’s flat tone.

Eijun drags him down the stairs and through the courtyard. It takes a few sleepy seconds for Akira to regain his sense of direction, but eventually, he works out their destination: the freshman fields where they spent their first few weeks running laps.

This side of the field is practically abandoned during the summer. Only the first-stringers remain for summer vacation, and most of them use field A or B when they want to practice outside. Whatever Eijun wants to talk about, it’s something he wants to keep quiet.

“What’s up?” Akira asks. Eijun deposits his sports bag on the ground, and Akira pulls the faceguard on. When he looks back up, Eijun is biting his lip.

“Is something wrong?”

“No,” Eijun says, and it doesn’t feel like a lie. He squints and screws up his face in concentration. “… Let me work up to it.”

“Yeah, okay,” Akira says. He looks around, wondering if Coach Kataoka will appear out of nowhere again, but the whole place seems completely silent.

“Don’t throw too hard,” he says, slipping his hand into his mitt. “I’d rather not get scolded later.”

Eijun nods.

They toss the ball back and forth for a few minutes. The actions come automatically — catch, grip, throw. While Akira waits patiently, Eijun seems to grow more and more agitated. Finally, Eijun pauses, gripping the baseball in his hand.

“You have to promise not to laugh,” he warns.

“Okay?”

Eijun takes a deep breath. Then he opens his eyes and winds up for a real pitch.

“I think I like Miyuki Kazuya!”

The ball clips the edge of Akira’s glove, but he can’t exactly focus on that right now because he’s trying to inhale oxygen.

“Ah! Aki! Are you okay?”

“Are you serious?” Akira says, coughing. He rests his hand on his forehead and grimaces.

“I know,” Eijun grumbles. “But it’s not like I had a choice! He’s a jerk, but he’s also —” Eijun swallows and kicks his toe into the dirt. “He’s like, you know, hot —”

Akira cuts him off for the sake of his own sanity. “I am begging you to not finish that sentence.”

“Okay, uh, he’s funny?” Eijun says, trying again. “And he’s smart, and he listens, and even though he’s a jerk, he’s like, secretly a big softie —”

“Great,” Akira says, ready for death. “Okay. Good for you. Finally. I can’t believe it took you a year to realize this.”

“A year?”

Akira stares at him, unimpressed.

Eijun frowns, thinking hard. Slowly, his eyes widen.

“Oh, crap, it really has been a year,” Eijun breathes out, horrified. “What the heck! Why didn’t you tell me sooner!”

“I did,” Akira says. “Three weeks after we met Miyuki Kazuya, I said, ‘Eijun, you like him,’ and you told me to ‘shut up about that smug asshole.’”

“Oh no,” Eijun moans, hiding his face behind his glove. “Oh my god. This is like with Nobu all over again.”

“Couldn’t you have had this realization last week?” Akira tells him, thinking of his poker winnings lining Furuya’s pocket. “I had money on this.”

“You were betting on me?” Eijun gasps, offended. “What the hell?”

“Remember seventh grade?”

“… Okay, fine. I deserve that,” Eijun says, conceding the point. He jabs a finger in Akira’s direction and squints. “But after this, we’re even! No more betting behind each other’s back!”

“Yeah, cool,” Akira says, even though it’s slightly unfair that Eijun collected eight-thousand yen while Akira lost half his allowance. “It was getting kind of old, anyway.”

He picks up the baseball and tosses it back to Eijun. After checking that no coaches are lurking around, he crouches down so Eijun can start throwing real pitches. Then he calls for an outside fastball. Eijun begins his windup.

Akira crouches patiently, waiting for the moment the ball whips into view, but then Eijun opens his mouth once more.

“Miyuki’s single, right?”

Akira yelps as the ball skims the edge of his glove. He glares at his brother.

“You did that on purpose.”

Eijun shrugs, but he’s grinning. “You gonna answer the question?”

Akira lifts his gaze up to the sky. “What’s in it for me?”

“The satisfaction of bringing your big brother happiness?”

“Try again.”

“I’ll shut up about it if you help me out.”

“Try harder.”

Eijun pretends to think for a moment. “I’ll tell grandpa that you’re the one that broke grandma’s vase.”

Akira grimaces. He can’t believe Eijun interrupted his nap for this. “Yes, he’s single, yes, you have a chance, no, I’m not gonna help you out. Please, can we play catch.”

“I have a chance?” Eijun asks, latching onto the wrong part of that statement. “Oh my god, does he talk about me?”

“I almost wish he did,” Akira mutters, thinking of the disgustingly sappy look on Miyuki’s face every time Eijun is mentioned in conversation. He stands up and picks up the stray baseball.

“Oh, shoot!” Eijun yelps, delighted. “I’m gonna ask him out! Is he free tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” Akira asks, startled at the sudden pace. “Are you insane?”

“What’s wrong with tomorrow?”

“I dunno, the finals are in two days?”

Eijun tilts his head. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Akira stares at Eijun, incredulous. “You’re joking, right? You’re gonna ask him out right before Inajitsu?”

“Well, you said I have a chance, and I know you wouldn’t joke about that, so…”

“Inajitsu,” Akira repeats. “It’s the West Tokyo Finals. I can’t believe I have to spell this out for you.”

Eijun’s sunny grin vanishes into an annoyed pout. “Ugh, I knew I shouldn’t have told you,” he grumbles. “You always do this.”

“Do what?” Akira asks, lifting an eyebrow.

“This,” Eijun says, making a loose gesture. He scowls. “Sometimes I just want you to be happy for me, okay? I’m not asking for your advice.”

“Oh, well, my bad,” Akira snarks, feeling his face go cold. “Sorry for caring about the team, but whatever.”

Eijun sucks in a breath. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Akira says, waving it off. “Go ahead! Ask out Miyuki Kazuya. I’ll cheer for you.”

Eijun’s eyes flash and he takes a step forward. “No, no, go back. I want to hear what you have to say.”

Akira smiles without feeling. “Thought you weren’t asking for my advice.”

“Didn’t stop you from giving it,” Eijun snarks, and Akira‘s grip on the baseball tightens.

“Maybe you just suck at listening,” Akira counters, and then he winces. He takes a deep breath and tries to collect himself. “Look, it’s not that I don’t support you, it’s just awkward timing. You really shouldn’t break Miyuki’s focus with this bombshell right before the finals.”

Eijun pouts. “I’m not gonna break Miyuki!”

“We’re talking about the same person, right?” Akira asks. “Our emotionally constipated senpai? You can’t just ask him out before the biggest match of the season.”

“You said I had a chance.”

“Yeah. Doesn’t mean you should distract everyone with your dumb drama.”

“Oh, that’s it, then, huh?” Eijun snaps. He crosses his arms and huffs. “Guess my feelings are just a selfish distraction. Guess nobody wants to deal with my petty drama.”

“God, Eijun. I’m not telling you to cut your heart out. Just shut your mouth for a couple days, it’s not that hard!”

“Maybe bottling this up is distracting me,” Eijun says. “Did you think of that?”

“Okay, but that’s just you,” Akira points out, feeling his face twitch. “Everyone else can do their jobs just fine as long as you don’t rock the boat.”

“Oh, thanks,” Eijun bites out, looking away. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear right now. Fantastic advice.”

Akira clenches his jaw and tries not to roll his eyes. “This isn’t about your stupid feelings,” he says, feeling like he's bashing his head against a brick wall. “This is about baseball.”

Eijun stares back at him, blunt and unforgiving. “What would you know about either of those things?” He asks, tilting his head, and Akira.

Akira, who hasn’t played in a match since the beginning of summer, who’s been warming up for Eijun and taking notes and practicing late, who’s been trying all summer long to get off the bench —

Akira snaps.

“You’re so fucking dumb!” He yells. He steps forward and shoves a wide-eyed Eijun in the chest, sending him stumbling back.

Eijun blinks in surprise, and Akira grinds his teeth.

“Fine, whatever! Ignore me, like you always do,” he spits out, biting his lip. “See if I care.”

Eijun recovers quickly and glares back at him. “Well — maybe I’d listen if you weren’t an unfeeling robot all the time!”

“One of us has to use their fucking brain! You wouldn’t last a second without me covering your stupid ass!”

“Oh, you’re the one covering my ass? Who pitched for you when you couldn’t shut your big mouth? Who makes all your friends for you?”

“You don’t even know how many messes I clean up for you!” Akira shouts. “You wouldn’t even be here without me!”

“I could say the same for you!” Eijun snaps. He steps forward and shoves Akira away. “They were looking for a pitcher, in case you’d forgotten!”

“Oh, look at you, all high and mighty,” Akira mocks. He grits his teeth and digs down to where he knows it’ll hurt. “News flash, asshole! We have three other pitchers who can take your place. You’re not even the ace!”

Eijun’s face shuts down, and his eyes burn. “Says the benchwarmer.”

Akira ignores the sting in his chest and glares back. “Oh, you’re really gonna go there?”

“Hey, you went there first,” Eijun says, low and sarcastic. His face curls into an angry snarl. “Can’t handle a taste of your own medicine? Typical.”

Akira scoffs. “See if I ever help you out again, you fucking jerk!”

“I don’t need your damn help,” Eijun shouts back. “Quit telling me what to do! I can get along just fine without you!”

“Fine, then!”

“Fine!”

Akira takes the baseball in his hand and shoves it into Eijun’s chest, relishing in the flash of pain on Eijun’s face.

“Go play catch with your boyfriend,” he hisses, sharp and cold. “Let me know when you stop thinking with your dick.”

He turns around and storms back to the dorm. Eijun yells something behind him, but Akira can’t hear it through the blood rushing through his ears.

He stomps his way up the stairs, uncaring of how loud it is for everyone else, and he shoves his key into his door with reckless abandon. But right before he turns the lock, he screws his eyes shut and rests his forehead against the door.

The door. To his room. That he shares with Miyuki Kazuya.

God, can’t the universe just give him a fucking break?

He resists the urge to bash his head against the wall. Instead, he tightens his grip around the doorknob and tries to breathe in as deeply as he can.

One. Two.

On three, he opens his eyes and pushes open the door normally.

Miyuki Kazuya looks up from a notebook with a neutrally surprised expression on his face.

“That was quick,” he comments, frustratingly untouched. “How was catch?”

“Fine,” Akira says, feeling like he’s floating out of his own body. He steps into his room and forces himself to let go of the door instead of slamming it like he wants to. “Absolutely fine.”

The door clicks shut behind him. He drops his sports bag into the space next to his desk and falls onto his bed face first, not bothering to change out of his clothes.

He doesn’t fall asleep for a long time.

Chapter Text

When Miyuki wakes up the next morning, groggy and sleepy and just a little out of it, Akira is already gone.

Which isn’t worrying in itself. Akira tends to wake up earlier than he does, and Miyuki’s a heavy sleeper, so he usually doesn’t notice when his roommate heads off to start his day. Plus, Akira took the mother of all naps, yesterday, so Miyuki wouldn’t be surprised if he woke up at some ridiculous hour and headed off to go for a run or something.

What is weird is breakfast. Miyuki stumbles into the cafeteria and mindlessly takes his seat next to Nori. It takes him a few bites of food to notice, but something is… missing.

He twists around in his seat and spots the four first-years sitting at their table in dead silence. Furuya and Akira are on one side, with Eijun and Haruichi on the other, and no one is talking.

If he looks a little harder, he can see that Furuya is fully alert, even at this early hour. Haruichi stiffly picks at his food, his shoulders wound tight. The image causes alarm bells to start ringing in his head.

“Oh, watching Ei-chan again, are you?” Nori says, elbowing him in the side.

“Shut up,” he says, turning around to glare at the pitcher.

Nori laughs and takes a sip of water.

The cafeteria continues to be uncomfortably silent.

“They seem kind of quiet,” Miyuki comments, unable to keep the uncertain waver out of his voice. “The first-years, I mean.”

“It’s the finals tomorrow,” Nori reminds him. “Everyone’s pretty quiet.”

That’s also true. Tetsu and Jun and Tanba look so serious that they might fall over. The other third-years talk quietly among themselves, but there’s a thick blanket of anticipation weighing down on everyone.

They're one game away from the field of dreams.

“It’s probably just pressure,” Nori says, voice soft. He cracks a grin, only mildly self-deprecating. “I mean, aren’t we all feeling it?”

Miyuki’s mouth twitches at the thought of Inajitsu and Narumiya Mei. He remembers last year’s match.

“Yeah,” he says, testing the excuse on his tongue. “Pressure.”

It’s a logical explanation that makes perfect sense, and he latches onto it like a prayer.

It still doesn’t feel right.

That ominous atmosphere follows them onto the field. Kataoka leads them through warmups, and then they split up with everyone running through various drills. Eijun ends in front of Miyuki, and Miyuki catches for him, and it’s all fine.

Sure, his eyes are blazing with righteous fury, and his pitches come in a little faster than normal, but none of that is bad.

(If anything, it’s a good sign. They’re going to need every last scrap of skill for Inajitsu tomorrow.)

There’s nothing wrong that couldn’t be chalked up to pressure or nerves. Miyuki tries not to be obvious about his concerned hovering, but whatever it is that’s bothering Eijun is impossible to pin down. He remembers seeing blazing desperation hidden behind Eijun’s golden eyes, insecurity.

This? This is different.

Miyuki signals for a cutter kai, and it slams into his mitt before he can blink. Flawless.

Eijun holds his glove up, smiling wide. “Not bad, huh?”

“Yeah,” Miyuki says, and he smiles back because he doesn't know what else to do. “Looks like you’ve gotten it down.”

Eijun preens, but there’s something violent lurking behind it. A few feet away, Furuya throws a picture-perfect slider. It lands in Akira’s glove with a satisfying smack.

“Nice,” Akira says, quietly. His face is blank, but there’s the barest hint of challenge in his words.

Eijun’s smile stiffens, and he turns back to Miyuki. “Can I practice aiming my four-seam?”

“Sure,” Miyuki says. He holds his glove low, grazing the edges of an imaginary strike zone. The pitch lands.

Akira’s face doesn’t change expression as he calls for a similar pitch from Furuya. The clap of his one-fifty fastball echoes around the bullpen, and Eijun clenches his jaw.

Almost unconsciously, Miyuki looks over at the other battery pair.

Furuya stares back. There’s a flash of panic in his gray eyes and a million pleas for help, but Miyuki doesn’t know how to reassure him — he doesn't know what's going on, either.

“You doing alright, Eijun?” he says, instead.

Eijun tilts his head. “Yeah, why?”

“Just checking in,” Miyuki says, trying to cover up his discomfort with an easy grin. “Don’t want you to use up all your steam before the match tomorrow.”

Eijun barks out a laugh. “I know what I’m doing,” he says, and there’s something pointed about the way he’s saying it.

Akira silently calls for another fastball, refusing to look over.

Smack.

Eijun’s mouth twists as he throws his next pitch. When the ball hits the leather, it feels like his mitt is about to burst into flames.

In between drills, Kuramochi sidles up to Miyuki and lowers his voice.

“Is it just me, or do the twins seem… off?” he asks.

“Oh, thank god,” Miyuki blurts out. “You noticed, too? I thought I was just imagining things.”

Some distance away, Tetsu and Sakai lead the first-years through interval sprints around the diamond. Again, Furuya and Haruichi look incredibly stiff.

They’re also making sure to put themselves directly between Eijun and Akira whenever possible.

Surface-level, Eijun’s acting normally, complete with the dramatic shouts and emotive gestures. But there’s something oddly brittle about it. And while Akira isn’t exactly talkative, he hasn’t said much outside of one-word comments and monosyllabic grunts.

“Did something happen yesterday?” Kuramochi asks. “I thought Eijun was being kind of quiet last night, but I figured he was just frustrated with not getting to pitch against Sensen.”

Miyuki thinks about it. “Not that I’m aware of,” he says slowly. “I mean, Akira was pretty tired yesterday. But nothing seemed wrong.”

Kuramochi lets the words sink in.

In front of them, Kataoka lets the first-years loose for a water break, and the four of them make for the water station to hydrate. Then they head back to the infield.

The whole affair happens without a single word.

“D’you think they had a fight?” Kuramochi asks.

“No way,” Miyuki says, automatically, but even as he denies it, something flips in his gut. “Those two?”

Miyuki remembers Eijun threatening to give Furuya a black eye over his brother. Remembers Akira’s advice on handling Eijun as a pitcher. That overheard conversation, under the tree in the courtyard.

Sure, they bicker and poke at each other all the time, but a fight?

“Eijun would have said something about it, right? He’s an open book.” But even as the words leave his mouth, Miyuki already knows that that’s a lie. He learned it the hard way: Eijun’s more slippery than he first appears.

“I dunno, you didn’t see his poker face,” Kuramochi says, a slight frown on his lips. “But this is… different.”

Akira stumbles as he rounds third base. Normally, this would result in Eijun laughing or otherwise teasing his twin. But nothing happens.

“They're playing alright,” Miyuki states. The words spill out of his mouth like he's trying to speak it into existence. “One of them probably took the teasing a little too far. How bad could it be?”

Kuramochi looks at him, and Miyuki squirms.

“What?”

“Sometimes, I forget you…” He trails off and shakes his head. “Never mind. You’re right, as long as it doesn't affect the field, it’s none of our business. We should focus on Inajitsu.”

With that, they go back to practice. But Miyuki can’t stop himself from watching the twins. He can only hope that things will work out.

Things don’t work out.

It starts after practice ends. Kataoka dismisses them for the night with strict instructions to rest. He directs this toward the first-years and the pitchers in particular, who nod at the instruction. Seidou’s first-string starts cleaning up the field and putting away the gear.

Akira goes around, picking up stray baseballs, but accidentally kicks one out of reach. The ball rolls over to where Eijun and Furuya are dismantling the pitching nets.

Both boys watch the ball come to a stop between them, and they simultaneously look up.

“Hey Furuya,” Akira calls out. “Can you toss me that ball?”

It’s not an uncommon phrase to hear, but there’s something sharp in his tone that causes Miyuki to stop what he’s doing and turn his head.

Furuya reaches for the ball, but Eijun grabs it first.

He chucks it over to Akira with unnecessary force. Akira catches it out of the air one-handed, and the smack of the ball against his bare palm has even the third-years pausing to take notice.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Akira bites out, and out of the corner of his eye, Miyuki can see Haruichi cursing under his breath.

“I just thought I’d do my part,” Eijun says, voice dripping sarcasm. “For the team.”

“Really?” Akira says, entirely flat. “Interesting.”

Eijun drops the net he’s holding and takes a threatening step forward. “You wanna say that to my face?”

Akira smiles back, but there’s no emotion behind the expression. “Say what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Eijun hisses.

“Sorry,” Akira says, though it’s obvious he doesn’t mean it. “Playing dumb — that’s your role, isn’t it?”

“I’d rather be dumb than a lonely asshole!”

“I’d rather be an asshole than an arrogant prick.”

“Always have to get the last word, don’t you?”

“Can I help it when you keep setting yourself up for failure?”

“Whoa!”

Tetsu steps in, physically placing himself between the two first-years. He shoots both of them a sharp stare, and the twins’ mouths click shut.

Coach Kataoka moves closer and stares them down.

Miyuki’s seen Ryousuke crack under that merciless stare. He’s seen Azuma crack under that stare.

Neither twin flinches under Kataoka’s wrath.

“What’s going on here?”

“Nothing,” they say, at the same time, which might have been amusing if it weren’t so nail-biting.

Kataoka looks at them, and there’s something contemplative in his frown. Miyuki can see the gears turning in his head, but even he can’t seem to come to a conclusion.

“Clean up, and then five laps for both of you,” he barks out.

Eijun mumbles a quiet ‘yessir’ and Akira nods, retreating back into his shell. They both go back to their respective duties.

The tension’s diffused, but the atmosphere is weird now. Whatever conversation there was before has died off completely, and, well.

Eijun and Akira are fighting, which is a trip and a half.

The gear gets cleaned up and put away. As Eijun and Akira start running their laps (with significant distance between them) Tetsu and Jun corner Miyuki, Kuramochi, and the other two first-years by the equipment shed.

“Spill.”

“I don’t know anything,” Kuramochi blurts out. “Eijun didn’t say anything yesterday! This is the first I’m hearing about this!”

“I didn’t see either of them after the game yesterday,” Haruichi reports. “And Eijun was like that when we met up for breakfast. He refused to talk about it.”

They turn to Furuya.

He shrugs, keeping his eyes low on the ground.

Tetsu lets out a frustrated groan. “How about you, Miyuki? Know anything?”

Miyuki combs through his memories, for anything out of the ordinary.

“They went out to play catch yesterday,” he recalls. “Akira seemed fine when he came back. But it was also a pretty short session.”

Jun grumbles. “So no one else was there, then.”

“Probably not,” Tetsu says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Those idiots. We just had a game, no one should have been doing anything.”

“What would they even fight about?” Jun wonders. “Manga?”

They all stare at Jun.

“What?” He says. “I mean, they can’t be fighting about baseball. They were playing perfectly fine.”

“That’s true,” Tetsu says. “As long as Eijun can pitch tomorrow, it’s not really our problem…” he trails off, and an uncomfortable silence falls over their little huddle.

It just feels wrong, Miyuki finishes, in his head.

Everything about this situation is off. That acidic tone coming out of Eijun’s mouth sounded absolutely foreign.

“You should talk to them,” Kuramochi says, and suddenly everyone’s looking at Miyuki.

“… Who, me?”

“Yeah,” Jun says. “You’re close to them, right? Eijun’s your pitcher, and Akira’s your roommate.”

Miyuki bites his lip. “… Do we have the time for this right now?” He asks. “We’re playing Inashiro Industrial tomorrow.”

Kuramochi frowns at him, unimpressed.

“Look, I don’t even know what they’re fighting about,” Miyuki says. “For all I know, they were hiding a body or something. If I push Eijun now, whatever miracle that’s keeping him clear-headed might snap, and then we’d be down a pitcher. We can’t afford that.”

“Talk to Akira, then,” Kuramochi says.

Miyuki makes a face. “How?”

“He’s been your roommate for how long?” Kuramochi says.

“Furuya’s his pitcher.”

They look at the first-year.

“Akira’s scary,” he says.

“Look, outside of Eijun? You know him better than the rest of us,” Kuramochi points out. “You’re almost the same person. You’re both sarcastic first-string catchers with an unhealthy lust for baseball. Don’t you ever talk?”

“Yeah, but we’re not — we don’t —” Miyuki cuts off.

Looking back, most of their conversations were either about baseball or Eijun. Miyuki can count on one hand the things he knows about his roommate. He reads manga? He likes music?

A sudden wave of guilt washes over him. Akira has his headphones on half the time, and Miyuki doesn’t even know his favorite band.

He’d never asked.

“You don’t have to get into it,” Tetsu tells him. “You probably shouldn’t — actually, you definitely shouldn’t. Just… make sure that it’s nothing pressing, or whatever.”

“Right,” Miyuki says, and he breathes out. He looks out onto the field, where Eijun is running a full fifty meters ahead of Akira. It’s a far cry from the way they would snap at each others’ heels at the beginning of the year.

“Just a check-in. I can do that.”

I can’t do this, he thinks, when Akira enters their room after taking a bath. Miyuki sits at his desk, pretending to read his notes, and Akira shakes out his hair before tossing his towel over his chair to dry.

Akira ends up sitting in his own desk, and they sit, neither facing the other, until the silence is too heavy to bear.

“It’s fine, you know,” Akira snaps, just as Miyuki starts to open his mouth.

Miyuki feels like he’s treading a minefield. “What’s fine?”

“Eijun’s stupid, but he’s not stupid enough to carry it onto the field,” Akira says, his voice low. “So you can stop stressing about it. I can feel you panicking from here, and it’s annoying.”

“That’s not what —” Miyuki rubs his forehead and turns around to look at Akira. “How about you?”

Akira lifts an eyebrow. “What about me?”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah?” Akira says. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because…” Miyuki pauses. Because he’s your brother? Because he’s your friend?

Whatever is happening, whatever this is, it’s real. This isn’t Eijun pulling a dumb prank or Akira making a sarcastic snipe. This is something serious.

Akira smiles condescendingly. “Even if I wasn’t fine — and emphasis on the if — you’re literally the last person I would want to talk to about it. No offense.”

… Miyuki has no clue how to feel about that.

“I mean, shouldn’t you be more worried about Eijun?” Akira continues, still speaking in that frustratingly even tone. “He’s the one playing tomorrow, after all.”

“I thought you said he’d play fine.”

“You’re just gonna take my word for it?” Akira rolls his eyes. “Some battery partner you are. Guess there’s no accounting for taste.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, I dunno,” Akira bites out. “You tell me, Miyuki Kazuya. What do you do when your pitcher starts getting full of themselves? Do you give them a reality check? Or do you let them crash and burn and take everyone else down with them?”

This feels like a test, Miyuki thinks.

“I’m guessing you went with the reality check,” Miyuki says, slowly, trying to put the pieces together.

“Maybe I did,” comes the answer. “I shouldn’t have bothered. It’s not like he ever listens to me anyway. Eight minutes headstart sure gives a guy a big head.” His proceeding grin cuts like a scalpel. “Or maybe I’m just spewing crap. Talking shit — now that’s something I’m good at, isn’t it?”

The words are frustratingly opaque, as always. Good to know that Akira’s a roundabout person even when he’s mad.

“What happened?” Miyuki asks, cutting straight to the heart of the matter.

“Bad timing.”

“That — that doesn’t explain anything,” Miyuki grits out, reigning in his frustration.

“It shouldn’t,” Akira says, “because it’s none of your business.”

“You’re my roommate. I’m just trying to check up on you!”

“Really?” Akira watches him through those cold eyes, and every word he says feels like a bullet. “Aren’t you only doing this out of some sense of obligation? I’m not the one you want to check up on, am I. You’re only here because the alternative is risky. Didn’t realize you were such a fucking coward.”

Miyuki wants to throttle him. “What the hell do you want from me?”

Akira glares back with a gaze sharp enough to cut steel. “Space.”

Miyuki clenches his jaw and turns around. He stares at his game notes. Words swim before his vision, and there’s no meaning to any of them.

Akira’s obviously not fine, but there’s nothing Miyuki can do about it. He doesn’t have nearly enough information about this whole mess, and Akira is never going to spill. Not to him, at least.

How is it that he doesn’t know his roommate at all, but Akira still knows exactly how to get under his skin?

I’m not the one you want to check up on.

The worst part is that he’s right. Can he leave Eijun alone? Should he leave Eijun alone?

Miyuki knows better than most how delicate pitchers can be. Monsters one moment, useless the next. Anger is a double-edged sword. He closes his eyes.

This is about more than a crush. This is about a battery.

Eijun’s words flash through his mind. A good catcher encourages their pitcher!

Miyuki rises to his feet, nearly knocking over his chair. He grabs his keys, just in case Akira is feeling vindictive enough to lock him out, and then he makes for the door.

“So you're chasing him after all.”

Miyuki pauses, hands resting on the doorknob. Again, there’s that unexplainable feeling — like he’s being tested.

He swallows, mouth dry. “Are you going to stop me?”

“No,” Akira says, and for the first time during this conversation, there’s a hint of something other than anger in his voice. “I probably should. But no.”

Miyuki looks at him.

Akira’s eyes are fixed upon empty air, and an unhappy frown crosses his lips.

“God, this is stupid,” he mutters. He lifts a hand to his head and rubs his temples, scowling the whole time. “Even after that, I can’t fucking believe I’m still —” he cuts off and grimaces.

“What?”

Akira leans back in his chair, and he glares at the grain of his desk. It takes a long time for him to speak.

“When you find Eijun… be careful.”

Miyuki feels a sense of foreboding run down his spine. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t forget why you’re there,” Akira says, and it sounds like a warning. He lifts his gaze, and his eyes drill into Miyuki. Sharp. Calculating. Threatening. “Whatever happens, you can’t take it back.”

And with that cryptic statement, he shuts down completely. Any smidgen of vulnerability he had in his eyes is completely locked away, hidden behind a blank stare, and Miyuki knows he’s not getting anything else out of Akira tonight.

His hand is still resting on the doorknob, his foot on the threshold. A choice. A test. Miyuki takes a deep breath.

Then he opens the door and leaves to find Sawamura Eijun.

It takes some time, but he finds Eijun sitting cross-legged on the mound.

Kind of a weird place to be. But in retrospect, it makes sense. Eijun’s a pitcher, through and through: of course he finds comfort on the field.

As he draws closer, Miyuki purposely slaps his shoes on the dirt, just to give fair warning. Eijun’s head turns at the sound, and he looks stricken when he sees Miyuki.

“Hi,” Eijun says, lamely.

Miyuki looks up. The sun hangs low in the sky, orange and bright. There are a few minutes left of sunlight, give or take. It feels like a tragedy waiting to happen.

“… Is there room on that mound for two?” Miyuki asks, hesitant.

In response, Eijun scoots over. Miyuki sits, legs extended, and he leans back on his elbows.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I can play tomorrow,” Eijun says, sounding very strange and very flat. “I know how to keep a fight off the field. It won’t affect the team, I promise.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Miyuki says. “Are you okay?”

Eijun pulls his knees up to his chest and makes a face.

“No,” he whines, and even though he sounds miserable, the straightforward honesty makes Miyuki want to cry in relief.

Eijun tucks his head under his arms and groans. After a moment, he mumbles something that Miyuki can barely catch.

“What?”

Eijun huffs and lifts his head. “Do you think I’m selfish?”

“What?” Miyuki repeats, but in an entirely different tone. “No? Did Akira call you selfish?”

“Yeah, but — he has a point!” Eijun says, and he looks down dejectedly. “It’s not like I mean to, but it’s just —” he waves his arms around. “I know I’m loud, and annoying, and I know sometimes I should just shut up. And I’m always talking big about getting on the mound. But I’m not trying to ignore anyone! Or talk over anyone! When I’m shouting out there it’s not — I’m not —”

“Breathe, Eijun,” Miyuki says, as Eijun starts choking on his words.

Miyuki awkwardly pats Eijun’s back as Eijun screws his eyes shut.

Please don’t cry, Miyuki thinks. Oh god, I don’t know if I’m qualified to handle that.

“Do you know why I came to Seidou?”

Miyuki blinks.

“I didn’t want to, at first,” Eijun mumbles.

Miyuki remembers. He can still remember that scene as clear as day — one loud voice, ringing across the field, crying challenge.

“So what changed your mind?”

Eijun’s hands curl tight, clutching his sleeves.

“I was the captain of our baseball team,” Eijun says, instead of answering straight away. “I was our ace. And for two years straight, they followed me.”

Miyuki listens.

“Do you know what it’s like to be a loser?” Eijun asks. “Not an underdog. Not a dark horse. A loser. We’d show up, and we’d get our asses kicked. We’d practice, and show up, and then lose again. Do you know how hard that is? To try your best, every single day, knowing that it’s never going to be enough?”

“No,” Miyuki says, almost inaudible to his own hearing. “I don’t.”

“People laughed when they saw our school in the lineup,” Eijun says. “They’d send out their B-team, and we’d still get crushed. And you tell yourself that it’s fine, that it’s about the journey, that you should be focused on having fun, but there’s always that voice in the back of your head. ‘Maybe it’s me.’”

They fall silent. A cloud passes overhead, and the sun dips a little closer to the horizon.

“That’s why I had to be loud,” Eijun whispers. “I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t break. If the idiot captain stopped having fun, everyone stopped having fun. We were one bad day from falling apart, so I made sure we never had one. Because if I cracked — we wouldn’t have a baseball team anymore.”

His breath hitches.

“All I saw was your stupid school kidnapping talent from all over the country, like a bunch of soulless bastards. When I saw how that Azuma guy was yelling at everyone, I thought — nobody here could possibly understand.”

Eijun swallows, and Miyuki tries to imagine it. Eijun, keeping a team together through sheer stubbornness and force of will.

“But then you showed up.”

Miyuki blinks, surprised. “… Me?”

“You,” Eijun repeats, impossibly soft. “You came in, and suddenly I wasn’t a loudmouth idiot, or a loser, or some middle school brat. You looked at me like I was an equal. You said you wanted to play baseball with me. You didn’t need a captain, or a big brother. You just wanted a teammate. And for once in my life, I wanted to be selfish.”

Eijun hugs his knees close to his chest and ducks his head. “Is that so bad?”

It takes a long time for Miyuki to answer, erasing and rewriting the words in his mind.

“I don’t think it’s wrong,” he murmurs.

Eijun lifts his head.

“When you play for a team like Seidou, you need to be selfish,” Miyuki says. “You’re always climbing the ladder. Always hungry for more. When everyone’s chasing the same dream, that’s where the common ground is. That’s why it works.”

“What if it’s more than baseball?” Eijun asks. “What if I…” He trails off. Something dark crosses his face, and he pulls his mouth tight. “Never mind.”

Eijun’s eyes flit away, focusing on something in the distance. Miyuki follows his gaze.

Home plate.

(He wonders who Eijun is seeing there.)

“There’s very little in my life outside of baseball,” Miyuki says suddenly.

Eijun pulls his gaze back, startled.

The words begin to flow out, unimpeded. “My mom died when I was young, and my dad and I… well. We’re not close. And I’m not really the friendly type, either. I had a team, but my teammates didn’t like me. For years, baseball was the only thing I had.”

Miyuki takes a shaky breath, mouth dry at the admission. He’d never said that out loud, before.

“Seidou saved me,” he admits. “This was the first place I ever felt like I belonged. I’d do anything for this team.”

Beside him, Eijun tilts his head, listening.

“I want this team to win,” Miyuki says. “I want Seidou to go to Koshien. If it means we can keep this summer going, I’ll do it. If it’s good for the team, I’ll take it. I haven’t wanted anything for myself in a long time… Until I saw you pitch.”

He turns until he’s looking at Eijun directly. Brown and gold.

His words are quiet, but the meaning is deafening.

“You’re not the ace yet, Eijun. But I want you to be.”

Eijun blinks at him, long and slow. His hair catches the sunset, he’s so close that Miyuki can feel the warmth radiating from his skin.

I could do it, some traitorous part of him thinks. His brain starts seizing on random little details — the stray eyelash on Eijun’s cheek, the curve of his collarbone. I could reach out and lean forward and —

“This is so unfair,” Eijun says, his voice shaky, and oh shit.

Is he crying?

Miyuki panics, his hands flailing around. “I’m — oh my god, Eijun, I’m — what’s wrong?”

Eijun doesn’t answer, choking on a sob, and Miyuki replays everything in his mind. What did he say, what did he do, oh crap, he had one job and he messed up —

Eijun abruptly jerks his head up. Miyuki bites back a yelp, and Eijun glares at him, furious, eyes watery and blazing gold.

“You’re not allowed to be that smooth!”

“Sorry?”

“No! Don’t apologize, you dumbass!” Eijun says, with tears leaking out of his eyes.

“Why are you crying!?”

“I don’t know!”

Eijun aggressively scrubs at his face with his sleeve. Miyuki awkwardly hovers, uncertain. Should he hug him? Back off? Where did he go wrong, he made Eijun cry —

“I — I —”

“What is it?” Miyuki asks, helpless.

Eijun screws his eyes shut. “I only wear one glove, so I can hold your hand with my free one!”

“Uh — what?”

“I hope you’re good at catching, ‘cause I’m falling for you!”

Miyuki stares back, blank. “Eijun, what in the world —”

Eijun shrieks through his tears. “Damn it, Miyuki Kazuya! I’m trying to ask you out!”

The words hit him like a freight train.

Eijun glares up at him, mouth pulled into an angry pout with tears streaming down his cheeks, shining bright under the evening glow. And Miyuki’s brain shuts off.

He leans forward and presses his lips against Eijun’s.

The world stops for a moment. It’s chaste and awkward and his glasses get in the way, and it’s not nearly enough, but then some part of Miyuki screeches in alarm and he pulls back, breathless.

Eijun is bright red, with his eyes blown wide and his lips parted in shock.

Miyuki’s pretty sure he’s in a similar state. He struggles to get air into his lungs and his heart feels like it’s going to crawl up through his throat and choke him.

“After the finals,” Miyuki croaks out. His voice is rough, and his brain is fighting to come back online. Dazedly, he reaches out to wipe the stray eyelash off of Eijun’s cheek, but he chickens out at the last second and pulls his hand back, burning. “Let’s talk then, okay? I’ll be waiting.”

Slowly, painfully, Eijun seems to regain his senses. He starts to light up with that familiar glow, warm and full of passion, and Miyuki can't tear his eyes away.

“You got it, partner,” Eijun says, and when he smiles, it’s more dazzling than the sunset.

Hours later, Miyuki jerks awake in the middle of the night. His heart races, he’s sweating all over, and he has to force himself to breathe. Miyuki stares up at the ceiling, dark and blurry, and bites his lip.

What the fuck did I just do?

Chapter Text

They’re thirteen when they first stumble across the idea.

Akira is sprawled out on the couch, upside-down, while Eijun is lying on the floor surrounded by pillows. Their eyes are fixed on the TV, passively watching anime.

Neither of them is particularly invested until the girl on the screen starts shouting about starting an idol club to save their school, and suddenly, they’re both looking at each other, eyes wide, with the same thought blaring through their heads. Like it was meant to be.

The next day, during break, Eijun slams his hand down onto Nobu’s desk and shouts for their friends to hear.

“Let’s go to Nationals!”

Silence.

After a quiet three seconds, Seiichi raises his hand. “Why?”

“Woah, woah, back up even further,” Nobu says. “What? Which nationals are we talking about here?”

“Baseball,” Akira answers, sitting on his desk with his feet on his chair. “Duh.”

“Listen, listen!” Eijun waves his hands around. “Aki and I have it all figured out! Y’all heard about our school getting eaten by Akagi West, right? We’re going to be the last graduating class!”

“Yeah,” Wakana says. She twists her mouth. “D’you have to say we’re getting ‘eaten’ though?”

“Well, this is how we fix it!” Eijun declares, barreling past her commentary. “We make a baseball team, win Nationals, get buried in prize money, and then they’ll have to keep Akagi open! It’s genius!”

Kenta frowns. “I don’t think we get prize money from winning nationals.”

“Glory, then,” Akira shrugs. “Either way, they won’t be able to ignore us, right?”

Nobu rolls his eyes. “We don’t even have a baseball club,” he points out.

Akira smiles back, sweetness and teeth. “That’s why we start one, smartass.”

“It’s not that easy, dumbass,” Nobu replies, equally saccharine. “There’s paperwork to fill out.”

“Already done.”

“Aki, nobody can read your handwriting.”

“We’ll get Shou to rewrite it, then,” Akira shrugs. He folds the club application into a paper airplane and chucks it at the aforementioned boy, who dutifully grabs a pen and paper. “C’mon, Nobu. Don’t be such a buzzkill.”

“It’ll be great!” Eijun says, beaming wide. “Look, we have a plan. Kenta on first, Seiichi on second, Shou as our shortstop, Nobu and Wakana in the outfield. Aki’s a catcher and I’m a pitcher! That’s almost a full team! All we need are two more players, and then we’re set!”

“I’m thinking Daiki and Ritsu,” Akira adds on. “Apparently Ritsu’s mom told our mom that Ritsu needed to join a club, and Daiki’s free since the soccer league got disbanded.”

Their friends look at them with blank stares.

“Hey, we stayed up all night thinking over this, you could look a little more excited.”

“Aki, you put Sano-sensei as the club supervisor,” Shou says, suddenly. He looks up from the club form. “Is that a good idea?”

Akira waves it off. “He likes us.”

“You broke his window last year,” Wakana reminds him.

“Yeah, and we didn’t die,” Eijun cuts in, beaming. “He likes us.”

Kenta, ever-reliable, heaves a dramatic sigh and holds out his hand. “Hand me the form, Shou,” he says. “I’ll sign my name.”

“Yes,” Akira says, feeling the corner of his mouth quirk up. Eijun punches the air, with a quick oshi oshi oshi!

“Really?” Nobu asks, looking around. “Are we all just gonna go along with this?”

“Look, worst-case scenario, they turn us down and we keep playing at the park after school,” Kenta says. “Best case scenario, my mom lets me get a new glove.”

“You raise a good point,” Seiichi says. “My family’s used the same glove for three decades and it stinks. Count me in.”

“I’ll do it,” Shou says. “It’s not like I have anything else to do after school.”

Eijun pouts. “You don’t think we can make it to Nationals?”

Akira watches as their friends all look at each other.

“Well,” Nobu says, slowly. “Eijun’s pitches are annoying.”

Eijun cackles at those words. “You know that’s right!”

“We’d have to get pretty lucky, though,” Wakana murmurs.

“Wakana,” Eijun says, and he dramatically gets down on one knee. “Will you make me the luckiest man alive and join our baseball team?”

Nobu snorts at the action.

“You’re incorrigible, Eijun,” Wakana says, smiling, and she signs her name on the form.

For the Inashiro match, Furuya is Seidou’s starting pitcher.

Kataoka doesn’t say it’s because Eijun is ‘emotionally compromised’, but they all know that he’s thinking it. Even if he’s totally wrong about it, but whatever.

Akira doesn’t feel guilty about that at all. He doesn’t.

Instead, he sits on the back of the bus with his eyes dark and arms crossed. Furuya’s in the seat next to him, staring out the window.

Haruichi and Eijun sit at the very front, and ‘Miyuki Kazuya’ is a few rows back. At least his roommate seems clear-headed and focused.

(He’d looked very distracted when he got back from talking to Eijun, and Akira was worried that his brother had done something stupid. But it seems like he didn’t after all.

… Or maybe he’d just underestimated Miyuki’s ability to compartmentalize?)

“Are you doing alright?” Furuya asks, suddenly.

Akira looks over.

Furuya’s still leaning his head against the window, but he’s watching Akira with a wary gaze.

A wave of irritation rises up in Akira, and he rolls his eyes. “Why does everyone keep asking that? I’m fine.”

Furuya stares.

“Worry about yourself, you idiot,” Akira says, darkly. “You’re starting. The forecast says it’s gonna hit twenty-seven.”

“I’m hydrated.”

“Well — good.”

A beat passes. Furuya clears his throat.

“You don’t seem fine.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Akira spits. “Just do your damn job and focus on the game.”

Furuya looks away. “I’m just checking in on a teammate,” he says quietly, and Akira.

Akira closes his eyes, properly chastised.

“... Sorry,” he says, and he genuinely means it. “I know I’m a jerk. But really, it’s whatever. I’ll get over it. Just focus on yourself.”

“I don’t think you’re a jerk.”

“I don’t think this is worth arguing right now.”

“Probably not,” Furuya says, and he focuses his eyes on the cars outside the window. “But you’re still not a jerk.”

Akira doesn’t answer, and Furuya doesn’t press.

The rest of the bus ride is spent in silence.

Here’s the thing: when an eclectic group of thirteen-year-olds and the balding neighborhood grump form a junior high baseball club, no one actually knows what to do.

Everyone knows the basics, of course: they’d been playing baseball at the local park since they were kids, but it was never an official thing. Throw the ball. Hit the ball. Run around the bases.

The first time Akira realizes that there’s something else here is when they arrange a practice match with Minowa Junior High, and they get absolutely crushed.

Eijun’s pitches get hit to all corners of the field, and their fielders struggle to keep their grip on the ball. In contrast, none of them can even touch the other team’s pitches, even though they’re much more predictable than Eijun’s.

It’s not enough, Akira realizes, to simply pitch and catch and do what you want.

“Sano-sensei,” he asks, squeezed into the backseat of his truck along with half the team. The other half is riding with Kenta’s mom. “Do you have to think to play baseball?”

“Yep,” he answers. “There’s a lot of strategy to it, you know.”

“Do you know anything about it?”

“Ah — why don’t you ask me that tomorrow, kid? Aren’t you tired from the game?”

“Oh. Okay.”

In the back of the truck, Eijun and Akira exchange a glance. It’s the first time, Akira thinks, that he gets an inkling of what exactly they’ve done to themselves. What beast they’ve unleashed.

When they get home, they log into the family computer and google ‘baseball strategy’. There are too many words and not enough pictures, so they end up watching home run compilation videos that describe nothing at all.

At practice, Daiki leads them with the warm-up stretches he’d been taught from his old soccer team, but after that, the only thing they can think to do is to take turns batting off the practice tee Sano-sensei had dug out of the equipment shed. With nine players, five bats, and one tee, it takes way too long for them to properly get any practice in.

In the end, they end up playing neighborhood baseball, the way they always do. Except this time they have adult supervision. This kind of kills the mood when Akira, Eijun, and Nobu start sniping at each other and get into a good-natured dirt-kicking competition.

“Does he know that we don’t actually hate each other?” Nobu asks, when Sano-sensei makes them run laps for ‘ruining team morale’.

“Adults don’t know anything, I think.”

“Aki, this is why you and Ei keep making enemies of the teachers.”

One chaotic week of practice later, Sano-sensei and Kenta’s mom drive them out to another practice match, where they get batted to death, and they come back home with a fire in their eyes.

“Okay,” Akira says, cracking his knuckles in front of the family computer while Eijun looks over his shoulder. “This time, we’re actually gonna learn something.”

Eijun nods, notebook in hand, and they stare down the screen like it’s a batter they’re trying to out.

That night, Akira learns that there’s a ton that he doesn’t know.

Seidou takes first blood.

In the top of the first, against Inashiro Industrial: Kuramochi pulls off an impossible steal, Ryou advances him to third, and Jun lands a hit off of Narumiya’s slider — and then the whole stadium bursts into a roar.

But even with that high point, Akira immediately can tell that Narumiya Mei is another beast entirely.

His pitching is insidiously perfect, a wall standing in your way, a light so bright that it scares you away into the shadows. He’s loud, like Eijun, and he’s tricky, like Eijun, but he just feels different.

Narumiya Mei stares down batters like he’s looking at their corpses. He strikes out Tetsu-san and outs Masuko, and then it’s Furuya’s turn to step onto the mound.

Furuya’s pitches are so fast that Inajitsu’s leadoff can’t get a clean hit, and delivers a perfect inning — three for three.

As the game progresses, the flow continues to be in Seidou’s favor. But even as Furuya continues to pitch strikeouts, Akira can taste the danger in the air.

Furuya might be winning the physical battle, but Narumiya is playing the long game — prioritizing pacing and psychological pressure over flashy strikes.

It must take some catcher, Akira thinks to himself, to lead a pitcher like that.

It’s the fourth inning when the cracks begin to show. Furuya walks Inajitsu’s leadoff and their catcher-cleanup lands a hit on his splitter. The atmosphere crumbles, and their opponents get two runs. At sixty-eight pitches, Seidou gets ready to bring in Tanba, and Eijun and Nori get sent to the bullpen.

Akira stands up, preparing to help warm up the pitchers — and then gets startled when Nori suddenly grabs his arm and claims him for the warmup.

“I know what you’re doing,” Akira says, as Nori-senpai drags him to the part of the bullpen furthest from Eijun and Miyauchi-senpai.

“Can you blame me?” Nori mutters, and he immediately looks embarrassed, as if he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

“No, but I think it’s stupid. You’re making a big deal out of nothing.”

Nori stares.

Akira shifts from foot to foot. “Whatever. I don’t care.”

“Really?”

“I don’t care,” Akira hisses, with more venom than he’d intended.

Nori frowns at him. “Are you alright?”

“God, can people stop asking me that question?”

Nori shrugs and closes his mouth, and the little knot of guilt in Akira’s stomach grows.

He starts helping Nori-senpai stretch in silence.

Lack of coaching and know-how aside, they do start improving. Eventually.

They discover a pitching towel drill online, which ends up making Eijun’s pitches even harder to catch than they already are. It gets to the point that Nobu and Wakana stop agreeing to catch for Eijun, because they can’t get a handle on the course. Akira doesn’t mind being the sole catcher since he actually likes the challenge, but it takes some time before he can reliably catch Eijun’s pitches.

The good news is that, if it’s hard to catch, it’s hard to hit, too. Slowly, but surely, they start jamming batters and getting strikes.

The first time Eijun pitches a shutout inning, Sano-sensei treats the team to soba, and even though the game got called against them, it feels like a victory.

One step at a time, Akira tells himself. They’re only three months into their second year of middle school. Of course it’s not perfect. Of course it doesn’t come easy. As long as they keep working hard, this crusade of theirs will eventually bear fruit.

It has to.

Grandpa Eitoku takes them out to a real baseball game, one day. It’s hard for either of them to pay attention — both Eijun and Akira are more invested in playing than watching. Still, it’s interesting to see how professionals do it.

“Hey,” he says, and he nudges his brother in the side. “That pitch was slower than the last one, right? Why couldn’t the batter hit it?”

“That’s a changeup, kid,” someone says, and Eijun and Akira jump at the unexpected voice.

They turn around and spot an older woman decked out in the home team’s colors.

“... Changeup?” Akira repeats, testing the word on his tongue.

“See, pitching and batting are more than just a physical battle,” the lady says. “The batter’s expecting a fastball. But the battery knows he’s expecting a fastball, so they throw something else.”

“Oh!” Eijun says. “Thanks for the explanation, old lady.”

“Old — excuse me?”

“Ah, please forgive my rude grandson!” Grandpa Eitoku says, casually whapping Eijun on the head while Akira snickers in the background. “You don’t look a day over thirty-five!”

“I’m twenty-nine!”

Awkward altercations with strangers aside, Akira doesn’t forget what she’d said. The battery knows he’s expecting a fastball, so they throw something else.

All Akira had been doing up until this point was catch Eijun’s pitches. But the word sticks in Akira’s head. Battery.

A pitcher and a catcher, working together to get an out.

Akira starts experimenting on little details: where to place his mitt to get a foul off a batter, how to tell when a batter is planning to swing. So much of it is trial and error, but he tries not to make the same mistake twice.

(It also helps that, since they spend so much time on defense, he gets a lot of practice in.)

The first time he calls for a changeup in a baseball game, the batter swings, too soon, and the whole field falls silent.

“S — strike three,” the umpire stammers, shocked at the sudden appearance of an off-speed pitch. “Batter out.”

Eijun stares at Akira from the mound, and Akira stares back, wide-eyed, struggling to put a name to the feeling in his chest.

Pride? Wonder? Understanding?

Eijun starts to laugh, and Akira cracks a grin. It’s the first time that they’d outwitted a batter together — through skill, not just luck.

This is the moment when it becomes more than a means to an end. This is the moment when everything falls into place.

This is the moment Sawamura Akira falls in love with baseball.

Tanba’s play is rough. A home run right off the bat, consecutive walks, and then suddenly two outs with the bases loaded, and even though they’re supposed to be warming up, everyone in the bullpen is watching the game.

Miyuki, naturally, refuses to back down. He draws out Tanba’s confidence and tackles the problem head-on. Even though it pays off there, it’s still not enough.

The second stage of Inajitsu’s strategy gets put into play. Narumiya starts pitching that devastating changeup of his, catching the batters off-guard. When it’s Seidou’s turn to defend, the fielders cover for Tanba as best as they can.

Inajitsu’s up by two all the way to the seventh. It’s then that Tanba’s strength finally gives out.

That’s when Eijun gets called to the mound.

“Here, Miyauchi-senpai,” Akira says, tagging out and handing off Nori’s warmup. “I’m gonna head back.”

Miyauchi lifts an eyebrow.

Akira stares back, daring him to say something.

He doesn’t.

Akira slips into the seat next to Haruichi, steadily ignoring the way everyone looks up when he re-enters the dugout. He leans his elbows on his thighs and watches Eijun’s on-field warmup with a critical gaze.

“Akira…?” Haruichi says, hesitant.

“What?”

“Are you —”

“If one more person asks me if I’m okay, I’m going to lose my mind,” Akira hisses, and Haruichi shuts his mouth.

In front of them, the game resumes.

“I’m gonna let ‘em hit — wait, scratch that — I’m gonna strike ‘em out! But I’ll still be counting on everyone! So thank you!”

“Eijun, shut up!”

Akira rolls his eyes.

Back at home, Narumiya Mei steps up to the plate. Based on what Akira’s seen so far, he’s a strong player with good batting abilities. He’d paced himself for the entire match so far, and he still has that air of casual violence about him.

But Akira remembers Miyuki’s description. He doesn’t listen.

To break down a batter like Narumiya Mei, you have to tackle him head-on.

Inside fastball, Akira thinks to himself. Throw down the gauntlet and piss him off.

Eijun winds up and delivers.

“Strike!”

Miyuki tosses the ball back, and a nervous whisper breaks out in the stands.

Akira stares at home plate with sharp eyes. Then you rile him up with another one.

Eijun throws.

“Strike!”

The tension in the air is thick enough to choke on, but Akira is too focused on the game to care. If Miyuki is half as aggressive as he thinks he is, then there’s really only one choice for what comes next.

One last nail in the coffin. Bait him with a third inside fastball, and then —

Eijun pulls back his arm. The ball starts flying, and Narumiya swings his bat — only to hit empty air.

— Throw a changeup back into his face.

The crowd breaks out into a roar, and Seidou’s defense comes running back into the dugout, triumphant. Haruichi hops up to his feet and congratulates Eijun on his perfect relieving, and Eijun high-fives their pink-haired friend with enthusiasm. Behind him, Miyuki steals the cap off Eijun’s head and ruffles his hair, grinning the whole while.

Akira, though, doesn’t move from his spot on the bench. While the rest of the dugout celebrates around him, he closes his eyes, leans back into his seat, and breathes out a quiet sigh of relief.

The crisis hits in the break between their second and third year.

The beginning of the end of an era. Their last year at Akagi Junior High. In other words, it’s their last chance.

Eijun and Akira meet up with their team at the park, reminding everyone to turn in their membership applications during the first week of school.

“As if we could forget,” Wakana says, rolling her eyes with a smile. “You two bring it up every day.”

They start an impromptu mini-game, chucking the ball around and generally having fun, but then the sun starts going down and everyone starts grabbing their gear and heading home.

Soon, it’s just Eijun, Akira, Wakana, and Nobu left on the field. The four of them pick up the old shoes that they’d been using to mark the bases.

Eijun chatters away, as always, and Wakana chimes in, as always, but Nobu is oddly silent. Akira tries kicking dirt in his face to get him to lighten up, but the action barely gets a smile out of him, and something heavy starts to form in Akira’s gut.

On the walk home, he purposely lingers behind, letting Eijun and Wakana walk ahead of them.

“Something wrong?” Akira asks, keeping his voice down.

Nobu twists his mouth. There’s something sad in his eyes, and the inkling of foreboding in Akira’s stomach turns into a full-blown feeling.

“I don’t know if I’m gonna join the team this year.”

Akira’s mouth dries up. “Haha, very funny.”

“I’m not joking, Aki,” Nobu says, grimacing. He looks up. “Aren’t you tired?”

“Of baseball? Never.”

“Of losing,” Nobu corrects him. “Look. It was a fun idea when we first started, but we’re third-years, now. You know we’re never going to get to Nationals, right?”

“It’s not easy, obviously,” Akira says, “but we’ve been practicing really hard —”

“Dude. We haven’t won a single game. And you know we’re not going to.”

“We’ve gotten better.”

“Don’t you think it’s pathetic how we celebrate a one-inning shutout?” Nobu says. “I don’t see why we can’t just play at the park. It’s the same thing, but without Sano-sensei breathing down our necks.”

But it’s not the same, Akira thinks, remembering how it feels to strike out a batter.

Playing baseball in the park is friendly. Safe.

It’s not the same thing as a match. To have the rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins, the thrill of competition honing your senses, to know that every choice has a consequence. It’s not the same thing as walking on a razor’s edge, giving everything you have, risking it all for a fleeting taste of victory.

“I’m not like you or Ei,” Nobu says. “I just want baseball to be fun.”

Akira swallows. “One win.”

“What?”

“One win,” Akira repeats, desperation leaking into his voice. “I swear to you, I’ll get us a win this season. But we need nine players on the team. We can’t do it without you.”

Nobu stares at him, and Akira stares back, a silent plea in his eyes. After a long moment, Nobu nods.

Akira never tells Eijun about it, but that promise hangs over his head all season like a noose. Don’t let them score. Don’t let them on base. Don’t let them hit.

Every lost run is a failure. Every little mistake is a nightmare.

Come June, during their last game of the season, during the ninth inning, with the game tied 0-0, with the bases loaded and Narushima’s cleanup up to bat, Akira makes the call. And Eijun follows him.

Akira can’t look Nobu in the eye for weeks.

At the top of the eighth, Kuramochi pulls off the squeeze bunt of the century, bringing Furuya home.

One run behind.

Haruichi gets subbed in for his brother. On the first pitch, he hits the ball to left field, breaking his bat in the process. Jun-senpai steps up to the plate and gets walked.

Two outs. Bases loaded.

Then it’s their captain’s turn. Like a gift from the gods, Yuuki Tetsuya lands a clean hit off of Narumiya’s changeup, and suddenly they’re up in the score.

Eijun fires back in the bottom of the eighth with near-flawless pitching, but Inajitsu isn’t the type of team to take that lying down. Narumiya Mei pitches all the way through to the end, and he finishes the top of the ninth without giving up any more runs.

And with that, they’re one inning away. One inning away from Koshien.

As they transition into defense, Kataoka makes the decision to take Furuya out of left field. But that’s the only substitution he makes: Eijun is entrusted with the bottom of the ninth.

Inajitsu sends in a pinch hitter for their leadoff. He bunts on Eijun’s first pitch and sprints for first, but it turns out to be a foul.

As the batter resets, settling back into position, Eijun stares him down, radiating competitive spirit. Miyuki makes a call, and Eijun pulls his arm back to throw.

The batter manages to hit the inside pitch, but Haruichi is better. He scoops up the ball without hesitation and fires it off to first. The stands go wild as they out the pitch hitter.

Two more outs.

Inajitsu’s next batter steps in close in an attempt to seal off the inside, but Miyuki and Sawamura are too stubborn to let that stop them. They attack up until Carlos gets a fly ball that lands in Sakai-senpai’s mitt.

One more out.

Eijun tosses the rosin bag up and down, face shaded beneath the brim of his cap.

(Akira frowns.)

The next batter, Shirakawa, stands in the box and stares out at the mound with a calm fury, and Eijun winds up and throws the ball.

Foul.

Miyuki tosses the ball back, and Eijun lets it land in his glove. There’s a weird slant to his posture, a look that seems ever so slightly off, and something begins to churn in Akira’s gut. Eijun throws, even harder this time, and the ball flies out like a bullet, cutting to the inside.

Foul.

Wait, Akira thinks. What the hell are you doing?

Eijun stands out there under the sun, unmoving. Miyuki holds up his mitt, and Eijun throws, putting all his weight into his pitch. A metallic clang echoes through the field, the ball hits the side of the cage. Foul.

Bile begins to work its way up Akira’s throat.

The whole stadium is deathly quiet, but Akira wouldn’t know — he can’t hear anything but the ringing of alarm bells in his ears. Up on the mound, Eijun takes off his baseball cap for just a moment, wiping the sweat off his forehead, and for the first time since the inning’s started, Akira gets a clear look at the expression on his brother’s face. And the only thought left in Akira’s mind is:

Oh, shit.

“Aki! Catch my pitches!”

Akira slumps further into the couch. “Mmph.”

Eijun bursts into the living room, glove in hand, and then stops at the sight of Akira poking his head out of a pillow fort with his eyes fixed on the TV.

“Oh my god, are you watching Love Live! again?”

“Shut up! You like it, too!”

Eijun rolls his eyes even as he knocks down a few pillows and sits next to Akira.

It’s the episode where the school idol group gives their final performance and wins the competition. Their school is saved, their third-years are graduating, and they perform so well that the audience calls for an encore.

It’s cheesy, and it’s happy, and it’s so very painful.

“We should have started an idol club,” Akira mutters, as the credits begin to roll.

“You don’t mean that.”

“No,” Akira says, sighing. “I don’t.”

(No matter how badly it ended, he can’t regret forming a baseball team with his friends.)

He lets Eijun drag him outside, armed with nothing but gloves, a faceguard, and a baseball. And they play.

Eijun throws his pitches and Akira catches them. He’s aware that Eijun’s worried, aware that he’s only going through the motions, but he can’t let it go.

“It was my fault,” Akira blurts out, a good fifteen minutes into their catching session.

Eijun rolls his eyes and eases out of his pitching stance.

“You’re an idiot,” he says, and Akira bristles.

“Look who’s talking!”

“Don’t give me that,” Eijun says. “I’m the one who pitched it.”

“You were just doing what I told you to do,” Akira says. “It’s my job to handle the batter. I should have known he was expecting it, he totally saw it coming —”

“Aki, since when have I ever just ‘listened’ to you?” Eijun laughs.

“Oh, wow, you admit it,” Akira mutters under his breath.

“That was the best game we had all season, you know. We had them shut down all the way until the end.”

Akira crouches in the dirt, unable to argue, but unable to agree, either.

“I should have shaken the call,” Eijun continues. “Or you could have called for something else, or Ritsu could have caught the fly ball, whatever — we could do this all day, and we’ll never know.”

Akira sighs.

“You’re not the only one out there, Aki,” Eijun says. He pounds his fist into his chest. “You’ve got me, remember? We’re a battery!”

“A battery,” Akira repeats.

“Yeah!” Eijun beams at him, sunny and bright. “So as long as we’re on the field together, you don’t have to be scared, okay? We ride, or we die! We just happened to die, that time.”

Akira huffs, amused despite himself. “I’m not the one who gets nervous on the field.”

“Yeah, but I don’t throw up after a match.”

“That was once, and that was ‘cause I ate the bad watermelon!”

“Pfft, Wakana was fine.”

“Wakana has a stomach of steel.”

Eijun laughs, and Akira laughs along.

He holds up his mitt for another pitch and grins at his brother. “Well, then, Mr. Ride-or-Die. Sure hope you have the skills to back up that promise.”

“It’s not just skill, Aki,” Eijun says. He tosses the ball up and down and smiles. “I trust my catcher.”

“… I trust you, too.”

Eijun’s smile shifts into a shit-eating grin. “Oh? Can I get that in writing?”

“Shut up!”

Eijun lifts up his leg and pitches his signature fastball, right to where Akira asks for it.

Trust.

When it slams into the back of his mitt, Akira thinks that, the next time they face down a batter, there’s no way they could possibly lose.

He doesn’t realize he’s risen to his feet until the whole dugout is staring at him.

“Akira?” Furuya asks, hesitant.

“He’s spiraling,” Akira breathes out, eyes locked on Eijun’s pitching form. He’s playing fine, but he’s not relaxed or angry or even desperate.

Eijun’s scared.

“Coach,” Akira says, biting back the panic in his voice. His grip on the railing tightens until he can feel his skin painfully stretching over his bones. “Coach Kataoka!”

The man turns his head. Akira forces himself to let go of the railing, whipping his head around to plead his case.

“Put me in,” he says.

A collective hush falls over the already quiet dugout.

Furuya reaches out to catch his sleeve. “Akira —”

“Eijun’s spiraling,” Akira says, even as Shirakawa manages another foul. The metallic clang rings throughout, but the sound is faded in Akira’s hearing. “Please, he’s — we’re so close but —”

“Akira,” Furuya says, pulling him back. “What are you saying —”

“He’s not going to make it, he’s alone out there!”

Kataoka stares back at Akira, face impassive.

“Don’t you have faith in your team?”

Akira stammers. “That’s — that’s not what I mean.”

Everyone in the dugout is watching him. Chris-senpai is watching him. And their thoughts are written all over their faces: what the hell are you doing?

Akira knows it’s stupid. He’s a first-year with no real game experience begging to play in a do-or-die match in the bottom of the ninth. They have one of the best catchers in Tokyo out on the field, and a third-year catcher in reserve. And they still have Kawakami in line for relief. Objectively, it’s a bad decision.

But, for Akira, at least: it’s the only decision.

Out on the field, someone hits a ball.

“Foul!”

“He’s in panic mode,” Akira says, struggling for words. “Eijun — he’s not, he’s not seeing the game right now. I can fix this, just let me play.”

Furuya tries to cut in. “You can’t just force your way onto the field —”

“He needs me,” Akira pleads, and he forgets about dignity.

He drops to the ground, bowing as low as he can, pleading, begging. He can feel the entire dugout watching him in shock, and he knows that it’s dumb, knows that he’s being rude, knows that he’s making a scene, but he can’t let this happen.

Please, he silently begs, face to the floor. Please, let me help him before it’s too late.

It feels like centuries pass before Coach Kataoka finally answers him.

“I can’t let you onto the field.”

“You don’t understand,” Akira says, trying and failing to keep from raising his voice.

How is he supposed to explain? It’s not that he doesn’t trust the senpai. It’s not that Miyuki is doing a bad job leading Eijun.

Jerk or not, asshole or not — none of that matters, here. This isn’t about his brother being an emotional idiot. This isn’t about forgiveness or reconciliation. Akira is still pissed as hell, and he’s pretty sure he’ll be pissed until Eijun actually bothers to apologize to him, but that doesn’t matter.

His battery partner is on the mound, and he’s terrified.

“Dead ball!”

Every single head in the dugout turns their attention toward the field.

Akira scrambles to his feet, ready to throw caution to the wind and fight his way out of the dugout, but Furuya catches his arm and holds him back.

Akira pulls, straining to get out of Furuya’s grip, but he’s held fast. “Let go!”

“Akira,” Furuya hisses into his ear. “Calm down.”

Akira forces his limbs to lock up and tries to inhale.

When he looks up, the entirety of Seidou’s defense is surrounding the mound. Miyuki’s stiff, eyes wide and face slack with shock.

He says something to Eijun. Eijun doesn’t respond.

Miyuki’s hands hesitantly hover over Eijun’s shoulders, but then he pulls his arms back down to his side and looks over his shoulder, locking eyes with the coach. Miyuki shakes his head, and Akira wants to throw up and die.

“Kawakami!”

Nori-senpai rushes out of the bullpen and onto the mound. Eijun, meanwhile, trudges back into the dugout in a mindless daze, his eyes wide and completely, utterly blank.

It’s then that Furuya finally lets him go. Akira rushes up to Eijun: only to freeze, right in front of him.

It’s beyond fear, at this point. He doesn’t look scared, anymore. He looks broken.

“Ei,” Akira says, nearly choking, and then he realizes he doesn’t know what comes after. What is he supposed to say? Sorry?

But even if he had the words, it wouldn’t matter. His brother brushes by him like he doesn’t even know he’s there.

Eijun makes his way to the back of the dugout, deaf to the world, and Akira watches.

That’s all he can do.

Akira sits in the dugout, completely numb, and watches Seidou High lose the match to Inashiro Industrial.

Chapter Text

“The fuck are you doing here?”

Despite the aggressive question, Miyuki doesn’t look away from the TV screen. Kuramochi flicks on the lights, illuminating the club room, and causing Miyuki to blink and hiss in pain.

Kuramochi stares at him, unimpressed. “Were you seriously just sitting in the dark like some sort of vampire?”

“I got drawn into the footage and forgot to turn on the lights,” Miyuki admits.

“Dumbass.”

“Yeah, sure,” he responds, distracted.

His eyes, slowly adjusting to the light, pour over Eijun’s silhouette standing on the mound. That pixelated slump, that tension.

Why couldn’t he see it? The nerves, the fear? He’d just kept calling pitch after pitch. He should’ve given Eijun room to breathe, should have taken a time out, should’ve, should’ve, should’ve.

“You’re not gonna sleep?”

“Is anyone sleeping?” Miyuki counters, and Kuramochi averts his gaze.

No one is sleeping tonight. Not after seeing Tetsu cry. Not after watching Jun’s breakdown, seeing Tanba with his head bowed low and Ryousuke and Masuko and all the senpai unable to finish dinner on account of their tears.

Three years of hard work, over. Finished.

One out away from Koshien.

On the screen, Eijun throws. Miyuki pauses the footage before the ball can hit Shirakawa in the head.

Rewind.

“It’s not your fault,” Kuramochi tells him.

“Isn’t it?”

Kuramochi frowns. “Why would it be?”

Miyuki doesn’t answer, even though he easily could. There are so many mistakes he can list. He didn’t make the right call. He didn’t request a time out.

And then there’s the fact that he kissed a distraught and crying Eijun the night before the finals. Throw one more emotion onto an already emotional pitcher. Eijun was looking for a friend, and Miyuki had tossed him a fucking pipe bomb.

(The one time he’d taken the emotional initiative, and of course, this was how it turned out.)

Kuramochi pulls out a chair and sits next to him. Miyuki hits the play button, and the Eijun onscreen winds up for his first pitch in the bottom of the ninth.

“Did you hear?” Kuramochi asks as they relive their failure.

“Hear what?”

“About what happened in the dugout.”

Miyuki swallows, and his grip on the remote tightens.

“… Yeah,” he says, monotone. No one really told him, but Eijun and Akira sat in the same row on the bus ride home, and he’d heard enough whispers from the other members of the team to put the pieces together.

“Do you think we could’ve…” Kuramochi swallows. “If he’d… you know.”

“I don’t know,” he answers, truthfully.

Maybe Akira would have self-destructed, too. Or maybe they could have struck out Shirakawa. Or maybe Inajitsu was better than them all along, and they were simply outclassed. The truth is, they’ll never know how the game would have turned out.

But what Miyuki does know is that Akira would have done better by Eijun. Akira wouldn’t have left him to crash and burn on the mound, all alone. Akira would have done something.

Miyuki doesn’t want to think about it, but his roommate’s words come to mind, unbidden and unwanted.

At the end of the day, we’re the battery pair.

Shirakawa’s up to bat, and Eijun winds up. Miyuki’s finger twitches on the remote, but this time, he doesn’t hit pause.

Instead, he forces himself to take it all in. The dead ball. The aftermath. The way Eijun shuffles back to the dugout, drained of the fire he normally carries on the mound.

Miyuki wants nothing more than to look away, but he doesn’t. This was his fault.

Never again, he tells himself, and he lets the promise settle into his bones. I’m never going to let that happen to him again.

For the seventh time in the past fifteen minutes, Miyuki checks the clock.

It’s been hours since he’s last seen Akira. He’d left to go practice after lunch, and it’s nearly time for dinner, now.

I should send someone after him, Miyuki thinks. So he doesn’t wear himself out.

Normally, he’d let Eijun keep track of this sort of thing, but Eijun’s been equally moody. And on top of that, they’re still not talking to each other.

(They’re subdued, of course, and they don’t fight, but they continue ignoring each other’s existence. Plus, no one knows what happened. It’s hard to ask when Eijun keeps changing the subject and Akira looks like he’s ready to bite the next person who talks to him.)

He lingers in his room for a bit, just to see if Akira will return, but he doesn’t. Miyuki ends up going to the cafeteria by himself.

There’s a large group of first-years in their usual corner, and Miyuki stops by.

“Hey,” he says, and the underclassmen look up. “Did Akira eat?”

Eijun’s eyes drop to his plate, and his mouth is pulled tight. Miyuki can’t tell if it’s because of him, his twin, or something else entirely.

“He’s coming,” Furuya says. “We kicked him out because he smelled really bad. He’s taking a shower.”

One of the other first-years — Kanemaru, that was his name — elbows Furuya in the side.

“What?” Furuya asks.

“Are you seriously talking about body odor to our senpai?”

“It’s the truth?”

“Whatever, it’s fine,” Miyuki says, waving it off. “I was just checking in. Eat your veggies, firsties.”

“Uh, yes sir!”

Most of the first-years fire off a spirited salute. Furuya and Haruichi nod in acknowledgment, having gotten used to interacting with him through the first string.

Eijun, though, just pokes at his food. Miyuki carefully doesn’t look at him as he walks away.

He serves himself dinner and joins the other second years: Kuramochi, Zono, Nori, Shirasu — and he lets himself get drawn into the conversation.

It’s almost normal. After two days, most of them have found their motivation. They’ve packed up the bitterness and used it as fuel. The jokes are a little softer, the laughs a little forced, but they’re getting there: slowly, but surely.

The only thing that’s missing is Eijun’s stream of chatter from the other end of the room. Miyuki hadn’t realized how much he missed it until it was gone entirely.

He keeps looking over to the first-years. They’re all talking lightly, carrying on a conversation. Haruichi bumps Eijun, shoulder-to-shoulder, and slides a Pocari Sweat in his direction. Eijun doesn’t notice. Instead, he stands up and slams his hands down on the table, drawing everyone’s attention and causing Miyuki to choke on his rice.

“I’m going to be the ace!” he shouts, glaring at Furuya with narrowed eyes. “The ace of aces! King of the mound!”

The whole cafeteria falls silent at that, and the awkward moment stretches from one second to five.

“Idiot, we’re not even talking about that,” Kanemaru hisses, his face bright red. “Shut up, everyone’s looking at you, now!”

Eijun breathes out through his nose, though even that sounds weirdly aggressive. “Harucchi, I need more rice!”

“Get it yourself,” Haruichi says, lightly pushing Eijun away. But he smiles as he does so, and Eijun storms over to the food and begins to load up his plate.

Action resumes. Miyuki turns his attention back to the second-year table with no small amount of relief.

“Oh, thank god,” Kuramochi mutters. “I haven’t heard him yell like that since the semis.”

“Mother hen,” Zono coughs.

“You take that back!” Kuramochi says, jabbing his chopsticks in his direction. “I do not ‘mother hen.’”

“Weren’t you the one to carry Miyuki back to his room after the training camp in first year?”

“That never happened!” Miyuki and Kuramochi say, at the same time.

“No, it definitely did,” Shirasu joins in. “I remember because Kuramochi tripped going up the stairs and you both made this awful racket —”

“Miyuki Kazuya!”

“Holy —” Miyuki cuts off and clutches his chest, heart racing, and he whips his head around.

Eijun stands directly behind him, and Miyuki’s heart skips a beat.

When did he get there? Wasn’t he over by the food two seconds ago?

“The game footage,” Eijun says, drawing him out of his thoughts, and for the first time in days, they’re looking at each other, eye-to-eye.

“What about it?” Miyuki asks, trying to keep his voice even and steady. He probably fails.

“I want to watch it.”

It’s as much a demand as it is a declaration of war. There’s no smile on Eijun’s lips, just a frown and blazing determination.

“Okay,” Miyuki says. “After dinner, then.”

Eijun turns around and walks to his seat without looking back. Miyuki grabs for his drink and sips, just a second too quickly.

“You good?” Kuramochi asks, perceptive as always.

“I’ve moved on.” He purposely answers the wrong question. “I can handle watching it a few more times. He’ll probably need a catcher’s eye to pick up on the strategy.”

Kuramochi rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t press.

Miyuki and Eijun finish off their dinner and exit the cafeteria together. The evening air is mockingly pleasant, cool with a light breeze, and with the day’s warmth still radiating from the pavement. They head for the club room, and Miyuki can’t help but count footsteps.

Twenty-seven to the courtyard, sixty-three to the building. Fifteen steps to reach the second floor, and another forty-two down the hall. They spend the entire walk in tense silence.

And then, right in front of the club room, Eijun stops.

Miyuki stands next to him, every muscle pulled taut, searching for any insight he can glean from studying Eijun’s expression. Kuramochi was right, though. His poker face is really good.

“About…” Eijun takes a deep breath. “About the other night.”

Miyuki swallows.

“I still want to talk about it,” Eijun says. “We need to talk about it. But… can we put a pin in it? I just…” Eijun closes his eyes and exhales. “I want to focus on baseball, for now.”

It feels like someone else is talking when Miyuki opens his mouth to answer. “Of course.”

Eijun beams at him, bright and soft, even though he’s obviously still shaken by the match with Inajitsu. He reaches out and takes Miyuki’s hand, and he squeezes it, once.

The action is supposed to be reassuring, Miyuki thinks, but instead, it feels like a knife.

Eijun crosses the threshold, out of the hallway and into the clubroom. After a moment’s consideration, Miyuki follows.

He leaves his heart at the door.

The upcoming weeks are a whirlwind of action. Kataoka appoints him as captain, with Kuramochi and Zono as support, and then practice resumes — full and intense and busy.

Leading warmups, keeping track of everyone, and making sure they’re all clear-headed and focused. Handling minor disputes before they can grow into greater conflicts. Miyuki hadn’t realized how much work went into being captain. Every night, he climbs into bed worn out and with more worries swimming around his brain.

(It’s almost enough to make him forget the emotional elephant in the room. Almost.)

Seidou speeds through practice games, searching for players to fill the gaps left behind by the third-years. Coach Kataoka rotates everyone around, testing players on the field, and the ever-present threat of demotion to the second-string has everyone pushing themselves to the maximum.

Furuya and Eijun, in particular, duke it out for the ace position, both of them throwing everything they have into strikes and shutouts.

The energy that Miyuki has seen from the two is honestly terrifying. Pitching faster, working harder. It’s not perfect — Furuya burns himself out more often than not, and there are times when Eijun throws so much passion into his pitching that he loses control, but it’s heartening to see that missing out on Koshien didn’t kill their spirit.

On the other hand, Nori seems to be stuck on Inashiro Industrial. He’s quiet in practice, quieter than usual, and his pitches are lackluster during practice matches. Miyuki tries to cheer him up, drawing him into pitching practice and attempting to fire him up, but he doesn’t feel very successful.

Still, he does his best. He can give him a hand, but in the end, it’s up to Nori to pull himself back onto his feet.

He’s still pondering the issue when the team gets called into the club room for an announcement. Everyone is gathered there: first and second string, and Kataoka stands tall as he makes his declaration.

“We’ll be welcoming a new coach this week,” he says.

The room breaks out into whispers.

A new, prestigious coach, with plenty of experience and several appearances at Koshien. It’s an exciting thought, but something about it seems strange.

It’s not until later that evening, back in room 203, that someone decides to put words to it.

“Hey, is everything alright with Coach Kataoka?”

Miyuki nearly drops his pencil. It’s the first time in weeks that Akira’s actually initiated a conversation, and he jerks his head up in shock.

“Why?” He asks, turning around in his desk chair.

Akira, sprawled out on his bed, puts his phone down and looks up. “You know. Since there’s a new coach.”

Miyuki frowns. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“That’s what these elite schools do, right?” Akira asks. “Kataoka didn’t bring us to Koshien, so they hire a new guy who can.”

“That’s not —” Miyuki cuts off the reflexive protest and considers the argument.

… Is that what’s happening, here?

“Or do we just have another coach?” Akira continues, cutting off Miyuki’s train of thought. “Can you have two coaches? Is that a thing big teams do?”

“A lot of teams have multiple coaches,” Miyuki says, latching onto the excuse. “Oota-sensei’s been assisting Coach Kataoka, but I guess they wanted someone more knowledgeable about baseball in the dugout.”

“Oh,” Akira says. He furrows his eyebrows together and twists his mouth. “Maybe this new guy can help me with my batting.”

“Batting?”

Akira rolls his eyes. “How else am I supposed to dethrone you from your position?”

Miyuki chokes. “What?”

“What, you think I want to be the guy who has to beg to get out on the field?”

Miyuki stiffens at the reminder of what the first-string has silently deemed the ‘dugout incident’. But Akira either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care about his discomfort. He says the words with the same quiet sharpness he’s been speaking with for the past few weeks: steady, even, and aimed to cut.

It’s a reminder that his roommate is a catcher, too. Honestly, if Miyuki was in Akira’s position, he’d be thinking the same exact thing — he just hadn’t expected Akira to go out and say it like that.

“Whatever,” Akira mutters.

Silence falls. Miyuki doesn’t know how to continue the conversation — honestly, he’s surprised that they had one in the first place.

“Has…” Akira clears his throat and looks away. “Has Eijun… said anything to you? Recently?”

Miyuki swallows and tries not to think about watching game footage with Eijun. I want to focus on baseball.

“About what?” He says with feigned casualness.

“Oh,” Akira says. “Never mind, then.”

“Now you’re making me curious,” Miyuki says, forcing himself to sound ‘jokingly interested’ instead of ‘desperate for information’. The forced levity backfires, though.

Akira shuts down, wiping his face of all expression. He slumps back into his pillows, and Miyuki can practically see him sliding his metaphorical walls back into place.

“Don’t worry about it,” he mutters. He picks up his headphones, the conversational atmosphere dies, and Miyuki’s left to wonder about whatever Akira meant to say.

It’s one thing after another, these days. Leading the team, catching for the pitchers, trying to improve his batting so that he can live up to the terrifying title of ‘cleanup batter’ — and then receiving the news that they’re going to play Yakushi High School in a practice match.

Though Seidou had beaten them the last time around, there’s still an undercurrent of revenge running through the team. Furuya, in particular, is excited. Todoroki Raichi had gotten a home run off of him the last time around, and he forcibly drags Akira out for extra catching sessions in the days leading up to the game.

(Miyuki actively rearranges his schedule to keep his evenings clear, just in case, but Eijun never knocks on his door.)

And then, before they know it, it’s time.

On August 28th, on a pleasant day, with the bleachers packed with reporters and other teams hoping to catch the action, Seidou High scores against Yakushi in the top of the first.

Miyuki, embarrassingly, hits a pop fly to first and ends the inning, but at least they’re up in the score. The flow is in their favor, though not by much. But it shouldn’t be hard to capitalize.

Because Miyuki and Eijun are taking the field.

Last time around, Eijun managed to shut down their entire lineup. Last time, Eijun managed to out Todoroki Raichi twice.

Yakushi obviously has it out for them, because they’re chomping at the bit to face Eijun on the mound.

“Let’s focus on control, today,” Miyuki says, as he pulls on his catching gear. “No easy pitches. Last match was a little dicey — but there’s no room for error against Yakushi.”

“Okay.”

“You ready?” Miyuki asks, adjusting the straps of his chest protector.

A beat of silence passes, and Miyuki turns his head.

Eijun is staring at his glove, with a strangely fierce expression on his face. Miyuki frowns.

“Something wrong?”

“No.” Eijun shakes his head and adjusts his baseball cap. He straightens up and looks over at Miyuki.

His eyes burn, glowing gold. “Let’s win this.”

Miyuki grins.

Seidou’s defense takes their positions. On the mound, Eijun takes a deep breath.

“I’m gonna let them hit, so I’ll be counting on you!”

“You got this, Eijun!” Haruichi yells, from second base.

“Kick ass, Eijun!” Kuramochi heckles.

The rest of the team adds on their own cheers and well wishes, and Yakushi’s leadoff steps up to the plate.

“Play ball!”

Miyuki calls for an inside pitch. Eijun begins his windup, lifting his leg up, pulling his left arm back and forming that familiar wall with his right, and then he whips his arm into view, and —

And the batter swings.

It’s a solid hit, arcing up and dropping right in front of center field. Eijun yelps in shock as the batter manages to get onto first base, and Miyuki winces.

That was right over the plate, he thinks, and he studies Eijun’s expression.

He’s startled, but he’s not scared. Not like he was with Inajitsu.

“Breathe, Eijun!” he calls out, and Eijun nods furiously before taking the advice.

The next batter walks up to the plate. Miyuki takes it all in. Runner on first, no outs…

Let’s try the outside.

“Ball!”

It’s a good pitch, even if it misses the strike zone — nice and strong, and a nearly perfect course. Eijun’s mouth tugs up into a satisfied smile, and Miyuki mirrors the expression.

Alright then. Let’s see how your cutter feels today —

“Ball!”

Miyuki looks at his mitt in shock: way too high, and light-years away from where he’d asked for it.

“Shit,” Eijun hisses. He shakes out his wrist and scowls.

Okay, maybe not the cutter, Miyuki thinks, and he calls for another inside pitch.

Eijun winds up and performs his duty — but it’s an easy ball, straight down the middle. The batter swings, Kuramochi misses it by a hair, and now there are runners on first and second.

Miyuki frowns and glances at the umpire. “Can I request a time out —”

“No!” Eijun cuts him off, and Miyuki stares until he squirms. “Sorry! That was my bad, I’m fine!”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m fine,” Eijun insists. “It happens. This is nothing!”

‘Nothing’ is not how Miyuki would describe it.

Two runners, no outs, and after this next batter comes Todoroki Raichi. They need a good pitch, now, or the momentum will shift in Yakushi’s favor. As the third batter steps up to the plate, Miyuki runs through the options in his head. He makes a sign.

How about your changeup?

Eijun nods in agreement.

They bait the batter into swinging at air and manage their first strike of the game.

Oh, thank god, Miyuki thinks. Hopefully, the strike will help Eijun relax and reset.

But it doesn’t.

Three pitches later, the count is 3-1, and Miyuki finally ignores Eijun’s protests and insists on a time out.

He jogs up to the mound and calls up an easygoing grin, hoping to hide the worry. “You good?”

“Yeah, I’m —” Eijun grits his teeth and shakes his head. “I dunno. Sorry.”

“Just let ‘em hit, alright?” Miyuki tells him. He steps in close and places a hand on Eijun’s shoulder. “You’ve got everyone behind you. Your pitches have power.”

“Yeah,” Eijun says, nodding slowly.

“We’ll focus on the batter, okay?”

Eijun jerks his head up. “But the runners —”

“It’s fine,” Miyuki says. He smiles and taps Eijun’s chest with his glove. “I got you.”

Miyuki carefully studies Eijun’s expression. He’s not broken, not scared, but he’s shaky. Uncertain. Miyuki looks at the batter, and then back to Eijun. They just need one good pitch. One good pitch, to hopefully clear whatever worries are plaguing Eijun’s mind.

It’s a risk, maybe, but it’s one he’s willing to take.

He lowers his voice. “Hey.”

“Huh?”

“Wanna do the cutter kai?”

Eijun blinks. “Right — right now?”

“Yeah, why not?” Miyuki asks, and he lets his smile shift into something more mischievous. “Tell me it wouldn’t be cool as hell.”

Eijun cracks a grin at the callback. “… It would be cool,” he murmurs.

“So let’s do it.”

Eijun bites his lip. A moment passes, and Miyuki holds his breath, praying that he didn’t push too far.

Finally, Eijun nods.

Miyuki exhales and jogs back to home plate. He crouches down, signals for the cutter kai, and holds up his mitt.

Eijun winds up, eyes burning, heart racing, and with an expression that could scare any batter.

And to Miyuki’s horror:

The ball goes wild.

He lunges, somehow managing to get it into his mitt, thank god, but the damage is done. When he looks up, the only expression he can see on Eijun's face is fear.

Kataoka calls Miyuki over to the sidelines, and Miyuki mechanically prepares his words.

Analyze the pattern, isolate the problem. Ignore the guilt and fear, and focus on the facts.

“It’s the inside corner,” he says, robotic. “He has the right mindset, and he’s not tense… but his pitches have been easy, lately. Even in our other games…” Miyuki trails off and presses his lips together. “I think it might be the dead ball.”

Kataoka’s face is as unreadable as always. Miyuki can’t help but look at everyone else in the dugout — pale faces, eyes wide with worry. That new coach, Ochiai, strokes his chin with a calculated gaze.

Bottom of the first, bases loaded, with no outs, and their opponent is Todoroki Raichi. And Eijun can’t pitch to the inside.

Pitcher change, Miyuki’s brain supplies, even though all he wants to do is focus all his energy onto dragging Eijun out of whatever slump he’s in. It’s obvious that Eijun wants the mound, but at this rate, they need to change something.

As if reading his mind, Kataoka looks over to the bullpen. Furuya and Akira are there, fully kitted, but they’re not warming up — both of them are watching the game.

Finally, Kataoka clears his throat. “Akira.”

Miyuki stiffens.

Akira tears his gaze from the mound and looks over. Kataoka makes a beckoning gesture, and he jogs over, with Furuya right behind him.

“Coach,” Akira says, dipping his head respectfully.

“Can you fix this?”

Akira looks back to the mound, where Eijun is still frozen after throwing that failed cutter. Akira tilts his head, considering the question with an infuriatingly even expression.

Chris had told Miyuki a little about it: that Akira had barely been able to breathe, that his eyes were wild in a way no one had ever seen from him before, that he’d gotten on the ground and begged to get out on the field. But somehow, there’s none of that, here.

Finally, Akira looks back up at the coach. He nods.

Kataoka breaks his gaze and looks to the outfield. “Asou!”

Their left fielder jogs in, mouth pulled into a firm line.

“Miyuki, you’re playing left field. Akira, you’re in.”

“Yes, sir,” Akira answers, and if he’s nervous, it doesn’t show on his face at all.

Miyuki, meanwhile, is reeling.

Left field, he thinks. He hasn’t played in the outfield since…

Actually, Miyuki can’t think of any time he’d ever been in the outfield.

“You can take my glove, captain,” Asou says, and he pulls off his fielder’s glove.

Miyuki pulls off his catcher’s mitt and holds the new piece of equipment.

The weight is all different, the leather broken in differently. It feels foreign to his hands.

“Thank you,” he says, to be polite.

Asou looks at him, eye-to-eye. “Try not to shame us outfielders, okay?”

Miyuki smiles, but it’s not as confident as it could be.

He removes his gear and trades the helmet for his baseball cap while Kataoka sorts out the substitution with the umpires. He pulls on Asou’s glove and wriggles his fingers, testing out the feel. It’s not tight, or loose, it’s just… different. Miyuki decides that he hates the way it fits over his hand.

A few feet away, Akira checks the straps on his leg guards with a neutral expression. Miyuki studies him carefully, but it’s a pointless exercise.

He’d expect impatience, maybe. Restlessness. Worry. Concern. But there’s nothing there — just a baseball player getting ready for a baseball game.

Eijun and Akira haven’t spoken in weeks. Even after Inajitsu, after Eijun shattering on the mound and Akira breaking down in the dugout, they still haven’t spoken to each other. They’re somewhere between burning rage and cold indifference, trapped in a low simmer simultaneously fueled and tempered by Seidou’s defeat.

Miyuki looks back at Coach Kataoka. Is this a good idea?

Kataoka just gestures for him to get out on the field.

Miyuki pulls on his baseball cap — properly, since he’s in left field, what the fuck — and he steps out of the dugout. Akira is in front of him, and Miyuki tries to find something encouraging to say.

“… Do your best,” he says. He frowns. It feels too neutral and too impersonal.

Akira doesn’t turn around. “I know exactly what I’m here to do.”

They split off: Miyuki to left field and Akira to the infield. It’s an unspoken agreement among the rest of the defense to keep to their positions, and they leave Eijun and Akira to talk alone on the mound.

Even though Miyuki’s watching the interaction as closely as he can, he can’t tell what they’re saying. It doesn’t look very exciting though — just an average conversation between a pitcher and a catcher. No arguing. No yelling.

… In fact, it seems like they’re deciding on signs. On the mound. In full view of the enemy.

Oh god. Miyuki almost forgot just how chaotic their battery was.

Finally, Akira steps away from Eijun and turns to the rest of the field. “So, uh, they’re probably gonna get a lot of hits,” Akira yells out. “Like, a lot. Sorry about the workout. Thanks for your cooperation.”

“You’re saying it wrong!” Eijun bristles. “And they are not gonna get a lot of hits!”

“I dunno, Ei,” Akira says, rolling his eyes. “You’re not exactly on top of your game, are you?”

Eijun looks one second away from strangling him. Miyuki can feel his blood pressure skyrocketing.

“I’ll kick your ass if you make bad calls,” Eijun warns.

“So shake them,” Akira spits out.

“You know I — ugh! Shut up! Get off my mound!”

Akira sarcastically waves good-bye as he walks down to home plate. He sketches a quick bow to Todoroki and the umpire before he crouches down.

And then he spreads his arms.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Miyuki mutters, as Akira tells Eijun to throw whatever you want! at Todoroki Raichi.

Eijun sticks his tongue out, not even caring that Coach Kataoka is about to have an aneurysm, and he throws.

Akira’s already moving. Miyuki can’t tell if he knew it was coming, or if his reflexes are just that good, but he snatches the near-wild ball out of the air. Then — before anyone can register what’s happening — he chucks it down to first, where a startled Zono catches the ball and tags out the runner. Pickoff.

“Out,” says the umpire, still blinking in the aftermath.

Zono tosses the ball back to Eijun before sending Akira an incredulous look. The message is obvious: warn me next time!

Akira claps his hands together and ducks his head. Sorry.

Miyuki can’t fault him for the aggressive move — it’s something he might have done — but the fact that he’d done it without planning makes Miyuki sweat. What if Zono missed the catch?

Up on the mound, Eijun looks at the ball in his glove, then at the runners on second and third. And then he turns his gaze back to home plate.

Two runners. One out. What comes next?

Akira signals for another pitch — again, telling Eijun to throw what he wants.

Eijun takes a long time to process that. Just when Miyuki thinks he’s going to request a timeout, he finally steps on the rubber and starts his windup. Eijun still looks stiff, and the pitch hits the dirt, but Akira stops it without any trouble.

“Ball two!”

Akira tosses the ball back to Eijun. He spreads his arms wide for the third time, and Eijun finally snaps.

“Are you leading me, or not?” Eijun yells at home plate.

The entirety of Seidou winces at the uncouth outburst.

“This was such a bad idea,” Miyuki mutters. Over in the dugout, Coach Kataoka is gripping the railing so tightly that it looks like it’s about to break.

“Depends,” Akira yells back.

Eijun crosses his arms. Akira makes an incomprehensible hand sign. Eijun stares at him incredulously. Akira makes another loose sign, and Eijun actually throws his head back and groans in frustration.

With that, Akira sends back a thumbs up, and Eijun huffs before stepping back onto the rubber.

Todoroki, meanwhile, looks lost. This is probably the first time he’s been so thoroughly ignored by his opponents.

Akira finally holds his mitt up and calls properly. Fastball, low and away.

Eijun throws. Todoroki swings — foul.

The hit, as usual, flies fast and far, even if it crosses the line. Miyuki clenches his hands.

Todoroki’s the kind of batter who can crush a pitcher with a single hit. They’re walking a tightrope and they don’t even seem to be taking it seriously.

Eijun receives the ball and looks to home plate.

Another outside pitch. This one’s a four-seamer, now. There’s no expression on Akira’s face as Eijun begins his windup.

“Foul!”

Todoroki scowls and adjusts his grip on his bat. He sends Eijun a feral glare and takes an experimental swing. A silent show of intimidation.

Eijun doesn’t even seem to see it.

Maybe it’s just Miyuki, but it feels like everyone — on the field, in the dugout, in the stands — everyone is holding their breath. The count is 2-2, and somehow, they have Todoroki cornered. The next pitch will make or break the inning.

This time, Akira holds his glove to the inside corner, and Eijun nods. Already, Miyuki can see the difference.

Whatever tension that was in Eijun’s frame before has fallen away. He winds up, flexible and fluid, and there’s an air of calm about him. No anger. No passion. Just calm.

The ball flies, straight and true and right on-target, and —

And Todoroki swings.

Miyuki watches in mute horror as the ball shoots through the air.

That Toujou kid is running through center field, chasing the hit, but he can’t make it in time. It hits the ground, nearly out of the park, and Miyuki can’t breathe.

Frantically, Toujou scoops it up and tries to send it back — but it’s too late.

Todoroki Raichi steps onto third base, and the second runner crosses home plate. Two runs off of Eijun’s inside fastball, and now Seidou is behind.

Miyuki whips his gaze to the mound, scared of what he’ll see. After the worst possible start, after walking a batter and letting Todoroki of all people get two RBI off a four-seam to the inside — Miyuki looks at him with his heart in his throat.

But… nothing’s wrong.

In fact, Miyuki realizes, the whole atmosphere is off. Yakushi should be celebrating at the chance, at the fact that they seized the momentum so early in the game. Todoroki should be cackling that crazy laugh of his. The stands should be shouting and going wild, and Seidou should be feeling the pressure.

But instead, it’s quiet. It feels like they’re in a lull, a slow part of the game. Like they’re in a stalemate, even though it’s the bottom of the first and Yakushi just took the lead.

Yakushi’s dugout is smiling, but something about it feels hollow. Akira doesn’t spare them a single glance.

In fact, Akira doesn’t even call a time-out. He just makes another loose gesture, and Eijun tips his hat in acknowledgment.

As if nothing happened.

After a confused moment, the runners slink back to the dugout, oddly subdued despite the score. The fifth batter steps up to the plate. After a quick once over, Akira lazily places his mitt.

Fastball to the inside.

There’s no fear, no doubt, no hesitation. Eijun winds up, and the ball goes exactly where it needs to go — past the batter and into Akira’s glove. Even from left field, Miyuki can hear it slam into the back of his mitt: a satisfying smack that seems to linger in his ears.

“Strike one!”

And that’s when the atmosphere begins to shift.

“Nice pitch,” Akira calls out, as he throws the ball back to his brother. There’s the faintest air of smugness about him, echoed by Eijun’s relaxed posture on the mound.

Eijun tosses the ball up and down with an irreverent air of confidence. He straightens up, and suddenly everyone on the field is mirroring him, standing tall. It’s like a fog has been lifted. Miyuki can see the whole field clearly, can feel everyone opening their eyes. His blood starts pumping again and the entire team comes to life, leaning forward and anticipating the next play. And for the first time since the game began, Miyuki isn’t worried.

Akira makes the call. Eijun makes the pitch.

And for the next four innings, Yakushi High can’t get on base.

During the top of the sixth, Furuya and Seki get subbed in, replacing the twins. The score is 3-2, in Seidou’s favor, and there are four innings left for them to maintain their lead. Sanada retires Kuramochi during his at-bat, and Seidou’s defense begins to prepare for the bottom of the sixth.

Miyuki returns Asou’s glove. Then he pulls on his catching gear in silence. The whole dugout is quiet — not uncomfortable, not tense, just… solemn.

Out of the corner of his eye, Miyuki watches Akira pull off his mitt and helmet. He removes his chest protector and his leg guards, reverently placing them into his sports bag. Some distance away, Eijun pulls off his shirt and reaches for the ice wrap.

Akira breaks the silence without looking up from his task. “You're still a stupid jerk.”

“Right back at you, asshole,” Eijun snaps.

And that’s that.

They end up sitting at opposite ends of the dugout, and the whole team is left to puzzle out what just happened.

Later that evening, Miyuki finds himself back in the club room. Once again, he watches Seidou take to the field in the bottom of the ninth. The score is 4-3, and they’re one inning away from Koshien.

Every breath, every motion is burned into his memory. He can probably recite the timestamp for every minor glitch — that’s how many times he’s seen this video.

But the truth is, he’d moved on from this. Weeks ago. Sometime between the finals and becoming captain, he’d abandoned the footage. Resolved to leave it behind and keep his eyes on the future.

So why am I still here?

Disgusted with himself, he shuts off the TV and tosses the remote onto the table with a clatter. He rests his head in his hands and grimaces.

He’d ‘moved on’, sure. The whole team had moved on. But it’s no secret that all of Seidou was asking themselves the same question, and today they got their answer.

Sure, Yakushi had gaps in their lineup after the loss of their third-years. And Akira was an unknown element, a new player that caught them off guard. He could call it a perfect storm of coincidence. A series of unfortunate events. But Miyuki knows better.

He thinks of the out-of-control cutter he'd insisted on calling, of the shock and the fear on Eijun’s face. The useless words he’d said to put him at ease, challenging him, encouraging him — they’d done nothing to reassure Eijun.

And then there was Akira. After that initial conversation on the mound, Akira never called for a time out. He didn’t need to — not even after letting Todoroki Raichi score off of an inside fastball.

Eijun was on the verge of another breakdown, and all Akira had to do was walk onto the field to calm him down. Even though they hadn’t spoken in weeks. Even though they still didn’t speak, after the match.

What do you have to do to form a battery like that?

Seidou spent the whole summer rotating pitchers. Furuya, Tanba, Nori, Eijun. And not once did they ever feel that sort of security. Not until today.

Today, they had an ace. And Akira was the one to bring it out.

Miyuki gets to his feet, nearly knocking over his chair.

I have to fix this.

And with that thought in mind, he strides out of the club room and starts making his way to the dorms.

It only takes a couple seconds for the door to open up.

“Hi, what’s up…” Eijun trails off when he catches sight of Miyuki.

Miyuki smiles at him, tentative. “Can we talk?”

“I — yeah,” Eijun stammers out, cheeks reddening. “Yeah, sure, let me just —”

He ducks back into his room and grabs his keys.

“I’m headed out!” Eijun announces, and Kuramochi’s head pops out from where he’s resting on the top bunk.

“Where are you —” Kuramochi stops mid-sentence as he meets Miyuki’s eyes.

They stare at each other, for a moment. Miyuki swallows as Kuramochi squints. A slow smile begins to cross Kuramochi's lips, and Miyuki winces.

“Playing catch?” Kuramochi asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

“No,” Miyuki says, scowling back at him. “Eijun already pitched today, I’m not gonna wear him out.”

“Oh,” Eijun says, and he drops his glove back onto his desk.

Miyuki can’t help but grin at the sight. Cute.

“Make good choices!” Kuramochi yells as they step out of the room. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t —”

The door clicks shut.

“Sorry about that,” Eijun says, sheepishly. “He’s —”

“I know,” Miyuki laughs. “He’s annoying.”

“So,” Eijun says, rocking back and forth on his feet. “Talking. Yes. Let’s —”

A door gets kicked open, and they both jump at the sound. Furuya materializes out of nowhere and jogs out of his room.

“Oh. Hello,” Furuya says when he sees them.

“Hi!”

“Hi.”

Furuya lifts up his hand in a half-wave before jogging away. It takes Miyuki a second, but then he works out that Furuya’s headed for the vending machines, most likely to get snacks for himself and his roommate.

What a weird kid.

“We should, uh —” Miyuki coughs. “Let’s go somewhere else?”

“Sounds good.”

They walk, side-by-side, past the courtyard and past the practice hall. Maybe it’s muscle memory, or maybe it’s something else, but somehow, without ever agreeing on a destination, they end up standing on the edge of field A.

“Maybe we should have brought our gear,” Miyuki says.

Eijun laughs. “It’s getting dark soon,” he points out.

He’s right. It’s the end of August now, and sunset comes earlier than it did during the height of summer. The sight is achingly familiar, and it reminds Miyuki what he’s here for.

He turns to face Eijun, and their eyes meet.

“I’m sorry.”

Eijun freezes. “… What for?”

Miyuki takes a deep breath.

He wants to throw caution to the wind. He wants to say, yes, I’ll go out with you. He wants to hold Eijun’s hand and kiss him, there and now, again and again and again.

But more than that: what he wants is confidence. Trust. Miyuki thinks way back to the beginning of the season: before Inajitsu, before the tournament. Back to the moment he and Eijun had struck out Furuya in the batting cages, the first time they’d ever really connected.

He and Eijun had been out of sync ever since the kiss. They’d been tiptoeing around the subject, dancing around each other. He’s tired of second-guessing himself on the field, tired of the weird awkwardness that keeps him from meeting Eijun’s golden eyes. Eijun’s been off his game, and the only thing Miyuki can blame is himself.

More than anything, he wants their battery back.

“I didn’t — I don’t want to mess anything up between us,” Miyuki says. “I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable. That wasn’t…” Miyuki scratches the back of his neck. “The timing wasn’t ideal, on my end. Sorry.”

“Bad timing,” Eijun says, softly. He bites his lip.

Miyuki exhales. “I think… let’s just reset and forget about it. Start over.”

“Start over?”

“Yeah,” Miyuki says, even though it cuts him to the core. He holds up his hand for a fist bump. “Partners?”

Eijun stares at his fist for what seems like a long time. But after a moment, he nods and gently returns the gesture.

“Partners,” Eijun repeats, and even though it’s what Miyuki wanted to hear, it hurts.

(Relief. Regret. He’s not sure what it is that’s causing the lump in his throat, but it’s too late for that now.)

“You know, you did good today,” he rambles, hoping to guide them to a happier note. “You looked like an ace, out there.”

Eijun huffs. “You think so?”

“I do.” Miyuki sighs, letting his voice take on a wistful tone. “Wish I could’ve seen it from home plate, but, well. There’s always next time, right?”

“Yeah,” Eijun murmurs. His eyes reflect the sunset. “Next time.”

They sit there, for a moment, bathed in the evening glow, watching the sun skim the horizon. It’s warm, and it’s gold, and it’s beautiful.

And it’s completely and utterly silent.

Chapter Text

Crash!

Akira jolts out of his light doze and yelps as Furuya drops his food tray into the space next to him.

“What the hell?” Akira groans, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He turns and sends Furuya a glare.

“You’re tired,” Furuya observes.

“It’s seven in the morning, I’m allowed to be tired,” Akira counters.

Furuya stares.

A wave of irritation rises up in Akira. “What?” he snaps.

“You’re usually awake, at this time.”

“I don’t have to be a morning person every day.”

“Your hair is wet.”

“I took a morning shower.”

“Why?”

“Does it matter?”

Furuya continues to stare at him until Akira squirms.

“Okay,” he says, caving in. “So maybe I went for a run earlier.”

He takes a sip of his water. Furuya, still standing, waits patiently, and Akira can practically hear the judgment radiating from his friend’s brain.

“Hey, am I not allowed to run in the mornings?” Akira grumbles, slapping his glass back down onto the table. “People here do it all the time.”

“What time was it when you ran?”

“This,” Akira declares, “is an unnecessary interrogation.”

“You didn’t sleep last night, did you.”

“I’m fine!” Akira insists. “There is literally nothing in my life that could possibly disturb my sleep right now. There are no sins to regret. I am zen, I am centered, I am a cool cucumber.”

“Full moon last night.”

“Crescent, actually,” Akira replies, without thinking.

A pause.

“I just gave myself away, didn’t I.”

Furuya sits down next to him and starts eating his breakfast. Akira looks back down at his own half-eaten meal. He shovels some cold rice into his mouth and makes a face at the texture. How long did he doze off for? He tries not to yawn and takes another sip from his water.

They eat in silence.

After a few minutes, Furuya clears his throat. Akira glances at him, curious.

Furuya looks like he’s pulling teeth when he opens his mouth. “… If something’s bothering you, you can tell me.”

“Don’t push yourself, Furuya, neither of us want that,” Akira mutters, swirling his food with his chopsticks.

Furuya keeps quiet, unable to argue. It’s true, after all — the prospect of a heart-to-heart conversation does not appeal to either of them.

Akira continues eating his room-temperature breakfast. Several minutes pass before Furuya manages another question.

“Is it Eijun?”

“Ew, no,” Akira says. “Last time I lost sleep ‘cause of that jerk was when he sobbed all night after watching Ponyo. He wouldn’t shut up.”

“Is Ponyo sad?” Furuya asks. “I’ve never seen it.”

“Ponyo is the cutest movie of all time, and Eijun is a whiny dumbass with the emotional sensitivity of an infant.”

Furuya shoots him a look.

Akira grunts and takes a bite out of his omelet. He chews and swallows, forcing it down, and then goes for another bite, because he’d rather go to practice sleep-deprived than sleep-deprived and hungry. Halfway through, he yawns and chokes on his rice.

Furuya slaps his back with the full force of a strikeout pitcher, and Akira coughs out the bit of food caught in his throat.

“Ow,” he says, rubbing his back.

“Sorry.” Furuya looks down at his own hand with furrowed eyebrows.

“You know you don’t have to put full power into everything you do, right?” Akira tells him. “You could work on your stamina, sure, but pacing yourself is probably more important.”

“I don’t want to hear that from the guy who went for a run at three in the morning.”

“It was at four a.m., excuse you.”

Furuya sends him another unimpressed stare.

Akira drops his head into his hands. “Fuck.”

“You’re really off your game when you’re tired, aren’t you?”

Akira angrily shoves more food into his mouth, avoiding the conversation.

“You can nap in the dugout, later,” Furuya offers. “I’ll cover for you.”

“You’ll end up napping, and then we’ll both get caught.”

“Haruichi can cover.”

“Kanemaru will bust us,” Akira reminds him.

Sometimes it’s nice to have other first-years joining their practice, outside of the original four. Sometimes.

Furuya merely shrugs. He eats his breakfast, not looking over.

After a few moments of guilty silence, Akira finally sighs and speaks honestly. “It’s not really a big deal, I promise. My brain is just being dumb. I’ll get over it after a few days.”

Furuya takes a sip from his own water.

“For the record,” he says, after swallowing, “I think you did well yesterday.”

“Thanks,” Akira replies, but it sounds obligatory and forced even to his own hearing.

They finish their breakfast, clear the table, and then head out for practice.

(Akira almost passes out as they line up for stretching, and Furuya dutifully elbows him in the side to keep him awake.)

So.

Akira must be really tired because it takes a few hours for him to realize that everyone is watching him.

Or, not quite. To be more accurate, everyone is watching him and desperately trying not to. He keeps feeling the weight of unseen eyes, but every time he tries to catch them in the act, there’s no one looking his way.

He tries to ignore it and perform the drills to the best of his totally-well-rested ability, but — as Furuya told him earlier — he’s not on top of his game. He doesn’t trip and eat dirt, thankfully, but his reaction time is slower than usual and it takes a few seconds for his body to catch up to his brain.

During a break, he fills up a paper cup and splashes water in his face in an attempt to wake up.

“Ah,” he hisses, as ice-cold water begins to soak into his shirt.

Footsteps shuffle behind him, and Akira whips his head around at the sound.

Kanemaru tries to look away, but it’s too late — Akira’s caught him in the act.

“Hey,” Akira says, because he’s too tired to try and work it out himself and would rather get a straight answer. “Do you know why everyone keeps staring at me?”

Kanemaru blinks at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about?”

Akira squints at him, watching the way Kanemaru’s mouth twitches, uncomfortable. “Really?”

“Really.”

Akira sighs. He takes his right hand and places it on Kanemaru’s shoulder.

Kanemaru looks at it, frowning.

“Look,” Akira says, casually refilling his paper cup with his free hand. “My impulse control is directly correlated to the amount of sleep I get. This is a threat.”

Kanemaru narrows his eyes.

Akira stares back, devoid of expression. “Why is everyone staring at me?”

Kanemaru swallows and lies directly into Akira’s face. “I don’t know.”

A beat passes.

Without warning, Akira dumps ice water down the back of Kanemaru’s shirt. Kanemaru yelps and reflexively shoves him away. Normally, this would be fine, but Akira’s a little out of it — he loses his balance and stumbles. His elbow hits the water jug, and the whole setup tips over, spilling water and ice across the dirt, and then he yells again as ice water starts seeping into his cleats.

When he looks up, Coach Kataoka is glaring at them from clear across the field.

“Oh, shit,” they say, at the same time.

“Akira! Kanemaru! Refill the water jug! And that’s seven laps for both of you!”

“Seven?” Akira mutters. “Can’t we round that down to five?”

“We’d better refill it before break is over, or the senpai will kill us,” Kanemaru grumbles. He picks up the water jug and brushes off some of the dirt.

They take it to the club building and rush back with the water as quickly as they can. Seki-senpai gives Kanemaru the stink-eye — but when he glances at Akira, there’s only a short moment of eye-contact before he looks away.

Akira grinds his teeth at the interaction.

Then he and Kanemaru jog over to the edge of the field and start running their seven laps.

There’s a little running tip Akira learned from Takashima-sensei, back when he’d spent his first month at Seidou running laps on the freshman fields: a good endurance pace is one where you can carry a full conversation with the person running next to you.

So naturally, Kanemaru opts to talk as they run around the field.

“I can’t believe you dumped water down my shirt!” Kanemaru complains. “How are you more annoying than Eijun?”

“How do you think I survived for fifteen years?”

“I can’t believe we ever thought you were the quiet one,” Kanemaru says. He shakes out his arm, and a few remaining water droplets fling out from his sleeve.

“I am the quiet one.”

“Barely.”

Akira rolls his eyes and grins, but the humor doesn’t last for long. As they run, he elbows Kanemaru in the side to make sure he has his full attention.

“Seriously, though,” he says. “Why is everyone staring at me?”

Kanemaru shoots him an incredulous look. “Aren’t you supposed to be observant, or something? You really can’t figure it out?”

“No.”

Kanemaru rolls his eyes and huffs. “It’s because of Yakushi!”

Akira stumbles at the admission, barely managing to keep his balance.

“What?”

“Everyone heard about what happened during the finals,” Kanemaru tells him.

Yikes, Akira thinks, automatic. That’s embarrassing. How lovely that the entire baseball club, second-string included, knows that Akira lost his mind in the dugout. If he’s lucky, it’ll remain in the baseball club without spilling out and reaching the ears of his classmates.

He doubts he’s that lucky.

“Then,” Kanemaru says, accentuating the word with a pointed gesture, “the first time you and Eijun team up in an actual game, you shut down Yakushi High School. Obviously, everyone is stuck on the ‘what if’ scenario. Coach should have put you in.”

Akira’s the one that begged to get out on the field, but hearing it from someone else makes him feel sick to his stomach. He turns his attention to the dirt in front of him.

“We didn’t shut them down,” Akira says, quietly.

“Because Eijun was off, and the bases were loaded,” Kanemaru reminds him, as if that’s supposed to make him feel better. “But after that, nobody got on base!”

“Two runs would have lost us the game,” Akira says, replaying yesterday’s hit in his mind. “Nothing would have changed.”

“You were up against Todoroki Raichi,” Kanemaru says. “Inajitsu can’t bat like that.”

Akira bites his tongue. If Eijun can’t pitch, then every batter might as well be Todoroki Raichi.

Together, they round a corner of the outfield. Two laps in. Akira starts counting his breaths.

The truth is: he’d thought about the Inajitsu thing for a long time. And after the initial anger and grief and shame, he’d come to the following conclusion:

Coach Kataoka was right. Akira would not have survived that inning.

It wasn’t nerves. Akira had never been nervous in his life.

(Okay, he has been nervous before. But not for a baseball game.)

And it wasn’t a lack of skill or experience, though that probably played a big role in the coach’s decision.

(Definitely played a big role in the coach’s decision. Let’s be honest: Akira was not the best catcher in the dugout that day.)

The truth is this: Akira was scared, too.

For good or ill, better or worse, Eijun and Akira have always fed off each other like a chemical reaction. If Eijun got excited, Akira got excited. If Akira got competitive, Eijun got competitive. Having them play while they were both out of their minds would not have ended well.

Yakushi was different. Akira hadn’t been feeling much of anything, lately. That laser-focused apathy mingled with Eijun’s desperation, and somehow outputted a reckless confidence that could have easily blown up in their faces. Looking at it now, Akira’s kind of horrified at some of the risks he’d taken. The fact that they’d held off Yakushi is nothing short of a miracle.

“Well, however you feel about it, that’s why people are watching you,” Kanemaru mutters, as they round another corner.

“Oh,” Akira says. There must be something bitter in his voice, because Kanemaru looks at him, concerned.

Akira quickly wipes it away, shifting into an apologetic tone. “Thanks. Sorry for pouring water down your shirt.”

Kanemaru grunts. “Sorry for knocking you into the jug.”

They reach the outfield. Three laps into their punishments, which means that it’s Akira’s eighth lap total. That’s probably too many laps for a recovery day.

But at least when he’s running, no one is watching him.

“Hey,” Kanemaru says, and Akira glances over. “You said earlier that your impulse control and your sleep are related. Did you sleep last night?”

Akira panics. He speeds up in an attempt to avoid another interrogation about his sleeping habits. Kanemaru races to keep up, but at that point, their pace is too fast to carry a decent conversation.

“Idiot,” Kanemaru huffs at him, as they sprint down the straight edge of the field. It looks like he wants to say more, but it’s all he has the breath to say.

Akira smirks at him, as annoying as he can, and he pretends that this feels like a victory.

The eyes don’t let up for the rest of the day, and Akira tries to ignore it.

(Because if he doesn’t ignore it, then he’d have to start thinking about the game again, and then he’d — well. Let’s not board that train of thought.)

Practice ends, finally, and Akira and Furuya team up to take down the pitching nets and put them away into the shed.

Furuya isn’t saying anything, so Akira anxiously rambles away just to kill the silence. He’s not entirely sure of what’s coming out of his mouth right now — something about the manga he’s been reading, probably — but he says it anyway. Furuya listens, as he always does, letting Akira talk about nothing.

When Akira finally runs out of meaningless words, Furuya turns to him.

“Are you going to take a nap?” he asks.

Akira pulls his mouth into a flat line.

“So ‘no’, then.”

“Probably not,” Akira admits. He might be dead on his feet, but his brain is way too active for him to just nap. “It’s fine, I have to finish my summer homework, anyway.”

It’s the end of August, which means that it’s the end of summer vacation. Akira’s really not looking forward to going back to class.

“Oh,” Furuya says, in a flat tone that roughly translates to ‘fuck, I didn’t do my homework, either’.

Akira grins at Furuya. “I’d start with history. It’s shorter than the other stuff.”

“You’re almost done?” Furuya asks.

“Saved the worst for last,” Akira says, thinking of the untouched math packet he’d been avoiding at all costs.

Furuya tilts his head. “So you’ll be free later then, right?”

Akira squints. “Why?”

“To play catch.”

Akira blinks. “Yeah, sure,” he says. “But don’t you have to do your homework?”

Furuya shrugs.

Akira can understand that sentiment — he’d take baseball over school any day.

They deposit the nets into the shed and then jog back to see if there’s anything else that needs doing. Luckily, there isn’t. Akira’s just about to grab his sports bag and leave when he bumps into someone on his way off of the field.

“My bad — ah! Sorry!” Akira ducks into a bow and tenses up.

That new coach (Ochiai?) regains his balance and doesn’t say anything. Instead, he studies Akira with a piercing expression that makes Akira break out into a cold sweat.

“… You’re one of the twins,” he says, after a stressful pause. “The catcher.”

Akira nods stiffly. “Yes, sir.”

Ochiai strokes his chin. “Up until yesterday, you’ve mostly been in the dugout.”

The reminder hurts, but Akira keeps his face blank and nods. “Yes.”

Ochiai doesn’t say anything else. He studies Akira, and Akira tries not to shift under his gaze. Finally, Ochiai shrugs, turns around, and walks away.

Akira and Furuya watch him go, but Ochiai doesn’t look back.

“That was weird for you too, right?” Akira asks, feeling the need to get a second opinion. “Like, objectively, that was strange.”

“Yeah, I guess?”

After an awkward pause, Furuya and Akira quickly gather up their things and make their escape. They don’t bump into anyone else on their way out.

As they walk back to the dorms, Akira breaks into another mindless rambling session. Once they reach the stairs, they split off to do their homework. Akira ends up sitting at his desk, staring at his algebra homework, and he braces himself for the long haul.

“What’s your favorite part of catching?”

The sudden question almost causes Akira to jump out of his seat, but he manages to keep calm and turn around without revealing that Miyuki nearly gave him a heart attack.

Miyuki is leaning back in his desk chair, casually swiveling back and forth. Akira stares at him — not because he doesn’t want to answer the question, but because he’s still trying to switch out of math-panic mode and process the words.

Miyuki clears his throat. “My favorite part is seeing the look on the batters’ faces when they strike out.”

The corner of Akira’s mouth tugs up. “I bet you can’t see it from the pitcher‘s mound with your shitty eyesight, so you chose catcher instead.”

“Hey,” Miyuki protests. But he doesn’t deny it.

Akira thinks it over, considering the question with full seriousness. After a moment, he makes his decision. “I like the feeling of a pitch hitting the back of my mitt.” As he says it, he opens and closes his hand, imagining it in his head: that phantom feeling, that satisfying smack of a fastball in his palm.

“Good choice,” Miyuki says.

“Why?” Akira asks, feeling slightly wary about Miyuki’s intentions.

“Just curious,” comes the reply. “I chose catcher because I thought the mitt looked cool. But when I actually started playing, I realized I liked calling the shots.”

“Hey, me too,” Akira says. “The mitt thing, I mean. One of our neighbors had a yard sale, and they had a catcher’s mitt. It was right-handed, but by the time I actually got to pick out my own glove, I was already used to throwing right.” He pauses, and then he frowns. “Maybe that’s why my handwriting is so bad…”

“Is that how that works?”

“I dunno.”

A moment passes, and then Miyuki clears his throat.

“What’s your favorite band?”

“KamiBoku.” Which is Akira’s default answer, but Love Live’s μ's is up there, too.

“Oh, they’re pretty good,” Miyuki says. “My favorite band is The Back Horn. Though I’ve been listening to a lot of Boredoms and Bloodthirsty Butchers, lately.”

“Is this bonding?” Akira asks, bewildered — by both the conversation and Miyuki’s apparent taste for indie rock from the nineties.

“Yes?” Miyuki says, sounding equally confused.

Acknowledging the clumsy attempt at bonding makes the whole conversation ten times more awkward, somehow. Miyuki seems to have run out of questions to ask, and Akira —

Well. Now Akira really feels like a dick. He’s been sulking for the entirety of the past month and sarcastically attacking Miyuki, who, despite being annoying, is technically innocent with regards to the whole Eijun thing.

Even after getting called a coward and giving him an unexplained cold shoulder, Miyuki’s actually trying to reach out. Emotionally constipated or not, he’s making an effort, which is more than Akira can say for himself.

He slumps back into his chair and groans.

“What’s wrong with bonding?” Miyuki asks, defensive.

“Nothing’s wrong with bonding,” Akira says, looking up to the ceiling. He takes a deep breath and holds it for a moment before exhaling with a dramatic whoosh.

“What?”

“I realize… I’ve probably been really shitty company lately,” Akira says, still staring at the ceiling. “I’m mad at Eijun, but that doesn’t mean I should take it out on you. And… ” Akira makes a face. “… You’re actually not that bad. I guess.”

(Eijun could do worse. Eijun could have developed a crush on Narumiya Mei.)

For a short moment, Miyuki doesn’t answer. Akira tentatively glances over at him.

Miyuki lifts up an eyebrow in an expression of skepticism. “Is this an apology?”

“It happens sometimes,” Akira tells him, refusing to feel embarrassed. “Don’t get used to it.”

Miyuki barks out a laugh. “Wow.”

“Shut up,” Akira says, forcibly reminded of Miyuki’s smug sense of humor. “You’re only getting this because I’m tired as hell.”

“Yeah, about that. What time did you wake up this morning?” Miyuki asks. “I got up at six to use the bathroom, but you were already gone?”

“None of your business!” Akira blurts out. He fumbles for his headphones, grabs his phone, and opens up the music app. “I have homework to do!”

“Pfft, good luck,” Miyuki tells him. He gets up from his chair, grabs his sports bag, and shoulders his bat. “I’m gonna go swing for a bit.”

“Bye,” Akira says, yanking on his headphones. The door swings shut, and Akira turns back to his math homework, and he grimaces.

Hours pass, and Akira’s just about to lose his mind with all the algebra when a distraction knocks on his door.

“Oh, thank god,” he mumbles, practically springing out of his chair. He rushes to the door, expecting to see Furuya, and he turns the knob.

And blinks.

“Hello!” Nori-senpai says, smiling brightly.

“Hi?” Akira says, confused. “Er, Miyuki-senpai isn’t here right now.”

Nori shakes his head. Then he looks Akira directly in the eye. “I’m here for you.”

“What?”

“I owe you a catching session, remember?”

“You do?” Akira asks, bewildered.

Nori nods sagely. “Poker night.”

“Oh.”

“Are you free right now?”

Akira looks over at the half-finished worksheet sprawled across his desk. Then he turns back to the door.

“Yeah, I’m free,” Akira says.

“Cool. Let’s play some catch, then.”

Akira grabs his sports bag and hoists it over his shoulder. “Where do you wanna practice? Indoors?”

“Nah, let’s go outside,” Nori decides. “Gotta enjoy the summer while we can, right?”

“Don’t remind me,” Akira grumbles.

Nori leads him down to Field A, and they enter the bullpen. No one is there, although maybe that shouldn’t be a surprise — Akira isn’t the only academic idiot on the baseball team.

“Warm-up?” Nori offers, and Akira nods.

They run through the general stretches, first, and then Akira helps Nori with the more specialized pitcher stretches. Afterward, they toss the ball around, loose and light, getting their blood pumping.

“So I’m gonna be honest with you, because you seem like the type of guy who appreciates that,” Nori says, into the silence. “Furuya asked me to check up on you.”

“Ugh,” Akira grumbles. He catches the ball out of the air and sighs. “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Nori says.

“I said that I’m — wait, what?”

“You’re fine,” Nori shrugs. “Cool. I believe you.”

Akira blinks. “You do?”

“Do I have a reason not to?”

“I — yes? I mean, no? Wait, what was the question?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Nori says, laughing a little. He holds up his glove and smiles.

After a moment, Akira tosses the ball back.

They continue the light tossing for a bit. A few minutes in, Nori backs up and starts throwing a little harder — not quite a pitch, but it’s faster than just the warmup tosses. They maintain a regular rhythm: catch, then toss, then catch. For once, the silence doesn’t bother Akira. Nori just has a comforting presence.

Nori catches Akira’s last toss, and then he nods. He rolls out his shoulder. “I think I’m ready to pitch.”

“Okay,” Akira says. He grabs his face guard and places himself a mound’s distance away. “Is there a pitch you want to work on, or…?”

“Let’s start with fastballs for now,” Nori says. “We can add in the slider later.”

Nice, Akira thinks. He likes catching Nori-senpai’s slider: the sidearm delivery is much different than what he’s used to seeing from Furuya and Eijun, and it makes it fun. Also, Nori has good control. Akira starts shifting his glove around an imaginary strike zone, moving corner to corner, and Nori doesn’t even bat an eye.

“Hey, do you know any other breaking balls?” Akira asks. “Besides the slider.”

Nori blinks. “Why?”

“I just think it would be neat?”

Nori is silent for a moment. He throws another fastball into Akira’s mitt.

“I know a sinker,” he offers.

“Wait, really?” Akira says, perking up. He tosses the ball back to Nori and holds up his mitt. “Can I see it?”

“… Sure,” Nori says. He adjusts his grip, pulls his arm back, and throws.

The ball flies out, spinning wild — and then it drops, moving down and left, and Akira catches it.

“That’s fun,” he says, and he grins. He looks up. “You should use this in games!”

Nori, for some reason, looks surprised at that. “You think so?”

“It didn’t hit the ground,” Akira points out. “If you work on it more, we can probably get it in the strike zone. And it’s got the same arm movement as your slider, so it’d be good for shaking up batters, I think. Why don’t you use it?”

Nori presses his lips together. Akira, sensing the tension, backpedals.

“I mean, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to —”

“No, it’s fine,” Nori shrugs. “I hit three batters in one inning in my first-year.”

“Oh!” Akira says, shocked. “Oh, that’s bad.”

“Yeah, it was pretty awful.” Nori laughs nervously. “I haven’t used it since. Mistakes… keep me up at night.” He looks down at the ball in his hand with a haunted expression — too haunted to just be about the sinker.

That’s when Akira remembers: that while he and Eijun were sitting dead in the dugout, Nori-senpai was the one who closed the match against Inajitsu.

Akira didn’t even think about how he felt. Somehow, it never occurred to him that Nori-senpai would feel responsible.

“I do that, too,” Akira admits.

“Really?”

“I didn’t sleep well last night,” Akira confesses, turning the baseball around in his hands. “I kept thinking about the game with Yakushi — wait.”

He narrows his eyes. Nori smiles at him.

“You’re good at this,” Akira accuses.

“You can keep going, if you want,” Nori tells him. “I am a keeper of secrets. Apparently, talking to me is therapeutic?”

That last bit comes out confused, as if he’s not sure why that is. Akira wonders how much drama non-threatening Nori is secretly privy to.

But he keeps his mouth shut. He’s fine. Akira tosses the ball back to Nori-senpai and calls for another fastball, Nori complies, and they lapse into silence.

Catch, throw, call. Catch, throw, call.

It’s a mindless pattern. Familiar. Nori doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t seem to be on edge either, despite his earlier uneasiness about his sinker. He just pitches to Akira without any expectations.

It’s nice. Better than the unspoken tension that followed Akira all throughout practice. The rhythm is soothing, and, slowly but surely, Akira’s defense begins to crumble.

“I mean, I know that I didn’t do badly,” he says, a good five minutes in. “But we gave up two runs in the first, and I just keep thinking about it.”

Nori nods, sympathetic.

“It wasn’t even that bad!” Akira complains. “I’ve made way worse mistakes, before. Two RBI off an inside fastball is nothing. And we won, so I don’t know why my brain is stuck! It’s stupid! I thought I was over this.”

“Does this happen to you a lot?” Nori asks.

“It was a lot worse in middle school,” Akira says. “But also, we lost a lot in middle school, so that probably had something to do with it…”

Nori tilts his head. “What do you normally do when you get like this?”

“Is this the part where you tell me that waking up at four in the morning and going for a 3k before breakfast isn’t ‘healthy’ or ‘recommended?’” Akira mumbles.

“It sounds like you know that already.”

Akira twists his mouth.

“… Normally,” he says, slowly. “Normally, I talk to Eijun. But —” he grits his teeth. “That’s off the table.”

“Yeah, why is that?” Nori asks, conversational. “It’s been a month? Was your fight really that bad?”

“He called me a benchwarmer!” Akira blurts out, saying it out loud for the first time, and then the floodgates are fully opened, and he just keeps talking. “Who does he think he is? Just because there are rumors about him and he gets to play in every match, and suddenly I’m nobody to him? Oh, sorry I can’t be Miyuki Kazuya, catcher of the century!”

“Um,” says Nori.

“Also? Eijun has shit taste! Literally, every single person he’s ever had a crush on is annoying as hell! And he’s so stupid about it! And then he always drags me into his stupid romcom plans, and if I say no, he steals all of my socks! It’s like he loses his singular brain cell when he sees someone with clear skin and symmetrical features! Why am I related to the dumbest person on the planet? And why is he older than me? ‘Benchwarmer?!’”

“Akira —”

“And it’s like, I know I can be a condescending asshole, Wakana gets mad about it all the time, but still! I get that I shouldn’t have accused him of not caring about the team. And then I basically told him that he was replaceable, which was really mean, I know! But then he had to go and be like, ‘well, you’re a waste of space and nobody wants to pitch to you anyway!’ What the fuck! You’re my battery partner! Why would you say that?! And then —”

“Uh —”

“Then we had to go lose to Inajitsu! And now I feel like shit, because I’m the one that started all this stupid drama and Coach wouldn’t let him start, and then I couldn’t help him, and it’s my fault. And everyone is blaming themselves and I don’t know how to tell them that it’s me, I’m the problem, and now after everything he didn’t even ask out my stupid roommate which means I fucked that up for him, too! But I’m still mad at him! And then I feel bad for being mad, but then I feel bad for that because fucking benchwarmer, but then it’s like, is it even worth it anymore? Does any of this even matter? We’re all gonna die anyway!”

The words ring out across the silent bullpen. Akira pants, finding his breath after that rant.

A mound’s distance away, Nori-senpai stares at him with wide eyes, and Akira’s face begins to burn.

“Uh,” he says, swallowing nervously. “You can just ignore that, please. Thanks.”

“Wow,” Nori says.

Akira wants to melt into a puddle and die.

Nori-senpai fiddles with the edge of his glove and makes a face. “So there’s, uh, a lot to unpack here. Can I get some context, or —?”

The sound of footsteps cuts Nori off, and Akira looks up as someone barrels into the bullpen.

Eijun, looking like he just ran five kilometers, kicks open the gate and steps inside.

Nori lets out a wordless groan.

(Akira is going to have to write him a thank-you card. Akira is going to have to buy him all the potato chips in the world.)

“Aki!” Eijun yells.

“What,” Akira says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

“Aki, I’m sorry I called you a benchwarmer!” Eijun shouts. He bends over into a perfect ninety-degree bow. “I didn’t mean it, I was just mad! You work really hard! And you’ve gotten really good! You did a pickoff yesterday, I’m so proud of you!”

It takes a moment for Akira to register the apology, but it hits him, and it’s like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders.

“I’m sorry, too!” He yells back, and the guilt and shame he’s been keeping bottled up for so long start to dissipate. “I’m sorry for calling you selfish and for trying to manage your love life! You can ask out Miyuki Kazuya, you have my blessing!”

And with that, Eijun bursts into tears.

Chapter Text

Way back at the beginning of the year, before baseball and the tournament and everything, Miyuki and Akira filled out their obligatory roommate agreement worksheet and turned it in without much fuss. It was only the basics: quiet hours, an agreed level of cleanliness, preferred methods of communication — the sort of thing the school forced them to do to prevent any egregious conflicts and to encourage bonding. It wasn’t hard, because neither of them was particularly sensitive.

Akira’s desk is systematic chaos, but he keeps it contained to his side of the room. Miyuki doesn’t make his bed as often as he should, but he has the top bunk, so it doesn’t matter. They’re similar enough to get along and different enough that they don’t butt heads. Bonding or no bonding, Miyuki doesn’t mind having Akira as a roommate — he’s low-maintenance and occasionally entertaining.

That being said: Akira can be an absolute nightmare when he wants to be.

Miyuki skids across the dirt of field A before coming to an undignified stop in front of the team. He ducks into a frantic bow.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, still breathing hard from sprinting straight from the dorms. “I’m here.”

“Good,” Coach Kataoka says, voice cold, and Miyuki tries not to wince. He has no doubt that he’ll be paying for this later. “Let’s get started.”

Miyuki ignores the snickers and questioning expressions from his team. He starts them on their warmup laps. As they jog around the field, Kuramochi adjusts his speed so that they’re running next to each other.

“Dude, what happened?” He asks, elbowing Miyuki in the side.

“My alarm didn’t go off.”

“All of them? Don’t you have, what, twelve?”

“Six,” Miyuki corrects, “and yeah, none of them went off except for the last one — which somebody changed from seven-thirty to eight-thirty.”

Kuramochi lets out a low whistle. “Man, what’d you do to Akira?”

“Nothing!” Miyuki exclaims, equal parts confused and frustrated. “We bonded! We talked about baseball and music!”

“You must have pissed him off somehow,” Kuramochi points out. “Kid hasn’t talked to Eijun for a month, but he never resorted to sabotage.”

“I don’t know,” Miyuki hisses. “But I swear, if this is his idea of a dumb joke, I’m going to make him wish I missed practice.”

They finish off the rest of warmup: laps, stretches, basic catch-and-toss. And then finally (after Miyuki takes the time to apologize to Coach Kataoka), he gets the chance to storm over to his roommate and ask him about the shitty morning he’d just experienced.

“Oi, Akira!” he hisses. “What the hell was —”

Akira turns around, and Miyuki’s throat closes up. Akira’s sharp gaze pierces into him, cold and brutal, and a bead of sweat rolls down the back of Miyuki’s neck. Involuntarily, he takes a step backward, and he’s overcome with the urge to duck his head and run away.

Wait, that’s stupid, the rational part of his brain says, so he ignores his instincts and stands his ground.

“Were you saying something, Miyuki-senpai?” Akira’s using that bland monotone of his: the one that sounds like he doesn’t care if you live or die.

“You — this morning — my alarm,” Miyuki stammers. He shakes his head and steels himself. “Were you messing with my shit? What the hell?”

Akira tilts his head. His face is blank, but there’s something cold in the way his eyes bore into Miyuki. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t give me that!” Miyuki steps closer and growls. “You’re the only one that could have done anything! What the hell was that for?”

Akira stares at him, devoid of warmth, and a chill runs down Miyuki’s spine. The first-year opens his mouth, and —

“Aki!”

A brown-haired blur slams into Akira, and his attention gets redirected. Miyuki sighs in unconscious relief, and the tension loosens — only to come back in full force when he realizes who just jumped into the conversation.

“Eijun, get off of me!”

Miyuki’s internal screaming hits a crescendo as he braces himself for the upcoming fight. Eijun’s mouth twists, and he can already hear the twins’ argument ringing in his ears.

“You’re so embarrassing!” Eijun shouts, hiding his face in his hands. “Oh my god! I told you not to do this!”

“Hey, he’s the one that started talking to me,” Akira snaps.

Eijun rolls his eyes. “Like you didn’t provoke him into it! Take the high road, for once in your life!”

“But it’s so fun being an asshole.”

“This is why only ten people put up with you,” Eijun informs him. He turns to Miyuki. As he does so, he places his hand on the back of Akira’s neck and forces him into a bow.

Akira yelps as he bends over. “Ei!”

Eijun ignores him, beaming brightly at Miyuki. “I am so sorry. Please accept my deepest apologies on behalf of my dumbass little brother. He is young, and knows not what he says.”

“You are eight minutes older than me!”

“Keyword: older,” Eijun says, grinning. He starts dragging Akira by the arm without giving Miyuki a second glance. “Coach says it’s bullpen time! Catch my pitches, Aki!”

“Oh my god, fine, I’m coming, let go!”

Miyuki watches, speechless, as the twins bicker all the way to the bullpen. They switch gears and start playing catch, lightly chatting the whole while. Miyuki swears he sees an actual smile cross Akira’s face, and his brain breaks.

“Did I miss something?” Zono asks, walking up to him. He frowns, looking in the direction of the bullpen. “Are they talking now? When did that happen?”

“… I have no clue,” Miyuki says, still trying to process. He blinks, hard, and when he looks back up, Eijun and Akira are still talking like the past month never happened. Miyuki skims through his memories. He’s pretty sure that, when he talked with Akira yesterday, the twins were still fighting.

It was also the same conversation where Akira apologized for being a jerk, which is weird because here he is today, being a jerk.

Well. If Eijun and Akira are teaming up for pitching practice (???), that means Miyuki has to snag a different partner. He shoves his confusion aside for later, and he starts searching for the other two first-string pitchers.

“Hey, Nori!”

Nori turns his head and —

“Whoa, are you okay?”

Nori looks exhausted. He looks at Miyuki with a dead-eyed stare, so far from his normal quiet enthusiasm that it makes Miyuki worried.

“Okay?” Nori echoes, with a distant tone. His eyes focus on something else, looking past Miyuki like he doesn’t exist. “What is ‘okay’ but a temporary state of being? Can any of us ever truly be okay?”

“Uh, what?”

Confused, Miyuki follows Nori’s lifeless gaze. He, too, is looking at the twins, except Nori seems more resigned than lost.

From the bullpen, Akira glances up and catches Nori’s eye. His face lights up, and he waves. Nori waves back with half the eagerness and twice the fatigue.

Miyuki squints at his fellow second-year, putting pieces together. “Do you know anything about that?”

“You could say that,” Nori says. Under his breath, he mutters another comment. Miyuki can’t make out the words entirely, but it sounds something like fucking firsties.

Then Nori coughs and turns away. “Ono! Let’s play catch!”

“Okay!”

Miyuki stands there, abandoned, trying to figure out what just happened. The crunch of cleats on dirt draws him out of his brain, and Miyuki looks over to see their third pitcher standing a respectful distance away.

Furuya is as unreadable as ever when he speaks. “I’ll pitch to you, Miyuki-senpai.”

“Right,” Miyuki says, still processing. He shakes his head, attempting to regain focus. “Let’s go see how your slider is feeling.”

Practice continues.

Akira stops messing with his alarms, but he somehow manages to maintain the same level of assholery without saying a single word. He doesn’t look in Miyuki’s direction, performs the bare minimum of captain-team member-roommate interaction, and pretty much pretends that Miyuki doesn’t exist. Eijun will occasionally show up and tell Akira to knock it off, but the most it does is grant Miyuki a reprieve for an hour or two.

(He still does not know what he did.)

But as long as Akira isn’t actively trying to ruin his life, Miyuki can live with it. They have other things to worry about.

School is back in session, and the whole team is back to balancing academics and athletics. It’s a transition that catches Miyuki off-guard every season, but he weathers it as best as he can. The first couple weeks of September are spent relearning the rhythm of school. And then, as the Fall Tournament draws nearer, practice begins to ramp up in intensity.

Finally, Kataoka and Ochiai gather up the team in the practice hall to announce the final lineup for the season. The team holds their collective breath as Kataoka holds up the coveted number one, and after a moment’s pause, he finally speaks.

“Sawamura Eijun.”

Silence.

Eijun’s too shocked to speak, and Akira happily shoves him forward. The pitcher almost trips as he grabs the ace number from Kataoka. Miyuki laughs under his breath.

“Ah — thank you,” Eijun stammers, eyes wide and face slack. “Thank you, Boss! I won’t let you down! I’ll —”

“Great,” Kataoka says, and he pats Eijun on the shoulder. “I have no doubt you’ll do well.”

“Ahhh,” Eijun says, in lieu of words, and this time, Miyuki can hear other people laughing too.

It was probably a close decision, especially with Eijun’s lackluster performance in the summer practice matches. Even so, no one has any objections.

Furuya and Nori are good pitchers: great, even. But no one can forget that moment of clarity during their practice match with Yakushi. No one could forget that Eijun stood on the mound, and he was an ace.

“Number two, Miyuki Kazuya.”

Miyuki walks up to receive his number. As he turns back to the crowd, he brushes by Eijun, and impulsively squeezes his shoulder.

“Congrats,” he says, quietly. “You deserve it.”

(Eijun smiles at the words, bright and bashful at the same time. Miyuki gives himself one second before he turns away. As he walks to the back of the hall, he has to remember to breathe.)

The rest of the numbers are announced, and there aren’t any surprises there. Furuya is number eleven, Akira gets promoted to number twelve. The rest of the numbers fall into place, and the first-string is finalized. In one week, they’ll be tackling the Fall Tournament preliminaries and starting off the season proper.

So of course — that’s when things start to fall apart.

It’s subtle, at first.

Eijun handles the first couple of innings against Toyosaki pretty well. The ball goes where they want it to go, their opponents lose momentum, and Seidou starts building up a lead — up until the fifth inning, when Miyuki asks for a cutter, and Eijun throws a meatball instead.

It’s all downhill from there. Walks and hits. Runners. Miyuki calls a timeout to calm him down, and they manage to finish the inning without giving up any runs, but come the sixth, Furuya has to take the mound and close out the game.

“Sorry!” Eijun tells him later, after the game is over. He scratches the back of his neck. “That was my bad, I’ll do better next time!”

Their next game is worse.

As always, his moving fastball catches the batters off-guard: for the first time around, at least. But their batters are starting to pick up on the timing, and Eijun’s control is shot — he’s not even close to pitching his best. He messes up his inside pitches, walks two batters, and gives up a run in the third. Coach pulls him off the mound while Miyuki silently stresses. The only reason why they get away with it is the fact that they have enough pitchers to pull off a relay. And the problem continues to persist.

When they’re not in a match, Eijun throws himself into practice with desperate passion. In the bullpen, his pitches will come out crisp and sharp, until Miyuki’s certain that he’s moved past his slump. He’ll do well in practice, and the team’s spirit will be revived — and then game day comes.

Eijun will take the mound, loudmouthed and burning with determination, but at some point, doubt will start creeping in. No matter how many timeouts Miyuki calls, no matter how many encouraging words or challenges he issues, it always ends with Eijun getting subbed off.

It all comes to a head in their game against Seishou Academy. Eijun doesn’t even last the first inning — he gives up three runs and ends up spending the rest of the game sitting in the back of the dugout, hidden from Miyuki’s view. The loss of their ace makes everyone miserable, their batting barely gets them through the game, and even though they win, it feels like a failure.

After the match, Kataoka makes them run laps until it feels like their legs are about to fall off. Seidou scrapes through the preliminaries by the skins of their teeth. It feels like a rubber band is about to snap, and Miyuki doesn’t know what to do because no one knows what the problem is. Eijun’s not scared. He’s not tired. And again — he pitches just fine in practice.

He just can’t play.

With their offense weakened, with Furuya burning himself out every time he takes the mound, with their chosen ace crumbling under the pressure, Miyuki can’t help but dread the season ahead. He can barely keep his hopes up. How is he supposed to encourage everyone else?

Some captain you are, Miyuki tells himself, every night, as he tries and fails to fall asleep at a reasonable hour. I bet Tetsu could figure it out.

As if summoned by his late-night pity parties, the third-years crash their practice the very next day.

“What’s going on?” Zono demands with a startled yell. “Why are you guys here?”

Ryousuke smiles that cutting grin of his. “Your play in the prelims sucked, so we came to bully you guys!”

“Yeah!” Jun yells, spit flying through the air. He brandishes a bat over his shoulder and glares at them. “And don’t expect any pity from us! We might not have been here for a while, but we’ll still kick your sorry asses!”

Even under the weight of the third-years’ glares, Miyuki can’t help but feel relieved. It’s so achingly comforting to have them back on the field, to have the upperclassmen guiding them through warmups. Jokes and pep talks could only go so far when their ace is on a downward spiral — hopefully, the challenge of an intrasquad game will help the team reset before the Fall Tournament begins in earnest.

As they stretch and warm up, Miyuki sidles up to Tetsu.

“Thanks,” he says, quiet.

“Don’t thank us yet,” the ex-captain warns. “If you guys don’t put up a decent fight, this will all be for nothing.”

Miyuki nods, well aware of the situation.

“But warnings aside — you’re welcome,” Tetsu tacks on. “Looking forward to kicking your butt, captain.”

“You can try, captain,” Miyuki fires back.

They grin at each other, simultaneously relieved and under pressure, and the banter sounds more carefree than it actually is.

The setup is simple: Kataoka as umpire, and Chris and Miyuki as coaches.

Despite the tension, Miyuki will easily admit that he’s excited to go head-to-head with Chris. He’d never really gotten the chance to face him properly, which is a damn shame because two years off the field has done nothing to dull his game sense. Chris rounds up the third-years with the authority of a natural-born leader and starts calling out instructions like he was born for the role.

Miyuki, meanwhile, sticks with their typical starting lineup. The game begins with the first-string’s offense, and they send their batters out to face off against Tanba.

“Hey, uh, cap?”

Miyuki looks away from the field. Eijun is standing next to him, looking uncharacteristically stiff, and he fiddles with the edges of his sleeves.

“Are you sure?” Eijun asks. “I haven’t — in the prelims, I —”

“I’m sure,” Miyuki tells him because he knows what Eijun is about to say.

Eijun bites his lip.

“Just like in practice, right?” Miyuki calls up an encouraging grin. “You can do it. I wouldn’t use you if I thought you couldn’t handle it.”

“Right,” Eijun says, nodding slowly. “Right! Just gotta pitch to your mitt.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Miyuki lifts a fist. Eijun bumps it with his own, and for a second, they’re staring at each other.

Then Haruichi gets forced out, and it’s their turn to take to the field.

Miyuki keeps a careful eye on Eijun as he settles down at home plate. Up on the mound, Eijun takes a deep breath and shakes out his wrists, trying to loosen up. He grips the ball tight in his hand and nods at Miyuki.

I’m ready.

Miyuki’s throat closes up. Oh, god.

There’s something dark lurking behind Eijun’s eyes, and the sight of it makes Miyuki hesitate. It’s not the blazing spirit or the competitive fire he wants to see. Instead, it feels like something ominous, like a dry heat causing the ground to crumble beneath his feet.

Desperately, he scrambles for an excuse, something to break them out of the moment.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Miyuki calls out before Kataoka can say ‘play ball’.

Eijun blinks, confused. Miyuki points to the outfield.

“Oh! Right!” Eijun whips his head around and faces the fielders. “Please forgive this Sawamura Eijun! I am eternally grateful for your presence and support! I promise I didn’t forget you guys!”

Haruichi laughs.

“You’d better not have forgotten us,” Kuramochi shouts.

“I just said I didn’t!” Eijun retorts. He takes another deep breath. “We’re gonna let them hit! So everyone in the field — I’ll be counting on you!”

The team shouts back encouraging words, and Eijun beams. When he turns around and faces home plate, the last remaining bits of tension seem to have fallen away, and Miyuki quietly lets out a sigh.

“Now we’re ready,” Miyuki mutters.

Behind him, Kataoka huffs, silently amused. The third-years’ leadoff, Fumiya-senpai, steps up to the plate and tightens his grip on the bat.

“Play ball.”

Miyuki places his mitt. Eijun pulls back his arm.

And to their horror:

The ball hits the fence.

As soon as Kataoka approves the timeout, Miyuki pulls off his faceguard and runs up to the mound. His vision tunnels, his hearing fades out, and the only thing he can focus on is Eijun shaking on the mound.

Eighteen meters has never felt so far before.

“Eijun,” he calls out, pulling up. “Eijun, are you alright?”

Eijun barely seems to register Miyuki’s presence. He’s staring at his left hand, wide-eyed and panicked, and his breathing is rushed and shallow.

“Eijun —”

“I can’t do it,” Eijun chokes out, nearly inaudible.

“What?”

“I can’t do it,” Eijun repeats. He looks up, but his eyes are blank, like he’s looking through and past Miyuki. “I can’t pitch to the inside, I can’t, I keep trying, but it’s —”

Miyuki steps closer and places his hands on Eijun’s shoulders. The first-year tenses up under his grip, and Miyuki hides a wince. He needs to stay calm for this, he can’t let Eijun pick up on his fear.

“Eijun.” The word comes out sharper than he expects, and Eijun flinches. Miyuki breathes out and tries to reign in his panic. He squeezes Eijun’s shoulders, hoping that it feels more reassuring than desperate. “Trust me. Just pitch to my mitt, okay? It’ll be fine.”

The words hang in the air. One second, then two. And then something shifts.

“You think I don’t know that?” Eijun snaps. He takes a step back, forcing Miyuki to let go of his shoulders. “God, what do you think I’ve been trying to do this whole time? Do I look like I want to be throwing meatballs left and right?”

Miyuki blinks, taken aback by the vehemence in his words.

“Well, no,” he says, awkwardly.

EIjun hisses his words out through gritted teeth. “I’ve been trying to pitch to your mitt for this whole month. I’m telling you, I can’t do it.”

Miyuki tries to wrap his head around the problem. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Eijun says, and the frustration on his face melts into baffled desperation. He looks at his hands again. “Every time I wind up, it’s just not coming out right, and I can’t, I just —” he shrugs helplessly. “I can’t.”

Miyuki hovers, useless. What is he supposed to say to this? Encourage him? Challenge him? Rile him up? He has no clue what’s going on in Eijun’s head right now, and apparently, Eijun doesn’t know either.

But… there’s probably someone who does.

Unwillingly, Miyuki looks around the field: at the defense, at the senpai, at the coach who is still umpiring at home plate. The whole team seems lost, hopeless witnesses to Eijun’s breakdown on the mound. The whole team, that is, except for Akira.

Miyuki’s roommate watches from the bullpen, his face still and his shoulders tight — but his eyes glitter like crystals: hard and focused and clear.

Miyuki bites his lip. They’ve barely started the game. This is supposed to be a friendly match between the third-years and the underclassmen. This is supposed to prepare them for the Fall Tournament, to help them relax and regain their rhythm, but instead, it feels like they’re about to implode because they’re watching their ace fall apart.

(And Miyuki promised. He promised that he’d never let this happen again.)

He clears his throat. “Akira!”

Eijun’s head jerks up, and he whips his gaze over to the bullpen. From the sidelines, Akira looks at Miyuki, wide-eyed — too startled to maintain the cold shoulder he’d been wielding for weeks.

Miyuki hates to admit it, but he can’t help Eijun right now. He doesn’t even know where to start. So he swallows his pride and shouts at his irate roommate. “Wanna play?”

“What?” Akira asks.

“What?” Eijun yells.

“I’m the coach for today, aren’t I?” he asks, calling up an easy grin to mask the turmoil inside. He turns to the outfield. “Sorry, Asou, but I’ll be borrowing your glove for a few innings.”

“R — right,” Asou stammers. He looks at Eijun, then at Akira, then at Miyuki, a question in his eyes.

Miyuki nods, even though it cuts him to the core.

“Coach Kataoka,” Miyuki calls over his shoulder. “We’re calling a substitution. Asou for Akira. And —” He manages to get through the words without flinching. “— I’ll be in left field.”

Kataoka stares at him. Miyuki stares back, struggling to keep the confusion and frustration and nervousness off his face.

“I’ll allow it,” Kataoka says, and Miyuki turns to go back to the dugout and change out of his catching gear.

But before he can get very far, Eijun’s hand snakes out and grabs him by the wrist. Miyuki stills under his grip, but he doesn’t turn around.

“What are you doing?” Eijun asks, and his voice sounds winded, like he’d just been punched in the gut. “Shouldn’t you be telling me to get my act together? Shouldn’t —” He swallows. “Shouldn’t you be subbing me off?”

Miyuki licks his dry lips. “This is the last chance we have to play with the third-years.” He calls up a cheeky grin, lifts his head, and smiles. “Do you really want to leave the field like this?”

Eijun doesn’t respond. He lets go of Miyuki’s arm and steps back, stricken, and he doesn’t say anything else.

Miyuki makes himself walk away.

As he heads for the sidelines, he passes by Kuramochi.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” the shortstop says, quiet enough that no one else can hear it.

“Yeah,” Miyuki breathes out. “Me, too.”

The dugout is stiff and tense when he enters, but Miyuki ignores it. Instead, he forces himself to be casual, removing his catching gear with easy grace. He pulls on his baseball cap, thanks Asou for lending him his glove, and then —

Akira blocks his way out of the dugout.

“What?” Miyuki asks, trying to ignore the cold fury emanating from his roommate.

“The hell are you playing at?” Akira hisses, and the already silent dugout holds its breath.

“Look,” Miyuki says, tired of Akira’s attitude. “I don’t know what your problem is, but right now, we have a game to win. Focus on that.”

Akira grinds his teeth.

Miyuki’s fingernails dig into his palms. “Can you fix this, or not?”

“Probably. Maybe. I don’t know.” Akira exhales through his nose. Then he looks up. His next words are pitched low, so as not to carry over to the rest of the dugout. “Even if he can pitch to me, you know this is only a temporary solution, right?”

“Would you rather see the alternative?”

Akira draws his mouth into a thin line. He shakes his head.

“Well, there you go,” Miyuki says. He tugs on the brim of his baseball cap, hiding his eyes, and he shoves past Akira. He starts walking to the outfield, but he can’t help but look back and watch as Akira jogs up to the mound.

They’re not deciding on signs, thank god — but they’re not talking, either. Akira comes to a stop and stands right in front of Eijun, and he frowns. Eijun frowns back, saying nothing. It feels like forever passes, a silent eternity with tension thick enough to suffocate in.

And then Akira steals Eijun’s hat off his head.

“Hey!” Eijun yells. His voice cracks, but at least it’s normalcy.

“If you mess up, you take out the trash for the next month,” Akira deadpans.

“Wh — that doesn’t even make sense! I’m not your roommate!”

“Yeah, I know,” Akira says. “I’ll text you every time my trash can is full, and you can toss it out for me.”

“I’m not going to be your garbage boy!”

“You’re not?” Akira asks.

It sounds like a rhetorical question, but he has an expectant expression on his face, like he’s actually waiting for an answer. Eijun just stares back at him, twisting his mouth in annoyance.

“… I’m not going to mess up,” he says, after a pause.

“Cool,” Akira says. He holds out Eijun’s baseball cap.

A beat passes. Then Eijun grabs his hat and puts it back on.

Akira slaps him on the shoulder before he walks down to home plate. When he arrives, he bows to Coach Kataoka and Fumiya and gets into position. Then he lifts his mitt and makes the call.

Fastball, high and to the inside, and nearly grazing Fumiya’s chest.

Tackling it head-on, huh, Miyuki thinks — with no small amount of apprehension. Kataoka looks like he’s aged fifty years when he says ‘play ball.’

But it turns out there was nothing to worry about. As soon as the words leave the coach’s mouth, Eijun steps onto the pitcher’s rubber. No doubt. No fear.

His windup is loose and steady. His stance is balanced. And then he throws.

The ball slams into Akira’s mitt. The batter doesn’t even get the chance to blink.

“Strike one,” Coach Kataoka announces.

Eijun pumps his fist in the air and lets out a whoop. Akira tosses the ball back with the faintest hint of a smirk. And just like that, the whole team can breathe again. The tension breaks, their fire is back, and the field seems lighter than it has in weeks.

Miyuki never knew that relief could feel so cruel.

“You should take better care of yourself,” someone says, and Miyuki looks up at the familiar voice.

Chris walks into the batting cages and turns off the pitching machine. Miyuki sets his bat down, pulls off his helmet, and wipes some of the sweat off his forehead.

“Hey,” he says. “Good game today.”

“Yeah, it was fun.” Chris meets his gaze. “But you don’t agree, do you?”

Miyuki breaks eye contact. “That obvious, huh?”

Chris moves closer, stepping around the stray baseballs rolling across the dirt, and Miyuki can’t look him in the eye. Chris, annoyingly, just stands there, silent. After a long moment, Miyuki exhales, slumping his shoulders.

“… Do you think I made the right choice?” he asks, voice quiet. He keeps seeing Eijun’s shocked face, hearing his choked voice. Miyuki rubs his wrist, remembering the feeling of Eijun gripping his arm, desperate and tight.

Even if it worked, even if Akira was able to help Eijun, that doesn’t change the fact that Miyuki abandoned him on the mound.

“You didn’t have much of a choice,” Chris reminds him. “You’re the captain.”

“I wanted to help him,” Miyuki says, helpless. “I wanted to work through it. But —”

Eijun’s their mood maker, their star rookie, their idiot ray of sunshine. He’s their ace. If he broke in front of the entire team right before the Fall Tournament, they’d suffer the consequences for the rest of the season.

“Maybe I should have subbed him off,” Miyuki thinks aloud.

“No.” Chris shakes his head. “If he’s anything like his brother, then that would have made it worse.”

Miyuki stares out at the batting cage. Even though he can feel the sweat soaking his shirt, he still wants to swing, wants to release all this pent-up frustration and fear. But he doesn’t move.

Chris doesn’t move, either. They stand there, reflecting. What-ifs and could-have-beens.

(In the back of his mind, Miyuki wonders if Eijun would be able to pitch to Chris. He’s not sure if he wants the answer to be ‘yes’ or ‘no’.)

“… I like Eijun,” Miyuki says, after a long moment, and he braces himself.

“Yeah, I know.”

“No, I mean, romantically,” he clarifies.

Chris sighs, hands in his pockets. “Yeah, I know.”

Miyuki shoots him a startled glance. “What? Who told you? Kuramochi?”

“Tanba,” Chris corrects, which only raises more questions. “To be fair, he wasn’t certain, but it’s hard to unsee once the thought gets put into your head.”

Miyuki laughs because the alternative is to scream. “Well, that’s embarrassing.”

Chris smiles at him. It looks sincere, but there’s an unmistakable hint of teasing when he speaks. “Don’t worry, neither of us will tell. And I’m pretty sure no one else noticed.”

“Thanks,” Miyuki says. He takes in a deep breath, hoping to relax, but he still feels uncomfortable.

“… For what it’s worth, I think you two are good for each other,” Chris says.

Miyuki stiffens. Chris, eagle-eyed as ever, picks up on the action.

“What happened?”

“He asked me out, and I kissed him the night before Inajitsu,” Miyuki confesses. “We were gonna talk about it, but then stuff kept coming up, and then Yakushi happened, so…” Miyuki bites his lip, keeping his eyes trained on the ground. “I figured I made him uncomfortable, so I asked him to forget about it.”

Chris doesn’t answer. After a pause, Miyuki tentatively lifts his head.

Chris is pinching the bridge of his nose, looking pained.

“What?” Miyuki snaps, suddenly feeling defensive.

Chris speaks slowly, like he’s trying to process the words as he says them. “He asked you out. You kissed him. And then you said, ‘pretend that never happened.’”

“I — when you put it like that, it sounds shitty!”

Chris looks up to the sky like he’s praying for patience.

“Did you see the Yakushi game?” Miyuki scrambles for justification. “He was a mess. And he was the one who wanted to focus on baseball, so it was the logical option —”

“How can I put this politely?” Chris asks the sky. He looks back down and glowers at Miyuki. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

Miyuki winces. Chris doesn’t use strong language that often, so he knows that he really messed this one up.

“You should trust him, more.”

“What? I do,” Miyuki insists.

“Clearly you don’t, or you wouldn’t have rejected him,” Chris says. He stares at Miyuki and lifts an eyebrow. “What’s the most important part of a battery?”

The answer is immediate. “Trust.”

“Wrong.” Chris flicks him in the head, and Miyuki looks at him, betrayed.

The older catcher shakes his head. “It’s work, Miyuki. Trust — or, at least, the type of trust you’re looking for — doesn’t come without the work. Are you just going to let your battery crumble because vulnerability is hard?”

“I’m trying not to let that happen,” Miyuki snaps. “That’s why I rejected him! Do you think it’s easy for me to just turn off my feelings?”

“Miyuki.” Chris groans. “Stop me if I get something wrong, but from Eijun’s perspective — you kissed him, the team lost, he played badly against Yakushi, and then you said, ‘never mind, I’m not into you.’ I’m not saying that this is what you meant, but it kind of comes across that you only care about him when he’s good at baseball?”

“Oh,” Miyuki says, and the horror of the statement fully begins to take root in his mind. “Oh, crap.”

And then —

“Oh, no wonder Akira’s been trying to murder me.”

Chris sighs, looking exhausted. “You’ve had it pretty easy with Eijun, so far,” he tells him. “You can’t just pass him off to Akira at the first sign of trouble.”

“I thought you said I didn’t have a choice,” Miyuki says weakly, but the argument sounds weak even to his own ears.

“You didn’t have a choice earlier,” Chris says. He makes a sweeping gesture with his hand, drawing attention to all the baseballs littering the ground of the batting cage. “What are you doing right now?”

“I’m —”

Wallowing. Pining. Feeling sorry for himself. There are a lot of different answers Miyuki could give, but none of them are ‘being a good battery partner’.

Chris is right. It doesn’t matter if Miyuki caused Eijun’s slump or not. What matters is if he can help him work through it.

“Oh, fuck,” he says, and he runs a hand through his hair. “What time is it? Do you think he’s —”

“In his room, probably,” Chris says. He grabs Miyuki’s baseball bat and rolls his eyes. “Go apologize, you dumbass. I’ll clean this up for you.”

“Thank you,” Miyuki says. “God, I’m sorry you had to put up with this. Seriously, I don’t deserve —”

“Miyuki. Go.”

He sprints across the field in record time. The courtyard turns into a blur and he runs down the hallway. He passes the doors: 102, 103, 104. Finally, he skids to a stop in front of Eijun’s room. He knocks on the door and waits, holding his breath, not even sure of what he’s going to say —

And then the door opens.

Miyuki blinks in surprise. “Akira?”

His roommate blinks up at him, processing his presence. They stare at each other, equally startled.

“What are you doing here?” Miyuki asks. The question shocks Akira out of his silence, and the first-year crosses his arms.

“What are you doing here?” Akira demands.

Miyuki tries to look over Akira’s shoulder and into Eijun’s room. “Look, I just wanted to talk to your brother —”

Akira laughs in his face. “Seriously?”

Miyuki grits his teeth. “I know, but —”

“You should buy yourself a fielder’s glove, senpai,” Akira says, cutting him off. He smiles at Miyuki for the first time in weeks, but there’s no feeling behind it: just pure condescension. “You’re probably gonna need it.”

“Akira —”

The door slams shut. Miyuki lifts his hand to knock again, but then a familiar voice starts to speak, and he freezes, straining his ears to hear the conversation inside.

“Who was that?” Eijun asks, and Miyuki’s breath hitches at the sound.

Akira’s voice answers. “They were looking for Kuramochi-senpai. Hey Furuya, can you pass the popcorn? Thanks.”

“You sure you don’t need me to rewind?”

“I’ve seen this before, Haruichi, it’s fine.”

The first-years go back to their movie. The soundtrack swells. Somebody on-screen tells a joke. Eijun laughs, loud and as clear as a bell.

And Miyuki stands outside his door, all alone, and he feels like shit.

Chapter Text

“You’re weirdly excited today.”

Akira pauses mid-step and looks over at Haruichi. They’re on their way to the parking lot so they can board the bus and head to the stadium, alongside the rest of the first-string.

Akira tilts his head and takes in the comment. “What makes you say that?”

The corner of Haruichi’s lips tugs up, amused. “You’re humming.”

“Oh,” Akira says. He scrunches his eyebrows together. “I guess I am. Do I not do that normally?”

“No?”

“Yeah, Aki.” Eijun cuts in and narrows his eyes with suspicion. “Why are you so happy, huh? Did you tie Miyuki’s shoelaces together or something?”

“No!” Akira yelps. He scowls, offended. “You should know me better! I’d never do that — that’s way too obvious.”

Some distance ahead of them, Toujou trips, and Kanemaru reaches out a hand to steady him.

Eijun pulls on an expression of mock-disappointment. “Where did I go wrong raising you?”

Akira punches him in the arm, and Eijun cackles.

On Akira’s other side, Furuya pokes him in the shoulder.

“Why are you in a good mood?” he asks, genuinely curious.

Akira grins. “It’s supposed to rain,” he says, happily, “which means we get to wear the windbreakers.”

“Oh, yeah!” Eijun agrees, banter forgotten. He pulls his arms in and flaps the sleeves of the official Seidou windbreaker around. “These are so nice! I can’t believe they just give these to us! Do we get to wear them when we play?”

“No,” Haruichi answers. Then, after giving it a moment of thought, he frowns. “Well — I guess you could wear it on offense? There’s no rule against it. But why would you?”

Eijun and Akira look at each other.

“I’m gonna wear it,” they say at the same time.

“That’s so uncomfortable, though?”

Up ahead, Toujou and Kanemaru have slowed down and joined the conversation.

Toujou frowns. “If you only wear it on offense, you’d have to put it on top of your already wet uniform.”

“When the elitist craphole gives you a fancy jacket, you wear it,” Eijun declares.

Kanemaru shoots him a sharp look. “Stop calling Seidou an ‘elitist craphole.’ You go here.”

Eijun laughs. “You’ve never had your baseball practice interrupted by a flock of angry chickens, and it shows.”

“Look, I just think the windbreaker is neat,” Akira says, returning to the original conversation. “Thus, I will be wearing it at every given opportunity.”

Kanemaru rolls his eyes. “If you complain about how uncomfortable you are, I’m going to laugh in your face.”

“Laugh away.” Akira pops the collar of his jacket and grins. “I will be looking cool and badass.”

“You’ll look like a wet idiot.”

They reach the bus and climb on board. The front seats are all taken by the senpai, so the first-years head to the back of the bus. Akira lets his brother pass ahead of him so he can step on Miyuki’s foot without Eijun noticing.

It is a successful effort.

There are other reasons why Akira is excited, of course. The windbreaker thing is just a small part of it.

For one, they’re playing against Teitou High School. Just from the footage, Akira can tell that Teitou’s ace has amazing control. Plus, the trajectory of a lefty throwing sidearm is something he’s never seen before, so he’s excited to witness that in person.

(“You get excited about the weirdest things,” Furuya tells him.

“Like you don’t have an elaborate daydream fantasy about going pro and striking out Todoroki Raichi in the finals of the Japan Series.”

“… Point taken.”)

Another thing is that Akira genuinely likes playing catch in the rain. Obviously, he hopes it doesn’t rain too hard for the game, because that would be bad for the team. But from a non-competitive standpoint, playing in the rain makes catching ten times more exciting. Not only is it more of a challenge, but there’s something exhilarating about playing while covered in mud and soaked to the bone. He used to drag Eijun out to practice during the rainy seasons just because he loves the feeling of getting pelted by raindrops.

(“Oh, I get it. It’s like playing catch in the snow.”

“… No, it’s nothing like that. Is everyone from Hokkaido as terrifying as you?”)

But the main reason for Akira’s good mood is that there is a high chance of him getting to play today. In a real game. That isn’t a scrimmage.

Finally, after all this time, Akira might get to play in a real high school match.

After the intrasquad game, Coach Kataoka announced the plan for round one of the Fall Tournament: Miyuki and Furuya to start, with Eijun and Akira next in line as a designated battery. He also told them to ‘avoid shenanigans’ on the field, which — contrary to what Kanemaru thinks — isn’t difficult. They only do shenanigans in desperate situations.

He tries not to get his hopes up, though. Furuya and Miyuki are starting for a reason (the reason is offense), so they’ll only enter the game if the team really needs it.

But it’s more of a promise than he’s had for the entire summer. He’ll take it.

It’s a slow and brutal game.

Accompanying every action is the omnipresent sound of raindrops hitting the ground, a drumbeat that’s somehow too quiet and too loud at the same time. Eijun and Akira watch most of the game from the bullpen — they’re not warming up, but they’re both too restless to just sit in the dugout the whole time.

They alternate between catch-and-toss and watching the match play out, one painful pitch at a time. It’s so slow that Akira’s good mood dulls, until all that’s left is the vague sentiment of ‘it’d be nice to get on the field.’

At least it’s not boring. Though slow, every play brings the tension up another level. Every pitch is loaded with pressure. No one wants to be the first to crack, because whoever scores first is going to have a massive advantage.

“That guy’s control is crazy,” Eijun comments, as Teitou’s ace strikes out another one of their batters. “Wow!”

“He’s not as good as You Shunshin,” Akira says. Mukai Taiyou’s control is impressive, but after watching You Shunshin pitch, there’s nothing exciting about Mukai other than his unique form.

Eijun snorts.

“I’m serious. His pitch count is pretty high for only four innings. And he had nothing but rice cakes last night. What kind of meal is that?”

Higasa-senpai hits a grounder and gets forced out, and thus ends the bottom of the fourth. The teams swap positions, and Furuya takes his place on the mound.

The rain’s been messing with his control from the start, but he forces his way through, anyway. He’s starting to hit his stride, as well — Furuya usually takes a few innings to warm up, but it looks like he’s finally stabilized.

Unfortunately, this is when the game gets put on hold. Seidou’s defense re-enters the dugout, and Akira and Eijun return from the bullpen.

“How is it out there?” Akira asks.

Haruichi, Furuya, and Toujou take a seat and start pulling off their uniforms in a futile attempt to dry off.

“I feel like it gets worse when it’s our turn to defend,” Haruichi admits. “Is it just me? It’s not just me, right?”

“No, I agree,” Toujou chimes in. “I can barely see a thing from the outfield!”

Eijun tosses a towel at him, and he gratefully tries to dry his hair.

Furuya, meanwhile, leans back and rests his head against the wall of the dugout.

“You were right,” he says.

The rest of the first-years look at him, confused.

“It’s nothing like playing catch in the snow.”

Akira barks out a laugh. “You did good, Furuya. Also, you shouldn’t sleep, you’ll kill your focus.”

“I’m not sleeping,” he mumbles, with his eyes closed.

A minute passes. Then two. A rain delay is thirty minutes, minimum, which is a long time to sit in the dugout without doing anything.

So at some point, Eijun and Akira end up back in the bullpen. They chuck the ball back and forth with turbulent fervor, and the world narrows until the only things Akira can notice are the raindrops pelting his back and the trajectory of the baseball. Eijun’s tosses start picking up speed. Akira starts calling more seriously, uncaring of how a warmup is traditionally handled. Maybe it’s reckless.

But he just wants to play.

He holds up the sign for a cutter kai. Ahead of him, Eijun’s mouth twitches.

Akira tilts his head. “… Something wrong?”

“Not today,” Eijun says, shaking his head. “I don’t think I can control it in the rain.”

“Okay.” Akira changes the sign. “Normal cutter, then.”

Eijun nods.

Akira doesn’t call for a cutter kai again. Instead, he focuses on keeping a good grip on the ball, refusing to let the rain get in the way of playing catch. He’s soaked, but it doesn’t bother him at this point, and then suddenly Ono-senpai is there, looking at them through the fence.

“Game’s back on.”

Eijun pumps a fist in the air.

The two of them jog back to the dugout and settle in, trying not to drip water over the benches. Bottom of the fifth. Miyuki’s first up to bat, and next to Akira, Eijun leans forward and tightens his grip on the railing.

On the very first pitch, Miyuki hits a double off an outside fastball. Eijun smiles at the sight.

(Akira scoffs and rolls his eyes.)

After Miyuki’s hit, Furuya starts walking up to the plate. Akira frowns.

“Oh, no,” he mutters when Furuya doesn’t bother looking to Coach Kataoka for signs. “Did he sleep during the break?”

Furuya pops the first pitch. Kataoka scolds him when he comes back in. Seidou fails to score, and the next inning begins.

Akira watches it through his fingers. Furuya’s momentum has completely reversed. He walks the first batter, then gives up a double, and the whole time he’s clumsily trying to find the focus that he’s lost.

It finally culminates in Teitou scoring their first run, and Akira can’t help but wince in sympathy.

He was doing pretty well, too, he thinks. Maybe a time out would help. Or a —

“Player substitution,” Kataoka says. He turns his head, eyes landing on the twins, and Akira sucks in a breath.

The umpires grant the request. The details are worked out. Furuya and Asou for Eijun and Akira, with Miyuki transferring to left field. Akira grips the dugout railing tight enough to make the skin over his knuckles hurt, and every breath he takes feels too deep and too shallow at the same time.

This is it.

Someone elbows him in the side. Akira whips his head around. Next to him, Eijun is studying him with an expression somewhere between concern and excitement.

“You ready?” he asks, knitting his eyebrows together with worry.

“… Yeah,” Akira answers. He reaches for his catcher’s helmet and pulls it on. “I’m ready to play.”

Eijun grins at him. “Nervous?”

“Never,” Akira responds. He grins back, but it’s not as bright as it could be.

He wants to be more excited. He is excited: he gets to be on the field after all, and he even gets to play in the rain. But even so.

Furuya trudges back into the dugout. He heads for the bench in the back, grabs a towel, and drops down into a lonely corner all by himself.

I just wish my chance didn’t come at the cost of Furuya’s.

It’s not quite nerves, but he does feel something when he steps onto the field. It feels like every cell in his body is vibrating, like he’s seeing too much at once.

And though he’s stood on baseball fields before, though he’s spent hours warming up in bullpens across Tokyo, none of that could have prepared him for the experience of Edogawa Ward Baseball Stadium.

It’s not a small, down-to-earth field with weeds growing in the infield. It’s not even the immaculate, but open expanse of Seidou’s manicured baseball facilities.

It’s like stepping into a fishbowl. Hundreds of spectators sit in the stands, watching him take to the field. Someone says his name over a loudspeaker. Indistinct sounds surround him: the murmurs of an entire stadium looking down and watching him play.

“Whoa,” he says, looking up at the crowd. He can’t make out any individual faces — they all just blur together.

“Yeah, it’s wild, isn’t it?” Eijun laughs and squeezes his shoulder. “You get used to it.”

“I’m sure,” Akira breathes out. He spots a camera and wonders if he can ask for an extra copy of the game footage to keep — Grandpa would probably want a video of their first time as a high school battery.

“Eyes on the prize, Aki!” Eijun flicks him in the head, and Akira tears his gaze away from the lights and the audience.

“Right.” Akira takes in another deep breath. He packs up the wide-eyed country boy awe and turns his attention to the situation before them.

Down by one. One out, a runner on second, and a 2-0 count. And it’s raining.

It’s every disadvantage in the book. But it’s nothing they haven’t seen before.

“No cutter kai, right?” he asks.

“No cutter kai,” Eijun confirms. “Everything else is fair game, though.”

“Cool.”

Eijun pats his shoulder one last time and tips his cap. “Make good calls.”

“Make good pitches,” Akira replies. A grin settles onto his lips, and he pulls his faceguard down.

They split up. Akira jogs down to home and bows to the umpire. The dirt beneath his cleats is wet and textured, and not nearly as muddy as he’d expected it to be. He kicks it with his toes before he drops into a crouch and gets into position.

In front of him, the batter turns his head. He looks between Eijun and Akira and frowns, thoughtful.

“… Brothers?” he guesses.

“Twins.” Akira answers.

“Well, that’s interesting. Didn’t realize Seidou had a twin battery.”

Akira’s voice is light when he answers. “You wouldn’t have.”

Raindrops splash onto his back, soaking into his uniform. It’s wet, but it’s not cold — the sort of rain where it mingles with your sweat and every breath is thick with humidity.

“I’m gonna let them hit, so everyone — I’m counting on you!”

“Don’t mess up, Sawamura!”

Akira can’t help but laugh. It’s the same field banter that he’s heard a thousand times, in a thousand different variations. Eijun might use it to calm himself down, but it’s just as reassuring for Akira.

They might be miles away from Akagi, but baseball never changes.

When Eijun finally turns and faces home plate, his eyes blaze.

Akira lifts an eyebrow at the sight. You sure?

Eijun sends him a challenging grin. Don’t tell me you want to go slow?

Akira smirks back. No need for caution, then — looks like they’ll be going full throttle from the start.

The roar of the stadium fades into a distant buzz, and the world disappears, until all that’s left is the field and the situation before them.

“Play ball!”

Akira closes his eyes and breathes in. One out, 2-0 count, and a runner on second.

It’s what happens on the field that counts.

When he opens his eyes, he doesn’t hesitate.

“Shit, that was fast,” Kuramochi says, when they re-enter the dugout after a mere five pitches. “Do you two know the meaning of fear?”

“Not anymore!” Eijun tells him. He looks at Akira and holds up his hand for a high-five.

Akira slaps his open palm and beams.

In the bottom of the seventh, Eijun insistently pulls on his windbreaker before grabbing his batting helmet. Coach Kataoka watches the commotion with a blank stare, but he doesn’t say anything, which means that it’s fair game.

Emboldened, Eijun grabs his bat and holds it out in front of him. “I’m ready to fight the rain!”

“You look uncomfortable,” Kanemaru says, eyeing the way water is dripping out from the inside of the jacket.

“Don’t listen to him, Ei,” Akira says, also wearing the windbreaker. “You look cool as hell.”

“Of course you’d say that. You look exactly the same.”

Eijun perks up. “Actually, we have different —”

“No, don’t. You’ll give away our secrets.”

Eijun rolls his eyes, but he keeps his mouth shut anyway.

“Ready, Eijun?” Miyuki asks. He has his bat in his hands as he looks over his shoulder.

Akira opens his mouth. Haruichi jabs him in the side.

“I’m ready!” Eijun says, and he skips outside. Miyuki snickers as he heads to the batter’s box, and Eijun vanishes from view when he settles into the on-deck circle.

“I wasn’t going to insult him,” Akira mutters.

“You were,” Furuya calls out from his corner, and Akira jumps.

Furuya hasn’t said anything since he’d gotten subbed off. Akira studies him with a wary gaze. His face is as hard to read as ever, but — well, he’s talking, which is a good sign in itself.

“… How would you know?” Akira asks, returning to the conversation.

Furuya blinks at him as if to say, really?

Akira sighs, conceding the point.

Miyuki gets on base. Eijun goes for a bunt immediately after, but the rain ruins the opportunity, and Miyuki gets forced out. Then Shirasu and Eijun get taken out in a double play. No runs.

In other words, Seidou has two innings left to score.

This fact is terrifying to Akira because he’ll be up to bat in the next inning, and he knows for a fact that he won’t make contact with the ball. Still, Kataoka keeps them in, which means that he’s trusting them with defense.

Akira just has to focus on what he can do. And if there’s one thing he and Eijun can do together, it’s get a batter out.

Pop-fly. Strikeout. Strikeout, again. That last one was scary because the ball nearly slid out of his mitt due to the rain, but it turned out okay.

With the third out, it’s the bottom of the eighth, and Akira quickly removes the catcher’s gear so he can pull on his windbreaker and get ready for offense.

“Do you have any batting advice?” Akira asks Furuya before he steps out to get on-deck.

Furuya thinks for a moment, scrunching his eyebrows as if in deep thought. Akira holds his breath.

After a long moment, Furuya shrugs. “Swing at the ball?”

Akira sighs. “Thanks for trying.” He exits the dugout and waits on-deck, eyes trained on the field.

Higasa-senpai is ahead of him. Akira takes mental notes on his form because if he’s not going to hit the ball, he can at least try and learn something. Unfortunately, Higasa-senpai hits a ground ball straight into the pitcher’s mitt and gets thrown out before he can start running. Akira nods at him as they pass each other. He enters the batter’s box, shoulders his bat, and glances back to the dugout.

No signs from Coach Kataoka. Makes sense, since the only thing he has to worry about is getting on base. He tries to remember what Coach said earlier. Target the low pitches? Or was it don’t target the low pitches —?

“Strike!”

Akira blinks, startled. He’d been so lost in thought that he’d missed the pitch. He shakes his head. Focus.

Before him, Teitou’s ace pulls his arm back. It’s a weird angle, coming from the left and from the side. The ball spins as it approaches, and Akira tries to get a handle on the course. Outside pitch.

Smack.

“Strike!”

Oh, boy, he thinks, and he tightens his grip on his bat. He’s cornered now. Out in the field, behind the pitcher, Teitou’s shortstop shifts his weight, and the ball is suddenly flying forward, headed for home plate, and then it swerves —

“Strike three! Batter out!”

Didn’t even get the chance to move. Not like he would have hit the screwball anyway, but at least he could have tried.

“Good luck,” he says, as he passes Toujou on his way back to the dugout. Toujou tips his helmet, and Akira goes to sit on the bench next to Furuya with a sigh.

“I told you to swing at the ball.” Furuya’s face and voice are flat, but Akira knows him well enough now to crack a grin.

“Yeah, I should have listened,” he says. He unzips his windbreaker, leans back, and then turns his attention toward the game —

Where Toujou lands a solid hit, and the flow of the match starts running in their favor.

Eijun and Akira close out the game. The final score is 3-1, and the whole team celebrates after surviving the first round of the Fall Tournament.

But despite the win, it doesn’t take long for the post-game fatigue to settle in. Akira claims the window seat on the bus ride back, and though he doesn’t fall asleep, he checks out of the conversation and opts for watching the cars pass by.

Now that the adrenaline of the match has faded, he starts replaying the game in his mind. Every choice, every call. His failed at-bat. Strikeout looking.

He should have tried to bunt for a base hit. Even if it failed, he would have at least made contact with the ball.

Akira barely notices when they get off the bus, and everything is a bit of a blur until Eijun elbows him in the side. Akira yelps.

“You good?” Eijun asks.

“Um,” Akira says, blinking as he crashes back into reality. “Yeah, I think so.”

Eijun squints at him, suspicious. A beat passes. “… You wanna hang out?”

Akira considers the question with full seriousness. He doesn’t feel sore, or tired. Which doesn’t mean much since it’s barely been an hour since the game ended, but he can’t imagine sitting in his room or doing anything else right now. Four innings didn’t feel like enough.

After a moment, he opens his mouth and lowers his voice.

“How mad do you think Coach Kataoka would get if we did a baseball thing right now?”

“Probably pretty mad,” Eijun says. “But if you wanna play catch, we might be able to sneak off to the soccer fields. There’s no one there on weekends.”

“Not catch.” Akira smiles sheepishly. “I… kinda wanna practice my batting?”

Eijun furrows his eyebrows, thinking. “That’s harder,” he admits. “But the batting cages are usually empty after a game. And it’ll probably be all muddy because of the rain, so maybe no one will be there?”

“Worth a shot, I guess.”

They take their time walking back to the dorms, letting everyone else pass them by until they’re far enough that they can sneak over to the batting cages. After making sure that the place is empty, they scramble over to the pitching machine and try to find the ‘on’ switch.

“I feel like we should understand this thing by now,” Akira mutters. He tucks his bat under his arm and walks a slow circle around the machine, searching for the controls. “How long have we been here? Six months?”

“I usually wait for someone else to turn it on,” Eijun confesses, looking equally lost. “Wait, it’s empty. Is the equipment shed unlocked? I can grab us some baseballs —”

“What are you two doing?”

Eijun shrieks and Akira stumbles. They whip their heads over to the source of the voice, hearts racing.

Coach Ochiai is standing there, hands in his pockets. He has that weird expression that he always has.

(Akira privately thinks Ochiai looks like he’s smelling something disgusting. But to be fair, he’s surrounded by a bunch of sweaty teenagers all the time, so that might be it.)

“Uh, hi,” Akira says, dropping his bat to the ground and lifting his hand in a tentative wave.

“Hi, Sarge!” Eijun fires off a stiff salute and pulls his lips back in a tense smile.

Ochiai has a dubious frown on his face. “What are you two doing?” he repeats.

Akira subtly elbows Eijun in the side. You do the talking.

Eijun opens his mouth. “We were cleaning the mud off the pitching machine!”

Ochiai’s skeptical expression doesn’t change.

Akira steps on Eijun’s foot, because what the hell, couldn’t you come up with anything better than that?

Eijun shoots him a dirty look. You told me to do the talking!

“You played well today,” Ochiai says, after an awkward pause.

“Thank you!” Eijun blurts out, latching on to the subject change. “We really appreciate it, sir!”

Akira dips his head in acknowledgment.

“Would you start in the next game?”

Akira blinks. He and Eijun exchange a startled glance before looking back at Coach Ochiai.

The older man is stroking his chin, still wearing that pinched expression of his.

Eijun clears his throat. “That’s something you and Coach Kataoka will decide, right?”

“If you had a choice, would you?”

Eijun glances over at Akira. Akira stares back, equally confused.

“… Wouldn’t anyone?” Eijun answers, after a pause.

Ochiai levels a blank gaze at Akira. “And you? What’s your opinion?”

Akira presses his lips together, trying to figure out his intentions. Ochiai doesn’t seem too invested in the answer — it doesn’t sound like a test or a check-in. It just sounds like he’s trying to make conversation.

“I would want to,” he admits, going for honesty. “But until I can trust my batting, I wouldn’t.”

Eijun frowns at him, but Ochiai just accepts the answer with a nonchalant nod.

“If I had my way,” he says, still stroking his chin, “I wouldn’t keep you two off the field.”

“Um?”

“The ace and his catcher,” Ochiai says, looking between the two of them. “No matter what happens, I wouldn’t switch out the ace.”

The whole world feels frozen as the words sink in.

“Get some rest,” Ochiai orders. “You can practice your batting tomorrow.”

And with that, he walks away: posture slouched, hands in his pockets, and completely unreadable. Eijun and Akira are rooted in place, and they watch him turn a corner and vanish.

“… What the hell was that?” Eijun whispers.

“I have no clue,” Akira whispers back. “He’s weird, isn’t he?”

“So weird,” Eijun agrees. “But I guess it’s a compliment, right?”

“Right,” Akira says slowly. But he can’t get over the phrasing.

If I had my way.

Does that mean Coach Kataoka disagrees with having Akira on the field? How come Ochiai and Kataoka are at odds with each other. Why would a coach even tell his players this sort of thing?

“I guess no batting practice, then.” Eijun twists his mouth and looks at Akira. “Are you still feeling restless? We probably shouldn’t play catch, but we could go for a run or something?”

“No, I think I’m fine,” Akira decides. “But I don’t wanna be alone. Can I hang out in your room?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Sweet.”

It’s certainly better than hanging out in his room. The last thing he wants to see right now is Miyuki Kazuya’s stupid face.

Eijun flicks his forehead.

“Hey, what was that for?”

“Stop thinking mean things about Miyuki Kazuya!”

“I didn’t even say anything,” Akira grumbles, but he picks up his fallen bat and follows Eijun back to the dorms.

They play Mario Kart for a bit, but it’s not as fun with only two players. Eventually, they end up doing their own thing: Eijun, lounging on his bed with a manga volume in his hands, and Akira sprawled out on the floor with his feet propped up against the ladder. He’s attempting to listen to music and escape his brain for a bit, but instead, he ends up hitting the skip button over and over.

Too fast. Too slow. None of the songs are hitting the right chords.

If I had my way, I wouldn’t keep you two off the field.

It’s a nice sentiment. Akira might even appreciate it, later — that their battery has the respect of at least one of the coaches.

But right now? All it’s doing is fueling his imposter syndrome.

All he can think is oh, I should’ve done this, or why didn’t I think of that. It’s a pointless exercise, he knows. The game is long over. He wishes he could focus on the music the way he wants to.

After a few impatient minutes of skipping through his playlist, Akira yanks off his headphones and sits up.

“Help. Brain.”

Eijun looks up. “Distraction, or conversation?”

“Distraction,” Akira says. “It’s still wet outside. Let’s go rate some snails.”

“Sounds good to me!” Eijun slips a bookmark into his manga volume, keeping his place, and hops to his feet.

Akira pulls on his still-damp windbreaker, and they both pull on their shoes before stepping outside.

There are fewer clouds in the sky, now, but he can still feel the humidity. Drops of water coat the bushes in the courtyard. It smells like wet concrete, which shouldn’t be a surprise, but it catches Akira off-guard anyway.

“So, snails,” Eijun says. He cracks his knuckles. “I go right, you go left?”

“Okay.”

They split up. Akira carefully watches his steps, hoping to avoid crushing any unfortunate snails. He reaches the bushes and starts checking the undersides of their leaves.

Don’t think about baseball, he tells himself. Just snails. Where are the snails?

“Found one!” Eijun yells. Akira turns around. His brother holds up a large snail and grins.

“Eight out of ten,” Akira decides. “It looks like it’d eat the plants in a garden with no remorse.”

“A confident man,” Eijun declares. He carefully puts it back where he found it. “Off you go, sir!”

Akira snorts in amusement. A few minutes later, he points out a small snail traveling along the edge of a leaf.

“Here’s a baby.”

Eijun’s eyes widen. “He’s so small! Ten out of ten.”

“I dunno,” Akira says, just to be contrary. “The shell looks kinda weak. I’d give it a six.”

“He’s still growing!” Eijun yelps, offended. Akira laughs, and Eijun laughs with him.

They return to their search. Eijun wanders over to the far end of the courtyard while Akira sticks with the bushes closer to the dorms. He crouches down to get a better look at the branches. On the other side of the bushes, he can hear someone walking by. They stop.

Akira straightens up to see a familiar figure awkwardly standing on the other side of the bush.

“Zero out of ten,” he says, holding his best ‘unimpressed’ stare. “This one is lame.”

Miyuki sighs and sends Akira an exhausted expression. “Can I talk to your brother?”

“You can talk?” Akira asks. “I thought you just flapped your lips and let shit fall out.”

Miyuki grimaces. “Do we have to do this?” he asks. “Pretty sure my toes are bruised with how often you stepped on them today.”

“Aw, my bad,” Akira says. “They haven’t fallen off yet? I must be doing something wrong.”

Miyuki groans. “I’m trying to apologize.”

“See, I might believe you,” Akira says, “except every time I give you advice, you ignore it and make him sad. Literally, all he wants are compliments and baseball. The bar is so low.”

Miyuki crosses his arms. “I am trying.”

“Do you even know what you’re apologizing for?” Akira demands.

“Yes,” Miyuki says.

Akira narrows his eyes. “You sound oddly confident for an emotionally inept loser —”

“Aki, I found another snail — Miyuki Kazuya!”

Akira sighs.

“Hi!” Eijun says. He grins wide and jogs closer.

Miyuki’s face does this stupid round of sappy acrobatics, and Akira subtly kicks his shin.

“What are you doing here?” Eijun asks, tilting his head.

“He’s leaving,” Akira announces.

Miyuki shoots him a dirty look. “No, I’m not.”

“But you found it so easy to leave last time,” Akira mutters.

“‘Last time?’” Eijun echoes. “What do you mean, ‘last time’ — Aki!”

Akira winces as Eijun grabs him by the collar.

“Have you been bullying Miyuki Kazuya?”

Miyuki, unseen by Eijun, smirks and mouths, ‘busted.’

“Yeah, I have been bullying him,” Akira says, glaring at the subject in question. “And he’s real pathetic about it, too. He’s been blasting Fujii Fumiya and crying himself to sleep —”

“Wait, really?” Eijun turns to Miyuki with wide and hopeful eyes.

“No!”

Eijun pulls on a disappointed pout.

(Akira does not understand how Eijun’s brain works when he has a crush.)

“Can you put me down, now?” he asks, tapping Eijun’s arm.

“Not until you promise to stop!” Eijun yells. He shakes Akira through the air. “You’re so annoying! Quit butting into my business!”

“Your ‘business’ lives in my room and makes you cry!”

“You make me cry,” Eijun counters. “Do you know how stressful it is to be related to the dumbest person on the planet?”

Akira gasps. “You’re calling me that?”

Eijun continues to shake him by the collar. “Every day I wake up and think, ‘I hope Aki doesn’t do something stupid!’”

“I’ve never been stupid in my life, you dumbass!”

“Crashing Kenta’s bike! Getting us lost in Nagano City! That time you tried to steal eggs from Sano-sensei’s chicken coop —”

“That was your idea!”

“Yeah, but I’m not the one who got caught!”

A door on the second-floor slams open, making the three of them flinch. Eijun lets go of Akira’s shirt, and he tumbles to the ground.

A voice filters down from the upstairs. “Wamura, shut up!”

“Ha!” Akira crows with self-satisfaction and sits up. He wipes mud off his sleeves and fires a superior look at Eijun. “Kanemaru’s mad at you.”

“I’m talking to both of you!”

Akira splutters in indignation. The door slams shut. Somebody else opens up a window and shouts, “Thanks, Kanemaru!”

Miyuki snickers. Akira scowls and flicks mud at him.

“So,” Eijun says, casually kicking more mud in Akira’s direction. “What are you doing here, cap?”

Miyuki’s amused grin falters. He swallows and looks away with a nervous, uncertain smile. His cheeks redden, he clears his throat, and then he opens his mouth. “I was going to, uh. I mean. I wanted to —” he cuts off.

Eijun blinks.

“Sorry,” Miyuki says, frowning. “Can we do this in private?”

Eijun turns and looks at Akira, still sprawled out on the ground.

“What?” Akira asks, unashamedly glaring. “If you’re just apologizing, you have nothing to hide, right?”

Eijun groans. “Aki!”

“I’m not leaving.”

“You are,” Eijun hisses. He turns to Miyuki. “Can you give me a sec?”

“Ei —”

Eijun hauls Akira up to his feet. Before Akira can react, Eijun twists him into an armbar and starts dragging him away. Akira tries to wriggle out of his grip, but it’s pointless.

“I’m gonna get Kuramochi-senpai to teach me this stuff, and then it’s all over for you,” Akira warns.

Eijun rolls his eyes.

(Behind Eijun’s back, Miyuki pulls on a cheeky grin and waves.)

Eijun drags Akira around a corner, out of Miyuki’s field of view. They walk until they’re out of earshot, and then Eijun finally lets him go.

“This is stupid,” Akira says. “You shouldn’t talk to him!”

“Why not?”

“Oh, I dunno! Maybe it’s because he’s playing you?”

Eijun groans. “I told you not to be annoying about this.”

“It’s what he deserves.”

“I can take care of myself!”

“I can help!”

“Aki —” Eijun cuts off and sighs. He looks Akira directly in the eye. “Do you trust me?”

Akira scowls and crosses his arms. “That’s an unfair question.”

Eijun frowns at him, unsatisfied. One second. Two seconds.

Akira caves.

“You know I do,” he mutters, breaking eye contact.

“Then stop messing with my love life,” Eijun demands.

“It’s not about your stupid love life,” Akira snaps.

Eijun lifts an eyebrow.

“Okay, it is a little. You know my opinions on that,” Akira grumbles. “But he’s a shitty battery partner, too! That’s even worse!”

“He’s not a shitty battery partner!”

“Then why can’t you pitch to him?”

Eijun’s mouth clicks shut. He bites his lip, unable to come up with a response.

Akira scoffs. “That’s what I thought.”

“That isn’t what —” Eijun cuts himself off and shakes his head. “Never mind. That doesn’t matter. Just stop being a jerk and let me make my own mistakes, okay?”

“So you admit that he’s a mistake?”

“Akira.”

Eijun’s eyes burn, resolute and stubborn. It’s the same look he gets when stepping out onto the field. The same look he gets when he’s ready to wage war on a batter.

Eijun wants to do this. He’s going to do this, whether Akira’s on his side or not.

Sometimes I just want you to be happy for me, okay? I’m not asking for your advice.

Akira looks down at the ground. Eijun catches the action and frowns.

“Aki —”

“Okay, fine,” he says, giving in. “I will tentatively support your endeavors. But seriously, I will tell Wakana if he pulls any bullshit again. And she’s not as forgiving as me.”

“You’re not forgiving at all,” Eijun says, but he reaches out and squeezes Akira’s shoulder. “Thanks. Sorry about the snails, we can look for more later.”

“No, I’ll be fine,” Akira says. “This whole thing was a massive distraction, anyway.”

Eijun presses his lips together. “Text me if your brain is being stupid?”

“Only if you text me if I need to hide a body.”

Eijun laughs. With that, he fires off a salute and starts walking back to the courtyard.

“Okay, Miyuki Kazuya! Let’s talk!”

When Akira passes through the courtyard a few seconds later, they’re already gone. He clamps down the concern and makes his way to the stairs, headed for his room.

Right as he puts his foot on the first step, he pauses.

He’s definitely not as agitated as he was earlier, but the idea of sitting in his room all alone still doesn’t appeal to him. After a moment, he backs away from the stairs, walks a few meters, and knocks on a door.

It opens almost immediately.

“Wanna sneak into the batting cages and practice with me?” Akira asks.

“Let me grab my bat,” Furuya answers, without a single second of hesitation, and though it doesn’t make the worry go away, Akira does feel a little bit looser already.

Chapter Text

There are few things that burn as much as watching somebody else play catcher.

Intellectually, Miyuki knows that nothing is ever secure on a team like Seidou. Everyone knows. The first mistake gets you pulled off the field. The second drags you down to second-string. And no matter who you are, there are dozens of high-quality players waiting in the wings to take your place.

But after Chris’s injury, Miyuki… didn’t exactly have someone to rival him. Miyauchi-senpai was strong and reliable. Ono is stable and hardworking. Miyuki, though —

Miyuki lives and breathes baseball.

He’s aggressive and takes risks most other catchers would run from. He’s smart, and he’s fearless, and he has a hell of a throwing arm. And he has the record to back that up.

But just because he’s good — just because he’s the best — that doesn’t mean anything if he can’t catch for Eijun.

How is it that he can feel so many conflicting things at once? Pride? Relief? Fear?

After the rain break, Furuya begins to slip, and he already knows what’s going to happen next. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see movement in Seidou’s dugout. Coach Kataoka steps out to request a substitution, and the twins wait in the entryway.

If it’s good for the team, I’ll take it.

There’s a part of Miyuki that understands the coaches’ decision. Supports it, even. With Furuya’s focus shot, there’s no way they can win.

They need Eijun’s blazing confidence, Akira’s solid assurance. The irrational security of having their ace on the mound and his battery partner at home.

They need the twins on the field.

Miyuki doesn’t want them, though.

He doesn’t want to stand in left field, to trade his well-worn catcher’s mitt for the brand-new fielder’s glove sitting in his sports bag. Still, he trudges back to the dugout and swaps his gear. Then he heads for the outfield so he can stand in the pouring rain and feel miserable.

Eijun and Akira have a short conversation before heading for their positions. They don’t even bother with an on-field warm-up. As soon as the umpire gives them the go-ahead, Akira calls for an inside pitch and Eijun delivers.

The batter never stood a chance.

It feels like the blink of an eye. Eijun and Akira get their next out, ending the inning, and then they’re all headed back to the dugout to prepare for offense. All around, teammates toss around high fives and ‘nice jobs,’ congratulating the twins on their perfect relief. But Miyuki keeps quiet. He swaps his baseball cap for his batting helmet and pulls on his batting gloves in silence.

Watching Eijun and Akira shut down Teitou’s lineup is as satisfying as it is horrifying. Because he knows what it means for him.

Why use Miyuki when you have the twins for the next three years? Why waste time with him when Eijun and Akira have already shown that nothing can get in the way of their baseball?

When Akira learns to bat properly — and he will, judging by the hours of practice he puts in — Miyuki’s going to end up in the outfield for the entirety of his third year.

If he can’t fix his relationship with Eijun, it’s going to be a long time before he can return to home plate. If he can’t fix his relationship with Eijun, he might never catch for him again.

(And that, more than anything else, scares him half to death.)

Miyuki stands in the courtyard and waits for Eijun to finish scolding his brother. It doesn’t take long. Within a few minutes, Eijun’s rounding the corner of the building, and he jogs over with a toothy smile.

“Okay, Miyuki Kazuya! Let’s talk!”

Miyuki breathes and calls up a smile of his own. “Let’s go to the —”

“Soccer fields,” Eijun says, cutting him off. “It’s the weekend. No one will be there.”

Miyuki blinks. Eijun stares up at him with a fire in his eyes, leaving no room for argument.

“Uh, yeah. Sure.”

Eijun leads the way. His steps are steady and purposeful, with no wasted movements, and Miyuki struggles to maintain a similar level of composure.

It’s hard to tell what Eijun’s motivations are. Is he eager to have this conversation? Or is he eager to get it over with?

Miyuki trails behind him, rewriting and rehearsing the words he’s been trying to figure out all day. He plays it in his mind, over and over again, hoping he can get it right.

(He’s already fucked up so many other things. He can’t fuck this up again.)

Before long, his time is up: they’ve arrived at the soccer fields. Eijun is right. They’re completely abandoned. It’s off-season and a weekend and it’s late in the evening after a rainy day. Plus, Seidou has always been a baseball school, anyway.

Eijun pulls to a stop at the edge of the field. The sun has long since set, but the sky is clear and the moon is bright. Even with the field lights off, Miyuki can still see him clearly: the wariness in his eyes, the way he’s hugging his elbows, defensive.

Guilt churns in Miyuki’s stomach.

You’re the one that did this to him.

“Okay,” Eijun says, breaking the silence, and he looks up. His eyes pin Miyuki in place, expectant and guarded and beautiful all at once.

Miyuki clears his throat and looks down at his hands.

He’s spent hours planning this out in his head — not that he had much of a choice, with the way Akira kept running him off — but the words are still hard. It goes without saying, but he’s not used to doing this sort of thing.

“I wanted to apologize,” he begins.

Eijun’s mouth twitches into a frown, and Miyuki rushes to reassure him.

“I wanted to apologize properly.”

Eijun blinks. “… Properly,” he echoes.

“Yes.”

Not even ten words in, and you’re already screwing up, says his brain.

Leave me alone! I’m not done yet!

Eijun’s eyes narrow. “… What exactly are you apologizing for?”

Miyuki takes a deep breath, counts to three, and then lets the words flow out of his mouth. “I’m sorry that my fear of vulnerability and my miscommunication caused you to feel inadequate. I will be more considerate and avoid sending mixed signals in the future.”

As soon as he finishes, he takes another breath and tries to steady his racing heart.

Eijun tilts his head. “Did you… practice that?”

Miyuki thinks of the several ‘how to apologize’ articles in his search history and the time spent talking to the mirror. “… Yes.”

Eijun stares at him.

His cheeks begin to burn, and Miyuki resists the urge to hide behind his hands. “I just — I’m not exactly used to this sort of thing, I didn’t want to mess up again, I —”

Eijun breaks into a grin and cackles.

Miyuki winces. “Eijun —”

“Wait,” he gasps out, between his laughs. “Wait, sorry. I didn’t —” he coughs. “I didn’t mean to laugh.”

Miyuki frowns, and Eijun tries to stifle his grin.

“It’s a good apology,” Eijun says, still grinning. “It’s just… you practiced. That’s so cute.”

“Excuse me?”

“And also: what?” He adds on. His grin falters. “Not sure what you mean by ‘miscommunication.’ I thought your intentions were pretty clear? We were supposed to just — start over, right?”

A hint of confusion flashes in his eyes.

“That’s —” Miyuki bites his lip. “That’s what I’m saying. I made a mistake.”

Eijun’s smile disappears.

Miyuki’s voice comes out quiet, careful. “I shouldn’t have told you to forget about it. That was cruel of me.”

Eijun frowns. It takes some time before he speaks up again. “If you’re just saying words to make me feel better —”

“I’m not,” Miyuki insists.

Eijun clenches his jaw and stares him down with shining eyes. “Why did you even change your mind in the first place?”

“I thought that it was a distraction,” Miyuki admits. “I thought that it was making both of us uncomfortable, and that it was going to affect our battery. So I tried to avoid it entirely, which was a stupid decision. This isn’t an excuse, I just want to make sure you understand that it’s not because of you.”

The seconds tick by. Eijun stands before him, seemingly at a loss for words. When he does open his mouth, the only sound he can make is a soft ‘oh.’

“I didn’t reject you because you couldn’t play,” Miyuki says, remembering Chris’s words. “I rejected you because I wanted to play with you. I meant what I said — I want you to be the ace. If it were up to me, I’d happily catch your pitches all day. With or without the romance. I just…” He pauses. “I didn’t think it was possible to have both at the same time.”

Eijun looks away. He twists his mouth, mulling over the words, and Miyuki’s heart hammers away in his chest.

“I kissed you that night because I liked you,” Miyuki confesses. “I still like you. And we don’t have to do anything with that until we’re both ready, but asking you to forget about it was really shitty of me. Especially since I’m the one who kissed you. So: I’m sorry for messing with your feelings, Eijun.”

He exhales. God, that was hard.

Every second of silence seems like an eternity. His eyes are locked on Eijun’s face, searching for any movement, any hint of expression, but he can’t pick up anything. Finally, after what feels like forever, Eijun lifts his head and looks him in the eye.

“I told you before,” he says, a hint of desperate steel leaking into his tone. He stares Miyuki down, eyes reflecting the moonlight, and the sight of it takes Miyuki’s breath away. “You don’t have to coddle me, Miyuki Kazuya.”

Miyuki nods, and his next words come out barely above a whisper. “I know.”

“Do you?” Eijun runs a frustrated hand through his hair and draws his mouth into a thin line. “Look, I don’t like it when people assume they know how I feel. Especially because I’m pretty upfront about it. If I tell you that I like you, it’s because I like you. So if your reasoning for being a cryptic, wishy-washy asshole is ‘sparing my feelings’ or whatever, I’m telling you that’s stupid. I promise you I can handle it.”

“I know that now,” Miyuki admits.

“You can just ask me things,” Eijun declares. “I told you I wanted to focus on baseball, not that I changed my mind! So don’t go around making decisions for me just because you think you know how I feel! Just ask!”

Miyuki swallows, properly chastised. “Okay.”

“Also! I don’t like it when you say things you don’t mean. Life’s already confusing enough! I know you’re a teasing bastard, and that’s fine, but some things should just be straightforward, you know? I hate staying up at night trying to translate your stupid jerk-speak!”

“Oh. Uh, sorry —”

“And another thing!” Eijun tacks on. “If Akira is bullying you, you can bully him back! Aki can be really mean sometimes, so you are allowed to act in self-defense! Like, I’ll break all two-hundred and six of your bones if you go too far, but you don’t have to just let him walk all over you!”

(Miyuki unconsciously clutches his bones.)

“And — um. Actually, that’s all I had to say.” Eijun laughs lightly and scratches the back of his neck. “Don’t be a repressed disaster. The end.”

“Cool,” Miyuki says, and he exhales. “Great. I’ll, um, keep all that in mind.”

“Good!”

“Good.”

They lapse into an uncomfortable silence, neither of them knowing what to say next. Instead, they stand there, on an abandoned soccer field, under the light of the moon.

Eijun kicks his toe into the grass. Drops of dew scatter and land on Miyuki’s leg.

Miyuki clears his throat. “Uh, thank you. For hearing me out.”

“Of course.” Eijun smiles at him. Even in the moonlight, his smile is still warm and sunny. And for the first time since this conversation began, he doesn’t have that wary look in his eyes.

He looks happy.

Isn’t he pretty? asks the stupid half of Miyuki’s brain.

I know, right? says the other stupid half of his brain.

“So, uh —” Eijun speaks up, and then pauses, hesitant. His eyelashes are unfairly long. “Is that… it? Are we done? Did you want anything else?”

“I also want to kiss you again,” Miyuki answers, and then stiffens.

Eijun stares at him, jaw dropped.

“Wait, I didn’t mean —” Miyuki winces.

Don’t say things you don’t mean.

“I mean, I do mean it,” he blurts out. He looks away, face burning.

Whatever happened to being so smooth he could make Eijun cry?

Kill me now.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Miyuki rambles. “I know we literally just talked, so you probably need to process or something, I just — oh god, I wasn’t supposed to say that out loud, oh fuck —”

“Shut up,” Eijun says, and that’s all the warning Miyuki gets before Eijun steps closer, pulls him in, and kisses him.

Miyuki freezes up, but only for a second. As soon as he registers what’s happening, he wraps his arms around Eijun’s shoulders and kisses him back. Eijun’s hands find their way into his hair; Miyuki tugs him in even closer. It’s better than every single daydream he’s ever had, better than imagination, and he knows that whatever happens next, he’s never taking it back.

They pull back at the same time, burning red. Miyuki drinks in the sight of Eijun glowing in the moonlight, ethereal and beautiful and so very happy. He looks like something out of a dream, except that Miyuki still has his arms around him, and he’s solid and tangible and oh this is actually happening.

He grins.

“Date me, Miyuki Kazuya,” Eijun gasps out. He stares up at Miyuki with the same fierce determination that he has on the mound, and Miyuki swears he would do anything to keep those eyes on him.

“Yes,” Miyuki replies, equally breathless.

He goes in for another kiss.

Miyuki wakes up earlier than usual. So early, in fact, that Akira is still sleeping when he tiptoes out of the room. Or maybe Akira is the one waking up late.

Either way, he’s one of the first people to arrive in the cafeteria. He grabs his breakfast and sits down, smiling wide.

A few seconds later, Zono slides into the seat across.

“Good morning,” Miyuki says, with a casual wave and a cheeky salute.

“Who the fuck are you, and what did you do with Miyuki?” Zono asks, squinting at him. “What time is it?”

Miyuki pulls out his phone and flips it open. “Uh, six-thirty?”

“Is something wrong?” Zono asks.

“Can’t a guy wake up at a respectable time?” Miyuki fires back. He takes a sip of his water, still grinning.

“Not if it’s you,” Zono counters. He shakes his head. “Never mind. Count me out of whatever chaos you’re about to inflict.”

“I’m not up to anything,” Miyuki protests.

“You’re in a good mood at six-thirty in the morning,” Zono says dryly. “Please don’t make me consider the alternatives.”

Miyuki chuckles before going back to his breakfast. “Suit yourself.”

The other members of the team begin to filter in. Shirasu does a double-take when he sees Miyuki. Nori pinches his arm. Seki flicks his breakfast beans at him as if warding off an evil spirit.

“Am I that bad at waking up?” Miyuki asks when Asou sees him there and promptly trips over his own feet.

“Not really,” Kuramochi says with a yawn. He drops his breakfast tray in the space on Miyuki’s left and sits down. “We’re just being assholes.”

“Remember when Miyuki slept in on the first day of practice?” Shirasu asks, reminiscing. “Good times.”

“Remember when he put all his alarms on snooze and they went off in class, one at a time?”

“Ha! That was a good one.”

“Hey, I’m not the only one,” Miyuki points out. “Nori slept through Kataoka’s class. Twice.”

“Yeah, but we can’t bully Nori,” Kuramochi says. “Why would you even bring that up? Rude.”

On the other side of the table, Nori raises his glass of juice in acknowledgment.

“You know, this is why I sleep in. So I can spend less time hearing the shit that comes out of your mouth.”

Kuramochi just smirks.

The banter doesn’t do anything to bring Miyuki down, though. If anything, it just makes him feel even happier. He knows that his constant smiling is probably freaking everyone out, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“Seriously,” Kuramochi says, watching Miyuki with a suspicious frown. “You are in a weird mood today.”

Miyuki takes a sip out of his water and wiggles his eyebrows up and down.

Kuramochi’s frown deepens.

And speaking of Miyuki’s good mood —

“Miyuki Kazuya!”

There it is.

The sound of Eijun shouting his name has his heart racing. He can’t keep the grin off his face when he turns and sees Eijun walking his way, headed over from the cafeteria entrance.

“Good morning, Ei — um?”

Eijun beams at him, as bright and as sunny as ever. His radiant smile directly contrasts with how he has Akira locked in a chokehold.

Eijun drags his irate twin across the cafeteria and comes to a stop in front of the second-years’ table.

“Good morning!” he chirps. Then he looks at Akira. “This is Kazuya. He’s my boyfriend, now.”

Somewhere behind Miyuki, someone chokes on their breakfast.

Miyuki’s whole face is burning, but it’s not out of embarrassment. All he can hear is Eijun’s voice looping in his head.

Kazuya. Boyfriend. Kazuya. Boyfriend.

It sounds very nice.

“Excuse me?” Kuramochi says, coughing loudly. When he regains his breath, he punches Miyuki on the arm. “What the fuck?”

“What he said,” Miyuki says, still smiling.

“Oh my god,” Akira says, looking at Miyuki with horror.

“Do you know what that means, Aki?” Eijun crows.

“Shut up,” Akira snaps, but he looks pathetically miserable. “Ei, I am begging you to —”

“It means,” Eijun says, cutting him off with glee, “that he’s our friend now! And you have to be nice to him!”

“I hate my life,” Akira groans. “I hate you. I’m disowning you.”

“Are you going to be nice to my boyfriend?” Eijun asks, emphasizing the word with cheerful pleasure. “Are you going to support your big brother, who you love and adore?”

Akira looks at Eijun like he’s resigned for death. “I’m going to kill you.”

Eijun laughs. He tightens his grip on his twin and starts giving him a noogie. “Don’t be such a tsundere, Aki!”

“Nori-senpai!” Akira yelps. He fruitlessly attempts to wriggle out of Eijun’s grip. “Nori-senpai, you’re on my side, right? Help me!”

Nori throws back his glass of juice like he’s downing a shot.

“Seriously, what the fuck?” Kuramochi looks at Miyuki like he’s grown a second head. “When did this happen? How did this happen?”

Miyuki laughs.

“Eijun!” Kuramochi yells, sounding halfway to insanity. “What kind of roommate are you? You didn’t tell me this?”

“I’m telling you now, aren’t I?”

“I’ve been betrayed,” Kuramochi whines. “My co-captain and my roommate. You didn’t even send me a text.”

Miyuki laughs. “Is that all we are? Co-captains?”

“Shut up!” Kuramochi snaps. He blinks. “Wait. Wait — who asked who out? I need it for science.”

“I did,” Eijun answers. He smiles at Miyuki, who grins back just as brightly.

Akira, still held captive in Eijun’s arms, stiffens.

“Miyuki, you coward,” Kuramochi hisses. “Akira, how much do Nori and I owe you?”

Akira looks pained. “I’ve… been banned from betting behind Eijun’s back,” he says, wincing the whole time. “So… you owe Haruichi and Furuya… and I get nothing…”

Eijun cackles for ten seconds too long before he finally lets Akira go.

Akira immediately pulls himself out of Eijun’s grip. He scowls at Eijun, frowns at Miyuki, and turns on his heel. And then, in the blink of an eye, he’s gone.

“He’s not gonna kill me, is he?” Miyuki asks.

“Nah,” Eijun says. “Akira keeps his promises. Save me a spot, Kazuya! I’m gonna go grab some food!”

He bounces off, leaving Miyuki to smile and blush into his hands.

Kazuya. Kazuya. Kazuya.

“You’re fucking gross,” Kuramochi complains, glaring daggers. “I can’t believe you’re a sap. I hate this.”

“If you didn’t see this coming, that’s your own fault,” Asou says. “Congratulations, Miyuki.”

“You’re only saying that because you won,” Zono mutters. “Miyuki, couldn’t you have waited another week?”

Asou smirks. “Five-hundred yen and a foot massage.”

“We owe Jun-senpai and Ryou-san, too.” Seki sighs. “Damn.”

“What the hell?” Miyuki looks around the table. “Did everyone know?”

His peers all look at each other. Then they look back at Miyuki.

“Don’t make me answer that question,” Zono says.

Miyuki groans. “You all suck.”

Zono snickers, and Miyuki’s about to fire off another snarky remark —

And then Eijun returns and sits next to Miyuki, and his focus shifts completely.

Miyuki floats through practice. He hits three home runs off the pitching machine at full-speed and drifts through drills on a romance-induced high. Every time he and Eijun make eye-contact, they wink at each other right before flawlessly executing their drills.

(Unrelatedly, Kuramochi gags on his water and spews his drink all over Haruichi, who proceeds to execute a cold shoulder straight out of the Kominato handbook.)

After practice, Miyuki and Eijun walk back to the dorms, side by side. They chat and hold hands all the way to the stairs, where they have to split up. Miyuki takes the opportunity to peck Eijun on the lips, to which Eijun yelps and stammers out a flustered ‘good night.’ He waves good-bye and runs to his room, and Miyuki watches him as he goes.

“Gross,” says a voice behind him.

Miyuki turns around. Akira has a dead-eyed stare on his face.

“You don’t have to watch,” Miyuki points out, grinning at Akira’s disgusted expression. “Why are you even here?”

“I forgot my keys today,” Akira says. “I need you to let me in.”

Miyuki snorts. He twirls his keys around his finger and starts up the stairs. Akira sighs and follows behind him.

“You’re not gonna try and break my toes again, are you?” Miyuki asks, keeping his tone conversational.

“Nah,” Akira says, in a flat voice. “You apologized, so it’s all good. But you’re on thin fucking ice.”

Miyuki pauses halfway up the stairs. “… That’s it?”

“What, do you want me to be ruder?” Akira asks. He stares at Miyuki with a blank expression. “Because I can do that very easily.”

“No,” Miyuki says quickly. “This is fine.”

They start up the stairs again. Miyuki opens up the door and lets them both in.

Akira sets his sports bag down next to his desk. He clears his throat. “If you try and talk to me about your romantic relationship with my brother: please don’t.”

“I… wasn’t planning to,” Miyuki says, and then the full situation sinks in.

He is literally rooming with his boyfriend’s twin brother. He’s not sure who has it worse: him or Akira.

It’s not like he and Akira talk to each other much, but suddenly the silence in the room is unbearably awkward.

“Eijun gave me permission to bully you back,” Miyuki says, attempting to return to their sarcastic status quo. He calls up his signature smirk, though it doesn’t quite dispel the awkwardness. “So… watch your back.”

Akira blinks and stares at Miyuki. One second passes. Two seconds.

“Wow, he really does like you,” Akira says. He snickers, grabs his towel, and nods at Miyuki. “Good luck with the battery stuff, Miyuki-senpai.”

“Thanks.”

Akira fires off a salute, pulls on his slippers, and heads for the baths. Miyuki, alone in his room, exhales.

He smiles. Maybe this is where things start looking up.

Seidou spends the next week throwing themselves into practice. After their win against Teitou High, everyone’s itching for the weekend. They’ll be facing Nanamori Gakuen on Saturday, and if all goes according to plan — they’ll be facing Inashiro Industrial on Sunday.

They’re ready for revenge.

The first-string spends their after-practice hours swinging bats and running extra laps. The energy surrounding the team is electric. With the way they are now, it’s hard to imagine them losing.

And in fact — they don’t lose.

With just a few changes to their batting lineup, the runs start coming home, one after the other. Seidou’s offense does so well that the game gets called in the fifth inning.

It’s a near-flawless game, Miyuki thinks, except for the fact that he spent all five innings in left field.

After the match, Seidou gets swarmed by reporters and interviewers. Miyuki answers a few questions himself — he always has to now, as Seidou’s captain — but most of the focus is on Seidou’s twin battery.

It’s almost funny to see how blindsided Akira is with all the attention. He hides behind Eijun most of the time, letting his brother soak up the attention. For the few questions he’s forced to answer, he falls back on his empty deadpan and answers as succinctly as possible. The moment Kataoka and Ochiai step in, Akira shoves his headphones over his ears, zips his windbreaker up all the way, and sandwiches himself between Furuya and Kanemaru so that no reporters can sneak up on him.

It’s almost funny, except that someone had asked Miyuki how he feels about ‘getting replaced,’ and now he’s in a sour mood.

How do you think I feel?

Instead of snapping, though, he swallows back the snark and says something vague about supporting the future of the team.

(It’s still a stupid question, though.)

Eijun sits next to him on the bus ride back to campus. He laces their fingers together.

“You look constipated,” Eijun says.

“What kind of boyfriend are you?” Miyuki asks, feigning offense.

“The honest kind,” Eijun fires back. He frowns and squeezes Miyuki’s hand. “That reporter was rude. Do you wanna play catch or something?”

Miyuki shakes his head. “You already pitched today, idiot. You should rest for tomorrow.”

“It was only five innings,” Eijun says. “It doesn’t have to be hard! So, catch?”

Miyuki shakes his head. He does want to catch for Eijun, but the captain in him refuses to let him wear himself out.

“I’m good,” he answers. “But we can hang out in my room after the team meeting.”

Eijun smiles and squeezes his hand again. “Looking forward to —”

“Holy shit!” Zono yells, drawing the attention of the entire bus. He stands up in his seat and holds up his phone, displaying a string of text messages with Watanabe Hisashi. “Inajitsu lost! We’re playing Ugumori High tomorrow!”

From a statistical perspective, the choice between Eijun and Furuya should be easy. Though they’re both formidable players, Eijun is a more consistent pitcher and has more weapons to choose from.

But considering reality, the decision is much harder.

Furuya, when he hits his stride, is near-untouchable. His fastball alone is enough to strike fear into any batter’s heart, and with the ever-present threat of a splitter and a slider in his repertoire, he’s certainly a pitcher to be wary of. And on the other side —

Eijun can’t bat to save his life.

This wouldn’t be that detrimental if Miyuki could still catch for him in a game. But the coaches seem to be set on the twins’ designated battery, and it’s not like Akira can bat, either.

So when Kataoka decides to start off Sunday with Furuya, Miyuki isn’t surprised. They want to rack up as many runs as possible, as early as they can.

This is, of course, when Furuya starts the match off with consecutive walks.

Loosen up! Miyuki thinks as he chucks the ball back to him.

Two batters, and two walks. Now they have runners on first and third. It’s only the top of the first, and already, he can see Eijun in the bullpen. Coach Kataoka has his arms crossed, and next to him, Coach Oota wrings his hands through his hair.

Like it or not — Furuya and Miyuki are tied together. If Furuya can’t keep his cool here, then they’re both getting pulled off the field.

Furuya shakes out his wrist. Miyuki mimes a breathing motion, and Furuya takes the time to copy the action. When he opens his eyes, that competitive gleam is tempered — not absent, just tempered.

Good, Miyuki thinks. Unlike Eijun, Furuya plays at his best when he’s cooled down.

With that taken care of, Miyuki calls for low fastballs, and Furuya finally delivers. They strike the third batter out with pure force, and the crowd erupts into a roar.

(The motion in the dugout stills. Miyuki gives himself a second of relief before squashing the feeling and turning his attention back to the game.)

And then — Ugumori’s ace steps into the batter’s box.

Umemiya Seiichi shoulders his bat and gets into position, all without looking at Miyuki.

He’s their ace and their cleanup, Miyuki remembers. If we can crush him here —

“Hey. Where’s your ace?”

Miyuki blinks.

Umemiya still isn’t looking at him. Instead, he stares at the mound with hungry eyes and a fierce grin — but his smile is anything but friendly.

Miyuki doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he places his mitt.

Outside corner. Don’t let him touch it.

Furuya pulls his arm back, and —

Clang!

The ball flies high. Foul.

Lower! Miyuki sends Furuya a signal, and the pitcher nods.

“This isn’t a joke,” Umemiya drawls. He clicks his tongue and re-shoulders his bat. “Why do you even have this guy? What, you think we can’t handle your best?”

Annoyance bubbles up in Miyuki’s stomach. He purposely uses his ‘shit-talk’ voice. “Something like that.”

“Pfft, powerhouses. You’re all the same.” Umemiya laughs to himself. “A bunch of arrogant pricks.”

Miyuki ignores the commentary. Keep it low, Furuya. Prove him wrong.

Furuya’s shoulders rise and fall with his breathing. After a beat, he pulls back his arm.

The ball slams into Miyuki’s mitt like a bullet.

“So he can throw a strike, after all,” Umemiya mutters.

“You shouldn’t underestimate our team,” Miyuki tells him, pairing the words with a smug smile.

“I just call it as I see it.”

Miyuki rolls his eyes. Don’t let him touch it. Splitter.

And — flawlessly — Furuya delivers.

The ball drops under Umemiya’s swing, and Miyuki catches it. All according to plan.

“Batter out!” The umpire yells.

Umemiya scoffs and relaxes his stance. As he turns away, Miyuki can’t help but taunt him.

“Better luck next time.”

“Thanks,” Umemiya says, and he tosses a careless smirk over his shoulder. “But we’re still gonna drag your ace out of the bullpen.”

After those first few walks, Furuya starts to settle into the rhythm of the game. His pitches become sharper, faster, cleaner — and for the next seven innings, they manage to shut down Ugumori High.

Meanwhile, on offense: Miyuki manages a home run off of Umemiya’s winning curveball, and with that, the runs start pouring in.

But the man is stubborn.

Miyuki and Furuya purposely target Umemiya every time he comes up to bat, but the guy has a will of iron. Riling him up is pointless, and while Umemiya likes talking smack, he doesn’t get invested to the point it affects his performance.

Seidou might be winning five to nothing in the bottom of the seventh, but there’s still an atmosphere of possibility in the air. It’s easy to see why Umemiya’s their ace.

It also doesn’t help that Furuya is starting to get tired. He’s doing a lot better pacing himself, but he still doesn’t have the stamina for a full game.

In the top of the eighth, Ugumori’s seventh batter hits a double off of Furuya’s splitter. The batter after him brings him home, and from there it’s all downhill. Despite their best efforts, Ugumori continues their attack — and then the bases are loaded. If they make any mistake here, their four-run lead could crumble into nothing.

In his peripheral vision, Miyuki sees movement in the dugout, and he knows what happens next. He braces himself for the inevitable —

And then blinks.

There’s only one player at the threshold of the dugout.

Over on the sidelines, Eijun lifts his head and makes eye contact. And Miyuki’s heart skips a beat.

“Pitcher substitution.”

They get a few tosses for the on-field warm-up, and the feeling is electric.

It’s not quite giddiness — both of them know better than to let this get to their heads — but Miyuki misses this.

He can barely believe that Kataoka is letting this happen. After all, Eijun and Akira pitched a five-inning shutout yesterday. But Miyuki isn’t going to question his good luck.

Once they’ve wrapped up their warm-up, Miyuki moves in to give Eijun a few last-minute words.

“Bases loaded, no outs,” he reminds him. It’s not to discourage him, but instead to make sure he’s got his head on the here and now.

Eijun’s hair bounces as he nods.

“Forget the runners for now,” Miyuki says. “The fielders have your back. We’ll take this one strike at a time.”

“Got it.”

Miyuki takes a few moments to study Eijun once more, searching for any tension, any sign of nerves or doubt. There’s some stiffness in his frame, though that’s to be expected.

When was the last time they formed a battery on the field? It feels like it’s been longer than it really has.

“You okay?” he asks. He doesn’t want to make the mistake of letting the question go unaddressed.

Eijun closes his eyes and takes a shaky breath. “I think so.” He bites his lip. “Can we — can we ease into it?”

“Of course.” Miyuki holds out his mitt. “Partners?”

“Partners,” Eijun repeats. He taps Miyuki’s mitt and smiles, soft and bright.

Miyuki can’t help but smile back.

When he turns around to head for home, Eijun clears his throat.

“Kazuya!”

The sound of his given name makes Miyuki’s heart skip a beat, and he looks over his shoulder.

Eijun beams and makes a heart gesture with his left hand.

Miyuki grins and winks at him.

(Somewhere between second and third base, Kuramochi makes a gagging sound.)

Ease into it.

As long as Miyuki calls for outside fastballs, Eijun’s pitching is just as sharp as ever. Despite his earlier hesitation, Eijun’s form is nice and fluid, and the ball lands in Miyuki’s mitt every time.

They retire their first batter with one ball and three strikes, all with Eijun pitching to the outside.

One out.

For the next one, Miyuki starts with another outside pitch. Eijun delivers. Foul. Following that, they bait him into swinging at air, and then the count is 2-0.

Miyuki bites his lips and meets Eijun’s eyes. After a split-second of hesitation, he places his mitt.

To the inside corner.

Eijun catches the call and swallows. He takes a moment, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. Then he looks forward, blazing gold, and accepts the call.

“Strike! Batter out!”

Goosebumps form under Miyuki’s sleeves and a chill rushes down his spine.

The batter grimaces with disgust, but all Miyuki can do is replay that perfect course in his mind.

Out on the mound, Eijun’s face breaks out into a triumphant grin. His eyes glow under the brim of his cap, and behind him, the rest of Seidou’s defense is shouting with pride.

Miyuki beams as he tosses the ball back.

“Nice pitch!” he yells, heart racing.

“Thanks!” Eijun shouts back.

And with that — Umemiya steps up to the plate.

“Told you we’d make you play your ace,” he comments, twirling his bat in his hands.

“Then you’re lucky,” Miyuki fires back, still riding the high of catching Eijun’s inside pitch. “You can have something to blame when we strike you out.”

Umemiya barks out a laugh. “I love making people eat their words.”

“Funny,” Miyuki replies. “I do, too.”

Behind them, the umpire clears his throat, and they close their mouths. Chatter is fun and all, but in the end, it’s baseball that does the talking. Mercilessly, Miyuki sends Eijun a signal.

Clang!

Umemiya hits a foul off of Eijun’s fastball. The ball smashes into the fence, and he hisses in annoyance.

Nice try, Miyuki thinks, but he doesn’t voice the taunt. He calls for the next pitch. Inside.

“Foul!”

Umemiya growls, and Miyuki smirks. Eijun’s form is really annoying. Especially when it’s your first time seeing it.

But the thing is — even when cornered, the guy just doesn’t give up. Miyuki keeps calling, and Eijun keeps throwing, and Umemiya somehow manages to stay alive through fouls. If the guy didn’t mutter curses under his breath after every hit, Miyuki might think that he’s trying to tire Eijun out on purpose.

Five fouls in, Miyuki pauses. He debates over what to call next — and then stiffens at the look in Eijun’s eyes.

“Time out,” he requests.

The umpire nods, and Miyuki runs up to the mound.

“You good?” he asks, filtering the desperation out of his voice.

“I — I’m fine,” Eijun says, but he’s shaking his head. “It’s just…”

Shirakawa was fighting us with fouls, too, Miyuki remembers. He frowns.

After a moment, he pulls his mitt off and tucks it under his arm.

“Huh?”

Miyuki grabs Eijun’s left hand and places it on his own chest.

Eijun yelps. “What are you doing?” he asks, turning beet-red.

“Pfft, calm down,” Miyuki says, laughing. “C’mon. Breathe with me.”

He inhales, long and slow, and holds the air for a few seconds before breathing it out. Eijun smiles and copies the action. They repeat the motion for a few rounds.

“Okay,” Eijun says. “I’m okay.”

Miyuki smiles and squeezes his hand. “Focus on my mitt. We’ve got him cornered.”

Eijun presses his lips together.

Miyuki frowns. “Something wrong?”

“No.” Eijun shakes his head. “I just…” he trails off.

Miyuki waits.

Eijun seems to decide on something, and he clenches his jaw. He looks up. “I want to do a cutter.”

Now?

Miyuki hesitates. Eijun’s doing well, but they haven’t used a breaking ball between them since the preliminaries. “I’m not sure —”

“He’s hitting everything,” Eijun says. “Inside, outside — he’s fouling them all. It’s only a matter of time before he’ll get the timing down. The cutter is new.”

Miyuki can see the logic in that. But while Eijun isn’t as stiff as he was earlier, there’s still a weird tension in the air.

As if sensing his reservation, Eijun steps even closer. “I don’t want to run away,” he insists. “This is — please. I need to do this.”

Miyuki looks at the loaded bases. He looks to Umemiya, still waiting in the batter’s box. And then he looks back at Eijun.

Last time, he pushed too hard. But Eijun’s taking the lead, now, and…

“I trust you,” he decides. “If he fouls it, let’s target the outside again.”

Eijun exhales. “Thank you.”

Miyuki smiles. He steps off the mound and walks back to home plate, taut with tension.

Umemiya lifts an eyebrow when Miyuki returns, but he doesn’t say anything. Miyuki settles down and closes his eyes. The umpire puts them back in play, and Miyuki takes a moment to breathe.

I trust you.

He places his mitt and makes the signal.

But as soon as Eijun pulls back his arm, Miyuki knows.

He can’t quite describe it. Instinct? Intuition? He can’t tell if it’s his form or his timing or the look in his eyes, but even before the ball leaves his fingertips, he knows.

They just made a massive mistake.

Eijun’s quiet on the bus ride home.

Well, not really. He still goes through his customary recap of the game: shouting out highlights, bantering with his friends. Reliving the way they win the game by the skin of their teeth. But something about it rings hollow.

Even though Miyuki and Eijun sit in the same row, it feels like there’s an unbridgeable gap between them. Like they’re speaking two entirely different languages.

When they get off the bus, Miyuki tries to talk to him, but Eijun pulls ahead before he can even blink.

“I’m gonna go take a shower!” Eijun says, beaming wide. “Bye.”

Miyuki lunges forward and catches his wrist. “Eijun — it’s not your fault.”

Eijun slumps. “It is,” he says. “I told you that I could do it, but —”

“It’s fine.”

“You don’t mean that,” Eijun accuses, and Miyuki flinches.

“… No,” he admits. Letting their opponent’s cleanup bring home three runs isn’t ‘fine.’ Having to switch to left field in the middle of the eighth inning isn’t ‘fine.’ Losing all their progress as a battery isn’t ‘fine.’

“But seriously,” he insists. “I’m not mad at you.”

“Of course you aren’t,” Eijun mutters.

Miyuki frowns. “Do you want to play catch?” he asks, mirroring Eijun’s offer from yesterday.

Eijun blinks.

“We can work through it,” Miyuki says, and when he says it out loud, it sounds nice. Catching for Eijun with no distractions, no pressure. “We’ll practice more. We’ll figure it out together. This is just a slump.”

Eijun looks at him. He opens his mouth, then closes it, and then opens it again — but no words come out.

“We can practice tomorrow if that works better,” Miyuki says.

“Tomorrow,” Eijun blurts out. “Tomorrow sounds good.” He nods vigorously, and Miyuki smiles at him.

“You wanna hang out with me?”

“I think… I think I’m gonna take a nap after I shower,” Eijun decides. He looks away and frowns. “I’m sorry. I feel like I’m being unfair, I just…”

“Eijun —”

“I’ll see you at dinner,” Eijun blurts out, unable to meet Miyuki’s eyes. He slips his hand out of Miyuki’s grip and sprints off, leaving Miyuki to stand in the parking lot by himself.

In the end, he and Akira end up walking back to their room in silence. Akira reaches the door first and opens it, letting them in, and as soon as he’s past the threshold, Miyuki drops his bag on the ground and plops into his desk chair.

“I should — I should look for him,” he stammers.

Akira doesn’t respond, and Miyuki doesn’t move. The seconds stretch.

“I — we talked,” Miyuki says, speaking mostly to himself. “I apologized, and he forgave me. Somehow. But we still… we still couldn’t connect. Why couldn’t we do it?”

“You were doing alright,” Akira says. “He pitched to the inside. That’s progress. It was the cutter that messed him up.”

“And now he can’t pitch to me at all,” Miyuki reminds him, bitterly replaying the aftermath of that failed cutter.

That damn cutter. When Miyuki asks for it, they fail. When Eijun asks for it, they fail. What is he doing wrong? How come the one pitch Miyuki taught him how to do is the one that they can’t pull off?

Akira looks away, mouth pulled into an uncomfortable line.

“I should look for him,” Miyuki repeats, but he can’t. Eijun couldn’t even look him in the eye earlier. What would he be able to do?

Neither of them can think of what to say.

Suddenly, a phone buzzes, breaking the silence. Akira pulls out his phone and frowns at the screen.

“I… gotta go,” he says, awkwardly, and he turns around to leave the room.

Miyuki narrows his eyes. “You’re not gonna leave your stuff here?”

Akira tightens his grip on his sports bag. He doesn’t reply.

Miyuki’s stomach sinks. “You’re going to play catch, aren’t you.”

Akira winces and closes his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Where is he?” Miyuki stands up. “I’ll go. I should go, I need to —”

“Sorry, Miyuki-senpai, but this isn’t your problem.”

“‘Not my problem?’” Miyuki echoes, incredulous. “You and Eijun are fine! You closed out the game with a shutout! This is between me and him! Where is he?”

“I’m not telling you that.”

“I swear, if this is one of your stupid, protective bullshit tests —”

“It’s not,” Akira snaps. He sighs, slumps his shoulders, and holds up his phone screen.

Miyuki snatches it out of his hands. There’s a short chain of recent messages between Eijun and Akira.

i want to pitch

to me? right now?

i want to pitch to you

please

 

“Oh,” Miyuki says.

Akira takes his phone back and shoves it into his pocket. Silently, he opens the door, and…

And Miyuki lets him.

“Out of curiosity…” Akira says, pausing mid-step. “What did you tell him? When you called for the timeout?”

Miyuki looks away.

“I told him to relax,” he says. “I told him to breathe and to focus on my mitt. And he suggested the cutter, so… I followed him.”

“Oh,” Akira says. His face is infuriatingly blank.

Miyuki swallows. “Did I do something wrong?” he asks, helpless. “Should I have called for something else?” He looks at Akira, desperate for answers. “What would you have done?”

Akira bites his lip and shakes his head.

“That’s exactly what I would have done,” he murmurs. He turns his back, shoulders his sports bag, and steps out the door. “I’m sorry.”

Do you know how hard that is? Eijun’s voice asks. To try your best, every single day, knowing that it’s never going to be enough?

Now I do.

Half an hour later, someone knocks on his door, and Miyuki falls down the ladder of his bunk bed in his race to open it. Heart pounding, he yanks it open — and tries to hide the disappointment when he recognizes who is standing on the other side.

“Akira isn’t here.”

“Oh,” Furuya says.

A moment passes. They stare at each other in awkward silence for a moment, and then Furuya closes his eyes and exhales.

“He’s with Eijun, isn’t he.”

Miyuki lowers his gaze. “Yeah.”

“I see.”

“Yep.”

Despite this, neither of them move.

When Miyuki can’t stand the silence anymore, he opens his mouth. “Did you need something?”

Furuya shifts from foot to foot, staring at the ground. After a moment, he looks up. “Can I ask a question?”

“About what?”

“I want a catcher’s opinion.”

Miyuki relaxes. Baseball is familiar territory. “I can do that. You —” he pauses. “You wanna come in?”

Miyuki moves out of the doorway and lets Furuya into his room. Furuya stands, awkwardly hovering, and Miyuki gestures to Akira’s desk.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you use his chair.”

Furuya sits, as stiff as a board. Just looking at him makes Miyuki want to fidget.

He takes a seat in his own chair. “So… baseball?”

At the mention of the sport, Furuya finally breathes and lets his shoulders drop. He shakes his head, clearing his thoughts, and then lifts his gaze until they’re staring at each other eye-to-eye.

“How can I be a better pitcher?”

“You already know what you have to work on.” Miyuki starts listing it off on his fingers. “Stamina. Control. Consistency.”

“Yes, but —” Furuya frowns, searching for words. “You would rather catch for Eijun than me.”

“That’s different,” Miyuki says. “We’re, uh —” he blushes involuntarily. “We’re dating.”

“So?” Furuya asks. “That was true even before you got infected with romance. And Akira prefers catching for Eijun, too.”

“Yeah, but they’re… well. You know them.”

“They’re a ‘battery,’” Furuya says, placing a weird emphasis on the word.

Miyuki understands why.

He can call Eijun his partner, his boyfriend, his ace — but he’s not his battery partner. Akira’s pitying expression flashes through his mind.

Even after clearing the air, after working everything out between them, Eijun still asked for Akira when it mattered. Not that Miyuki can blame him. After all, what are a couple kisses in the face of fifteen years of history?

“Akira makes a lot of comments about pitchers, actually,” Furuya says. “He wants to catch for You Shunshin, too.”

“Akikawa’s ace?” Miyuki asks, baffled.

“And he said he liked watching Umemiya, today,” Furuya adds. “And the knuckleballer from Sakurazawa. And also Shohei Otani, and a bunch of other professional players. And…” Furuya blinks. “I want to be the kind of pitcher people want to catch for.”

Like Eijun, is what goes unsaid, but Miyuki hears it all the same.

After a moment, Miyuki speaks up. “You know, I’m sure it was a close decision. The ace number, I mean.”

Furuya tilts his head.

Miyuki tries to put it into words. “When an ace takes to the field, it’s like a gear clicking into place. No matter the situation, everyone trusts them to pull through. And I’ve felt that from you, sometimes.”

“Not all the time.”

“No. But —” Miyuki swallows. “Even Eijun is fallible.”

That’s something he learned the hard way.

He takes a deep breath and speaks honestly. “Part of it is his skill. But I think the main reason why he received the ace number is because of his battery with Akira.”

Furuya places his hand on his chin, thinking hard. “So… what makes a good battery?”

Trust, says Miyuki’s first instinct.

Work, says Chris’s voice in his head.

It’s not like those answers are wrong, but they’re not complete, either. You can trust your partner and still mess things up. You can put in all the work but never get anything in return. Loss can tear people apart, victory can make them stronger, but sometimes it’s the reverse that’s true.

It’s easy to forget, on a team as close as Seidou’s first-string, but there’s a difference between a friend and a lover and a teammate.

A friend is someone you’d trust with a secret. A lover is someone you’d trust with your heart.

A teammate is someone who makes you trust in yourself.

Miyuki slumps back in his seat. In front of him, in Akira’s chair, Furuya waits. It’s eerily silent, as though the entire world is holding its breath, quietly asking the question Miyuki’s been trying to answer his whole life.

How can you capture the complexity of a relationship as impersonal and as intimate as a battery?

He breathes and looks at his hands. It feels like an eternity before he can bring himself to open his mouth.

“If I knew the answer, Furuya, I wouldn’t be sitting in here while my roommate plays catch with my boyfriend.”

Chapter Text

“Thanks for coming with me,” Akira says, holding out a bin of baseballs.

Kanemaru rolls his eyes as he loads up the automatic pitching machine. “I can’t believe that you still don’t know how to use this thing.”

“It’s scary.”

Kanemaru pauses and looks at him.

“What?”

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not,” Kanemaru says, squinting.

Akira tilts his head and doesn’t respond.

Kanemaru sighs. He finishes loading up the machine and points to a switch on the back. “Okay. See this? This is an on-switch. Now, I know that they might not have these in whatever backwater village you came from, but it should be simple enough for even you to pick up on.”

Akira barks out a laugh. “Thanks. For this and for spotting me.”

“Hey, I’m not doing this for free,” Kanemaru warns. “That’s one week’s worth of Weider in Jelly.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll pay for your baby food.”

“It’s a nutritional drink designed to replenish your energy after physical activity —”

“It’s fruity jelly that you drink out of a sippy cup. I call it as I see it.”

“Do you want me to help you or not?”

Akira grins and puts down the bin of baseballs. He pulls on his batting helmet and sets himself up a proper distance away.

“Okay,” he says to himself. “Feet shoulder-width apart. Lock your wrists. Don’t open up too early, balance on the balls of your feet —”

“Relax,” Kanemaru calls out. “You look like you’re about to fall over.”

“There’s a lot to keep track of!” Akira protests, but he closes his eyes and exhales. “Okay. I’m ready.”

Kanemaru flicks it on.

The machine fires every seven seconds. Akira counts it down in his head — one, two, three, four —

On five, the ball flies out, and he screams as he swings, missing it completely.

Kanemaru turns off the machine and rolls his eyes. “Okay, I can tell you right now — don’t scream when you swing. That’s bad form.”

“Shut up!” Akira mumbles, face burning. “I wasn’t expecting it.”

“I’m really not looking forward to when Eijun asks me for batting tips,” Kanemaru says. “If you’re this loud, he’d probably be insufferable.”

“Don’t worry,” Akira says, and he makes a face. “He’s dating the cleanup. He’ll probably ask Miyuki-senpai before anyone else.”

He still can’t believe Eijun actually went for it. Well, he can believe it, because Eijun and Miyuki are both idiots, but he’s genuinely surprised that it happened so quickly.

(The city moves so much faster than Akagi ever did.)

“… Right,” Kanemaru says. “Well, the other thing I was gonna say about your form is to watch the ball. No wonder you never hit.”

“I am looking!” Akira insists. “I’m a catcher, watching the ball is what I do.”

“No, it’s different,” Kanemaru insists. “You watch it all the way through. You should see the ball hit your bat. Here, let me show you.”

Kanemaru grabs his own bat, resting against a nearby wall, and he mimes a swing in slow-motion.

“I don’t get it.”

“Watch my head, idiot.”

Kanemaru goes through the motions again, and Akira frowns.

“You keep your head still,” Kanemaru explains. “The rest of your body rotates around it.”

Akira snaps his fingers. “Oh, I see. Like a chicken.”

“Like a — god, the stereotype just writes itself, doesn’t it?”

Akira ignores the commentary and adjusts his form. He takes a few swings, focusing on keeping his head low and his wrists locked.

“Ready?”

“Ready,” he confirms.

Kanemaru flicks the switch on. Akira counts it down. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

The ball zips out of the machine. Wrists locked, head low, shift your weight —

Clang!

His bat clips the ball, and it slams into the side of the net.

“Hey!” Akira yelps. “I touched it!”

“Foul ball,” Kanemaru reminds him.

“Look, man, I get a victory like this once a year. Just let me have this.”

The next pitch is a grounder. Then he misses the next three.

“Why is this so difficult,” Akira groans, after swinging at air. “I’m never gonna hit a home run.”

“You could always bunt for home,” Kanemaru jokes.

Seven seconds. Akira swings, hits air, and bites back a scream.

“I’m gonna head to the bathroom real quick,” Kanemaru says, turning away. “Don’t injure yourself while I’m gone.”

“Your faith in me is heartening,” Akira deadpans.

Kanemaru scampers off, and Akira squints at the pitching machine.

Watch the ball, he repeats in his mind. Watch the ball. Five, six, seven —

Miss.

He knows that a pitching machine is supposed to be easier. The thing only spits out fastballs, after all, and they keep to the same course. He doesn’t have to worry about breaking balls or weird form or whether or not it’ll be in the strike zone.

Still, he keeps swinging at air.

“Okay,” he growls, after missing another pitch. His voice echoes around the empty batting cage, and he glares at the machine. “I’m hitting the next one!”

The machine doesn’t answer.

Five, six, seven.

The ball flies out. Akira watches it through narrowed eyes, and he shifts his weight and swings —

And hits a line drive that slams directly into the pitching machine.

The metallic clang reverberates in his ears. The baseball ricochets off the machine and knocks over the netting, which hits the dirt with a loud crash.

“Oh, fuck!” he shrieks, too startled to celebrate.

“Oh, dear,” someone else says, and Akira shrieks, again.

Coach Ochiai materializes out of thin air and looks at the pitching machine. Then he looks at Akira.

“I’m so sorry!” Akira stammers. “It was an accident, I didn’t mean to hit it, oh shi — I mean, oh, crap! Is it broken? It’s not broken, is it?”

He’s already running the numbers in his head. He’s going to have to win so many poker games. Their family is going to have to go into debt. He’ll have to forfeit his baseball scholarship and sell his life and labor to Seidou for the next twelve years to pay for the damage —

“It’s not broken,” Ochiai says.

Akira nearly sobs in relief. His ancestors are watching over him, he has not brought eternal shame and debt onto the Sawamura clan, and his grandmother isn’t going to rise from the dead just to scold him into an early grave.

“Are you —”

The pitching machine spits out another baseball. Akira yelps and jumps out of the way, and the ball slams into the back of the cage.

Ochiai turns off the machine, and Akira tries to regain his composure.

This is why that thing is scary. It costs more than his entire life, and it doesn’t even have a brain.

“Are you practicing your batting?” Ochiai asks, finishing his question from earlier.

Akira looks down at the bat in his hand, and then at the pitching machine, and then at the batting cage. Then he looks back to Ochiai and bites back the sarcastic ‘what does it look like’ that he secretly wants to say.

“Um, yes. Sir.”

Ochiai strokes his chin. Akira tries not to frown.

Seriously, he has no clue what is up with this guy. Kataoka can be intimidating, but at least he makes sense.

Still, Ochiai is a coach too. It occurs to Akira that asking a coach for help might yield better results than paying for Kanemaru’s snack habits.

“Do you —” Akira clears his throat and tries to channel Eijun’s extroverted confidence. “Do you have any advice?”

“Advice,” Ochiai repeats, still stroking his chin.

“For batting,” Akira clarifies.

Ochiai falls silent.

The seconds seem to stretch into an eternity, and Akira resists the urge to squirm. He stands there, gripping the handle of his baseball bat, and tries not to fidget as he waits for an answer.

Just when he’s about to ask a different question and change the subject, Ochiai finally opens his mouth.

“There are ways to shift the strike zone as a batter, too.”

Akira blinks. He tilts his head and frowns. “What do you mean?”

“It depends on how lax the umpire is, of course,” Ochiai tells him. “But sometimes, when you’re setting up, you can force the catcher to move back a bit if you brush his mitt with your bat. If the umpire calls the next pitch as a ball, the pitcher will aim higher to compensate, and it’ll be easier to see what’s coming.”

“Whoa,” Akira says, eyes wide.

“Still, you need to be able to make contact for that to work,” Ochiai tacks on, and he glances pointedly at the embarrassing amount of baseballs scattered across the far end of the batting cage.

Akira winces. Contact is the hardest part.

Ochiai clears his throat. “You said before that you would stay on the sidelines for the sake of the team.”

Akira swallows. He flicks his gaze down to his hands and tightens his grip on his bat. “I did.”

“So you understand where you’re lacking,” Ochiai says. “Where this team is lacking.”

“I’m — I’m afraid I don’t follow?” Akira says, confused.

Ochiai places his hands in his pockets. “As it is now… this team can’t make it to Koshien.”

What?

“Our batting lineup is unstable, and our pitchers are inconsistent. Even your brother.”

Akira can practically feel the frown settle on his face. “Excuse me?”

“Your brother is a good pitcher, but you’re the only one he can pitch to. And this whole team is balanced on that. If this team makes it to Koshien, it will be through luck, not skill.” Ochiai stares him down. “You already know this, don’t you?”

Akira stares back.

He thinks of Akagi. He thinks of every game he’s ever played. Every game he’s ever lost.

“I know how it feels to rely on luck,” he says coldly. “This team is stronger than that.”

“Hm,” Ochiai says. “I’m disappointed. I thought you were more honest than this. I must have miscalculated.”

“The only thing you’ve miscalculated is your perception of this team,” Akira snaps. “You said that you’d play Eijun and I, given the chance. Why say that if you’re expecting us to fail?”

“Experience is a strong teacher.”

So he’d sacrifice today’s team for the sake of tomorrow. And here Akira thought that Ochiai actually wanted to watch him play. He should have known better.

“As things are now, the rest of the season relies on you and your brother,” Ochiai says.

“That’s nothing new,” Akira mutters. It’s not meant to reach Ochiai’s ears, but the coach hears it anyway.

“What if he can’t pitch to you?” Ochiai asks.

“I won’t let that happen.”

“It happened to your captain,” Ochiai points out.

“It won’t happen to me,” Akira declares, and his voice is even when he speaks.

Ochiai’s eyes are blank. Devoid of emotion. “You’d bet the outcome of this season on your battery with your brother?”

“I gamble on a lot of things,” Akira replies. “But I don’t gamble on our battery.”

The words linger in the silence. It’s probably rude. It’s definitely rude.

But Akira isn’t in the habit of letting statements like Ochiai’s slide. They didn’t spend years forging a team out of nothing just for some pretentious coach to dismiss it as fragile.

Finally, after what feels like a lifetime, Ochiai opens his mouth.

Akira braces himself for whatever blow he has prepared, but instead, the older man turns away.

“Carry on,” he says. “You’ll have to polish your offense if you think you can make it to Spring Koshien.”

“Thank you for the advice, sir,” Akira says, but he doesn’t mean it.

Ochiai doesn’t look back. He turns a corner and disappears from view.

Akira loosens his grip on his bat and exhales. Then he shoulders it and falls into his batting stance.

Five, six, seven, eight. Wait, eight?

“Why is the machine off?” Kanemaru asks, jogging back into the cages. “And did you knock over the protective netting? What the hell?”

“Oh,” Akira says, awkwardly. Right, He’d forgotten that Ochiai turned it off after he hit it with a line drive. “Uh. Technology is scary?”

“You’re an idiot,” Kanemaru says, rolling his eyes, but he flicks the machine back on. The soft whir of the machine fills the air, and Akira restarts his mental timer.

He misses his next swing and grinds his teeth.

After watching all the footage and going over Nabe-senpai’s notes, Akira decides that he doesn’t like Ouya Metropolitan’s ace pitcher.

“Why not?” Furuya asks.

They’re getting off the bus at Meiji Jingu Stadium. Akira trips over a crack in the pavement, and Furuya grabs the back of his shirt so he doesn’t fall over.

“He thinks too much,” Akira says, answering the question. He recovers his balance and continues walking across the parking lot.

Furuya knits his eyebrows together and frowns. “He… thinks too much.”

“Pitchers are stupid show-offs for a reason,” Akira explains. “Too much thinking is bad for them. Uh, no offense.”

“None taken, I think?”

They follow the rest of the team through the stadium entrance and navigate their way through the tunnels. Eventually, they reach the first-base dugout. The senpai get their pick of the bench, and then the rest of them set their stuff down. Akira hums to himself. He pulls out his chest protector and puts it on, fiddling with the adjustment straps.

“You Shunshin is a smart pitcher,” Furuya says, out of nowhere.

Akira pauses halfway through fixing his gear. “Huh?”

“You said Wakabayashi thinks too much,” Furuya reminds him. “But You Shunshin is one of those thinking types too, isn’t he?”

Akira considers the question.

It’s not that Wakabayashi Gou is a bad pitcher. He is good. But he’s too aware.

Akira doesn’t like how easily he changes his style to counter opponents. It’s like he has no confidence in his own skill, so he improvises strategies to get by.

You Shunshin, on the other hand, has style, and he owns it.

“You Shunshin is cooler,” Akira says, condensing his thoughts into a single sentence.

Furuya frowns. “I don’t know what that means.”

“He pitches like he knows what he’s doing,” Akira says, struggling to explain. “I just think it’s nice to have that kind of confidence on the mound.”

“Hm,” Furuya says. He grabs his water bottle and frowns.

The subject drops. Akira pulls on his leg guards. Then he sweeps his hair back and puts on his helmet.

“Go warm up,” Kataoka calls over his shoulder, looking at the first years’ corner of the dugout.

Furuya clears his throat. “So, uh, warm-up—”

“Let’s go, Aki!” Eijun says, materializing out of nowhere. He grabs Akira’s arm and tugs him away. “We’re starting!”

“We’re starting,” Akira echoes, equally excited. He lets Eijun drag him over to the bullpen, and they slip into their routine.

Stretching, tossing, pitching. It’s strenuous enough to get their blood pumping, but not enough to wear them down, and before they know it, it’s game time, and Kuramochi-senpai is up to bat.

Even though they’re supposed to be warming up, Akira takes the opportunity to watch Wakabayashi pitch in person, just in case there’s anything interesting he missed from watching the footage.

“So, what do you think?” Eijun asks after Kuramochi gets struck out. “Good? Bad?”

“Eh, he’s okay,” Akira says. He looks away from the field and turns his attention back to warming up with Eijun. “But it took him seven pitches to out Kuramochi-senpai. He’ll burn out before the fifth if he keeps that pace up.”

Eijun considers the comment for a moment. Then he nods in agreement.

“You know what would be funny?” Akira asks. “I bet you could pitch half the amount he pitches. Let’s play pitch-to-contact and rub it in his face.”

“You have a weird definition of ‘funny,’ but sure,” Eijun says, grinning wide.

With that game plan in mind, and after Haruichi gets grounded out, they take to the field in the bottom of the first. Eijun shouts his catchphrase, Kuramochi and Kanemaru tell him to shut up, and Miyuki silently sulks in left field.

As soon as the umpire gives them the go-ahead, they start attacking the inside for all it’s worth.

Neither team scores in the first four innings, but personally, Akira thinks that they’re winning the pitching battle. Wakabayashi’s pitch count is nearing the nineties, and Eijun, meanwhile, has barely broken fifty pitches. The time they spend on defense is so much shorter compared to Ouya’s, and it’s starting to show because Ouya’s fielders are melting in the outfield. The pros and cons of artificial turf.

(Akira quietly smirks when he sees the sweat on their opponent’s faces. It’s only a matter of time before they crack.)

And crack they do.

In the top of the fifth, Toujou lands a solid hit and snags second base. After him, Kanemaru goes for the sacrifice bunt, and then it’s Akira’s turn to step up to the plate.

He looks back at the dugout for instructions. Kataoka signals for a squeeze.

Akira bites back a sigh and loosens his grip on the bat.

With Akira’s bunt, Toujou steps on home plate, and the stalemate is broken. Though Eijun gets struck out swinging, their lineup resets at the top of the sixth, and Seidou scores another two runs off of Wakabayashi Gou.

“D’you think he’s gonna let us play the whole game?” Eijun whispers, in between the seventh and the eighth.

Oh, shoot, Akira realizes. We really have been playing the whole game, huh?

Involuntarily, he looks over. Miyuki and Haruichi are stepping out to bat, with Haruichi headed for home and Miyuki crouching on-deck.

There’s a neutrally determined expression on Miyuki’s face. Which doesn’t give much away, but Akira knows how it feels to not play catcher, and he can guess that their captain is politely pissed that he’s spending another full match in the outfield.

Well, that’s his problem.

“We totally can,” Akira decides. “You’re not tired, are you?”

“Nope!” Eijun says. “I’m good.”

“Then let’s do this.”

Haruichi hits a home run, Miyuki gets walked, and the rest of their lineup follows suit. The top of the eighth ends with Akira swinging at air, but they’ve got a solid, four-run lead, and victory is just around the corner. All he and Eijun have to do is hold the line for the last two innings.

This is, of course, when they walk the first batter.

Oops, Akira thinks, as the batter tosses his bat over his shoulder and jogs down the first baseline. That’s gonna be one hour of lost sleep.

But it’s not a big deal. Akira starts off the next set with an inside pitch, and they get a strike off of Ouya’s leadoff.

On the next pitch, the runner on first steals second base, and Akira realizes that he’d forgotten to check the field before making the call.

(Two hours of lost sleep, he amends, and he hopes that, if Chris-senpai is watching from the stands, he won’t be too disappointed.)

He shakes his head, as if to clear his thoughts, and turns his full attention onto the game. One ball, two fouls, two strikes. One out. Easy.

It’s the next few pitches that start to get under Akira’s skin.

They’re not bad pitches, per se. Akira makes the calls, and Eijun delivers, and the ball goes where it needs to go. But there’s a weird little twitch of intuition, a strange uncertainty waiting in the back of Akira’s mind. It’s nothing too big. They’re eight innings in, and the sun is surprisingly warm for October; it’s probably just a little moment of lost focus.

And then he calls for a cutter.

Eijun stiffens the second he sees Akira’s call. He bites his lip and shakes his head, and the action startles Akira out of his own mind.

Eijun hasn’t shaken one of his calls in years.

Still, he listens. He changes the call to an inside pitch, and the batter fouls the ball, and it’s not like Eijun is falling apart. Not like he did against Ugumori.

But now something is off. If it were anyone else, it might have gone unnoticed, but Akira knows his brother far too well.

Maybe it’s the self-imposed pressure of wanting to pitch a full game. Maybe it’s fatigue. Whatever it is, it’s bothering him.

Akira asks for an outside pitch. Eijun dutifully pulls it off, and with that, they’re at two outs, and the flow is in their favor. As another one of Ouya’s batters steps up, Akira clears his throat.

“Timeout, please,” he requests.

The umpire looks at him, surprised, but nods. Akira pulls off his faceguard and jogs up to the mound.

“I’m not feeling it today,” Eijun blurts out, as he skids to a stop in front of the mound. “The cutter, I mean.”

“It’s not the cutter,” Akira says, crossing his arms. “You’re tense. What’s wrong?”

Eijun bites his lip.

Akira runs through the list of potential issues. “Sleep well?”

“Yeah.”

“Dehydration?”

“I’m fine.”

Akira narrows his eyes. “Are you scared?”

Eijun splutters, and his eyes flash with offense. “I’m not scared!” he shouts. The volume is louder than either of them expect.

No, but you’re thinking too hard, Akira thinks. Unbidden, Ochiai’s words come filtering back into his brain.

What if he can’t pitch to you?

Shut up, Akira thinks. You don’t know anything.

“What do you wanna do?” he asks, forcefully shoving away the doubt.

“Huh?”

“I can’t tell what you’re thinking right now,” Akira admits. “So you’re gonna have to say it out loud. What do you want to do?”

Eijun scrunches his eyebrows together in thought. Akira waits patiently for his response.

“I…” Eijun licks his lips. “I want to strike them out. And I don’t want to let them hit.” The more he speaks, the more confident he sounds.

“Okay,” Akira says, feeling better. “We can drop the pitch-to-contact. Let’s focus on the batter.”

“Runner on second,” Eijun reminds him.

“We only need one out,” Akira counters.

Eijun frowns but doesn’t respond.

“So. Are we letting ‘em hit?”

Eijun presses his lips together. After a pause, he shakes his head.

“Out loud, Ei,” Akira says, watching his brother’s eyes.

Eijun takes a deep breath. “We’re not letting them hit.”

“Sweet.” Akira takes a step backward, turns to the outfield, and opens his mouth.

“Stop!” Eijun swats him. “You always say it wrong!”

“Then you say it.”

Akira takes another step away and gestures to the fielders. Eijun rolls his eyes and sticks his tongue out before looking back to the field.

“We’re gonna let —” He awkwardly cuts off, suddenly realizing his dilemma.

“Well?” Akira lifts an eyebrow.

“Shut up,” Eijun hisses, and then he turns back to the fielders and lifts his hands up to his mouth. “We’re not letting him hit! So you guys can rest easy!”

Back at home plate, the batter bristles with offense. Akira snickers.

“Get off my mound,” Eijun says, rolling his eyes. He waves Akira away, and Akira walks back to home plate, laughing under his breath.

The batter glares at him when he returns.

“Geez,” Akira deadpans. “Just because your stomach’s upset doesn’t mean you have to look at me like that.”

“What?”

“You had shiokara last night, right?” Akira asks. “Well, I guess I can’t blame you for feeling queasy. Squid is good, but the texture is weird. I’d take calamari any day.”

“How did you know?” the batter asks, baffled.

“Just a feeling,” Akira says, ominous. He squats behind home plate, planning his next move. They're not pitching to contact anymore, and Eijun won't throw a cutter. That leaves fastballs and a changeup. It's like middle school all over again.

Hurry up, he thinks, urging the umpire to put them back in play. Before this guy regains composure.

The moment the umpire gives them the go-ahead, Akira calls for an outside pitch.

Up on the mound, Eijun closes his eyes and lets out a slow breath. He tightens his grip on the ball, pulls back his arm, and —

Ball.

Akira throws it back. He looks over the batter one more time and makes his decision. Four-seam, outside.

“Ball two!”

Both of them wince at the call. Eijun sheepishly scratches the back of his neck. My bad.

Akira scoffs.

(Out in left field, Miyuki coughs into his elbow.)

0-2 count, runner on second. After considering the situation, Akira bites his lip and holds out two fingers. Changeup.

They haven’t used it much, since they’d been pitching to contact for most of the game. But since they’re gunning for strikes, now, it would be a good time to bait the batter into swinging.

The next thing he sees is the ball hitting the dirt, a full two meters away from home plate.

“Uh, ball,” the umpire stammers, equally surprised.

Eijun yelps, and his cheeks are burning red. They haven’t messed up a changeup like that since their second year of junior high.

“Chill,” Akira shouts when he throws the ball back.

Eijun fires off an awkward salute.

But the next pitch is also a ball, and they walk a batter for the second time this match.

Eijun winces as the batter jogs down to first. He looks back at home plate and shrugs.

Akira makes a loose gesture with his hand. Shake it off.

Eijun dutifully shakes out his wrist and breathes.

Shake it off harder, Akira signals. You’re so stiff.

Eijun pouts. You’re really annoying, you know?

Yeah, and you’re really tense.

As Eijun tries to relax, Akira looks over to the dugout. Kataoka is standing near the railing, with his arms crossed and his face as unreadable as always. Coach Oota is next to him, anxiously biting his nails.

But a little distance away, Ochiai is stroking his chin, watching the game with a bored expression.

Like he’d been expecting this from the start.

Akira scowls.

Prove him wrong, Eijun, he thinks. Runners on first and second. But they only need one more out.

The next batter is right-handed, and Akira stubbornly places his mitt. Inside.

The ball flies forward, the bat hits the ball, and Ouya scores two runs in the bottom of the eighth.

Akira is a catcher.

He’s always been a catcher. He literally can’t imagine playing another position; it just doesn’t compute in his brain. Back when they were kids playing baseball in the park, Akira would occasionally end up in the outfield for the sake of giving everyone a chance to try out different positions. But he’d end up fidgeting until Eijun took pity on him and told everyone to ‘put Aki back where he belongs before he starts crying.’

(For the record, he only cried about it once when they were five. Eijun still holds it over his head, anyway.)

In a similar vein, Eijun is a pitcher. It’s an integral part of his existence, an essential part of his identity. It practically defines him. If their mom didn’t read over their Seidou applications before they sent them in, Eijun would have put ‘pitcher’ in the gender category.

(“It’s a baseball school, mom! Who cares about gender when my pitching is the only thing they need to know about, right?”)

Akira is a catcher. Eijun is a pitcher. They argue about a lot of things, but they never argue about that.

It’s not perfect, of course. There are bad days. Sometimes it’s not stamina, or attitude, or skill, or chemistry. Sometimes, you’re off your game for no reason.

But the Akagi Junior High baseball team had exactly nine members, so they learned to just deal with it.

Eijun can’t pitch a changeup? Focus on fastballs. Akira’s calls aren’t working? Have Eijun take the lead. They’ve learned to work around each other, learned how to weather the storm until it’s passed.

Point is, Akira knows when Eijun is about to start spiraling.

Once upon a time, this wouldn’t have been a big deal. Eijun has bad days, but it’s not hard to do damage control. All Akira has to do is narrow his focus, ignore the runners, and get the out. Slumps are temporary. At the end of the day, they’re a battery.

But nothing is certain anymore.

Seidou can lose to Inashiro Industrial. Akira can spend a whole summer in the dugout. Miyuki can play left field. And Eijun —

Eijun can fall apart.

Akira doesn’t know what to think of Eijun and Miyuki. They spent a whole summer building a battery, and then bam — nothing.

Stupid romantic drama aside, Akira can barely process how he feels about it in a baseball context.

He’s confused, he’s excited, he’s terrified.

Akira wants Eijun to be able to pitch like normal, but he’s scared that if that happens he’ll go back to being a benchwarmer, but he feels guilty because this is obviously hurting his brother, but he’s grateful that he gets the chance to play, but he wants to beat Miyuki Kazuya and play on the field on his own merit, but he also sympathizes with him because the thought of losing his battery with Eijun is the most horrifying thing in the world.

It won’t happen to me.

Just because he means it doesn’t make it true.

What if Ochiai is right? What if it’s only a matter of time before Eijun can’t pitch at all?

Out of everyone in his life, Eijun was the only one Akira could fully count on. The only teammate that would never leave.

Summer ends. Teammates quit. They lose, over and over and over. But Eijun and Akira are a battery.

(Nothing is certain anymore.)

When they come back into the dugout, Kataoka announces that Nori-senpai will close out the game.

In the bottom of the ninth, Akira walks onto the field feeling sick to his stomach.

He crouches at home plate, but it feels like his mind is still back in the dugout.

What did I do wrong?

It’s not the first time Eijun’s had a bad day, after all. They’ve been a battery for fifteen years — bad days are normal.

Just because Eijun is avoiding the cutter doesn’t mean that he can’t pitch. Eijun messes up pitches all the time. It’s normal.

This shouldn't be any different, Akira thinks, as Ouya’s batter settles into the batter’s box. Eijun is his battery partner. A few bad pitches is nothing. They'll work it out, easily.

Akira isn’t Miyuki Kazuya.

But there’s still a cold feeling in his gut. Guilt. Fear. Eijun’s sitting on the bench, and Akira has no clue why.

The umpire signals the start of the bottom of the ninth. Akira barely registers the batter next to him as he holds up his mitt.

Up on the mound, Nori-senpai tips his cap.

Clang!

The sound startles Akira out of his foggy daze, and his heart leaps up into his throat. The ball goes flying out, deep. It lands somewhere between right and center, and Toujou races to pick it up.

Too late. The runner steps onto second base, and Akira winces.

Oh, shit, he thinks. What did he even call for just now?

He clenches and unclenches his hands, trying to bring himself back into the game. His heart is still racing, and he can hear the blood rushing through his ears.

On the mound, Nori nods his head at whatever Akira just called. His arm comes flying around the side, and even though Akira’s seen it before, it somehow feels entirely foreign.

“Ball!”

Akira shakily throws the ball back to Nori. Every sound feels too quiet and too loud all at once. Suddenly, his glove feels unbearably itchy.

A bead of sweat drips down the back of his neck, and Akira puts his arm up on autopilot. Vacantly, he stares out at the field, distantly aware of Nori’s pitching delivery and the way the ball seems to grow larger and larger in his vision, and —

He yelps as the ball skims the edge of his glove. He misses the catch, and somebody yells, and then suddenly the batter in front of him is gone.

What?

“Akira, your right!”

Kuramochi’s voice cuts through the haze, and Akira frantically looks around. He scoops up the ball, takes a step forward, and chucks it down to first — but it’s too late. The runner is safe by a full second, and the crowd bursts into a roar.

Akira blinks, uncomprehending. “Akira!”

“Huh?”

He turns his head. Nori-senpai signals for a time-out, a frown on his lips, and then it finally hits him.

Runners on first and third. He just passed up a fastball.

“Um, timeout,” Akira stammers, his voice suddenly sounding very small.

The umpire grants his request, and Akira runs to the pitcher’s mound. It feels like all the moisture’s left his mouth.

“Hi,” he says when he arrives, and his voice cracks when he speaks. “Sorry. I didn’t — oh god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to miss that catch, I —”

“It’s fine,” Nori says. “Just shake it off, okay? We all make mistakes.”

“Ha,” Akira says, and he aims for a smile. It feels more like a grimace.

“Are you doing alright?” Nori asks him. His forehead is scrunched up with concern. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you fumble a catch before.”

A sudden wave of nausea travels through his body, and Akira bites back a gag.

“I think I’m sick,” he blurts out.

Nori blinks. “…Sick,” he echoes, speaking slowly.

“Yeah,” Akira says. “I think I’m coming down with something.”

Nori frowns. “And you didn’t tell anyone?”

“I wasn’t feeling sick earlier,” Akira protests. “It just happened! I don’t control my immune system!”

“You weren’t feeling it — are you sure you’re not just nervous?”

“What?”

“Nervous,” Nori repeats. “I’m not gonna judge you or anything. It’s normal.”

“I’m not nervous,” Akira tells him. “I just — I feel kind of dizzy, and I’m sweating a lot, and my stomach feels weird, and my hands are shaking.”

Nori stares.

“What?”

“Akira, everything you just described is a symptom of nerves.”

“I’ve never been nervous in my life!”

Nori is silent for a moment. He twists his mouth. “Have you… ever caught for someone other than your brother? In a game?”

Akira actually has to think about that one.

“I caught for Furuya in a practice match, once,” he says, after a long pause.

“Wow,” Nori says. “Wow. Okay, well, there’s no getting around this one. Eijun is in the dugout, and you’re not.”

The reminder almost makes Akira throw up with guilt.

“Oh my god, I am nervous,” he says. He can barely hear his own voice with how loud his heartbeat is. “How does anyone function like this?”

Nori cracks a grin.

“You’re laughing!” Akira says, voice rising in pitch. “I feel like I’m dying, and you’re laughing!”

“Sorry,” Nori says, but he’s still smiling. “Well, luckily for you — you’re paired with the expert on nerves.”

“What?”

“I’m a closer, Akira,” Nori says, adopting a resigned deadpan. “I live and die under pressure. I am always nervous. I am constantly forced to clean up messes for this team, on and off the field.”

“Are you okay?” Akira asks, horrified.

“Curse of being team therapist.” He waves the question away with a lazy hand gesture. Then he takes his ungloved hand and places it on Akira’s shoulder.

The sudden physical contact makes Akira tense up.

Nori looks him directly in the eye. “You’re gonna be fine,” he says. “You’re a good catcher. You know that, right?”

“Um.”

“You are,” Nori insists. “There’s a reason we’re here right now. Do you know why that is?”

Akira blinks.

“It’s because Coach Kataoka thinks we’re the best people to shut them down,” Nori says. “Forget about the stats. Nobody cares if Miyuki is better than you. When the coach puts you on the field, it’s because you’re the best person for the job. Never forget that.”

“But Eijun —”

“Just needs some rest. He pitched for eight full innings,” Nori says.

Akira winces and looks away.

Eijun’s pitch count is surprisingly low for eight innings. He doubts that stamina is the issue.

Akira’s skepticism must be a little too obvious because Nori takes the time to squeeze his shoulder.

“It’s not — whatever you think it is, it’s not that.”

But what if it is? Akira wants to say, and his mind starts to extrapolate.

What if he can’t pitch to me ever again, what if we lose because I can't play with the one person I’m supposed to be able to play with? What if Ochiai is right and —

“Akira, breathe.”

He breathes.

“We can, uh, unpack all this later,” Nori says, looking distinctly unenthusiastic about the idea. Still, he calls up a smile and squeeze’s Akira’s shoulder. “But right now, it’s us! Don’t worry, Akira. I’m your senpai. I’ve got your back. And so does everyone else on the field, for that matter. Coach wouldn’t have kept you in if he thought you couldn’t handle it.”

Akira forces air into his lungs. “…Okay,” he says, trying to inject more confidence than he actually feels.

Nori nods approvingly. He pulls Akira in a little closer and lowers his voice. “So this is what we’re gonna do. I’ll pitch to the lower inside corner. It’ll be a strike. Then you’re gonna call for an outside fastball. The batter will hit a grounder. I’ll pick up the ball and throw it to Haruichi for the out, and he’ll send it to Zono for the double play. 1-4-3.”

Akira blinks. “Kuramochi-senpai is covering second.”

“1-6-3, then,” Nori amends. “Same idea. You got it?”

Akira swallows and nods. Hearing it laid out like that, even with no true certainty behind the plan, makes him feel a lot better.

“Good,” Nori says. He pulls back and slaps Akira on the shoulder. “Go back home. Don’t forget to breathe.”

“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!”

Nori waves him away, grinning. Akira turns around, takes a deep breath, and heads back to home plate. He squats down, his heart still hammering away in his chest, and the umpire restarts the game.

Lower inside corner.

Akira bites his tongue and makes the call. Nori’s arm whips around the side, and the ball goes flying.

Don’t miss, don’t miss, Akira chants in his head. He holds out his mitt, the batter tenses, and —

Smack.

“Strike!” yells the umpire.

Akira nearly falls over with relief, but he manages to keep his balance. He tosses the ball back to Nori, who catches it. Nori smiles.

Akira tentatively smiles back.

Okay, he thinks. What was next? Outside fastball?

Nori nods, acknowledging the call, and Akira braces himself for the subsequent double play —

Smack.

“Strike two!”

Wait, he says, looking at his glove in surprise. That wasn’t part of the plan.

That was supposed to be a ground ball. Halfway to panic, he looks up at Nori for guidance. What do we do now?

“Nice catch!” Nori yells, entirely unhelpful.

Akira bites back a scream. What kind of comment was that? Nice catch? Who even says that, it was just a fastball, and they didn’t even get a chance for the double play —

“Good job, Aki!”

Akira whips his head around. Both Eijun and Furuya are standing at the entrance of the dugout. Eijun waves both his hands through the air, like they didn't just fuck up the eighth inning, and he beams as though Akira just pulled off the impossible. Well, at least he's not broken.

Maybe Akira is panicking over nothing after all.

Furuya, in contrast, is almost completely still. His face is as expressionless as always. But he meets Akira’s eyes with a cool and steady gaze. Slowly, he lifts up his hand and gives Akira a thumbs up.

Oh, Akira thinks, and he understands what Nori is trying to tell him.

You’re a good catcher.

And with that, the last of the fog disappears. He sets his jaw, makes eye contact with Nori-senpai, and calls for a sinker.

There’s a split second of shock in Nori’s eyes, but it’s quickly replaced with realization. He nods, and the corner of his lips quirks up into a determined smile.

Seidou wins, 6-2. As soon as Nori and Akira get their third out and end the game, Eijun runs onto the field, screaming at the top of his lungs.

“Aki!” he yells. “Aki, you just played a full game! We gotta tell Mom! We gotta tell Nobu! And Wakana! Aki, I’m so proud of you —”

“Out of the way,” Akira gasps out, roughly shoving him aside.

A flash of hurt crosses Eijun’s face. But it quickly shifts to alarm, because Akira takes a few shaky steps, doubles over, and throws up right on the first baseline.