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The day Miyuki graduates, Eijun knows he won’t be able to keep up the pretences anymore. From the day he’d met him, Miyuki had done nothing but work constantly to get a rise out of him, and god knows he’d definitely succeeded. He'd called him a terrible senpai and he hadn’t been wrong. Miyuki’s twisted sense of humour really knew no bounds when it came to teasing him.
But the thought of never stepping onto the practice fields with him again, never hearing his annoying laugh from across the dining hall again, never dragging him out of bed - hair ruffled and bleary eyed - for early morning pitching again... It hurt more than he wanted to admit.
He refuses to think of never pitching to his mitt again because he’d followed the sound of that pitch all the way to Tokyo two years ago and this couldn’t be the end of their battery. Not yet. Not when they’d finally become the kind of partners Miyuki had proclaimed them as on that first day. But right now, the year separating them, that he’d rarely even acknowledged, was seeming longer and more daunting than ever.
Eijun stands with the rest of the first and second years outside the training grounds, waiting for their senpai as they approach, diplomas in hand. He's not crying.
He heads towards Kuramochi first and only half-heartedly tries to avoid the headlock he’s pulled into.
“Kuramochi-senpai! You’re still cruel until your last days!”, he tries to yell but it comes out choked, softer than he expected.
And if the headlock feels more like a hug than anything else while Kuramochi says his goodbyes, neither of them mention it or the few tears that are hurriedly brushed away. He's still not crying. Not really.
He makes his way around all of the third years in the same way, getting pulled into a few hugs, receiving words of advice and hopes for the team’s future that he’ll carry along with the ace number on his back. Nori, Shirasu, Zono, Asou, Ono and everyone else he’s shared his time on the team with. He exchanges goodbyes and well-wishes with all of them. And really, as heavy as his heart feels, he isn’t crying.
Everyone’s starting to drift away into their own conversations when he sees the one person he’s avoided until now. Miyuki's standing under a tree, a little off to the side from everyone else, looking over at the practice fields. He's wearing his uniform a little smarter than usual and his hair is seemingly combed for once, ruffled gently by the breeze.
As Eijun makes his way towards him, Miyuki’s eyes meet his, and Eijun realises this will be the last time he sees him in this uniform. He can feel his eyes stinging already but he refuses to let the tears fall. Not yet.
“Miyuki Kazuya.”
This gets him a teasing grin that’s suddenly a lot softer without the usual glint in his eyes.
“Sawamura. Still not calling me senpai?”
And he tries to respond in the same tone he usually has reserved for Miyuki’s teasing but he can tell it sounds off as he says, “As if you deserve it! You’ve been a terrible senpai from the day I met you!”
This only makes Miyuki’s smile fonder somehow as he asks, “But you’ll still miss me, huh?”
“Who said anything about missing you? I’ll be glad to finally be free of your terrible personality if anything!”
Miyuki just chuckles and takes a step as if to walk away. “Alright then, I guess I’ll see you around Sawa-“, but he’s cut off by Eijun’s hand gripping his wrist.
When he turns back, Eijun can’t meet his eyes. He keeps his head down, refusing to let Miyuki see the tears about to fall. Because at that moment, seeing Miyuki turning away from him, he’d reached out without thinking.
A voice in his head pleading, ‘don’t let him leave’ .
Apparently his silence is enough for Miyuki to understand because he sighs softly.
“Sawamura, I’m still here.”
And those words are enough to release the tears he’s been trying so hard to hold back all day. In another impulsive move, he throws his arms around Miyuki’s neck and presses his face into the crook of his neck in an attempt to hide the tears.
At once, he feels Miyuki stiffen but he doesn’t push him away. Instead, he slowly brings his own arms up to wrap around Eijun’s back, and why does that make the ache in his chest grow sharper?
He still says nothing, he’s too busy trying to muffle his cries because damn it! Of course it would be Miyuki who caught him crying. It made sense, in its own twisted way, that Miyuki would be there for all his most embarrassing moments at Seidou. After all, if it hadn’t been for Miyuki, Eijun wouldn’t have had any moments at Seidou at all.
But instead of the laughter he’s expecting, he feels a hand reach up to card through his hair, softly. More gentle than he ever would’ve expected, along with a soft, “shhh it’s alright”
And this was Miyuki Kazuya whose arms he was standing in right now, Miyuki Kazuya who was stroking his hair and comforting him, Miyuki Kazuya who was graduating today.
A fresh round of tears and a choked sob is pressed tighter into Miyuki’s chest as the realisation hits him once again.
As much as Eijun complained about Miyuki over the last couple of years, there was also no one he’d looked up to more. No one whose words got through to him in quite the same way. A moment of banter on the mound, his unerringly harsh criticism after a poor performance, or the rare praise he offered that made Eijun's heart race more than it would’ve coming from anyone else. Now he wouldn’t be hearing those words anymore.
Although he’d retired from the team with all the other third years after their summer koshien, Miyuki had hung around so much it felt like he hadn’t left at all. Even if he wasn’t the one behind the plate during their matches, he’d been on the grounds during training and he’d still let Eijun drag him into the bullpen at ungodly hours to perfect their numbers - though that hadn’t been without a considerable amount of complaining.
Somehow, his room in the third year dorms had once again become the team's hangout. If that happened to be Eijun’s fault, no one needed to know. Besides, Furuya had been just as pleased with the arrangement. So really, it was almost like he hadn’t retired.
But now he was graduating. This was realer than stepping down from official matches and moving up one floor. This was leaving and moving out permanently. No more run-ins in the corridors or breaktime classroom visits, no more offer of ‘you know where to find me’ to take him up on. It was going to be goodbye.
All this time, Miyuki’s hand never stops stroking through his hair while the other is pressed firmly into the small of his back. And honestly, this is the second time he’s hugged Miyuki Kazuya. The first being in the euphoric rush after their summer koshien victory, when neither of them could contain themselves, running towards each other with grins bared the instant that last pitch had found its home in Miyuki’s mitt.
The sound of that pitch had made many appearances in his dreams but even then, Eijun’s attention had been captured by the unrestrained grin on Miyuki’s face. Because that was pure happiness he was seeing, and to know that he’d played a part in putting it there made him feel all sorts of things he still refused to admit. Even to himself.
And if the words Miyuki had spoken into his ear as he pulled him in, just barely audible over the screams and cheers surrounding them, replayed in his mind over and over every night since then, no one needed to know about that. Because hearing Miyuki telling him, “Thank you, ace. You did well.” was more meaningful than the almost unending scores of praise he’d received after that victory.
Because it meant Miyuki had acknowledged him, well and truly as the ace and had trusted him with his own dream. And Eijun had finally proven himself worthy of that trust. Though he hadn’t proclaimed it as loudly as his goal of becoming the ace, this personal goal of receiving Miyuki’s acknowledgement meant just as much or perhaps even more to him. Because without it, the Sawamura Eijun of today wouldn’t exist. And that thought terrified him.
So it was cruel, having finally achieved what he’d been working towards, that it was the last match he would be playing together with Miyuki.
Their battery had accomplished what everyone had been dreaming of; they’d created a work of art that they could both be proud of and yet it felt like they’d barely scratched the surface. Eleven pitches on a summer day two years ago, a newly formed partnership and a few words, maybe not given much though at the time, had led him to this moment.
Some part of him truly believed that with Miyuki, even his wildest dreams would become just checkpoints along the way to a summit he hadn’t dared to dream of reaching. But maybe that journey had already reached its end.
Miyuki’s constant presence on the team even after his retirement had been enough to bury those thoughts deep in his mind, but now he could no longer avoid them.
There wouldn’t be any more baseball with Miyuki. And maybe what scares him even more, the thought that there wouldn’t be anymore Miyuki at all. He was taking his next step forward into the world that held only the brightest opportunities for him and the very real possibility of Miyuki Kazuya soon becoming a name he hears only on TV, sees only in the magazines and on the posters instead of one he can call out expecting to be answered hurts.
It feels like Eijun's dream that he’d barely just grasped is already slipping away from him.
“Hey... You know I’m only graduating, right?”
Miyuki's voice is low and softer than he’s ever heard it and all Eijun can do is nod into his chest.
“This team needs you, ace. You think I won’t be watching to see what you make of our legacy?”
Oh. Oh. This is Miyuki telling him that maybe this isn’t the goodbye he’d been fearing, telling him that he’ll still be around and he’ll be watching. Watching Eijun at that.
It’s enough for Eijun to finally find his voice again, though he still doesn’t lift his head to say, “You better be watching Miyuki Kazuya! I’ll prove that the ace number was always meant to be mine!”
Eijun feels Miyuki’s chuckle more than he hears it and the hand in his hair tightens to give a little tug.
“You’ve already proven that, stupid.”
Oh.
The memory of Miyuki's hand on his shoulder and the words “You wear the ace number well” suddenly returns to his mind and he thanks whatever deity is out there that his face is hidden right now because he can tell the flush on his cheeks would be glaringly obvious.
It takes a while, but eventually his tears have stopped and Eijun’s sure his blush has faded. So he takes the chance to look up at Miyuki, only to be taken aback by the genuinely soft expression he’s wearing. The only thought on his mind is ‘beautiful’ and oh. He wonders since when he’d started thinking of Miyuki as beautiful, because that thought feels too familiar to be a sudden realisation.
As if his heart wasn’t racing too fast already, Miyuki decides to smile, small and fond, “I won’t be waiting for you, but I’ll be counting on you to catch up.”
And although it brings the tears back to his eyes, those words also bring the first real smile to Eijun’s lips today.
“You can count on me, Miyuki Kazuya! So make sure you don’t go where I can’t follow!”
And wow.
The laughter those words bring to Miyuki’s face might be one of the most beautiful sights he’s ever seen. It’s worlds apart from his usual snickering, and knowing that it’s genuine makes his heart clench. Eijun counts himself truly blessed for the chance to admire it up close.
He’s never been able to hide his emotions and right now he’s not even making an effort, so he wonders what his expression must look like because when Miyuki’s eyes settle on his face, it brings a faint blush to his own cheeks.
He pulls Eijun closer once more and says, “I really doubt I could ever do that.”
Then there’s a thumb brushing away the tears under his eyes and a soft, warm pressure on his forehead that’s gone so quickly he wonders if he’d imagined it and a last ruffle of his hair before Miyuki's dropping his arms and stepping back.
And suddenly Eijun feels too cold for the mild spring afternoon.
He stays standing there and watches Miyuki make his way back to where the third years are lining up for their final goodbyes and oh. So this is what heartbreak feels like.
The only thing keeping him together is the promise they just made, knowing that the place by Miyuki’s side would be his to return to someday. And if Eijun wants to make it happen, he can’t afford to fall apart right now. So he makes his own way back to the rest of the underclassmen and steels himself for their final send off. And if along the way his eyes are drawn to the barely-there quirk of Miyuki's lips, he just takes it as a seal of their promise.
Eijun had already caught Miyuki Kazuya once, had held him in his arms and let go of him. He won’t let anything stop him doing it once more. And when he does, there’s no way he’s letting go again.