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“That’s not how you’re supposed to hold it,” Nabe chuckles, and it sounds like a million tinkling bells. Kazuya blinks, pausing his regripping of the cheer… he doesn’t know what they’re called, now that he’s thinking about it. Because he never really had to know. They kept some in the dugout of course, and he had to help tidy them up when he was still a lowly first year, but nobody ever called them by a name. They were just part of the equipment. Kazuya had never bothered to ask anyone about it. He didn’t think he’d ever need to know.
“Here,” Nabe says as he reaches down to flip Kazuya’s cheer horn, he’s decided that’s the name now, the other way around. He’s really close, Kazuya’s traitorous mind helpfully notes. His hair smells nice. Kazuya resists the urge to back away. He allows Nabe to move the horn, hands going slack and adjusting to the new placement immediately. Nabe finishes with a small self-satisfied smile. It’s a good look on him, Kazuya thinks objectively.
Nabe’s shoulder brushes against Kazuya’s as he leans back around, and Kazuya thinks he can feel the warmth of the touch traveling all the way up to his face. His cheeks feel like they’re burning. Nabe chuckles again, and that doesn’t help. It actually has the same effect as pouring a whole can of gasoline onto the fire.
“You know that, Miyuki,” Nabe continues like there’s nothing wrong at all, “I know you’ve seen all of us using them this way. And it wouldn’t make sense to point the bigger side towards your face. The sound needs to be amplified outward. It’s basic acoustics.” Kazuya sneaks a glance to the side, raising his eyebrows in challenge. There’s definitely mirth in Nabe’s eyes, but it doesn’t bother Kazuya like it usually would.
“I didn’t know you were an expert in basic acoustics,” he settles on saying, carefully gauging Nabe’s reaction. Thankfully, he doesn’t look bothered by the quip. He’s smiling, but, to be fair, Nabe doesn’t usually get upset. He’s a nice person like that, and Kazuya’s painfully aware of it. Kazuya looks away first.
“I’ve never done this before,” he offers, “so I wouldn’t know.” The words come out more stilted than he expected them to. More honest. He doesn’t exactly know what he’s revealing, but it’s definitely something.
There’s no response. Kazuya doesn’t want to risk another glance at Nabe, but there’s something loaded about this pause. The noise from the rest of the stands is starting to filter in. The air feels more crowded. The shuffling of seats around them, Natsukawa and Haruno giggling on his other side, the second years wrangling the first years and each other in order. Kazuya has never felt more out of place than right now. Anything could happen, and he didn’t know any of the strategies. He’s the away team at the powerhouse’s home field.
“That’s kind of frustrating, but at least you’re honest,” Nabe says, and Kazuya whips his head up to look at him. Nabe’s looking down at the baseball field now. His hands are relaxed, and there’s no tension in his shoulders.
“Eh?” Kazuya forces out between his suddenly loud heartbeats. Frustrating? What does that mean? Nabe was laughing when he said it… Is he teasing him again? Probably not, not about something like this. But honest?
Kazuya’s not an honest person.
“Well, frustrating might not be the right word,” Nabe says, not that that helps Kazuya’s confusion at all. “There isn’t one good word for this entire thing. I’ll try to explain,” he hurriedly adds, and Kazuya assumes that some of whatever he’s feeling leaked onto his face. Nabe’s a perceptive person, and he uses that skill for good, rather than what Kazuya might use it for. “You’ve always been a starter and an important team player wherever you are. And that’s a good thing!” he reassures, and Kazuya knows his face turned cautiously blank. “It might be a little presumptuous to say, but I’m proud of you.” Nabe’s blushing. Kazuya probably is too. He still has no idea what’s going on, but Nabe doesn’t seem to be finished.
“But I,” Nabe pauses. Kazuya shifts his gaze from his face down to the cheer horn, and the blue looks less bright somehow. Nabe’s hands are still loose around it. “I’ve never been on any first string. For any team.”
“You haven’t?” Kazuya asks and he knows disbelief leaked into his voice. You can’t blame him; it’s a very unexpected comment. You don’t go to Seidou to play baseball if you’ve never made it onto first string. It’s not even because of scouting or qualifications. It’s the mentality. You can’t expect to succeed at Seidou if you weren’t one of the top players at your middle school. To say that you’ve never been a first string member, starter aside, is unheard of. Admitting it is half of the issue.
Nabe laughs in response, and it doesn’t sound as forced as it could. “My middle school was really big, and a baseball powerhouse too. It was very competitive, and I,” he shrugs, “ wasn’t ready at the time.
“I got used to the size and the environment eventually. It made me push myself. I kept telling myself that you can’t improve if you aren’t challenged. It just ended up being too little, too late for me,” Nabe continues while Kazuya’s still reeling. What the hell is happening. “I thought that at Seidou, I’d be able to keep up with that mindset.” There’s a pause. The absence of sound and the presence of something that Kazuya can’t grasp. Nabe’s clearly weighing his next words, and Kazuya wonders which subject he’s more concerned about. Whatever he’s going to say next, or Kazuya being his audience.
“It didn’t end up being enough.”
Kazuya doesn’t really know what to say. What can he say? Anything out of his mouth right now, especially now, wouldn’t sound right. He’s not even sure what would sound right. He doesn’t know what a captain should say.
Is Kazuya the captain right now? He’s just another member of the Seidou baseball team, listening to a teammate tell him something he’s probably never told anyone else before.
But that isn’t completely true, even with the lingering twinge in his side. Kazuya doesn’t belong here, wearing a pale blue long sleeve under his stiff Seidou T-shirt. He’s infinitely more comfortable down on the field in white and dark blue. The sun on his back feels closer here. The frames of his glasses stand out in the corners of his vision. His goggles never do that. He belongs down on that field. With the team.
But does that mean Nabe only belongs here? In these stands crowded with too many people? Does he not deserve a spot on the team? Those questions don’t sound right in his head. But the answers do exist, in the way Nabe’s undershirt is a little paler than Kazuya’s. In the way he’s not sweating in the harsh sunlight but Kazuya’s T-shirt feels like five extra layers. In the way his fingers fit firmly around the cheer horn while Kazuya’s are still uncertain.
In the way Kazuya’s always been a starter while Nabe’s never been given that chance.
“It’s not that I’ve given up,” Nabe adds, and Kazuya realizes with a jolt that he’s been completely silent throughout Nabe’s speech. “I don’t think I ever truly gave up.” Kazuya feels a pang of guilt in his chest at that sentence. “I’ve had to adjust more than I expected to. Change some parts of my mindset that I didn’t see myself changing. But I never truly wanted to quit.”
“I,” Kazuya finally manages to get out, “see.” Nabe laughs again, and Kazuya can’t tell who it’s directed at.
“Sorry for dumping this on you unexpectedly,” he says sheepishly, and Kazuya hurries to tell him that it’s fine. The game’s starting, so there really isn’t much space to say anything else. Nabe seems more relaxed now, so that has to be good? Kazuya probably looks more unsettled than before, but it’s for a better reason now. It’d probably be worse if he wasn’t bothered by this. But what exactly is this?
It’s not really a worldview shift, but something’s definitely being displaced. It’s like uncovering dusty boxes lying underneath lace sheets. Hidden in plain sight, but you don’t want to disturb the delicate balance of patterned white. Kazuya wouldn’t want to at least. Nabe’s perfectly fine with brushing all the dust off the tops and then even daring to open up all the boxes. Kazuya might be allergic to dust. He’s still sneezing.
The game is an easy match up, and Kazuya’s confident of their victory. He knows Nabe is too, and that’s why he isn’t that surprised when Nabe turns to him in the bottom of the second inning, when Shirasu’s up to bat with bases loaded.
“That’s actually how I got so good at scouting.”
“What?” Kazuya blinks, and then his mind catches up. It was a throw from left field directly to home plate. No cutoff man needed. “From middle school?”
“Yes,” Nabe replies, “I started doing deeper analysis of games and baseball in general to try to find what I lacked. And I did.” He lets out a self-deprecating chuckle that Kazuya wants to deny, but something stops him. It’s probably the way his words would sound like pity. They both don’t deserve that. “But it was always fun in the end. I enjoyed being able to figure out exactly how and why baseball worked. It made me feel good.” Kazuya opens his mouth to say something, hopefully about how he’s glad that it does, but Nabe starts speaking again.
“At Seidou,” he sighs, and he sounds wistful in a way that Kazuya couldn’t even begin to describe. He’s never heard this from Nabe before. “I’m able to help the team with these skills. I’m glad.”
“I,” Kazuya pauses. He had never truly thought about why or how Nabe was so good at scouting. That was something he could rely on, a fact he’d known as early as the fall of their first year. Nabe was an incredible scout, a scarily good student, and one of the scrawny outfielders on the third string. “I didn’t realize it was because of,” Kazuya desperately searches his brain for words, but they’re all running away from him, “that.”
“I don’t tell many people,” Nabe says, and a hint of awkwardness is creeping into his voice now. “Nobody here knows me from middle school, except maybe a couple girls. But I’m happy I was able to tell you.”
“Thank you for telling me,” Kazuya says, and he has to fight to make it not come out as a question. Something definitely changed, but he doesn’t know if it’s good for him or Nabe. Maybe it can be good for both of them. Nabe for sharing and Kazuya for listening.
“You’re welcome,” Nabe smiles. Kazuya didn’t think it could, but it looks nicer than before. Kinder.
Shirasu hits a two RBI double to left field. The stands erupt into noise and excitement, and Kazuya feels himself swept up into it. Nabe’s one of the people cheering the loudest, and Kazuya can’t rip his eyes from his open mouth, edges curled up with joy.
“I guess you can consider this an apology,” Nabe says, in between the third and fourth innings. This will probably end up being a called game, but there’s still room for surprises. In both the game and this conversation. This is kind of a game too, but Kazuya doesn’t know what side he’s playing for. He looks up at Nabe, and he’s surprised to find him looking directly into his eyes. Kazuya can’t read him. He wants to.
“For what?” Kuramochi’s leading a group cheer before they walk out. Zono’s talking to the first years, probably giving them some words of encouragement. Shirasu’s listening to Coach Kataoka give some last minute advice. Kazuya wonders where he would fit in there. Where Nabe would. He doesn’t know. Nabe takes in a deep breath, and Kazuya follows him.
Nabe releases his first. “For everything that happened before the Ugumori game.”
Kazuya’s stomach flips. He honestly still doesn’t know what to think about the whole situation. He had thought it was resolved, they had won, but Zono’s words still refuse to make sense. They’re fine now, as fine as two people opposite in every way can be, but now that he’s thinking about it… Nabe and him never talked about it. He honestly thought they never would. Even if it was about Nabe, he wasn’t a part of it. What would they need to talk about? Nothing that involved an apology from Nabe of all people.
“You don’t need to apologize,” Kazuya says, gaze locked onto the field. The first batter’s up. Furuya’s adjusting his cap. If Kazuya looked at Nabe’s eyes again, it’d be cheating. He needs to win this fairly, because losing means he’s failed as a captain. Kazuya knows that he needs to be more of a captain right now than not. That’s what Nabe deserves. “It was between me and Zono in the end. And we’re fine now. It’s over.”
“It’s not,” Nabe says. Kazuya still can’t look up. “It’s not over.” He sounds nervous. “You’re right that I don’t need to apologize. But I will.” Kazuya closes his mouth, but then opens it again. Nabe wouldn’t be this insistent if he saw the tension from the stands with his sharp eyes, or heard it from rumours that Kazuya knows were flying through the whole team. There’s no reason to be this apprehensive if Nabe wasn’t there. Which means.
“Did you,” Kazuya asks, “hear the entire thing?”
“Oh,” Nabe says, tone very careful, “did I never tell you?”
“No, you definitely didn’t. And you remember all of it?” The cheer horn is almost crumpling under his fingers with how hard Kazuya’s gripping it. He hopes it won’t break, but it feels sturdier than that. Like nothing Kazuya can do will truly break it. Nabe might be the same. Kazuya can only hope that’s true too.
“Most of it?” Nabe offers, voice still very light, “It’s not on purpose. I have a good memory, and, I mean, it’s directly related to me. Kind of hard to forget.”
“Okay,” Kazuya allows himself to breath out, “that explains this then.”
“I’m glad it does,” Nabe smiles, and the batter gets a hit off a fastball a little too low. Kazuya wonders who was more at fault in that battery, and if it matters to him right now. Kazuya also doesn’t know if that sentence was the wrong move, so maybe he should worry about himself first.
“I’m sorry for not doing more,” Nabe says before Kazuya can respond, and Kazuya blinks at him. “Everyone was stressed about, well, everything at the time. There was a lot of tension building up since the start of the new team, and it had to explode eventually. I know it’s not my fault that it happened, but I could’ve done more to try to stop it. I should’ve.” He pauses. Kazuya should definitely say something now.
“You didn’t start it,” he tries, looking down at the field again. “So I don’t think you could’ve done much to stop it, especially after we reached that point. Nobody else could do anything.”
“I could’ve stepped inside that room and explained my side,” Nabe admits, voice softer now but still unafraid. That’s what Kazuya’s used to hearing from Nabe. Brave in his own way. “It might not have stopped you, but I would have changed something if I said anything at all.”
“Yeah,” Kazuya says slowly, “but you didn’t.” Nabe doesn’t react. “We can’t afford to focus on regrets and things we didn’t do. We can’t change the past and our actions.” Kazuya doesn’t know if Nabe knows this truth, in the way that he’s had to learn it. He can’t tell if Nabe’s story from earlier was to show how he’s grown from middle school or how he’s been shackled by it. The fact that Kazuya can’t tell is the problem.
“I know,” Nabe replies with some laughter in his voice, “You guys would’ve fought over something in the end, with or without me. But we haven’t finished it yet. You might have settled it with them on the field, but you’ve never played with me, Miyuki. This is the only way we can do this.” Furuya’s pitching again, but Kazuya is barely registering any of it. The second batter was walked after a full count pitch, but he’s already at two strikes on the third.
“Through talking, huh,” Kazuya says, and Furuya gets the strikeout below them.
“With words,” Nabe agrees, “and it’s better late than never.” He pauses, but Kazuya doesn’t feel any dread during it. This direction feels right. “I forgive you. You don’t have to accept it, but I want you to know that I don’t blame you for starting it. You stood for what you believed in, and Zono and the rest did too. There’s nothing wrong with any of that.
“But I never asked to be in the middle of it. I’m not a plot device that you guys can throw around when you want to prove a point. I’m happy to scout for the team, but that’s not why I’m here. I’ve worked hard to become a second string player. Even if I’m not on the field with all of you, I’m still part of the team and I’m proud of that. That’s something Zono understands, because he’s been in the same place. He probably understands it better than I do.” Kazuya almost wants to ask why but he thinks he knows the answer. Zono’s been both a starter and stuck on the second string. Nabe’s only been the latter.
“I appreciate him for defending me,” Nabe admits, and Kazuya can’t stop this flinch. “Zono always cares about us. He’s a good person, he just handles things poorly sometimes. He didn’t need to get that aggressive, especially towards you. You weren’t wrong. You had important points that a lot of us refuse to admit.
“But that doesn’t make you right,” he continues, “Zono was when he said that you have certain responsibilities as captain. Some of them include broadening your perspective. I’m not saying that you should change your views, but it doesn’t hurt to listen instead of just assuming that everyone thinks the same way.”
Kazuya can’t look up from the field. Furuya and Ono are taking a while to decide on their next pitch. Furuya shakes his head. Kazuya doesn’t know if Ono’s going to fight that or not. Kazuya knows what he would do. Stay aggressive. That’s something he can apply to this game.
“I’m sorry,” Kazuya says, and this has to be the right play. “for taking this long to talk to you about this. You’re right to be upset that we made it about you. That was wrong of me. I won’t speak for Zono, but I’m sorry I started it that way. You deserve better than that.”
“Thank you, Miyuki,” Nabe says, and Kazuya can finally meet his eyes. He can’t describe the warm brown as anything other than Nabe, something good and understanding and open. Neither game matters as much as this moment right now, and Kazuya thinks that maybe this wasn’t a game to Nabe. It might not even be a conversation between teammates. Maybe this is something between Kazuya and Hisashi, and it doesn’t have to be anything more than that. Maybe that’s enough. “I forgive you. Now you need to forgive yourself.”
“I do?” Kazuya startles. Nabe’s expression doesn’t change. He’s not smiling anymore, but he still doesn’t look upset.
“You’re a pessimist, Miyuki,” Nabe says, nodding sagely. “I don’t think it’s bad to be one, but it can hold you back. It prevents you from acting on impulses and doesn’t let you allow yourself room to breathe. You focus on the worst in people and things. I can’t blame you for that, but you don’t always have to.
“None of us truly wanted to quit, even if we didn’t realize that. I won’t say that you should’ve had faith in us, but you could’ve trusted us a bit more. We’re still your teammates. We wouldn’t want to abandon the team.” Or you, Kazuya adds. It doesn’t sound wrong. He thinks that Nabe’s been saying it throughout this entire conversation.
“Being the captain is hard. It’s a lot of responsibility, and you always try to do things by yourself. Sometimes it doesn’t work out that way. I know you tried, and are still trying your best,” Nabe says, and he tucks his cheer horn underneath his arm. He reaches out and hovers his hands over Kazuya’s whiteknucked grip on his cheer horn. Kazuya knows what he’s asking, in the tilt of his head and the quirk of his smile. He can’t say anything yet, but he manages to nod, head going up then barely down.
Kazuya can only watch as Nabe places his hands on top of Kazuya’s. His gentle fingers carefully slide over Kazuya’s tense ones. They’re smoother than Kazuya’s, but the callouses are as familiar as his own. Kazuya’s hands are bigger and wider, but Nabe manages to cover most of them. It feels nice. “I appreciate you and your effort. You’re doing a good job, and I’m sorry that we don’t tell you that enough.”
Kazuya lets out a shuddery breath, and Nabe grips a little tighter.
“You don’t have to do this alone. Kuramochi and Zono are there, and it’s their job to help you with being captain. And all of us other second years,” Kazuya thinks he can meet Nabe’s gaze now, “we want to help you too.” His gaze is warm, not like the sun still above them or the layer of Kazuya’s undershirt, but something that’s Nabe to the core. Kazuya thinks he could live in it forever. It’s the same warmth that’s coming from Nabe’s hands, still on top of his. “We’ll support you in any way we can, but only if you let us.”
“Thank you, Nabe,” Kazuya says, fighting with all his might to keep the words steady, “I’m always grateful for your support, and,” Kazuya takes in one last breath, “and for you. I can’t promise anything yet, but I’ll try to let you help.” He thinks he can. He thinks he wants to.
“That’s all I’m asking for,” Nabe says, and he gives Kazuya’s hands a final squeeze before letting go. The warmth of them lingers, and it feels stronger than the sunlight still above them. Furuya strikes out the last batter and walks off the mound with aura blazing. Kazuya thinks that if his emotions were shown in the same way, the entire stand would be on fire. He wonders if Nabe would agree with him, but the blush he can make out on his face is enough of an answer. Kazuya grins.
Seidou wins, nine to two. “That was a good game,” Nabe says, and Kazuya knows he means more than the field and more than their conversation. “How was watching it from up here?” Kazuya knows what his answer should be, and he’s perfectly fine with saying it. Nabe’s giving him a full smile, blindingly bright.
“The view’s not so bad,” Kazuya laughs, and Nabe answers with a wholehearted laugh that fills up both their stomachs with warmth.