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He is so, so tired of listening to people speaking English everywhere.
Miyuki Kazuya is as happy as anyone to be at the top level of international baseball. However, the price of admission is being shipped off to a foreign country where everything requires that extra few seconds of thought while he searches for the right word.
But on New Year’s Eve, his team’s hometown of New York City is full of people from every country and every walk of life. Times Square is packed full of languages he has never heard of, let alone heard. There is a small measure of comfort in the knowledge that he isn’t alone in that respect. The ball drop is interesting, but listening to the cacophony of words he will never have to translate or understand is the true draw.
Most of the locals know who he is, but tonight, he will blend into a crowd far more star-studded than a baseball player who doesn’t talk to the press unless forced and doesn’t do television spots for similar reasons. Who cares about Miyuki when they can listen to Kim Kardashian talk about what perfume she bought for her poodle last week.
The sound of his name behind him makes his nerves clench instinctively, but the familiar lilt of a Northern Japanese accent soothes that unease as soon as it comes. “Miyuki-senpai?”
Miyuki smiles up at the sky. He had meant to spend the night alone, but with present company, he can’t think of a way he would rather be interrupted. “Ah, Furuya. I heard you were in town.”
Finally shoulder to shoulder with Miyuki as they gaze up at the large luminous ball, Furuya nods. “My agent told me I’m not allowed to play winter ball anymore.”
Chuckling, Miyuki bumps shoulders with Furuya. “Mine told me the same thing. I personally think I am not too old, but apparently my knees are.”
“Elbow,” Furuya agrees. He looks around in awe at the massive scale of their surroundings. “It reminds me of the first time I came to Tokyo after living in Hokkaido.”
“Big, loud, and crowded. With a side of dirty when it comes to this place.” Miyuki throws an arm around Furuya’s shoulders. “So what brings you here?”
“Money stuff,” Furuya grumbles. “I don’t care how much they pay me. I just want to play.”
Miyuki throws his head back and laughs. “I remember having the same conversation with my agent. He wanted to go to arbitration for an extra million a year, but I said not to bother. He almost had a stroke.”
That coaxes a ghost of a smile out of Furuya, which is as good as a grin on anyone else. It’s one of the things he’s always enjoyed about his former kouhai. Outside of baseball, he has the least demanding presence of anyone he has ever met. Miyuki isn’t accustomed to people not wanting anything from him other than just himself.
Well, that may not be entirely true, he amends. Furuya had wanted his heart, and Miyuki didn’t have enough room in his heart for both baseball and someone else.
Though he wouldn’t go back and change that decision if given the chance, he certainly regrets having to make it.
Miyuki shivers as lips trace down the column of his throat, extracting a throaty growl from Furuya. Furuya never could get enough skin on skin. While Miyuki can take it or leave it, he doesn’t mind accepting whatever Furuya wants to dish out. After all, haven’t they always been like this?
But Furuya’s lips stop right under Miyuki’s ear, and he whispers, “Miyuki-senpai, when you graduate next week, can I still see you?”
Mouth open to agree, Miyuki stops before he can let any words slip. The route in front of them unfurls, with long distances and off-hours calls and missed meet-ups for some damn reason or another. Miyuki is fine either way, but no matter what Furuya might say to the contrary, he deserves better than that.
At Miyuki’s silence, Furuya pulls away. “You’re going to say no.”
“Yes, I am,” Miyuki says, his voice half an octave higher than usual from trying to speak around an itchy lump in his throat. “It wasn’t a permanent thing. I thought you knew that.”
Furuya averts his gaze. “I did, but it isn’t what I want anymore.”
Miyuki pastes a smile on his face that probably looks as fake on the outside as it feels on the inside. “Well, it’s still what I want. You’ll be fine. You always have been.”
“Okay.” Furuya slips off the bed and gets dressed, leaving Miyuki’s dorm room without a word.
He sits alone in the room, and it’s far bigger than it had been minutes before. Suddenly cold, he pulls back on his previously discarded t-shirt and drops back onto the mattress to stare at the bunk above him, trying to purge that dead look in Furuya’s eyes when he turned away.
“I understand why you did it,” Furuya says without dragging his eyes from the glittering New Year’s ball. “Neither of us would have liked it much.”
Miyuki hums in agreement. “You’re right. You deserved better than that.”
They fall silent, still looking up at the bright globe in Times Square. The moment the ball shifts into motion and the countdown begins, Miyuki’s hand seeks out Furuya’s and their fingers tangle together. His thumb gently strokes the back of Furuya’s hand, and the two of them lean a little bit closer together.
Ten seconds left in the old year, both turn to meet each other’s gaze. Miyuki can see the lights of the city glimmering in Furuya’s eyes, and he is just as beautiful as he had been when they were teenagers. Maybe more, with the strong curve of Furuya’s jaw showing strength his willowy body back then had not hinted at.
“Happy New Year, Furuya,” Miyuki breathes, and as the ball touches down, their lips brush together for the first time in over a decade.
There is nothing urgent or demanding, but a meeting between old friends. The new year kicks off, and Miyuki elbows Furuya. “Have you had dinner? The food from the carts here is stupidly delicious. My treat?”
“I’d like that.” Furuya squeezes Miyuki’s hand, and they head off into a new year on a high note.