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“This is our last,” Takako sighs.
The air swallows up the words as soon as they leave her mouth as if it’s trying to hide them from being heard. It’s a futile attempt. Tetsu still tenses, muscles stiffening cautiously from the top of his shoulder to the heel of his palm. Jun’s fingers still pause halfway through the next tuck of a lazy braid. Takako releases another exhale, this one without words.
The air’s hot and heavy, fitting for a summer evening in Tokyo. It’s the same as countless nights from her memory, stretching from the old fan whirring softly in the corner of her bedroom to here, the part of Seidou that’s unfamiliar to her steps, surrounded by the body warmth of two teenage boys. Tetsu’s on her left and Jun’s on her right, and Takako’s sinking more and more into the bed with every second that passes. She can’t tell if her boys are melting more into her or the bed, but that distinction isn’t important. All that matters is that they’re here now.
The present is too fleeting. They have to get up soon, move to separate rooms and chase the next morning in cold beds. The thought of her bed with its old pink comforter and faded white headboard fills her with an emotion somewhere in between nostalgia and dread. Takako calls it anticipation. Jun would agree with her. Tetsu would ask for a dictionary. Both of those options, and her bringing it up, would break the peace too early. Neither of them have started moving again, and Takako hasn’t said anything past the first sigh. She doesn’t want to.
Not yet.
Maybe Takako won’t have to leave this room and this moment if she falls through the mattress. She’ll be enveloped in the sturdy foam that was replaced two years ago, swallowed by white cotton and comfort and never needing to move again. The mattress was new when they first came here. It’s as old as the three of them now, but it’s always been safe . The only difference is its familiarity. Takako knows this bed. Hard in some places and soft in others. Molded to fit three bodies instead of one. Bending easily under triple the weight it’s expected to hold. It’s their bed in every way except for the names written to the left of the door.
Takako thinks that Tetsu and Jun, reading left to right, would stay on this bed with her forever. She wants them to. The imperceptible rise and fall of Tetsu’s chest and the placement of Jun’s hand in her hair agrees with her. They’re both careful with her, and she is with them, but this is different. This is caution born from unease instead of affection. They’re both on edge, and Takako is too. None of her usual grace, in the younger managers’ words, is present in the stiffness of her arms. Her eyes are squeezed shut instead of looking at the bottom of the empty bunk above them.
She wouldn’t call it cowardice. Takako doesn’t shy away from dedication or devotion or duty. This is a childish wish that the truth will disappear if she doesn’t acknowledge it. Don’t feed the monster under the bed because it’ll always be hungry for more. Takako never thought that truth could be a monster until now, face to face with the reality that she’ll have to leave this room for the last time.
But Takako put out the bait of four words because she’s not a kid anymore. She’s not scared of the monster even when she knows it’s real. Tetsu and Jun aren’t either, and that’s why they listen instead of covering their ears. They wouldn’t hide even if they were kids. Takako saw the whisper of two boys as energetic as they were fearless in their gangly arms when they first met, two bright white jerseys refusing to bend under the label of “failure”. She wonders what they see in her face. Takako opens her eyes. The bottom of the bunkbed above her hasn’t changed.
Jun’s resolve has though, and Takako feels the breath he sucks in as vibrations rumbling in her own chest. “Yeah,” Jun says as he releases it, one syllable that weighs more than he can lift, “it’s our last.” His fingers start moving again. Tetsu’s still quiet.
Jun’s words didn’t break the silence because there wasn't any to break. Takako can always hear their heartbeats echoing through their arms, strong from three years of Seidou and baseball-filled childhoods before that. Her sensitivity’s as strong as seven years of softball and three years of wrangling them. She’s attuned to the way a ball whistles past your ears and how this particular twist of Jun’s fingers through her hair means he’s given up on braiding for the night. Tetsu’s waiting, muscles wound up with no hint of release yet. They’ll give him a little more time.
Jun bats first after all.
He’s running his fingers gently through her hair more for the touch itself than to smooth it out, done with braiding for the night. There’s no expectation behind every stroke of his fingers. There’s only the simple wonder he has when her hair doesn’t stop before her shoulders.
Jun’s better at braiding than she is. Takako doesn’t think it’s because he was forced to do his sisters’ hair as a kid like he says it is. She thinks it’s because he gets to braid someone else’s hair. Takako’s own braids come out neat and tidy, but that’s not a good thing. They end up too tight, hanging down awkwardly and refusing to sway behind her when she runs. Takako thinks she’d be better at braiding if she didn’t have to do it on herself, but she can’t prove that theory. The second year managers both have short hair. Asking Haruno feels like a breach of conduct now. Takako doesn’t have the opportunity of experimental hairstyling sessions in the front of the team bus, and she’ll never get that chance again. Jun and Tetsu are willing test subjects for most experiments, for her at least, but braiding’s a different issue.
Jun’s hair is wiry, thick, and sticks out in the middle of any misguided braiding attempts. The hair tie never stays on at the end, making the whole endeavor pointless. Tetsu’s hair is kept the same close-cropped length as strictly as he keeps himself. She can’t even imagine it longer than the millimeter it always is, and she’s positive that measure exists. He probably logs it in his baseball journal alongside the lists of daily swings and hits to each fence.
Takako’s never considered going back to the bob cut and full bangs of elementary school. She outgrew her mother’s scissors in front of the bathroom mirror and grew into the ten extra minutes conditioning it takes in the shower. It’s partly for her and partly for them.
She’s shares that trait with Jun, the tendency to give instead of take. That’s not saying they don’t take, because they both do. You can’t survive in Seidou without greed. Everyone at this school has a hunger inside of them that can’t be fed with anything other than victory. That’s something selfish you’ll never share. The ones that try always end with someone hungry. A single plate is made for one person.
Takako’s seen it fail every time. She doesn't know if she’s glad she never had to fight for her own plate. She’s the only one that can eat from it, and she’s learned to never leave leftovers.
But that selfishness doesn’t apply to trust, faith, and all those things that can’t be taught. Takako and Jun gave all of those to Tetsu three years ago, and they’ll never take them back.
That’s an instinct that both of them have over Tetsu. One of the only things they have over Tetsu. It’s not that Tetsu prefers taking. It’s that his first instinct isn’t giving. He’s greater than basic categories of givers and takers. Tetsu’s greater than a lot of things: spirit, strength, and any category she can think of besides strategy games. She wouldn’t want it any other way. It doesn’t make him better; it just makes him Tetsu. It’s why they all follow him, and why he hasn’t said anything in reply yet. He’s not ready because he knows how much weight his words hold. They’ll wait for him as long as it takes.
Tetsu won’t fully relax even after he says his piece, but Takako wouldn’t expect him to. She and Jun both know that Tetsu would want to soldier the responsibility of being strong. He’d be able to do something about it, moving past it and forward. He’s the best one to bear the mantle of captain even if he doesn’t know it himself. That’s why they follow him.
Tetsu doesn’t realize how strong of a hold he has on them. They’ve never told him, and Tetsu wouldn’t understand the true depth on his own. That’s why they won’t tell him. It’s a silent agreement Takako and Jun have, one so understood they won’t ever say it out loud.
Tetsu exhales, even louder than Jun’s before. Tetsu is louder than anyone would ever guess. You have to listen for the right thing because his force doesn’t come from volume. Takako thinks a lot of Tetsu follows that rule. You have to look at Tetsu to even begin understanding him, and that takes more time than most people are willing. Takako knows that people look at Tetsu, at his record and the rumors, and they think they understand him. They tsk at the loss of talent or titter about the common fear of not making it in the professional world. Takako doesn’t correct them. It’s not her place to say. Those whispers may never know the truth, but they don’t need to.
Takako and Jun knowing is enough for Tetsu, and he’s enough for them. Tetsu has never cared about being the champion or winning for himself. He’s the most selfless of them all, and that’s something Takako doesn’t think she’ll ever fully understand. But she knows she sees Tetsu better than most people. Jun would agree, and Takako can say the same of him.
Takako sees Tetsu the clearest when she’s above him, sun falling on both of their cotton shirts. The sight of the sun shining off his metal helmet and hiding his face in sharp shadow is as familiar to her as this Tetsu next to her is. She knows Tetsu in a way only time affords you. Both Tetsu’s are silent, but she can read the set of his feet and the slope of his shoulders better than any explanation he could give her.
Jun’s respect is different from hers. He sees a different expression on Tetsu‘s face. The shadows at home plate are deeper when you look from first base. She’ll never find out, but she’s good at extrapolating data. Jun respects Tetsu for the distance he’ll walk on the same path, further than he’ll ever go. Takako isn’t on that path.
She’ll be at the end of it, and they’ll meet her at the end of hers. Takako knows that whatever Tetsu says next will both end and continue this conversation. Jun will chuckle afterwards, a breathier version of his cackle. Takako will grin, mouth stretching to the sides in a way that will ache afterwards. They’ll both bask in the aftermath while Tetsu’s left blinking, nonplussed. Jun inhales at the same time Tetsu does, and Takako’s struck by the knowledge that some part of her will always be with these two boys and some parts of them will always be with her. She reaches her arms up and over, fingers ghosting the stubble left at evening. They let her. She knew they would. Tetsu’s mouth opens, cheek dipping under her fingers as he finally prepares to speak. Jun’s cheek is already pulling back as his grin turns fond. Takako knows her face is doing the same without looking.
“This is only our first last,” Tetsu promises, and Takako knows it’s true because his voice doesn’t waver and Jun’s arm reaches across two people and she can fit both their faces in her own two hands.