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Miyuki Kazuya is 4 when his mother places a lovingly made bento in front of him. He peers into it curiously, and brightens up at the way the rice has been decorated with seaweed to resemble a panda. His eyes sparkle, and his mother embraces him tightly — one of the few milestones they have spent together — before sending him off for his first day at preschool.
He still remembers the day perfectly, with his mother being a bright light amidst the early morning darkness.
The last bento ever made for him, however, was from the kind neighbouring family who helped with his mother’s funeral. It was a simple vegetarian meal— unlike the ones where his mother will make sure to place some of Miyuki’s favourite dishes with tender care: tamagoyaki, stir-fried ginger pork, or grilled mackerel. He doesn’t cry when he bows to his mother’s portrait, but rather, think of the way she’d hum in the kitchen as she prepares her specialty fried rice that he so loved.
And the familiar, sweet tune holds him— a sign of his mother always being close by. He feels cradled in his mother’s arms, love and adoration radiating from her. And there’s only warmth, so much warmth.
He watches the steam from his rice slowly diffusing into the air, and his glasses fog up as he lifts his bowl up. His father continues greeting guests, his barely-touched meal long gone cold opposite Kazuya’s. Shoving a spoonful of rice and natto into his mouth, he clings onto the lingering warmth as much as he can.
Thank you for the meal.
Clasping his chopsticks in between his fingers as he presses his palms together, he bows another time— a personal silent sent-off for his mother.
☼☼☼
“Why do we add sugar to something savoury?” Kazuya asks, staring curiously at the spoonful of sugar his mother is holding.
His mother pats his head, and then smiles. Always so gentle, always so sweet. “It’s all about balance. It cuts out saltiness, sourness, and even bitterness. Things taste much better.”
Kazuya never liked sweets, though. But he still reaches for the bag of brown sugar as he lets the chicken sizzle on the pan, the aroma of teriyaki filling his empty home.
For all the grief that leaves so much bitterness in him, he wonders if he will ever find someone else that can turn it palatable.
☼☼☼
Sugar comes in many different forms, Kazuya finds. His mother, baseball, and a certain Sawamura Eijun.
The caramel glaze that glimmer over his irises can be seen from 18 metres away where Kazuya is squatting, the glint in his eyes matching Sawamura’s as he gives the sign for his next pitch. The count is 3 balls, 2 strikes and 2 fouls, with bases loaded. Kazuya asks for a fastball on the inside.
Sawamura doesn’t flinch, and the way his eyes are ablaze under the summer heat as he gives a nod to Kazuya’s sign leaves the catcher breathless, waiting with bated breath as Sawamura gets into position. It’s always moments like this that makes Kazuya feel a different kind of excitement catching for him— the sound of his pitch meeting his mitt, the umpire behind him shouting ‘strike!’, and those caramel eyes meeting his with a grin on his face. Their silence exchange of words that always gets through to the other despite being 18 metres away.
Sawamura Eijun moves Miyuki Kazuya violently and sweetly. And even if it terrifies him, even if he hates sweetness, all he wants to do is observe those caramel glazed eyes staring right down at him from the mount— desperately wanting to see Sawamura on the mound again and again like this: leg lifted high, eyes blazed with determination. There’s always such a pureness to the emotions that Sawamura wears on his sleeve.
And it shakes Kazuya to the core every single time— heart rattling against his ribs, begging to be bared.
☼☼☼
Sawamura has the yips, Kazuya realises.
He blinks once, and then twice, and then another, only to find that he isn’t waking from this dream— Sawamura has lost that caramel glitter to his eyes, gaze now dull. It’s as if the light has been ripped from him, and Kazuya sees none of Sawamura’s strive anymore. The room is tense, with the coaches having to deal with the fragility at hand. Kazuya places his hand on the small of Sawamura’s back comfortingly, trying to ease him into the situation.
But Sawamura’s fists only clench harder, and Kazuya is at a loss— the last time he felt this way was when he walked into his mother’s hospital room only to hear her medical monitor going flat.
His father had held him tightly for one minute, before retreating somewhere to let his tears roll down his face. Kazuya still remembers how the only one he let escape felt on his left shoulder.
And no one knew what to say to Kazuya at the funeral. Hushed whispers. Gossip. Sympathy.
“Their child is only five.”
Kazuya knows.
“How will Miyuki-kun deal with this?”
Kazuya doesn’t know.
“It’s so sad.”
Shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up.
“Avoid any contact with a ball.”
Kazuya has nothing to say to Sawamura. A coward.
He picks at his pork cutlet later at dinner, carefully removing the crust. Kuramochi notices, and he jabs hard at Miyuki’s side. “Pick at it any longer and I might think you’re eating steamed pork loin instead.” Kazuya only sighs exasperatedly— he’s not really in the mood for banter, but Kuramochi asks something that leaves him gripping hard at his tray, finding that he’s shackled by loss.
“Sawamura… He’s okay, right?”
Staring down at his hand where there’s a faint, burn scar amidst his calluses, he remembers still being able to cook his first plate of fried rice on his own despite the mishap. He didn’t need his mother to fuss over the injury he had thought, and placed his hand under running water. Kazuya was fine, and he didn’t cry.
Kazuya is still fine.
“He will be,” Kazuya swallows, and the aftertaste of miso soup is bitter against his throat.
Kazuya wonders if this is what it means to hold grief in his palms and yet allow its density, its sacredness to be sieved through his consciousness.
Sawamura has become a shell of himself; and like a ghost, his soul wanders around the field aimlessly, yearning to be able to enter the bullpen again while his body runs and runs, runs and runs until his lungs burn so much so that he can no longer speak, saving his own voice to preserve whatever shred of willpower he has left.
His gaze is constantly dark, caramel burned beyond salvation.
Kazuya feels pained seeing Sawamura losing himself. But he doesn't know how to express it, never knew how to. The ache in his chest reminds him of when his mother smiled at him, eyelashes shimmering with tears, her bony fingers feebly searching for Kazuya’s hand. It was the first time his mother felt so cold.
The wind blows, and it’s a reminder that autumn is near, coldness enveloping Kazuya as he looks on at an empty Sawamura, lugging his tire across Field B, legs quivering and shaking from overexertion.
He sees a little of himself in Sawamura. Kazuya’s lips quivering, hands shaking. The sound of a flatline from a medical monitor. The sound of a deadball pitch. He watches Sawamura’s pain and it’s the same as his.
Kazuya looks away, nails digging into the flesh of his palm; helpless.
And so when Kuramochi yells at him about Sawamura, Kazuya stares a hole into his desk instead, desperately trying to avoid Kuramochi’s gaze. It’s not like he doesn’t know what’s up with Sawamura, and it’s definitely not him being apathetic or indifferent— it’s quite the opposite, actually.
It’s just that to Kazuya, the worst thing to offer to a person in mourning is sympathy, and he can’t do that to Sawamura who has probably received enough of that from the rest of the team already. Kazuya doesn’t want to feel like a trespasser. He knows Sawamura never had walls around him to begin with, and he’s so much unlike Kazuya. But still.
Crossing into Sawamura’s threshold would be a little too personal— especially when it’s another window into grief. He thinks he should stay far, knowing and believing that they won’t lose Sawamura to the yips.
I won’t lose Sawamura Eijun.
Kazuya observes quietly, standing by the entrance of Seidou’s indoor training facility as he watches Sawamura pitching to Chris, learning how to throw strikeout pitches by aiming for an outside course. He looks at the way Sawamura sparkles when Chris tells him what he just threw into his mitt was a strike; and for a moment Kazuya swears there’s more light to Sawamura’s eyes now.
But green flashes through Kazuya for a moment, and he wishes that he was the one holding the mitt up for Sawamura, wishes that he’s the one to bring back the sweet caramel that belongs to Sawamura’s irises.
If only he could feel summer on his skin again, fiery eyes boring into Kazuya along with a cheeky grin, and the sweetness of idiosyncratic pitches meeting his own mitt with a beautiful strikeout— but instead, he has decided to not challenge the batter that’s all of the grief he has been carrying, and it’s ball four.
Off the diamond, Miyuki Kazuya is a coward.
Just as he’s about to walk away, there’s a strong hand wrapped around his elbow, and he turns around to see that it’s Chris.
Chris looks dismayed, as if disappointed. “It doesn’t hurt to talk to him, you know. I can’t do everything for you, Miyuki.”
“I’m sure your words get through easily to Sawamura compared to me, Chris senpai,” Kazuya replies dryly, trying to hide his frustration. He wishes he can say more, do more , but his throat gets stuck all the time when he sees Sawamura, body remembering the way Sawamura was trembling all over when they discussed his yips— he feels nothing but powerless, and Kazuya loathes that. He can’t afford to lose grip, is terrified to. Kazuya’s thumb brushes across his burn scar.
“You haven’t tried, Miyuki.” Chris fiddles with the baseball in hand, throwing it up once and then catching it. “You ought to.”
Kazuya runs a hand through his hair, and then rubs his own neck in frustration. He doesn’t like how Chris can see through him, along with the fact that everyone is telling him to talk to Sawamura. Kazuya despairs: why me? And then he realises that the feel of Sawamura’s body trembling is a brand on his hand now, and immediately pulls it away from his neck, the memory burning him like the too-big wok his 5 years old self had to handle alone. He doesn’t even realise that his own body is shaking too, until Chris grabs at his shoulder gently. “Miyuki, Sawamura… He wishes to talk to you the most, you know? Out of all the people whom he’s afraid of disappointing, it’s you who’s at the top of the list.”
“Being captain’s a heavy burden,” Kazuya laughs nervously, but he knows the cover-up is redundant against Chris, who only frowns deeper.
“You know it’s not like that. I don’t have to spell out your feelings for you, right?”
His heart stills. He has been entrenched in his own shrinking, sinking bubble, only bearing breath to isolation and negligibility, leaving no space for his diminishing self that he’s forgotten about safety and warmth and certainty and strength and his capability of feeling. Because with Sawamura, he’s never had to negotiate within himself for those. Kazuya has known all that, but for him to face his ever growing feelings, for it to be brought out in the open, for someone to be able to see all that — he feels ripped raw to the bone, flayed and exposed, gnarly.
Kazuya can’t bring himself to deny it. So he clenches his fist, and with gritted teeth he only nods in defeat.
On breezeless afternoons, he writes down whatever he wants to say to Sawamura, though he erases them by dusk. But some of them rewrite themselves with such persistence that Kauya finds that they’ve become regrets inked into his skin, and all he sees is ‘cruel’ looped over and over.
He wonders if he deserves this or if Sawamura deserves this or if this life deserves any of them at all.
He’s still pondering over what to say to Sawamura three days later, when an incessant pounding against his room door snaps Kazuya out of his thoughts. He sighs, having an idea of who it is behind the door and the high possibility of him being nagged at again. He closes the scorebook on his desk, removing his glasses to rub at the bridge of his nose before putting it back on, readying himself for an angry Kuramochi.
“I suspect Sawamura went running. In this goddamn rain. Again.” Kuramochi groans, rubbing his face in frustration as soon as Kazuya opens up his room door. “Can you do something about it? Captain ? It’s cold as fuck out there.”
Before Kazuya could say anything, Kuramochi shoves a towel into his hands. “Remember to get him to shower. Can’t have him catching a cold— and I’m sure you know that.”
‘Why can’t you stop him yourself?’ hangs on the tip of Kazuya’s tongue, but he bites it back, knowing that he doesn’t actually mean it. He feels tired of running, tired of feeling like he has zero control— he wants to finally be able to look at Sawamura and not feel helpless.
The rain is hitting hard against the roofs of the dorm, and Kuramochi shivers when a strong breeze suddenly swoops in their way. Kazuya steps out from his room, looking out to see for himself how heavy the rain is. His shoulders start to weigh heavily, chest crumpling in at the thought of Sawamura lugging all of his sorries and sorrows through the field out there in the rain. Then there’s also anger, a slow simmer that has been there in his gut ever since the end of summer, and it’s about to turn into a violent boil.
“Miyuki. Not everyone can be like you. And the way you compartmentalise things isn’t it either.”
And Kazuya shakes the anger off his face, not intending for Kuramochi to read him like that, like an open book, like he’s vulnerable— he’s not supposed to be, or at least he shouldn’t be the vulnerable one. “All right, I’ll talk to him.”
He makes a grab for his jacket, sighing when Kuramochi has a vindictive grin plastered on his face. But he can’t bring himself to be annoyed, not when there’s a softness in Kuramochi’s eyes that reaches into Kazuya, tugging at his heartstrings. Kazuya wonders if he appeared that way to Chris when he approached him for help with Sawamura.
Then it strikes Kazuya that he isn’t as good at hiding his emotions as he likes to think he is— having been sensed by Chris and Kuramochi already. Is it the way he clenches his fists when he sees that the circles under Sawamura’s eyes are getting darker? Or is it the way he looks at Sawamura from afar, not knowing what to say or do despite yearning to be there by his side?
Maybe all along Kazuya has his chest turned inside out for everyone to see how his heart has been aching. He winces at the thought.
Kazuya remembers wanting to pick up his mother’s ribs during the kotsuage, trying his best to withhold his tears as he drops it into the urn with his chopsticks. Her heart, all ashes, were scattered on the tabletop, and he was reminded of how her heartbeat sounded in his ears whenever she embraced him— steadfast and strong. He wonders if he had bared his chest just like that, an evidence of how he’s been made to feel alive, ever since the day Sawamura threw those 11 pitches into his mitt.
He remembers Chris, and their conversation about Sawamura. I don’t have to spell out your feelings for you, right? For a long time he has thought he will be safe in his own sinking, this self-censorship, self-silencing, self-retreat, self-breakage, erosion — and now he’s spilling all over, with this opening of heart and recent memory and chance.
After all the times his heart has been rattling against his ribs begging to be bared, his rib cage finally loosens, ready to take Sawamura Eijun in.
“Oi, Sawamura!” Kazuya shouts, and he’s surprised by his own desperation about wanting to be heard. The heavy rain crashes against the ground thunderously, drowning out Kazuya. Sawamura doesn’t seem to be listening. Kazuya takes another deep breath before yelling again, voice cracking halfway in frustration. “I’m pretty sure Chris doesn’t want you doing this!”
I don’t want you doing this. I don’t want you hurting anymore.
He remembers the way Sawamura’s back was shaking against his hand. He remembers blinking three times. He remembers wanting to run away. But Kazuya looks at Sawamura and thinks no more, please and he takes a step, and then a second one, and then another, before he’s running towards Sawamura at full speed. Stretching his arms out, he halts Sawamura in his steps as he grabs onto his shoulders, shaking him.
“Sawamura, stop. Look at me!”
Silence. Shaking arms slowly wrap their way around Kazuya's waist. “Miyuki senpai.”
The way Sawamura is cold against him has Kazuya flinching, and he can’t tell if it’s Sawamura or him that’s shivering. His sight is completely blurred by the rain, and he almost laughs at how the one time he finally has the courage to look, he’s unable to.
His eyes sting from rainwater—
“I’m sorry, Miyuki senpai.”
—no, his tears.
“Finally calling me senpai?” Kazuya tries to joke, but it falls flat, the sarcasm that he’s always using to protect himself feeling wrong on his tongue. Sawamura doesn’t respond, as if giving Kazuya a chance to recalibrate. Kazuya doesn’t know what has he done to deserve Sawamura’s patience, but he tries to show that it isn’t for naught this time round. He moves his hands away from Sawamura’s shoulders, wrapping his arms around them instead. His throat feels raw, voice shaky as he speaks, “Don’t be sorry.”
Sawamura only buries his face deeper into the crook of Kazuya’s neck as they stand there in the rain, and Kazuya hugs him even tighter, feeling more conviction now as he takes in the fact that all this is so fucking real— “Don’t you ever dare be sorry.”
Sawamura shakes even harder against Kazuya’s body, the tears getting through his shirt warmer than the rainwater that pelts against them— and Kazuya realises that his tears somewhat feel alive. He’s astonished by the sound of Sawamura’s ragged breathing against his shoulder— he thought Sawamura had given himself a death sentence, soul empty and wandering around regretfully, but his body has been eternal all along, a part of him that stubbornly refuses to give up.
Kazuya has a heavy soul that he wishes he can share with someone, or maybe he just wishes someone — or Sawamura, really — would share theirs with him, but then again he thinks he wouldn’t know what to do with all the words that feel heavier than the ocean and too much like expectations when all he knows now is that what he can only offer in return is a hug and a ‘im here’ — and so he utters the words, embracing him tight amidst the rain. “I’m here now,” Kazuya hushes, patting Sawamura’s back. “I’m here now, Sawamura.”
And even if Kazuya’s view is blurry as he looks at Sawamura through a veil of tears and rainfall— there’s still his soft lashes, a firm mouth, and all the things that don’t belong: coldness. Yet something warm resonates through Kazuya and the oscillations of his heart, this warm something not breaking him but rather spurring him on to share it with Sawamura, just like how Sawamura has been sharing his warmth with Kazuya.
“Eijun,” Kazuya whispers. “Let me take you back, all right? We need to get you dry or you’ll fall sick.”
Sawamura doesn’t move, and only clings tighter to Kazuya. “I don’t want you to leave.”
Kazuya pulls his head back, and bends slightly just so he can meet Sawamura’s eyes. “Look at me, Eijun.”
And for the first time, those eyes try to hide away from Kazuya. Dark lashes cast heavy shadows over cheekbones, pupils slightly lowered so they stare at shuffling feet instead. And what Kazuya thought was caramel being burned beyond salvation is actually faux, because no matter how hard Sawamura tries to blend in with the darkness of the storm, those eyes never dim. They continue to sparkle, not with openness but with innate passion, like a soft fire burning deep in one’s belly that could never be extinguished.
Sawamura Eijun is a contradiction. Even when his eyes try to mask themselves, everything still bleeds through. Just like Miyuki Kazuya.
Kazuya takes a sharp inhale of air. “I won’t leave you.” And even if it claws at him so painfully for only reaching out to Sawamura now, he’s not running away; not when he needs to take responsibility for his cowardice, not when he cares so fucking much for Sawamura.
Sawamura reluctantly removes his arms from around Kazuya’s waist, but he decides to hold his hand instead, and Kazuya takes it, giving him a light squeeze before bringing him back to shelter. He had hung Sawamura’s towel along the benches before running out into the rain, and now he passes it to Sawamura. “Go take a warm shower all right, or soak in the bath. I’ll grab your clothes.”
There’s a weak hold on Kazuya’s wrist— and it’s Sawamura. “What about you? You’re soaked too.”
Kazuya sighs dramatically, flicking Sawamura’s forehead. “Well it’s because I had to stop a stubborn dumbass!” But Sawamura doesn’t yell indignantly, or respond in a way he would whenever Kazuya teases him. Kazuya’s expression softens again, heart folding in. “I’m just kidding, all right? I’ll get your clothes, and then mine, and I’ll make sure to take a warm shower too.”
He gives Sawamura’s hand another tight squeeze, and he counts to three before slowly letting go. Kazuya suddenly feels cold the moment he lets go. And just as he heads toward Room 5, Sawamura calls out for him. “Miyuki Kazuya! Thank you. I— I’m thankful. That you’re here with me.”
Sawamura’s eyes finally illuminate openly again, and Kazuya smiles back— if Sawamura looks at him with love in his eyes, then Kazuya will look back at him as though there is a sky in his.
☼☼☼
And when Eijun gets back to his room, he finds a warm bowl of ochazuke that still has steam rising into the air, along with a post-it note. It doesn’t sign off with a name, but Eijun knows who. He always does. He knows Miyuki Kazuya.
Even if you can’t throw— I’ll catch you. I’ll catch you over and over again.
☼☼☼
Hot coffee, a bowl of miso soup straight from the pot, a freshly cooked plate of fried rice using his mother’s recipe— Kazuya always tries to replicate that warmth for himself, but he fails time and time again.
His oesophagus would always burn from the heat of his food, but it’s not the same. His mother’s presence always swathes him in gentle sunlight, and now Kazuya burns like a forest fire.
And how is it that he burns, but yet he feels so cold?
His lungs are crying for oxygen, chest and ribs aching from sprinting. Fire spreading through his body. Fire, fire, always fire— but never warmth. Coach Kataoka is still shouting for them to go on, and even with his sweat soaked compression shirt he still feels the winter breeze blowing against his face harshly. From behind, Sawamura is hollering, with Kuramochi threatening to hit him through uneven breathing.
And Kazuya swears he feels sunshine on his skin. He turns around to find that Sawamura has caught up with him, smile ever so bright on his face. If it weren’t for the frosty breath escaping from his lips, he’d have thought that it’s summer.
“Cap! What about practising the numbers after this?”
He raises his brows in response, teasing words already on the tip of his tongue: “Are your pitches going to make it to my mitt this time?”
Sawamura turns red, and Kazuya’s cheeks are aching. From the cold air, or from trying to suppress the overwhelming urge to grin— he doesn’t know, he’s a little afraid to know, he doesn’t want to know. But the moment Sawamura yells in protest, Kazuya’s chest bursts and he giggles.
“All right. Just twenty. This winter training has been strenuous enough.”
Sawamura pumps his fist in the air, and he starts sprinting forward excitedly with a happy yell. Kazuya shakes his head, sighing at his energy while Kuramochi lands a chop on the back of Sawamura’s neck. He notices pink dusted cheekbones as unapologetic laughter fills the field, brightening it up more than the lights can ever do.
Kazuya was wrong when he said that baseball only sweeps him away in its rousing fervour. Tonight and from the days to come, he is, and will still be within its embrace, thinking of Sawamura whom he has only ever held or have ever dreamt of holding. And he is at peace and in love all over again.
The burn in his chest dissipates into a cozy warmth.
☼☼☼
No matter what Kazuya asks for, Sawamura always gives. And Kazuya always wants more. To always have new moments: he never wants to get used to Sawamura Eijun, who’s always changing, striving to be the best version of himself.
“Miyuki Kazuya! Be prepared to be blown away!” Sawamura grins, ready to show off his new pitches that he has developed within the span of a few days. And it meets Kazuya’s mitt perfectly as usual. Miyuki only smirks back, responding with an evil giggle that has become second nature to him when it comes to Sawamura— something between them that they have so sacredly reserved for only themselves to understand.
Punching the pocket of his mitt, he positions it for Sawamura. Kazuya isn’t wearing any guards— doesn’t need to, especially when Sawamura has excellent control now, a product of his hard work during the off season. Kazuya learns that this is trust, and with Sawamura he wants to try more of that, to be trusting. And Kazuya isn’t surprised when the ball lands perfectly into his mitt, his mask hiding the genuine smile on his face, heart bursting with pride that Sawamura is his pitcher.
“How’s that for a new pitch developed by yours truly!”
Kazuya throws the ball back. “Nice ball!” He says, and in a tone so soft that it surprises him, leaving Sawamura to gape at the slight hint of affection.
Kazuya nearly cringes out of reflex, but when he sees Sawamura rolling his left shoulder excitedly as he prepares for the next pitch, his lips curl up into a smile instead. He tries to shake that moment off, but he realises that it’s not needed because he’s no longer afraid of acknowledging his feelings. He has been contemplating being more for Sawamura, because he wants . He wants Sawamura to be happy, wants Sawamura to know that he has all of Miyuki Kazuya in his hands, broken pieces and whatnot.
Kazuya wants Sawamura Eijun.
So when his new pitches are being caught perfectly in the sweet spot of Kazuya’s mitt, he sees Sawamura breaking out in a tiny dance— and Kazuya is sure that it’s from the compliments he has been showering Sawamura with, as subtle as they were. I know you, Miyuki Kazuya!
He shakes his head to himself, smiling. Only Sawamura Eijun can see through him like this.
Just like how when they find a new, usable grip that could be added to the ever-growing numbers, Kazuya realises that there is no way he can tire of Sawamura. Sawamura is always surprising him, always baring different parts of himself— or even crafting a new version of himself, and Kazuya can never be satisfied, wanting more, needing more.
☼☼☼
When Sawamura corners him before breakfast during the day of Seido’s final match against Inashiro, Kazuya looks up to see those caramel eyes looking at him fiercely— so sweet, yet so heated and intense. He remembers his mother, who guides his hand steadily over the saucepan, telling him how much brown sugar he should put: two tablespoons. The dark brown sauce bubbles, and his mother smiles as soon as she has a little taste.
“Miyuki Kazuya. Please go out with me!”
And the same smile is on his face as he leans in to press his lips against Sawamura’s, “Okay. If we’re heading to Koshien after today, then okay.”
Sawamura’s face is dazzling, bathing Kazuya in warmth. Summer is no longer just baseball, but it’s also Sawamura Eijun: soft lips melting against Kazuya’s, with his skin so warm as they hold onto each other, and a smile like sunlight.
“You didn’t need to do it in such a shoujo manga way you know, jeez,” Kazuya grins when he pulls back, but not before knocking his forehead lightly against Sawamura’s, “Though, that was really cute of you.”
Sawamura steps back, flustered by Kazuya’s comment as he tries to compose himself, his entire face and neck flushed. Kazuya wonders if he looks the same as well.
“Shut up! I was just really nervous and— Gah! You said yes anyway, so it doesn’t matter anymore!”
Kazuya chuckles, and Sawamura pouts, eyes narrowed at him as he huffs. But Kazuya pulls him back in for a hug, and Sawamura is immediately placated, arms tightly wrapping around Kazuya’s waist.
“That is, if we’re heading to Koushien, dummy,” Kazuya says, flicking Sawamura’s forehead for emphasis.
“Then you better make the right calls today! This Sawamura Eijun will trust your mitt, as always!”
So when Sawamura strikes out on their last inning against Inashiro, he runs out to Kazuya before he’s barely able to register their win, enveloping him in a tight embrace before the rest of the team makes their way towards them.
“You better not run away now, Miyuki Kazuya! You’re mine!”
Everything around Kazuya slows down as he breathes the moment in. Kazuya can’t run away, not when the sun has become part of his heart— so how can Kazuya run away? How can he, when warmth is slowly seeping into his life once again, and that it’s actually such a pleasant saccharine sweet? A panda face made out of rice and seaweed, his yellow coloured bento box, the morning sun hugging his mother’s silhouette as her hand is outstretched, waiting for Kazuya to grab hold as they leave the house for school— he looks back at Sawamura, and thinks I’ve found my someone sweeter, mom.
☼☼☼
The streets are empty as they head out to the convenience store. Nishinomiya seems relatively quieter than compared to Tokyo, and Kazuya takes a deep breath, looking around just in case, before making a grab for Sawamura’s pinky, hooking it with his own. Kazuya looks away shyly when the boy stares at him in surprise. He’s thankful for the darkness of the night, covering up the blush that’s forming on his cheeks.
Even as they walk under lamp posts, Kazuya finds that the light shining over them has nothing on the brightness that comes from Sawamura, who is beaming at him. It’s warm, and Kazuya thinks that the sun has set right beside him, holding onto his pinky. Sawamura hums in contentment, swinging their linked hands together as every skip in his step is riddled with joy.
They finally reach the store, and Sawamura’s eyes sparkle as he walks excitedly down every aisle, dragging Kazuya along with him.
“Eijun, relax. All Lawsons are pretty much the same throughout Japan, you know.”
His words clearly didn’t get to Sawamura, because he’s still dragging Kazuya around until he decides to abruptly stop by the open refrigerator section, looking sentimentally at the purin that he would steal from Masuko. Kazuya stops in his tracks, but he still ends up bumping into Sawamura clumsily.
Sawamura purses his lips, staring intently at the purin before he’s suddenly snapping his fingers, and he points at Kazuya.
“Miyuki, look! We’re exactly like the purin that Masuko senpai likes!” Sawamura exclaims, excitedly grabbing the packaged dessert and holding it out for Kazuya to see. Kazuya only blinks in response, slightly dumbfounded by Sawamura’s newfound revelation.
“He gets a senpai, and I don’t?”
Sawamura casually ignores the statement, moving on to make his point. “The caramel sauce is so gross and bitter on its own, but it makes the purin even more delicious when paired together!”
Kazuya feels a grin forming on his face, heart racing so quick it feels like it’s crawling up his throat. Only Sawamura can knock the breath out of him like this, adoration for the boy flooding through his veins. But he tries his best to let his grin turn into a smirk, and he raises his eyebrows with a playful glint in his eyes. “And so… are you calling me gross and bitter now? I’m wounded, Sawamura.”
Sawamura puffs his cheeks in frustration, and Kazuya starts giggling, He thinks he’ll never tire of Sawamura’s energy, especially with the responses only Kazuya can elicit whenever he teases the boy.
“Miyuki Kazuya! Can you stop nitpicking and appreciate my message?” Sawamura huffs, swatting his shoulder, “So much for thinking about you!”
But it’s all in good banter, with Sawamura unhooking their linked pinkies so he could lace all of his fingers with Kazuya’s, and he doesn’t give Kazuya the chance to react by catching his gaze with those unrelenting eyes of his. “You don’t have to change who you are just because of me,” Sawamura whispers, his thumb caressing Kazuya’s knuckle, “We’ll go well together because of who we are.”
And before Kazuya can register Sawamura’s words, his voice is booming through his head— “I know who you are Miyuki Kazuya! I fell in love with you, because it’s you!” Sawamura’s eyes are shining even brighter, the ceiling lights above them rendered useless. Kazuya can only look towards Sawamura, no matter how much one shouldn’t be looking directly at the sun; but logic has never applied to Sawamura Eijun, not when the boy crashed into his life with 11 pitches, all boisterous and determined and so sweet. Kazuya would have never allowed him, but Sawamura still managed to worm his way into his heart.
Maybe Kazuya can really get used to this, get used to being loved.
☼☼☼
They laze around in Kazuya’s room, Kazuya lying down with a scorebook settled on Sawamura’s back, his body propped against his bed frame. Lying across Kazuya’s stomach is Sawamura, who is deeply engrossed with his shoujo manga. His weight on Kazuya is a comfortable warmth, and Kazuya reaches his hand out to comb through the tangles in Sawamura’s hair.
Sawamura tilts his head up as he tries to lean into Kazuya’s touch, always liking the way Kazuya’s nails scrape gently across his scalp.
And Sawamura flips his body around, his back now resting on Kazuya’s thighs as he looks up at him. He places his hand on top of Kazuya’s before slowly removing it from his head, then proceeding to intertwine their fingers together. He places a kiss on the back of Kazuya’s hand— “Do you want to come to Nagano with me over the winter break?”
Kazuya looks away from the scorebook he has been studying to meet Sawamura’s gaze, the latter blinking slowly at him as he waits for a response.
“I mean… You’re graduating soon, and we probably won’t be able to spend a lot of time together. So I just want to bring you home! You know? It’s like, it’s like—”
Home.
A nervous laugh escapes Kazuya before he can help it, and he tries to cover it up with a snide remark. “Sawamura, there’s smoke coming out of your ears.”
“Hey!” Sawamura yells, cheeks flushing red. “I just wanted to make more memories with you! So much for trying to be a romantic boyfriend!”
Kazuya only stares back blankly, brain still trying to process whatever Sawamura had declared out loud. Sawamura notices, and his shoujo manga is long forgotten, sliding down from his stomach and onto the floor. Sawamura sits upright this time, butt making a thud on the hardwood floor as he props himself such that he’s looking directly into Kazuya.
Even after all this time, Kazuya still falls apart under his gaze, and he still wants to embrace Sawamura to crush him into stardust so he can sink into Kazuya’s bloodstream, making a home out of his heart. He remembers petrichor, heavy rain, that tight embrace they shared in the middle of Field B— and Kazuya still can’t get enough, and wants Sawamura to melt him down into a puddle of rainwater.
He focuses back onto Sawamura’s eyes, finding them as bright as ever, and Kazuya has to strain himself to not flinch away. Warm hands come up to cradle Kazuya’s face, and his whole body immediately melts into the touch, succumbing to the heat.
“Kazuya, is there something wrong?”
When Kazuya purses his lips as he contemplates how much he should share, Sawamura starts pulling at his cheeks, noticing his hesitance. “It seems to me that Miyuki Kazuya is the one with smoke coming out of his ears now!”
Kazuya lets out a yelp, and Sawamura laughs at the sound of it, finally easing his hold. He then caresses Kazuya’s cheekbones where the skin is red from his pinching, as if in apology— “You know me, Miyuki. I won’t force you into doing things you don’t want.”
“Oh? Then what about the times you’ve dragged me to play catch?” Kazuya raises a brow, but there’s no bite in his tone. He adores it actually, whenever Sawamura comes up to him with that glimmer in his eyes, tugging at his shirt hopefully. Not that he’ll ever tell him.
Sawamura’s ears are completely red, and he sputters bewilderedly before managing to murmur a ‘that’s different!’. Kazuya’s heart is sputtering too, endeared by the boy. He wonders if Sawamura truly knows what kind of effect he has on him.
“Purin! Remember?”
It’s not that Kazuya doesn’t want to, but more of he’s afraid to. He’s afraid of their relationship being brought to newer heights because it means falling even deeper, but when he looks at Sawamura who is gazing at him with all the love and genuinity that there is in the world, Kazuya can’t help but want to be greedy too.
He thinks back to all of the times where they’ve kissed the breath out of each other, their bodies melding against each other, fusing and synthesising under the heat of their passion and Kazuya starts to chuckle— he is no Icarus, not when the flutter of his heart whenever he’s with Sawamura is as real as it can get. Miyuki Kazuya is not made up of feathers and wax and aversion to heat, but of everything that requires sunlight — Sawamura Eijun — to thrive.
Sawamura furrows his brows, crossing his arms as he shoots Kazuya a glare. “What’s so funny, Miyuki Kazuya!”
“I’m just thinking of how the cashier in that Lawson in Nishinomiya stared at you weirdly for marvelling over convenience store purin like the country bumpkin that you are.”
A growl escapes from Sawamura, and he grabs Kazuya’s wrists, maneuvering their bodies so that he’s pinning Kazuya against the floor, his legs straddling Kazuya’s hips. There isn’t a playful glint to Sawamura’s eyes, but rather a firm look that says don’t hide from me.
Kazuya sighs, and he bends his torso forward, planting a kiss on Sawamura’s frown. “I was just… overthinking things. But I think I’m okay now. Because it’s you who I’m with.”
He feels a brush of lips against the space between his eyebrows, and then another against his cheekbone. “You don’t have to give me a yes,” Sawamura whispers, and then leans down again to give Kazuya a peck on the lips. “I won’t rush you. Only when you’re ready.”
Tenderness, Kazuya realises, is the best part of Sawamura which he has so carelessly gifted him with; and Kazuya will always keep it in a quiet corner of his heart, where it softly trembles, reminding him that something important will always exist unconditionally for him. He raises his hand to ruffle Sawamura’s hair, giving away a tender part of him too with a soft, vulnerable smile. “I’m okay. Let’s go to Nagano, together.”
Those caramel, deep-set eyes are veiled but beckoning, always beckoning and twinkling, alive. People say eyes are the window to someone’s soul, but whenever Kazuya looks into Sawamura’s, he could either be free-falling into an endless void or peacefully floating off, arms spread, out into the open sea. And he decides to fly out, and be brave for once— “If we go to Nagano, can you follow me somewhere else first?”
Sawamura all but nods eagerly, kissing the breath out of him. Kazuya’s heart is full.
☼☼☼
Kazuya clutches a bouquet of daffodils tightly in his arms, jittery. He doesn’t hear Sawamura calling out for him, and it’s only when he makes a grab for his hand then does Kazuya finally look at him, albeit a little bit shocked.
“I’ve been trying to get your attention for the past 5 minutes!” Sawamura grumbles, but he’s intertwining his fingers with Kazuya’s nonetheless, and Kazuya takes in the warmth of Sawamura’s skin against his cold, clammy hands.
He flicks Sawamura’s forehead in response. “I was thinking , you know.” And then he moves closer to Sawamura’s face, their lips barely ghosting across each other. He cups Sawamura’s cheek, before pulling away with a smirk. “You should try that some time.”
And Kazuya is met with the grab of his collar, and he finds himself elevated off the ground by a few centimeters— courtesy of Sawamura who hasn’t grown out of that habit since coming to Seidou. “Are you trying to kill me?! Giving me a heart attack like that, teasing me like that? Miyuki Kazuya, you heathen!”
“You love me, regardless. So no take backs!” Kazuya blurts out, without realising the implications of what he has just said. Kazuya once thought ‘I will miss this sadness’ and he has always believed so. Now he is standing before his mother’s grave, no longer alone and without grief weighing on his shoulders. Sawamura only stares at him, but he’s beaming so hard that the winter chill disappears, swathing him with the heat of gentle sunlight. He looks back at his mother’s tombstone as he tries to recall his mother’s warmth, and then back at Sawamura. The wind blows, and the daffodils start to sway to the rhythm of the breeze.
He takes it as a sign of approval from his mother, and Kazuya smiles, squeezing Sawamura’s hand tighter.
Sawamura squats, and he caresses the stone monument. “Miyuki san, it’s me, Sawamura Eijun! I’m here today to visit you, and I hope you’re doing well! I know Kazuya is a worrisome child, but I am here to take care of him. Thank you for bringing Kazuya to this earth!”
Kazuya loves the softening in Sawamura’s eyes whenever he decides to share something personal, and the subtle changes in his voice to become something gentle. He looks at Sawamura enthusiastically speaking to his mother’s grave, and his heart stutters in such a beautiful way— all the light in the world shimmering in the same frequency as Sawamura’s existence, only to reach Kazuya where it dissolves into something:
Love.
Home, Kazuya finds, it’s not what he thinks it is. It’s his kisses with Sawamura, the diamond field, and the way his heart throbs in his chest when Sawamura pitches a strike straight into his mitt. He still doesn’t know what is it about Sawamura Eijun that gets him stripped bare and vulnerable, but it’s only Miyuki Kazuya that understands the voice in Sawamura’s eyes is brighter than the sun in summer at Koshien stadium.
“Let’s go home,” Sawamura says, grabbing Kazuya’s hand in his, interlacing their fingers together, “Whatever signs you make, I’ll follow. Wherever you think is home, is home. For us.”
Kazuya grins hard, thankful that his scarf is blocking his mouth. Only Sawamura can shrink the sun and place it in his chest even in the midst of December’s winter. “Yeah.” He breathes out, lungs making room for their own summer in his chest, snuggled right there together with his heart, rocking to a reverie Kazuya recognises and recalls and wants to collect, recollect, gather like seashells, gathering home.
Miyuki Kazuya breathes Sawamura Eijun in. “Let’s go home.”
初恋, or hatsukoi, sounds a lot like this: sugar, sunlight, Sawamura Eijun.