Archive of Our Own ^beta

part i: high school 

“Have you done this before?” Youichi asked, breathless, in between the partings of their lips, messily slotted together.

“Once,” Kazuya answered, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. “With Mei.”

Recoiling, Youichi jerked away to blink rapidly and stare at the catcher with owlish, scandalized shock. 

“Mei?” he repeated, incredulous, like the words tasted sour when he spat them out. “Inashiro Mei?” 

It was then that Kazuya flushed red, turning his head to scowl at a spot on the ground behind them, lips turned up in what Youichi could’ve sworn was a pout.

“We were kids,” said Kazuya, abashed, hating anything that had to do with the shedding of personal information. “In middle school, he asked if I wanted to practice kissing.”

“And you said ‘yes?’” Youichi couldn’t help but ask. 

His hands were still planted on Kazuya’s hips, surprisingly petite given his stature. In fact— now that Youichi was close enough to explore every crevice, every dip and curve of the catcher— it seemed that all of Kazuya was surprisingly smaller than Youichi expected. 

His stomach was flat when Youichi reached a hand to his chest, his palm small where it caressed the side of Youichi’s body, running it up and down. Youichi noticed that every time they kissed, lips meeting harshly, Kazuya’s fingers would tremble, ever so slightly, the pads of his digits shaking against the goosebumps that prickled Youichi’s skin.

“Like I said, we were kids,” repeated Kazuya, emphatically, frustrated that he was divulging embarrassing secrets instead of kissing as they’d originally intended. 

It wasn’t the most practical of places, mashed up against the side of the wall, chests and legs splayed out on Youichi’s lumpy mattress but the tiny window of their shared dorm let in small beams of light, streaming in and casting its mid-day shadow into the cramped space. And it was sort of nice. 

Youichi huffed, reaching up to pull Kazuya’s glasses off his face. He could’ve been more delicate with the action but Kazuya didn’t say anything and Youichi discarded them on the nightstand. 

“Can we not talk about this?”

“You were the one who asked!”  

“Yeah, well I fuckin’ regret it, okay?” 

That made Kazuya snort, amused and satiated as their lips met once more, hungrily snuffing out any semblance of conversation. 

The Summer Tournament had come and gone. Youichi was sort of surprised at how fast it all happened; he’d worked his whole 3 years to get to Koshien Stadium, stand on the national stage, yet almost as soon as it came, it went.

Their National Champion banner hung proudly outside the school, dancing in the breeze and adorning the side of the building like a medal it wore on a puffed-out chest. Youichi would be lying if he didn’t feel a tingle of pride every time he walked past it. 

And he and Kazuya retired, moved out of their respective rooms and into a shared one on the other side of the training grounds, far away from everyone who still had one more year; one more chance to chase the thrill and enthrallment of victory. 

Maybe it was the newfound boredom that the end of summer inevitably brought, the heat, the sudden lack of things to do, but they began to act on feelings they had never allowed themselves to have on the field. 

Youichi kissed him first, a spur of the moment decision, and was shocked to his very core when Kazuya kissed back. 

Their bodies found each other— slowly, shyly, at first— collapsing in on each other like they’d always meant to, no regard for all of the collateral damage they left in their wake. Not now, not anymore. 

Kazuya tasted like sports drinks and spicy cinnamon gum when his tongue lashed out into Youichi’s mouth. Youichi reveled in all his little sounds, soft grunts and quiet, shallow breaths. The way his lips softened, unconsciously parting to allow Youichi room, when they kissed. 

Everything about Miyuki Kazuya was hard and put-together, smoke and mirrors and walls of facade… but not like this. When their bodies pressed together, when Youichi wrapped his fingers around Kazuya’s wrists and could feel the subtly, flurried thrum of his heartbeat, the walls crumbled. He became soft in the places he was hard, flustered where he was confident, and Youichi never wanted to stop because well, couldn’t he be allowed to be greedy… just this once? 

So they kissed the days away, locked inside their humid little room as summer melted into autumn in the world outside of it. 

“Shit,” Youichi muttered to himself, cursing as he realized he’d left his cram school textbook in his desk. Unfortunately for him, where he excelled in baseball, he did not show the same star quality in the academic aspects of his life. 

So, while Kazuya was showered in scholarship offers and scouting deals, Youichi signed up for cram school classes, resigning himself to the same fate that had befallen most student athletes that spent all their energy on… not homework. 

Looking up at the clock in the hallway, he had approximately 5 minutes to leave the building and still make the train. 

Yeah, he grinned, licking his lips, I can make that. 

Rushing back up the stairs, he sped past other students, who darted out of the way like he was an incoming bullet. He was breathless by the time he staggered into the classroom, shoving the sliding door open. 

I’m out of shape, he thought with a wince, chest rising and falling rapidly as he began to walk through the threshold. He stopped in his tracks, though, when he recognized the scene that played out in front of him.

Silence rung out in his eardrums, piercing and shrill. 

Kazuya sat at his desk, alone and unaware of Youichi’s newfound presence. Loose dust from the chalkboard danced in the heavy air, squeezing Youichi’s lungs and constricting his throat, breathless. 

Kazuya's eyes were glued out of the window, gaze trailing the baseball field that you could make out from the third-floor classroom. 

Chestnut eyes, hooded and glazed over, watched as their underclassmen scurried around the green grass, pulling out crates full of balls, worn-out gloves that were tattered at the seams, and metal bats, getting ready for a long practice that would surely run into the night, chasing the sun away as they did what Youichi and Kazuya used to do, every single day. 

Youichi could make out the blurry, far-away figure of Sawamura, running around excitedly with three tires tied around his waist and Kanemaru chasing after him. Of Furuya going through his warm-up stretches and of Haruichi behind him, dutifully pressing down on his back muscles to further the stretch. 

If Youichi tried hard enough, he could still smell the clay-dirt of the diamond, burning his nostrils and his heart hurt a little, pinching in his chest. 

“Do you miss it?” Youichi asked, voice cutting through the silence like a searing hot knife. Kazuya jolted, just slightly, and looked over. The realization that Youichi had been there the whole time washed over him and the corners of his lips twitched. 

“No,” he lied, a placid and unreadable expression painted over his delicately drawn facial features. Eyebrows turned up and wrinkling as he glanced back out. “Do you?” 

Youichi gulped, mouth feeling incredibly dry. He turned his head to glare at the wastebasket full of crumpled up paper. 

“No.” 

If Kazuya was going to be a liar, Youichi sure as hell wasn’t going to tell the truth either. 

Youichi made his way further into the classroom, uniform shoes padding quietly against the linoleum floor, weaving in and out of the lines of desks until he got to Kazuya’s. Hand planted on the wooden surface, body leaning forward, Youichi tilted his head down to meet Kazuya’s and connected their lips together. 

A muffled grunt escaped Kazuya, still sitting but turning to position himself towards Youichi, a hand reaching up to cup the side of Youichi’s jaw. His thumb brushed past the shortstop’s earlobe, it sent shivers down Youichi’s spine. 

The callouses on his hands, the fruits of his labor, were starting to heal in the days of disuse so, when he touched Youichi, the skin was rough and soft, all at once. 

“Don’t you have cram school today?” Kazuya asked when they broke apart for air, Youichi staggering forward to press their foreheads together. The tips of their noses touched and they could hear, ever so faintly in the background, the whooping shouts of the newly-formed baseball team. 

“I can be late,” replied Youichi. 

Kazuya looked up at him, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Youichi knew that look, always wished he could punch that smug expression right off his face.

“Are you sure you can afford that?” Kazuya asked with a half-grin. “Didn’t you fail your last Calculus quiz?” 

“Asshole,” Youichi spat back, shaking a balled-up fist at Kazuya, who was giggling like he just made the world’s funniest joke or something. “I’ll show you what I can afford to do.” 

Maybe he’d always wanted to punch that smug look of the catcher’s face but, today, he settled for kissing it away, instead, nipping and sucking on Kazuya’s bottom lip until it was rosy and swollen. Serves you right. 

“See you later,” huffed Youichi in between lingering kisses that tapered off, slowly. Their fingers had, in the midst of all the kissing, become intertwined together, pressed against the hard surface of the desk. “Don’t spend all afternoon moping around here.”

Affronted, Kazuya replied, “I wasn’t moping.” 

“Heh,” snorted Youichi, unconvinced. 

“Don’t hit on any girls in your study class,” Kazuya shot back, leaning back into his desk chair, head tilted backward. “You’ll strike out with them anyway, you have no charm.”

“If I hit on some girl, you’d get all pissy,” Youichi replied, picking up his bag that he hadn’t remembered discarding on the floor next to the legs of Kazuya’s desk. “Then you’d be a bitch to deal with.” 

Kazuya gave him a look that even Youichi— well-versed in the few emotions Kazuya decided to show to the world— couldn’t read. 

“No one said you had to.” 

“Had to what?” Youichi asked, even though he knew the answer. 

“Deal with me,” Kazuya said. He slumped over, leaning his cheek against his palm, elbow propped up. “I never asked you to.” 

“Idiot,” Youichi grunted, reaching over to flick Kazuya’s forehead. The catcher recoiled with a grunt. “You don’t need to ask me for shit.” 

And with that, he turned his back and walked out of the classroom. By some miracle— maybe he’d done something to get on God’s good graces— and his fast legs, he managed to make the train, just barely squeezing past the gates as it was about to depart, legs pumping as he dashed through the station at a record speed. 

Yeah, I still got it, he couldn’t help but praise himself when he folded his body around the dozens of other commuters packing the carriage, shooting him dirty looks.

He listened to the screeching of the tracks as he caught his breath. 

Then, once the adrenaline quelled a little, Youichi reached up with slightly-trembling fingers to touch his cheeks. 

It frustrated him, just a little, because he could still feel Kazuya’s touch, burning on him like a small fire that refused to be put out. 

In the end, he’d forgotten all about his textbook— still lying, abandoned, in his desk back at Seidou. 

Shitty Kazuya, he thought, with faux-anger as the teacher chewed him out for being unprepared. It’s all his fault. 

Kissing became a routine. They kissed in the morning when they woke up, limbs tangled together, arms thrown around each other. Their bodies were always achy from folding two teenage bodies into a bed meant for one, cramming themselves into the tight space, but they’d never stop. They hadn’t used the second bed since the day Youichi had mashed his lips against Kazuya’s in the heat of the moment, unable to extinguish the feelings that were growing in him, burning larger and larger with each growing second. 

They kissed in between class periods in the space that was hidden between the hallway and stairwell, right by the vending machines. 

Youichi loved watching Kazuya’s fingers cramp up against the wall, grasping for something but only finding flat surface.

Miyuki Kazuya was good at a lot of things, infuriatingly so, but it just so happened that physical contact was not one of them. 

He dealt with it so hilariously poor, cheeks flushed deeply, red crawling down the nape of his neck and brushing the tips of his ears. 

Youichi wanted to watch him come undone again and again because it was funny to witness him saunter back into class once the bell rang, knees still wobbly, lips still kiss-swollen and red, as he struggled to maintain that perfect image he showed the world— unbothered and uncaring. 

They kissed at night, as soon as Youichi got back from cram school. It was a routine ingrained in their muscles, he’d dump his bag in the genkan and reach for his bat, laying next to the closet. Kazuya, who was usually sat at the desk, would follow suit. 

They’d do exactly 200 swings in the grassy knoll behind the retired-player dorms, alongside Shirasu and Zono, underneath the dark night sky before slipping away, giving some thinly-veiled excuse, hurrying back to the dorm and kissing against the door as soon as it shut behind them.

Youichi ran his hands up and down the sides of Kazuya’s midsection and they’d make fleeting conversation, biting banter and cheeky insults, until they were too far gone to speak, losing themselves in the way each other moved. 

But, even if Kazuya was bad at dealing with physical contact— even if it was Youichi who led, who initiated— they went at Kazuya’s pace or nothing at all. 

They went at Kazuya’s pace or nothing at all. 

Youichi had known that since the day they’d started their funny little relationships (if you could even call it that). He’d known it with every inch of his being, felt it in his chest when Kazuya jerked away from his touches, signaling they were done for now. 

And they ended the night quietly, silent as they laid in bed, next to each other. They never spoke about their little endeavors but it was okay because when the morning arrived, they’d kiss again. 

They went on like this for months and what was once autumn became winter. Kazuya decided on Meiji University, announcing his pick right as the chilly breeze was on the cusp of becoming frigid wind. 

“Meiji, huh?” Youichi asked, not looking up from his video game console. The sounds of animated punching and the clicks of buttons filled the room, seeping through every corner. 

Kazuya watched from behind him, sat on the bed. 

“Yeah.”

“You’ll get to play with Tetsu-san again.” 

“I guess,” Kazuya shrugged, nonchalant. “That’s not why I chose it.”

Youichi grunted. 

Kazuya was a liar. 

Kazuya lied about everything. He was a liar because Youichi knew he respected Tetsu almost as much as he respected Chris. He was a liar because Youichi knew he missed baseball every single day, watched practice from the classroom like a lonely king in a tower. He was a liar because, even all these months later, he still refused to talk about the kisses, the moments of intense heat and passion they shared on the daily. Because Youichi believed he wanted more from their relationship, secretly, but stubbornly refused to ask of it. To demand it. 

Kazuya lied about everything. 

“Hey,” Kazuya spoke up, after three more rounds of Street Fighter passed with no conversation. “Come home with me for winter break.” 

Youichi paused his game, turned around to stare at Kazuya but the catcher refused to meet his gaze, turning to look at the half-dead succulent plant on the windowsill as if it was the most interesting thing in the world, requiring all his attention. 

“Okay.” 

It was snowing the day winter break began, just flurrying when they boarded the train but falling heavily by the time they got off, blankets of white pouring out of the evening sky. 

“Is it a far walk?” Youichi asked with a grunt, his overnight bag slung on his shoulder. 

“No,” Kazuya replied, gesturing in a vague direction. The cold air nipped at his nose, kissing it until the skin became chapped and red. 

Contrary to what Kazuya said, it was a far walk, made 10 times worse by the snows, coming down so fast that it clouded out any vision beyond what was a foot in front of you; the rest a haze of white. The wind didn’t help and by the time they arrived—trudged through what was almost half a foot of snow already, accumulating far too quickly for the shortstop’s taste—Youichi was seriously considering tucking tail and leaving. 

An old Miyuki Steel sign shook in the unforgiving storm wind, creaking loudly and rattling against its rusted hinges. 

“This yours?” Youichi asked. 

“Aren’t you observant?” Kazuya replied, a teasing lilt tickling his voice, worn rough from the cold weather, and Youichi rolled his eyes. 

“Why do I even bother with a prick like you?” 

Kazuya didn’t reply to that, turning towards a half-opened latch guard, protecting a mid-sized garage. The catcher shifted his weight so that his bag settled more comfortably on his shoulder. Youichi snuck a glance at his face, the bottom half was buried in between the layers of his knitted scarf. His eyes were hard-set and unreadable. 

“I’m going to say hello to my dad,” he finally said. “You can go insid—“

“I’ll go with you,” Youichi replied, automatically, cutting him off.

Kazuya turned to glance at him, eyebrows furrowing up in that funny way like he was analyzing a game, crouched down behind home plate with his helmet guard covering his face. 

“You don’t have to. I didn’t… even tell him you were coming.” 

“I will,” Youichi insisted. He wasn’t angry but, still, his fists balled up at his side, freezing fingers pulling into the palm of his hand. 

“Okay,” Kazuya said before walking forward and reaching under to pull up the latch guard all the way, a gust of wind rushing into the garage, warmed by only a tiny portable heater in the corner of a workbench. There were loose, oil-stained tools scattered all around, a car with the hood cracked open in the center.

“Kazuya,” Miyuki Toku greeted. His voice was softer than Kazuya’s, not as grating or loud, but it wasn’t kind, by any means. It was rough around the edges, tired and worn out, but void of any emotion Youichi could definitively place. 

“Dad,” Kazuya replied, awkwardly. 

“Congratulations,” said his father, simply. “I heard about Meiji in one of those… sports journal articles.”

It dawned on Youichi, then, that Kazuya hadn’t spoken to his father about his decision. He’d made it on his own. 

The second Keio University had reached out, offering him a pretty hefty sports scholarship deal, Youichi had called his mom and grandfather, half in tears (from happiness or from the relief of not having to go to cram school anymore, he couldn’t tell you) to tell them the good news. Kazuya didn’t have that and the notion left an odd, heavy feeling in Youichi’s gut.

Kazuya turned to Youichi, then, gesturing to the shortstop. “Dad, this is Kuramochi Youichi. He’s one of my teammates.”

“N-nice to meet you, sir,” Youichi managed to stutter out, taken off guard. He bowed his head, slightly, pulling off the wool-knit cap that flopped lazily on his head, snow-covered, and shoved it in his pocket. 

He tried his best, barely remembering to use respectful language as he clumsily tacked on a “pardon the intrusion” at the end. 

“Nice to meet you,” echoed Toku. 

“He can stay in my room,” Kazuya said before picking up his bag again, slung over his shoulder, and shuffling towards the garage exit.

Right as they were about to leave, Youichi trailing after Kazuya’s steps, Toku called out again, hunched over the car hood.

“Make sure to eat something.”

“Got it.” 

“Your dad seems nice,” Youichi commented, lamely, as they climbed up the stairs towards Kazuya’s apartment. 

It wasn’t much warmer than it had been outside in the cinderblock stairwell, leading straight from the garage to the building. A chill crept past Youichi’s thickly layered jacket, prickling at his skin and leaving goosebumps. 

“He works himself to death,” Kazuya replied after a moment, simply, voice void of any telling emotion. 

Youichi managed to spit out a dry laugh, eyes softening as they finally got to the 3rd floor, exiting the stairwell and entering a partially-outdoor hallway, rows of apartment doors lining it. 

“Sounds like someone I know, hmm?”

They stood in front of the 4th door, Kazuya digging through his pockets until he pulled out a key, inserting it in the lock and pushing the door open with a heavy grunt. 

It, unsurprisingly, was empty and dark. Youichi could barely make out what was inside the apartment until Kazuya stepped in a flicked on a light, illuminating the space. 

“Be right back,” he told Youichi, walking further in and disappearing down a tiny hallway. 

A few seconds later, a low, whirling hum piped up and Kazuya must’ve gone to turn on the heater because not long after, an artificial warmth came wafting through the main area. Suddenly, everything felt just a little more homely.  

Youichi kicked off his shoes in the genkan, still wet and a little muddy. There wasn’t much, the apartment wasn’t heavily furnished. No decorations in the living room besides a simple couch, rug, and TV. The kitchen was bare, too, and the table sat, lonely, in the center. 

Except, on the counter, there were two framed photos— one of just a woman and the other of a family of three— and, when Youichi walked towards it, his sock-clad feet padding against the hard-wood floor, he could make out the face of Kazuya, nestled in a woman’s arms. 

He was much younger, chubby cheeks that hadn’t yet lost their baby fat rounding out his face but he still had big, wide brown eyes and an unruly mop of chestnut-colored hair. 

The other photo, just the woman, looked strikingly similar. She had lips that turned up in a kind smile and, if Youichi squinted and tilted his head slightly, he could see the same lips pulled in a smirk, taunting his opponents and bickering with his teammates, nagging his pitchers and boldly calling out plays from behind the plate. 

Next to the frames was an old candle— it clearly hadn’t been lit for a while, the wick gathering dust at the tip— and two sticks of incense in a low vase. 

Slowly, Youichi clasped his hands together, leaning his head down in a bow. 

“What are you doing?” Kazuya asked, appearing behind him. 

“Saying hi to your mom,” Youichi answered in a whisper. He hadn’t meant for it to come out so quiet, it just did, leaving his lips like a hushed breath of air.  

Kazuya, for once in his whole life, was quiet. Had nothing to say except stare at Youichi, blinking like he couldn’t make sense of the shortstop’s words. Like they had been the world’s hardest riddle and he was one step away from solving it but couldn’t quite get there, falling short by an inch. 

So, in typical Kazuya fashion, he didn’t reply. 

Turning his head away, wordlessly, Kazuya stepped towards the fridge, crouching down as he opened it. The yellow light glowed against his skin as he peered in. 

Youichi silently thanked Kazuya’s mom (for what? he didn’t know). Still gazing at her picture, he gave one last murmur, wishing her well, before unclasping his hands and walking over to join Kazuya. 

“There isn’t a lot in here,” Kazuya commented, absently sifting through bottles of beer that clanked when they brushed against each other. “Egg… leftover rice…some pork…”

“I’m cool with whatever,” Youichi said, leaning his back against the sink ledge, arms crossed tightly to his chest. 

“How old do you think this is?” Kazuya asked, thrusting an opened plastic takeout box of something underneath Youichi’s nose. It smelled rank and the shortstop recoiled, sharply, with a screech, nostrils burning.

“Ew! That’s gross, what the hell is that?!”

Kazuya dissolved into giggles, that little shit, harsh and taunting like nails against a chalkboard and Youichi rolled his eyes with a pointed glare.

“From the looks of it… a five-day-old fried fish bento.”  

“The fuck? What are you? A grade schooler?”

“Maybe,” shot back Kazuya which made Youichi lunge forward, grabbing Kazuya by the waist, prodding his fingers into the sides of Kazuya’s stomach where Youichi knew he was most ticklish (he’d learned that fact from painful experience, getting an accidental punch to the throat when he’d first grazed past that area, breathless and boxing the catcher down to the mattress, the painfully hot end-of-August heat rolling down his chest in bullets of sweat).

It worked and Kazuya could barely breathe, gasping out in hitched inhales, as Youichi tickled him, doubling over with his head falling forward to land on the shortstop’s shoulder, whole body shaking with wheezes. 

“You’re an ass,” he managed to cry out.

“You’ll pay for that shit,” Youichi shouted before relenting, allowing Kazuya to catch his breath. “Gimme a kiss,” he demanded. 

“No way— ahughaha! Stop!” 

“Now you owe me two kisses, fucker.” 

“You’re an expensive guest, Youichi.” 

“Just consider it my fee for putting up with your sorry ass.”

“Can I put it on my tab?” 

They kissed more than twice— as it turned out, keeping count was hard—bodies draped against the fridge door as Youichi sucked a love bite into the corner of Kazuya’s neck, right below his earlobe in the place he knew would be hidden by his hair, tufts of brown falling over the blemished skin. 

Then, still ruffled up and messy but not bothering to do anything about their haggard, post-make-out-session appearance, they tugged on their coats and set out back out into the storm. 

It was almost midnight by the time they trudged into the convenience store, brightly light like a beacon against the dark sky, getting odd looks from the workers as they purchased a slab of cheaply cut steak, some assorted vegetables that were on end-of-the-night sale, three cans of coffee, a pint of ice cream, and a licorice rope. 

“You better not give me food poisoning,” Youichi warned when they arrived back at the house, placing the bags on the kitchen counter. 

“You don’t trust me?” Kazuya asked with faux-innocence, blinking his doe eyes at Youichi. And, Youichi swore, a hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of that fucker’s lips. 

“Not with my stomach,” replied Youichi, unpacking the food as Kazuya pulled out the eggs and leftover rice. 

“Better than Sawamura,” commented Kazuya, shoving Youichi away so he could begin to prep. “Better than you.”

“It was one time!” Youichi squawked, in defense. “And it was Zono’s fault, not mine, okay? That idiot can’t read recipe cards right.” 

The fried rice Kazuya whipped up was unexpectedly good. It was a miracle that Kazuya had managed to make old, stale rice soft and melty in combination with steak and vegetables but Youichi would sooner die than admit and praise yet another one of Kazuya’s skills. 

He was a bad actor, though, so of course that cocky catcher knew, snickering at Youichi’s face when the first bite sunk in.  

“Like it?” 

“No,” said Youichi. 

Kazuya’s room, like the rest of the apartment, was small-ish and bare. A futon laid out in the middle, already made and rolled out, beside a dusty desk that hadn’t been touched. The only real decoration was a poster of some kind of junior league baseball team, the tape peeling off at the sides, the corners wilting and bending over, sadly. 

“What if your dad comes in?” Youichi asked in a hissed whisper as they tucked themselves into the futon. 

“He won’t,” assured Kazuya, irritated. “Now shut up, I’m tired.” 

“Fine, asshole. Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight.” 

Youichi laid in silence for a while, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the paint as he waited for Kazuya’s shallow breaths to turn heavy, half-snores but not quite. His body tingled with warmth, burning at the places it came into contact with Kazuya’s. Kazuya was never warm like Sawamura was, a perpetually human heater, but he wasn’t cold, either. Perfectly neutral; it unnerved Youichi and comforted him, at the same time. 

Rolling over, Youichi turned to the sleeping face of the former-captain. Sometimes, when he was asleep, he wore a faux-innocence that never appeared when he was awake. He didn’t so much look like the sadistic catcher, knew every way to make a batter uncomfortable, to pressure them in ways they didn’t know they could be twisted. He didn’t look like the captain, destined to be a pro. 

He just looked like Kazuya and Youichi wasn’t even sure he knew who that was. 

Still, in a moment of irrationality, he reached forward to push a loose strand of hair behind Kazuya’s ear. 

“You’re asleep, right?” 

No answer. 

Youichi let out a sigh he hadn’t known he was holding in, shaky and unconfident. 

“You better be asleep because I know your ass would never let me live this down if you heard it…I’m not gonna say this if you’re awake so I’m giving you one last chance to prove you’re asleep,” Youichi threatened. When Kazuya didn’t move, didn’t make a peep.

The silence hummed and he continued on. 

“Thank you… for these last 5 months. And… for these last 3 years. You make me… better and I l-l…”

I love you. 

I love you, I love you, I love you. 

“I’ll miss you.” A pause. “Y’know…when we… graduate and stuff.”

For a second, Youichi waited. For what? Kazuya to laugh? To tease him to his face? To see he was a sentimental idiot? He didn’t quite know. When nothing came, he turned away again, thinking he was in the clear and rolling to the other side, facing the wall opposite Kazuya. 

When he did, shifting around in the futon, he heard the faintest voice; so quiet that Youichi almost missed it, so quiet that if you told him he was just hearing things, he’d have no choice but to believe you.

A hushed, half-silent “Me too.” 

He wasn’t asleep, Youichi’s thoughts screamed, all the alarm bells going off, and, in some stupid act of self-perseveration, he refused to move, frozen underneath the covers.

Of course he wasn’t asleep, even when Youichi asked if he was. Youichi was an idiot to think anything else, mentally beating himself up for trusting the silence because Kazuya was a liar. 

Kazuya lied about everything. 

After winter break came final exams, graduation looming in the distance, always there as a faint reminder that they didn’t have as much time as they thought. A threatening presence that made itself more and more known with each passing day.

Youichi chewed on the eraser head of his pencil, glancing up to stare at the back of Kazuya’s head. Unsurprisingly, the catcher wasn’t paying attention to the work on the board but, rather, lost in thought as he watched the baseball field in the distance. 

Winter didn’t go out with a bang but, instead, trickled away slowly by the early-spring showers that rolled in, soft and rumbling but consistent. It had been raining for the past four days, straight.

Youichi had felt sort of bad for the team, Sawamura stopping by their dorm last night to whine and grouse about how the weather was messing up his running schedule and how, completely unrelated, Okumura wasn’t catching for him past midnight anymore. 

“What should I do, Kuramochi-senpai?” he’d cried out, slumping against their door and knocking, knuckles incessantly rapping on it until Youichi finally broke and pried the door open, letting him in. 

Youichi didn’t mind the rain, though. He used to hate it with a fiery passion in his heart but now that he had nowhere to be, fully accepting Keio’s offer with a grin, it was sort of nice. Kazuya was always more supple in the rain, body fluid and languid as they lazily made out in time to the pellets of rainwater hitting the hollow dorm roof. 

It was a pleasant change of pace because, ever since winter break and the quiet weekend they’d shared, sealed away in Kazuya’s childhood home, the catcher had been tense. Terse and closed-off—more so than usual. 

Youichi had no clue as to why, the only reasonable explanation his mind could come up with was their conversation at night, when Youichi had thought Kazuya was asleep. Maybe his words, so bold and unguarded, were driving a wedge between him and the catcher. It made Youichi sick and angry to think about but the rain had brought them closer to normal, if just for the past few days. 

Today, though, it was sunnier, bits of blue peeking out through the tips of trees and gray-toned clouds. A bad feeling gnawed at Youichi’s gut. 

“I think I’m going to give my glove to Seto,” Youichi commented later that night, absently shuffling through the closet full of miscellaneous crap, stuff spilling out of the corners. “My mom sent me a new one and Haruichi was telling me the kid was looking for something that fit better.” 

Kazuya didn’t reply so Youichi, desperate to fill the thick, unnatural silence that settled between them, kept talking, urgent. 

“I need to get rid of a lot, y’know. I wonder if anyone wants some old games. I can’t bring all this old crap to college. Ahh… it feels kind of nostalgic, though. If I throw it out, I’d probably feel like garbage. Getting rid of precious memories and all that shit.” 

No reply. It pissed him off. 

“Okay,” Youichi remarked, irritation bubbling over in his chest. Frustrated without really knowing why. “What the fuck is with you today?”

Kazuya raised an eyebrow, shooting him a look. 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“No shit you didn’t, that’s the point. Don’t you always have something to say?” The words were angry, spewing hot like lava from Youichi’s mouth but he couldn’t stop them from coming. 

“Can we just… not?” Kazuya asked, emphatically but distant, at the same time. 

“Fine by me,” huffed Youichi, turning his back. “Do whatever the fuck you want, see if I give a shit.”

A few minutes passed, the air heavy and suffocating until Youichi heard the creeping sounds of footsteps walking up to him, a pair of arms around his waist. His touch felt like needles, prickling through Youichi’s clothing and piercing the skin; he couldn’t take it. 

Lunging forward, Youichi twisted around and grabbed Kazuya in a tackle-hug, knocking them both to the ground. 

“Sorry,” Youichi mumbled, all the anger fully dissipated by now, arms linked tightly around Kazuya’s stomach. He buried his face in the catcher’s collarbone, clavicle bone jutting out to poke Youichi in the cheek. “Sorry. Didn’t…didn’t mean it or whatever.” 

“Yeah,” Kazuya murmured back and caught Youichi’s cheeks with both hands, palms cupping his jaw as they kissed on the floor. Youichi drew a messy figure-8 in Kazuya’s mouth, soft-lipped and tongue-tied, muffled grunts filling the room. 

When they broke apart, a string of saliva connecting their lips before Youichi ran the pad of his thumb along Kazuya’s bottom lip to wipe it away, Kazuya turned to look at the closet. 

“Just throw it out,” he said, nodding toward one of the tattered boxes marked, ever-helpfully, Stuff. “Don’t keep what you don’t need.” 

“Huh?”

“Precious memories are overrated, anyway, don’t you think?” 

Youichi, try as he might, couldn’t bring himself to agree. 

They continued on like that, going through the motions until graduation. Kazuya continued to keep Youichi at arm’s length, continued to wallow in something, lost in thoughts that Youichi could not comprehend. Could not chase after.

They continued to kiss, they swung bats (kissed again). They came to practice once in a blue moon, Kazuya hanging around the bullpen to mercilessly tease Sawamura while Youichi supervised Haruichi and Seto’s duo-fielding simulations. They made moving plans, slowly began to pack up their dorm room (got distracted, kissed against the stack of taped up boxes) and Kazuya looked unusually pensive. 

Finals came and went, Youichi just barely passing Calculus (he blamed it entirely on Kazuya, who was incessantly annoying and a perpetual distraction on every rare occasion Youichi made the decision to study).

School life was coming to a close, Youichi letting it go with both urgency and an odd sense of contentment in his chest. The days whizzed past and trudged by, at the same time.

The night before graduation, it came to a halt, though, when Kazuya, sprawled out on the bare mattress that had been stripped of its sheets, said, “Let’s go to the roof.”

“The roof?” repeated Youichi, incredulous as he looked up from the luggage he was stuffing t-shirts and socks into.

“Sure,” Kazuya shrugged his shoulders. “Why not? I’m tired of looking at all these boxes.” 

Youichi couldn’t argue with that so they made their way up to the roof, sneaking past the overnight security guard with ease, huddled and shivering in their Seidou windbreakers. It wasn’t a particularly cold March but it wasn’t warm either, the nights still made Youichi’s fingers freeze into icicles. Heavy gusts of breeze blew through their hair. 

The Tokyo skyline looked surreal through the wire frame of the chain-linked fence, encasing them at every angle. Blurry and bright and dancing in Youichi’s peripheral vision. 

“You scared of heights?” Kazuya asked as he watched Youichi peer up and down from the skyline to the concrete below them. 

“Tch,” Youichi scoffed, kicking his heel into the gravelly ground beneath the soles of his baseball cleats, the only other shoe he hadn’t yet packed away besides his bathroom flip flops. “Hell no. You?” 

“Why would I be?” asked Kazuya, cocking an eyebrow, teasingly. 

Youichi clicked his tongue. 

“One day that shitty, flippant attitude of yours is gonna get you sucker-punched in the face and I, for one, cannot wait for that day to come.” 

“Thanks for the compliment!” hummed Kazuya. 

Then, when Youichi said nothing in response, Kazuya spoke up again, his words cutting through the chilly air like a hot knife, breath coming out in little puffs of condensation, billowing up and disappearing. 

“We’re graduating tomorrow,” Kazuya said because he loved to state the obvious. 

“We are,” Youichi replied, simply. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, shaking some warmth into his legs because it was easier than staring at Kazuya, straight on.  

A second of silence passed, Youichi’s teeth chattered uselessly.

“What are we going to do about this, Youichi?” 

He gestured to himself then to Youichi, vaguely, as if to say it was just some unimportant thing, chalking up their 5 month long relationship as ‘this’. 

Youichi blinked at Kazuya, sort of in awe. Sort of tired, sort of angry. The distant lights of the city backlit the catcher’s image, limning him in a half-silver, half-gold glow. He was ethereal and so, so real, all at once. In the past 5 months, he’d become Youichi’s home. His place to retreat to, uncomfortable and disjointed as it was, it was home. Miyuki Kazuya was a distant, foreign creature in the same way he was raw and honest-to-god genuine. So genuine Youichi could cry. 

I’ll never know the real Kazuya, a realization dawned on him, just then, as he watched the wind whip through brunette locks, loose strands dancing over flickering golden eyes, a molten honey. He was just as much a stranger as the day Youichi met him, chortling obnoxiously on the grounds of Field A. 

I’ll never know who the real Kazuya is but even so… 

“I love you.” 

Kazuya’s eyes widened, almost in slow motion, as the pure weight of Youichi’s barefaced declaration sunk in. 

Miyuki Kazuya was the least normal person in the world— Youichi knew that— and he hadn’t expected Kazuya to be happy when he heard those 3 words. Hadn’t expected to hear them back. 

He expected fear, nonchalance, laughter… even a sick-looking expression from the cunning catcher but there was nothing. 

There was nothing. 

Not a single emotion was carved onto Kazuya’s handsomely drawn features, it was just blank, body and eyes unmoving as Youichi stepped forward to kiss him because there was nothing else to say. Kazuya’s lips were cold.

The next morning, the day of graduation, Kazuya woke up before Youichi. It was sunny when Youichi opened his eyes, the light burned his retinas. Daylight spilled past the tiny window, casting shadows on Kazuya that danced and refracted against his milky skin. 

“Morning,” mumbled Youichi, body aching from last night’s escapades. He bit back a yawn. “You ready for today?” 

A pause. 

“Youichi,” said Kazuya, “let’s end this.” 

part ii: college

Youichi woke up to the sound of knocking, respectful but insistent. 

With a strangled groan crawling up his throat, he rolled out of bed, duvet still tangled around him, stretching his limbs and wincing as he bit back a yawn. 

“You don’t have to knock every time,” he said once he’d mustered enough energy to stagger to the door, opening it to reveal Haruichi, waiting patiently. Absentmindedly, he scratched at the stubble prickling up on his jaw. “I gave you a spare key for a reason.”

“You-san,” Haruichi gave him an unimpressed look, sakura-pink bangs falling over his forehead in wisps of delicate hues. “How would I get you out of bed if I didn’t knock?” 

Youichi jokingly-glared, no real malice behind his gaze, stepping aside so Haruichi could come in. The second baseman untied his shoes and placed them by the welcome mat. 

“You’re exaggerating,” Youichi stated, kicking the door closed behind Haruichi. He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms to his chest. “I’m not that heavy of a sleeper. Besides, it was Saturday and we don’t even have practice today.” 

“You were drinking last night,” countered Haruichi, dropping his bag onto the couch. “It’s worse when you’re drunk, you sleep like you’re dead. Once I literally almost called an ambulance because I thought you were unconscious.”

“Will you stop holding that over my head?! I wasn’t drunk last night. Just tipsy. It was a party! Besides, you know I can’t resist when Eijun makes daiquiris. It’s the only thing that dumbass can make well.”

Haruichi grinned at that, a half-looped smile breaking out across his lips. Any mention of his first friend at Seidou was enough to draw a smile. 

“I guess you’re right about that. Eijun-kun is talented in mysterious ways.” 

Youichi flopped onto the couch with a grunt, squeezing his eyes tightly as he smushed his face into the side of the cushion. Haruichi was right, he had been just a little drunk last night, the remnants of a headache squeezing the space between his eyes. 

“Can I have some water?” Haruichi asked. 

“Help yourself to whatever,” Youichi waved him off. 

Youichi listened, eyes closed, as he heard the sink running in the background. The hum of morning permeated through his tiny, shit-hole apartment and it was sort of serene, in an odd, half-hungover-but-not-quite kind of way. 

“Aniki called last night,” Haruichi said, poking his head out of the kitchen entrance to give Youichi a knowing look. “He said he found a girl from his Advanced Physics lecture hall that he wants to set you up with.” 

Youichi groaned, running a hand through his hair. It was matted to his forehead, still stiff from the hair gel he never washed off last night. 

“Ryou-san is always looking out for me, huh?” 

Haruichi offered him a rueful grin, amused and sympathetic, at the same time. 

“He says you need to get laid more often.” 

“Yeah,” agreed Youichi, a grin threatening to break out on his lips when he thought of his former-senpai. “He would say that, wouldn’t he?” A pause. He bit down on his lip, hard. 

“What’s she like?”

“He said she’s my age and she likes video games and ‘that stupid strawberry soju alcohol that you like’. His words, not mine,” Haruichi chuckled to himself, low and light before his voice dropped. “I can tell him to set it up if you want but… you don’t have to if you don’t want.”

If you’re not ready.

If it still hurts. 

Youichi hated the way his thoughts drifted back to Kazuya. Miyuki Kazuya, who he hadn’t seen since the day he was dumped, walking across the stage and taking his diploma with a grin, all while nursing the greatest heartbreak he’d ever felt in his relatively short life. 

It was a miracle he didn’t bleed out in the Seidou auditorium that day, his chest slashed at the hands of Kazuya, words sharp, slicing a deep gash into his heart; oozing and painful. 

Dating? Youichi hadn’t thought of dating since graduation because golden eyes haunted him, made him feel sick when he tried to think of kissing someone else. Because he could still hear those words, basked in sunshine: Let’s end this. 

But that was in the past, ancient history (sometimes, in the early house when night and morning blurred, Youichi would wake up in a cold sweat, breathless and panting, and wonder if it really was ancient history; if it had ever even happened at all). 

Gritting his teeth, he knew couldn’t keep living life in the shadow of Miyuki Kazuya because, really, that wasn’t living at all. 

So, his mouth feeling like sandpaper, palm clenched in a fist at his side, full of unsteady faux-conviction, he said, “Okay, do it. Tell Ryou-san to set it up.”

Haruichi, who was way too intuitive for his own good, flashed Youichi a comforting smile. 

“Things are gonna look up, You-san,” he said. “Just wait and see.” 

[11:21:05am] ryou-san: she said she’s free next weekend for a first date
[11:21:56am] ryou-san: i set it up for sunday night 

[11:34:58am] me: u rly didn’t have to do all this ryou-san 

[11:36:21am] ryou-san: i’m tired of watching you mope around all the time

[11:37:49am] me: its not MOPING its justified sadness 
[11:38:11am] me: well thanks. how can i repay u?

[11:39:37am] ryou-san: no need. just make the date go well
[11:40:52am] ryou-san: maybe rethink your wardrobe choices while ur at it

[11:42:58am] me: RYOU-SAN!! 

“You-san, what are you doing this weekend?” Eijun asked, throwing his body over Youichi’s, draped uselessly on the elder’s couch like a sack of potatoes, hanging around. 

“None of your business,” was the automatic answer, to which he received a thin, drawn-out whine. 

“Please say you’re free,” he replied. “I need a date.” 

As it turned out, leaving high school wasn’t enough to get the annoyingly persistent pitcher to get off your back. In the years since graduation, Sawamura had become Eijun and Youichi had shed the fond, albeit carelessly tacked on, title of “senpai” in exchange for “You-san.” 

Going to college a few stops away from Keio, Waseda just a half an hour train ride away, Eijun stubbornly refused to leave Youichi’s life and— though the shortstop would sooner gouge his eyes out with a spoon than admit it, outright—he appreciated the company. He appreciated the late nights of greasy Chinese food, sitting cross-legged on Youichi’s kitchen floor. He appreciated the video game tournaments, kicking Eijun’s ass at Smash Bros like they were kids again, back in Room 5.

The space between them closed, reeking of familiarity and comfort. It was disgusting and beautiful, simultaneously.

“A date? Why the fuck are you telling me that?” Youichi snapped back, rolling his eyes and shoving the pitcher away, delighting in the grunt that came from the younger as he hit the carpeted floor beneath them. “No way in hell I’m gonna be your date. You have a boyfriend, remember, dumbass? Want me to tell Chris-senpai that you’re planning on cheating on him?”

Eijun squawked, still lying on the ground and looking up to flash Youichi a stunned look. Youichi cackled, loudly, at his wide eyes and panicked expression.

“I wasn’t going to ask you that! And you know I would never cheat!” he yelled, squirming around. “You better not tell him, You-san!” 

Youichi rolled his eyes, “Oi, you using that kind of language with me? I’m still your senior, you know, jackass.” 

“Please don’t tell Chris-san,” amended Eijun, lazily, with a grunt that earned him a swift kick in the side. “I need a date because Chris-san is gone for the weekend and there’s a party that the team is throwing.”

“And you can’t go alone?”

“I’d die!” screeched Eijun, gesticulating wildly. “You want me to die, You-san?” 

“So you want me,” Youichi replied, with a bland tone, ignoring Eijun’s melodramatic exaggeration, “from a rival team to come to your team’s party?” 

“Sure!” Eijun replied, gleefully, as if it was nothing, rolling over on his back to stare up at the ceiling, making no effort to get up. Youichi shoved his sock-clad feet in the space between his stomach and the loose t-shirt he had on, taking advantage of Eijun’s skin as a portable foot warmer. “I don’t see why not. People bring guests from all over the place.”

Youichi considered it for a second, chewing on his bottom lip and looking down at his phone, absently scrolling through his Instagram feed. A picture from Jun was on the screen, arm slung over someone Youichi had never seen before on one side and Tetsu on the other, staring straight into the camera. 

“I guess it wouldn’t hurt,” Youichi gave in. He still had that bad habit of giving in to the unruly pitcher, as did most people who loved him. “But if you make me hang out with you, I’m leaving.” 

“I hate you!”

“Oh yeah? Then go by yourself if you hate me.”

“I was kidding!” 

“Sure, sure…” Youichi waved him off with a roll of the eyes, a scoff. Then, after a moment of consideration. “What day is this party, anyway?”

“Saturday night,” Eijun replied, giving him a look. “Why?”

“The fuck do you mean ‘why?’” Youichi snapped. “You think I’m always free?” 

“I mean…” Eijun murmured, glancing off to the side because he was still the same cheeky little brat that he was when he was 15 and knew nothing, “not necessarily free but…”

“Well,” Youichi bit back, eyes narrowing to glare at the pitcher, “I have a date on Sunday.”

Eijun’s eyes widened and he shot up from where he was lying, sitting with his back straight as he gawked at Youichi, lips moving to form an O. 

“A date?” he repeated as if the very notion was unthinkable. “You’re going on a date?”

“Yeah,” Youichi said, feeling heat rise in his cheeks at Eijun’s bewildered stare. “Ryou-san set it up... Problem?”

“N-no! No problem,” drawled Eijun before his voice tapered off. The pitcher pulled his knees up, tucking them to his chest. “It’s just… you…you…”

With a sigh, Youichi leaned back, head tilting to rest on the back of the couch. His eyes lazily trailed the overhead fan, sputtering and whirling as it brokenly spun around. He could hear a car honk, faintly, from the street outside his apartment building. 

“Just spit it out, idiot,” Youichi muttered, running a hand over his face. “I know you’re thinking something.” 

Eijun was silent for a moment and quietness was not something he was well-acquainted with, the mood dampening in the air that settled between them. 

“It’s just…” he spoke up, tone uncharacteristically soft. “You haven’t dated since high school.” 

“Who said I ever dated in high school?”

“Miyuki-senpai told me once,” Eijun said, hushed. Youichi’s heart stilled in his chest, his stomach dropping to the pits of his stomach. His whole body was frozen as Eijun continued. “It was right before winter break during your last year. He didn’t… exactly say it but he told me you were going to his house and I just thought… it was the happiest I’d ever seen that tanuki look.” 

Youichi, still shell-shocked from the pitcher’s quiet admission, opened his mouth to reply when, Eijun, still abashed, cut him off.

“Well, that, and I totally saw all the hickeys you left on him.”

Intense heat flushed onto Youichi’s cheeks, embarrassed as he whipped out his arm to fling one of the couch cushions, forcefully mashing it onto Eijun’s face.

“Stupid! Dumbass!” he cried out, in half-anger, half-shame. 

“It’s not my fault you left them in obvious places!” Eijun screamed in defense, bringing his hands up to block the pillow. 

“I’ll kill you for that,” threatened Youichi with a huff, tossing it onto Eijun’s chest with finality.  

“If you want my opinion—“

“I really don’t.”

“Rude!” screeched Eijun before continuing, hugging the cushion as he spoke. “Anyway, if you want my opinion… I think he really did like you.” 

“Well,” Youichi whispered, voice so low that Eijun almost missed it, “things change. Miyuki lies.” 

“It’s okay to be upset,” Eijun insisted. His gaze was so earnest that Youichi had to look away. 

“I’ve had years to be upset,” Youichi replied, softly.

“And you’re okay with it? Dating again?” Eijun asked. “For real?” 

“Yeah,” Youichi said but the thrumming in his heart at the mention of his ex-lover’s name, fast and heavy with no signs of slowing down, threatened to differ. “It’s time I tried moving on, don’t you think?”

Except, as Youichi had bitterly forgotten— all roads lead back to Miyuki Kazuya. 

He had the same boyish brown hair, had the same biting gaze. Had the same plump lips that twisted in a smirk when he knew he’d gotten the better of you. Had the same thick glasses that framed his face perfectly, accentuating his charming features. The LED lights of the party blinked and flashed but even through blinding hues of red, purple, and blue, he was so similar that Youichi almost had a heart attack.

Or maybe he could’ve puked, could’ve passed out. Or maybe he could’ve died, right then and there, in some random person he’d never met before’s kitchen.

Run, his thoughts told him, urgency spilling from his heart to his stomach to the tips of his toes, run. Don’t worry about Eijun, just get out of here. Run. 

All alarms were going off in his brain, sirens screeching and wailing. Alerting him that it wasn’t safe, that staying for even just another millisecond was dangerous. Was life-threatening yet, for some reason, the legs that had— up until now— never failed him before, refused to move. 

Refused to do anything but quiver as the eyes of an older Miyuki Kazuya, the years growing on him like fine wine, met his own, paranoid and blinking rapidly. 

The pre-game liquor Eijun made him chug down before arriving sloshed, dangerously, in his stomach and when Kazuya took a step forward (shitty bastard always had to make the first move, huh?), Youichi’s legs finally decided to work. 

He planted his heel and turned but, in his tunnel vision to get out, get out, get out, he missed the person making their way through the kitchen’s entrance. Stumbling to dart out of the way, he swerved and tripped, falling right into the chest of the last person on Earth he wanted to see. 

“You drunk?” were the first words Kazuya spoke to him in 3 years.

“You not?” slurred Youichi. 

Youichi was uncomfortably smushed into the smooth curve of Kazuya's midsection. His abdomen was irritatingly hard, shoulders broader and more filled out. Youichi felt like he was drowning and suffocating, the swell of the music tearing his eardrums to shreds. 

“I don’t drink,” said Kazuya, letting Youichi wiggle out of his grasp.

“Tch,” Youichi clicked his tongue, “lame.” 

“It’s not lame,” replied Kazuya. “Ever heard of self-preservation? You should try it sometime.” 

Youichi glared, smushed the red Solo cup in his palm and tossed it into the trash. 

“You reek,” Kazuya told him, the dip of his nose wrinkling up. A flash of red, a haze of green. The music that was blaring tapered off to an end, the chattering of drunken college students rising in the few seconds of quiet in between song changes. 

“It’s Eijun’s fault,” Youichi spat out, unsure why he was still standing here, talking. His nerves were shot. “He made me take jello shots before we got here. Dumb bastard doesn’t know the meaning of pre-game.” 

“Eijun?” Kazuya repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Since when was Sawamura ‘Eijun?’” 

“He became Eijun when he refused to fucking leave my apartment for a whole weekend,” Youichi explained, swaying on his knees. Kazuya reached out a hand, absentmindedly, to steady him before realizing and pulling away. “It was the weekend before his first day of college and he was nervous about joining his team so we played Super Smash Bros with Haruichi and—“

Youichi paused, blinked. 

“Not that it matters,” he amended, after a second. Kazuya’s gaze was piercing so Youichi averted his eyes. He turned to leave again before a hand reached out to catch him, strong grip wrapping around his wrist and tugging him back. 

“I caught your last game on tape,” Kazuya said. “Your team is strong this year.” 

Figures, Youichi thought to himself. Our relationship has always been defined by the strict terms of baseball. No more, no less.

Anything else, it seemed, existed in a paradoxical blip in time. 5 months lost to the cruel hands of time. 

Drunk and, for some unknowing reason, willing to humor the catcher, Youichi crossed his arms to his chest and scoffed, “Are you trying to pick a fight? You know we didn’t even make semifinals last year.”

Kazuya waved him off. 

“It’s because your catcher isn’t good at calling.” 

“Yeah?” Youichi raised an eyebrow. “And you would know, right?”

“In your last game of the tournament, I would’ve asked for a slider during the clutch moment in 9th inning.” 

Kazuya flashed him that cheesy, Cheshire cat grin. The one that cockily spread across his lips, teeth twinkling. Youichi wanted to punch him or kiss him or maybe cry. He hated how everything fell back into place, bantering like no time had passed— like Kazuya hadn’t ripped his heart out 3 years ago, put it through the shredder all because Youichi had said he loved him. 

“Are you complimenting me or something?” Kazuya teased. 

“I would never hear the end of it if I was, would I?” A pause. “Why are you here anyway? This is a Waseda party.”

Kazuya rubbed the back of his neck, sheepishly. 

“The captain of my team brought me. He said I needed to socialize more. I was planning on sneaking away sometime soon but…” his voice trailed off. 

Making his way back to the drink table, Youichi poured himself another ladle of questionable fruit-punch-esque liquid from a bowl. It packed a punch when he sipped it, stinging in bitterness as he swallowed. He squeezed his eyes shut and downed the whole cup. 

“Where is Sawamura, anyway?” asked Kazuya, glancing around.

“I don’t know,” Youichi muttered, teeth biting at the plastic rim of the cup. 

A moment of silence befell the two of them before Kazuya turned towards the kitchen entrance. 

“Let’s go find him.” 

Youichi didn’t say anything, stumbled after Kazuya as they weaved in and out of a crowd of people. As he ascended the steps, staring at Kazuya’s back, he couldn’t help feel a wave of frustrated shame crash through him, pummeling him in a heat of anger. 

We go at Kazuya’s pace or nothing at all.

He never changed; he talked a big game about moving on to Eijun but it was a baldfaced lie— he hadn’t changed at all. Not in any way that really counted because here he was, trailing the footsteps of Miyuki Kazuya like he was still 18 years old, about the graduate and hopelessly in love. 

His stomach rolled horribly.

They searched every room, looking for the rowdy pitcher, bumping into sweaty people dancing. First the bathrooms, then the game room. It wasn’t until they made their way into a secluded area in the back of the hallway— dark, the only light trickling in from the downstairs area— that the twinge of nausea, rumbling in the pits of Youichi’s stomach, lurched. 

Kazuya could only offer a breathy gasp when Youichi bent over, suddenly, puking his guts up on Kazuya’s old sneakers. 

With a thin groan, Youichi slumped down, back pressed against the wall. Burying his head in his hands, he wanted to disappear. 

Wordlessly, Kazuya moved to sit next to him, untying his soiled shoes and tossing them aside. They hit the carpeted flooring with a thud. 

“I’ll buy you new ones,” Youichi mumbled, too far gone to care. 

“You’re a mess,” Kazuya ignored him. He looked far too amused for Youichi’s liking. 

“Your fault,” countered Youichi, lacking any real bite to his words. 

“Yeah, you’re right,” agreed Kazuya, in a rare moment of admission. If Youichi didn’t know any better— if Youichi was a fool— he’d think the grin Kazuya wore was genuine. When the shortstop felt slender fingers run through his damp hair, a touch so foreign yet so familiar he could’ve cried; his whole body jerked in response. 

Kazuya was a liar. Kazuya lied about everything. 

The hallway was humid, suffocatingly so. Youichi choked on thick air as the world tilted and swayed, blurring at the edges in the most uncomfortable way. Colors flashed through his vision in a dizzying array, limning Kazuya in vivid hues. Bright and blinding, painfully so. 

And Youichi, thoroughly inebriated and thoroughly heartbroken, leaned forward to catch Kazuya in a kiss, lips desperate as they mashed against the catcher’s.

Huh, his drunken thoughts told him in a disconcerting moment of clarity that grated against his skull. Our lips still fit together. 

Kazuya chuckled through their lips, low and hearty and sending vibrations where their mouths slotted together. He shifted positions, whole body turned towards Youichi’s. 

“You taste gross,” he muttered, cringing and wrinkling his nose but neither made any move to pull away. 

It feels the same, Youichi noted. It felt the same yet distinctly different, at the same time. It was like coming back to the dorm they shared, those last 5 months of their high school careers, their little slice of temporary paradise, secluded from the ugly future awaiting them. It was like coming back to the dorm except someone had rearranged all the furniture, had changed the wall color; home but not quite.  

Kazuya was better at kissing than Youichi remembered, his lips moved more skillfully, more decisively. He didn’t get as red, as abashed, didn’t melt away into a puddle of nothing so quickly. He was more confident as his tongue flitted around, ran over the bottom row of Youichi’s teeth. 

Youichi let out a quiet mmph; pure, untapped emotion poured out of him, boiling and bubbling over. Burning him from every inch, both good and bad. He felt something warm on his skin. Slowly, he broke away from Kazuya, reaching shaky fingers up to touch his own cheeks. 

Wet. 

Oh, his intoxicated thoughts told him, dully, in realization,  I’m crying. 

“Crybaby,” Kazuya muttered, jackass, reaching over to push Youichi’s hair back, loosening the gel enough for a greenish-brown strand to spill over his forehead. “Who are you? Sawamura?” 

“He doesn’t cry as much now,” Youichi mumbled, fist curling tightly around the soft cotton fabric of Kazuya’s shirt, sliding between the gaps in his fingers. “Likes to whine. ’S ‘cuz Chris-senpai babies him.” 

Kazuya opened his mouth to reply when the door next to him opened and a girl and guy tumbled out, stumbling with hushed giggles as they made their way back downstairs and reminding the pair that they weren’t alone. 

A tentative pause.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Kazuya asked, slowly, almost as if he, himself, couldn’t quite believe his words. 

No, was what Youichi’s semi-coherent thoughts told him.

“Yeah,” was what came out.

Kazuya grinned at that, sheepishly— almost shyly—before standing up. He extended his arm down to Youichi, pulling the shortstop up, who swayed at the sudden head rush. 

An end of spring breeze met them when they made their way out of the house, blowing past their hair and tickling their faces as Youichi tripped on practically nothing. It was cool and crisp and sent a shiver down Youichi’s spine. 

“Do you know where we’re going?” Kazuya asked, giving him a look. 

“Sure,” Youichi murmured. “The station is only a couple blocks away.”

It was almost 2 in the morning when Youichi checked his phone. 3 missed calls from Eijun and a text from Haruichi. 

“Somehow, I don’t trust your judgement,” Kazuya shot back, reaching out a hand to grasp Youichi’s bicep tightly, preventing him from falling, flat on his face, onto the concrete as the shortstop clumsily shoved his phone back into the pocket of his jeans. 

“You always have something to say, don’t you, bastard?” Youichi snapped. His eyes darted down to the ground where Kazuya was walking, still very much shoe-less, sauntering down the pavement in only socks like it was nothing. “’m not gonna take that crap with someone who’s got only socks on.”

“Yeah?” countered Kazuya, teasingly. The barest hint of a grin blossomed on full lips, rosy and pulled taut. “And who’s fault is that?”

Youichi could only grumble soft huffs of dissent as they reached the train station, bright lights hurting their eyes in stark contrast to the late-night sky. 

Everything was hazy, unfocused with spots of light, glaring in his eyes, as they stepped onto the platform. 

Kazuya shuddered a little, making a face, “The ground is sticky.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

Sometimes there were rare instances when Kazuya, cheeky as he was, had nothing witty left to say so, instead, he leaned forward and filled the space with a kiss, locking lips with Youichi tightly as the train roared into the station. 

Gusts of wind, the clamor of the wheels slamming against the tracks. The screeching of metal on metal as the train came to a stop and Kazuya, Kazuya, Kazuya. 

Stop it, the slowly-diminishing rational part of Youichi told him. You still have a chance to stop this. Stop it before you do something you can’t take back. 

But Kazuya’s lips were warm and familiar, pillowy as Youichi sunk into them and he felt like a kid, a high schooler; just 18, clueless, and in love for the very first time.

Maybe it was the alcohol, the enthrallment of a bad decision, but everything tasted better when Kazuya was around. 

Clamoring onto the train carriage, they didn’t break contact for even a second, soft pants drowned out by the voice of the conductor, calling out the next stop. 

They kissed on the train, smushed up against the window as the city whizzed outside, streaks of light zooming by. Youichi’s shirt hiked up, skin flushed and pressed to the cool metal interior. Kazuya’s fingers were like lightning when they grazed past his hips, electric and sending shocks of pleasure down Youichi’s spine. 

They kissed through the whole ride. 

They kissed as they exited, spilling past the sliding doors. 

They kissed on the walk back to Youichi’s place, occasionally pausing to hungrily bring their lips together. 

“Haha,” Youichi laughed, uncontrollably, everything seeming funnier as he fumbled with his house keys, jamming them clumsily into the lock. His sides hurt, leaned against the knob to hold him upright. “You don’t have any shoes on.” 

“You’re dumb right now.” 

“Yeah, I’m drunk… what’s your excuse?” 

“Ooh,” Kazuya hummed in fake fear, taking a step back as his eyebrows shot up, suggestively. “Tough words. Got anything to back them up, Youichi?”

Youichi, finally getting the door opened, stepped forward to grab Kazuya by the front of his shirt, yanking him into the dimly lit apartment, harshly. Pulling their faces together, Kazuya’s shallow breathing tickling the tip of his nose. 

“Hell yeah, I do.” 

Kazuya closed the gap between their mouths, eagerly and selfishly, as Youichi flicked the lights on. 

In some uncoordinated dance, they’d managed to fold their bodies into Youichi’s tiny bedroom, limbs tangled around each other, unable to discern whose was whose as they fell onto the cheap mattress. 

“Wait,” Kazuya managed to pant out, breathless, as he pulled away from the kiss. “Can I use the bathroom first?”

Youichi frowned, clicking his tongue.

“What are you?” he asked. “A professional mood-ruiner?”

“That’s actually my middle name,” teased Kazuya. 

Youichi rolled his eye, jutting his thumb out towards the adjoining bathroom, across from his bed. 

“Be quick,” he warned as Kazuya scampered off. 

Blinking, he listened to the catcher hum quietly, sounds echoing and reverberating on the walls. 

He remembered the days he’d lay on the bed in their tiny dorm room, watching Kazuya go about every day. Change into his uniform, tugging his shirt over the bruises and love-bites scattered on his chest. Remembered the way he’d study the scorebooks, even when he no longer needed to, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Memories Youichi didn’t know he still had came forth as he listened to the dull sounds of Kazuya’s footsteps, padding along Youichi’s bathroom floor. 

Sitting up, Youichi ran a hand through his face. His skin was flushed and warm beneath his touch. Glancing over towards the bathroom, he couldn’t help but wonder how long Kazuya would stay. Couldn’t help but hope, stupidly, if maybe this time it was different. If Kazuya initiating contact indicated something had changed.

Don’t be the asshole I think you are, he silently begged, pulling out his phone from his pant pocket. The harsh blue-light greeted him, so bright it made him recoil as he slid his finger on the screen, pulling up his messaging app. Prove me wrong for once. 

[03:09:43am] me: ryouu san im drunk  rn sry 4 texting so late
[03:10:14am] me: pleaz cancel the date tomrrow i am going to b w someone

Right as he finished typing out the last message, Kazuya re-emerged, sliding onto the bed to tuck his head into the folds of Youichi’s stomach, arms circling around to link around the shortstop’s waist. And, because he was annoying, he pushed the two of them down, Youichi’s head crashing into the pillow. 

Youichi grunted as he ran his hands through Kazuya’s scalp, tufts of soft brown hair combing through his fingers like thread, unraveling from a spool. 

We don’t have to do this, Youichi wanted to say.

“Is this okay for you?” is what came out, mouth dry as their fingers interwove together, pressed against the plush white duvet cover, spread lazily over Youichi’s bed. 

“Yeah,” Kazuya muttered, shifting his weight around. “You?”

A gulp. 

“Yeah.” 

Youichi tilted his head to bring their lips together, hands fumbling to pull Kazuya’s shirt over his head. The catcher followed suit, leaning forward into Youichi’s grabby hands. 

They made out for a while, urgency bleeding into the heavy air, until Youichi pulled away, flipping Kazuya over so he was on top. Kazuya was a vision against the bedsheets, sprawled out as Youichi boxed him down onto the mattress, two hands landing beside Kazuya’s head. 

He leaned down to lay kisses on Kazuya’s body, starting at the next and slowly descending, running his tongue over the dips and curves of Kazuya’s collarbone, lapping over ruddy skin. 

Slowly, Kazuya raised his legs to hook his ankles around Youichi’s calves, squeezing tightly. A whine permeated the air. 

Stay with me, stay with me. Stay with me. 

“I missed you,” Youichi managed to mumble out between breathless kisses that were soft-lipped and open-mouthed. The overhead light glowed with yellow-tint, flickering uselessly, casting shadows that danced over bare skin. “Fuck. I missed you so much.”

For a split second, Youichi swore Kazuya paused, body tensing up and hesitating against Youichi’s. For a split second, Youichi swore Kazuya broke the kiss, moving away to stare at Youichi with glazed, widened eyes, expression indecipherable in the dark.

I remember this, was the only coherent thought Youichi had left. I remember all of it. 

Youichi was at least a little grateful for muscle memory, body satiated yet tired, sore, as he laid beside Kazuya, chest rising and falling in succession as they rode out the high. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so close to another person, the last time he’d felt burning skin on burning skin, kisses on the nape of his neck and all the other intimate places where no one from the outside could reach. 

(No, a part of him said, that’s a lie. You can remember, it was 3 years ago). 

Their fingers lay beside their bodies, the tips grazing past each other’s but refusing to intertwine, fully. 

Emotions were boiling high, a combination of the liquor that still hadn’t burned out and the crescendo of sticky, gooey feelings that came with salacious acts. Sentiment burned in his mind, blossoming through his chest, hot and achy and awful. 

“I love you,” Youichi said, unable to filter his words as they spilled directly from his drunken mind past his lips, kiss-swollen and full. He regretted the words as soon as they came out, thrust into the world by force, but he kept going, too far gone to take them back or stop himself.  “I love you, Kazuya… Always have.” 

Kazuya was silent, rolled over onto his back to stare up at Youichi’s ceiling. 

After 7 excruciatingly long seconds, Kazuya opened his mouth, words cracking as they escaped. 

“Yeah.” 

Youichi’s heart ached, pounding heavily in deep thuds. 

Something wet and salty trickled down his cheek, dripping past his ear and onto his pillow. Kazuya glanced over, watched Youichi cry for a split second before turning his head again. 

Kazuya was a liar. Kazuya lied about everything so, why, just this once, can’t he lie about this? 

Youichi fell asleep to the sound of Kazuya’s labored breathing, the thrum of his heartbeat, and the deafening silence that swallowed him in the space where 3 little words should’ve been. 

It was sunny when Youichi awoke, the sun streaming its angry beams into the shortstop’s window when his eyes cracked open, dry and pounding. 

It was sunny when Youichi realized, with bated breath, that the space next to him was empty. Empty but still warm when Youichi placed his hand on the sheets, Kazuya’s phantom presence lingering in the folds of the cloth. 

It was sunny, excruciatingly so, when Youichi turned his body over to see a glass of lukewarm water, two ibuprofen tablets, and a note waiting for him on his nightstand. 

He unfolded it with shaky hands. 

Sorry about last night. Thanks for letting me stay over

- K

Idiot, Youichi thought, his chest felt hollow, how dare you apologize. 

It hurt deeply and intensely— the hangover headache, the clumsily scrawled out note, and the realization that nothing had changed since that day, since graduation. 

And, just as soon as Miyuki Kazuya had walked into his life after 3 years, he walked back out, leaving Youichi to wonder if he’d even returned at all. 

part iii: adulthood 

Youichi balanced his cellphone, precariously tucked between his cheek and shoulder as he poured a mug of coffee and listened to Haruichi’s voice, smooth and easy-going, float through his ear. 

“… so then Furuya-kun got chewed out by Muramatsu-san— ah, that’s the name of our catcher—” 

Youichi managed a huff of laughter, cutting off Haruichi as he set the coffee pot down. 

“I know who your catcher is.” 

Haruichi echoed Youichi’s nonchalant chuckle before saying, “I’m still not used to the weather here. It gets colder much earlier than it does in Tokyo.”

“Yeah, well,” Youichi brought the coffee mug to his parted lips, billows of smokey condensation floating into the air, “is the weather enough to convince you to move back? Eijun is driving me crazy! You’d think the Giants’ ace pitcher wouldn’t have so much free time on his hands but somehow he finds a way.”

“He’s just excited,” excused Haruichi, softly. Youichi could practically see the smile, rosy and soft, on the second baseman’s face. 

“I don’t care if he’s excited,” Youichi shot back. “If I have to look at his big-ass binder full of napkin colors one more time, I swear to god, Haruichi, I’m going to lose my shit. By the time you get back for the wedding, there’ll be no wedding because I would have murdered the groom with my own two hands.” 

“Scary, You-san,” Haruichi whistled, knowing all too well that Youichi’s threats were empty. 

Youichi paused to take a sip of coffee, bitter on his tongue and warm on his throat, as his eyes floated out the window. The blue sky smiled back at him. 

It had been almost 4 since Youichi had last seen Kazuya (he’d unconsciously come to use the time he’d spent with the catcher as a marking point for important milestones in his life). 

Youichi watched as his life melted, changed, morphed, and took shape into something new around him. In those years, he’d moved out of his shitty little place near campus to a bigger apartment— still relatively shitty, all things considered— near the physical therapy clinic that he’d somehow gotten a job at. 

He watched Eijun pitch his first no-hitter game on a professional mound, watched Chris slip a ring onto Eijun’s finger. He watched Haruichi get drafted to the Fighters and leave Tokyo to join Furuya in Hokkaido; watched Haruichi’s debut game where he hit two doubles and a homer. 

And, just sometimes, he allowed his thoughts to drift to Kazuya. It wasn’t like it was easy to block out all reminders of him, anyway. Youichi walked past his face everyday quite literally— a giant billboard advertising men’s perfume with Kazuya plastered everywhere lived right next to his clinic. 

The year he graduated, Kazuya had been the talk of the baseball world, everyone clamoring to know which team would draft the famed catcher, Koshien champion with a record number of hits in a single season. It had been a little self-deprecating but Youichi had watched the ceremony, sports channel playing dully in the background the whole night as he waited for Kazuya’s turn. 

And, in spite of himself, he smiled a little as he watched, through the glossy TV screen, as Kazuya stepped forth into the world as the newest member of the Yakult Swallows. 

“I have to go now,” Haruichi’s voice broke Youichi out of his thoughts before the former shortstop got too lost in them. “I promised to meet Furuya-kun for a run before practice starts.”

“Don’t tire yourself out too much,” Youichi replied. 

“You’re just saying that because you’re a physical therapist now,” answered Haruichi, teasingly. “You’re turning into a worrywart, You-san.” 

“It’s some scary shit, Haruichi,” warned Youichi, looking down to check his watch, absently. “I swear, some athletes could have their whole leg cut off and they’d still play on it.” 

Haruichi was quiet for a moment, pensive. 

“I think we all know a person or two like that. Tell Eijun-kun that me and Furuya-kun say hi!”

“Sure, sure,” Youichi dismissed with a grin. “Have a good day.”

“You too!” 

And, with a click, the line went dull. Youichi sighed, polishing off the rest of his coffee before stalking back into the bedroom to change. 

It was going to be a long day. 

Youichi had 3 patients today— a soccer player on the off-season with a ligament tear, a student athlete with a dislocated elbow, and an older woman who’d taken a fall and hurt her ankle. Then, for the rest of the day, he was covering patients for one of the doctors on vacation. 

It had been a hard decision, deciding to step down from baseball. It had been a hard decision, deciding to leave the only constant he’d had in his life for almost its entirety but his sports medicine degree was handy and Ryousuke had told him, in a rare genuine moment before his graduation, that baseball isn’t the only fulfilling thing out there. 

So Youichi had taken the advice in stride and, all things considered, he was happy. Or, more accurately, content. 

He liked his job, he liked meeting patients, hearing fun stories from all kinds of sports players. He liked drinking coffee in the break room and scribbling little doodles into the side of his notepad while he waited for his patients. 

Halfway through the day, before lunch, Youichi was standing by the reception desk, skimming over a folder of information, when he heard the glass doors push open and footsteps walk through the marble floor of the lobby. 

“Hello, sir,” their receptionist greeted from behind the desk, voice echoing through the chilly room. She was a nice girl, relatively new to the clinic, with a kind smile and Youichi had treated her to a latte once. 

“Do you have an appointment with us today?” 

“I’m so sorry,” a man’s voice said, frantic sounding. “We don’t actually have one but…”

“We don’t really take walk-ins,” Youichi spoke up, not looking up from the paper he was inspecting. “If you go to our website, we—“

His words died, very quickly, on his tongue as his head rose to meet the sharp gaze of someone all too familiar. 

“You can’t make an exception for me?” asked a snide, irritatingly-confident voice that sometimes echoed in Youichi’s eardrums when he least expected it to. 

Youichi blinked for a second, trying desperately to quell the pounding of his heart as Miyuki Kazuya stared at him with golden imploring eyes. 

A frantic looking man, he couldn’t have been more than 5 years older than Youichi and Kazuya, stood behind him. Probably a manager, guessed Youichi from the way he was trailing Kazuya’s steps, urgently.

“We’re so sorry!” he bowed his head where Kazuya just crossed his arms. Poor bastard. “I’m sure you know of Miyuki-san and we’re just looking for a second opinion on some recent pain in his knees and wrist. It can be quick!”

“Yeah,” grit out Youichi through clenched teeth. “I do know of… Miyuki-san.” 

Kazuya snorted with laughter, covering it up with an unconvincing cough.

Youichi glared.  

“What should I do?” Kazuya drawled. “Management is gonna have my head if I don’t get this checked out… and poor Nakashima-san’s job’ll be on the line—“

“Miyuki-san?!”

“— if he can’t get me this appointment.” A pause. A fake, melodramatic sigh. “Ah, well, nothing we can do I suppose. Thank you for your time, anyway…” Kazuya pretended to squint at Youichi’s metal name tag, right above his coat pocket, “… Kuramochi-sensei.” 

That fucking prick. Youichi wanted to scream but took two and a half shaky breaths before saying, “If it’s that urgent, I can squeeze you in. But it has to be right now before I go on break.” 

Kazuya’s face broke out into that shit-eating grin that Youichi knew too well while Nakashima visibly relaxed, features melting into relief. 

“Thank you so much,” Nakashima said and Youichi offered him a wobbly grin before jutting his finger towards the exam rooms in the back.

“Please follow me… M-Miyuki-san.” 

“No need to be so formal,” teased Kazuya, stepped forward to follow Youichi. Youichi frowned as he watched the catcher lean, ever so slightly, towards the side, favoring his left knee. Someone who wasn’t so intimately aware of Kazuya’s nature, his habits, would’ve missed it but not Youichi. Even all these years later, not Youichi. “Call me Kazuya.”

“No thanks,” replied Youichi, sharply. 

Silence settled between them as Youichi unlocked and pushed open Exam Room 5, flicking on the overhead lights. Once the door closed, comfortably, behind them and Kazuya got situated on the table, kicking his shoes off by the entrance, Youichi turned to him with a pointed look.

“Did you know that I worked here?” he asked, not cutting corners. There was no point when half-baked lies were all he was going to get, anyway. 

Instead, shockingly, Kazuya answered with a sheepish grin instead of a cheeky one. He rubbed the back of his neck, an old habit he clearly hadn’t dropped. 

“No,” he said, “but I did hear from Sawamura that this is what you were doing. He told me after one of our games.” 

Youichi narrowed his eyes.

“Fucker,” he spat despite his voice lacking any true venom. “That’s a lie. You looked up this clinic, didn’t you?” 

“Let’s just say it was an unlucky coincidence that you happened to work at the Shibuya branch instead of the Roppongi one,” shrugged Kazuya, with a nonchalance that tipped Youichi’s irritation over the edge. 

Kazuya always did things in backwards, roundabout ways, said things he didn’t mean and, even worse, things that he did mean but it felt cruel, in some vexing way— purposefully not making an appointment to corner Youichi, acting as if their painful hookup 4 years ago never happened. 

He never stayed yet he never left, leaving Youichi in constant limbo. An angry, unrelenting tandem. 

Yet, even despite all the hurt, the fury, Youichi couldn’t find it in his heart to be genuinely mad. And he hated himself for it but he’d grown accustomed to it; it came with the territory of loving Miyuki Kazuya. 

He clicked his tongue, sitting down on the rolling stool in front of the examination table. 

“What the hell did you do to yourself now, huh?” 

The mood shifted and Kazuya tensed up. 

“It’s not that bad,” he insisted, voice low. “They’re making a big deal out of nothing.” 

“You don’t get to just walk into here, demand an appointment out of nowhere then tell me what’s good or bad,” Youichi snapped, biting down on his lower lip as he reached forward to roll up Kazuya’s pant leg, smooth skin exposed. “I’ll be the goddamn judge of that.”

“Good to see that being a doctor hasn’t changed that foul mouth of yours.” 

Youichi scoffed as he began to palpate the skin, feeling for any tangible knots or tears in the muscle. 

“Good to see that the pros haven’t changed that shitty attitude of yours.” 

“Should you really be saying that to a patient, Kuramochi-sensei?” asked Kazuya, pretending as if he didn’t wince when Youichi massaged the skin below his kneecap, the exam table paper crinkling as he shifted his weight. “Seems sort of unprofessional.”

“I’ll make an exception for you,” Youichi replied before taking Kazuya’s calf into both palms. “I’m going to lift your knee up and push in, can you tell me your pain level on a scale of 1 to 10?” 

When he did, Kazuya hissed, softly. 

“2,” the catcher said, immediately after Youichi dropped his leg. 

Youichi rolled his eyes. 

Liar. 

Standing up, Youichi leaned forward towards the exam table, taking Kazuya’s hand in his own. 

“Is it your left or right wrist that has the pain?” he asked, trying to maintain a professional guise because Kazuya’s palm was warm, skin soft, and he remembered the way it used to cup his cheeks. The way it would travel down his chest, interlace in his own. 

Kazuya hesitated before answering. 

“Left wrist, right knee.” 

Gently, Youichi felt the bone before carefully rotating it around his fingers. Kazuya’s breathing was airy and light, filling Youichi’s ear as the catcher watched their connected hands, intently. 

Once Youichi was finished examining him, he sat back down on the stool.

“So all you’re really looking for is a second opinion, right?” 

Kazuya nodded, “My coach just wants to be sure before we look into treatment options…” 

“Your wrist is probably just sprained,” Youichi said, scribbling on his pad. “Just ice it, rest it— you know the drill— and it should clear up but your knee… I would guess it has something to do with the cartilage. Maybe a torn meniscus. If the tear isn’t too long you won’t need surgery so that’ll cut down the recovery time significantly but make sure to get an MRI done with your team doctor.” 

When Kazuya said nothing, stared down at his leg like it personally offended him, Youichi clicked his tongue.

“Seriously,” he muttered, shoving his pen into his pocket, “you did this to yourself, didn’t you? Just like the Fall Tournament…you let it get bad.” 

“Hey,” Kazuya offered an unsteady chuckle. “That time definitely wasn’t my fault. How come you can’t recall a certain body slam that took place? Having memory issues, Youichi?” 

“Sure,” Youichi tried to stop the smile from tugging at the corner of his lips, divulging into fond memories from a better time, “but it was your own damn fault for not saying anything.” 

With a heave, Youichi stood up again. He walked towards the door of the examination room and opened it. Kazuya understood the signal, getting off the table. 

“It’s my lunch break now,” he said to Kazuya. “So get out of here. Don’t you dare play on that shit, I swear to god, Kazuya—“

“Thanks,” Kazuya cut him off, out of nowhere, “for… y’know…” 

It was so earnest it took Youichi off guard a little.

“Whatever,” he murmured, face growing red. “Honestly, the shit I do for you.” 

He walked backed to the reception desk with Kazuya in silence, neither dared speak. Nakashima was waiting for him in one of the plush chairs that lined the lobby entrance, rising when he saw Kazuya arrive. 

Youichi explained his prognosis, not trusting Kazuya to do it himself, to Nakashima and handed him the slip of paper with it written out in half-legible handwriting. Was it because he had naturally messy writing or was it because his hand was shaking, just slightly, the whole time? Youichi wouldn’t say.  

“Thank you so much, Kuramochi-sensei,” Nakashima said, repeatedly bowing his head in wild gratitude. Youichi waved him off with a kind, small smile, lips pulled taut. 

“See you around,” he told Kazuya because any other words would be too hard to say, heart pinching tightly in his ribcage, restricting the air in his throat.

It hurt, it always did. 

Right as Kazuya turned to leave, the catcher’s body uncharacteristically jerked, pausing before he could reach the clinic’s threshold. 

“Youichi—“ he called, stopping the former shortstop in his tracks. 

Youichi stared back at him, intently. He watched, almost in slow-motion, as Kazuya’s features morphed from uncertain to resigned, eyes glossy under the lens of his glasses and hooded-lids, peaking out from eyelashes too long for his own good. 

His mouth opened and closed twice before he spoke up, waving his hand, lightly, in dismissal. 

“Never mind. It’s nothing,” Kazuya said before disappearing into the mid-day air. 

Liar. 

Liar.

Of course it wasn’t nothing, Youichi’s thoughts screamed. Kazuya was a liar. 

Youichi was dead on his feet by the time he got home, the stress of the day and seeing Kazuya, after so long, weighing on his body, crushing him into submission. 

His apartment was chilly when he stepped in, a shudder crawling up his spine as he shrugged his coat off and hung it up. It was later than he’d expected, having to stop at the grocery store upon realizing, smushed between two other train commuters, that his fridge currently consisted of only beer, two eggs, and instant miso soup cubes. 

By the time he put all the groceries away, he was seriously wondering if making food was absolutely necessary but eventually gave in, knowing he’d be a fucking hypocrite after all the preaching about self-care to Eijun and Haruichi. 

The apartment was eerily quiet as he cooked, humming to himself quietly and swirling his chopsticks around a pan of sizzling chicken breast and oil. The reverberations of nothing echoed in his ears. 

He ate a small portion of oyakudon, sitting on his couch as he absentminded flipped through TV channels. He was finished eating just as he finally settled on a program— the Sports Channel, instinctively grinning when he saw Shirasu’s blasé facial expression peering out from under the bill of his cap, being interviewed.

He watched until the end of the segment, chuckling at Shirasu’s dry but humorous responses. He hasn’t changed. I should text him sometime. 

Not wanting to waste any more time— every second he spent doing anything else was a second he could be in bed, warm and curled up and dead to the world— so he got up with a heave, placed his bowl in the sink, and headed towards the master bathroom for a bath.

The water was scalding, burning his skin as he lowered himself in but it was comforting in that painful way and mind-numbing so he relaxed and let his mind wander; a dangerous pastime. 

His thoughts drifted to Kazuya, to his face. His eyes looked older, tired. Worn out around the edges, crinkling when he grinned, yet it still maintained that same shitty, boyish charm. Still held that ambitious twinkle that once said— no, dared— the rest of the team to follow suit. To go down that risky path, growing narrower and narrower with every step forward but never losing sight of the light. 

He brought them the highest of highs in their life yet… 

That was forever ago, Youichi realized. And, a rueful smile spreading across his lips as he ran shampoo through his scalp, I still don’t know who that person is. Not then, not now. Not ever. 

It was a simple fact he’d resigned himself to years ago, the day he told Kazuya he loved him for the first time, heart splattered on the gravelly rooftop floor. 

And, an even more painful fact— maybe I’m not meant to know who he is. 

As Youichi was climbing out of the bath, running a towel through his dripping hair, he heard his phone vibrating loudly on the countertop. 

He rolled his eyes; only one person lacked enough tact to call him at almost midnight. 

“What do you want, Eijun?” he asked, not even having to look at the Caller ID as he slid his finger across the screen to answer, balancing the phone between his cheek and shoulder as he tied the towel around his waist. 

“You-san,” complained Eijun, petulantly, “A hello would be nice!”

“I’m not politely greeting the bastard who has the audacity to call me and probably chew my fuckin’ ear off for the next hour at midnight.” 

“It’s not chewing!” Eijun protested with a shout because he was loud at all hours of the day, regardless. “I’m just bored right now! Also, I wanted your opinion on something… do you think we should have laced table clothes at the reception or—“

“I’m going to stop you right there and say I don’t fucking care,” Youichi interjected as he headed towards his wardrobe to grab his pajamas, putting Eijun on speakerphone as he changed. 

“You-san, it’s important!” Eijun’s voice was shrill as it rung through Youichi’s hollow walls, filling the once-silence was life. And for that Youichi was at least a little grateful, not that he’d ever tell the pitcher that. “Chris-san told me to do what I think is best but that’s the issue! I don’t know what’s best!” 

Youichi pulled the phone back to his ear with a roll of the eyes, “I never thought I’d say this but I liked you better when all you cared about was being the ace.” 

“Wedding planning is an art-form, You-san,” Eijun protested. “You wouldn’t know.” 

“No,” agreed Youichi. “I wouldn’t. And from how annoying you’re being, I don’t think I want to.” 

Eijun was quiet for a second. 

“That’s because you don’t ever put yourself out there,” Eijun replied, having the absolute gall to lecture Youichi as if he hadn’t heard the same spiel from both Eijun and Ryousuke, at least twice a week. “All you do is talk on the phone with Harucchi and visit onii-san for brunch and—“

“I saw him today,” Youichi cut him off, stepping back into his living room. He sunk into the couch cushions, tipping his head over the top of the backrest to stare at the ceiling. He counted the places that the paint was cracking. 

If he closed his eyes, he could see feel the tickle of Kazuya’s breath. Still feel Kazuya’s palm on his own, the curves of his bone jutting out against miraculously delicate skin. 

“Hm? What?” 

“I saw him,” repeated Youichi. “Kazuya.” 

A moment of silence before, “You did?!”

Youichi had to pull his ear away from his phone to avoid his eardrums being blown-out. 

“Idiot! I can hear you! You don’t have to scream in my ear!” 

Eijun, ignoring him, continued in that same loud screech, “You saw him?!” 

“Yeah,” Youichi shrugged as if it was the most casual thing in the world. “He was coming in for a second opinion on wrist and knee issues. He said you told him about my job.” A pause. “Did he ask?” 

“No,” Eijun answered, tone dropping to a hush. “I just thought he ought to know. I cornered him into a conversation in the hallway between the two locker rooms.”

Youichi bit back a laugh because it was such an Eijun thing to do— trap someone into conversing with him because he refused to let people he cared about worm themselves away for him, refused to see this fade away from his life. Youichi thought he was like that but, no, not quite. Not with everyone, not with the person that mattered the most. 

He was envious (just a little) which made him roll his eyes because being envious of Sawamura Eijun of all people was like admitting defeat on life. 

“So what happened?” Eijun implored when Youichi never replied. 

“What the hell do you think? I’m pretty sure it’s a torn meniscus so I sent him to his own team doctor to get an MRI. It was only a second opinion, anyway.”

“And?” Eijun pressed on— nosy fucker. 

A chuckle clawed its way out of Youichi’s throat, dry and sour-tasting in his mouth. 

“And what? That’s it.”

“That’s it?” 

“Yeah. He left.” 

“That damn tanuki,” Eijun muttered. Youichi could practically see him shaking his fist at nothing. “He can’t treat you like that, You-san! I’ll definitely give him a piece of my mind next time we have a match. Wait! I think the Swallows are coming to Spring Training or—“

A knock on Youichi’s front door, low and barely noticeable, interrupted Eijun’s meaningless tirade. 

“—maybe we’ll be in the same bracket during the Japan Series. What do you think?”

“Hold that thought,” Youichi replied, getting up from where he was nestled on the couch cushions. “Someone’s at the door.”

“At midnight?” gasped Eijun, loud and airy right into Youichi’s ear. “Don’t open it, You-san! It could be a burglar!”

“I live in a complex, idiot,” spat back Youichi as he reached the hallway. He placed his hand on the metal doorknob and began to pull it open. “There’s literally a security system—“

Youichi’s words trailed off as Miyuki Kazuya, standing in the hallway with his hands in sweatpants pockets, flashed him a cheesy grin. 

“Eijun, I’ll call you back,” Youichi somehow managed to gasp out, hanging up abruptly, cutting off the pitcher’s voice that was still shrilling out of his phone’s speaker. 

It took Youichi a moment to find his voice, throat constricting tightly and making it hard to choke out words. 

“What are you doing here?” demanded Youichi, narrowing his eyes and clutching on the doorframe. He had half a mind to shut it in his face, to turn away and never look back but some stupid, stupid part of him fought against it. “How do you know where I live?” 

“Ah,” at least the catcher had the decency to look just a little sheepish, gaze shifting around as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I asked Zono.”

Youichi’s eye widened before a flash of anger washed over him at the realization that Kazuya was seeking out people from his past— people he probably hadn’t talked to in years— to come harass him and that Zono was just giving out his address to the first person who asked. 

That jackass, he thought, gritting his teeth. I’ll kill him next time I see him. 

“So what do you want?” Youichi asked. “You have 10 seconds to explain before I call the cops on your trespassing ass.” 

“There was more pressure in my knee. It hurts when I straighten it. Before it was just when it was bent,” Kazuya replied, eyes staring at Youichi, shiny and intense, jarring him as they bore holes into the former-shortstop. It was a flimsy lie at best, an unconvincing excuse but Youichi had to give him props for coming up with it. “So I was wondering if you’d tell me what you think.”

Youichi clicked his tongue. 

“I saw you literally, like, 9 hours ago.” 

“A lot can change in 9 hours, Youichi,” teased Kazuya, a grin spreading across his cheeks. “Are you gonna deny a patient?” 

“You’re not my patient,” Youichi spat back. “I’d kill myself if you were.”

“Thanks for the compliment!” 

Against all of Youichi’s better judgement, he stepped aside and let Kazuya shuffle in, kicking his shoes off in the entrance. 

“Nice place,” Kazuya commented, off-handedly, as he followed Youichi isn’t the living room. Youichi, for some reason unbeknownst to him, felt sort of embarrassed at the clashing colors of the rug and walls, not decisive enough to pick just one, and the gaudy picture frames on his TV stand (a house-warming gift from Eijun). 

“Don’t fuckin’ patronize me,” Youichi replied, crossing his arms tightly to his chest. “I saw that Interior Design article about your place in Roppongi Hills.” 

Kazuya was quiet for a second before saying, “I’m rarely there. That article was just for show, pretty much.”

“What? Too expensive for your taste? Too many couches?”

“Yeah,” Kazuya said, blinking at Youichi, unexpectedly candid. “I have a studio by the practice grounds…no couches.” 

Youichi, very suddenly, remembered the little place he and his dad used to live in above Miyuki Steel. The room with barely a desk and a futon where he’d spilled his heart out to Kazuya for the first time in their short-lived relationship. He remembered the cramped kitchen with the faded family photos and candles, he remembered bumping into Kazuya as they rummaged around the cabinets, hips brushing against each other. The little TV and the smell, almost like he was still there, of fried rice that was still burned into his memory.  

Maybe a small life, Youichi couldn’t help but think, is what he’s used to. 

It seemed so very human of Kazuya that it took the breath out of Youichi’s lungs, knocking him clean of air. 

“Sit down here,” he directed the catcher, pointing to his couch. Kazuya did as instructed. “Did you get an MRI yet?”

“It’s scheduled,” said Kazuya, unconvincingly flippant. 

Youichi pulled up a footrest to sit in front of Kazuya, grabbing his leg. He dug his fingers, as gently as possible, into his joint. Kazuya’s muscle tensed under his touch before relaxing, just slightly, as he continued to prod at the tender skin. 

He glanced up to look at Kazuya’s face, round lips curling up in a wince. 

They stayed like that for a couple of minutes that felt like an eternity, in some warped sense of reality that only came with spending time around Kazuya. The air in Youichi’s apartment was unbearably thick, buzzing with anticipation. Even Kazuya leaned forward and Youichi pretended not to notice the way his eyes lazily peered at him, strands of loose hair falling over his forehead and glasses slipping down the smooth slope of his nose. 

Finally, Youichi pushed his leg away with a half-irritated, half-resigned grunt. 

“I don’t feel anything different,” Youichi began. “I can still feel a slight tear but it doesn’t seem to have changed or gotten longer, an—“

Kazuya’s lips cut him off, body already tilted downwards towards the former-shortstop. Youichi’s eyes flew open in shock before fluttering closed as he struggled to reach an outstretched hand, cradling the base of Kazuya’s neck, kissing back with fervor. 

His hair was tangled in between Youichi’s fingers as he pulled Kazuya’s head closer to him, holding firmly. 

Youichi slid his body onto Kazuya’s with rusty-yet-practiced ease, never breaking contact as they shuffled around to lie back on the couch. Kazuya’s lips were the same as always, so jarringly similar that it almost felt different in its own right. They slotted together like they’d never left each other, warm and wet in all the ways Youichi loved.

They made out, languid and limp against the slightly-scratchy fabric of Youichi’s sofa. Youichi’s whole body shuddered when his skilled mouth latched onto a particularly sensitive patch of skin, just below his jawline. He was embarrassed at the useless whine that escaped, involuntarily, when the catcher sucked on it, lapping his tongue and leaving a mark that would be a pain to cover up tomorrow. 

“Did your knee actually even hurt, you prick?” Youichi muttered in between kisses, tightly squeezing his eyes shut, his words almost lost against Kazuya’s mouth, “or were you just wasting my goddamn time until you could do this?” 

“Who knows?” Kazuya murmured back. Youichi nipped on the bottom of his lips, in response. 

Liar. 

Kazuya was a liar. 

Kazuya was a liar who couldn’t do things the normal way, who never stayed but never left, and it made Youichi sick. Made him want to cry and laugh, in spite of himself, at the same time. 

Kazuya lied about everything yet Youichi just let him, because—deep down— he was still just that naive, angry little 18 year old.

He hated it. He hated it, he hated it, he hated it.

But it had always been that way because loving Kazuya was the knife that Youichi twisted into his own gut and every day he bled out a little bit more. 

“Should we go to the bedroom?” huffed Youichi, arching his back when Kazuya ran a hand over his spine, fingers calloused from gripping his bat. 

“You might need to help me up,” Kazuya replied with a contrite grin. He gestured to his knee. “You know.”

So Youichi did, climbing off the catcher before extending a hand to carefully peel him off the couch cushions, wrapping a sturdy arm around his waist as he led him to the bedroom. Kazuya held his breath the whole way. 

“I’ll be careful,” promised Youichi when they crawled onto Youichi’s mattress that groaned with the sudden added weight. 

“Youichi’s getting all vanilla on me now?” Kazuya raised a teasing eyebrow as Youichi reached to pull off his shirt. “This is new, what happened?”

He would’ve looked far more snide if he wasn’t blushing— flushed as red as the hot blood boiling under Youichi’s skin— and splayed out on Youichi’s white covers. Youichi just smirked, clicking his tongue. 

“You’ll regret saying that shit,” Youichi shot back because it was easier to banter than to lay his heart out, bare and naked for Kazuya’s viewing. It was better. He was intimately aware of the toll that his expressing his true feelings extracted so he kissed Kazuya until they couldn’t speak anymore. 

I want to change, was a thought that kept popping up in Youichi’s mind as they lost themselves in a disjointed yet well-acquainted rhythm of their bodies that they never quite forgot (Youichi didn’t think it was possible that they could).  

I want to change but I can’t. Not when it’s like this. Not when it’s him. 

Youichi woke, groggily, to the sound of rustling from beyond his bed. It took a while for his eyes to adjust to the dark when he managed to crack them open, still sleep-ridden and dazed, his brain a gooey mess. 

He glanced over at his alarm clock, angry red bars reading 5:03am in bold, illuminated numbers. It took him a second to place his surroundings, to remember what had happened before he was lulled into a restless sleep and, when it finally hit him, a sinking feeling filled his gut. 

The door to his bedroom was just slightly ajar, letting it a crack of light, permeating into the room from the rest of the apartment. Youichi’s stomach went icy, gut churning, because he knew for a fact it had been closed when he and Kazuya came in, which could only mean one thing. 

Youichi sat up with a start, whipping his head around to see the space next to him empty, just as he’d expected. Just as he’d dreaded. 

Rolling out of bed and stumbling around blindly in the darkness, he clumsily tugged on his boxers and a t-shirt. Intense heat flashed through him, starting at his pounding heart and spreading through the rest of his body. 

He knew (he’d always known) that it was going to end like this again, it always did, so why did it hurt so bad?

Right as he threw the door open, he got a view of Kazuya, sneaking towards the front door, fully dressed in the clothes he was wearing the previous night. The image was disappointing and painful and all the time it had hurt before came back by the tenfold. 

“So you’re leaving?” Youichi asked, unable to stop his voice from cracking when he spoke. The sound of his sudden words, echoing loudly against the silence of his chilly apartment, startled Kazuya, shoulders jerking before he paused for a brief second. Then, ever so slowly, he turned to face Youichi. 

Youichi couldn’t stop warm, frustrated tears from gathering in the corner of his eyes. “Just like that, you’re leaving again, aren’t you?” 

Kazuya, for once, didn’t say anything. What was there to say? 

“Go!” Youichi shouted, unwillingly shrinking in on himself, a shaking fist rising up to clutch at his chest, tightly. He could feel his pulse, racing beneath his own touch.“Just fucking leave, Kazuya! I know you want to!” 

The expression that passed through Kazuya’s face was unlike any Youichi had seen before, eyes widening behind glasses that rested slightly crooked against the subtle jut of his cheekbones. He looked abashed, caught red-handed. It was so shocking that, for a brief second, the words almost died on his tongue but, somehow, he managed to continue. 

I can’t change, his thoughts told him, dully, in revelation, but I have to. For him and for me. 

“I’m not going to wait around, just to have my heart broken by you again,” Youichi said, averting his gaze. He glared at the ground; eyelids narrowing, lips parted. His words were choked up but unwavering. “I can’t. I can’t live that way, Kazuya. So just leave but don’t expect me to be here when you decide you want me again.” 

“That’s not what it is,” Kazuya finally spoke up. 

He peered at Youichi with those awful eyes, that awful gaze that Youichi could never understand, never truly know, not in a million years. 

"So what is it?"

“Just because you decided I’m something in your mind, that I have something to give you, doesn’t mean that it’s the truth—“

Youichi, spurred forward by something unknown, stepped forward to where Kazuya was.

“I don’t want to hear about the truth from you,” Youichi said, grabbing the front of Kazuya’s t-shirt. “You always lie!”

He was mad, he was sad. Shameful, hot tears spilled out of the corner of his eyes, dripping down his cheeks but he couldn’t stop it. His whole body trembled with unbridled emotions running through his veins, ready to burst at any given moment. Emotions he’d held in since the day Kazuya kissed him back for the first time; since the night before graduation, when they went to the rooftop and Kazuya said nothing in return. 

“You haven’t told the goddamn truth once in your whole life! You always lie to me… so why… why couldn’t you just say that you loved me?”

Youichi was almost floored at the sheer honesty of his own words, shocked when they escaped his mouth and flooded into the real world, their ugly truth to be revealed for all to see. 

Slowly, his vision blurred, lights becoming hazy dots and Kazuya’s figure becoming a watery after-image as he cried silently, gasping on angry sobs that didn’t feel quite as gratifying as he’d thought they would. 

Then, to Youichi’s shock, shaking hands clasped over Youichi’s, still curled up in Kazuya’s t-shirt. Kazuya squeezed tightly for a split second before prying Youichi’s fingers off his shirt. Youichi’s didn’t resist, letting his hand fall weakly to his side. 

Neither dared speak for what felt like both forever and no time at all. Not until Kazuya tentatively broke the silence with uneasy, unsure words. 

“Remember when that time when Zono almost walked in on us?” he asked. “Sawamura, too.”

Youichi managed to bark out a short bout of laughter, even as he cried because there was something oddly warm about the memory (and something oddly warm about the realization that this was the first time Kazuya willingly brought up their shared past, willingly dug through old, painful memories at his own volition). 

“Yeah, ‘cuz neither of them could ever mind their own damn business.” 

“It was your fault for always letting Sawamura in. You could’ve just closed the door on him, you know.” 

Youichi glanced up, trying to reconcile this Miyuki Kazuya with the one from his memories— jaded and worn-old with time but still crystal clear in his mind’s eye. Impossibly vivid. 

“I still think about that weekend during winter break,” Youichi began, the anger fizzling out and dissipating into something tamer, something more resigned. A bittersweet hurt, aching like crazy in his chest. “I think about all of it, actually. Do you remember that shitty little room? And how the rain used to drive us crazy when it wouldn’t stop coming that spring?” 

Kazuya paused, eyebrows wrinkling up. 

“I never really cared about the rain.”

“No,” agreed Youichi. “I didn’t either.” 

“My dad asked about you once,” he said, his voice somewhere distant. Somewhere Youichi could not chase after. “I went home right after I got drafted. He couldn’t remember your name. Actually, he just asked about ‘that Mochi-something kid. The one with the spiky hair.’ You know, you left your hair gel on my desk. It was tacky so I threw it away.” 

“Jackass.” 

“Thanks.” 

“You know… for a so-called ‘genius’ catcher, you’re pretty stupid,” Youichi let out a hushed, dry chuckle. “All of this could’ve just been avoided if you never kissed back.”

“Where’s the fun in that, huh?” 

A moment of silence passed between them, a realization bubbling inside Youichi.

Kazuya was a liar because the truth was a daunting thing— because lying was easier than saying what you mean—and for the first time, Youichi understood, just a little bit. He understood that Kazuya lived a small life, was scared of the size of his own feelings. 

Youichi understood.  

Maybe some part of Youichi always had understood. After all, he was a liar too. 

“Youichi, I—“

“I think you should probably go,” Youichi told him. When Kazuya didn’t reply, searching eyes gazing at Youichi, he clarified, “Not forever just… for now. For a while.”

“And when’s that supposed to be?”

Youichi looked at him for a brief moment; studying his features. Memorizing them. The dips and curves of his cheekbones, the handsome jut of his upper lid. Hard-set eyes that stared at a baseball field with its analytical spark, melting when Youichi kissed him. He was a creature of complexities and contradictions, Youichi couldn’t help loving him. 

I might not know the real Kazuya but I’ll find him eventually. 

“When you’re ready to love me back,” said Youichi, with an air of finality like never before. 

He watched Kazuya leave through the front door, let the resounding thud wash over him when it shut behind the catcher, but it didn’t hurt like it always had. It didn’t feel like his world was splitting down the middle because he knew— deep down—that whether he liked it or not, all roads led back to Miyuki Kazuya. 

Burning rays of morning light started to peek over the tips of the Tokyo skyline. It was bright and hot; it stung his eyes in the best way possible. 

Youichi watched the sunrise. 

part iv: epilogue 

Youichi’s limbs ached as he dragged his feet through the wet pavement. It had been raining all day, non-stop since the moment he’d woken up that morning. No sun peaked out through the angry, gray clouds that rumbled precariously. 

In his hand was a soaked convenience store bag, droplets of water dripping down the flimsy plastic. He’d intended to make dinner but his last patient ran late and he left the clinic right in time for rush-hour where Youichi impatiently waited almost an hour for a train that had enough space for him to squeeze into.
He was tired and sore and ready to just go home, eat his soggy and stale convenience store fried rice, and go to bed. 

The light coming from his apartment building was like a beacon of hope as he rounded the corner. 

As he got closer, though, he just barely could make out a blurry figure by the entrance of his apartment building. 

What the fuck, was his first thought. Then, who the fuck is just hanging out in the rain? was his second thought. 

Approaching, the figure became clearer and Youichi, for a split second, almost forgot how to breathe.

Miyuki Kazuya sat on the front steps leading up to his apartment building door. An umbrella hung, lazily, on his shoulders but it did little to stop the rain from soaking him, shirt and pants drenched. 

It had been almost 6 months since Youichi had last seen Kazuya in their explosive final encounter. Since then, Eijun had gotten married, cried like a goddamn baby during his vows, and gone up against Haruichi and Furuya in the semifinals of the Japan Series.  Summer, autumn, and winter had all passed through Tokyo, the seasons muddling together as they seamlessly bleed through the air. 

Now, it was Spring again. 

The sound of Youichi’s footsteps coming close alerted the catcher, who looked up and offered Youichi a grin. It was, despite the way his glasses were fogged up in condensation, sheepish and charming. Infuriating and loving, all at once.  

“What the hell are you doing here?” Youichi demanded over the loud patter of the unrelenting rain, slamming against concrete sidewalks. “Are you insane? Or blind? Do you not realize how hard it's raining?” 

“And here I thought you’d be happy to see me,” drawled out Kazuya with a hum. He stood up slowly, gaze rising to meet Youichi’s at eye-level. 

Thunder dully rumbled in the background but Youichi couldn’t hear it over the pounding of his own heart, the swell of his blood in his ears. 

“Why are you here, Kazuya?” Youichi asked, much softer this time. 

Kazuya looked at him, Youichi suddenly felt very bare against his prying eyes.  

“I’m ready,” Kazuya told him, decisively. 

If Kazuya’s lies were painful, the truth was about a hundred times scarier. 

Youichi faltered out of pure, unadulterated shock, taking a step back. 

“W-wha— huh?” 

“Don’t tell me you forgot,” Kazuya chastised with an easy-going roll of his eyes. “You told me to come and find you when I was ready. Aren’t doctors supposed to have good memories or something?”

Ready… ready to love me back. 

“Look here, asshole, if you think you can just corner me by staking out in the fucking rain and—“

He never finished his sentence because a kiss cut him off, damp and wet and slippery, as Kazuya lurched forward to bring their lips together. Youichi’s stumbled forward as he clumsily dropped his convenience store bag, hitting the ground with a thud, and reached up to cup Kazuya’s cheeks. 

He ran the pad of his thumb over the smooth dip of Kazuya’s cheek. His heart skipped a beat as he felt Kazuya’s hand settle on his hip, pulling him in tighter. 

And, suddenly, he was 18 again and kissing Kazuya in their little sanctuary. Small and stuffy— filled with unbearable pain, unspoken words that scabbed over and festered— but still good. Still good. 

“I love you,” Kazuya whispered as if it was a promise. His voice was so low Youichi almost missed it to the crack of lightning, rumble of thunder. “Stupid.” 

The rain was cold and persistent, pouring down on them as they kissed, fervently, but Youichi couldn’t quite find it in him to care. 

In fact, as he melted into Kazuya’s embrace, his umbrella hung limp at his side as the words he’d longed to hear for 7 long years replayed in mind, he couldn’t help but smile. 

“I love you too,” Youichi managed to say between Kazuya’s lips. “Took you long enough, jackass.”