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If it were any other day, the cafeteria would be bustling at this hour. People would be lining up for their second bowl of rice for breakfast, the freshmen struggling to finish their first. Sawamura’s voice would rise above the rest, boasting of the high pile of rice in his bowl while Furuya begrudgingly finished the last of his salad. Kuramochi, ever the trickster, might manage to sneak in a kick to Sawamura’s shin for being a nuisance so early in the morning. It’s at that point that Masashi and Yui would pick up the pace with their meals, much to the dismay of the other first years (but especially Okumura’s; he always looks at his food like he’s trying to strike a cleanup hitter out).
Today, however, Hisashi sits alone on the end of the table nearest the TV, an almost empty bowl of furikake rice next to his open notebook. On the screen plays Seidou’s final game of the season: Their most widely publicized match yet, with their stellar pitcher relay sweeping the headlines alongside Komadai Fujimaki’s Hongou Masamune. The game had been sold out the minute the two teams were set to compete for the national championship.
The game is at the bottom of the fifth inning. Hisashi notes the dwindling control in Nori’s pitches, with his sliders coming in high and getting hit into center field. Furuya gets subbed in after Nori walks Komadai’s eighth batter.
“Rewatching the game already?”
Hisashi reaches for the remote and pauses the video. He turns his head to find Miyuki shuffling into the cafeteria, hair unkempt and glasses askew. He takes a sip from his water bottle and makes his way to the table.
“Good morning,” Hisashi greets him as he takes the seat next to his. “I figured I’d get it out of the way as soon as I could.”
“Beat me to it,” Miyuki chuckles. “You’re up ridiculously early, though. We’ve technically retired, you know. No need to be up and about.”
Hisashi rubs the back of his neck, catching Miyuki’s gaze on his open notes. “I wanted to send the new team off with some tips, at least. Things they can work on before they rebuild for the fall.”
Miyuki folds his arms over his chest, one corner of his lip curling upward. “Well, I guess if our ambitious kouhai want to be both the summer and spring champions, they’re gonna need all the help they can get…”
To that, Hisashi chuckles. “You make it seem like they’re struggling.” He presses ‘play’ on the remote, and he and Miyuki sit in silence watching Furuya shut down the ninth and leadoff hitters even with runners on first and second base. “They’ll be fine.”
“Yeah,” Miyuki hums. “Ah, but if we could get Furuya’s first few pitches to come in a tad bit lower…”
“He’s still a bit slow to start,” Hisashi agrees, jotting it down onto his notebook, “but we’ve seen a drastic improvement over the course of the season. I think he’ll become even more reliable in the fall tournament.”
“Ha, don’t let him hear that!” Miyuki snickers into his glass. “That aura surrounding him could cover both the fields on campus.”
“Right.” Hisashi nods. “I’ll keep quiet, then.”
They’re silent for the rest of the inning and into the sixth, though Hisashi can tell when Miyuki’s displeased with some of his own calls when he rests his chin on his hand, tilting his head pensively. Enjou Renji hits Furuya’s slider into center field for a single, and Miyuki’s rubbing the back of his neck.
“Not a fan of that play?” Hisashi flips the page of his notebook. Go over slider, bottom of 6th, he writes in the margin.
“I wanted to see if we could bait him,” Miyuki explains, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, “but the pitch came in a bit high.” He takes the remote and pauses the game. He then stretches his arms overhead. “Don’t think I’m in the mood for this part of the match yet. You’re a machine, Nabe.”
Miyuki drawls out the last sentence, packing it with the usual tease. Had this been a year ago, Hisashi might have found himself tongue-tied, but he’d learned to keep up with the tides in a conversation with Miyuki throughout the past year.
“Well, we can go back to it later then,” he proposes, finger already inching to turn the TV off. It takes him seconds to realize how the we had slipped out of him so casually. “I mean, you can go over it in your own time, of course. Just let me know so I can give you the tape.”
“We can just watch it together,” Miyuki says, leaning back into his seat. “Saves us both the hassle.”
Hisashi lets those words settle in the space between them, grasping at their ends for hints of a promise. Miyuki gets up to dispose of his water bottle and offers to bring Hisashi’s utensils to the deposit station by the trash. He even takes it upon himself to close Hisashi’s notebook and turn the television off.
It’s the little things like these Hisashi has wired himself to overlook. Miyuki isn’t an opponent team’s match calling for scrutiny and repeated viewing. The weight of his hand on Hisashi’s shoulder doesn’t merit the same care as a pitcher’s quirks on the mound. The brush of their knuckles against each other as they walk up the hill to catch the sunrise isn’t a small-ball strategy he has to pick apart. And the soft, dare he says wistful look in Miyuki’s eyes while they settle on the asphalt steps together, shoulder-to-shoulder, shouldn’t take up the same amount of space in Hisashi’s mind as a battery’s default pitch sequence.
They do, though. Nearly for as long as he’s resigned himself to watching games from the stands, mind wholly part of the game but not his body. He’s laid everything down on the pages, nothing left for the field. That, of course, was a choice he made on his own.
The quickened pace of his heart—maybe that’s a decision, too. Staggered breaths, flushed ears, and wandering eyes. Miyuki is right there, the fabric of his shirt soft against the skin of Hisashi’s arm, smelling of his usual shampoo and morning dew. Still, Hisashi feels far, far, away, feels that distance even after long nights at the cafeteria; conversations on the bus that start and stop with the engine; touches that skim past him like a bat missing a pitch by a hair’s breadth.
There will always be that insurmountable wall between them. And perhaps, it was of his own creation, built upon tight lips, clenched fists, almosts. Just another brick of secrets on top of another. All Hisashi has done is watch—he’s yet to swing.
“You’re settled for Tsukuba?” Miyuki’s voice is soft, careful not to disrupt the quiet.
“It’s a great university,” Hisashi reasons, “and Chris-senpai’s there, too. It won’t be so bad with a familiar face.”
“Right.” Miyuki leans backward, resting his elbows on a higher step. “You are going to play, though, right?”
“Ah,” Hisashi chuckles, “if I manage to make the cut. I’m sure there’s plenty of outfielders to go around for the team.”
“I’ve seen you in the batting cages.” It’s less of a statement, more a confession. Hisashi turns to study Miyuki’s face. His eyes are still fixated on the sky, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. “I know you want to play still.”
Hisashi hugs his knees to his chest. So he’d been watching, all this time. “It’s not enough to want it.” In spite of himself, he smiles, training his eyes on their feet. “I need to put in the work. To… catch up.”
“Well, you’re right about that,” Miyuki sighs. He draws it out for longer than Hisashi expects.
“Nervous about the draft?” Hisashi feels Miyuki shifting next to him. When he lifts his head, Miyuki’s leaning forward, elbows digging into his knees this time. He knows, then, that Miyuki’s set his sights on something greater, something farther away than the sun.
“I guess I am,” Miyuki admits, rubbing his palms together. The remnants of the summer air breeze through, rustling against the growing brown locks by Miyuki’s ears. “I’ve just been playing to win with this team for the longest time. I’d thought about what came after, of course.” Their eyes meet then, and Miyuki’s lips curl into a tight-lipped smile. “Didn’t think it would all happen this fast.”
Hisashi nods. Remembers the bustling in the cafeteria and the skepticism about Miyuki being appointed captain. Recalls how he’d been in the eye of the storm as it happened, but also in the calm of the aftermath. What Miyuki left in his wake, he’d also rebuilt with his bare hands.
“They’ll miss you.” Hisashi spells it out for Miyuki then, so he won’t have to. “We wouldn’t have come this far without you at the helm.”
Miyuki shakes his head, even laughs. “I just played how I did.”
“And they believed in that.” Hisashi hears his voice wavering as he adds, “I believed in that.”
It could be a trick of the light, the way Miyuki’s eyes widen at his words. Hisashi knows better than to take things as he sees them. There’s always something more. This moment is another one he’ll pocket for a different day—tapes he would never dare to revisit awake.
“You’ll be great, wherever you decide to go,” he continues, daring to hold Miyuki’s gaze for just a bit longer. “Not because you’re a prodigy, though, even if that’s what all the newspapers and magazines keep calling you.”
“Ha, still reading those?” Miyuki chuckles, though the sound is hollow.
“You’ve always worked hard, and I know that won’t stop any time soon.” Hisashi looks over the dorms, rooftops bathed in the golden light of the sun. This, too, is something he’ll dream about. “And I’ll gladly tell everyone I know when you’re out there on TV that you were our captain.”
“Huh.” Miyuki touches his knees to Hisashi’s. “Guess I can count on you to be watching me, then?”
Hisashi ponders if he should have just insisted on watching the game tape. Such words were a habit of Miyuki’s when conversations took sentimental turns. He knows when to call the bluff.
But not when to play along with it. “Always.”
Miyuki grins. “Let me know when I’m making bad calls, alright? Tell me like it is.”
He hears the sound of another brick lodged into place. Miyuki’s done all he can to close the gap that once existed between them. Yet leave it to Hisashi to mistake it for more than him making amends and leave space in between.
Always watching. Yet to swing.
“Of course.”