Chapter Text
He still remembers watching the final pitch from behind the batter’s box like it had just happened moments ago; desperate cheers, fingers shaking, heart pounding, praying, praying, praying that he feels the heavy impact of the ball against his mitt that he’s come to know so well.
But he’s gifted instead with the sound of the sharp crack of the metal bat, the sight of the ball flying far, far away from his reach.
His heart drops. He opens his mouth, but his voice is stuck in his throat and only silence comes out.
(In a way, that was the beginning of the end)
It’s a week after his - no, their defeat, and he still feels the itch to blame someone, to pin all of his pain and loathing on anyone but himself. His mind runs through a series of “What if?” scenarios and for someone with the uncanny ability to care about nothing, he feels as if he’s suffocating from an onslaught of emotions: too many, too much.
(After all, wasn’t this team supposed to be the one?)
What’s worse is that he knows what changed the flow of the game, knows that if Sawamura hadn’t thrown the dead ball - What if he had called for an outside pitch instead? Would the game had gone differently? Would they have beaten Inashiro?
Would they have gone to Nationals?
He’s once again drowning in an ocean of regrets, and it’s turning into acidic hatred, into the bitter taste in his mouth and darkness festering within his chest. And it’s so, so difficult for him to purge his emotions, his thoughts, because he’s the captain of a new team now and it’s a constant reminder that they failed again. He can put up his impenetrable wall of optimism and glee and spout pretty words of hope and success, but really, he’s a bastard that can’t learn to accept the past and move on.
(He knows the outcome is his fault, that if he had waited a little longer, given Sawamura a breather, things would’ve been different. It’s his fault, but he’s too cowardly to accept it.)
It’s guilt that drives him away from Sawamura, from the first year pitcher that has somehow become both the entirety of his world and of his hatred in the span of a few brief months. It’s an unconscious act on his part at first, a type of fight or flight reaction that generally results in the latter. Whether it be through refusing Sawamura’s wish to pitch to him with pathetic excuses - how he gets over defeat that fast, Miyuki simply doesn’t understand - or flat out avoiding the cheerful first year, he’s somehow found a way evade the pitcher.
Their relationship soon becomes a plethora of unsaid words, of forced smiles and uncomfortable silences. He’s been focusing his attention on Furuya now, on the monster pitcher who’s the future of the team, whose determination instills a sort of hope that leaves the rest on a giddy high because maybe with him, this’ll be the year.
But it’s different with him on the mound, because instead of a personality that shines like the sun, it’s a dark mass of brooding that doesn’t come with a carefree trust in his teammates. It’s not Sawamura, his heart says, but his mind pushes the thought away.
(He doesn’t need a pitcher that can’t express his desire for victory with a vengeance, anyway - or so he tells himself.)
It doesn’t take long until they fall into a pattern of brief hellos and half-hearted waves. Sawamura no longer pesters him for catches and Miyuki can’t help but miss it, just a little. It’s strange how it has become the routine greeting for the two of them, and the lack of it makes him more uncomfortable than it should. But it’s okay, because they’re both starting to move on, and the bitterness is starting to subside because it’s a month after their defeat and finally the team is starting to come together.
Or that’s what he thinks, until Kuramochi mentions in an offhanded manner during class one day that Sawamura’s still hung up on their loss, still in a flurry of sadness and regret and curled up in his bed more often than not, and that he hasn’t been able to pitch an inside ball ever since their match against Inashiro.
His heart stutters for a beat, because he was wrong - of course Sawamura couldn’t have gotten over the game that fast. The boy was a constant overflow of emotions; it should’ve been obvious.
“You didn’t know?” Kuramochi asks in surprise, because Miyuki hadn’t known - how could he have known? And this time, he feels the return of dark hatred, but it’s no longer about the game, or about the mistakes of his pitcher, but at himself because he’s supposed to be Sawamura’s catcher, supposed to know everything about his pitchers whether it be about Furuya or Sawamura or Kawakami.
(He’s fucked up this time, and now he doesn’t know how to fix it.)
He gathers up the courage to approach Sawamura on his own initiative, and although he’s expected it the scene when he opens the door to the pitcher’s room, it still breaks his heart to see Sawamura curled up in his blankets, because that’s not the Sawamura he knows, not the blinding ray of sunshine he’s come to know.
He calls out the pitcher’s name, but for the first time in his life, Miyuki doesn’t know what to say to him. What can he say, when he’s ignored the other for so long? Sorry, I fucked up. I should’ve helped you, should’ve done something – because it’s far too late for him to say that, an apology that’s long overdue because he’s been too hung up in their defeat to see the present, to see anyone but himself.
“Miyuki? What do you want?” is what he’s greeted with, an accusatory tone that he’s expected and deserves. And it’s difficult, because he’s not the type to apologise, and uttering out any words of remorse is simply not in his nature. He doesn’t know how to be anyone but himself, so he opts for a “Have you given up on becoming our ace?” which comes out pathetic and rude and is everything but the things he wishes he had said instead. But it does incite a flicker of determination in the pitcher’s eyes, and there, at that very moment, was the boy he’s come to love.
“You’re a rude bastard, you know that?” The retort makes him want to laugh for days because that’s exactly how they used to be, playful insults and carefree banter, the way it’s always been since their first meeting on Sawamura’s visit to Seidou. But he doesn’t laugh, because it’s different now, because he’s left so many words unsaid that it’s become a festering wound in their relationship.
“I’m sorry.” Sawamura snorts, and Miyuki grimaces. He wants to say more, somehow eloquently voice his regrets but he’s not like the rest, he can’t speak a word without it sounding condescending and rude. So he doesn’t.
“You weren’t the only one that lost, you know. We all lost. And I tried so, so hard to pick myself up after that but I couldn’t, and you didn’t help.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” The look Sawamura gives him speaks volumes, because it’s been a month after their defeat and this is the first time Miyuki has approached the pitcher on his own will. “I-I know that it’s my fault, and -”
“No,” Sawamura cuts him off sharply, and this is the first time he’s seen the pitcher so angry at anything other than baseball. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“Sawamura, let me explain. It’s not as if -”
“I don’t want to hear it. Please leave.” There’s a note of finality to Sawamura’s voice that leaves no room for argument. And for the first time in his life, Miyuki realises that it really is too late to fix anything. He opens the door, but takes one last look at the pitcher, who’s now curled into his covers, head facing the wall.
“I’m sorry.”
Only silence answers him.